The Message

My relationship with God is strained. Not because I don’t believe, but because I do despite a really rough childhood. I also believe that things happen for a reason. I see the ugliness of my early years made me a good cop. Because of my own survival, I understand victims and the dynamics of abusive relationships. Even the seemingly non-sensical behaviors of victims. I notice the various cues the abuser sends to his victims to guarantee their silence. I find it difficult to be thankful for that blessing because I feel like it would betray that scared little girl praying for rescue. Despite that difficult relationship, I have felt God work through me at various times in my life. Sometimes I feel compelled to say things that do not particularly make sense to me in the moment. Those incidents weigh heavily on my mind as I wonder what happened to those people.

I remember a report of an assault that occurred at a bus stop. Some middle school girls in a knock-down-drag-out that another kid graciously recorded with a cell phone and posted to social media. In the video, the dark-haired girl, Kelly, screamed at a blonde, who tried desperately to walk away without responding. Kelly followed beside the blonde, screaming at the side of her head. “Who do you think you are? Why are you talking about me?”

The blonde tucked her hands into the backpack straps under her arms and walked facing forward and slightly down, strictly avoiding eye contact. Kelly punched the blonde in the back of the head, pushed her down and began kicking her side. “Don’t talk about my mom!” Rage echoed in her raspy yell, but she sounded on the verge of tears.

The video cut out just as Kelly lumbered down the street. The blonde did not report the assault, probably because her bullying led to the incident. The school bus driver reported it to the school. The school found the video and called police. I arrested Kelly at school where she attended a special program. The teacher placed Kelly in a room separate from other students. I could not interview Kelly because no parent was on scene. In that state, juveniles can only be interviewed once the Miranda warning is read to the juvenile and a parent and both consent to answer questions. But the video gave me probable cause for assault charges, so I immediately told Kelly she was being arrested.

“No! You can’t arrest me! I want my dad! I didn’t do anything wrong! She has been bullying me! With everyone else!” Kelly backed away from me and pulled her hands behind her back.

My immediate impression was another melodramatic spoiled brat raised by parents who think their little angel can do no wrong. I raised my “Officer Mason” voice and said, “Actually, Kelly, I can arrest you. I have probable cause for the charges. You will be arrested for assault. You will be processed at the juvenile book-in at the city jail. Then you will be released to a parent who signs a promise to appear.”

Kelly began crying and sobbed, “It’s not fair!”

I cringed but withheld my standard response of “The fair is where you step in cow crap and eat cotton candy until you puke on the Scrambler. Life is not fair.” I thought it would be counter-productive in this instance.

Kelly continued yelling. But when I gripped her hand in a control hold to apply the handcuffs, the fight drained from her body and her shoulders stooped. She wept silently. Her sudden and silent compliance jarred me. Kelly remained calm as I led her out of the building in cuffs. She responded with gentle whispers when I asked questions.

At the jail in the juvenile processing area, Kelly sat silently, staring at the floor and sniffling.

“What are your parents’ names?”

Kelly cleared her throat. “Shanna Reed and Danny Welch,” she replied softly.

“What are their phone numbers?”

She rattled off a phone number for her dad. “But I don’t know my mom’s number. She hasn’t dropped in for a while. She has a new boyfriend. Another one. I never know when I might see her again.” She paused and continued, “I’m sorry for the way I acted. You have been nice to me.”

“Don’t worry about it. You acted better than a lot of adults,” I answered. I finished my paperwork long before the jail was ready to process her book-in. I ran her mother’s name through the database. From the various reports and book-in photos, I silently tracked Shanna’s slow and predictable decline into methamphetamine addiction. Then I reviewed Kelly’s history. Like so many other cases, I could see Kelly making bad decisions as Shanna slipped further away into the pit of addiction and crimes to obtain money to feed that addiction.

Something about Kelly’s silence and her comments about her mom, pulled me into a conversation with her. “I already finished the report because I had enough probable cause from the video alone. I can’t ask you questions about the incident for investigative purposes because your dad isn’t here, so I can’t give you and him the Miranda warnings. I know what happened, the video captured it. But I want to know why this happened.”

She raised her dark eyes to gauge whether I was listening. When she caught eye contact with me, she knew I was listening. Kelly looked down at the floor and began, “She used to be a friend of mine. But because everybody else at school makes fun of me, she started calling my mom a crackhead and a whore. Telling everybody at school that Mom has been arrested for drugs.” Kelly then stared away to a wall and blinked her eyes, trying to keep more tears from falling. I heard her choking back sobs. She breathed in deeply and slowly, trying to smother the hitch in her breathing and blinking her eyes.

I know that burn behind the eyes and at the base of the throat, struggling to regain control and hide the pain. I recognized the attempts to hide feelings and deny any thoughts because no one really cared anyway. I could feel her destructive internal monologue. Even my mom doesn’t want me. I am worthless. I can’t do anything right. No one cares anyway.

I held a tight clamp on my memories and feelings. She did not need to see me crying. I felt that she needed to hear a message that suddenly came to my heart. “Kelly, I don’t know why but I feel you need to hear this, so listen.”

She stared blankly and unfocusing at the concrete floor, while chewing on her lip. I know that trick too. Keep your mind blank and breathe. Maybe think of something that you can control. Feel like you own something. Maybe bite your lip or claw your palms, any little pain to distract your brain.

I continued, “Your mother is not choosing the drugs over you. Those drugs grab hold of a person’s brain, causing a desperate need to pump more in to feed the addiction. It’s not a conscious and knowing choice. It’s a raw chemical need. And it has nothing to do with you. Do you understand that?”

Kelly’s control melted. Her face compressed into a mottled red and white mush. Tears slid down her face as she reestablished her unfocused stare on the floor. Her breath came in shuddering ragged waves. Then she wiped her eyes and breathed in deeply. Her lips quivered when she exhaled. I had no doubt that my message had reached her on some level. Finally Kelly wiped away a few tears and sniffled. She nodded and cleared her throat again. She attempted a weak smile. I wanted to hug her, console her. But I knew she needed to feel in control. I also knew she did not need my hug, she needed her mother’s hug.

I know when God has used me to send a message. At the time, I feel an overpowering need to say something that doesn’t necessarily make sense in the moment. Later I wonder what will happen next for the recipient. Did the message get through? Did it have an impact? I don’t actually follow up on these situations. I believe God is working on it and will position me if needed further. Most of the time, I never see them again, which is generally a good sign.

I haven’t seen Kelly since that incident, but I know she still has issues. I was sent to her house on a welfare check. Some kid had called the anonymous Safe2Tell line claiming that Kelly was threatening to harm herself. I spoke with her grandmother who said Kelly was staying with an aunt in a different county. Her grandmother said the other kids continue to bully Kelly on social media, until Kelly blocks them. That made sense to me. I have responded to a couple of welfare checks from Safe2Tell that seemed to be a means of harassing the other kid by sending the police to their door.

Hopefully there are enough people who care about Kelly that she doesn’t go down the same road as her mother. Unfortunately, that is another common story. I know my message reached her in the moment that I shared it, but I wonder if it reached her on the level that she needed it. Kelly has many challenges that may prepare her for a greater purpose in life. I wonder if she will reach that goal. What heights can she reach if she survives these lows?