The Big Guy Chapter 21

The Big Guy
Chapter 21

Six months later, I didn’t think life could be better. Lucy was pregnant again, and Melody was crawling. She went to Max about ninety percent of the time. She loved climbing onto his soft, furry body for a nap or just to run her hands through his fur while she giggled madly. If I picked her up and carried her to the other side of the room, she’d crawl right back to Max as soon as possible. Yes, life was excellent—never better.

I was finishing a grant application in the office when Sandra asked if I could spare a few minutes to speak with two deputy sheriffs. Truthfully, I was ready for a break, so I stood and stretched before welcoming the deputies. They turned down my offer of coffee but did ask me to close the office door.
I thought that was odd, but we were seated at my table a few seconds later. “How can I help you, deputies?”

“Um…Chief, we have a problem that we need to talk about.”

“Is this some kind of legal problem?” I asked, continuing once they nodded. “Are you guys in trouble?”

“No, sir; it’s not that kind of problem.”

I could easily see their reluctance to speak, yet they had come to me with what had to be a significant concern. I can add two plus two for anyone. “You have a legal problem, but instead of taking it to the Sheriff, you came here. Know what that tells me? The Sheriff is the problem; you need someone to trust to help you. Let’s hear it. Nothing will go out of this room without your permission.”

Oh, boy—did they have a problem! While they waited, I phoned Julia Adams and put her on speaker. “Julia, I have another big one for you. I have two Bascomb County deputy sheriffs here in the office with me, and they’ve told me some exciting things about the sheriff.” I waited for a few seconds while she spoke in reply. “There are two significant issues that they tell me to have the deputies and the clerical employees up in arms.

"First, he has on-duty deputies working on his election campaign—stuffing envelopes and attaching address labels, making phone calls to constituents, and transporting election materials from his office at the jail to his campaign headquarters. It gets better. He is forcing every deputy to contribute $300 to his campaign. That one has them furious. He’s told them at daily inspection that he’ll fire any deputy who refuses.”

I waited a few minutes until she set up a meeting with a group of deputies. I told her I had the perfect place—one where we could have total privacy. I arranged to meet at the old quarry, where we apprehended Haynes and company almost a year ago.

I put a trusted team of officers at the gate to screen everyone for the meeting I held in the warehouse where Jeremy Haynes had hidden until Daryl baited him into coming out. I had Dan Powell with me to keep track of any equipment or workforce we might need as Julia opened the meeting. There were thirty-four off-duty deputies present, and all agreed to cooperate fully. Each was scheduled to give a deposition—we used a room at City Hall for that—and to wear a wire, although modern technology had made the wire part obsolete. Each was given a wafer-thin transmitter that would record any demands from the Sheriff, sending the conversation to a relay hidden in one of the deputy’s cars.

Two weeks later, Julia had a mountain of evidence, and, to my surprise, there had been no leaks even though almost half of the deputies and many of the clerical staff were involved. Julia phoned me less than two months after our initial meeting to tell me that a warrant had been issued for the Sheriff to be served by State Police tomorrow morning at 09:00. I congratulated her on another coup, laughed with her for a few minutes, and returned to my work.

I hadn’t said anything to Lucy out of the same concerns I’d had about the Haynes matter, but that night, I told her all about it, knowing that the state police would act before I went to work the following morning. Lucy and I had an OB/GYN appointment at 8:45 for a sonogram that would tell our baby’s sex. We were both so excited that we celebrated for hours that night after dinner. Melody was on solid food and slept through the night with Max as her guardian. We could leave the doors open, knowing Max would ignore us and Melody would sleep through a thunderstorm.

Lucy came into my arms as soon as we walked up the stairs. Her head was buried into my shoulder as we entered our room, where she began to strip every piece of clothing from my body. I would have gladly reciprocated if she had allowed me to do so. Instead, she did a slow, sensual striptease, and it would have been funny if I wasn’t totally in love with her. Instead, I picked her up and carried her to the shower. I held her tightly in my arms until the water had warmed.

We had decided no sex in the shower as soon as we knew she was pregnant. We took no chances with Lucy’s or Melody’s health. We discovered that Melody could climb out of her crib when the side was down and crawl one day when Max brought her to us in bed by carrying her, his teeth securely holding her sleeper while Melody laughed like crazy. I went out that morning to buy a safety barricade that I put at the top of the stairs. That and Max should keep her safe. Mostly, we were counting on Max.

The arrest of Sheriff Steven Johnson made the front pages of every newspaper in Tennessee and most of the TV stations’ news, too. I saw the story on the six o’clock news that evening and sat down with the newspaper for the in-depth story the following morning after inspection. It told about a thorough investigation by State Attorney Julia Adams and the State Police.

Several deputies were identified as having participated in the inquiry—recording conversations with the Sheriff and even paying him with “marked money.” Johnson was charged with several election law felonies, but they were nothing compared with the allegations of soliciting and accepting bribes from his employees. If convicted—and the chances looked promising—Johnson was looking at a long time in one of the state’s penal institutions. After reading the story, I set aside the newspaper and returned to work.
This was the week we were due at the County Firing Range, and I was looking forward to hearing about the arrest from the range personnel. Nothing was said or written about my limited role, and that was just fine with me.

The firing range staff discussed how it was time Johnson was held accountable for his actions. They even asked for my opinion, but I remained mum until I asked which captains would take over once Johnson was fired. “None of them,” the manager replied.
“They were all in cahoots with the sheriff. They all thought what he was doing was right…and, mostly because they would profit when he was reelected.” I shook my head in disbelief. Thankfully, it wasn’t my problem. I had nothing to do with county politics; that was how I wanted it.

Over the past year, our shooting has improved incredibly. A good part of that was due to the retirement of the older officers and the interest of my new minority personnel. Soon, there was healthy and positive competition between the experienced training officers and their charges.

The contests were close, with one exception. Aimee Johnstone’s trainer was an excellent shot, but he wasn’t even close to being in Aimee’s class. He took the ribbing from his peers with a smile, telling them that he taught her everything she knew. That only made them laugh all the harder while Aimee merely smiled.

Intelligent woman—she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

I drove home that evening in great spirits—spirits made even higher when I stopped at one of the new community substations. The buildings had been erected, and the interiors had been painted and finished, but the grounds still needed much work. Even though the parking facilities were still not paved, I opened the substations and met with community leaders about setting up neighborhood watches. Two auto dealerships donated vehicles that were custom painted, saying—POLICE, NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH—on the doors and trunks with smaller prints—DONATED BY ABLE MOTORS or DONATED BY CULLEN FORD. We had big ceremonies at each dealership with photos for the press and TV interviews, all designed to show the generosity of the dealers toward the community.

Believe it or not, neighborhood watch programs involve much training—driving, observing, using the radio, keeping clear, detailed notes for the records, etc. The program's value was shown very early when a watch team in training discovered a burglary in progress. When the sergeant who was driving bemoaned losing the suspects, the passenger-trainees just laughed. “Doesn’t make a bit of difference, Sergeant. We know who they are and where they’re going. One word to their mama, and they’ll be toast.” It turned out they were right. The watch team drank coffee with the mother in the kitchen when the kids strolled in. Their grins disappeared when Mama picked up a wooden spoon they knew too well. Mama and the boys went to the substation the following morning to surrender and confess. Both received 100 hours of community service and a severe warning from the city magistrate.

Quiet never seems to last when you’re a cop. There’s always something—domestic violence, arson, armed robbery, or perhaps the worst situation of all—an influx of gang activity. This was another example of how the neighborhood watch helped us. Three mothers in a predominantly black neighborhood approached Pastor Anthony Michaels after services at the AME Church. Anthony phoned me, and I met with the women at the substation the following evening with Anthony, Daryl, and Aimee Johnstone.

“Tell us about your concerns, ladies.”

“We’ve had several new families move in down the street. They call themselves families, but mostly, they’re males in their late teens and twenties. There are some women, but not many, and they’re all young. Yesterday, my eighth grader son told me they were trying to get him to smoke pot and that they called themselves ‘Bloods.’”

I gave Daryl a look—the same one he gave me: “We will need to know exactly where they are living and approximately how many there are. We assume they have weapons—typically AK-47s and 9mm pistols—so we don’t want anyone to get too close or obvious. We have a lot of planning to do.”

“What will you do, Chief? What can you do?”

“I can’t say now, but I promise that strong action will be taken. I assume that they’re renting the house.”

“Yes, sir; the two houses at the end of the block on Freemont have always been rented, just like many houses in our neighborhood. Most folks are like us—hard-working, God-fearing families. We don’t want no gangs here making our streets dangerous.”

“Ma’am, we agree with you completely, and we want to thank all of you for bringing this to our attention. In many communities, these gangs get a foothold and recruit dozens of members before the police even know they’re there. Then, getting them under control is difficult.
They always bring drugs, sex, violence, and death with them. We want them out as much as you do. No, we want them out even more than you do.”

We ended the meeting, shook hands, and walked to the cars. Two basketball games were under the lights on the new courts. The kids waved to us even though we were in uniform, and we waved back. That was the kind of relationship we wanted with all our citizens. I made arrangements to meet with Daryl tomorrow morning. I phoned Martin Albright on the way home, and he agreed to come to headquarters around 10:30.

Lucy was up waiting for me when Max and I walked in the door. “Good meeting,” she asked.

“Yes and no,” was my reply. “There was good communication all around, but we have a problem.” I continued a moment later after Lucy had shot me a questioning look. “Blood—one of the scourges of our country; they’re no better than rats, spreading disease wherever they go.”

“What are you going to do?”

“The First step is to meet with Martin tomorrow to see if we can use anything in our city laws to eliminate them. We may get some grief from the ACLU or some other liberal groups, but the safety of our people comes first. Besides, I’m pretty sure we can document them in some illegal acts that will enable us to eliminate them.”

“You’re not going to get shot again, are you?”

“I’ll do my best not to,” I said with a chuckle, hoping Lucy believed what I was saying more than I did.

I had a plan, but I needed some help implementing it. First thing the following day, I phoned my friend Paul McCormick at the Memphis P.D. to ask if I could borrow a specific piece of equipment. He agreed willingly, so I sent two officers to pick it up. Four hours later, they returned. “Damn, Chief—that thing looks like a piece of shit, but it drives like it’s brand new.”

“Yeah, that’s because it is. I plan to have one of the Bloods' neighbors park it in front of his house. Daryl and I will be inside, and we’ll be able to pick up a lot of audio and video to make the case against them. Knowing how they operate, I doubt it will take us even a week.”

The following afternoon at 5:30, Cole Jenkins drove what appeared to be a dilapidated van up the street, parking it right in front of his house, only twenty-five feet from the gang’s house. There was what appeared to be an old air conditioning unit on the roof that was a casing for high-intensity directional microphones and telephoto and infrared camera lenses. Inside, the van looked nothing like the outside. This was high-tech to the Nth degree. The audio panel could be adjusted to pick up and record the faintest sounds or screen them out to record a single voice in a crowd of twenty.
The video had black and white, color, infrared, and even ultraviolet capabilities and every combination thereof.

Daryl and I were prepared for an extended period of surveillance. We had ample, comfortable seating at the panel, and the van's working area's glass was completely blacked out. Once we adjusted the cameras and microphones, there was no reason to turn any instrument lights on after dark.

We had a big cooler with sandwiches and water and a gallon jug with a funnel. Your imagination should tell you why we had that. I estimated we could leave the van daily at around 3:00 a.m. for a shower and shave at home before returning. We would take turns so the surveillance wouldn’t be compromised.

These gangs are nothing, if not blatant, in their actions. They spoke openly about their intentions to penetrate the high school, both for drug sales and to recruit new members. They talked for more than an hour about driving there tomorrow afternoon. The four would stay on the sidewalk just off school grounds to avoid problems with the police.

“Yeah, right, Daryl; they’ll probably be successful if they make it to the high school.”

“What do you want to do?” He laughed as I outlined my plans. I knew that I could count on Dan Powell to coordinate it perfectly. I phoned him at the station, telling him who to contact to get the necessary vehicles. They were both close friends of my father-in-law, and I knew they would gladly cooperate. Both had children in high school.

I called Dan again when I saw the old tan Chevy sedan back out of the driveway. Inside were four of the thirteen gang members we had identified. The car drove the half mile to the first intersection, turning left toward the high school campus. A large concrete truck pulled from the curb, following closely behind them. It stayed there, tailgating until a big moving van backed out of a driveway less than fifty feet in front of the sedan. The driver pulled forward almost to the truck, anticipating that it would soon turn and drive forward.

The problem was—it didn’t. It stayed where it was, blocking the way forward while private vehicles blocked off the sides of the roads, and the concrete truck pulled up until it had struck the car's rear bumper. Only then did the dozen cops jump out from behind the parked vehicles armed with shotguns and equipped with riot gear—helmets, full face visors, bullet-resistant vests, and leg pads. They swarmed to the car, pulling the four from the seats and bending them over the hood and trunk, where they were searched and handcuffed. Three handguns and forty-three glassine envelopes with either capsules or white powder sealed inside. They were taken to headquarters, where they were processed and jailed. Their pleas to use the phone were brushed aside.



Once I knew that the drugs had been seized and the guns were determined to have been stolen, I knew we would have probable cause to arrest the remaining gang members. Phone calls were made to all of the neighbors at 10:30 that evening, and they were evacuated either through doors or windows facing away from the gang house and escorted by police officers to school buses that were waiting to take them to motels for the evening. Everyone within three lots of the gang was removed to ensure their safety. It was almost midnight when Daryl and I climbed out of the van’s rear door.
It felt good to stretch our legs after all those hours listening to the vile Bloods wonder aloud about their comrades.

I set up the arrest for 3:00 in the morning. Research has shown that 3:00 is when people are most deeply asleep. I had thirty officers to deal with the nine Bloods remaining in the house. A dozen officers with high-powered flashlights were sent to the rear of the house. There were plenty of large trees there to shelter them. Another six went to each side. The remaining six remained in the front, where we were behind four patrol cars. I had told Max to stay at the surveillance van, where I thought he would be relatively safe but available.

Once we were ready, I called out on a squad car’s megaphone: “YOU IN THE HOUSE. THIS IS THE CITY POLICE! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP. WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED. COME OUT IMMEDIATELY…HANDS UP AND EMPTY!” All the headlights and flashlights went on, bathing the house in bright, blinding light.

I will have to devise something better to say because, like Haynes and his cadre, the Bloods immediately responded by shooting. Automatic rifle fire poured through the windows front and back. We stayed behind the cars while they wasted ammunition. Only when they started to hit the vehicles did we fire back. Shotguns make a booming sound in contrast to the rapid, tinny sound of an AK-47. We used a combination of slugs and buckshot for almost ten minutes before I called to cease fire.

The night was silent then, even though I called out several times. There was only one way to be sure. I called Max and pulled four leather “booties” from my jacket pocket. These went onto his paws to protect them from the broken glass. Together, we snuck in the few shadows toward the house. The screen door had been destroyed, and the wooden door behind it was nothing more than splinters as Max and I crept forward. Turning left brought us to the parlor, where we found two dead Bloods on the floor, their weapons close by. I checked for a pulse but found none, either.

There were three in the next room, and Max found that one of them was alive. Using my radio, I told the EMTs to be ready but not to enter until I had cleared the house. He was one of three I found alive, but those in the house were either dead or severely injured and incapable of resisting. The crime scene technicians found six AK-47s and five 9mm semi-automatic pistols. On the floors, they found 837 brass casings—proof that they had fired on us. Our vehicles had been struck more than four hundred times. My officers suffered four wounds—two had been hit in the arm by bullets, but not seriously; one had a sprained ankle from tripping over a root in the woods behind the house; and one had tripped and fallen into the branches of a pine tree resulting in several nasty scratches on his shoulders, neck, and head.

Inside the house and in their other vehicle, we found several kilos of cocaine, hundreds of various opioid capsules, and seventy-eight pounds of marijuana. We also found enough ammunition to supply the entire department for a month at the firing range.

We were exhausted when we walked into the station house at 10:00 that morning. Ten minutes later, after completing some reports, I left for the day, much looking forward to seeing my wife and daughter. Lucy stripped my clothes off and led me into the shower, washing my filthy and tired body. Then she dried me and put me to bed. After a long, loving kiss, she closed the door. I was asleep seconds later.

I slept well, but only for a few hours. I had scheduled a press conference for 3:00 in the afternoon, and I had to prepare for it. A quick shave and shower refreshed me, and Lucy had a soda and sandwich ready for me as soon as I walked downstairs in my crisp, ironed uniform. I kissed Lucy, thanked Ingrid for her efforts, and ate. I told Lucy about the operation and my disappointment with the results. Yes, we had confiscated more than $50,000 worth of drugs and had eliminated a gang presence in our community, but we had also killed six human beings. Criminals they were, but they were also sons and grandsons and brothers. Innocent people were impacted and hurt—emotionally, if not physically.

I walked into Police Headquarters with Max to find that Sgt. Ed Sulkowitz had taken the initiative to set up the conference room for the press conference. Daryl had beaten me to the station by less than ten minutes. He, Dan, and I reviewed the operation and the photos that the crime scene technicians from the county had taken. They were black and white for the most part because they were taken at night when black and white photos are much more straightforward. Only in the house were they in color. Several of the most critical were those that showed most of the broken glass on the front porch and the ground on the other sides of the house. That showed clearly that they had shot first. We also had an audio tape, and we could hear the rapid fire of the AKs for several minutes before the first thunderous boom of the twelve-gauge shotguns responded.

We strode into the room to find newspaper and TV reporters waiting there. I gave a brief—very brief—statement about gathering intelligence about drug sales and arresting the four en route to the high school before attempting to arrest those in the house. Before answering questions, I described the audio tapes and played snippets that we felt were significant.

“Chief Cahill, how did you gather those conversations? Weren’t they inside the house?”

“We had a set of hidden microphones nearby. I won’t tell you where, but I will tell you that everything we recorded could be easily heard outside the house. Many conversations occurred on the front porch, where any passerby could hear what was being said. They weren’t exactly hiding their intentions.”

“Chief, would you say this was one of your most successful operations?”

“No…I wouldn’t. I never feel that a raid or other operation that results in the death of even one person would be successful. We arrested four gang members who were on their way to the high school to sell drugs without a shot fired and without even a single injury. That was a success. I tried to get the remaining gang members to surrender, but instead, they started shooting. More than 800 shell casings were retrieved from the house, and you heard that we waited for several minutes before returning fire. I know that I shot my shotgun exactly six times, and I doubt that any of the men shot much more. Of course, we practice regularly at the county range, but I doubt that gang members ever practice.”

“Chief Cahill, is this the end of gang activity in your city?”

“I hope so, but one never knows. I don’t pretend that I can read the future. Bascomb’s Landing is a wonderful small city, and we encourage people of all races and religions to live here, but we have no tolerance for gangs or any of their activities.”

There were a few more questions, but they were more about our procedures than anything directly involved in the raid on the gang’s house. Later in the day, we heard from the man who owned the house, complaining about the damage that had been done. “Okay, so sue the Bloods. They started the shooting. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before renting to a gang.” I stood to indicate that our meeting was over, and he reluctantly left the building. I eagerly returned to my wife and daughter, even though I thought that Melody was happier to see Max than she was me. Lucy welcomed me by taking me upstairs for what started to be a quickie but wound up taking almost an hour. We never worried about our daughter, knowing that Max was there and would protect her. We walked back hand in hand, stopping every few steps to hold and kiss each other and express our love.

I almost laughed when we walked into the living room. In the middle of the room lay Max with Melody lying on his chest, sound asleep. Max raised his massive head but lay down until I leaned over and picked Melody up to my shoulder. She started to cry until she realized it was me, and then her arms went around my neck as I kissed her cheek. I didn’t think that life could be better than this.

The next six months were routine—read “boring.” Besides the occasional drunk at a bar and one or two automobile accidents a month, nothing much happened. That changed in a flash when Steven Johnson, the County Sheriff, pleaded guilty to slightly reduced charges. He was sentenced to eighteen months in a minimum-security prison, meaning he could be released in just over a year.

I was at work on a Tuesday morning, looking forward to the birth of my second daughter in another two weeks, when Sandra walked in with a mug of black coffee for me. “I must have told you two hundred times that you didn’t have to get me coffee.”

She gave me a smirk and turned away to answer the phone. She was back a few minutes later, and she seemed nervous. “Um…Matt, that was Sinclair Kerwin. He and Miles Smart will see you at two this afternoon.”

“Okay, maybe now you can tell me who these people are to get you so nervous.”

“Sinclair Kerwin is the County Executive, and Miles Smart is the Chairman of the County Commissioners. Why would they want to talk with you?”

“Sandra, I haven’t a clue, but we’ll find out this afternoon, won’t we? Now, for the two hundred and first time—you don’t have to bring me coffee, but thank you.” With that, I waved my hand to signal her to go, but I asked myself the same questions. I spent the rest of the morning reviewing evaluations from the training officers. All of them were positive, but three of the ten indicated the need for additional on-the-job training. They proved the accuracy of the trainers’ work because the lieutenants had made the same recommendations. Still, I was extremely pleased with our first class of minority officers. In another two months, we were going to start another class. I knew we would need another five officers because of four retirements and one transfer to the state police.

Lucy and Melody came in with lunch for Daryl and me. The adults ate while Melody played with Max, the ferocious police dog. She could hold onto his back while he strolled around the room. Daryl and I thought it was hilarious, but Lucy, as a mother, was upset until she saw how safe Melody was. We finished by 1:30, and I had enough time to hit the men’s room and speak with the detectives before my appointment.

As with non-police department visitors, I met my guests at the office door. We introduced ourselves, and I led the two county officials to my conference table, where we took seats after I had offered coffee or water, and they had turned it down. Sinclair Kerwin was a relatively tall, thin man with thinning hair and a pinched face. Miles Smart was shorter and heavier, bald with a fringe of brown hair and a chubby, pleasant face.

This was their meeting, so I asked how I could help them, then sat back and listened. Some in the South believe it is rude to jump into business, instead spending twenty minutes or more in what they consider “polite social conversation.” Maybe it’s because my uncle is an attorney who believes time to be money, but I wouldn't say I like this custom, and I made my feelings known after five minutes of banter.

“Gentlemen, I agreed to meet with you even though I have a hectic afternoon, so I’d appreciate it if we could get down to business.”

Smart smiled as he said, “I heard you were straightforward, Chief Cahill. I’m glad to see that my information was correct. It confirms our decision. I’m sure you know about our sheriff.”

“I do. Several of your deputies met me with their concerns first, and I arranged for them to meet with a State Attorney who initiated the investigation.”


To be continued