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Wilson Calloway hated working the night shift. Between the ever-increasing crime rate and the brutality of today's criminals, it was almost too much to stomach anymore. Like clockwork, he parked his blue and white police cruiser in front of the housing manager’s office. Blowing a hard breath, he stepped out of the vehicle and wiped his brow. For once he hoped his shift would go nice and smooth.
Wilson checked to make sure his dark blue High Point Police Department T-shirt was still tucked into his jeans. He tightened the cord connected to the lancet holding his badge, then pulled his shades over his eyes.
He reached down, checking for the gun inside his holster. Each time his fingers grazed it, Wilson envisioned his dad lying in a wasteland of blood on an abandoned street.
He stiffened and allowed the moment to pass.
Wilson coughed from the stench of rancid trash baking in the heat of the evening sun that filled the air. He quickly secured his vehicle before patrolling through the dense public housing community. Wilson followed a wide path across the crunchy brown grass towards the one rimmed basketball court, listening for rowdy voices of children and teenagers.
A chorus of kids yelled, “Officer Calloway, come play with us.”
Smiling, he strolled toward them. Moments like this made police work worth it. The children in the community meant the most to him although they often left him wondering how life could be.
He picked up a little boy and guided him to the basketball goal. The boy made a wild throw toward the net, missing it. The other children giggled because Wilson always stayed until they made their baskets.
After about fifteen minutes, he headed over to where the teenagers were playing. He spent time inquiring about their fathers, most of whom he’d either gone to school with or arrested a time or two. Wilson wished he could make men fully understand the vital role fathers played in their lives of their children.
Last summer, he organized several neighborhood block parties with food, giveaways, and more than a few popular African American male community leaders who spoke on the impact Black men have on their children. The events were a hit, with several already scheduled for the upcoming summer.
Wilson glanced down at his watch. It was almost time to meet Mrs. Adams, a good friend of his late grandmother. Last year the petite, ninety-year-old woman fell in front of her building after an ice storm, injuring herself. Since then, he’d made it his business to check on her regularly.
Wilson listened for the familiar clunking sound of her granddaughter’s vehicle as it made its way to the drop-off spot in front of her building. If his grandmother was still alive, there would be no way he’d just leave her without making sure she made it safely inside to her apartment. He stepped out from between the two-story high-rise buildings in the public housing community and waited near the curb. Amanda swung her big, white, Chevy Caprice into a tiny parking space; almost hitting a parked brown Buick with a large crack in the windshield in the process. He noticed a significant dent in her front fender.
He waved at Amanda, then said, “Hey, Mrs. Adams, how are you doing?” Wilson leaned in to kiss her gingerbread colored cheek.
“Oh, I do all right, baby. How are you doing?” Her once strong voice now trembled with age.
He nodded his head in a quick goodbye to Amanda.
Wilson linked Mrs. Adams arm through his own. Together, they walked across the parking lot to her building.
She looked up at him. “Bible study was good tonight. That new, young pastor sure does know the Word.”
Feeling uneasy, Wilson cringed. He didn’t want to hear Bible talk tonight. His expression tight, he continued to look straight ahead.He glanced over his shoulder, noticing four or five teenage boys leaning over a black Dodge Charger. The music blaring, and smoke wafting out the sunroof roused his curiosity about the occupants of the vehicle. His team worked hard to keep drugs to a minimum in the community. He felt Mrs. Adams tighten her grip on his arm, on instinct, he decreased his stride He opened the door, escorted her inside and stood with her as she waited for the elevator.
Out of nowhere, she took his hand and began to pray for him aloud—in front of everyone.
Wilson pressed his lips together and shook his head. He wished the floor would suddenly open and swallow him whole. He bowed his head, covering his face with his other hand. He didn’t believe in God, but out of respect, he listened as Mrs. Adams prayed for his safety. The doors to the elevator slid open, but Mrs. Adams kept right on praying.
The doors closed minutes later, and she was still praying. She had just said, “Amen” when the elevator returned.
Mrs. Adams added a little bounce to her step as she stepped inside. Embarrassed, Wilson kept his eyes downward. With one finger, he jabbed the button for her floor. The elevator creaked and ground its way to the fifth floor of the building. After the doors opened, he extended his arm out and escorted her home.
Wilson watched her dig down into her pocketbook, searching for her keys. Why she didn’t pull them out when they first entered the building, he didn’t know. He had told her to always have them out and ready whenever she entered the apartment building.
While she searched, she inquired, “How’s your momma doing?”
Smiling, Wilson cocked his head to the side. “She’s doing fine.” He wanted to add, “Didn’t you see my mother at church?” But he wasn’t crazy enough to sass Mrs. Adams.
“Oh Chile,” she pulled her arm out of her bag. “I heard your baby sister,” Mrs. Adams looked up at him. “What’s her name again?”
“Natasha.”
“Yeah, her. I heard she is doing great things with those kids in the children’s church. Got them memorizing verses, singing songs and stuff.” Mrs. Adams turned the purse, going through it with gusto. She threw her head back and laughed. “There is it. I got it.”
She pulled the single silver key out of her purse and jammed it into the keyhole of the door.
He watched the door swing open.
The elderly lady crossed the threshold, sat her purse on the small table near the door, then turn around, facing him.
She lifted her quivering arms and captured his face between her hands. “Wilson Calloway, I remember when you were born. I love you...and it ain’t nothing you can do about it.”
He felt his face flush. The scent of mothballs and pine cones filled the air. Mrs. Adams had been saying those words to him since he was a young kid in her Sunday School class. It wasn’t often, but every now and again, he missed her teaching.
Sweat beads gathered around his collar as he bent over, wrapping his arms around her. “Thank you for letting me walk you home.”
Wilson released her, then retreated two steps. “Good night.”
He stood outside the door, listening until he heard the lock turn. Wilson took the elevator down to the first floor.
Before going outside, he stopped to talk to a group of veterans drinking coffee near the apartment office. Wilson spoke to Mrs. Rittenhouse who sat stone-faced by the door in her wheelchair.
He fanned away the stale odor of cigarette smoke wafting outside the building. Wilson found the teenagers standing near the brown Buick that Mrs. Adams’ granddaughter almost ran in to.
As he walked toward them, one of the teens slid a pack of blunts out of his pocket and began tapping it against the car. Wilson crossed his arms and stood there for a moment.
No way did this kid think he was going to stand there and roll a blunt in front of a police officer. More than once, he’d told them that living in the projects didn’t mean they had to have a project mentality. He knew two of the boys very well. They participated in the midnight basketball league he coached every summer.
He slowed his pace, curious to see if they were bold enough to pull out a bag of weed.
Wilson listened as they talked about taking the beat-up Buick with the cracked windshield out for a joy ride.
“Man, it ain’t gonna crank,” one of the boys said.
“What won’t crank,” Wilson placed a tight grip on the tallest boy’s shoulders.
“Dang, Super Cop,” he uttered as he tried to wiggle free.
“Nothing, Officer Calloway.” The others murmured in unison.
“Whose car is this? Wilson pointed his finger at Ben, one of the boys from his team.
The scent of weed sat in the air. Wilson looked down on the ground for the familiar casing of the cigar they often used to smoke a blunt.
“Don’t know sir,” the tallest one replied.
“It’s been here for a day or two.” Ben stammered the words out.
“You sure?” Wilson sniffed hard, hoping to find the scent of weed on him.
He released him from his grasp and moved back to walk around the car taking a good look at it. He saw the busted-out driver side window and fragments of glass on the seat. Wilson stuck his head in the window and peered at the ignition.
The wires dangling told the story. Just as he pulled his radio out of his back pocket to call in the plates, he heard a string of profanity spewing out of the mouths of two people walking near the basketball court.
The dispatcher asked him to repeat what he said.
Wilson punched down on the button and repeated the license plate numbers louder this time. He felt that familiar tingling in his gut which signaled that something was amiss.
Distracted from his task, he looked up in time to see arms flailing. It happened so quickly, his brain hardly had time to register what was happening. Wilson saw the woman fall backward, landing hard on her butt. She threw up her hands to deflect the hard slaps from her attacker.
“Stop!” Wilson shouted.
He broke out in a jog across the vacant weed-filled lot.
The man standing over the woman suddenly kicked her.
“Hey, I said stop.”
The abuser propelled his body forward and began running, his arms pumping up and down like pistons.
Wilson stopped to check on the woman before he fell into a runner’s stride. His muscles warmed in response to his quickened pace. “Stop. Police.”
He waited a few moments before stretching out into a full run. Secretly, he wanted the perp to think that he had a small chance to escape. Wilson sucked in a deep breath, forcing air down into his lungs. He lengthened his stride.
Forty yards ahead, he watched as the perp tried to dart back and forth in front of the tall red brick buildings as if he was on a football field.
Wilson waited for the precise moment of his next dip. Again, he lengthened his stride, feeling the slow burn in his quads. Once the perp was within reach, he lurched forward, snatching him by his dirty, white t-shirt which flapped in the wind. The sudden jerking moment caused them both to crash to the ground. Without warning, Wilson tossed the perp onto his stomach.
“Aye man, what are you doing?” His mouth gaped open in surprise.
“High Point Police Department... you are under arrest.” Wilson felt him wiggling under his knee.
“Come on man, what for?”
“I saw you abusing that woman.” He tugged on the man’s right arm and snapped the handcuffs closed.
The man logged his head to one side. “Man, I ain’t hit her. Ask her. Ask her man,” he whined.
Wilson pulled the guy to a standing position. “I don’t have to ask her anything. I saw you. Not only did you hit her, I saw you kick her, too. You knew better than to put your hands on a lady.”
“She ain’t no lady.”
Wilson looked over at the wild-eyed man. “Whatever she is—you shouldn’t have put your hands on her. Let’s go.” He read him his Miranda rights and escorted the perp back to his patrol car, placing him in the back seat. Wilson shut the door of the patrol car, making sure it was secure. then walked back over to check on the woman.
She sat hunched forward on the curb. Her long fingers wrapped around a cigarette. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her cheek appeared swollen and was changing colors.
Wilson fought against the rage building within him. He willed himself not go back and pop the man in the face.
He was as far as one could get from being a saint. He loved a good fight—a good, fair fight. A man hitting a woman was never fair. He made a quick call. She needed to go to the hospital.
Wilson stood there, waiting for an ambulance to come transport her to the hospital. The blood from her split lip trickled down her chin, drying quickly in the late day, summer heat.
“You know you don’t have to put up with anyone putting their hands on you?” He leaned in closer to her. “Are you willing to press charges?”
“I...I don’t know,” she mumbled.
Wilson bit back his frustration. He’s heard these words so many times before. He’d take the man down to jail. The female victim would be too afraid to press charges against him, so he’d go free.
“Here is my card. If he ever hits you again, I want you to call me.”
Tears streaming down her face, she extended a trembling hand and grabbed the card.
The ambulance arrived.
He stepped aside so the paramedics could begin their assessment. Wilson filled them in on what he saw, then made his way back over to his police cruiser. He opened the rear door and leaned in real close to the man in the back seat.
His eyes widened, he scooted further away from the door.
“If I ever see you hit another woman, you and me... we’re gonna have a problem. Do you understand? You are going to jail tonight for domestic violence?”
The man grumbled out another answer.
He looked over at the emergency medical technicians and shook his head.
He went back to the precinct and parked. Carefully, he removed the suspect from the back of his car and took him inside the magistrate’s office. After explaining the charges to the magistrate and completing the paperwork he turned the suspect over to the jailers.
“Man, what you do?” Another officer asked, looking at the red whelps on the man’s face.
Sick of the violence plaguing the city, Wilson let out a long sigh and completed the booking. Nights like tonight made him wonder if he did the right thing by following in his father’s footsteps.
At the end of his shift, he looked forward to going home and burying himself deep in the sheets.