By Robert Garcia

I

In this line of work, grudges are collected like acquaintances. Most come in and out of your life until they lose their usefulness and are forgotten. Others blossom into full-blown hatred. Doesn’t take much. This job, no matter how hard you try, doesn’t stay impersonal.

At first I didn’t recognize the voice calling. But when the scrawny Chicano kid with runaway ink on his neck and forearms came into view, the voice had a face, and it was a face I knew. It was John Fernandez. Not my first arrest, but it was a quality one. The tattoo on his neck was a cross wrapped with thorns. On his left arm was his last name in Old English lettering. On his right a portrait of a child with what must have been its name written in sweeping cursive. The veins in his arm streamed its face, giving the unintended illusion it were behind bars. I smirked at the idea: a baby behind bars. Not now baby, I thought, too young, but in time, maybe. Good chance with John Fernandez as your father.

He was yelling my name from inside the drive-thru window of a fast food joint we had pulled in to. It was already getting dark. Normally, as a rule, officers like to stay away from fast food joints unless nothing else is open and you are desperate. Too easy for someone to spit in your food or worse. It may never happen but it’s an ever-present possibility; after all, cops are not firemen, and people generally are not always happy to see us, except when they need us.

My partner shot me a glance that I returned with a slight nod, signaling that it was okay to stay. “Officer Garcia, Officer Garcia” he kept shouting, almost falling out of the window to get my attention. I acknowledged his excitement with a wave, at which time he stopped and returned to the couple at the front of the line, who were already getting visibly upset.

II

I had heard of cops running into people they’d arrested, mostly at the grocery store or a bar or even at a local church. Quite an uncomfortable reunion. You try to recall what you arrested them for and, more importantly, if both of you got along. One of my field training officers taught me to be nice for this very reason; he knew the world was too small a place not to run into someone you’ve arrested, and that when you do, it’s usually when you’d rather not. Luckily for me, I was in uniform. I was still Officer Garcia. And in this uniform, I can’t be afraid of confrontation. In this uniform, I’m actually learning to enjoy it.

I pulled up to the drive-thru window and offered a quick upward nod and a “What’s up, John?” as casually as I could. John, still lurching enthusiastically outside the drive-thru window like a sailor who had just spotted land, extended his hand out to me like we were childhood friends. We could have been; I’m from this neighborhood after all, just like him. Being only a couple of years older than him, we might have just missed being friends.

I broke another rule by giving him my hand in return. We clasped hands and allowing our hands to fold and contort while gripping in certain points, just as we both grew up doing. I was too trusting still. Classic rookie symptom.

III

John was arrested for criminal trespass and for possession of stolen credit cards. It had been a decent pop for me. But nothing major for him. He’d had some stints in juvie for assault, and had graduated to big boy jail when I caught him. He didn’t yet have the tattoo of his baby on his arm. His girlfriend was there when I arrested him. There were signs of pregnancy then, perhaps more prominent in her anger and emotion at the man who was to be the father of her child. They were arguing in public when I saw them, which was the very reason why we approached them to begin with. She had found out about the stolen credit cards and was at once screaming at him and faux-abandoning him by turning her back and walking away before returning to chastise him some more.

I let her go, but arrested John. As biased as it seemed, I will do anything I can not to arrest pregnant women. It’s just something that tells me the baby would remember it, and I didn’t want that on my conscience. So I overlooked the bags of designer clothes that she had with her, of course purchased with stolen credit cards. I wasn’t sure if she had any idea what John was up to. I wasn’t sure she was entirely innocent either. Still, I let her go. She called her mother to come pick her up. John Fernandez took the ride. He didn’t mind. I believe he was grateful I let her go.

Now there I was at the drive-thru handing my credit card to a guy I’d busted for stealing credit cards. Still a rookie. I asked him how his family was. Enough time had passed, so I was sure he had one. With even more excitement he told me about his daughter, how beautiful she was, how the mother was trying to get back in school next semester to finish high school. I asked if she wife was planning to go to college, and remarked how I got the impression she had a good head on her shoulders and might do well with the opportunity. He said she’d likely take some evening classes at the community college in the fall.

He ran my card and gave it back to me. I told him I did not need a receipt.

I tried to make sense of the whole scene. Then, jokingly, I told him I didn’t want him making my food. He smiled, one customer to another.

 

Robert Garcia is a proud father, husband, son, and graduate of the MLA program at St. Edward’s University.

Photo by Clare Mackenzie.