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About
Leslie | Introduction | Chapter
One
Introduction
Leaving
I deposited the heavy box on Lieutenant Kelley's desk.
It contained my uniform, complete with two sets of shirts
and slacks, coat, vest and leather. Stepping back, I reached
into my jeans pocket. An ache began in the region of my
heart as I withdrew my two badges, my ID card, and my
key to the agency door. Hefting their weight for the last
time, I handed them over. Opening his desk drawer, he
put them inside.
"So, now what, Tall?"
It was one of the few times I remembered Lt. Kelley
using my nickname. He had earned the respect of the officers
who worked for him by showing complete professionalism
in all his interactions with them. He called everyone
by their proper names, unless they requested otherwise.
A good commanding officer, he was well liked. A man of
medium height, he had pleasant features, a slow smile,
and red hair that belied his calm temperament. As a sergeant
ten years earlier, he'd had the patience to explain very
kindly to a new officer - me - why I could not wear earrings
or bright red nail polish on duty.
The walls of his office had become familiar to me over
the ten years. The chalkboard with names of the new hires
listed in alpha order and the plaque awarding him a marksmanship
honor hung next to a picture of an old-time cop in slicker
and rounded helmet, silhouetted against a rainy night
street lamp. I looked at the institutional green walls,
the filing cabinet, the pictures and pen holder on his
desk, the file folders, the subpoenas for officers - their
"invitations" to testify in court. His desk faced the
door. Typical cop, no sitting with his back to the door.
I drew a deep breath, smelling the old building smell,
the cabinets of files in the records room, the electronic
equipment in the dispatch office, the sour odor of the
holding cells. I sighed deeply.
"I'll be enrolling in college in the fall and finishing
my degree. That's only a few months away. I can get loans."
He nodded. "Good. It will be important for you to stay
busy. You'll miss the work, most good cops who are forced
to leave usually end up in counseling through the transition
back to 'regular' life."
I acknowledged this with a nod. I looked down at my
hands. I would not cry in front of him. He moved around
the desk and sat on the edge, near me. "I haven't seen
many people come through this agency who have the passion
you have for the job, man or woman. You do good police
work and, like I've already said, we hate to lose you."
Words stalled in my throat. The reality of my leaving
the force suddenly hit me like a hammer blow. I stepped
forward and offered my hand. He shook it and smiled, then
noticed the tears forming in my eyes. He hastily walked
over to the door. "You take care, and don't be a stranger,
now."
I recognized the offer of a quick getaway. He knew how
I would hate to be seen crying. Nodding and waving farewell,
I walked out the door. "You take care, too." My voice
came out a croak. I didn't know if he heard me, nor did
I care. Walking down the linoleum-floored corridor, past
the dispatch office, I heard someone call, "Tall!" I kept
walking, determined to get outside before the tears came.
Turning right, I walked quickly down the beige-walled
corridor, past the records room, past the squad room,
not daring to look inside. I remembered the last roll
call I attended there, before a freak mountain biking
accident brought my life plans to a halt. Speeding past
the sergeant's office, the door to the holding cells,
and the bulletin board, I glanced at the ads, then realized
with finality that they no longer pertained to me.
Finally reaching the heavy metal door that led out to
the parking lot, I hit the buzzer, releasing the electronic
lock. I pushed hard to open it. I knew that once it clanged
shut behind me I would never enter there again. Once outside,
I walked past the fleet of squad cars, the paddy wagon,
the Lieutenant's dark blue unmarked vehicle, to the far
edge of the parking lot and employee parking. If I could
just get to my car, I could cry in private. I still could
not fully grasp that I had been forced to leave the job
I loved more than any person on earth, more than life
itself. As I reached the halfway point, a car pulled up
behind me. The siren chirped. I dreaded turning around,
and saw with dismay my former training officer, Sergeant
Max Ramos. Maximillian Francisco Ramos had patiently brought
me through my first year on the force, taught me how to
apply Academy learning to the streets, kept me alive,
talked to me when I was in shock from seeing things only
cops see.
As Max pulled up beside me, I felt tears well up. His
window slid down. He looked at my face. "Oh, no, not waterworks.
Come on, there's life outside of law enforcement". He
stopped the car, got out, and put his arm around my shoulders
as I wept. "Come on, Tall, you got to let go of this thing.
You can't change what's happened and you have to get past
it. You'll find something you like to do, believe me.
You don't want to become an old fat cop. You're getting
out at the perfect time in your life. You still have good
years left, and now you can do something besides babysit
people who haven't got a clue."
We stood eye level with each other, though Max always
swore he was taller. One of the kindest and most dignified
men I had ever known, he was the best cop I ever worked
with. One of the few Hispanics on the force, he fought
hard to be hired in this small town; there had been no
affirmative action in place when he discovered his desire
to do police work. His handsome face showed more lines,
and I noticed he had more gray hair than I remembered.
Two notices hung on the walls of Max's office, over the
desk. One said, "Since this is today, I must be right
where I'm supposed to be." The other one said, "If you
do not withdraw your weapon from its holster before discharging
it, you will walk with a limp."
I wiped the tears from my face and pulled a tissue from
my pocket. He believed what he said, and others on the
squad had expressed the same idea. They didn't understand
how much it hurt me to leave police work. My father and
brother had been cops, and I felt I'd failed them, even
though the accident was not my fault. It was just an accident.
I had done a forward somersault on my mountain bike and
crushed my right shoulder. The injury required two surgeries
to repair the damage. Enough range of motion had been
lost to inspire the attending physician to make the fateful
decision: no more law enforcement work.
"Max", I said, dabbing my nose miserably with a tissue,
"I know all that. But I can't even imagine myself doing
anything else. I'm going to miss everybody so much," I
laughed a little through my tears, "Even Walter".
He looked at me in surprise, then laughed with me. "Well,
it's good to see you lighten up, you're taking all of
this much too seriously." Laughing again, he peered at
me with a curious look.
"Walter? Boy, I never thought I'd hear you say that."
He knew how much I had butted heads with the defensive
tactics instructor, Walter Diponte, a huge man, probably
eight inches taller than me, a nasty feudal baron type
who kept iron fisted control over his department. In charge
of seeing to it that all patrol cops kept up with their
defensive tactics training, Walter Diponte held the opinion
that women did not belong in law enforcement. He made
his opinion known in loud tones each time I showed up
for the mandatory classes, held twice a month for eight
hours.
Those eight hours left me bruised from head to toe.
Walter inevitably chose me as his crash test dummy, throwing
me, pinning me, twisting me, hitting me - forcing me to
learn all I could about defensive fighting. In time, he
developed a grudging respect for me. I would not give
up. No matter how hard he was on me, I never cried or
asked anyone to intervene. I never complained about his
treatment except to Max, who, though sympathetic, could
do nothing to help me. "I know he's tough on you, Tall,
but it helps you out on the street, doesn't it?" Forced
to acknowledge this, I eventually found that I could ease
my frustrations by running several times a week.
Max's radio crackled with a call. He gave me one last
hug before jumping back in his squad car. "Give 'em hell,
Tall. Remember your training. Never give up." As he pulled
away, I waved and continued walking to my car. Another
car pulled into the driveway a couple of hundred feet
away. I heard the siren chirp, but simply waved and continued
walking. Opening the door of my red RX-7, I got in. I
pulled out into the street and started home, thinking
I must look like I had run into a beehive. In the rearview
mirror, my eyes looked swollen, my nose as red as my car.
* * * *
My small apartment stood empty and silent. The closet,
where an hour earlier my uniform had hung, stared back
at me, empty. It had hung there, or in previous closets
in previous apartments, for 10 years. Painful feelings
of loss and sorrow overwhelmed me. Walking forward, I
moved past the kitchen door, turned left into the living
room, and collapsed disconsolately into my dark blue velour
wing chair recliner.
The comfortable room, with a small matching velour couch,
house plants, ornate cherry wood hutch inherited from
my grandmother, bookshelves, and knickknacks, felt like
a safe haven. Staring blankly, I gazed out the window
and across an empty field. Hazy hops fields and ridges
faded into the distance. A two-story white farm house
stood regally atop a rise a mile away. The quiet complex
where I lived sat at the edge of a small town adjacent
to the one I worked in. Most cops do not live in the community
where they work. It's less complicated that way.
The soft fabric and stuffing yielded beneath me. Sighing,
I leaned against the wing of the chair. Tears slid down
my face, slowly soaking the front of my pink tee shirt.
I felt old and exhausted with grief. I'd been a cop for
ten years and it seemed like ten days. I'd soaked up the
learning and experience like a sponge from the moment
I entered the Academy, and graduated third out of 350
candidates.
My dad and brother worked at my home town Sheriff's
Office in Eastern Washington before me, practically making
me a shoo-in for the job. The Sheriff made clear to me,
however, that if I did not do well at the Academy or showed
ineptitude out on the street, my pedigree would do me
no good. His office had standards, he intoned each time
we spoke of it, which was practically every time I ran
into him the first few months on the job. I received constant
reminders that I represented him in a very high-profile
manner.
A full roster of 75 deputies included four females,
two of whom held desk jobs. My size gave me an advantage
in police work. I reached my full 5'10" height and 145
pounds early - during my freshman year in high school.
The ninth grade class clown gave me the nickname "Tall".
To my initial annoyance, it stuck.
Along with my height, I had the advantage of having
been a track star in high school, a sprinter, going to
State competition in my junior and senior years. This
talent for running served me well in foot chases over
the years. Those who ran to escape expressed in colorful
terms their chagrin at being caught and wrestled to the
ground by a woman. I did not let their off color remarks
faze me. All business on the job, I went by the book with
fanatical accuracy, never losing my cool.
When taking suspects into custody and handling them
on the way to booking, I carefully kept my behavior above
reproach. I earned a reputation for honesty and integrity
in the small local law enforcement community, and I cherished
that reputation. I listened carefully to Max while on
the street, and seldom had to have things explained twice.
As the years went by, I found that I relied heavily on
my "cop instinct" when in tight or hair-raising situations
such as dark building searches. My "little voice" served
me well, and on one occasion sounded in my head with such
clarity that it startled me.
* * * *
In my fourth year on the squad, I answered a domestic
disturbance call in a shabby, lower-class neighborhood.
Short-handed on this busy night, we handled calls without
backup. Headed back to my car to call in clear, I looked
up the dimly-lit street as movement caught my eye. I noted
the slow approach of a young man of medium height.
He had the appearance of a gang member, with clothing
style and manner of talking identical to the ruthless,
foul-mouthed ones we had dealt with extensively in the
months preceding.
From about 50 yards away, he walked slowly toward me.
He moved in and out of the dim illumination afforded by
a distant street light. As he approached, he repeated
the phrase, "What's up?", except it sounded more like
"Sup? Sup? Sup?", repeated drunkenly. He held something
down at his side, a dark shape which I could not see clearly.
It fit in his hand, was slightly larger, and dark in
color.
"You! Stop where you are and drop what you're holding!"
He continued walking toward me.
The dim lighting made it impossible for me to identify
the object. I peered and craned.
"Stop! Now! Do not approach any closer!" He ignored
my commands, moving toward me steadily, inexorably, his
gaze never wavering from mine. At about 30 yards, I drew
my weapon.
"Stop where you are! Drop what is in your hand, now!
Drop it! If you do not stop and drop what you are holding,
I will shoot you!" I shouted desperately. He stopped,
swayed, and continued walking slowly forward with his
hand at his side.
Agonized thoughts ran, scattering, through my disbelieving
brain. Moments at the Academy flashed in my mind's eye.
The mock trial of a police officer being indicted on charges
of murder for the unnecessary shooting of a teenager.
Me, playing the part of the accused, sitting on the witness
stand. The prosecuting attorney, played with smug accuracy
by an Academy classmate.
"Officer, did you shoot to kill, or did you shoot to
stop the threat?" His face leered close to mine as I reached
back into my memory for the answer I had been trained
to give.
"Sir, my training is to shoot center mass."
The images roiled, with flashes of a coffin, a grieving
family, of me kneeling at my mother's feet, my head in
her lap, sobbing that I had killed a boy. The images seared
me. I shoved them away.
Pointing my weapon at him, I crouched down. "Stop where
you are, this is your last warning!" His forward progress
neither slowed nor stopped. My mouth went dry.
A voice in my head, a thought clear as a bell clanging,
said "DON'T SHOOT". Stunned by the clarity of the "voice",
I hesitated. A buzzing sound split the dark air. The buzz
had come from the object in his hand. It was a cell phone
- a call for him. He stopped, fumbled with the phone,
brought it to his ear. "Sup?"
The world stopped for one crystalline moment as I stared
at the kid, my weapon pointed at the street surface between
us. The realization hit me: I did not shoot this young
man. Oh, thank you God, I thought. Gasping, I drew in
air, and realized I had been holding my breath to the
point of agony. My shouting had brought people out of
the houses nearby. Turning my head slowly, my neck muscles
grinding, I stared at them, my eyes feeling as though
they would pop out of their sockets. They stood along
the sidewalk watching me, their faces expressionless.
One of the men stepped forward. "That's Henry, he ain't
quite right in the head. He's been drinking forties again.
He lives one block over, I'll make sure he gets home."
Nodding, I leaned against the squad car, feeling my knees
shaking like a sewing machine, my mouth dry and sour as
the asphalt I stood upon. I felt I could easily pass out.
Looking around slowly at the crowd that had gathered,
I spoke. My voice sounded far away and rasping.
"Go home, everyone, please don't stand out here, it's
late."
Getting into the car, I called in clear on the domestic
dispute with no arrest. After sitting with my head leaned
against the steering wheel for a moment, I pulled away
from the curb and drove to the next call.
* * * *
Sitting in my wing chair, I became aware that the sun
had set. I stood stiffly, unfolding my legs from under
me and wandering to my bedroom, with its stark white walls,
black mini-blinds, futon, and large black Chinese lacquer
cabinet/dresser against the right hand wall. Although
I decorated the rest of my apartment in the Western style,
I appreciated the Eastern principals of simplicity in
decor for my bedroom. Friends and family jokingly called
it my "cell." I undressed, donned a sleep shirt, lay down
on my futon and stared at the wall. More memories flooded
me, and I found myself reliving entire eight hour shifts
in seconds, the calls, the interactions with fellow deputies,
the sights and sounds of police work.
In my mind, I drove at code speed to a fight in a bar,
only to find the two combatants standing in each other's
arms in a sea of broken glasses and spilled beer, sobbing
brokenly, "I love you, man". I again saw the look of dismay
on a young man's face after he said to me with contempt,
"I'm juvie, you can't do nothing to me," whereupon I replied,
looking at his driver's license, "I hate to break this
to you, but yesterday was your eighteenth birthday. Guess
who your butt belongs to now?"
I remembered the man at the domestic dispute call who
had beaten his girlfriend, who took his ID card out of
his wallet in compliance with my request, then tossed
it at me like a Frisbee, snarling, "Here ya go, sweetheart."
I looked at him, my cheeks growing warm, and said in a
very quiet and controlled voice, "My name is Deputy Tall
and you will address me as such. Now pick that ID card
up and hand it to me, and don't you ever do that again."
He assessed the look in my eyes, picked the card up, and
handed it to me, his voice hushed. "Sorry".
I recalled my first days out of the Academy, when I
started training with Max Ramos, before his promotion
to sergeant. I saw myself sitting in a room with other
officers at my first roll call, the only woman, being
told to introduce myself. Standing, my face burning, I
dropped my new flashlight. Someone snickered, and another
voice came from across the room, "You can stop standing
up now."
Helplessly, I appealed to the Sergeant at the front of
the room with a look, but got no response, so I gave my
name.
"My name is Stephanie Fitzgerald, but everyone calls
me Tall."
Another male voice chimed in. "I wonder why."
I was to learn to recognize certain individuals on the
force who believed that women are suited to childbearing
and doing housework and little else. Some of these individuals
did succeed in causing me some moments of misery during
my rookie year, but with time, I showed competency on
the street and earned the right to ignore them.
* * * *
Rising from the futon, I went looking for something
cold to drink. As I poured a glass of juice and stood
next to the stove in the tiny tile-floored kitchen, I
gazed at the large ivy plant hanging in the window and
remembered my first chilly fall night on graveyard shift.
I left for work on the warm Indian summer evening, forgetting
my wool-lined patrol jacket, unaware of how cold the evening
would become. We stayed busy early in the shift, rushing
from call to call. I managed to stay warm by virtue of
my vest the first couple of hours. Later, when the temperature
dropped, I became chilled. Finally, I asked Max if there
was a chance we could swing by my house and get my jacket.
We had several calls stacked up, but he said he would
see what he could do. About an hour later, he said he
thought we could probably sneak over and pick it up.
I jumped happily out of the squad car and ran up to
my front door, then realized with dismay that my house
keys were in the pocket of my jeans, which hung in my
locker at the station house. Frozen with embarrassment
as well as the air temperature, I turned around and walked
reluctantly back to the car where Max sat waiting. He
looked a question at me as I climbed back in. Eyes forward,
cheeks burning, I told him where I had left the keys.
He looked at me for a long moment. "It's going to be a
long night for you, isn't it?"
* * * *
My memories disappeared in a flash with the ringing
of the phone. Jerked out of my half-dreaming state, I
reached for the phone on the kitchen countertop and heard
the ever-calm voice of my friend, Andy. "Hi there. How
did it go today? Did you turn in your equipment?"
Andy was one of a group whom I privately referred to as
my "non-cop friends." We met a few years before, on one
of my trips to Corey's, a famous and long-established
used book store in Seattle, one of my favorite haunts
on trips to the city. I had been searching for books on
the history of scent and perfume, and struck up a conversation
with Andy. A likable, positive, cheerful person, he represented
a refreshing change from many of the individuals I dealt
with in the course of my job.
As I returned to Corey's, and enjoyed more conversations
with Andy, I discovered that he not only possessed great
knowledge about books, but also about the inner workings
of computers and their myriad components. He accepted
my status as a law enforcement officer with aplomb and
nonchalance, not referring to it except casually.
I answered him now, my voice teary. "Yes, I did, and
now I'm lying in bed crying. Sorry, don't mean to be a
bummer."
"No, no, perfectly all right, it's to be expected when
you leave a phase of your life that you hold dear." Andy
took a professorial tone at times. "Only time can heal
a hurt like the one you've had. Have you heard from the
University?" I stopped sniffling long enough to tell him
that I had received the forms for my student loans and
was full speed ahead in my enrollment process. As we spoke,
I calmed down and felt better. Practical and kind, Andy
helped me with many of my dilemmas. I felt grateful for
his friendship. He had been designing a poster for several
years, an illustration explaining the pathways and interconnections
between the physical and metaphysical worlds. When he
showed me the poster, I enjoyed the design and colors,
but understood very little of the content. In time, I
would understand far more about the poster, and about
the concepts it embodied.
After we hung up, I went to bed and slept, my dreams
full of the sorrow of leaving, and hope for the future.
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