The Ride Along (Part II)

....
Just as our conversation was wrapping up, we received our first call. It was after midnight, and back up was needed at Studebaker West. The engine sped us to our destination, throwing me back in my seat. I understood why some might be afraid of his driving.

We pulled behind the first cop to arrive and I was told not to “… get in the middle of anything.” I trailed behind, trying not to get in the way or pressure the two males being questioned. I heard the first officer ask them how much they had to drink, but I could barely hear because I was so far back. I inconspicuously attempted to edge closer to the scene. Still 20 feet away from the officers I sat on the cold cement edge of the patio. I felt its smooth surface as I listened intently to what was happening. “There is an easy way and a hard way,” I was surprised to hear the officer say. The student continues to purse his lips, not daring to speak. He sits there, staring blankly at the police officer, afraid of what might happen if he admits to drinking. After collecting their IDs, the officer calls the station to run their names through the system. They’re clean. I can tell he is getting frustrated by their silence. “I mean come on,” the first officer said with a raised voice, “this is not a hard question. How much have you been drinking?” Silence still filled the area. Without a sign between the other officers, Honeycutt walked away from the scene.

He started towards his car; unsure of where he was going, I followed him with my eyes for only a second. I returned to staring at the young men and two other police officers quickly. I had to see what was going to happen next.. I continued to sit on the edge of the patio waiting for one of the students to break under the pressure of silence. Officer Honeycutt returned after only a moment. He carried with him two devices to test their breath for alcohol. The devices weren’t as accurate as breathalyzers, but they would do the job. Tyler, the guy on the left, never stopped arguing with the officers, even after both tested positive. Frustrated, I heard an officer say in a powerful voice, “I’m not here to debate anything with you, I could take you to jail!”

“I know that,” I heard Cameron, his friend, humbly say. He went on to explain, “I feel intimidated by you, I didn’t feel like I could tell you that I had something to drink, as a minor.” The officer replied almost reassuringly, “All you had to do, is tell the truth” Left with no choice, the first officer on the scene ticketed both of the students with underage drinking. I heard Cameron get choked up, he released a faint cry from his chapped lips and hunched over his lap, sitting limp on the edge of the patio. The first police officer explained to them what to do following their citation. When he was finished, the boys slowly walked away, and the group of police officers smiled. They recounted the events. “Ya, I was ready for you to let them go with a warning,” said one. “If they would have just told the truth…” I heard another say.

Your Love

Your love encompasses me.
Your love pets me at night.
Your love takes care of me when I am sick.
Your love is only for me.
Your love for me is never ending.
I do not deserve your love.
You have done so much for me. I could never express what your love does.

My love for you is real.
My love for you is unmatched.
My love for you keeps growing.

Love Can Liberate

Maya Angelou has said, "If you want to liberate someone, love them." She went on to explain that unconditional love was needed. Unconditional Love. That's a powerful thing to give to someone. While few of us may ever accomplish unconditionally loving someone, let us ponder the power that it has.

If a friend doesn't appreciate what you do for them, and dares to love others who do nothing for him more, you love them. The annoying person who always sits next to you and never shuts up, you love them. The friend who sees you, but ignores you. Love them. The partner that is late to brunch, you love him.

What an amazing dream. What an amazing ideal. I will attempt to become more loving in my life, and I believe, through the help of my partner Steven, I have made progress. I am going to reach for more, though. Hopefully, whether I am informed of it later or not, I will have an effect on someone. Hopefully, someday, someone will be overwhelmed with my love. This feeling will give them the courage to live a happy, fulfilling life.

Someday.

Effects of Promiscuity

I was headed to the police station for my ride along, but I was early, so I stopped in at the student center to go to the bathroom. I opened the heavy wood door to the Men's Restroom and walked in. Three urinals lined the inside wall. A condom was floating in the first urinal. I was shocked by this open display of promiscuity. The carelessness of discovery. When will some people develop decency?

I pondered the results of this encounter, and many others that occur nationwide--worldwide. This promiscuity leads to STDs and government intervention with health costs. While I certainly do not condemn America providing those with HIV help, I find it disheartening that those who are infected with it through repeated actions of promiscuity do not realize their life ending behavior (before and after they discover they are positive). No one can draw a line of when it is acceptable to withdraw medical assistance to those that choose to live such a lifestyle. The only thing that our government, and all of us can do, is to educate others. I know of no other solution to this problem.

The Ride Along

I approached the house at five minutes to 11 PM. It was April 13th, a dark Thursday night. The smell of someone grilling grew stronger as I approached the police house, now shadowed with orange lights to keep the area bright. I walked in the door and attempted to use the intercom. I stared stupidly at the metal box, waiting for some sign that it was working (Figure 3). I heard a clicking to my right and saw through the glass openings of the door that someone was unlocking it. I opened the white door, and explained why I was there. The lady told me to wait in the waiting room until the briefing was finished, a silver stud pierced through her nose distracted my attention as it shined by the fluorescent lights.

I hear people entering and exiting in the back of the house as I rely on Michael Jackson’s music video Thriller to entertain me. I hear an officer in the back offering rice krispies to the other officers as the cheesy plot of the video makes me smile. I didn’t know what to expect, I mean, I’ve seen Cops, I know what happens on ride alongs, but what was going to happen to me. I secretly wished for something horrible to happen. I had a commitment to my readers, after all. I took the time while I was waiting to come up with ridiculous possibilities of the nights events; it helped the time pass after the music video ended.

Finally, Officer Honeycutt came out and took me out to his car, I was surprised to find that there was a JVC brand cd player in the dash. I always assumed that police cruisers didn’t have a stereo in the car. I didn’t inquire about the stereo as I sat awkwardly in the chair waiting for something to happen. It was 11:41 PM before the wheels finally started to roll, my heart, on the other hand, had already been reeling for over an hour.

The engine roared as Officer Honeycutt told me not to tell him if I get scared of his driving.When we get a “hot call,” “… [you can] be scared, when I get scared,” he said. A “hot call,” is when the officer gets to speed and run through lights during an emergency. “I trust my driving, and if you tell me that you are scared, it’ll distract me. I have to scan more when I drive like that,” he explained. Doubtful that I would afraid of his driving. I still showed my support for his driving by referencing a video I saw, “Ya, I understand, I saw a documentary on The Discovery Channel, I think, about the increased training that police officers have for driving,” I paused, rethinking where I saw it. “Or was it Police Academy?” I jokingly questioned myself. I shrugged my shoulders and the purr of the engine returned to the foreground.

The Interview (Part II of "The Police House")

I quickly scribbled it down before asking him to describe the police subculture. He stopped me, though, and took control of the progress of the interview. He wanted to discuss the history of the police subculture first. This way, he explained, we could see how it has developed over time. I willingly conceded and allowed him to navigate the conversation. He was an expert, after all.

Mr. Fey referenced three former key aspects of the policing subculture. There is the political aspect, “being on the take,” and “street justice,” he explained to me. I was confused and yet excited. I knew that insider terms were desirable, but I had no idea what “being on the take” was. I asked him the next chance I had. He defined it for me by putting it into a real world situation. “We’ll help your retirement if you look the other way,” he explained. I listened intently while flicking my blue pen in between my fingers. He made sure I understood that “being on the take” involved the exchange of goods for favors before he pointed out that all three aspects dramatically lessened over time.

While “street justice” is insider language, it is easy to comprehend the meaning. “Street justice” involves police officers beating someone up instead of arresting them for a crime. Mr. Fey once again called upon a hypothetical situation to illustrate his point. He said that the officers had a choice, that they could take a criminal to jail, have him be a burden on the taxpayers, “or just plain kick his ass.” He then said, “And are they going to learn their lesson?” Silence fell upon the room. I opened my mouth after a second or two to answer, but I was interrupted. “Of course they will,” he finished. Internally, I cringed at what seemed to be Mr. Fey’s rationalization of “street justice.” I highlighted, in my mind, how he obviously did not mention the nuisance of filing stacks of paperwork in regards to the police officers’ decision. Ultimately, the police officer decides to commit a crime, or to arrest someone for their illegal activity. There is no rationale for breaking the law when you are entrusted to enforce it.

After he brought up “street justice” several more times throughout the interview I finally confronted him. “If beating someone up is teaching them their lesson then why is our crime rate still so high?” He was silent so I continued, “I understand that it significantly decreased in the 1990s, but if police are truly teaching these criminals their lessons, then they would stop committing crime in the future, which is obviously not the case. Therefore, street justice isn’t accomplishing anything is it?” Mr. Fey sat there flabbergasted. I pompously looked into his eyes and started to catch my breath. The room was quiet, yet the silence was reverberating. We were alone, and the noise from his assistant in the next room seemed to slow to a stop. Confidently, I observed him, my chin high in the air and my ideals unwavering in the face of law enforcement. No one said anything for what seemed like an eternity. We sized each other up, and I knew, at that moment, that we had an understanding. He started to clarify his position, but I stopped him. “I understand what you mean, though,” I said. We continued to stare, for just a second longer. We moved on to the political aspect now, him feeling satisfied with my response, and me never feeling so defiant or free in my life.

The Police House

Police cruisers surround the ragged white house. Slate colored shutters define the front windows. An old air conditioner juts above overgrown bushes originally meant to embellish the house. They now stand disfigured after years of abuse. Next to the back door, cigarettes float in a puddle of water. The Ball State University Police Department resides here.

I arranged to meet Mr. Fey at this tattered white house on a windy Tuesday morning. He is the associate director of public safety, and has been a police officer for thirty years. My father knew him, and helped to make all of the arrangements. The sun began to drive through the heavy clouds as I walked through the front door. I was promptly greeted by the secretary. She stood behind a clear plastic divider, just like one you find in prisons.

She pointed me towards a room, and told me to wait there until he was ready to see me. I walked through a door and to my right was the waiting room. I sat nervously in the chair waiting to be attended to.

Mr. Robert Fey appeared after only a minute or two and ushered me into his office. Its beige walls were sterile and plain. There were bookshelves on the back wall and mini-blinds on the window. Books and knick knacks littered the shelves. He wore a suit. His red tie shot from the grey chasm and commandeered my attention. My pen was pressed to the notebook I brought. I waited eagerly for him to say something profound so I could record it. With a nod of his head and confidence in his voice, he started the interview. “Let’s hit it.” Finally, I had something to write.