Robert Tanenbaum: Bad Faith

The handsome young New York Fire Department paramedic jumped from the back of the ambulance with his gear bag and looked up at the old four-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. Once a haven for junkies, including the infamous Needle Park, much of the neighborhood had been gentrified and cleaned up. However, the West 88th Street building, located between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues, had fallen into disrepair. The steps leading up to the building’s entrance, like the sidewalks along the narrow, tree-lined street, were cracked and uneven; a rusted fire escape climbed the faded red bricks of the facade; what paint remained around the windows was peeling away.

There was certainly nothing charming about the bitter November evening air, nor the three large white men standing in front of the stoop who moved to block the paramedic. “False alarm,” said the man on the left, the words coming out from his bearded lips in puffs of condensation that hung briefly in the chill breeze before dissipating.

“Sorry, but we got a 911 call about a child in medical distress, and I have to check it out,” the paramedic replied. He tried to step past, but the man in the middle-the tallest of the three and ruggedly handsome, with long wavy gray hair swept back from his tan face-placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder and stopped him.

“Sorry, brother, but as Brother Frank just told you, your services are not needed here,” the man said, fixing the paramedic with his intense blue eyes. He was smiling wide, his big white teeth flashing in the dusk, but there was nothing friendly about his demeanor.

The paramedic scowled and brushed the larger man’s hand off of his shoulder. “I’m not your, brother, mac, so keep your mitts to yourself.”

“What’s the problem, Raskov?”

The paramedic, Justin Raskov, turned at the sound of his partner’s voice. “Yo, Bails, these jokers won’t let me in the building,” he replied to the other paramedic coming up behind him.

“Well, it ain’t up to them,” Donald “Bails” Bailey Sr. growled as he moved ahead of his partner to glare at the three big men confronting them. “We got an emergency call for this address and we legally have to check it out. And you, my friend,” he added, thrusting his jaw at his opponent’s face, “are breaking the law, and I’m maybe two seconds from siccing New York’s finest on your ass.”

In his experience, Raskov was used to seeing even the most recalcitrant people move out of the way when stared down by his pugnacious partner, a muscular middle-aged black man who’d been a staff sergeant in the army and still carried himself like one. But the three other men closed ranks, two behind the third, who was obviously the leader and now raised his hand palm-outward and thundered, “‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS THROUGH, LEST I COME OUT WITH THE SWORD AGAINST YOU!’”

At the unexpected outburst, Raskov took a step back but Bailey stood his ground and rolled his eyes. “Frickin’ great,” he sighed. “We got us a Bible thumper. Numbers 20:18, right? Yeah, I know the Good Book, too, and I’ll take that as a threat.” He looked back at the ambulance, whose driver had his head out of the window and was listening to the exchange. “Hey, Dougy, call the cops and tell them we got three morons preventing us from responding to a 911 medical emergency, and one of them just said he was going to attack us with a sword.”

When he finished, Bailey looked back at the three men and tilted his head with a slight smile on his face. “Tell you what, asshole. If there’s somebody in that building who needs our help and doesn’t get it on time because of your cute little antics, it’ll be on your head.”

Disconcertingly, the big man smiled back. “The true believers of this household are under the protection of the Lord.”

“Yeah, we’ll see how that works when the cops show up,” Raskov said.

As if on cue, a patrol car swung around the corner and pulled over to the curb behind the ambulance. Two officers got out and hurried up to the knot of men. “What seems to be the problem here?” the older officer asked.

“Hey, Sergeant Sadler, how ya doin’?” Raskov said to the cop. “We got a 911 call that a child has a medical emergency in apartment 3C. But these jokers won’t let us check it out.”

Sadler nodded at the paramedics. “Evening, Justin, Don,” he said before frowning and turning to the three men on the stoop. “One of you want to explain?” he asked.

The man who’d shouted the biblical verse stepped forward. “I am the Reverend C. G. Westlund and God’s emissary at the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected. I speak for the family in apartment 3C. The call was in error and any intervention by these gentlemen would be against the family’s religious beliefs.”

“Well … reverend … is it true there’s a sick kid in there?” the sergeant asked, his voice indicating that his patience was not going to last long.

“The child’s infirmities of the body are being healed by the power of prayer,” Westlund answered. “God’s will and compassion are the only medicine the child needs.”

“Then with all due respect … get your ass out of the way, and let the paramedics do their job,” Sadler barked. “That or you, me, and your pals here are all going to take a little ride down to the precinct house, where I’ll toss your butts in the pokey for obstructing these fine officers of the NYFD in the performance of their lawful duties.”

Westlund turned his head slightly to his right, and the man he’d identified earlier as “Brother Frank” suddenly rushed forward with a growl as though to attack the sergeant. But Trent Sadler, a grizzled old veteran who’d been dealing with street thugs and violent criminals for more than twenty-five years, was ready. He stepped neatly to the side and in one swift motion pulled a Taser stun device from the holster on his belt and applied it to the neck of the would-be assailant.

Brother Frank yelped and fell to the sidewalk in a twitching heap. Keeping his eyes on the other two, Taser at the ready, the sergeant spoke to his partner. “O’Leary, handcuff this quivering mass of idiot and hand him over to the backup when they get here,” he said just as another patrol car wheeled around the corner with its lights flashing. “Speak of the devil. Now, reverend, I didn’t like the little nod to your ‘brother’ here, so I wouldn’t mind lighting you up, too. Having said that, you need to answer this question: Do you want to find out what a Manhattan sidewalk tastes like, or will you get the hell out of my way?”

The smile disappeared from Westlund’s face and he glared at the police sergeant. But he then moved aside, followed by his man. “‘The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel of the glory of Christ, who is the image of God,’” the preacher warned them.

“What?” Sergeant Sadler replied.

“It’s Second Corinthians 4:4,” Bailey said. “The guy is a walking Bible quote. Loony tunes if you ask me.”

“Yeah, well, I like a good sermon on Sunday,” Sadler replied. “But not when it’s wasting our time and there’s a kid who needs help. Follow me; I’ll make sure no one gets in the way. O’Leary, bring up the rear as soon as you hand Brother Frank over to the backup … and tell them to keep the good reverend out of the building, otherwise he and his other goon are free to go.”

With that the sergeant entered the building with the two paramedics hustling along behind him. Reaching apartment 3C, he pounded on the door. “Police, open up!”