THE FIRST
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be. The 19th precinct really does exist in upper Manhattan, but no offense is meant by any part of the description of it in this piece. I have nothing but respect for the men and women of the NYPD. This story is meant to take place in a somewhat less fortunate near future.)
CHAPTER 2: Pointless Night
Like many other plainclothes officers, the car that Evan drove was in none-too-good of shape. It was a '96 Buick that had seen the business end of more than a few baseball bats, more than a few times, the odd scrape from traffic, and quite a number of dents in the hood from brawls outside bars that Evan had been staking out. He tossed the young dealer, a kid named Benny Harmond, into the back seat and cuffed his hands to the steel ring the floorboard. The kid was at least twenty minutes from waking up, and definitely wouldn't be trying much with his leg still skewed at the wrong ninety-degree angle, but it was always a good idea to play it safe.
Even at three in the morning, (it had taken him quite a while to drag Benny down the tunnel) the traffic was pretty bad, probably littered with late-night club-goers and high-priced hookers headed home from their escapades. Evan expertly maneuvered his car through the crannies of the flow with the half-minded ease only a native New Yorker could achieve. His mind barely even touched on the traffic around him as he finally slid out of the flow and parked his car just outside the stationhouse's rear entrance. A pair of department EMTs were waiting for him. One in particular, Tom Fuseli, gave him a dark look. Fuseli was a well-built man in his late twenties, his coloring betraying his Italian lineage. Ignoring the look, Evan brushed past him and trudged into the stationhouse. The almost-elegant colonial façade of the 19th Precinct was only that; a façade. Inside, the seediness that had overtaken most of the north Manhattan in the last ten years was more than evident. The floor, during the day kept clean and buffed, was streaked with quite a few different colors, from the black of dragged boots to telltale dark red. The desk Sergeant didn't even look up as Evan walked by, only muttered under his breath that the Captain wanted to see him.
The door to Captain Peter Anderson's office was hanging slightly open when Evan approached. From inside, he could hear the scratching of pen on paper. In recent years, the 19th hadn't had the budget to purchase many new computers, and those that they did have were earmarked for more critical uses than a squad captain filling out his reports. Evan tapped lightly on the doorframe.
"Who is it?"
"Martin. You wanted to see me, Captain?"
"Get in here and shut the door."
Evan slid through the door, closing it behind him, and dropped down into the chair in front of the Captain's desk. Anderson hadn't yet looked up from his paperwork. He scratched out a few more lines, then dropped the pencil and removed the wire-frame glasses that adorned his tightly-lined face.
"Busy night, Evan?"
Not any busier than usual, captain. I brought in a dealer, that's about it."
"Yes. The dealer." Anderson flipped open a file-folder on his desk. "Harmond, Benjamin T. Convicted in '99 on two counts of possession with intent to sell, released after six months on good behavior. Convicted again in '00 on one count of possession with intent and one count of resisting arrest. Released eighteen months ago. Quiet for a while, now you drag him in here with a brick of cheap Mexican shit in his backpack and a shattered knee."
"I was wired sir, I got everything he said. The DA's office can lock this punk up for good without even having their morning cup of coffee. Third strike, he's done."
Anderson closed the file and rubbed his forehead.
"It was a good catch, Evan. But that's not what I called you in for." He pulled another file from his desk drawer and flipped it open. "Martin, Evan J. Signed on in '91. Made detective in '96. You were assigned here in '98 after your Captain at the 101st decided that maybe a visit uptown would "improve your mood"." The irony behind Anderson's statement was not lost on Evan, nor was the bitterness in his voice. In '98, the 19th had been home to some of New York's finest, both police officers and civilians. It had been somewhere that people wanted to visit. Now it had started to go the way of the rest of the city. The sudden rise in city morale that had came in the first years of the millennium had given way to the creeping decay that was eroding away the progress that had been made in the waning days of the '90s. Anderson continued. "In '99 you were put on leave by IA pending investigation of excessive force charges. The charges were later dismissed. You've been put on leave three times since, for the same reason." He closed the file. "Now this. Evan…"
Martin put a hand up. "I know what you're gonna say, Captain." He leaned forward in his chair. "Look, I know that I may have taken this kid down hard, but it was me or him. You've gotta believe that."
"Evan… once is doing what you have to do. Twice is grounds for concern. Three times and they start wondering if something is really going on with you. But this… the kid may never walk straight again. The doc says that you shattered his entire knee. If he doesn't heal on his own, the kid is going to need massive reconstructive surgery before that knee will work at all, let alone right."
"This 'kid' is a fucking drug dealer, Captain!"
Anderson's eyes flared. "Watch your tongue with me, Martin. Now look. This kid is pressing excessive force charges against you. You have two choices. You can fight it or you can just let the department put you on leave for a while." Anderson sighed and seemed to wilt slightly in his chair. "I'm going to level with you, Evan. You're going to lose. It may have been self-defense, but your record is going to stand against you."
"This is bullshit, Cap, and you know it."
Anderson's eyes were sad when he looked at Evan. "There's nothing I can do. I have to ask you for your badge and gun."
"You don't have to ask." Evan shoved the chair back roughly, whipped the gun out of its holster, clicked the clip release, which sent the clip clattering to the desk with a thud, scattering rounds on the floor. He slammed the gun down with a crack, then reached into his pocket, pulled his badge out, and tossed it into Anderson's face. "Take it. I hope you can sleep at night. You just ditched a good cop." Evan whirled and stormed out the door, pushing it open without turning the knob, which pulled a chunk of wood along with it as it opened. It slammed shut behind him, and Anderson heard the almost animal howl from the squad room and looked down at the badge and gun. It wasn't his fault… the department couldn't afford another lawsuit… but dammit, it just wasn't right…
"Take care of yourself, kid." He murmured to no one.
By Joshua Epstein
(LEGAL STUFF: Evan Martin is my creation, and I own him. As this is a world that I am creating based on our own, certain real people may end up appearing, but this story is, in now way, meant as libel or slander to them, they are only there when and if the story requires them to be. The 19th precinct really does exist in upper Manhattan, but no offense is meant by any part of the description of it in this piece. I have nothing but respect for the men and women of the NYPD. This story is meant to take place in a somewhat less fortunate near future.)
CHAPTER 2: Pointless Night
Like many other plainclothes officers, the car that Evan drove was in none-too-good of shape. It was a '96 Buick that had seen the business end of more than a few baseball bats, more than a few times, the odd scrape from traffic, and quite a number of dents in the hood from brawls outside bars that Evan had been staking out. He tossed the young dealer, a kid named Benny Harmond, into the back seat and cuffed his hands to the steel ring the floorboard. The kid was at least twenty minutes from waking up, and definitely wouldn't be trying much with his leg still skewed at the wrong ninety-degree angle, but it was always a good idea to play it safe.
Even at three in the morning, (it had taken him quite a while to drag Benny down the tunnel) the traffic was pretty bad, probably littered with late-night club-goers and high-priced hookers headed home from their escapades. Evan expertly maneuvered his car through the crannies of the flow with the half-minded ease only a native New Yorker could achieve. His mind barely even touched on the traffic around him as he finally slid out of the flow and parked his car just outside the stationhouse's rear entrance. A pair of department EMTs were waiting for him. One in particular, Tom Fuseli, gave him a dark look. Fuseli was a well-built man in his late twenties, his coloring betraying his Italian lineage. Ignoring the look, Evan brushed past him and trudged into the stationhouse. The almost-elegant colonial façade of the 19th Precinct was only that; a façade. Inside, the seediness that had overtaken most of the north Manhattan in the last ten years was more than evident. The floor, during the day kept clean and buffed, was streaked with quite a few different colors, from the black of dragged boots to telltale dark red. The desk Sergeant didn't even look up as Evan walked by, only muttered under his breath that the Captain wanted to see him.
The door to Captain Peter Anderson's office was hanging slightly open when Evan approached. From inside, he could hear the scratching of pen on paper. In recent years, the 19th hadn't had the budget to purchase many new computers, and those that they did have were earmarked for more critical uses than a squad captain filling out his reports. Evan tapped lightly on the doorframe.
"Who is it?"
"Martin. You wanted to see me, Captain?"
"Get in here and shut the door."
Evan slid through the door, closing it behind him, and dropped down into the chair in front of the Captain's desk. Anderson hadn't yet looked up from his paperwork. He scratched out a few more lines, then dropped the pencil and removed the wire-frame glasses that adorned his tightly-lined face.
"Busy night, Evan?"
Not any busier than usual, captain. I brought in a dealer, that's about it."
"Yes. The dealer." Anderson flipped open a file-folder on his desk. "Harmond, Benjamin T. Convicted in '99 on two counts of possession with intent to sell, released after six months on good behavior. Convicted again in '00 on one count of possession with intent and one count of resisting arrest. Released eighteen months ago. Quiet for a while, now you drag him in here with a brick of cheap Mexican shit in his backpack and a shattered knee."
"I was wired sir, I got everything he said. The DA's office can lock this punk up for good without even having their morning cup of coffee. Third strike, he's done."
Anderson closed the file and rubbed his forehead.
"It was a good catch, Evan. But that's not what I called you in for." He pulled another file from his desk drawer and flipped it open. "Martin, Evan J. Signed on in '91. Made detective in '96. You were assigned here in '98 after your Captain at the 101st decided that maybe a visit uptown would "improve your mood"." The irony behind Anderson's statement was not lost on Evan, nor was the bitterness in his voice. In '98, the 19th had been home to some of New York's finest, both police officers and civilians. It had been somewhere that people wanted to visit. Now it had started to go the way of the rest of the city. The sudden rise in city morale that had came in the first years of the millennium had given way to the creeping decay that was eroding away the progress that had been made in the waning days of the '90s. Anderson continued. "In '99 you were put on leave by IA pending investigation of excessive force charges. The charges were later dismissed. You've been put on leave three times since, for the same reason." He closed the file. "Now this. Evan…"
Martin put a hand up. "I know what you're gonna say, Captain." He leaned forward in his chair. "Look, I know that I may have taken this kid down hard, but it was me or him. You've gotta believe that."
"Evan… once is doing what you have to do. Twice is grounds for concern. Three times and they start wondering if something is really going on with you. But this… the kid may never walk straight again. The doc says that you shattered his entire knee. If he doesn't heal on his own, the kid is going to need massive reconstructive surgery before that knee will work at all, let alone right."
"This 'kid' is a fucking drug dealer, Captain!"
Anderson's eyes flared. "Watch your tongue with me, Martin. Now look. This kid is pressing excessive force charges against you. You have two choices. You can fight it or you can just let the department put you on leave for a while." Anderson sighed and seemed to wilt slightly in his chair. "I'm going to level with you, Evan. You're going to lose. It may have been self-defense, but your record is going to stand against you."
"This is bullshit, Cap, and you know it."
Anderson's eyes were sad when he looked at Evan. "There's nothing I can do. I have to ask you for your badge and gun."
"You don't have to ask." Evan shoved the chair back roughly, whipped the gun out of its holster, clicked the clip release, which sent the clip clattering to the desk with a thud, scattering rounds on the floor. He slammed the gun down with a crack, then reached into his pocket, pulled his badge out, and tossed it into Anderson's face. "Take it. I hope you can sleep at night. You just ditched a good cop." Evan whirled and stormed out the door, pushing it open without turning the knob, which pulled a chunk of wood along with it as it opened. It slammed shut behind him, and Anderson heard the almost animal howl from the squad room and looked down at the badge and gun. It wasn't his fault… the department couldn't afford another lawsuit… but dammit, it just wasn't right…
"Take care of yourself, kid." He murmured to no one.