Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Chisolm shrugged. “Then all you have is the warrant and assault on an officer.”

“Assault on an officer. That’s still a traffic infraction, right?”

Chisolm chuckled. “It will be once the prosecutor is through with it.”

“Oh, well.” Kopriva sighed. “The Kitty Kat here is still going to jail. Let’s cut his bonehead buddies loose.”

Kopriva told the two black males they were not under arrest but were not driving away in that car, as neither had a valid driver’s license. Chisolm watched as they transformed from meek to smug, rubbing their wrists were they’d been cuffed.

“What about him?” one asked.

“He’s under arrest,” Kopriva answered evenly.

“What for?”

“None of your business.”

The gangbanger snorted. “Shit, gee. He’s under arrest for being black. That’s all. That’s all it ever is.”

“I hear that,” the second banger answered.

“Thank you,” Kopriva said.

Both men eyed him strangely.

“What’s that?” one asked.

“Thank you,” Kopriva repeated. “I haven’t been accused of racism yet tonight. Normally, it happens four or five times a night. I get edgy if I don’t get in my quota. So thanks.”

The bangers exchanged a glance.

“Can I count this as two, since you both seem to be accusing me?” Kopriva deadpanned. “Come on, man, I need the stats.”

“Cracker is crazy, man. Let’s get outta here.” Both men walked north on Perry, muttering to each other about racist cops.

“Nice work,” Chisolm noted, as the two gangsters walked away.

“Thanks.”

“See ya on the next one,” Chisolm said and returned to his car. He noticed O’Sullivan locking the doors to the Chevy as he pulled away and headed back into Adam Sector.

2223 hours

Stefan Kopriva searched for a country station, knowing full well that Morris reviled cowboy tunes. He turned it up and faded it to the rear.

“Baker-123, I’ll be en route to jail with a male for warrants,” he said into the radio mike and punched the reset button on the odometer. “Mileage reset.”

“Baker-123, copy.”

Morris seemed about to have a stroke in the back seat, jerking around and screaming. Kopriva let him be for a few more seconds. He loved these trips to jail. No one in the patrol car but him and the bad guy. He could say whatever he wanted. It made up for all the times he had to hold his tongue.

He turned the radio down. “What’s the problem, Kitty-kat?”

“Hey, man, fuck you. Fuck you!”

“Awww, what’s the matter, Isaiah? Did that hurt? You did hit the pavement awful hard. Doesn’t feel too good to get your ass kicked by a little white boy, does it?” Kopriva allowed himself to gloat.

Morris cursed at him some more. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Kopriva saw a small raspberry on Morris’s cheek where he’d been held down against the pavement. Oh, well. Department policy stated that when an officer used the prone cuffing technique, a minor abrasion like that might occur. The policy, and the Chief himself, said that was just too bad for the arrestee.

“You got the wind knocked out of you, huh, Morris? And an ow-ie on your cheek. That kinda sucks.”

“Kiss my ass, you white-boy, mother-”

Kopriva turned up the radio and sang along with Travis Tritt. He wished the song had been Here’s a Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares, but all it took was country music of any kind to fuzz Morris up some more.

About a block from jail, he turned the radio down again.

“What, sir?” he asked in mock politeness.

“I said I want a picture of this.”

“What?”

“This. On my face.”

“Your boo-boo?”

“Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”

Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a picture of my foot up your ass?”

“Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”

“Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”

“YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.

Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.

2230 hours

Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.

That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pulling his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.

As the car slid into the jail sally-port, he forced himself to calm down. The jailers knew him and they didn’t like him. If he gave them any reason, the racist motherfuckers would beat the black right out of him. He sat as still as he could manage, waiting while the cop exited the car and locked his gun in the gun safe.

I’d like to try you now, motherfucker, he raged silently. Take these cuffs off and see, bitch.

The cop walked into the booking area and several moments later, three jailers came out and headed for the car. He remained calm. Cops were always telling the jailers how crazy he was, but unless they saw it for themselves, they treated him mellow enough.

The first jailer, a fat one with a receding hairline, opened the door. “Are you going to cooperate tonight, Morris? Or do you want to go with the holding cell for a few hours?”

“I’m chillin’.” Morris tried to keep his voice calm. “Just don’t beat me like that last cop did. That man is a racist.”

The door opened and pudgy hands helped him from the car. He walked into the officers booking area and straight through to the prisoner’s receiving area. The fat jailer began booking him into jail, a process familiar enough to Morris. He cooperated completely, anticipating the jailer’s questions and orders. He knew hard time and he knew easy time. There was a lot less leeway in here than out in the street. And fewer witnesses.

The hotshot cop who arrested him came in and read him his warrant. He knew it was required by law and made no effort to interrupt.

“This is your warrant,” the punk bitch intoned. “It’s in Superior Court for failure to appear on an original charge of possession of crack cocaine. Bail is set at $25,000. Signed on August 24th of this year by Judge Antonio Calabrese.” The cop looked up. “Any questions?”

“Fuck you,” whispered Morris.

“Same to you,” the cop replied in a low, even voice and turned to walk away.

“I’ll get you,” Morris gritted, anger seething inside him. “One-eight-seven, motherfucker.”

The California penal code for homicide, ‘one-eighty seven’ was a common way among gang members to threaten to kill someone. The cop must have known what it meant because he snarled something under his breath and took a step toward Morris. Two jailers intervened, holding the young hothead back. Morris wished the jailers hadn’t been there so the cop could have hit him. How sweet would it be to press charges against him with all these witnesses who were too stupid to lie?

The jailers walked the cop out of the receiving area. Morris smiled and blew him a kiss. “One-eighty-seven,” he repeated as the cop reached the door.

“Shut up, Isaiah,” the fat jailer told him, “or we will do this the hard way.”

Morris remained quiet. He answered all questions and signed that his property had been removed. Then he signed his booking notification on the warrant with $25,000 bail and for assaulting an officer with $5000 bail. He cooperated patiently as the jailer meticulously snapped his picture and fingerprinted him. Finally, they allowed him to use the phone.