My Family

MY FAMILY

"Young man, do you know who I am?" the black police officer asked the young teenager holding a skateboard. He was wearing baggy blue-jeans and a t-shirt with the slogan,"Question Authority." Life was obviously not going to get easier.
The black police officer was driving an unmarked car, a Ford LTD, with the usual nondescript features. He was a detective that usually worked in homicide.

"I guess you are the fuzz, man," the young man sarcastically replied. He wasn't really doing anything wrong, and he felt fairly confident that he had the upper hand. He was used to getting harassed by authority figures. In school, he was known as the kid that didn't always do things by the rules....but his nickname was "Mr. Awesome." Despite his outward appearance and attitude toward authority, he was actually a very intelligent person...one that had a good understanding of the laws of physics and applied math. Useless stuff that his father didn't understand...

"Well, I guess I should introduce myself. I am the fuzz, as you called me a minute ago. I am also a lead investigator for a major crime that happened around the corner last night. Have you been around this area very long?"

"Nah, man. I just got out of school at 2, and I've been hitting the skateboard park at the end of the street." He was obviously telling the truth, even convincingly enough to get the policeman to back down. The Thrasher magazine sticking out of his back pocket gave away his dedication to the lifestyle of the skater....a unique subculture in the city. Pain was nothing to kids that risked life and limb to claim the highest jump off the highest fixed staircase in the area. The young man's arms had a series of scars that gave away the claim to pain.

"Well, if you see anyone or anything suspicious in the area, I would love to hear about it." The black police officer, realizing he wasn't going to get any information from the young man that would help his investigation, decided to call it a day. He put his aviator sunglasses on slowly, pushing them into place with the index finger of his right hand up the bridge of his nose. "Stay out of trouble, young man." Then, he got back into his car, started the engine, and drove away.

The police officer, Bill Simple, had been on the police force for 15 years, after a few years working with the FBI. He had automatically been assigned to the homicide division because of his experience working with the FBI's task force on organized crime. When he was growing up in Cleveland, the black man didn't have a chance against the Fuzz. He had been there at the riots at Kent State. He was amused at the young man's choice of words....as he stroked his chin. Gray hair had long ago taken over his hair color. He was getting old. He needed to check back with the division chief before he went home...He might have a new little buddy in the skater community.....

The next morning, Bill Simple walked into the division office with his customary cup of morning coffee. He had his newspaper curled up under his right arm, and a black leather briefcase. He always started his morning with a quick perusal of the sports page, knowing that his younger subordinates would make that the main topic of conversation later in the day. His desk was very neat, and his office was immaculate. The workplace was very important for his image as a black man, so he liked to present a professional image to the world around him. His life in law enforcement had naturally resulted after getting out of the Army in 1972, shortly after the Vietnam conflict. He had been smart enough to see that the grunts going into battle were gettting killed, so he applied for a position that would lead to a safer and longer life....the CID. That meant the Criminal Investigation Division...something he already knew something about growing up on the mean streets of New York. If it wasn't the Italians trying to get even with someone, it was the Irish cops trying to frame the Italians...or the blacks. He knew what it was to be a team player....and on more than one occasion had helped the police with information on the Italian mafia, which often operated in his part of Brooklyn. It was better, often, he had found, as a young man, to be an unknown. People that had no names often lived longer.

The Army had led to the transition to the FBI. The FBI, in the early 70's, was beginning its crackdown on the organized crime in New York, Chicago, and Kansas City. He had the background in Brooklyn, so he was a shoe-in. He had played sports in high school, almost choosing to go professional in basketball, until the draft and Vietnam took care of that. Sports and good coaches had kept him out of trouble as a younger man. He liked to tell young men he met that sports was one of the reasons he was still alive to tell his story today.

The investigation he was working on had been commited in a poorer part of the downtown area. An illegal alien from Mexico had been found in a back alley with a knife wound to the heart. He was suspected to have been one of the many mules that carried narcotics into the city. He was trying to work on witnesses, but there had been noone around at the time of death. He was waiting until 10, when one of the undercover narcotics officers was going to connect with him at the coffee shop around the corner. He looked down at his watch, a stainless steel Timex. It said 8:30. He still had time to do some fact checking. There had been a few statements from people in the neighborhood that had been collected that he was going to read over before then. There was also a sweat shop that worked in the area for seamstresses. It was indiscriminately hiring illegals to sew high end designer dresses for the fashion community. It was owned by Arabs, suspected to have ties to some of the terrorists trained by the British in the 70's. The Mexicans and the Arabs seemed to get along well.