Three worlds collide, p.4
Three Worlds Collide, page 4
Sally’s eyes narrowed as she watched the paramedics working over Clay.
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Streets walked over to the paramedics. “How is he?”
Against the objections of the paramedics, Clay squirmed on the stretcher. A deep moan escaped his mouth, which was held closed by a strap under his chin. “U-ugherarr.” The mournful sound drew looks of concern from Jackie and Sally.
The paramedics leaned back in shock, then rallied. “Stay still, sir,” one of them urged.
One of the paramedics answered the officer’s question. “He just regained consciousness. Stable but agitated, not responding to questions. We need to get the scoop stretcher into the ambulance and then to the emergency room. Now. He looks like he has a concussion. We are also concerned about internal bleeding. He has a bloody eye. His reflexes are not good. He is in and out. Also, his legs seem to be paralyzed.”
Streets’ gaze widened, then he motioned toward the trio standing behind him.
“Hopefully temporarily,” the paramedic added after a quick glance at the worried faces standing nearby.
Hearing this, Sean’s lower lip trembled and his eyes welled up. The emotional roller coaster from the morning catching up with him as he stood there in cuffs.
Streets knew that Clay wasn’t just someone who had given Sean a job. He had been a mentor. Over the two years they had worked together, Clay treated him with respect, shared his knowledge of the business, and paid him well.
With Elena still clutching her around the waist, Jackie reached out and put a hand on Sean’s shoulder, that motherly tenderness returning. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’ll be okay.”
“Can we get these cuffs off him?” she asked Streets.
Streets looked at his younger brother. He wanted to get those damn cuffs off him right now. But, as his own man, Sean needed to stand up and face the consequences of his decisions. Streets recalled one of their mother’s sayings that had stuck with him over the years, “Sometimes, too much helpin’s more a hindrance than it is helpful.” Instead of always being there to solve Sean’s problems for him, Streets had tried to simply be there, and let Sean work things out. He only stepped in if his younger brother ran out of options, which wasn’t often. Besides that, he might have to justify his actions later. Better to be cautious.
“I’m working on that now.”
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The paramedics had worked slowly and methodically to stabilize Clay on the scoop stretcher so that his spine and neck would not move in transit. As they lifted then walked him to the ambulance, Elena let go of her momma, a look of urgency on her face. During the conversation, Elena’s intent gaze had been resting upon Clay’s form and the people working over him. She knew that Clay had helped her. She wanted to thank him. She just didn’t know how. “Momma, who is that man over there? Is he hurt?” Elena asked.
“Yes, he’s hurt, honey.”
“Like Evan?” she asked.
“No, honey... it’s different. That man had an accident. He’s been working across the street with Sally.” Jackie looked over at Sally with a cue that the question had been passed to her.
“His name is Mr. Clay Thompson,” Sally responded.
“Mr. Clay, Mr. Clay!” Elena burst out as she rushed from her mother’s side and over to his stretcher with a sense of urgency.
Clay could not turn his head, which had been secured within a head immobilizer and strapped to the stretcher for his protection. But he raised his hand slightly. Elena saw the gesture and rested her hand on his. “Thank you, Mr. Clay, for helping me.” She jerked her hand back quickly as the stretcher moved past her, and then used it to cover her mouth as she choked back a sob and looked down.
Elena breathed in sharply, then sighed. She visibly struggled to understand the complex emotions boiling inside her—a mixture of thankfulness, fear, anger, and sadness that this man had been hurt trying to help her. She barely understood the meaning of ‘hurt’. When Evan passed away, her mother had been straightforward about what happened to him. Jackie had explained ‘illness’ to Elena, and that Evan needed to move on because of it. But it all seemed like ‘hurt’ to her. She had felt hurt when Evan left, and she felt hurt now as she watched Clay being taken away.
Elena secretly hoped something similar didn’t happen to Mr. Clay. She didn’t know him but felt a familiar connection. As they pushed him into the ambulance, she breathed in deeply, and then murmured to herself, “Please come back.” With tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, she ran back over and embraced her mother, who looked down on her with a deep sense of pride.
The sirens of the EMS gave a brief blurt announcing departure, then pulled away from the scene. Everyone, except Officer Hines and John, looked toward the ambulance in concern. Once the ambulance disappeared from view, Officer Street started organizing the next few steps.
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After a status check with their Communications Officer, Streets looked over to Officer Hiney as he was known around the precinct. Hines spent a lot of time brown-nosing a grizzled long-timer known as Sarge. The two men were part of a departmental clique that kept to themselves. Aside from Sarge, Streets didn’t trust any of them.
Setting that aside, he assessed the situation. He narrowed his eyes and drew in his breath with the intent of focusing on the task at hand. Something isn’t right here.
A different energy came over Streets as he walked toward the two men. “All business,” he muttered to himself, as was his habit when approaching a suspect or a task at hand. Although he partially understood what had occurred, Streets decided to play naïve in order to get an unfiltered side of the story from Hiney and this driver.
With his hand perched on his sidearm, Streets walked up to stand in front of the two men, his presence imposing on them so effectively that they leaned back slightly as he approached. “Officer Hines, do you mind explaining why you have that young man cuffed over there?”
Hines snorted, “Don’t play games, we all know that’s your little bro.” He glanced at John with a conspiratorial grin and snickered.
John decided to join in and leaned toward Streets, directing a lecherous look at Jackie before whispering conspiratorially, “Yeah, and tell the lady maybe we can work somethin’ out. Maybe I won’t press charges if she... you know...” John shrugged and pouted his lower lip. A short laugh made his belly bounce up and down.
On impulse, Streets’ hand twitched. His baser instincts urged him to smack John, tell him to shut his damn mouth. But he thought better of it, deciding to deflect and perhaps allow some of the bluster that might encourage the driver to talk. With a barely discernible look of contempt, Streets slowly turned to the ‘victim’ and growled, “She might be out of your league, big fella.” Then Streets cut Hines a warning glare, which made him shift in his stance. Hines risked a brief glance at John, then quickly returned his attention back to Streets, who held eye contact in silence long enough to make it uncomfortable. Inclining his chin slightly, Streets established his authority with one subtle motion. Hines nodded, then looked away.
Streets turned his attention back to John, who stood silent with a smug grin on his face. Streets regarded him up and down for a moment. The awful odor registered first. Filthy. But a quick glance into his eyes told him something else was off about this guy. “Okay, now tell me what happened here.”
Streets took out his notepad, flipped a page, and jotted down an outline of the conversation, referring back to confirm statements as they progressed. “So, you say that these men ran into the road to stop your truck, to... carjack you?” Streets looked over his shoulder at the faded beat-up dually diesel in disbelief.
“Probably.” John shrugged and looked over to Hiney for support. “It’s worth a lot.” Officer Hines looked back at the driver blankly.
Having embarrassed him several times before, Streets knew Hines would stop being a smartass now that he’d put him in his place. With a small smile, Streets nodded and maintained his casual demeanor as he thumbed a gesture toward Jackie and Elena. “Did you see the little girl run into the street for her soccer ball?”
“No.”
“Why?”
John snorted. “I don’t know, just didn’t.”
“And when you got out of your truck, you say you, um, politely asked them to move so you could leave?” Streets asked with a confused look as if the concept of manners would be lost on the driver.
“Sort of,” the driver said.
“What do you mean, sort of?” Streets demanded.
“I don’t know man. I was pissed off. I mighta said some things.” Officer Hines gave him a warning glance, which John didn’t pick up on. “I mean, for all I know, they were plannin’ to rob me.”
Streets looked at the driver with his eyebrows lifted and curved his mouth in a slight frown. “And how about the man that was lying in the street beside your truck, how did he get there?”
“Not sure. He musta tripped or somethin’.”
“I see,” Streets replied. He added a note to be sure to have the evidence techs check the fender for blood and tissue. Then he continued the interview with a mild sense of empathy and attentiveness that put his suspects at ease. He had not only been taking notes but also observing the driver while taking small steps in a slow arc around the front of him so that he could observe his body language as they talked, attempting to pick up any signs of deceit. With each step, he got a little closer so he could attempt to discern the cacophony of smells being emitted by the suspect. All while doing his best to withhold his reactions so he could complete the interview without revealing any judgment of his own until he had extracted all the information he could.
Streets stopped dead in his tracks and stared John in the eyes. Now that he was close enough, he recognized that smell. He shot an angry glance at Officer Hines before he went on the offensive. “Sir, are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol this morning?”
Officer Hines looked shocked, then cut John the driver a hateful glance.
John jerked his head side to side, shifty eyes darting, before redirecting his attention to the ground to kick a small piece of gravel with one of his untied high-top Reeboks.
Streets leaned in, upper lip curled with disgust. “I asked you a question.”
With Streets practically in his face, John the driver stumbled back. “No. Definitely not.” His voice wavered noticeably. He couldn’t help but risk a glance toward the truck.
Streets picked up on the misstep immediately. “Sir, why are you so concerned about what’s in your truck? Do you have any paraphernalia in the vehicle?”
John the driver took another small step back, as if he might make a run for it.
Streets looked at Hines and lifted his chin. Police officers in general have their own language. Streets knew Hines to be an officer to his core, and when it came down to it, he mostly respected his superiors in the field and always obeyed orders.
“Sir, please stay where you are,” Officer Hines said as he stepped closer to John’s side and rested his hand on his sidearm—a warning that said, Don’t take another step.
Like a scolded dog, John obeyed.
“Sir, you realize I can smell marijuana on you this morning, right?”
John the driver went speechless. He shook his head and mumbled something inaudible under his breath.
“And you do realize that gives me probable cause to take a blood sample and search your vehicle, right?” Streets continued.
Shifting in his stance, John the driver started to wring his hands in agitation. Unsure what to say, he just nodded in acknowledgement.
With his body camera recording the interaction, Streets had just been given permission by the driver to search his truck. As Officer Hines affirmed his watchful stance beside John the driver, Streets walked over to the truck. He looked into the windows and recoiled, aghast at how bad the vehicle stank. He had to put his arm up and use his shirt sleeve to counter the smell. A thick film of dust covered the interior. The seats were torn in the usual places. Candy wrappers, soda cans, beer bottles, and fast-food bags littered the floorboards.
He didn’t see any paraphernalia. Then his gaze rested on a duffel bag in the back floorboard of the crew cab—partially unzipped. Using his flashlight, he shone it through the open window into the darkened opening of the bag. He saw cellophane wrapping with what looked like a dark green leafy substance inside the packing. Classic transport method for bricks of marijuana. Probably brought through the criminal-laden border with Mexico. Carried on the back of some poor soul just so they could earn entry into the country and have a chance for a better life.
Streets especially despised this type of drug trafficking. People were treated like property, forced to sacrifice everything for a chance to cross over. He couldn’t help but bore an angry glance at John the driver for being a part of that.
John recoiled, unable to hold eye contact. His legs began to tremor.
“Sir, what’s in the duffel bag?” Streets demanded. He knew the ‘plain view’ rule allowed him to seize the duffel of drugs sitting on the seat, but he wanted a response from the driver as well.
John the driver clenched up so tight, he could only squeak. Every bit of bluster had melted out of him.
“Sir, you realize I now have probable cause to open your vehicle and search it because I can see a bag of drugs in the back.”
John turned away and looked down at the feet of Officer Hines as if they could offer some solace.
Rage building, Streets wrenched open the door, yanked the duffle from the truck and threw it on the ground. John the driver looked down in shame and raised his hands defensively.
Looking at John like at any moment he might tear his head off, Streets jabbed his index finger at the duffel. “Open it.”
John stepped back and shook his head with nervous tics.
“OPEN IT,” Streets growled.
John looked at Officer Hines, who motioned his head toward the duffel. John hurried over, fell to his knees, and tore it open, ripping the zipper apart.
“Tell us what’s in it,” Streets demanded.
“Drugs,” John whimpered.
“What kind of drugs?” Streets pressed.
“Weed and pills,” John mewled.
“What is in the pills?”
John looked up to Streets and turned his hands up, shrugging.
Streets also shrugged before mock-asking, “Fentanyl?”
John shrugged again. Gasps of outrage could be heard from the others looking on.
John fell back on his haunches as Streets reached into his pocket for a nitrile glove and kneeled to have a closer look. With his gloved hand, he turned over the bricks of marijuana on top to reveal dozens of clear plastic bags filled with colored pills. Some looked like candy. Some bags had different color, shape, and size tablets. Some appeared to be lookalike prescription drugs, resembling Xanax and oxycodone. Some looked like treats meant for children. But Streets knew they were more likely fakes laced with fentanyl—a potentially deadly substitute. These counterfeit pills could easily be purchased by the target market—teenagers—through social media. It had become a deadly epidemic across the country.
In many cases, first-time users overdosed from one tablet.
Sadly, some died.
Too many.
Anyone trafficking these drugs had no regard for human life.
Streets stood and motioned for John to do the same. With some difficulty, he complied.
Streets studied John for a moment before continuing, “Sir, I will ask you one more time to confirm what is in these bags. Are these lookalike prescription drugs? Are they laced with fentanyl?” Streets demanded.
No answer. He didn’t even try to deny it.
Streets made sure to say that last question loud enough for everyone to hear. Jackie and Sally murmured in disgust. Sean raised his head and chin again as he looked at his brother, knowing he’d been justified in his actions. Streets saw this and nodded to him in acknowledgement.
Streets turned to regard the driver, who continued to stare at the pavement. Emotions boiled in Streets that were difficult to check. He knew this one duffel bag of drugs would have ruined the lives of hundreds of people, maybe more. It could have caused the death of a dozen children, maybe more. And there were dozens of mules running dozens more duffels of fake pills all over Texas and Arizona right now. Some made it through, some didn’t. Streets knew this man to be guilty beyond doubt. He didn’t deserve due process. He didn’t deserve shelter, food, and a bed while the criminal justice system haggled over his fate. He deserved to be beaten in the street and then have fistfuls of those pills shoved down his throat until he choked on the same fate as the innocent children he intended to victimize by distributing these poisons.
He had simply seen too much of this.
Enough.
Streets shuddered at the thought of grabbing John and delivering punishment right there. His hands tightened into fists for a brief moment. Any person who perpetuated this evil deserved no protection under the law.
But that’s not how things worked. Officer Michael Street had taken an oath to not only uphold the law, but also abide the law. He had given his word.
He glared at the driver for another too-long-to-be-comfortable moment, working the muscles of his jaw, breathing through flared nostrils, tamping down his hatred.
Maintaining his composure with a fragility barely concealed by his stoic demeanor, Streets spoke to Hines. A subtle growling undercurrent wound through his voice. “Officer Hines, place this man under arrest. Make sure to read him his Miranda rights. Cuff him and place him in the back of your squad car.”
John looked up in surprise.
“DO IT,” Streets snapped. “Now.”
The tone of the words propelled Officer Hines into action. Streets stood and observed, allowing his bodycam to capture the arrest.
Streets added one more thing as Hines shuffled off. “Make sure you watch traffic while I handle the rest.”
Hines simply turned his head and nodded once as he walked off, pushing John the driver.
