Walk with Me (BookStrand Publishing Mainstream) (18 page)

Donovan drives off without waiting for me to secure my seat belt. He revs the engine loudly, speeding down Second Street. We travel two blocks with lights and sirens blaring, turning right on to Wilshire Boulevard. Donovan pulls over to the curb at an angle in the red zone, throwing the car into park, and jumps out ready for action. I follow suit, scanning the area for anything unusual. A large crowd is gathered in front of the bookstore on Third Street Promenade and Donovan heads toward the group first. He takes command of the situation, telling people to back away so he can enter and assess. The crowd fans out, creating an opening for Donovan, giving him space to work. An elderly woman is lying crumpled on the ground rubbing her head with her right hand. Her elbow is scraped and bloody and she is moaning in pain.

Donovan steps forward and bends down to talk with the woman. “Ma’am, are you hurt?” he asks in a soft, controlled tone.

“He took my purse. I tried to hold on to it, but he pulled so hard. I have everything in there. Oh God. All my credit cards, my ID, and pictures of my grandkids. I’ve kept every picture they’ve given me.”

Donovan caresses the woman on the hand to get her full attention. “We are going to look for the man who did this to you, but first I need to help you. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Ruth McGuire,” she mutters with a frail voice.

“Mrs. McGuire, where are you hurt? I see you have a scrape on your arm, are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I think I may have hit my shoulder when I fell.” She groans and tries to sit up on her own.

“You better stay down, Mrs. McGuire, until the paramedics arrive. They are on their way now. They’ll look at you and help you get up, but until then please lay still,” he urges, bending down by her side, assessing her injuries and writing notes in his field notebook.

EMTs converge on the scene with kits in hand. Donovan stands up when the paramedics arrive to make way for them to take over. “Mrs. McGuire, the paramedics are here now. I’m going to go talk to any witnesses who may have seen the robbery. I’ll be right over here if you need anything.” Donovan points to the second group of bystanders chattering about the assault.

As soon as he stands up, Donovan’s demeanor and stance changes. He’s back in command mode, demanding the attention of the crowd with his mere presence. Reading the body language of the bystanders, Donovan decides to interview a young man who is breathing heavy, like he just ran the hundred-meter dash. The young man tells Donovan he chased the purse snatcher down Wilshire Boulevard, but lost him when he ran into the park. The witness didn’t want to follow him into the park alone.

“Can you describe what he was wearing—what he looked like?” Donovan asks the young man.

“Yeah,” the man says between breaths, “he had on dark pants and a light gray hoodie with his hood up. I couldn’t tell what race he was, maybe Caucasian or Hispanic, and he had white tennis shoes on.” Donovan thanks the man and gets the correct spelling of his name and contact information.

After collecting the information Donovan walks over to the paramedics and briefly speaks to them and back to the elderly woman who is now on a gurney. “Mrs. McGuire, the paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. I’ll be by in a little bit to talk with you after you see the doctor. Okay?”

“Yes. Thank you, Officer…” She pauses, waiting for him to fill in his name.

“Alexander. Officer Alexander.”

By the time we finish at the hospital with Mrs. McGuire, taking her full report and speaking with the doctor, the time is close to 8:00 p.m. The doctor clears her to go home with her family with minor injuries. We drive back to our beat in the downtown area and patrol the side streets for any sign of the robber wearing dark jeans and a light gray hoodie. During our patrol we stop a car for running a stop sign, a guy for driving while using his cell phone, and we catch a guy peeing in an alley.

I’m much more at ease now working alongside Donovan. He talks to me like I’m his partner, asking me to hand him his ticket book or to shine the spotlight on my side of the car. Most of the people he pulls over or stops to give tickets treat Donovan disrespectfully, but when I remember how happy Mrs. McGuire was with us, I’m able to tolerate their displaced anger.

On one of our sweeps up Broadway, a call comes out over the radio. I recognize the call sign 3L2 talking on the radio. Donovan answers back and swings a U-turn at Seventh Street, heading back toward the beach. While picking up speed with our lights flashing, no siren this time, Donovan informs me. “That was Tyler. He needs assistance on Main Street.”

The traffic is thick in this area because of the freeway on-ramp, but with one blow of Donovan’s horn, people pull their cars to the side and let us pass. I let out a sigh of relief when Tyler is standing by his police car parked on the corner. I’m starting to understand the partnership and camaraderie rumored with the “brothers in blue.” I experienced something similar with my volleyball teammates, except the help and support from their partners may determine whether they make it home alive or in one piece.

Donovan pulls the car over and jumps out. “You can come with me. This should be interesting,” he says, smiling. I don’t even hesitate, but by the time I undo my seat belt and get out of the car, Donovan is already next to Tyler.

An attractive woman, maybe in her early thirties with highlighted auburn hair and heavy makeup around her green eyes, is standing against the wall of a business. She’s wearing skinny jeans, beige high-heel pumps, and a tight red top with half her breasts popping out her deep V-neck. The way she’s using the wall as support indicates to me she’s had too much to drink.

“This is my partner,” Tyler says to the woman, pointing to Donovan. “He’s an expert at administering DUI tests. I’ve asked him to come by to help with a couple tests for you.”

“Oh, he’s really cute, too,” the woman slurs. “Do you need to frisk me first, Officer, because I wouldn’t mind it one bit.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, miss. As Officer Cook has stated, I’m only here to administer a couple tests. He thinks you may have had a little too much to drink this evening.”

The woman stumbles forward a couple steps, pointing her finger at Donovan, and I catch a strong whiff of the 151-proof reeking from her. “You’re damn right I’m a Miss. No longer Mrs. Wrong for me. That bastard! I’m just celebrating the finality of my divorce, Officer.”

“I understand that can be cause for celebration, but drinking alcohol and driving is against the law.” Donovan’s tone is flat.

“I only had two glasses of wine. How about you just give me a ride home, Officer,” she says, stumbling forward a bit more to read Donovan’s nameplate, “Alexander, and I’ll show you just how appreciative I can be.”

Donovan continues standing at ease with his right hand on the butt of his gun and his left hand at his side. He’s relaxed in his face and voice, but I can tell his body is rigid and ready to spring into action at any moment. “That is not possible, ma’am. I need to conduct my test and then we can provide you transportation to the police station where you can call for a ride from there.”

“Ma’am? Now I’m ma’am? Well, I guess a young, good-looking stud like yourself wouldn’t be interested in an old washed-up divorcee like me,” she whines, stumbling back, finding the wall with her hips. “Okay. Let’s do this test of yours.”

“Very well. If I can have you turn around and face the wall, I will begin the test.” The drunken woman complies and turns around to face the wall. “Very good. Now place both your hands to your sides,” Donovan continues. The woman follows Donovan’s orders. “At this time I will be giving you specific instructions and I need you to listen carefully and do as I say. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” the woman says, swaying in place.

“Very good. Please reach both hands back and try to clasp your hands together and count out loud to ten.”

Eager to comply and prove she isn’t drunk, the woman reaches back, interlaces her fingers, resting her hands on the curve of her butt, and starts to count. “One. Two. Three…”

While the woman continues counting, Donovan steps forward, takes a pair of handcuffs from Tyler and with his left hand secures the woman’s clasped hands and slaps the handcuffs on her wrists. Now subdued, Tyler takes back control, reading the woman her rights, and places her in the back of his car.

“Nice job, man,” Tyler says, turning to Donovan, giving him a fist bump. “I love that one. I thought I may have a fight on my hands, but you’re always so good with the ladies.” Tyler smirks and gives me a wink. “Are you having fun, Kenna?”

“Yeah. It’s not what I expected, but I can see why you guys like the job.”

Tyler nods, standing at ease next to Donovan. “I’ll probably be done with Ms. Divorcee here in about an hour”—Tyler points his thumb to the police car where the drunken woman is already asleep—“if you want to meet for something to eat.”

Both Donovan and I glance at each other, shrugging our shoulders. “Sure,” we say in unison.

“Text me when you’re done and we’ll meet up,” Donovan finishes.

Once we’re back in the patrol car, Donovan radios dispatch to inform them we are finished assisting Tyler and free for calls. He pulls into the busy Saturday night traffic and drives toward our assigned side of town.

“So my job isn’t exactly what you expected?” Donovan asks, looking over at me. He says nothing else, but the question is loaded enough to carry the conversation for a while.

I sift through the question in my mind and when I find my voice, I turn, shifting in the seat toward Donovan. “No. It’s not exactly what I expected. But I really didn’t know what to expect, either. My only exposure to the police has been from TV. And you’re either portrayed as bumbling fools or jerks.”

“Well, we all have our days, that’s for sure. But most of the cops I work with love their job and take the oath
to protect and serve
seriously.”

“Yeah. I can see that,” I add. “But with you, too, you’re not what I expected.”

Donovan’s brow furrows. “What do you mean? How am I not what you expected?”

How do I explain to this man, that like most of the public, I had a negative connotation of cops? But he single-handedly changed my opinion. I take in a breath of courage and exhale. “I’m impressed with you. I don’t know if all police officers are like you, but the way you handle yourself and others seems unusually mature for someone of your age. I’m just in awe of you.”

“Wow,” Donovan says with his lips pursed and his eyebrows curved toward the car ceiling. “Thanks. I think. Although, something tells me that’s sort of a backward compliment.”

The conversation over the next hour continues with Donovan answering specific questions about his uniform, his weapons, and the car, and general questions about myths or rumors with cops. He is so open and honest with me. I’m receiving more pieces to a puzzle of a beautiful picture. There aren’t enough pieces to make out what the picture is yet, but I can tell it’s special—he’s special. The conversation and our time continues to flow, only interrupted by occasional traffic stops and dinner with Tyler.

After Donovan and Tyler settle the bill from dinner, we walk out of the deli together. Izzy’s Deli is one of the usual meal stops for Donovan because they’re open late at night and the waitresses are used to serving police. I come to learn he sits in the rear of the restaurant away from the entrance with his back to the wall so “bad guys” can’t sneak behind him and attack him. He told me four uniform cops were eating at a restaurant last year and some guy came in and shot and killed them all.

I had no idea there was such a threat to their life all the time, but most of what I’ve witnessed tonight is pure hatred, defiance, and ugliness. Even entering the restaurant, I could feel the disapproving glares of the other patrons boring a hole in the back of my head as we made our way to our seats. Donovan and Tyler didn’t seem fazed by the staring. Maybe they’re used to it by now.

I don’t understand why they risk so much for people who don’t even care or bother to say “hello?” A job I couldn’t do, but I have grown to respect Donovan for his altruism. With my new revelation of Donovan, I follow him back to our police car. He radios into dispatch that we are ready to go back into service and available for calls.

Donovan decides to drive along Ocean Avenue, paralleling Palisades Park—the long narrow grassland stretching two miles along the Palisade Bluffs. This is a favorite destination of tourists and local couples to stroll after dinner at Third Street Promenade or to take in the view of the sunset over the Pacific Ocean, but also a favorite spot for drug dealers and homeless who like to panhandle the tourists.

“The park isn’t too busy tonight because it’s off-season for tourists and the cooler weather tends to keep people indoors.” Donovan points to the empty esplanade.

Reaching the end, we flip a U-turn by the totem pole. This is a quiet section with picnic tables and benches overlooking the bluffs toward the Pacific and the occasional jogger. The lighting is limited to streetlamps and the luminescence from the almost-full moon in the starless night sky.

Donovan slows the car speed to a crawl. “Look,” he says and points. “There by the bathroom. Do you see that guy with a light gray hoodie? Dark pants. White shoes. That guy matches the description of Mrs. McGuire’s robber.”