IN MOST families, it's
the kids who say their parents don't understand. In my family,
it was the opposite. Although I loved him, I didn't or couldn't
understand my father. It took 24 years, two butcher knives, and
one .38 caliber bullet to find out not just where he'd been but
also where I was headed.
It began when I was five. A memorable day, since it was the first
time I ever saw my father cry. He was a big man, muscular from
his years of Army service, and in my estimation, the equivalent
of Superman. At that time, he was also a brand new police officer
with less than a year on the job.
He was outside that summer evening, sequestered on the porch
with my uncle. The rest of the family was inside, asleep.....except
for me. A night owl even then, I sometimes shared the late evenings
with Daddy. I hovered near the screen door, ready to burst outside
and surprise him. It would be our special time together, when
he'd hold me in his lap, point out the stars, and listen to my
latest stories and deepest secrets. But not tonight.
It was the tears that stopped me. They tracked unheeded down
his face, accompanied by some choking sobs. My father crying?
Was he sick? Had someone--Grandma, Grandpa, one of the cousins--been
hurt? I stood frozen, a tiny figure in the shadows, and listened
to my father weep.
It was death and nightmares he spoke of. As a brand new police
rookie, he'd been assigned to a beat car with an older cop named
Hudson. In those first days on patrol, Hudson taught him the
cardinal rule of cops everywhere: Partners watch each other's
backs. There were other rules, of course, but all of them centered
on taking care of each other. Ending each tour of duty the way
you started it: alive, and intact.
"We back each other up," said Hudson. "When it
hits the fan, you better be right here next to me. First time
you chicken out, everybody'll know about it. Then you get a reputation,
and nobody will work with you. Which, for a cop, is suicide.
So stay on your toes, and make sure you cover your ass, and mine
too. Long as you do that, you'll be okay."
My father understood. He was part of the brotherhood now, sworn
to serve and protect not just the citizens but his fellow officers
as well. He wouldn't let them down. As the green new rookie,
he knew they were sizing him up, wondering if he had the right
stuff. He vowed to make them proud.
The call came one early afternoon. `Disturbance in the clothing
store.'
"Maybe it's an armed robbery," my father told Hudson.
He was eager to earn his stripes, prove he wasn't afraid in the
face of danger.
"If it was a robbery, they'd say robbery, kid. This is just
a disturbance. Probably some customer thinks she ain't gettin'
the sale price."
But when they pulled up to the store, my father was barely out
of the car before a man in a leather jacket burst through the
doors. Catching sight of the cops, he froze, then bolted down
the block. Another man rushed out, the heavy set store-owner
who screamed, "Go get him! Kill that bastard! What are you
waiting for?"
It was all my father needed to hear. He raced after the offender,
first one block, then four, then six. After that he stopped counting,
just concentrated on keeping his focus. It was up to him to catch
the bad guy. He knew Hudson was way behind but it didn't matter.
He was younger, fitter, and he didn't mind picking up the slack.
That's what partners did.
The chase ended at the subway entrance. The man hesitated on
the lower stairs, turned to face the cop, and slipped his hand
inside his jacket. It was that critical moment, my father thought.
The one they tell you about in the Academy, where the scenario
plays out and your life hangs in the balance. The split second
where instinct and reflexes kick in to decide your fate, and
define you as a cop, a survivor,....or a casualty.
My father didn't hesitate. His gun was out in an instant, spitting
a stream of fire and death that sent the man crashing to the
ground. Later, it would seem like a moment frozen in time. He
remembered thinking that his partner would be proud, that the
guys in the station would applaud his bravery under fire. He
even imagined how the detectives in the follow-up investigation
would show him the man's weapon that had almost been drawn, had
almost ended his own life.
|
Gina
Gallo's policeman-father hugs her in this family photo, unaware
his daughter someday would follow in his footsteps and join the
force. |
 |
Except there was no weapon, only the reproachful look of a 17-year-old
boy whose life seeped away in spreading pools. In those last
moments, he stared at my father, held his horrified eyes as he
removed what had been stuffed in his jacket.
It was the sweater he'd shoplifted, a cheap green pullover now
sodden with his blood.
His lips moved futilely, rasping out a final message that was
hard to hear above the approaching sirens.
"You didn't have to shoot me. I would've given it back."
In retelling this story, my father sobbed. His body shuddered
as he described his nightmares--violent nightmares that featured
his young victim who always asked the same question.
"Why'd you do it? Why did you kill me?"
He told my uncle he saw that boy in his dreams, his waking hours,
sometimes standing at the foot of his bed. In each case, a haunting
reminder of his blood on my father's hands.
I didn't understand it then. The idea of my father as killer--as
murderer--was more than
I could handle at five years old, or 10, or for many years to
come. It changed the way I felt about him. I became judge and
jury, condemning him for his unpardonable sin. How could I love
the killer my daddy had become? It was a dark secret I couldn't
share, one that cast a deep shadow between us. It felt as though
everything I believed to be real and true had been shattered.
I didn't know what to think, or what was real. The only thing
I knew for sure was that I'd never be like him.
Fast forward 24 years to the beginning of my own police career.
A career I'd never aspired to and had no intention of pursuing
for any length of time. As far as I was concerned, it was just
an interim gig until I found something better, a way to support
my two small sons.
Just four days out of the Academy, I'd heard all the war stories
about the horrors of the street. All the tall tales, and the
funny ones, and occasionally, the somber accounts of a shooting.
That was when the cop in question would always shake his head,
lapse into the grim silence that meant a replay of horrors he
still remembered or couldn't forget. There were unshed tears
there, behind the game face, just as my father had wept. I didn't
want to think about it, or him. I wasn't like them.
But on that day, I got the call that changed everything. Just
four days on the street, I had to face down a man who'd just
cut up his sister and now stood before me, waving butcher knives,
offering me a bloody death. With gun in hand, I hesitated. And
thought of my father, of my own life, and how in the hell I'd
got in that position. I waited longer that was healthy, long
enough for the bad guy to pull a gun and point it in my face.
I don't remember doing it. To this day, I can't pinpoint when
I pulled the trigger, only that my gun came up in one fluid,
instinctive movement and ended his life. Afterward, I stood over
him and realized I'd just crossed a line, become someone else.
A killer. His fluids drained down the sidewalk, blurring together
just as surely as my old clear-cut notions of right and wrong.
 |
Gina
Gallo poses by her patrol car in her days as a Chicago police
officer. She is now retired from the force. |
Everything had shifted. It was that feeling again--no absolutes,
no truths, and no reality except that single moment in time.
This time, the reality was that I was still alive, that I was
the one who'd see my family again. The other realities would
be dealt with later.
I stood there staring at the victim, and at the porch across
the street where there was a carved jack-o-lantern in preparation
for Halloween. It reminded me of my kids at home who were planning
their own costumes. My two sons who were so excited that their
Mommy was a cop. Each night they waited for me to come home,
and each night asked the same question:
"What exciting police things did you do today, Mommy?"
That night, I'd tell them, "Tonight, I got to come home
to you."
My father is 81 years old now, a recent widower, and losing his
eyesight, so he won't be able to read this story. It doesn't
matter. Cops back each other up, and this time, it'll be my pleasure.
I'll just condense it for him, and tell him the only thing he
needs to hear.
I love you, Dad. And I finally understand.
©2001 by Gina Gallo.
The drawings are from IMSI's Master/Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco
Blvd. East, San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. The photos are from
the author's personal files. All rights reserved.
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comment on this column or contact Gina Gallo with an email to: talkback@thecolumnists.com
