The Choices we Make
Fifteen years ago, my father Jack Reese set into motion events that would one day change his life, and mine, in ways that he would have never predicted. I wonder if given the chance, would he have done things differently? Would he have changed his mind, if he had the slightest of inklings what would transpire so many years in the future?
Was my father always the same heartless man that I remember from my childhood? Or did those events so many years ago change him into the man that he is today. Was he a good man and a good cop, at one point in his life? Where was the young, handsome man full of life that my mother had fallen in love so many year ago? The good cop that Lieutenant Davis remembered from so many years ago, her partner that she tries to defend even to this day?
I wonder how different my father, and my life. would have been if he hadn't embarked on the path that he chose all those years ago. Would I even be here right now, crouched in a dark abandoned building, cradling my bleeding partner, wondering how my life would have been different if my father had made another choice.
I glance down at the man that I hold on my lap. How would have his life turned out if my father had made another choice? Would I even know him today? Would he still be a beat cop like his former partner Stark? Or would he have quickly risen through the ranks, becoming a homicide detective with a gold shield, then becoming the youngest Captain to head the squad. Would he have been my boss? Would I have respected him? Or would he have pissed me off as much as he does in my reality now.
He moves slightly, moaning in pain. I brush his hair back off his face, my hand lingering on his brow. He quiets down, his breathing resuming a slower rhythm. Is he dreaming of what his life could have been if my father had made another choice? Of his blond-haired beautiful wife, once his high school sweetheart and the mother of his non-existent children. Does he dream of red-headed children, chasing each other around the lawn as their parents joke with each other around the barbeque while preparing supper.
He moans again. Glancing down, I see the pain that crosses his weary face and I know that in his nightmare my father hadn't made the right choice. There is no wife, no children, no suburbia. Only the harsh reality he had suffered through.
Fifteen years ago, when my father made his choice, I had never heard the name Charlie Crews. Why would I? I was just starting junior high, trying to fit in, to make some new friends because we had moved again and I was the new girl. Crews was just out of the police academy, riding a patrol car, trying to fit in. He had just gotten married, probably thought that they had a bright future together.
Twelve years ago I had never heard of the name of Charlie Crews. The year that he went into the Pelican Bay pen for a crime he didn't commit, I was your typical teenage girl, going to high school and living in my little plastic bubble. Well, maybe not so typical . How many teenagers had fathers who were commanders of SWAT teams? I didn't know any other teenage girls who had a father who got called out at all hours of the night to storm building looking for nut jobs holding people hostage. Or a worried mother that sat up all night waiting for a call to tell her that her husband would never be coming home.
Twelve years ago I was worried about pimples and if Bobby -what-ever-his-name-was would ask me to the prom. I remember agonizing about it for weeks, worrying about what to wear, what to say, how to dance, and whether I should go all the way (whatever that meant) if he kissed me. And worried about my father not allowing me to go because he didn't approve of Bobby.
Crews had other worries, like how to fight off his fellow inmates that had a hatred of all cops. While I was going to the prom, he was receiving his first beating that would land him in the infirmary and require the first of the 243 stitches that he would need in his stay there. While I was receiving my first kiss (and it didn't turn out to be the ultimate fantasy in kisses as I my teenage brain naively imagined), Crews was receiving his first dose of morphine for his first broken bone.
One year ago I first heard the name of Charlie Crews on the news when his case was reopened when his lawyer got a judge to re-examine the evidence that convicted him 12 years ago. I wish I could say that I felt some premonition that my life would change, that things would never be the same, when I heard his name for the first time. But there was no tinkling of bells from up high, no music playing, no grand epiphany, no A-ha moment. Just me running to throw up cause I was undergoing withdrawal symptoms. But then again, maybe that was my A-ha moment and I missed it. Who knows?
Four months later, Charlie Crews was a free man. And I do remember the moment I saw him, standing with his face turned up to the sun, like a flower that had been too long without the nourishing rays of the sun. His hair looked like a reddish-gold halo all around his head. Maybe if I my father had made another choice all those years ago, I would have thought that he was an angel, appearing before me as a premonition that my life would be forever changed from that moment on.
Unfortunately, that wasn't my A-ha moment either. All I felt was irritation that I was being saddled with Crews as a partner. I had screwed up big time on my first assignment. Becoming a junkie while trying to bust a narcotic ring is not the way to advance yourself through the ranks to Commissioner of Police. Being partnered with Crews was my punishment. A punishment that I had to endure if I was going to redeem myself, to prove to Lt. Davis and the brass that I was worthy of being part of the rank and file.
Charlie Crews didn't make it easy for me. His endless inane Zen chatter, his weird cheery behaviour and constant fruit snacking made it hard for me. I remember sitting on a couch with him once and telling him that I didn't understand him, nor did I like him.
But somewhere along the way he grew on me. I began to understand him. And to like him. When did that all that happen without me being aware of it? I'm not sure. Maybe it was the time I caught him changing his undershirt after we had fallen into a sewer. And I saw all the scars on his back before he was able to whip a sweat shirt over his head. Maybe it was all the times when he let me be in the lead when we were tracking down suspects. Most male partners always insist on going first, as if a woman isn't tough enough or strong enough to lead. But not Charlie. To him I was as tough as he was. Or maybe it was the time I looked into his blue eyes and saw the pain that was a reflection of my own.
My grip tightens around my partner as I fight back the tears that threaten to start. I refuse to give into the temptation. There would be time enough for them later on. Just like my father had made his choice so many years ago, I too have made my choice. And where would it lead me, I wonder?
I sit Zen-like, totally focused in the moment, with my gun beside me, waiting for the dawn to finally arrive, gently cradling my choice and feeling his warm breath on my arm.