His meaty fingers pat my arm tenderly.
“But that is just the lieutenant in me talking. The father in me, well, I’m nervous that you’re going to be on your own.”
I smile, the feeling of fatherly love almost too much. I know he cares, but all I care about is getting out there and showing my worth.
“Even after all these years, people still surprise me.” He shakes his head, his eyes wide as he stares out the front of the windshield. I follow his gaze and find a woman wearing flippers on her feet, like the kind you swim with, and a pink top that is three sizes too big hanging off one shoulder, exposing one of her breasts and her stomach. Her pants look like she tried to cut them into shorts, but they’re cut off right above the knee, making them a bit long. Her blonde hair appears to be dirty and tangled, and her legs are scratched up and bruised. She looks rough.
Lieutenant Oaks hits the lights, and the lady jumps where she stands. She slowly turns, her boney hand shielding her eyes as our lights beam on her without mercy.
Quickly, I unbuckle my seatbelt and step out, the mechanism sounding as I lock the car behind us. It’s one of the most important rules—always lock your car when you leave it. A couple years back, a deputy forgot this rule and had his car stolen. Not something you want in your file.
“What seems to be the problem?” Lieutenant Oaks hollers, one hand on his holster.
“Wha? I just-I mean. I ain’t doing nothing wrong.” She waves her hands around erratically, making me nervous. She appears to be strung out on something, and those types of people can be the most dangerous. They’re unpredictable, and often don’t know of their actions until they’ve come down from their high.
“Ma’am, can you please put your arms down at your sides and explain to us why you’re on the side of the road waving down cars?” I question, my voice holding a tone of authority to it. That took months of practicing.
Her dull eyes snap to me, and she sneers.
“Who da fuck do you think you’re talking to, bitch?” She props her hand on her hip, and her other tit pops out of her top. Stepping up to her, a rancid smell swims past, making me hold my breath.
“You got some ID on you?” I ask, ignoring her insult. It comes with the job, and I’ve been called far worse than ‘bitch.’ Most of the degrading insults have something to do with a pig in some way.
“I don’t gotta tell you shit!” She turns to walk away, and I grab her wrist to stop her.
“Let go of me!” She tries to pull from my grasp, and I have to hold on tighter. She turns, her stance defensive. “I know my rights, you can’t arrest me!” she screams, the sour smell coming from her making me want to gag.
“I am not arresting you, I am detaining you until we get this figured out.” I push her toward the car and kick her feet apart to search her.
“I don’t have any drugs,” she informs.
“I didn’t say anything about drugs.” She goes still for the first time since we stepped out of the car. Half the time, you don’t even have to ask the suspects questions; they tell on themselves. “Do you have anything on you I should know about?”
“No!” she responds quickly. Reaching into my pant pocket, I pull out some latex gloves, protecting myself. She is clearly a drug user, and I don’t want to chance coming across a needle or open wound while searching her.
I pat her top and caress along her sides, but feel nothing. “Oh, baby, why don’t you go a little lower, take this to the next level.” She laughs.
I step back and look down at her… flippers, and see something glint against the street lights. Dipping down to get a better look, I find a small baggy and pull it from the flipper. It’s meth. We were taught about drugs in the academy, and meth is hard to miss.
I toss it onto the hood right in front of her, and her back rises with a sharp breath.
“That’s not mine.” They always say that. You’d be surprised how many people say the drugs we find on them, or evidence of a crime, is not theirs. At some point, it just gets ridiculous.
“It was in your flipper,” I state.
“These aren’t my flippers.” She begins to laugh, and Lieutenant Oaks starts to chuckle.
I read the woman her Miranda rights then put her in the back of the cruiser. The whole time, she is cursing me and my existence.
“5Paul69, status check,” the radio asks, checking in to make sure we’ve handled the situation and don’t need assistance.
“5Paul69, clear,” I inform, clarifying that I have everything under control. If I don’t, they send backup very quickly. There will be cops, sheriffs, security—you name it, they show up in a flash. It’s nice to know we all work together and have each other’s backs.
“Copy that.”