Special Forces - 21. Chapter 21

“If this kid dies, I’m gonna kill Cyril,” growled Sam. I had no doubt Sam meant that literally.

Sam and I were doing our damndest to staunch the flow of blood from the kid’s chest, and I was praying he would survive.

The first vehicle to arrive was a police car, which came to a screeching halt about three feet from us. Its headlights were alternately flashing, as were its grill-mounted red and blue emergency lights. The strobe effect was worse than any bad disco I’d ever been to, and Sam and I were blinded.

I heard car doors open, then a disembodied voice somewhere to my right screamed, yes screamed, “Freeze, Asshole!”

Sam said, “Don’t move, Nicky. Keep the pressure up.”

The screamer tried another tack. “Hands on head where I can see ‘em! Stand up slowly!”

From my left came another disembodied voice ordering, “You heard the officer! Move! Now!”

“Oh for Christ sake,” exclaimed Sam. “Can’t you see we’re giving this guy first aid? If we take our hands away, this guy will bleed out. We’ll move when the ambulance gets here.”

That seemed to shut the cops up, and through the strobe lights I caught the silhouette of two cops, legs planted, guns drawn and pointed at Sam and me.

Sam jerked his head in the direction of the lump of shit that was Cyril and said, “There’s the guy you want. He shot this kid in the back. His gun’s somewhere on the street.”

“Fuck you!” exclaimed the screamer cop, rather unprofessionally, I thought.

“Jesus Murphy!” said Sam.

Luckily a second car arrived and I sensed the tense atmosphere relax a little now that the first two twitchy cops had backup. One of the newly arrived cops said, “What the hell?”

Then, thank God, the ambulance arrived, and we had paramedics kneeling beside us. Sam gave a terse explanation of what was going on. Gunshot wound to the back. Pulse. Profuse bleeding. Pressure on wound.

One of the paramedics put his fingers to the kid’s neck and said, “He’s got a pulse. Weak. You guys did good.”

As Sam and I stood, the cops were all over us. Ordering us to put our hands on our head, then assume ‘the position’ against one of the cruisers. We were roughly frisked. I felt my arm being pulled down, and handcuffs were slapped over my wrist. The other arm was yanked down and the cuff secured. I was shoved roughly into the back seat of the car, the door was slammed, and I was left alone.

Through the window I could see a cop helping a wobbly Cyril to stand up. He was probably a little groggy from the foot blow Sam had landed on his head, but he had the presence of mind to point vaguely in our direction and exclaimed, “They did it! They shot that kid in cold blood!”

Did he think everybody was a stupid as he is?

Sam had somehow convinced the cops of Cyril’s [as yet unproven] culpability, and I had the satisfaction of watching Cyril cuffed and shoved into a third car.

I was confined in the car for what seemed like hours as the kid was seen to by the paramedics, loaded onto a gurney and driven away in the ambulance, its siren blaring.

Jorge was home with a babysitter who was expecting us back an hour ago. I was sick with worry.

Finally, a guy in plain clothes came to the car, opened the front door and spoke to me through the screen. “What happened?”

“I need to call a friend,” I blurted. “My son is with a babysitter. I need to make sure he’s taken care of!”

Now this is where ‘to serve and protect’ turned into ‘to be the biggest asshole in the world.’

He ignored my frantic pleas and repeated his question adding, “The sooner you cooperate, the sooner you’ll get home to your son.”

I did what any red-blooded, traumatized man would do. I went into shock ,started shaking uncontrollably and fainted.

Later, after having my hands swabbed (for gunshot residue) I ended up in an interrogation room. Classic decorating: chairs and table bolted to the floor. Mirror on the wall. They had taken the cuffs off, but I sat there without a shirt, blood on my hands, arms, torso and pants. At least they’d given me a thin blanket to put over my shoulders.

That cop from the car finally came in after letting me sit for an indefinite period worrying about Jorge.

“My son?”

“Taken care of.”

“If you scared him or harmed him I’ll have your badge. You have no right to do this!”

“Relax, your friend, Darlene Cotton, went and picked him up.”

I was so relieved tears came to my eyes; I chocked back a sob. Sam must have gotten through to them.

Another cop came in and they played good cop-bad cop and questioned me for a long time. I had no idea of how long. I don’t wear a watch, and my phone had been confiscated. I went over the story, from our initial involvement with Neighborhood Watch to the shooting, at least ten times with bad cop interrupting to either get more detail or say something accusatory and/or mean like, “You in the habit of impersonating cops?” or “Scum like you make my job a lot harder.” Luckily, I had the presence of mind not to say anything about illegally hiring a hacker to check out Cyril.

Finally, finally, the good cop—I couldn’t remember their names—escorted me out to a waiting area where I was reunited with Sam. I’ve never hugged anyone so hard in my life.

“Jorge’s safe with Darlene?”

“Yes, he’s staying the night with them. Let’s go home and clean up.”

We showered together. It wasn’t erotic, but Sam treated me tenderly, like fragile porcelain.

After we dried off Sam asked me if I felt strong enough to go to the hospital to check on the kid. I was tired, but I was also wired, so I told him that was a good idea.

Sam used his considerable charm at the hospital’s emergency ward to find out where the kid’s parents were, and we proceeded down the hall to a private waiting room. Both the mother and father jumped up and looked at us expectantly when we entered the room, their hopeful expressions turning to confusion when they saw that we weren’t doctors.

Sam made the introductions. Their names were Selma and Chuck Summerville. Their son’s name, they told us, was Alex. Sam gently explained our role in the night’s events, keeping it simple, saying that we were first on the scene and provided initial first aid.

“How is Alex?” asked Sam.

“He’s out of surgery now. Critical, but stable. He’s in the recovery room. We have to wait until they transfer him to ICU before we can see him. When you came in, we hoped it was somebody coming to tell us we could go see him,” explained Chuck.

“We just came by to see how he was,” I explained. “Is there anything we can do for you? Anything we can get you?”

“Selma shook her head. “No we’re fine. It was you who helped him? I mean, at first?”

“Yes, we got to him first,” said Sam. “I’m afraid we didn’t do much. Just tried to stop the bleeding.”

“Yes, Surgeon came and talked to us. He’d lost a lot of blood. It took several hours to repair the damage. He was shot through the back?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God,” whispered Chuck. “Did you see it?”

“Yes, I saw it,” said Sam.

“Why....? asked Selma.

Sam just shook his head. We left shortly after that promising we’d come back the next day to check on Alex.

Sam called in and asked for a personal day, and after we got Jorge to school we headed back to the hospital.

We weren’t allowed into Alex’s room, but through the room’s window to the hallway we could see him lying there looking pale, hooked up to various lines and cords. Selma was sitting beside him, holding his hand. When she saw us through the glass, she kissed Alex’s forehead and came out to join us.

“They told us what you did...stopping the blood...saved his life. How can we ever thank you enough...?”

Alex remained in the hospital for two weeks and was facing a long and difficult recovery at home. He’d been shot through his right shoulder blade which damaged all kinds of muscle and nerve tissue. The doctors told him he’d recover at least 90% use of his right arm if, and only if, he worked hard with his physiotherapist and did his exercises religiously.

Alex was a popular kid and there was an outpouring of support from his school. He had an almost endless stream of visitors. In fact, there were too many! His mom had to create a sign-up roster so he wouldn’t become tired out. His girlfriend, from whose house he was returning when he was shot, sat with him for hours.

In the weeks following the shooting Sam, Jorge and I developed a very special bond with Alex and his family. Sam said it was not uncommon in cases where someone’s life had been saved. He’d seen it happen in the military. And it wasn’t just gratitude on the part of the person and his family who’d been saved, it was a two way street. There’s a type of reciprocal gratitude and bond. “It’s kind of like two suns circling each other; held by each other’s gravity,” explained Sam.

Cyril was initially charged with attempted murder. He’d been ‘patrolling’ when he came up behind Alex who was wearing a hoody against the cool evening breeze from the Pacific. The hood was up, covering Alex’s head, and his hands were in the front pockets. In Cyril’s twisted mind Alex became a suspected gang member who’d been terrorizing the neighborhood (Cyril’s words, not mine). Cyril stopped his car, exited and unholstered his gun. Gun pointed, Cyril yelled, “Freeze, asshole!” Alex whirled around, and seeing a gun pointed at him by a guy in a uniform immediately pulled his hands from his pockets and started to raise them. Cyril’s “defense” was that he thought Alex was pulling out a weapon. Cyril panicked and fired, and that shot somehow missed Alex. Alex panicked, turned, and started running for his life. That’s when Cyril’s second shot struck Alex in the back. Cyril’s self defense argument broke down, because Alex had raised his hands, palms outward, and there was clearly no weapon. Cyril was adamant that Alex’s attempted flight looked ‘suspicious.’ But the DA didn’t agree and brought attempted murder charges against Cyril. His public defender, realizing that going in front of a judge or jury would be futile, managed to bargain down to aggravated assault with a firearm.

The judge sentenced Cyril to 10 years, and he would be out in maybe 3, if he survived. I tried to imagine what his life in jail would be like. Would he be victimized, sodomized? Or would he take advantage of educational opportunities in the system and come out reformed, hopefully with some common sense?

Alex’s physical recovery, although frustrating at times, went smoothly as he gradually regained use of his right arm and hand. But his mental state was another story. He was terrified of a threat ‘behind’ him and compulsively turned his head to check, often several times a minute. The psychiatrist at the hospital put him on antidepressants, which helped with the compulsive behavior, but at the doses needed it slowed him physically and played havoc with his rehab.

Alex was resisting leaving the house to go to school, and with the cooperation of his teachers he was being ‘home schooled’ through assignments and volunteer tutors. Everyone was at a loss as to what to do, including his psychiatrist. And it became a balance between respecting Alex’s phobia while not catering to it.

The only time Alex really seemed to relax was when either Sam or I were with him. Certainly, a predicable response, but not practical, or even healthy, in the long run. But it was us who could pry him out of his house. We did what we could, but with our busy lives there was only so much we could, or should, do. Again that fine line between ‘helping’ and ‘enabling.’ And just how much could Sam and I ‘stretch’ our relationship to accommodate yet another wounded soul?

Often on Sam’s workdays we would make love after Jorge was settled in bed. Like afternoon delight, only in the evening. Afterwards, we’d cuddle and often chat about our current lives: What was happening at work, what we needed to do in the next week or Jorge’s school and music progress. One night we talked about Alex, and how we needed to establish and maintain appropriate boundaries. He wasn’t like Jorge or Joseph who had needed our total support. He had loving parents, friends, a girlfriend and medical support. We agreed to do what we could, but from a safe distance.

Jorge, and his best friend Gregory, were curious about all things Alex and enjoyed it when they accompanied us visiting with him. They were morbidly fascinated with Alex’s injuries, as only young boys can be. Alex was honest and patient in answering their simple, but direct, questions. Did it hurt? What’s that thing for? [Alex’s rehab device.] Can you move your fingers? What are these pills for?

Alex was more than happy to play ‘big brother’ and answered their questions frankly. Can you wipe your bum? had me exclaiming, “Jorge!” But Alex just shrugged and said, “Sure, I just use my left hand.”

It wasn’t long before they offered to play their guitars for him. “Would you like that, Alex? It might make you feel good!”

The boys played for a few minutes. They were well beyond Mary Had a Little Lamb by then and performed a scaled down version of Minuet in D by Mozart. Then, to everyone’s surprise, played and sang a few bars of Justin Bieber’s Never Say Never. Alex recognized it and pronounced it as totally awesome! Sam and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows, Where did that come from? And, Jesus, we were so proud.

It turned out that Alex had taken piano lesson for about five years and had some musical knowledge. However, Sam and I gasped when Jorge blithely suggested Alex take up the guitar, in all innocence, not taking into account Alex’s weak right arm. But Alex wasn’t offended; in fact he loved the idea and promised he’d talk to his physical therapist about it.

After much phoning back and forth between Sam and I, Alex’s parents, his physical therapist, and his psychiatrist we approached Slide about taking on Alex. It wasn’t just the music lessons, it was the whole PTSD thing that we tried to dovetail in too. Alex was showing classic symptoms, and for good reason, and Slide was doing better now that he’d taken on tutoring Jorge and Gregory. Slide discussed the issue with his VA psychologist and it was agreed that Alex would take lessons, but would, at first, be accompanied by a psychologist. We ended up approaching the psychologist who helped me after the Montreal fiasco. Everyone went into the situation with their eyes open.

I don’t know what happened during the lessons, but Alex became less fearful, and his mother told me the flashbacks and nightmares eased up a bit.

Then came the excitement at Jorge’s school. Remember Senator Rotherford had promised the school a visit from Michelle Obama in return for taking in Jorge? Well, the Senator made good on that promise. Mrs. Obama was promoting childhood education and reading and would ‘read’ to a roomful of children while a few select members of the press took pictures and generally did her bidding in terms of promoting the program. Jorge was selected to be one of the children in the little circle with her as she read to the roomful.

The school and its environs was crawling with Secret Service members, and pretty much the whole block around the school was cordoned off. Only a few select parents had been invited to the event, and Sam and I were among them. It was a momentous occasion. She only spoke briefly to promote the reading program, then read about one page from a children’s book, but she took the time to talk to the children around her, Jorge being one of them. There was nothing phony about that. It was easy to tell that she loved kids.

She wasn’t there for much more than a few minutes, but it seemed much longer. And now we have a photo of Jorge talking to Michelle Obama. Both of them laughing.

*******

With our various families and extended families we had several options for celebrating Thanksgiving. We’d been invited to dinner by the Cottons, the Williams, the Santiagos, Sam’s sister and, shockingly, by my brother and his wife. Apparently it was a rare event for them (both emergency room physicians) to get Thanksgiving Day off. They only had the one day off, thus the invitation for us to travel to them as opposed to them traveling to us. Sam and I debated the issue long and hard; there was no love lost between my brother and me. But in the end we decided Jorge should meet his uncle, and Sam would get to see where I’d grown up.