I
awoke to the blare of a rock ringtone and fumbled for the cell phone.
I told Chelle that I had been awake. I believed it at the time. I
had been dreaming I was awake. Slowly I realized Chelle was crying
and upset. Before I could ask what was wrong, she blurted out,
"Gail is gone."
That
just did not make sense. "What?" My brain struggled from the
numb fuzzy sleep cocoon.
"Gail
is dead. She was hit by a drunk driver." Chelle sobbed into the
phone, her voice cracking. I had never heard my bold, funny friend
cry like that before or since.
"What?
Why was she at work?" My sleep-soft brain thought Gail worked
with me. But I had been transferred to day watch to work in the
crime analysis unit. Gail was still on the graveyard patrol shift in
the downtown zone.
Chelle
said they were gathering all of the Zone 5 officers with the chaplain
staff. She hung up while I still sat in a stunned stupor. For a
while I just sat in bed staring blankly at my cell phone and
struggling to absorb what Chelle had said. It couldn't be real. I
couldn't sleep. I couldn't cry. It was the middle of the night,
but I felt I had to contact someone. Maybe this was all a nightmare
and they would tell me to snap out of it. I pulled out my laptop,
logged onto Facebook and began searching the newsfeed. It wasn't
long before messages of grief and shock began appearing. Then the
news reports.
The
next afternoon, Chelle and I were seated around my kitchen table.
Chinese take out and empty beer bottles standing between us. "She
just went to help him with traffic. He was working an accident in
the middle of the curve.
I
felt empty and nauseous as Chelle talked. I really didn't want to
know the details, but I knew she had to tell it. Joy shared is
multiplied. Pain shared is divided. I learned that from the Indiana
Fraternal Order of Police crisis team when another friend died in the
line of duty. I could do nothing for Gail, but I could listen to
Chelle, take some of her burden and grieve with her.
"That
drunk bitch drove around the slowed traffic on the left shoulder.
When she cut back to the right, she hit Gail. Gail was just getting
out of her car. She didn't stand a chance." I sat silently as
Chelle took a deep draw on her beer. My stomach clenched as I
envisioned a car barreling at Gail and throwing her body onto the
patrol car windshield.
"The
car didn't stop til it hit a concrete barrier. Then she jumped in
the back seat and tried to pretend she wasn't the driver. Adam was
screaming on the radio 'Officer down! Officer down!' We raced
to get there. It seemed like forever.
"Adam
held her hand as she took her last breaths. He told her to hang on,
but she couldn't." Gail had been breathing, but it was agonal
breathing. An illusion of sustained life. I don't know how long
it lasted, but Gail died on that windshield with Adam holding her
hand.
Because
Gail was a homicide victim of a drunk driver, the officers on scene
had to leave her on that shattered windshield. They had to preserve
the crime scene for the traffic accident investigators. Gail trained
several of those officers in field training. She would still roll up
to their calls, offer assistance and guidance. She had stood beside
them at roll call just hours before. Helpless to aid her, they had
to detain all occupants of the suspect vehicle. They had to begin
interviewing them and other witnesses. They had to direct traffic
around the incident. All with Gail's broken body lying on a
windshield. I do not know how they did it. I remain awed by their
strength and resilience. Gail called us her "Super Chicks,"
because she said we were her heroes. The officers on the scene that
night really are Super Chicks. They handled those functions with
such professionalism that it was never an issue in the court
proceedings.
I
began spending more time at the mobile precinct, trying to reach out
to the officers who worked so closely with Gail. I remember Lt. Hall
calling me into his office where Busby was in tears. Busby said, "I
just don't understand. Why would God take her?" I had no
answers for her. The same questions echoed in my mind. Including
the unspoken question hanging in the air and echoing in all of our
hearts, "Why not me?" Why did that drunk on the connector inch
over just enough to not rear end my patrol car at over eighty mph,
but just clip the driver side mirror? Why wasn't I injured when
the other drunk blew the traffic light on Piedmont Avenue, collapsing
the driver side door against the side of my seat? Why didn't my
patrol car continue its spin and slam into that light pole? Why did
the crazy homeless guy throw the huge butcher knife under the MARTA
bus and comply with my orders? Why did the dope boy empty his gun
trying to kill the other drug dealer seconds before I encountered him
and his buddy? Guilt, like any emotion, has no basis in logic. Many
of us felt guilty for living while she was gone. What if I had not
transferred to day watch? What if I had been on that call? All
around us, the public that so often ignored us as just part of the
landscape was reaching out. Thanking us for our service. Sending in
gift baskets with notes and calling us heroes. But we felt like the
farthest thing from heroes.
Police
officers cannot stop functioning under the burden of grief. We slide
the black bands over our badges, bearing our pain on our chests, and
keep pushing forward. The next few days blurred by in a hot haze of
tears. Cops are trained to bring order and control to chaos,
but I couldn't control anything. I couldn't even control my
emotions or thoughts. On my drive to work, my mind would wander
to memories of Gail or the details of her death. Regrets.
Tears flowed during both commutes as the landscape passed unnoticed.
Grief
reduced my fierce independent friends to hollow figures with empty
eyes as they pushed through daily routines. They looked deflated,
like the uniforms and ballistic vests held them up and together.
Their robust humor replaced by a smothered silence. Sometimes we sat
silently in groups, just drawing comfort and strength from those
suffering the same loss.
I
could not control what had happened to Gail. What was happening to
my friends in the aftermath. Or the sinking pain in my own heart.
But I could do small things to lift my friends in their grief. I
brought food to a pitch-in for Gail's watch. I saw the same empty
eyes on their baby faces as I saw in the mirror. I also saw them
throwing the same life line to each other. In helping those around
us, we were also saving ourselves.
As
we held each other up, memories of Gail surfaced which we shared with
more laughter than tears. Although Gail and I were very different in
many ways, both of us were known for rolling up on other officer's
calls. Just to check on them and offer assistance. We both wanted
other officers to be successful and safe. I often told Gail,
"Working with a bunch of police officers is kind of like herding
cats in a thunderstorm." She just laughed. Policing takes us to
some dark places, somehow Gail was always happy, smiling. More than
that, she cared about all of us. Gail willingly listened to problems
and everyone felt comfortable talking to her. I am not a "sharing
is caring" kind of person, but even I talked to Gail. Her
beautiful smile exuded a warmth that seemed to envelope everyone
around her. No matter the weather, the nature of the calls, or her
level of exhaustion, Gail could find joy and share it.
Even
after I transferred to day watch patrol, I sought her counsel and
joyful presence. I began going to work at least fifteen minutes
early. I would peek into the squad room, just hoping to see her
working on a report or waiting out the last few minutes of her shift.
She always introduced me to her new field trainees the same way.
"This is K-Mace. When she finishes law school, she is gonna be a
judge and clean up Fulton County!" Gail seemed to see more in us
than we could see in ourselves.
After
the funeral, we focused on the legal battle ahead to prosecute the
driver, Ms. Jones. Some people felt sorry for Ms. Jones. Their
excuse, and her defense, was that she "didn't mean" to hurt or
kill any one. They called it an accident. There is something
incredibly offensive about losing your friend, and the person at
fault's excuse is basically "oops, my bad." It was not an
accident. Ms. Jones drank vodka mixed with Hawaiian Punch and smoked
pot before getting behind the wheel. They called it "pre-gaming."
She wanted to be drunk before she arrived at the club. Mission
accomplished. A drunk driver is only minimally different from
shooting a gun into a crowd. Granted, the drunk driver has only one
"round," but it is much larger. Capable of striking multiple
victims. Capable of much greater trauma upon impact. Ms. Jones pled
guilty to vehicular homicide, which resulted in a 16 year sentence.
I agree with the judge, it wasn't enough.
I
have always been grateful for the loyalty of my blue family. It was
during those days that I realized just how much strength I absorb
from their companionship. Whenever I reached a breaking point,
someone was always there. Asking me how I was doing or giving me a
hug. Others, even loved ones, cannot comprehend the shared
connection of law enforcement officers. I cannot truly describe the
evil I have seen to someone who has never faced the same things. At
Police Week I stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of police
officers to honor our fallen. Over the years, I had isolated myself
too much to protect myself from the toxic work environment engendered
by that department. Fortunately, I work for a much better, more
supportive department. In my lateral class, I was blessed to be
surrounded by experienced dedicated men who kept our class laughing.
They were not only supportive of each other, but actively reached out
to the recruit class. Their devotion to the job and each other set
the example for those new officers and created enduring friendships.
They reminded me of why I love this job and the people in it so much.
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