Mad-Dogging Our Federal Monitor ***by Frank Hickey *** "We're under this federal monitor," the sergeant says at roll call. Us cops tense up. "Looking for corruption and brutality. So, please, watch what you do and say out there. Here are tonight's assignments". I draw the report car, working alone. My first call is on a gang street. "Officer, I found this pistol in my yard," the woman tells me, speaking Spanish. "Don't know who threw it-" "Ya can't come in here!" a man weightlifter type shouts at me. Gang tats cover his throat and hands. "Not without a search warrant!" Rum smell wafts from his plaid gangbanger shirt. "My son," the woman says. She sounds like whelping him was a poor decision. "Here's the pistol." "How come ya working alone?" My Son demands. "Don't the other cops like ya?" THEY'RE CONTROLLING THEIR LOVE, I think to myself. He suggests a carnal impropriety betwixt myself and Mother Hickey. Continuing upon this theme, he shows creativity in abundance. My hands ache to handcuff him. Steeling myself, I decide not to answer him in words. Patrol means self-control. But I birth a plan. As I'm leaving, I execute my plan. Giving him a hard, angry look, I match eyes with him and draw my mouth down. In "The French Connection" film, Detective Gene Hackman sported the same tough look. Sometimes, I remember that I'm an unknown writer playing cop. "I want your sergeant here," he says. "Yessir," I say. Our sergeant tonight is a hard charging warrior type and SWAT veteran. He may tell me to arrest My Son for any number of charges. Cops can be creative, too. The sergeant arrives and listens to My Son and mother in private. "Okay, Hickey," he says. "Son admits he was drunk and cussing you. He says that you mad-dogged him". "Huh?" I ask. "Looked mean at him," he translates. Since I'm a bachelor, I never have to lie. "True, sarge," I admit. "Well, then, I gotta cut a face sheet on you," he says. "Complaint form 1.28 for Misconduct." This rocks me. "For just looking at him?" I ask. "No words, no physical contact?" "Surprises ya?" he queries. "How do we survive?" I ask. "Or every other American police department? There will be nobody left to fill a uniform." "Don't ask me," he says. "If he makes the complaint, we head back to the station ASAP. Write up your report, I write up mine. To the lieutenant. And captain. "The division loses me and you on patrol tonight for the usual gang shootings," he continues. "We're both house mice until end of watch. Or-" "Yeah?" I ask. "You could just apologize to him," he says. "Then he says he'll forget the complaint. If I ignore this complaint, we're both up on charges. Whaddya think ya should do?". *** Frank Hickey If today looks a bit grim and you need to laugh, why not view frankhickeystories.blogspot.com? (The question mark is optional.). Frank was a cop. Somehow. He writes the Dancing Max Royster crime novels about the world's only ballroom dancing detective.