Build the Wall ...Do good fences really make good neighbours?
“Is he dead?”
I nodded and choked back a sob. Two cops shot in less than a week—this one, just six months back from Iraq and his head exploded by a shotgun blast.
“These witnesses are claiming it was a drive-by—some guys pulled up alongside his squad car and blasted at him point blank.”
I looked at McQuade, his twisted sneer, but I didn’t have to look—I could feel the bitterness rolling off him in waves.
I watched as he leaned back against the black-and-white to stare up at the apartment windows.
“They’re scum—animals—low-life losers. This guy had a wife and two young kids. He was a f—ing hero, for god’s sake.”
He looked at the onlookers as if he were spitting in their faces—I wasn’t sure he wouldn’t.
“Did you call it in?”
McQuade looked right past me, glaring at the crowd. “Paramedics are on their way…but, I guess we need the coroner now.”
I patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you go back to the car and radio that in?”
He hesitated for a moment, weighing consequences, then came to a decision. Reluctantly, he turned away and headed back to the car.
There was always this moment—this interminable stretch of time between being first responder and waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Nothing to do but watch faces.
The crowd had left a natural gulf between them and the bloodied corpse—either out of respect, or fear, or some other primeval instinct. They had gathered into a circle and stood grimly watching the car.
In the far distance there were sirens. Help was on the way—not for Prentiss who lay bloodied—but for me. There would be others—brothers, who felt the same pain and wrestled the same demons—maybe drank a little too hard, swore a little too much, and cried inside from the same hurting—just like me.
Wearily, I scanned the scene—a non-descript neighborhood in a run-down part of town. It was a patchwork mosaic of many cultures—east Indians, arabs and pakistanis.
Why do they do it–spend a lifetime scraping by, just to eke out a life in a concrete landscape of peeling paint and neon signs?
Then I saw him. A small arab boy about eleven, standing alone and staring at the car. I knew he wanted to talk—he saw somebody or something, but was scared and now afraid to come forward.
The ambulance van pulled up, sirens blaring, lights flashing. McQuade came back and was at my side.
“Fill them in on what happened,’ I told him.
“Sure—where you goin?”
“Talk to a witness.”
McQuade nodded and went to meet the medics.
I stepped into the crowd on the pretext of moving them back. Grudgingly, they complied. When I was close enough, I grabbed the kid by the arm.
“Can I talk to you, Son?”
The boy looked up at me with big eyes. “C’mon,” I said pointing to a small Mom & Pop store on the corner, “I’ll buy you a Coke.”
I thought he might run, but he didn’t—he just shrugged and followed along. I bought us two Cokes and we sat down on the concrete stairs outside a huge tenement.
I waited until he had taken a swig or two, and then asked, “Are you all right?”
Again, the huge eyes, but this time a whisper, “I’m fine.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw nothing, Sir.”
“You didn’t see the cop get shot?”
“No.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“No.”
“What about the car—did you see the make—the license plate, maybe?”
He just shook his head.
“So, you didn’t see the shooting or anything?”
“Just…”
I looked at him and watched his eyes grow moist.
“It’s okay, Son—take your time. Nobody’ll hurt you—I promise.”
“No Sir, I mean...” He looked off into the distance. “I saw that policeman—here, in the shop. He came in to buy a sandwich and I asked him for a quarter.”
“A quarter?”
“Yes. He gave it to me too. Then, he opened his wallet and asked me what I want to be when I grow up, and I told him I want to be a teacher.”
“What happened then?”
“He smiled at me—mussed my hair and said, “That’s gonna take a lot of work.” Than he gave me two dollars and told me to buy myself some lunch."
“That’s it?”
“Yes Sir. I heard the shots, but I didn’t see anybody. I just wanted to say that policeman—he was a good man.”
I looked into his eyes and saw something there, something a child shouldn’t know. I patted his shoulder. “Thanks, Son—he was a good man.”
I walked back to the scene. Moriarity and Clebbs from 52nd Precinct had arrived and were questioning witnesses. I joined McQuade who was just staring into the vacant front seat of the squad car.
“You holding up okay?”
“Yeah.”
He turned to face me with blood-shot eyes. “Bloody scum bags—probably wrap heads. Prentiss didn’t have a chance.”
He looked with disdain at the shabby streets and the tired buildings. “They oughta close this place down—maybe put up a barrier—a palisade or somethin to keep these scum in.”
I shrugged and walked away.
He’s a good man, McQuade—I like him and he really means well, but a palisade?
I looked around at the squalor of run down buildings, cheap stores and a storefront mosque.
The neighbourhood was a microcosm of the bigger world—living space was shrinking and cultures were bumping up against each other. It was easy to be suspicious and wary of strangers
It was easy to be misunderstood.
An outsider in a uniform sitting in a car might seem intimidating, even if he just stopped to drink a coffee.
And their response was no different from McQuade's—distrust the alien.
What need was there for walls or fences when we had erected barriers within ourselves?