Page 6 of Swerve
I’m headed back to the ER when I spot Dr. Maverick walking toward me. He’s got an entourage of first-year residents in his wake, and I’m surprised when he stops just short of me to ask, “Your page turn out okay?”
“She will be. A bit of a journey ahead, but I think she’s up for it.”
He nods once, looking as if he wants to say something, but thinks better of it. “Good to hear, Dr. Benson,” he says, and then continues down the hall, the neutrality of professionalism notably back in place.
Knox
“Down is up, up is down. Good is Wicked, Wicked is Good. The times are changing. This is what Oz has come to.”
?Danielle Paige
HE WONDERS EXACTLY when it was that the police became the enemy.
Sitting at a large round table with eleven of his fellow officers, Knox Helmer listens as Senator Tom Hagan presents his case for the Metropolitan Police Department’s committed efforts to be at peace with its community.
“These are trying times we live in,” Senator Hagan asserts, his blue-blood inspection skirting the crowd of officers before him. “The efforts of the police departments in our country have never been under more scrutiny. I realize the tremendous pressure you are under when a situation calls for a quick-thinkingresponse. Many times, your decision will result in life or death. Unfortunately, your jobs require that you think beyond the present moment.”
Dawson Healy leans in close to Knox and says in a low voice, “You mean the part where we’re dead?”
Knox tips his head in acknowledgment of the question, wondering if the senator would expect them to carry out a military mission with their hands tied behind their backs.
“We in public service,” the Senator continues, “must be aware of our role to set an example for our citizens.”
“I guess that example includes the armed security who walked his ass in here. And anyway, I thought our role was to serve and protect,” Dawson says now in a less-concealed tone.
“Restraint must serve as the hallmark of your every action,” the senator continues.
“Does that include when we have a gun pointed at our heads?” Dawson asks in a voice loud enough that the other officers at the table give him looks that say, “Cool it.”
Knox’s own blood pressure has started to inch upward. He runs a finger between the collar of his shirt and his neck, wondering why the hook of tonight’s invitation had been Appreciation Dinner when it should have read Political Correctness Lecture. He decides a bathroom break is in order and leaves the table to weave his way to the back entrance of the hotel’s conference room. He’s just stepped into the hallway when the door swings open behind him. Dawson Healy has followed him out.
“Screw that,” he says, reaching inside his jacket pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Join me outside?”
“Sure,” Knox says following him across the carpeted floor to a glass door that leads out to a balcony. He lights up, offers Knox one.
“Thanks. I’m good,” he says, leaning against the railing to stare out at the lights of downtown Washington, DC.
“When the hell did the good guys become the bad guys?” Dawson asks, pulling in another drag from his cigarette and then expelling the smoke from his lungs on an angry whoosh.
“Damned if I know,” Knox says under his breath.
Another drag on the cigarette is followed by, “I’d like to see Senator Priss Pot in his Armani suit make a life-and-death decision with a Glock pointed at his chest. Guess he’d do a quick calculation of the guy’s likelihood of having experienced social injustice versus the chance that the bullet will hit within the protection of his vest. He could probably discount the fact that the prick will just go ahead and aim for his forehead.”
“He’d probably piss the suit,” Knox says, even as he realizes there’s little to be gained from indulging in a bitch fest with Healy.
The two of them have worked enough crime scenes together for him to know that Healy is old school. Translation: the general public deserves to live with the reasonable expectation of being able to go to a nightclub on a Saturday night without hiding out in the bathroom to escape the guy intent on killing as many people as he can before someone can shoot him. Or to go to a country music festival without becoming target practice for a psycho.
“You got that right,” Healy says. “This shit is upping the likelihood that we’re gonna end up giving our lives to the cause. I see guys making calls every single day that aren’t based on what we were trained to do. They’re making a decision based on whether or not the perp’s girlfriend is going to plaster her cell phone video all over Facebook with an edit that makes it look like we created the situation.I swear it’s like somebody turned the world upside down, gave it a good shake, and nothing makes a damn lick of sense anymore.”
The door behind them opens, and a tall blonde in a designer-obvious black dress that shows off notable cleavage steps outside. “Either of you have a light?” she asks in a silky voice.
Healy pulls his from his shirt pocket, holds it out with a raised eyebrow. “You really smoke, or are you as enthralled with the speech as the two of us?”
She takes the lighter, pulls a cigarette from between her breasts and lights up. She draws in a long drag, as if she’s been waiting for the fix before saying, “There’s your first answer. As for the second, not exactly enthralled, but he’s my husband so I make the effort.”
Healy looks as if a spotlight has just hit him square between the eyes. “Oh. Well. Come to think of it, I should probably do the same. See you inside, Knox.”
“I should get back in too,” Knox says to the senator’s wife, starting for the door.
