Tuesday, Sept. 9, 2008

I have been called a cold, bitter man. Personally, I think it’s because I drink too much lemonade. If, however, you think you’ve got me figured out, think you know all my dark secrets, you are sadly mistaken. John le Carre once said that history keeps her secrets longer than most of us. But I can tell you with complete certainty that I have a secret history will never know.

Maybe I should back up for a moment here. My name is Drew Evans, and I work as a cop for the city of St. Paul. We’re not the largest police department. We don’t have the budget Minneapolis has. Minneapolis cops drive around in sport utility vehicles with bun warmers, while we patrol the streets in rusted out ’72 Gremlins. Okay, it’s not so extreme, but you get the idea. Don’t get me wrong:  fighting for truth and justice is the only job I would ever want. What else could I do that lets me drive fast and carry a powerful handgun?

Tonight, I’m driving around in my Crown Vic, hoping somebody will get out of line, so I have something to do and the time passes quicker. Just before six, it happens. The dispatcher sends me over to an area near Ford Parkway where a family came home to find a burglar in their house. The surprised burglar knocked the father down, kicked him several times in the ribs, and ran off. Now we have to set up a perimeter and try to catch the dirtbag. Rob Zink, my friend, the other officer who works this area, pulls up, gets out, nods in my direction, and heads off to the left, lit flashlight in hand.

I leave my flashlight off. My thought is, if my fellow officers are walking around waving their flashlights, the suspect will head for the dark. Sort of like sending him down a funnel right to me. I pace the dark streets, listening to the spooked dogs barking while I wait for him.

And right on schedule, I hear him. Running footfalls, the sound of movement. I’m backed up against the rear of a minivan parked on the street. I tense, waiting as he approaches. Now! I hit him hard and we both go down, rolling, punching. We separate and get to our feet. Sizing him up, I see he’s not huge, but tall and lean. My suspect charges at me, letting loose a string of curses and punches. He’s as fast with the punches as he is with his mouth. I try to lock him up, since I’m getting tired of being his punching bag. But don’t worry, I’m landing a few of my own.

Between punches, I switch on the radio handset microphone clipped to my shoulder. “Officer needs assistance.  Suspect resisting.”

He lands a hard punch to the side of my head. I still manage to give my location, “Ford Parkway at Davern.” Experience teaches me I’d better give my location if I want help to find me.

Getting angry, I hit him in the belly, and he doubles over. I’m starting to wonder if he will go down for the count and make my job easier. The other officers are just arriving as the suspect stands, a knife in his hand. No hesitation, he lunges at me. I step back and parry his thrust with my right hand. I grab at his wrist and use his momentum against him to pull him forward. Caught off balance, he can’t avoid my left elbow. It connects with his face, and he drops to the ground. To stay. The knife skids across the pavement and eventually comes to rest under an officer’s foot.

I rub the back of my head—must have dinged it on the pavement—as I head back to my unit. “Hey, Evans. Your cell phone.”

An officer tosses me a cell phone. I look at it. “Not mine.”

I go to toss it back and pause when I recognize it. It’s the phone I found last week at the Republican National Convention. I spent the entire week working crowd control and security at the Excel Energy Center, where the convention gathered. The RNC was a major undertaking that involved a lot of law enforcement and a lot of protesters. While I support the protesters’ constitutional right to free speech, urine and feces have absolutely no place in free speech. They don’t really care about causes. They just like to disrupt things for the headlines. Okay, I really hate them. They should go back to the rocks they crawled out from under.

On Tuesday during the convention, I was with a platoon of officers stationed outside the Excel Center. We were in full body armor prepared for the worst. A relatively peaceful anti-war protest was going on, the group chanting the usual slogans and waving their signs for the cameras. The crowd was big, but seemed earnest enough, just wanted the Republican politicians to hear them. That all changed however, when the anarchists arrived. The cowards wore hoods and masks and spread through the crowd trying to start a riot. Within minutes, they overran the barriers, smashed shop windows, and pelted us with a variety of objects—both hard and foul smelling.

Next there’s some chick on my back, pounding on my helmet and screaming about my desire to oppress her. Oppress her? I only wanted to mace her and lock her ass up in the county jail where she could take a shower. If anarchy discourages bathing, they’ll never get my vote. That woman smelled.

I putting her on the ground, got her in restraints and hauled her over to a makeshift holding area. She swore at me the whole time. I repeated over and over, “I love my job. I love my job.” Believe me, some days on this job I pray for spontaneous combustion.

Wednesday, however, was not one of those days. After the events of Tuesday, the RNC task force officers working outside rotated inside to work security during the Alaskan governor’s speech. The higher ups no doubt knew the night before had strained our patience to the breaking point. Apparently, officers imploding on national television was a scenario they wanted to avoid at all costs. And from a cop point of view, watching after her was the best assignment of the RNC.

So, there I was, hanging out with the festive Republican delegates, the mood jubilant as the Alaskan governor took the stage. I found her folksy and likable, though I’m unsure if she could run the country if something happened to the president. Nice legs, though.

I scanned the crowd for potential threats, but everyone was far too giddy to cause problems. After the speech ended, the place cleared out quickly, just a few pockets of people lingering. I was drawn to a solitary man seated in the first row of the elevated section closest to the platform. As I approached him, I noticed something a bit off about him. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was though. An experienced patrol officer sees a vehicle and just know something isn’t right and pulls it over. And that guy . . .

He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit with a red, white and blue tie. Mid-forties, with salt and pepper medium length hair and glasses. His shoes were not the typical conservative loafers the rest of the delegates sported; they were different, boxier maybe. He displayed the decorative pin that told us he was an authorized RNC delegate and belonged there. But he didn’t look as if he belonged. Imagine someone trying to blend in with the local population of a foreign country. Close, but not quite there. That’s how he was.

I asked him if he enjoyed the governor’s speech. There was raw emotion on his face. “She’ll make history, you know.”

“I’m sure she will.”

“You can count on it.”

Nodding, I offered, “It’s said well behaved women rarely make history.” Okay, I read that on a bumper sticker, but it was all I had. It made him happy though. He stood up and mumbled something about the time and ambled off towards the far side of the arena floor. He appeared harmless enough—no throwing feces for him. I glanced back toward his seat and saw a metallic glint on the floor under his seat. Oh, oh.

For a moment I thought terrorist—one who left us a parting gift. Closer, I saw it was just a cell phone. I fished it out from under the chair, some make I hadn’t seen before. I started after the odd man figuring I could catch him and return his phone. That’s when I heard the shouting.

It came from behind the stage. I shoved the phone into my vest and hustled backstage, along with several other uniformed officers. The two men making the racked calmed down when they saw the police headed their way in a hurry. They were arguing about the Republican position on immigration reform and both started explaining themselves to us. We ended up arguing for the next hour. Isn’t politics fun?

I completely forgot about the phone in my pocket—until tonight.

I forgot to turn it in to lost and found. Too late now. Lucky for the odd man, I’m resourceful. If I call the last number dialed, I can ask whose phone it is. Simple enough.

At my unit I say “see ya” to Rob. Leaning against the squad car, I study the phone under the streetlight. It’s not like any other phone I’ve seen before. No brand name on it, and everything has a brand name on it these days. It’s made of polished metal and has three large buttons, plus the usual numerical keypad. The two top buttons are green and red but not labeled. My cell has those, too, marked TALK and END. A long black button marked LOCATION runs horizontally across the bottom. M must be GPS enabled. Nice.

On my phone, if I hit the green TALK button twice, it redials the last call. So, I press the green button once, twice, and listen. A series of beeps quickly speeds up until the tone is almost constant. Suddenly, I feel disorientated. Head spinning, I put my hands on my knees, hoping the vertigo will pass quickly. Fortunately it does.

When I lift my head, however, things are different. My patrol car isn’t behind me. I’m leaning against a dumpster in an alley. Surreality overwhelms me as I take in the fact that I am somewhere different—someplace I wasn’t just seconds before. Could I be dreaming? The smell of overripe garbage wafts my way. Are you supposed to smell garbage during waking dreams? It’s ludicrous to think I’m dreaming when I look down. I’m wearing the same sweat soaked uniform I was leaning against my squad. Okay, for the moment I have to assume this is real. But now what?

Bright lights at the entrance of the alley draw my attention. A group of people is passing by. I step out of the alley and scan the area. Downtown St. Paul. What the hell? Did my head hit the pavement that hard? My patrol car was parked at Ford Parkway and Davern, at least three miles west of downtown. Stunned, I fall in and walk with the group. Some of them and look at me with what—anger, resentment, possibly contempt? I’m not exactly sure, but I know I’m in the ballpark. My uniform bothers them.

The group slows, meeting the crowd congregating in the plaza by the Excel Energy Center. It’s like the Republican National Convention all over again. Of course, the RNC ended last Thursday. That didn’t make any sense. I would have known if something big was going on in St. Paul—again.

I look around. It’s anything but quiet. There’s a lot of commotion: bright lights, a noisy crowd, and at least three helicopters circling overhead. The police presence is immense, armed police with protective riot shields. Media trucks line the curb along Kellogg Avenue. Some in the crowd are chanting about ending the war. The volume grows as more join in. Why do an anti-war demonstration a week after the convention is over, a week after the media spotlight left downtown St. Paul? Why is this happening again?

I leave the mob and head for Kellogg. A camera crew is setting up for a live shot. The spotlight comes on, the pretty Asian reporter turns toward the camera. I move in to hear her report.

“The scene here in downtown St. Paul is chaotic, with thousands gathering outside the Excel Energy Center. Authorities believe the protesters will make every effort to be heard with the national media covering the the Alaskan governor’s debut. Ramsey County Sheriff Bill Sutton said that while he hopes the protests will not be a repeat of yesterday’s violence, he is prepared for the worst.”

The lights on the camera go off, the reporter relaxes. I turn away, stunned. I can’t be back here again. Maybe I’m lying on the ground near Ford Parkway, bleeding from the stabbing. Maybe the knock on the head left me with severe brain damage, and the weird scenario is just running through my damaged brain. I don’t think so. I can see, hear, smell, feel my surroundings. This feels real.

Yet the experience is so odd. What I remember about the first night was not being out here but inside. At this very moment, I’m inside the Excel Center working crowd control. Nothing odd about that. I did meet that odd man during the speech. The odd man who left his phone. The phone I’m holding.

I look at it again. I touch the green button. It displays a long series of numbers. 200809031900. Too long for a phone number. The first four digits: 2008. The year? The next four digits: 0903. September third, the date of the governor’s speech. The last four digits: 1900. Military time for 7:00 P.M.?

The implications are staggering. Did I call the past and bring myself here in the process? If this is a call I made—a call to last week—I want it to end. Right now.

I push the red END button on my cell phone to hang up and end the call. I hear the beeps again, the progression speeding up. The vertigo kicks in—welcome this time—and doubles me over. And just that quick, the call is over.

As the feeling passes, the first thing I notice is the quiet. The crowd is gone, and I’m back leaning against my squad. I look up to see Rob pulling out, leaving the scene. I’m back right where—and when—I was before I fell down the rabbit hole. Curiouser and curiouser.

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