because of men who are dangerous, but because of those who stand by and don’t stand up.
Outside the jail, less than 100 meters away, I could see two uniformed sheriff’s deputies chatting with the reporters and began pounding on my horn, hoping to attract their attention, but nobody so much as looked in my direction.
The guy in the Accord and his accomplice in the Nova were about to get away.
“Not on my watch,” I muttered aloud which, when I thought about it later, was a pretty boneheaded thing to say considering that I was hardly on duty. No matter. Like some old dog, I was a creature of habit.
I threw my truck into gear and raced along a parallel parking row toward the exit of the lot where both cars were angling. I got there first, sliding sideways to a screeching stop and blocking the way out.
The dude in the Accord stepped out and strode toward me with rage in his eyes and a folding knife with a three-inch blade in hand. I cracked my door an inch. When he got within range, I shoved it open with my foot and knocked him to the pavement. Then I stepped out.
He rolled to his feet and was screaming, “I’m gonna kick your motherfu-,” when I booted him in the face and down he went once more, this time out cold and missing a few teeth. His partner in crime exited the Nova and came at me too, armed with an aluminum baseball bat.
“Drop it!”
I turned as the two plump deputies I’d seen moments earlier came up huffing and puffing from behind me with their pistols drawn, news crews close on the cops’ heels. The dude with the bat quickly did as ordered and laid down face-first to the pavement with his arms outstretched like he’d been through the drill before.
“You OK, sir?” one of the deputies asked me, his pistol trained on the bad guys while his partner handcuffed them.
“I’m good. These two jokers were stealing that Honda.”
“In front of department headquarters?” The deputy shook his head. “Man, what’s the world coming to?”
“Tell me about it.”
He nodded toward the guy whose teeth I’d knocked out and who was still sprawled unconscious on the ground.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Reality TV,” I said. “Ever seen The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills ?”
The deputy told me to hang tight while he and his partner secured the car thieves, and said he’d be back in a bit to take my statement. Then he yelled at the reporters and the camera people to back the hell up. One of the reporters was Danika Quinn, whose report on Dino Birch’s arrest I’d seen the night before. She was even better looking in person.
“Sir, can you tell us what happened here?” Quinn asked me, flipping her silky auburn hair away from her face and shoving a microphone into mine.
“Just taking out a little trash. Excuse me.”
I pushed past her, got back in my truck. As I did, a black-and-white sheriff’s patrol car came barreling in with its siren keening and rooftop lights flashing. Quinn and several of her colleagues had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. The cruiser’s driver and lone occupant, a white deputy built like an NFL defensive end wearing cool-guy sunglasses, got out with his right hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, like he was ready to go to war.
“Code four, in custody,” the deputy who I’d been talking to told him, “thanks to that courageous citizen.”
When I looked over, the news people were all zoomed in on me.
B OTH CAR thieves were out on parole. Not that I cared. I was there to see Dino Birch. After explaining my actions to the cops, I was escorted inside the jail, past Danika Quinn and the rest of the press corps. Somehow, in the interim, they all seemed to have learned the real purpose of my visit, to see Dino Birch. The reporters shouted questions. I ignored them.
Once inside, I was led to the second-floor office of the on-duty watch commander, a prim lieutenant of about forty with razor creases in her tan uniform shirt and the
Outside the jail, less than 100 meters away, I could see two uniformed sheriff’s deputies chatting with the reporters and began pounding on my horn, hoping to attract their attention, but nobody so much as looked in my direction.
The guy in the Accord and his accomplice in the Nova were about to get away.
“Not on my watch,” I muttered aloud which, when I thought about it later, was a pretty boneheaded thing to say considering that I was hardly on duty. No matter. Like some old dog, I was a creature of habit.
I threw my truck into gear and raced along a parallel parking row toward the exit of the lot where both cars were angling. I got there first, sliding sideways to a screeching stop and blocking the way out.
The dude in the Accord stepped out and strode toward me with rage in his eyes and a folding knife with a three-inch blade in hand. I cracked my door an inch. When he got within range, I shoved it open with my foot and knocked him to the pavement. Then I stepped out.
He rolled to his feet and was screaming, “I’m gonna kick your motherfu-,” when I booted him in the face and down he went once more, this time out cold and missing a few teeth. His partner in crime exited the Nova and came at me too, armed with an aluminum baseball bat.
“Drop it!”
I turned as the two plump deputies I’d seen moments earlier came up huffing and puffing from behind me with their pistols drawn, news crews close on the cops’ heels. The dude with the bat quickly did as ordered and laid down face-first to the pavement with his arms outstretched like he’d been through the drill before.
“You OK, sir?” one of the deputies asked me, his pistol trained on the bad guys while his partner handcuffed them.
“I’m good. These two jokers were stealing that Honda.”
“In front of department headquarters?” The deputy shook his head. “Man, what’s the world coming to?”
“Tell me about it.”
He nodded toward the guy whose teeth I’d knocked out and who was still sprawled unconscious on the ground.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Reality TV,” I said. “Ever seen The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills ?”
The deputy told me to hang tight while he and his partner secured the car thieves, and said he’d be back in a bit to take my statement. Then he yelled at the reporters and the camera people to back the hell up. One of the reporters was Danika Quinn, whose report on Dino Birch’s arrest I’d seen the night before. She was even better looking in person.
“Sir, can you tell us what happened here?” Quinn asked me, flipping her silky auburn hair away from her face and shoving a microphone into mine.
“Just taking out a little trash. Excuse me.”
I pushed past her, got back in my truck. As I did, a black-and-white sheriff’s patrol car came barreling in with its siren keening and rooftop lights flashing. Quinn and several of her colleagues had to jump out of the way to avoid being hit. The cruiser’s driver and lone occupant, a white deputy built like an NFL defensive end wearing cool-guy sunglasses, got out with his right hand on the butt of his holstered pistol, like he was ready to go to war.
“Code four, in custody,” the deputy who I’d been talking to told him, “thanks to that courageous citizen.”
When I looked over, the news people were all zoomed in on me.
B OTH CAR thieves were out on parole. Not that I cared. I was there to see Dino Birch. After explaining my actions to the cops, I was escorted inside the jail, past Danika Quinn and the rest of the press corps. Somehow, in the interim, they all seemed to have learned the real purpose of my visit, to see Dino Birch. The reporters shouted questions. I ignored them.
Once inside, I was led to the second-floor office of the on-duty watch commander, a prim lieutenant of about forty with razor creases in her tan uniform shirt and the
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