A Woman of Valor, page 15
“Discuss what?” Ali set the Coke and napkins on the coffee table and pried open the pizza box. “Daddy, can I have your extra cheese and pepperoni?”
“Of course,” Chad said. “Go wash your hands before dinner.”
“I already did!” Ali grabbed a piece of pizza and the toppings from a second slice. Chad rolled his eyes and set the naked slice on a napkin. Alison sat next to Val, munching her pizza sandwich and making moon eyes at her favorite aunt.
Kendra entered with Dar in one arm, and glasses, silverware, and paper plates in the other. “Started without me, I see. Val, thank you for waiting, at least.”
Val slid a cheesy slice onto a plate for Kendra, then herself. After taking a bite, she took a long sip of Coke, and pretended not to catch Alison stealing her toppings to construct a three-layer munch.
“Auntie Val, when you go back to work, will you shoot any criminals?” Alison asked.
Cold soda blasted up through Val’s nostrils.
“Ali! What a question!” Kendra said.
“My kindergarten teacher brought us to the arcade, and I played this game where you draw your gun against the bad guy. I got him every time except one,” Ali said.
Val recovered from choking on her soft drink and drew a deep breath. “We try not to use our guns. It’s not like on TV.”
“I know,” Alison said. “You know what, Auntie Val? I want to be a policewoman when I grow up, just like you.”
Kendra covered her mouth, but tears gathered on the edge of her eyelids. Chad patted her arm and swallowed hard.
Val put her arm around her niece, hugging her tight. “I’m sure you’d be an excellent police officer,” Val said. “But maybe you’d be an even better lawyer, like your dad?”
“No way,” Alison said. “Most lawyers are crooks and S.O.B.’s, right Mom? Auntie Val, what’s an ‘S.O.B.’?”
“Alison!” Chad glared at her. Kendra’s face turned beet red, and the two of them exchanged open-mouthed glances. Val, to avoid laughing, pretended to choke on her pizza.
“Where did you hear anyone say such a thing?” Kendra asked at last.
“On TV,” Ali said.
“Someone needs to change the Etflix-Nay, ogin-lay again,” Kendra sang around a bite of pizza.
“And to remember to log out when he’s done,” Chad sang back in the same tune. He sighed and snagged a new slice, this one with toppings.
“After dinner, can we watch a movie?” Ali asked, gazing up at Val. “We have Captain Underpants on DVD. I’ll go plug it in!”
“Captain Underpants would be great,” Val said. Anything but a cop show.
***
Dr. Cyrus waited for his patient to get comfortable, reviewing his notes for the hundredth time. Perhaps some small talk would ease their way into the conversation and put Ms. Dawes in a more forthcoming frame of mind.
“How was your weekend?” he asked her. “Did you do anything for Halloween?”
She exhaled a noisy breath and smiled. “Sure. It was great. My niece dressed up as me and shot the neighborhood boys with Pez candy. Apparently, sugar is more fatal than we thought.”
He chuckled and nodded. “How old is she?”
“Five, going on thirty.”
“My granddaughter is six,” he said. “They sound like twins. Did you talk at all with your brother?”
She sighed. “You and he could be twins. Neither of you is very subtle. Yes, we talked a fair amount. But I’m sure if you ask him, he’d email you a detailed set of notes, complete with a list of unanswered questions from my teen years.”
Cyrus grinned. Dawes seemed to be in a positive, if feisty, mood. Maybe she’d volunteer more of her feelings this time. “I’d like to follow up on something you mentioned the last time we met,” he said. “You said a man attempted to rape you on a recent date?”
Dawes stiffened and her body hunched forward, her shoulders curled inward, arms crossed. Cyrus winced. Perhaps he’d waded into this topic too soon. Ah, well. What’s done is done.
“I can see it was a mistake to mention that,” she said in a low voice.
“No,” he said in a reassuring tone. “You were right to do so. You never want to surprise your shrink, right?” He chuckled, hoping to relax her. He hated using words like “shrink,” but speaking in the vernacular seemed to put patients at ease.
Not Dawes. “So, what about it?”
“Well,” he said, nervous heat rising in his ears, “how recent was this attempted rape? I found no police report on the matter.”
“I didn’t report it,” she said. “As I said, I kicked him in the nuts, pushed him out the door, and the whole incident was over in ten seconds.”
“So, you acted in self-defense?” Cyrus jotted down a few notes.
“It was a matter of possibly getting raped, or defending myself. So, yes. And there was a report. The jerk had the nerve to file a complaint against me.”
Cyrus stopped writing, glancing at her over the rim of his glasses. He’d seen no complaint in her file. “How do you feel about this incident?” he asked her. Again she reacted to the word “incident.”
“I won’t be going on any blind dates again for a decade or two,” Dawes said. “To be honest, I’m angr—er, frustrated that he had the nerve to file a complaint against me, and I had to defend myself against him. The system is pretty fu—er, screwed up, if you ask me.”
He sighed in agreement. A woman should be able to defend herself, police officer or not. He wrote “resolved” next to that item on his list of questions. “Now, I understand you had another recent violent encounter on the job. A similar situation, of sorts. A man abusing a child and her mother—”
“Richard Harkins. Yes. Unfortunately, he got away.”
“Yes.” Cyrus nodded. At first he sought a delicate way to ask this. But given her blunt nature, he opted for the direct approach. “Do you think you might harbor any anger or resentment against Mr. Harkins, anything that might carry into your job on a day-to-day basis?”
Dawes shrugged. “You mean, am I pissed off at myself for letting Harkins get away, and am I taking it out on the Kenny Takuras of the world? No, Dr. Cyrus. I encounter criminals and potential criminals every day of the week on my job. I wouldn’t last long if I let every one of them get to me.”
He nodded and gestured agreement with a sweep of his open palm. He’d heard a dozen cops make the same claim, nearly verbatim. There must be a class on that in the academy. “I’m, ah, glad to hear you’ve given some thought to this,” he said.
Dawes made a wry face, like he’d reminded her of some unpleasant inside joke. Cyrus let it pass. He had to pick his battles. “How are you doing with your health? Eating, sleeping, exercising?”
“Yes, yes, and yes.”
“When you sleep, do you make it through the night?”
“Except when I have to pee.”
“No nightmares?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember my dreams.” Her voice grew distant, as if fading into a long-forgotten memory.
During their first session, she‘d claimed to have reached peace with the punishment meted out to her uncle’s killer. She’d denied becoming a cop to avenge his death. Perhaps a little too quickly. Perhaps she protested the idea too much.
But he’d approved her entry into the force less than two months before, knowing about the issue then. If he flagged the issue now, this might all blow up on him.
Dawes was probably fine, anyway. Other than a little frustration with the whole psychological evaluation process, she seemed fine. As balanced and in control of her anger as any other cop that had gone through such an event. Perhaps more so.
But he was missing something, still. It bothered him that he couldn’t identify it.
Cyrus realized with embarrassment they’d been silent for some time. He pretended to study his notes another moment, then glanced up at her. “What else can you tell me right now?” he asked. God, what a dumb question. She knew it, too, and it showed on her face. No poker player, this one.
“I really would like to get back to work,” she said.
He sighed. Not one of his best interviews. “I’ll be writing up my recommendation to the department within the next couple of days,” he said.
“What will you recommend?” she asked.
“I won’t reach a decision until I review your entire case file,” he said. “But the options I’m considering are either to reinstate you, or to recommend further counseling.”
She sighed. “Right. Well then, I guess I’ll expect to see you next week.” She stood and marched out of his office.
He couldn’t decide whether she was right or wrong about that.
Chapter Eighteen
Val counted off the last three reps of her bicep curls with audible grunts, then dropped the twenty-pound dumbbell on the floor with a thud. She sat up and scanned the police gym, almost empty at mid-morning. Almost. A sweaty figure approached her, a barrel-shaped man with legs like an elephant’s and fists like sides of ham.
“Dawes,” he said. “I was hoping to find you here.”
“What can I do for you, Sergeant Blake?” Val forced her breaths back into a regular, slower rhythm.
Blake scanned the rack of dumbbells and selected a pair of 50-pounders. “Just wondering how you’re doing,” Blake said. He flexed each arm, testing the weight, and sat on an empty lifting bench. Red, loose-fitting shorts flapped around his thighs, and a gray “Property of CPD” T-shirt absorbed a ring of sweat around his midsection and armpits. His strong, musky scent preceded him by six feet.
“Doing okay.” She replaced her own weights, selecting a longer, heavier bar for a set of bench presses. “Thanks for asking.”
“Have you talked to the shrink?” He started a set of reps with his right arm, with slow, steady arcs, up and down.
Val nodded. “Twice. I prefer to get the mandatory stuff out of the way.” She placed the barbell on the bench rack and stretched her arms and shoulders.
Blake scowled. “Don’t just treat it as a mandatory thing to get your badge back. Sometimes these things can haunt you.”
Her ears perked up. Lieutenant Gibson trusted Travis more than any of his other sergeants. If Blake thought she presented a risk, so would Gibson. She softened her tone. “I’m okay.”
He grunted and finished his first set, started with his left arm. “Have you caught up with your paperwork?”
“Completely.” She lifted her arms to the barbell and glanced over at him. He stared back at her, even as he continued his workout. “Is there a particular reason for your interest in me today, Sarge?”
Blake nodded, a slight smile creasing his face. “Lieutenant Gibson wants a recommendation from me regarding your reinstatement. Gil, as your partner, is too close to you to be objective. I need to make sure you’re ready to come back before I put you out on the street.” He completed his set and placed the dumbbells on the floor.
“I’m ready whenever you are.” Two weeks had passed since the shooting. But Cyrus hadn’t asked for a new appointment, which she’d taken as more bureaucratic foot-dragging.
Val nodded once to her barbell. “Give me a spot?”
Blake stepped over and rested his hands underneath her barbell. She took the weight in her arms, brought it down to her chest. Up, slowly. Then down.
“Dawes, in some departments, when a cop says ‘I’m ready’ after a shooting, that’s good enough,” Blake said. “Not in Clayton.”
“We have a higher standard?” She continued her steady movements, felt the strain in her arms and chest. Her breathing grew labored. Nine reps, ten. End of the first set.
“We do.” Blake helped guide the barbell back to the rack. “You may have noticed, your perp was a person of color.”
She took deep breaths, rested her arms on her abdomen. “Yes, Takura was Japanese-American, to be precise.”
“And,” he said, “whites make up less than forty percent of Clayton’s population, but continue to dominate city government—including, Gibson notwithstanding, the top management of CPD.” He nodded to her again, indicating the barbell.
She began her second set of reps, but at a slower pace, her heart pounding. From the exercise, she hoped. “Remember, I’m from here. I live ten blocks from where the shooting took place. My graduating class was less than half white. Almost a mirror image of the city population as a whole. So?”
He grunted. “Ever since Ferguson and Minneapolis, we’ve become much more sensitive to community perceptions about police use of force. That’s why all the ‘grilling’, as you put it, after your shooting.”
“So, everybody gets the same treatment?” she said with a wry grin. “I’m not special?” Five reps. Six.
Blake choked out a laugh. “Look, in vice, you plug a guy, the paperwork’s just a formality. Here, in the precincts, the neighbors have to trust that you’re not going to gun people down for stealing a donut.”
Val grunted. Seven. “I don’t think that’s a problem here.”
“I don’t either,” Blake said. “But they need to be sure. More sure than me, even.”
“Give them the shrink’s report.” Eight, nine.
Blake shook his head. “You know how that comes across. ‘She’s one of us; she’s fine.’ Put yourself in the shoes of the neighbors, The Disciples, anyone out there. Would you buy it?”
She finished the set, pushed the bar back toward the rack. “Probably not.”
“More important,” Blake said, again guiding her bar onto the rack, “are you ready? Will you be able to draw your weapon to defend yourself, your partner, or a citizen? Will you know when not to? Or, are you too spooked still to make a quick, rational choice?”
Val glared at him. “I didn’t intend to draw my gun this time, but I did what I had to do,” she said. “To survive.”
Blake returned to his own bench and resumed his right arm curls. “Good answer.” He counted off six reps, then switched arms. She waited, hoping he’d return to spot for her again. Instead, he finished the set and wiped his watermelon-sized face with a towel, soaking it instantly. He stared off into the distance, steadying his breathing. “We had a Richard Harkins sighting yesterday,” he said.
Her mouth gaped open, and she sat up on the bench. “No shit? Was it The Disciples?” She panicked for a moment, wondering if she had the five hundred bucks she’d promised Pope.
He shook his head. “Nope. One of the neighbors. What was the young girl’s name that he abused? Anita?”
“Antoinetta?”
Blake nodded. “Her aunt. She doesn’t think he saw her, but seeing him scared the shit out of her.”
Val’s heart pounded. “Guy’s got balls. He doesn’t expect we’ll catch up to him?”
Blake laughed. “I guess not. But he’s wrong about that.” He reached into his fanny pack on the floor and opened his massive fist in front of her. A shiny object filled his palm.
Her badge.
“Your gun’s in my office. Stop by when you’re done.” He stood and sauntered off to the water fountain.
Val grinned and bench-pressed another set. This time she didn’t need anyone to spot her.
***
Gil greeted Val outside the locker room five minutes before their shift started, his big paw extended in a warm handshake. She welcomed his friendly smile and noticed his five-o’clock shadow seemed more subdued than usual. Like he’d actually paid attention to how his ruggedly handsome face would look with a clean shave.
“Welcome back, partner,” he said. “Are you ready to resume your training?”
She gave his hand a vigorous shake and grinned. “Like nobody’s business! Let’s hit the streets.” She headed toward the garage exit, but Gil beat her to the door and grabbed her arm. Instinctively, she shook it free. Maybe a little harder than necessary.
He furrowed his brow. “What’s eating you?”
“Nothing.” Her face warmed. “What’s up?”
His voice took on a wary tone. “Let’s take a walk before we head out,” he said. “I want to talk to you.”
“What about?” she asked, but followed in silence to the street exit.
“First, you’re going to get another frigging medal,” he said. “Pretty soon you won’t have room on your chest for a badge.”
“I’ll hide it in my underwear drawer, with the other one.” She glanced down at her chest, self-conscious. She wondered if Gil ever looked there. Probably not, since the damn Kevlar hid what little she had. Then she chided herself for thinking that way about him, again. Her partner. Boss. A man almost fifteen years older, that she’d just pushed away, for God’s sake.
“Whatever. You earned it.” He popped a hard candy into his mouth and crunched it in his teeth. “Second,” he said, most decidedly not looking at her chest, “things are going to be different.”
“I kind of figured we’d have to patrol together again for a while,” she said. “I hope you didn’t get in trouble for that.”
Gil shrugged. “I’ll live. But it’s not only that.” He turned down a side street, and after she followed, he stopped and stepped in close enough that she could smell peppermint on his breath. She took a nervous half-step back. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Listen,” he said in a low voice, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “On a good day, most people either love us or hate us. There isn’t much that we can do to change their minds. It’s based mostly on what sort of experiences they’ve had with cops in the past.”
“Makes sense.” Val nodded. “So, is this a good day?”
“Don’t make light of this,” he said. “There’s been a ton of media attention to the Takura thing, most of it positive. Some people are even calling you a hero.” He fixed her with a fierce gaze. “Don’t listen to them.”
Numbness swept over her. “I don’t understand. You just said you thought I earned a medal. Now—”
“You swept some scumbag off the street, and a lot of people wish you’d do the same to the rest,” he said. “They don’t have much use for courts, trials, or people’s rights. We can’t buy into that. Understand? Don’t let this go to your head. It’ll ruin you.”
