I Am A Cop
He measures out his life in fear and boredom. He's got a worried wife, he rides alone, and he always wears his gun.
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He, in turn, was watching them when a tall, florid man in a loud, multi-colored shirt approached him. A tourist, he stood between Ewell and the three suspects and asked for directions to find the Laredo highway. Irritated, Ewell stepped to the side to have a clear view of the trio again and brusquely told the man how to get to his road. During this, one of the three men meekly asked Ewell for a cigarette, and he told him that he didn't smoke. The tourist was still confused and asked Ewell to repeat the directions again. At the same time, the suspect also casually asked the policeman for permission to go to his car for his cigarettes. Ewell, in the middle of dealing with the slow-thinking tourist, said all right.
The cop watched as the man opened the car door and reached down to the floor. With a thundering insight, Ewell realized that he had made a grave error and he took several steps toward the man at the car, pushing the tourist out of the way. Then he remembered the other two suspects and, panic-stricken, he hesitated, unsure as to what to do. He wanted to yell, but he couldn't think of any words powerful enough to freeze the man into suspended animation, to stop him in his tracks.
Ewell's eyes bulged with the pressure of the man's hand coming out of the car and he decided to kill him. It was that simple. The man turned slowly towards Ewell in an obscene dance of death. Time focused and Ewell saw the man's hand held a cigarette. A grimace of disbelief masked the faces of both men and the cop told him to get back with the other two. He walked back stiff and hard, his heels jarring the flesh covering his jaws. Their eyes met briefly, but neither man wanted to see the other.
Later, after the other officers had arrived, Ewell and Tyler arrested and booked all three subjects for a number of robbery warrants. Ewell found two pistols under the front seat of the car on the passenger's side and the tourist called the station to complain about a rude policeman.
Child's Play
A TEXAS JULY DAY. THE community pool had been open all summer with free admission and the horde of wet, young bodies echoed their delight daily through the waving heat.
It was three in the afternoon. On the street, a steady river of cars flowed past the pool. The people inside always glanced towards the sound of splashing water. Most of the cars had every window rolled down. The air is sullen and heavy, like an animal's breath. Tempers flare easily and casually. But both the heat and the tempers are a way of life on the West Side.
The cop that first appeared at the pool in answer to the call, "Boys disturbing, boys fighting—see the park ranger at the pool," was an Anglo. But he was tanned and had dark, black hair and was often taken as a Mexican.
As a rule of thumb, he spoke of chicanos with the younger people and of Mexican-Americans when dealing with the middle-aged and older. It was a matter of their preference and one of many small ways he always tried to give himself an edge with them, to make contact. He knew he was an Anglo, the outsider, and he had to touch first.
The cop got out of his car with his nightstick in his hand, but slid it into its holder with an unconscious authority. He hated to fight, but he continually held himself ready. He trusted few peopIe, especially non-policemen.
He had been to the pool before and only a small flicker of curiosity occupied his thoughts as he turned and watched the other police car approach on the asphalt parking lot. They were still operating one man to a car, despite the current debate on the merits of one versus two men to a car. He had mixed feelings about both, but he was cynical enough to think that his opinion didn't really matter.
The second cop stepped out of his car and paused, adjusting the thick Sam Brown belt around his waist which held his pistol, handcuffs and extra ammunition. Like the first cop, he had a dark mustache, but he was heavier and had more of a brooding look. His name was Julio Guerra and he had been working in this area for over six years. He often said that he was tired of these people, that they were like children. He was 27 years old.
The attendant told them that the park ranger had the two boys in the shower room. They turned the corner of the gray concrete block wall and saw several young boys, all pre-teen or early teens, getting dressed and watching the park ranger and the two boys in the corner of the room. Everyone turned and studied the cops as they entered the damp-smelling room.
The park ranger looked a tired 50 years old and his stomach strained and pushed at his forest green uniform. As he gestured, sweat ran down his neck towards his wrinkled collar and he told the bare outline of what had happened. The little Mexican boy, who looked about 11, had pulled a paring knife on the black youth and had said he was going to cut him, cut him bad.
It was Guerra's call. The other officer had merely volunteered to come by as the cover officer. Whatever thoughts he would have about the call or how it was being handled he would keep to himself, unless asked by Guerra. He looked around and found a fairly clean portion of the wall and leaned his shoulder up against it and listened.
Guerra asked several questions of both youths, the black first. He wrote their answers down in a pocket spiral notebook. The cover was a canary yellow and its brightness was a flash of color in the shower.
"Yessuh, Leroy Tinely. I'm 13, suh. Well, I was sittin next to the fence around the pool on the outside, talkin to Angel. We was talkin about a girl inside and I told Angel I didn't think she was his type and the next thing I know he pulled out that there knife and said I was going to be sorry."
Guerra turned and studied the other boy for several seconds. The youth's nostrils flared and he lifted his head.
"Yeah, my name's Angel Fuqua. I'm 14. I don't have no address. I just got out of Gatesville reformatory. Huh? Two years, I was there two years for theft. Him? Ah, shit, he's just a nigger. He just thinks he's been in trouble; I'll take care of him later."
The boy was shouting at the black, and the park ranger told all of the watching kids in the room to get out. His words broke the spell. Guerra told the black youth that he could go, too. He then turned to Fuqua and searched him, talking to him as he did so.
"What's the matter with you, boy? You sick or something? What you want to go around and try to cut people for? Don't you know what that's going to lead to one day? You'll be lying in a pool of blood one day, holding onto a handful of guts, and some policeman like me is going to have to go through all your pockets trying to find a name we can call you by. And you won't be able to tell us anything because your tongue'll be too busy flappin in your mouth, saying good-by to the air. What's the matter with you?"
The sobbing and crying boy was glaring at Guerra, and his voice was breaking and difficult to understand.
"All you cops are the same. All you know how to do is talk big. Well, one day I'll take care you, too. Just like I will that nigger. If we're goin to go, let's go, pig."
Guerra looked at him and then carefully spat on the floor. He glanced over at the other policeman, who was still leaning against the wall.
"These people, they're all like children. Except the children. You know what I mean?"
A Family Affair
THE COP WAS ARGUING WITH himself, and losing. It was that kind of day. After an early soaking when he first came on duty, he had managed to dry out inside his police car until his uniform was only a mass of damp wrinkles. But water had also flooded his shoes and now he was unable to ignore the slimy feel of wet, slick leather on his feet. He could already feel the blisters. Then the dispatcher gave him another call. He looked at his watch again and sighed. No way out. And it was raining harder than ever. In fact, it was raining like there'd be no tomorrow. And, given his mood, that wouldn't surprise the cop either.
"Why the goddam hell me? Get wet, get dry—and then start all over again. People ought to have better sense than to fight on a night like this, and if they got to do it, why in the hell don't they do it in private without calling the goddam police? And me gettin ready to get off in 35 minutes. Too much to hope that I could skate through still nice and dry."
A family disturbance call. He could hear the words and the puddles both striking the bottom of the car as he drove down the block looking for the house with problems. He hated the unpredictability of this type of call, its potential for the unknown.
Vengeance and superiority were the emotions involved. People always wanted him to punish the other one, to make them toe the line. They asked for help, but he could only tell them to love it or leave it. He grinned to himself, thinking of the short Alabama governor handling a messy family disturbance.
He parked the car in front of the house and stepped out of his car into three-inch deep running river that nowed between the two curbs of the street. He thought of his feet again and mumbled to himself as he walked towards the house.
He heard voices in the carport and as he neared the house, someone turned on the porch light. He peered through the rain towards the voices and could make out the shapes of three men standing out of the rain. They were staring at him and he briefly wondered what he was getting into.
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