Seven days, seven months, seven years all seemed the same.
Laura said that if they charged me, we would beat it in court. The great unknown was the influence that public pressure was going to have on this case. The daily news conferences and demonstrations had slowed down to weekly, but the fuse on the powder keg was still smoldering. While waiting, I hid out and continued to refine and appreciate my relationship with demon whiskey. Friends from the department called but not near as many or as often as before. Who could blame them? I was not exactly a fun guy to talk to or be around. I only answered the phone when I was drunk and let it ring unanswered when I was sober. I never answered the door and kept the curtains drawn.
The call came: report at 0800 November 22, a few days before Thanksgiving. The same day that, decades before, a punk with an army surplus Carcano rifle delivered a hammer blow to our country.
Everyone wanted to finish this before the holidays. A noose hanging in the background tends to dampen the Thanksgiving appetite and the Christmas spirit.
Laura was kind enough to pick me up in her brand new spectacular jet black Japanese sports car. She said it was the least she could do seeing how I had paid for it. I told her to step on it, that we were late. We weren’t late, but I hoped she would get a ticket. She made the trip unscathed.
It was good old conference room GR17 again. Painted a depressing light gray with fifty or so World War II surplus chairs for the audience facing four long metal tables pushed together, behind which were chairs occupied by the chief, the D.A., and company. One thing was noticeably different. This time there was a court reporter to take down everything for the record, the official record of what could only be the demise of a once promising officer. We walked right in where everyone was already waiting. The air was oppressive. I even thought for a second I was having a heart attack. That’ll fix ’em. I’ll die on the spot. No such luck.
The chief was again presiding. It looked like he had aged in the past months. His hair looked grayer, the lines on his face deeper. He hunched his big-shouldered boxer’s frame over the table and snapped everyone to order and began without wasting any time.
“Is the court reporter ready?”
“Yes, Chief Nolan, I am.”
“Let’s begin then and get this over with,” said the chief. “Officer John Cabrelli, you are present in person and represented by your lawyer, Laura Davis. We have reviewed your case and considered all the evidence. We regret that this has taken so long, but there were many issues to consider. First, the district attorney had to consider whether criminal charges were warranted. He will present his findings as soon as I have concluded my opening remarks. Then the department needed to determine whether or not you were in violation of department policies and procedures. Lastly, we had to answer claims that you violated the civil rights of Damien Callahan, requiring us to refer this to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The district attorney and the Department Board of Inquiry have completed their investigations. All leads have been exhausted, and I am convinced that the investigation has been fair and impartial. The results of the investigation by both the district attorney and this department shall be made available to you and your counsel as soon as this hearing concludes. Mr. District Attorney, please go ahead.”
Boyle stayed seated but assumed a ramrod straight lawyerly posture. His face reflected the gravity of the situation. “Officer Cabrelli, I have thoroughly reviewed the facts of this case. Regarding the death of Angelina Gonzalez, we have found no probable cause to file criminal charges against you. Your actions may or may not have been consistent with acceptable police procedures, but that is not our concern. Regarding the battery of Damien Callahan, we have determined that your actions were inappropriate and likely constituted criminal battery. It was my intent to file charges. However, there are extenuating circumstances. The victim, Damien Callahan, was arrested four days ago for the delivery of crack cocaine. He was arrested as part of a sting operation conducted by Metro Narcotics. The lead officer on that sting was one Lieutenant J. J. Malone. I believe you are familiar with him as you were once partners and academy classmates. Callahan says that he was set up. Be that as it may, he is currently working with narcotics folks, rolling over on anyone he can to keep from going back to prison for a long, long stay. He has no interest in pursuing charges against you or proceeding with his lawsuit against the city. Lastly, there is no evidence to support that you violated the civil rights of anyone involved in this incident. The matter will not be referred to the FBI. I have nothing further.”
“Thank you, District Attorney Boyle. Any questions, Attorney Davis?’’
Laura was afraid to breathe, much less ask questions. I had already gone into respiratory arrest. “No, Chief. We are ready to continue,” she whispered.
“Very well then. With regard to disciplinary issues. Officer John Cabrelli, we have found that you violated sections 101.7, 205.1, and 335 of the Policies and Procedures Manual. These sections deal with excessive physical force, arrest and restraint of prisoners, and evidence seizure and protection, respectively. You received and signed for the official department manual. Thirty days after you received this manual, you signed an affidavit stating that you had read and understood this manual. You were offered the opportunity for a more detailed explanation if you felt it necessary and you declined in writing.”
Like almost every other cop, I had never read the manual. Signing the paperwork was just to make it go away so I could get to the business of being a cop.
“Based on the result of our investigation and previous disciplinary actions, you are terminated, effective immediately. We thank you for your years of service, and I am truly sorry that your career has ended this way. You have the right to appeal this decision, and you must file your appeal within 60 days of this date. This hearing is concluded.”
At that, everybody got up and left. On his way out, Martin Dumas smiled at me. I didn’t even want to smack him, I was in such shock. No trial, no jail, no job, no life. A cop was all I had ever been. There was nothing past that. I should have been glad not to be facing criminal charges, but all that mattered was the job. It was my family, my life, my purpose. I had gone to work one day, like so many days before. Started my patrol shift just like always. Then things changed, a series of events I could have never scripted came crashing down around me. As a result, Angelina Gonzalez lay in a cold grave, and her parents would mourn forever. I had not been charged with a crime, but in my mind I had murdered little Angelina. The emotional pain I felt seemed inexcusably selfish and a just reward for my actions.
I had never understood the term “lost soul” until that day. Laura offered to buy me a drink on the way home. I wasn’t interested. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I didn’t want anyone looking at me. To hell with everybody. I sat in a chair by the closed window drapes and drank myself into unconsciousness. To hell with Laura, the chief, Callahan, Dumas, and Kuehnin … and to hell with myself.
The next morning, the morning after that, and the mornings (afternoons and evenings for that matter) for what I thought were the next two weeks were hard to recall, blurred by despair and alcohol. Laura had called and stopped by. I just couldn’t answer the phone or the door. My former co-workers did the same. My response to them was the same. It became clear that people were now avoiding me. I can’t say for sure, but it appears as though my surly, angry attitude and the fact that I was always drunk might have had something to do with it.
My mail had begun to pile up, and there were several letters from the department. I had never felt more alone in my life. I was just marking time. I had found a store that offered grocery and liquor shopping by phone, with free delivery service. I never had to leave the house. Actually, I had convinced myself that I was pretty content. I watched a lot of TV, slept a lot, and pretty much wallowed in my own self-pity. Everyone should be allowed to wallow at least once; wallowing was good. I would probably still be there, permanently preserved by 100 proof, if not for Laura and the chief.
It was a glorious day, about 10:00 a.m. I had just gotten out of bed and moved to the couch, now dining on my recent favorite breakfast of a cheese and salami sandwich and a little brandy mixed with orange juice. It appeared as though the sun was shining outside, and I had just turned on the TV for my daily dose of adventure with Magnum P.I. What would Magnum get himself into today? What a crime rate Hawaii had!
All of a sudden, someone was pounding the crap out of my front door. Not knocking, pounding. I was trying to ignore the noise, but it was seriously impacting my ability to concentrate on the conversation that Magnum and Rick were having about Higgins and the details of security at the Island Flower Show. That Higgins, what a guy.
The knocking stopped, and for about 20 seconds, I thought the invaders had retreated. Then the door came flying open aided by the chief’s size 13 shoe. I looked up from the couch and saw Laura and Chief Nolan in my living room. I tried to leap up in outrage, but I caught my foot in my blanket and fell back down on the couch.
Looking to rescue the moment and a little of the minuscule amount of dignity I had left, I said, “Hey, Chief. Hey, Laura. How nice to see you guys. Chief, you must be a welcome visitor, knock twice then kick in the door. I am sure kicking in your friend’s doors makes you a popular guy, you know, adding a little excitement and criminal damage to property to your visits.”
“John, shut up! Open your mouth again, and I am going to come over there and shut it for you,” growled the chief.
“Might not be all that easy, Chief, so if you feel froggy, jump,” I responded, again searching for dignity scraps.
“John, what are you doing to yourself?” Laura said. “You look horrible. This place smells, you smell. When was the last time you took a shower? My God, John.”
In the two minutes since they had interrupted Magnum and company, they had already worn out their welcome. I was not about to put up with any crap from the chief or Laura in my own house. I didn’t invite them, and I wanted them to leave.
“What’s the big deal? I think I deserve a couple of weeks off after all I’ve been through. I realize that I’ve let the place go a little, but I have a cleaning service coming in starting next week,” I lied.
“John, listen to me. Look me in the eye. Sit up, look me in the eye. Focus for one minute. Just listen for one minute,” the chief commanded.
“You have got one minute before I throw you out of here. By the way, I will be sending a bill for the door. Where do you get off kicking in—”
“Shut up, John. Stop it and listen to me. Listen for one damn minute,” the chief bellowed.
It was then he decided to hit me with two sledgehammers, and it was difficult to determine which in fact was more painful.
“It hasn’t been two weeks, it’s been two months. You’ve been holed up in this toxic waste dump for two months. Eight weeks.”
They said I looked at them like they were from Mars. After a minute or two, I started screaming, calling them liars. Laura picked something out of the bushel of mail and showed me the date. It was seven weeks going on eight. Sledgehammer one: delivered.
According to those present, myself excluded, it was at that point that I lost it. Laura says I was screaming so loudly that they couldn’t make out the words, but they could see my intentions as I charged across the room. Blood was in my eye.
The chief stood his ground and dropped into a low crouch. Forty years ago, he had been a Golden Gloves boxer, some even said a contender. A tough guy during his days as a street cop, but he had been off the street for twenty years and had gone soft. The punch he hit me with was anything but soft. I went down and stayed there.
Sledgehammer two: delivered.
They left me where I fell. I tried to open my eyes many times, but I kept closing them waiting for the dream to end. I can’t say how long I lay there, but when I eventually got up, the room had become very crowded. The chief and Laura had been joined by my old partner J.J. Malone and his wife, Tanya.
They had begun the process of shoveling out my house. Laura was at my kitchen table going through the mail. J and Tanya were filling trash bags and pitching them out the back door. Someone had a batch of laundry going. Fresh coffee was brewing. Even though it was January, the windows were open, and I smelled this odd scent that I soon figured out must be fresh air.
I made it back to the couch, and Tanya brought me a cup of coffee. I reached for the brandy bottle, but it was gone. The chief, J, and Tanya pulled kitchen chairs around me.
Tanya looked at me with sympathetic eyes wearing an old WPPA t-shirt. Her face was smudged by dirt from the mess I’d left. When she spoke, it was from the collective heart of those assembled.
“John, we’re your friends and we’re here to help you. You need to know that. You can count on us. We’ll help you get through this. You have to help us help you,” Tanya pleaded.
It was all too much for my booze-soaked brain to take in. Who was this guy they were talking to? It could not possibly be John Cabrelli, decorated police veteran. It must be someone else.
I can’t tell you what happened, how they got through to me, but they did. I knew I was in trouble. I knew I needed someone. I needed help. As long as I live, I will never be able to thank those people—they saved my life. They treated me with respect. They never left me alone. They listened. They helped. They held me. I went from a complete menace to crying like a baby. Each day I got better.
Laura deposited checks that had come in the mail for unused vacation time and my final paycheck. She paid my past due mortgage, phone bill, and other bills.
She met with the pension folks and told me that I had enough years of service to qualify for a small but decent pension. She filled out the paperwork, and all I had to do was sign.
I started taking a walk every morning, then every evening. Always someone with me and always someone there for me. It took two days to compensate for every one day I had spent holed up. I slept a lot less for two reasons: I felt better when I was awake, and sleep brought me the face of Angelina Gonzalez, smiling, dying.
I got stronger. Laura signed me up at a health club, and I started to spend each morning there, pushing myself, purging the pain. Tanya got me going on the basics of weightlifting, and I began to feel strong again. J.J. and I just sat and visited. We never seemed to run out of things to talk about. It seemed like forever, but one morning I woke up and it was spring. I was looking forward to the day ahead, something I can’t explain to someone who hasn’t been there. I walked out to my car and found myself whistling “Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows.” What an idiot.