LITMIR.BIZ

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this first time. Hear him out first. I can’t imagine him threatening you with termination or threatening to cut off your pay. He knows it wouldn’t hold up in court. Maybe he just …” Mark coughs hard several times. “Sorry. Damn. The throat hit makes me cough, which is a real killer with bruised ribs. Anyway, let me know what he says.”

      “Will do. Hang in there and I’ll call you in a couple three hours.”

      * * *

      I don’t park my pickup in the garage because the hanging heavy bag, dumbbell rack, and my shadowboxing space don’t allow for it. I crack the big garage door about a foot to let in some air. I’ve debated since I got up whether to work out a little, but after talking to Mark I’ve got to burn off a little adrenaline. Chien glides over and sits on a gallon can of paint next to the wall, her usual spot when I work out.

      I guess no one likes bullies, but I have a personal demon. I was always a little bigger than most of my classmates, so most of the time I wasn’t the kid they picked on, except once. When I was in the third grade, three high school kids in a car started harassing me as I was walking home. I don’t remember saying anything to them but knowing me I probably did. They jumped out, grabbed me, and dragged me behind a doughnut shop where they pushed me around and forced me to stand with my back to the wall while they decided what they were going to do to me. I remember I was shaking hard, crying, and wanting my mother. They held me there for a couple hours, while their friends came to look at me and laugh. When I had an opportunity to run, I took off like a bat out of hell and didn’t stop until I was safe at home.

      I can still feel the awful sense of helplessness and stark fear and embarrassment, all because some morons took pleasure in breaking a little kid. And although I know there was nothing I could have done—I was outnumbered and outsized—in my fantasies I go back to that moment and use my martial art skills to kick their butts, erasing the deep humiliation I felt. As I grew older I realized that bullies don’t change, they just get bigger and stupider. They’re basically cowards who use their power, be it size or money or superior number, to feel important, relevant—whatever they need I don’t care, I still want to kick their butts.

      I circle my arms to get the juices flowing, and do some leg raises to the front, side, and back. I circle my head a few times in each direction to loosen my neck a little. It still hasn’t recovered from the fight we had in the warehouse in Vietnam. We rescued a few girls who had been kidnapped and were being held by sex traffickers. Sadly, they were the tip of the iceberg in the malicious human trading that goes on there, but we did what we could. The battle didn’t end there and the owie will go away, but the memories of those events are going to last.

      I shuffle around the floor snapping out jabs, rear-hand punches, and front kicks. I still feel like my brain has fur on it, but my muscles are starting to feel pretty darn good. I push the heavy bag away, sidestep, and slam a roundhouse kick into it. Take that Rodriguez. I bob, weave, and sidestep in the other direction to roundhouse kick the Deputy Chief with my other leg. After a dozen reps, I practice hitting in all three ranges by closing the distance with a front kick, cross punch, elbow strike, and a head butt. I move out of range with a two-handed push and a crescent kick. I do twenty reps of those.

      I look over at Chien. Unimpressed, she blinks slowly, steps down from the paint can, and examines my old lawnmower. She loves the smell of an unused lawnmower in the morning. I wonder how she would react to my father’s martial workouts.

      When I went to visit him in Saigon, he showed me concepts from Temple of Ten Thousand Fists, a style he has studied for two decades in Vietnam, with his Chinese teacher, Shen Lang Rui. Among other things, the style emphasizes extraordinary speed. Thing is, the word extraordinary doesn’t begin to describe what appears to be almost supernatural.

      One day he had me put my chest against a three-hundred-pound, three-foot thick hanging bag. When he hit it from the other side—I think with a punch, though I couldn’t see because the bag was so monstrous—I was knocked back a step or two and my chest felt as if I had been hit by a laser. The supernatural part is the bag didn’t move. My father said his goal is to hit the bag so the person on the other side feels it when standing a couple feet away from it. I’ve been training in the martial arts for twenty-eight years, and he makes me feel like a guy who hasn’t even thought about taking his first lesson.

      I simultaneously slap both sides of the bag to simulate smacking someone’s ears and drop low to hook the lower part of the bag with both hands catching an imaginary attacker behind his knees for a takedown. I do twenty reps and finish with a few minutes of shadow boxing. Yeah, I feel good right now, but it’s time to say bye to my high and go visit Deputy Chief Rodriquez.

      Chien follows me into the shower. She likes to swat at the water drops on the shower door. I envy her simple life.

      * * *

      An elevator door in the Justice Center lobby opens and I slip in, happy to get the car to myself. When I came into the building a moment ago, cops chatting in groups or walking in and out of the building waved at me or gave me a “Hey, Sam.” Others quickly looked away. It’s nice to be greeted, and I read into it that they have empathy for me and for what happens to a police officer when he is forced to fire his weapon. I’m not sure what those who look away are thinking. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they’re just assholes.

      When a cop is forced to use deadly force, he automatically becomes a member of a subgroup of cops, men and women who no longer wonder what it’s like to face the dragon and make a sometimes split-second decision to shoot and maybe end a life. Often, those outside of this group are uncomfortable around the members of our thankfully small group, not sure how to act or knowing what to say around them. When they do speak, they sometimes err on the side of thoughtlessness, “Good shooting, Wild Bill,” or “Righteous shoot, Deadeye.” These officers might mean well but such comments are like salt on a wound. Happily, some officers know exactly what to say. “I’m glad you’re okay” is always appreciated. It’s simple and says it all.

      I push the button for the fifteenth floor. The chief, his deputy chiefs, and their butt boys all reside on the top floor. Easier to piss on the little people from up there.

      Oh man, when did I become so bitter?

      “Karen,” I say walking into the outer office. She was the Commander’s secretary when I worked East Precinct about ten years ago. She’s got to be in her fifties now, but looks to be taking care of herself. “You look great. Still jogging?”

      “Good morning, Sam. I am. Ran with a bunch of other seniors in the Portland Marathon in February. I still do those freehand exercises you gave me when I was at East.”

      I remember writing up a little workout for her. “Well it shows. You look fantastic. I guess I’m supposed to see Deputy Chief Rodriguez.”

      “Yes, and sorry about my tone on the phone. My official voice. It didn’t dawn on me who you were until after I hung up. Been making one call after the other all morning.”

      “Well, you got the voice down perfectly. I would have jumped through a fiery hoop, you were so commanding.”

      “Let me see if he’s ready,” she says, picking up the phone. “Detective Sam Reeves is here. Yes, sir.” She hangs up and reaches for a folder. “Personnel just brought this over, Sam. It’s yours but you can’t look at it. Please take it in with you. His office is down the hallway, first on the left.”

      “Thanks, Karen,” I say, taking the folder. “Is there a special knock and will he scream, ‘Who dares knock on my door?’”

      She laughs. “Even the toughest cops shake in their boots when they have to come up to the fifteenth floor. But don’t worry, he’ll greet you before you reach his door.” She looks at me. “Nervous?”

      “Should I be?”

      “Detective Reeves, come.” Deputy Chief Rodriguez is standing outside his office door dressed in dark slacks, a blue dress shirt, and a burgundy tie. He’s at least fifty years old with coal black hair and a black, bushy moustache. I always thought he looked like a character

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