cigars, knew when to withhold detail, and had earned the respect of both Will and Dodds. The man had been on the police beat for twenty years and knew more about the department than most of the officers. Otherwise, about the last thing Will wanted was to be the department’s face to the media.
But the chief liked the idea—Will thought cynically because it would get the Cincinnati Police points to have a disabled cop in front of the cameras. He hadn’t been shot and wounded. But the cameras didn’t know that. Still, being PIO got him back on duty. He learned that most of the reporters were very lazy: they would take what he posted on the Web site or recorded on the information line and simply put it on the air or in the newspaper. The Post had closed and the Enquirer rotated through a string of rookies, none of whom had time to learn their jobs—this when the last newspaper in town wasn’t laying people off. The television stations only wanted “visuals,” as they called them.
It would have made for an easy job if the department wasn’t still living with the fallout from the riot: a class-action lawsuit, Justice Department intervention, and federal court oversight of reforms. Will was no different from most of the cops, who felt the politicians, the media, hell, even the police commanders had sold out the working officers, had no idea of conditions out on the streets. But when the issue reared up again, Will read the statements given him by his masters and drew his paycheck.
Now he crossed the Roebling Suspension Bridge, hearing the metal grates under his tires, feeling them rubbing against his brain. The riverfront had undergone a dramatic transformation in his lifetime and now it was all devoted to pleasure. The old rail yards were gone, as were most of the gritty multistory brick warehouses. Even the flying-saucer-shaped Riverfront Stadium had been supplanted by two showy and expensive replacements, one each for the Reds and Bengals. Even as the city lost population, it gained new development close to the water. The National Underground Freedom Center was new, and a fancy mixed-use project called The Banks was going up.
Will barely appreciated any of this at the moment. He was thinking too much about himself. There was always a danger that someone video-recorded his encounter with Junior and on television it would be made out as a new sign of racial insensitivity. That would land him in an internal investigation or worse, charges of racial profiling and excessive use of force. What really happened didn’t matter. The cop was guilty until proven innocent.
That led to brooding on his limitations, too. His weak left leg’s muscles were now in fierce spasms from the effort of standing. He pushed his left foot into the floor of the car, barely stopping the limb’s protests. What had happened on Central Parkway was an intense reminder of what he could not do.
Yes, he was lucky to be alive—he told himself that every day. And the surgeons had removed the rare tumor inside his spinal cord in time so, with much work, he could walk again. Only a few months ago, he had been in a wheelchair. Now he could stand and walk. The tumor hadn’t been cancerous. All lucky things, miracles even. But they couldn’t return him to what he was: a fully functional man, a real cop. They couldn’t take away his feelings that he had been allowed to return to duty out of a sort of professional pity rather for than the skills he still possessed, even if he couldn’t run and jump. That he had been allowed back in no small measure because his father’s name was on the wall: the memorial to police officers killed in the line of duty.
He pushed the thoughts aside, passed through the 150-year-old masonry of the bridge’s southern tower, and then he was in Covington. Except for the expanse of river and different tax rates, it was really a contiguous part of downtown Cincinnati. Before the new building done on the southern bank,
But the chief liked the idea—Will thought cynically because it would get the Cincinnati Police points to have a disabled cop in front of the cameras. He hadn’t been shot and wounded. But the cameras didn’t know that. Still, being PIO got him back on duty. He learned that most of the reporters were very lazy: they would take what he posted on the Web site or recorded on the information line and simply put it on the air or in the newspaper. The Post had closed and the Enquirer rotated through a string of rookies, none of whom had time to learn their jobs—this when the last newspaper in town wasn’t laying people off. The television stations only wanted “visuals,” as they called them.
It would have made for an easy job if the department wasn’t still living with the fallout from the riot: a class-action lawsuit, Justice Department intervention, and federal court oversight of reforms. Will was no different from most of the cops, who felt the politicians, the media, hell, even the police commanders had sold out the working officers, had no idea of conditions out on the streets. But when the issue reared up again, Will read the statements given him by his masters and drew his paycheck.
Now he crossed the Roebling Suspension Bridge, hearing the metal grates under his tires, feeling them rubbing against his brain. The riverfront had undergone a dramatic transformation in his lifetime and now it was all devoted to pleasure. The old rail yards were gone, as were most of the gritty multistory brick warehouses. Even the flying-saucer-shaped Riverfront Stadium had been supplanted by two showy and expensive replacements, one each for the Reds and Bengals. Even as the city lost population, it gained new development close to the water. The National Underground Freedom Center was new, and a fancy mixed-use project called The Banks was going up.
Will barely appreciated any of this at the moment. He was thinking too much about himself. There was always a danger that someone video-recorded his encounter with Junior and on television it would be made out as a new sign of racial insensitivity. That would land him in an internal investigation or worse, charges of racial profiling and excessive use of force. What really happened didn’t matter. The cop was guilty until proven innocent.
That led to brooding on his limitations, too. His weak left leg’s muscles were now in fierce spasms from the effort of standing. He pushed his left foot into the floor of the car, barely stopping the limb’s protests. What had happened on Central Parkway was an intense reminder of what he could not do.
Yes, he was lucky to be alive—he told himself that every day. And the surgeons had removed the rare tumor inside his spinal cord in time so, with much work, he could walk again. Only a few months ago, he had been in a wheelchair. Now he could stand and walk. The tumor hadn’t been cancerous. All lucky things, miracles even. But they couldn’t return him to what he was: a fully functional man, a real cop. They couldn’t take away his feelings that he had been allowed to return to duty out of a sort of professional pity rather for than the skills he still possessed, even if he couldn’t run and jump. That he had been allowed back in no small measure because his father’s name was on the wall: the memorial to police officers killed in the line of duty.
He pushed the thoughts aside, passed through the 150-year-old masonry of the bridge’s southern tower, and then he was in Covington. Except for the expanse of river and different tax rates, it was really a contiguous part of downtown Cincinnati. Before the new building done on the southern bank,
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