When Gail Peck wants to get something done, she knows how to get something done. Sometimes completing the task is all about what her parents always told her- hard work and perseverance. Sometimes it's just the product of sheer good old-fashioned bull-headed obstinacy. But whatever it takes she gets it done.
It's always been like this. When she needed to cram for an algebra test so she wouldn't get a month's grounding for failing grade 10 math, she studied quick and hard enough to pass that damn test. When she wanted to get better at French to impress the new French teacher, she got better at French (it helped that she kind of loved it). When she wanted to get through her time at the police training college without making a fool out of herself, she'd called on every single resource she had (including her family) to make sure she could save face. If she needed to get better at shooting at a target so she didn't have to be called a rookie and longer she made sure as hell she hit that target the second time around.
And if she wants to put something out of her mind- to turn the blinders on and not give whatever it is bothering her the time of day, then Gail Peck does her damn best to keep it out of her mind.
And one great thing about Gail's job is that if you want to lose yourself in it, it can be pretty darn easy. All you have to do is put in the hours, say yes to any task thrown your way, work late and, whatever you do, don't think about whatever it is you are trying to distract yourself from.
Gail does it all the time. Only the thing she is trying to ignore this time is different. It is not her mother. It is not Nick and Andy. It is not her own guilt feelings of cheating. It is not even the resonant horrors of being beaten and kidnapped, the moment that kept her head buried in the job as much as she could last year.
And now, in the sprit of ignoring another thing that she has no idea how— no ability— to deal with, she puts her head down and polices.
That will be all she needs to do, she thinks.
Day One: Booking desk
The first day is easy.
There are a few glitches, but generally Gail wins.
The first glitch is Chris, of course. They don't eat breakfast. There is no time this morning between her snoozing and the showering and the dressing and the rush to pick up Chris's only clean uniform at the drycleaners on the way.
"Everything okay last night?" he asks her as he drives them to work.
"You know what I hate about this uniform?" Gail tells him, yanking at the underarm of her left sleeve where all of a sudden her shirt has decided to chafe. "Everything."
"I don't mind the colour." Chris replies, pulling into the parking lot. He gets the picture, it seems. She does not want to talk about it.
Gail is assigned booking. Or check-in as Oliver likes to call it, as if it Division 15 is the Hilton and whoever is on booking is the poor hapless concierge. Only it is never quite as slapstick and fun as Oliver's version of events promises.
At first she isn't happy about the news. All she wants— all she needs— today is to be out there amongst it, dealing with all the fools and reprobates out on the street. The only way to not think is to do.
"Hey, at least you don't have to be out there in the cold." Chris tells her as they stride out of parade.
"Who cares about the cold?" Gail makes a beeline for the coffee station. Another downside to today— she has to drink the crappy work coffee all day.
"Me," says Chris, zipping up his uniform jacket to his chin.
"Only wimps worry about the cold." Gail tells him, thrusting her hands in her pockets and walking faster. "In my book, being cold is better than being stuck in here all day with the tired, the drunk and the criminally insane." She grabs a mug from the cupboard.
"And don't forget the prisoners," Oliver quips, appearing out of nowhere as ever and grabbing Gail's cup out of her hand. He snatches the coffee pot out from under her nose, fills her cup and strolls away with it.
"Oh, hilarious." Gail snarls, snatching another cup off the shelf.
The next glitch. It is one simple order, spoken by a detective to a cop as she marches toward the booking desk, a lamb to the slaughter.
"Take it down to forensics."
Gail has no idea how many times she has heard that simple, straightforward order since becoming a police officer. Too many. Now it something she has to purposefully, pointedly ignore. Unless the order is directed at her. Then she has absolutely no idea what she'll do.
Booking isn't actually as bad as she thought it would be.
And in terms of keeping her eyes on the prize: which is a total and complete mental shutout, it is kind of the perfect day.
As annoying as so many of the people who come through here can be, Gail has forgotten how much she actually kind of enjoys the theatre that is downstairs at 15.
One thing she has learned over the handful of times she has been handed the booking desk is that every single person has a different reaction when they are taken from the service car, through the sally port and into the lock-up. Everyone has their own kind of reaction to the finality of its institutional white walls, its Missing and Most Wanted posters and its end-of-the-road holding cells. There is always that moment when they realise that there is no hope left of not getting locked up- that there is no interim between the car they have suddenly found themselves in and processing and that tiny cell they can see right next to them. This is the place where they will await their fate, or, if they are lucky, a really good lawyer to help shape that fate.
Learning that this is the place they have ended up after things suddenly got real and they were thrown into a police car always provokes one of many myriad response from 15's newest inmates.
Some go quietly. They have either that terrified quiet of someone who has never gotten themselves in trouble before and don't want to make any more, or the clueless quiet of those who are waiting for legal help and have seen all those movies that tell them not to speak until a lawyer is present, as if saying their name or address will immediately incriminate them. Or, of course, there is the native quiet- ones who are keep their mouths shut because they have done this so many times before that they well and truly know the drill. This lot all submit silently to the form-filling, the finger-printing and the cell re-arranging.
Then there are the loud ones, the angry, outraged ones- the ones who let you know, loud and clear that THIS IS ALL A GIANT MISTAKE and there is no way that little old them should have ended up in here. There are the violent ones, who come in screaming and kicking and hissing and have to be wrestled into submission or a cell before they can even be processed. Then there are the drunk ones. They can be a mixed bag. There are the ones who try to keep the party going, wilfully oblivious to what is actually going on, trying to jolly up the other inmates, and demanding drinks as if Gail is a cocktail waitress and they have been waiting far to long for the next round. There are the singers, which is never good. There are the letches, who are generally disgusting. But whichever they are, they are never, ever quiet.
Being a Thursday, the official opening of the party portion of the week, it was never going to be the most peaceful day downstairs. But then, wouldn't you know it, it is Gail's lucky day. It is the annual Toronto punk pub crawl, a long day of rowdy drinking, starting in 27's jurisdiction and finishing, yep, that's right, in a pub right smack bang in the heart of 15 territory. And some of these guys, Gail learns, despite the studs and the 'tudes, really do not know how to hold their booze— or their sense of reality— after stopping at nine different pubs before mid-afternoon.
"You," A saucer-eyed runt with a lightning bolt shaved into his green hair stares, crazy-eyed at her as she hauls him over to one of the cells, "Are so silver and white. Is it…" He raises a finger to his mouth, "ghostly princess, or cadaverous spectre?"
"How the hell would I know?" Gail snarls. "All I know is that you, my friend, are an idiot." She prods him into the cell. "Have a nap. You'll feel better."
So, needless to say, it's a hell of a day in booking, punctuated with the sounds of belligerent counter-culture prats and the vomit-stink of breakfast beers and sweat ingrained on ancient leather.
And if is it this bad in here, Gail wonders, as she wrestles another drunken mohawk's fingers into giving her a reasonable print, what must it be like on the street? Because it's not just the punks, either. It's like every would-be criminal decided to look at their inspiration boards or watched Oprah or something and then just to got right out there looking to realise their full potential today. One after another, harassed looking patrol units drops of another of nature's finest at Gail's feet and she rushes to process them, print them and pen them before another comes along.
And what with all this human carnage the day just slides on by in a slurry of displays of daytime drunkenness, proclamations of innocence and, of course, professions of love for their blonde booking officer. It's kind of the perfect destination for Gail because she is feeling the snark and booking is where it pays off to be surly to get the job done.
And when Frank comes in, just after five, begging her to stay late, she doesn't even blink. She just says yes and keeps on herding and wrangling.
And then finally, hours later, after a long hot shower to slough off the stank of the day, Gail trails along with Traci and Chris for a quick recovery beer and the third glitch.
"So, Holly's cool."" Traci says, all innocence as they find a table near the bar.
Gail had forgotten the weird double date dinner only a couple of nights ago and all that Holly and Traci bonding.
"Mmhmm," Is all Gail says, sitting and changing the subject to the first thing she can think of. "Do you know a guy told me he put out a cigarette on his tongue for a dare this morning, just to win free beer for the whole day?"
"Whoah," Traci responds, flinching into her drink.
"I mean, have I underestimated the potential of human stupidity until now, or does that take the cake?"
"I don't know, Gail. You were the lucky one on booking today." Traci responds. "You'd be the best judge of that."
And that is all it takes for them to leave her alone. Two more beers and a lengthy argument about who can recall the dumbest thing seen on the job (it's not a competition, of course, but Gail totally wins with her story about the guy who robbed a gun store with a painted water pistol) and it is time to go home and to fall into one of those quick face-down, don't-even-get-undressed-or-under-the-covers submissions into unconsciousness.
Day one, by all accounts, can be considered a success.
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