is not the swiftest cop on the force. He is not the smartest. He is nowhere near the most agile. Nor the most athletic. But at six two and 277 pounds, he’s a force of nature. He’s kicked in doors before.
One stomp of his black oxford and the door splinters and pops open. Wildey gives Stan an appreciative glance. Whatever. There’s a moment of indecision before Stan sweeps his arms toward the door.
“After you.”
Wildey shakes his head. “Okay, boss.”
By the time they make it all the way up to the roof, Stan huffing and puffing, there’s a loud shattering of glass and a terrified scream coming from street level. Wildey is already headed back down the rickety and dusty stairs they just climbed. What the hell. What choice does Stan have but to follow?
There, on the corner, a crowd armed with bats and rocks surrounds a man in a suit inside a glass telephone booth that’s been shattered and knocked over on its side. The man has his forearms up to shield his face from the blows. The crowd seems intent on smashing the booth until there is nothing left—except the cowering white man inside.
Wildey is already running across the street with his nightstick out, yelling at them.
“The fuck’s wrong with you? Get away from that man!”
The mob turns. They lift their bats. A few break off to greet Wildey with colorful language of their own.
Goddammit—Stan refuses to lose two partners in the same weekend.
Stan picks up his pace, pulling out his nightstick. By the time he reaches the crowd some of them are already pushing back on Wildey. Stan grips the stick at both ends, leaving two inches poking out on either side, just like he was taught at the Academy. When it’s time to hit, you use controlled movements, firmly gripping the butt of the baton and keeping your feet balanced. Stan’s going by the book for this—he’s not going to start swinging wildly. Someone doesn’t move, you go for the fleshy areas first—buttocks, meat of the arms and legs. Still won’t move? Then you go for the joints—elbows, knees, wrists.
A few strikes and the crowd knows Stan is serious and starts backing away. They call him all kinds of names—devil, cracker, whitey—he’s heard it all before and doesn’t care.
Wildey pulls the man out of all that broken glass, wrapping his arm around the man’s torso, helping him to a clear piece of sidewalk. He continues to yell at the crowd. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Stan keeps guard, ready to strike if need be.
The guy’s cut up and knocked around pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. Wildey talks to him for a while in a low, quiet voice until the fire department medics show up.
“They didn’t know what that was,” Wildey mutters. “Unbelievable.”
Stan squints. “Who was that?”
“Radio reporter for DAS. He was calling in what he was seeing. They saw the suit, thought he was a white guy, then started throwing rocks at the booth. He barricaded himself up, so they knocked the fucking booth over on its side.”
“What do you mean, thought he was a white guy? Isn’t he?”
Wildey stares at him. “Would it matter?”
Jim Catches a Case
November 2, 1995
Jim wakes up with no idea where he is. He tries to roll over. Claire’s unconscious grip on his arm tightens.
Oh, that’s right. I’m home.
He’d made it a late one, and he can only remember pieces of it. It all started when he decided he could use a drink or three at the Palm, but that wasn’t enough, so he headed over to…gahhh. Some other bar. Come on, think…wait wait. The Pen & Pencil, over on Latimer Street. He barged his way in for an impromptu game of darts with the newspaper boys. Ron Patel was there. Clark DeLeon, too. Danny tending bar, talking him into a fat juicy cheeseburger he really shouldn’t be eating, considering he’s gone up two full pant sizes since spring. Lots of young kids—aspiring reporters, making stupid jokes and killing brain cells by the bucketload. But it was a
One stomp of his black oxford and the door splinters and pops open. Wildey gives Stan an appreciative glance. Whatever. There’s a moment of indecision before Stan sweeps his arms toward the door.
“After you.”
Wildey shakes his head. “Okay, boss.”
By the time they make it all the way up to the roof, Stan huffing and puffing, there’s a loud shattering of glass and a terrified scream coming from street level. Wildey is already headed back down the rickety and dusty stairs they just climbed. What the hell. What choice does Stan have but to follow?
There, on the corner, a crowd armed with bats and rocks surrounds a man in a suit inside a glass telephone booth that’s been shattered and knocked over on its side. The man has his forearms up to shield his face from the blows. The crowd seems intent on smashing the booth until there is nothing left—except the cowering white man inside.
Wildey is already running across the street with his nightstick out, yelling at them.
“The fuck’s wrong with you? Get away from that man!”
The mob turns. They lift their bats. A few break off to greet Wildey with colorful language of their own.
Goddammit—Stan refuses to lose two partners in the same weekend.
Stan picks up his pace, pulling out his nightstick. By the time he reaches the crowd some of them are already pushing back on Wildey. Stan grips the stick at both ends, leaving two inches poking out on either side, just like he was taught at the Academy. When it’s time to hit, you use controlled movements, firmly gripping the butt of the baton and keeping your feet balanced. Stan’s going by the book for this—he’s not going to start swinging wildly. Someone doesn’t move, you go for the fleshy areas first—buttocks, meat of the arms and legs. Still won’t move? Then you go for the joints—elbows, knees, wrists.
A few strikes and the crowd knows Stan is serious and starts backing away. They call him all kinds of names—devil, cracker, whitey—he’s heard it all before and doesn’t care.
Wildey pulls the man out of all that broken glass, wrapping his arm around the man’s torso, helping him to a clear piece of sidewalk. He continues to yell at the crowd. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Stan keeps guard, ready to strike if need be.
The guy’s cut up and knocked around pretty bad, but he’ll be okay. Wildey talks to him for a while in a low, quiet voice until the fire department medics show up.
“They didn’t know what that was,” Wildey mutters. “Unbelievable.”
Stan squints. “Who was that?”
“Radio reporter for DAS. He was calling in what he was seeing. They saw the suit, thought he was a white guy, then started throwing rocks at the booth. He barricaded himself up, so they knocked the fucking booth over on its side.”
“What do you mean, thought he was a white guy? Isn’t he?”
Wildey stares at him. “Would it matter?”
Jim Catches a Case
November 2, 1995
Jim wakes up with no idea where he is. He tries to roll over. Claire’s unconscious grip on his arm tightens.
Oh, that’s right. I’m home.
He’d made it a late one, and he can only remember pieces of it. It all started when he decided he could use a drink or three at the Palm, but that wasn’t enough, so he headed over to…gahhh. Some other bar. Come on, think…wait wait. The Pen & Pencil, over on Latimer Street. He barged his way in for an impromptu game of darts with the newspaper boys. Ron Patel was there. Clark DeLeon, too. Danny tending bar, talking him into a fat juicy cheeseburger he really shouldn’t be eating, considering he’s gone up two full pant sizes since spring. Lots of young kids—aspiring reporters, making stupid jokes and killing brain cells by the bucketload. But it was a
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