Leaning Into It

I awoke to the blare of a rock ringtone and fumbled for the cell phone. I told Chelle that I had been awake. I believed it at the time. I had been dreaming I was awake. Slowly I realized Chelle was crying and upset. Before I could ask what was wrong, she blurted out, "Gail is gone."

That just did not make sense. "What?" My brain struggled from the numb fuzzy sleep cocoon.

"Gail is dead. She was hit by a drunk driver." Chelle sobbed into the phone, her voice cracking. I had never heard my bold, funny friend cry like that before or since.

"What? Why was she at work?" My sleep-soft brain thought Gail worked with me. But I had been transferred to day watch to work in the crime analysis unit. Gail was still on the graveyard patrol shift in the downtown zone.

Chelle said they were gathering all of the Zone 5 officers with the chaplain staff. She hung up while I still sat in a stunned stupor. For a while I just sat in bed staring blankly at my cell phone and struggling to absorb what Chelle had said. It couldn't be real. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't cry. It was the middle of the night, but I felt I had to contact someone. Maybe this was all a nightmare and they would tell me to snap out of it. I pulled out my laptop, logged onto Facebook and began searching the newsfeed. It wasn't long before messages of grief and shock began appearing. Then the news reports.

The next afternoon, Chelle and I were seated around my kitchen table. Chinese take out and empty beer bottles standing between us. "She just went to help him with traffic. He was working an accident in the middle of the curve.

I felt empty and nauseous as Chelle talked. I really didn't want to know the details, but I knew she had to tell it. Joy shared is multiplied. Pain shared is divided. I learned that from the Indiana Fraternal Order of Police crisis team when another friend died in the line of duty. I could do nothing for Gail, but I could listen to Chelle, take some of her burden and grieve with her.

"That drunk bitch drove around the slowed traffic on the left shoulder. When she cut back to the right, she hit Gail. Gail was just getting out of her car. She didn't stand a chance." I sat silently as Chelle took a deep draw on her beer. My stomach clenched as I envisioned a car barreling at Gail and throwing her body onto the patrol car windshield.

"The car didn't stop til it hit a concrete barrier. Then she jumped in the back seat and tried to pretend she wasn't the driver. Adam was screaming on the radio 'Officer down! Officer down!' We raced to get there. It seemed like forever.

"Adam held her hand as she took her last breaths. He told her to hang on, but she couldn't." Gail had been breathing, but it was agonal breathing. An illusion of sustained life. I don't know how long it lasted, but Gail died on that windshield with Adam holding her hand.

Because Gail was a homicide victim of a drunk driver, the officers on scene had to leave her on that shattered windshield. They had to preserve the crime scene for the traffic accident investigators. Gail trained several of those officers in field training. She would still roll up to their calls, offer assistance and guidance. She had stood beside them at roll call just hours before. Helpless to aid her, they had to detain all occupants of the suspect vehicle. They had to begin interviewing them and other witnesses. They had to direct traffic around the incident. All with Gail's broken body lying on a windshield. I do not know how they did it. I remain awed by their strength and resilience. Gail called us her "Super Chicks," because she said we were her heroes. The officers on the scene that night really are Super Chicks. They handled those functions with such professionalism that it was never an issue in the court proceedings.

I began spending more time at the mobile precinct, trying to reach out to the officers who worked so closely with Gail. I remember Lt. Hall calling me into his office where Busby was in tears. Busby said, "I just don't understand. Why would God take her?" I had no answers for her. The same questions echoed in my mind. Including the unspoken question hanging in the air and echoing in all of our hearts, "Why not me?" Why did that drunk on the connector inch over just enough to not rear end my patrol car at over eighty mph, but just clip the driver side mirror? Why wasn't I injured when the other drunk blew the traffic light on Piedmont Avenue, collapsing the driver side door against the side of my seat? Why didn't my patrol car continue its spin and slam into that light pole? Why did the crazy homeless guy throw the huge butcher knife under the MARTA bus and comply with my orders? Why did the dope boy empty his gun trying to kill the other drug dealer seconds before I encountered him and his buddy? Guilt, like any emotion, has no basis in logic. Many of us felt guilty for living while she was gone. What if I had not transferred to day watch? What if I had been on that call? All around us, the public that so often ignored us as just part of the landscape was reaching out. Thanking us for our service. Sending in gift baskets with notes and calling us heroes. But we felt like the farthest thing from heroes.

Police officers cannot stop functioning under the burden of grief. We slide the black bands over our badges, bearing our pain on our chests, and keep pushing forward. The next few days blurred by in a hot haze of tears. Cops are trained to bring order and control to chaos, but I couldn't control anything. I couldn't even control my emotions or thoughts. On my drive to work, my mind would wander to memories of Gail or the details of her death. Regrets. Tears flowed during both commutes as the landscape passed unnoticed.

Grief reduced my fierce independent friends to hollow figures with empty eyes as they pushed through daily routines. They looked deflated, like the uniforms and ballistic vests held them up and together. Their robust humor replaced by a smothered silence. Sometimes we sat silently in groups, just drawing comfort and strength from those suffering the same loss.

I could not control what had happened to Gail. What was happening to my friends in the aftermath. Or the sinking pain in my own heart. But I could do small things to lift my friends in their grief. I brought food to a pitch-in for Gail's watch. I saw the same empty eyes on their baby faces as I saw in the mirror. I also saw them throwing the same life line to each other. In helping those around us, we were also saving ourselves.

As we held each other up, memories of Gail surfaced which we shared with more laughter than tears. Although Gail and I were very different in many ways, both of us were known for rolling up on other officer's calls. Just to check on them and offer assistance. We both wanted other officers to be successful and safe. I often told Gail, "Working with a bunch of police officers is kind of like herding cats in a thunderstorm." She just laughed. Policing takes us to some dark places, somehow Gail was always happy, smiling. More than that, she cared about all of us. Gail willingly listened to problems and everyone felt comfortable talking to her. I am not a "sharing is caring" kind of person, but even I talked to Gail. Her beautiful smile exuded a warmth that seemed to envelope everyone around her. No matter the weather, the nature of the calls, or her level of exhaustion, Gail could find joy and share it.

Even after I transferred to day watch patrol, I sought her counsel and joyful presence. I began going to work at least fifteen minutes early. I would peek into the squad room, just hoping to see her working on a report or waiting out the last few minutes of her shift. She always introduced me to her new field trainees the same way. "This is K-Mace. When she finishes law school, she is gonna be a judge and clean up Fulton County!" Gail seemed to see more in us than we could see in ourselves.

After the funeral, we focused on the legal battle ahead to prosecute the driver, Ms. Jones. Some people felt sorry for Ms. Jones. Their excuse, and her defense, was that she "didn't mean" to hurt or kill any one. They called it an accident. There is something incredibly offensive about losing your friend, and the person at fault's excuse is basically "oops, my bad." It was not an accident. Ms. Jones drank vodka mixed with Hawaiian Punch and smoked pot before getting behind the wheel. They called it "pre-gaming." She wanted to be drunk before she arrived at the club. Mission accomplished. A drunk driver is only minimally different from shooting a gun into a crowd. Granted, the drunk driver has only one "round," but it is much larger. Capable of striking multiple victims. Capable of much greater trauma upon impact. Ms. Jones pled guilty to vehicular homicide, which resulted in a 16 year sentence. I agree with the judge, it wasn't enough.

I have always been grateful for the loyalty of my blue family. It was during those days that I realized just how much strength I absorb from their companionship. Whenever I reached a breaking point, someone was always there. Asking me how I was doing or giving me a hug. Others, even loved ones, cannot comprehend the shared connection of law enforcement officers. I cannot truly describe the evil I have seen to someone who has never faced the same things. At Police Week I stood shoulder to shoulder with thousands of police officers to honor our fallen. Over the years, I had isolated myself too much to protect myself from the toxic work environment engendered by that department. Fortunately, I work for a much better, more supportive department. In my lateral class, I was blessed to be surrounded by experienced dedicated men who kept our class laughing. They were not only supportive of each other, but actively reached out to the recruit class. Their devotion to the job and each other set the example for those new officers and created enduring friendships. They reminded me of why I love this job and the people in it so much.

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