Mason’s Wish

The big break in the weather was finally here, and I intended to take full advantage of it. I rolled my windows down and smelled the smoke of oak logs from fireplaces of working folks who didn’t want to turn on their furnaces just yet. It really wasn’t cold enough for a fire, but they didn’t care. Summer was behind us.

It was a cloudless, star-filled night, but the same smoke that refreshed childhood memories converged in low spots and turned into thick, wet fog. I drove into a depression and felt the temperature drop ten degrees. Without warning, I was engulfed in a cloud that reflected the beams from my headlights and blinded me. I hit my dimmer switch and brakes at the same time and scrambled to find a towel to wipe off the inside of the windshield, but it was so damp, no amount of wiping could dry it.

Years earlier my training officer warned me about quiet nights. He taught me to keep moving and look for things that don’t seem right, like a car in a parking lot at a closed business, or someone walking down the road, or a car cruising slowly through a neighborhood, but I saw none of those things and was glad of it because I earned a break for surviving the summer, but there is a down side to solitude. When it’s busy, you don’t have time to get sleepy, but hours of overtime, working off duty, and the responsibilities of everyday life caught up with me. I wanted to go to sleep, but instead, I turned up the radio, hung my head out the window, and slapped myself to stay awake.

It had been a long time since I heard anyone on the radio, so I clicked my mic to make sure it was on. It was. I was glad to know I didn't miss a wreck, domestic disturbance, or barroom brawl. Could it really be Friday night?

I checked the Army Surplus store by the old highway, shining my spotlight at ballistic vests, Kevlar helmets, Pea coats, and flight jackets, but the only movements were shadows from the light. If you’re not careful, your eyes play tricks on you when you're sleepy, and a shadow becomes a fleeing felon or a tree branch blowing in the wind is a machete ready to chop off your head, but I knew the danger and didn't overreact.

I sat in my car and logged a business check: my eighth one in an hour. I hadn’t checked that many businesses since training. My car was filled with red light from the bulb I installed to protect my eyesight from the bright lights that would ruin my night vision. Like a prowling animal, I was ready and one with the night, that is until the lines on the page hypnotized me, and my pen moved slower and slower until it skipped across the page, ending in a scribble. At that moment the radio jarred me awake. I had forgotten to turn it down earlier when I thought I was missing something, and now it was full volume and demanding my attention, but it wasn’t an emergency. It was just Mason making a traffic stop.

Joe Mason knew how to ruin a quiet night. He should have known better, but he didn’t. He was a retired city cop who spent most of his 20 years on the DUI (Driving Under the Influence) Task Force, so when he came to the county, he continued doing what he knew best. When it came to disturbances, fights, burglaries, and thefts he was out of his element but finding and arresting drunk drivers was his specialty, and no one did it better than Mason. He had more DUI arrests than any cop in the entire state. Unlike the rest of us, he never got over the thrill of tracking and arresting drunks. Most of the guys on my shift avoided drunk drivers because the paperwork was tedious, and since most drunk drivers have the audacity to plead not guilty in court, subpoenas never stop coming. Court appearances are hard when you have a family and work midnight shift, and everybody knows that defense attorneys are unscrupulous. They make thousands of dollars coming up with gimmicks to make cops look like fools in court, so most of us waited for drunks to find us rather than try to find them, but not Mason. He could find them even on a quiet night. He booked a drunk driver in jail almost every night, and on weekends, it wasn’t unusual for him to make two arrests a night. Thanks to Mason, the midnight shift statistics were higher than any other shift, and our lieutenant loved him for it.

At almost 60, Mason was an oddity on patrol where a veteran of eight years was considered an old timer. The average age of a patrolman is 30, and most are uninterested in the tales of men who were making arrests when their parents were in middle school. I was the lone exception. Guys like Mason reminded me of a time in history I envied. I loved his stories, which he told well, of how things used to be.

Mason and I were friends, and he told me things he told few others. Maybe it was because I cared, or maybe it was due to our common interests like fishing and hunting, but most likely it was because I was a good listener. We talked about our families, our hobbies, the downslide of the world around us, and sometimes even religion. No one else had patience for him, but he was my friend. I liked his stories even if I heard them two or three times.

Some people block things out of their mind that are distasteful to them, and Mason was like that. If people didn’t like him, it didn’t bother him. He had no pretenses and didn’t worry about hurting people’s feelings. He rarely participated in group discussions. Instead, he listened. He listened to conversations at the station. He listened to radio traffic. He listened to deputies handle calls, and he analyzed everything he heard. When he and I talked about the people we worked with, I sometimes brought up their inadequacies, but Mason was quick to remind me of their strengths. He didn’t overlook anyone's weaknesses, but he noticed situations where the weak could do things better than those who were physically strong. His perspective made me appreciate people I would have otherwise written off. "Not everyone is strong as you are. Sometimes we need a little humor around here. Sometimes we need people whose brain operates on the right side. You left brain people are so boring."

He preached tolerance, but in practice, there were certain things he would not tolerate such as drunks and hypocrites. “That’s the truth right there…” he would often say. If someone on our shift was lazy, the rest of us whispered our thoughts, but Mason told them straight up. His frankness offended some, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t trying to impress anybody. His forthrightness was just a test to see if they were worthy of his friendship.

His father died when he was sixty three years old from a massive heart attack, but Mason was spared the same fate due to modern medicine. Four years earlier, Mason had triple bypass, and afterward he was determined to improve his health with exercise and diet, but his plan changed when he was forced to put his mother, who was suffering from dementia, in a nursing home. He visited her often, but she did not know him. It cut him deep to sit down with the first love of his life as a mere stranger. Vowing not to suffer the fate of his parents, he started smoking again. He said there was no sense living a long life if he didn’t know who his family and friends were, and besides that, cigarettes helped him concentrate.

A career in law enforcement is hard on any marriage. Mason was on his third wife, but he finally got it right. Marie gave him the security and direction he needed. Sometimes he joked that if he died in the line of duty his pension would be enough to get her a new house, and she would be taken care of the rest of her life. He spoke of it as if it would make him complete as a man and husband. I never took him seriously - until that night in October.

Dispatch called Mason and gave him the registered owner’s name of the pickup he pulled over. It was an oil company. The big oil companies brought people from all over the country to work the rigs in our county. I didn’t dare call Mason on the radio and ask him if he needed help because he made it clear to everyone on the shift that he did not want to be interrupted in the middle of a field sobriety test. Because of that, no one was going to back him up unless he asked. His policy was fine with me unless I was close and available. In those situations, I had my own policy.

When I pulled behind the red lights of his car, I got out of my car, walked around the back of my car and walked up to the passenger’s door of his car out of view of his camera. From there I could see everything, and chances were good no one would even know I was there. 

There was a giant of a man standing in front of his spotlight and headlights, so big Mason looked like a child when he raised his pen light to the giant’s eyes. He used the light as a guide for the man to follow as he moved it from side to side and up and down. Mason was an expert on the Horizontal Gaze Nystagmus or HGN test. He was looking for the involuntary jerking of his eyes which is highlighted when someone is intoxicated. I was thirty feet away, and even at that distance I could tell the big guy was drunk by the way he was acting. This wasn't his first time to be pulled over, and he clearly resented it.

Mason told him to focus on the light while he moved it to the right, but the drunk picked out a point in the distance and stared at it. It was an old trick promoted on websites of unscrupulous attorneys to advertise their service. Since the giant did not focus on the light, Mason couldn’t get a proper reading of his HGN. Mason knew what was going on, but he was patient. He had been down this trail before and knew from experience that sugar worked better than salt in these situations. He spoke slowly in his country draw and gave Goliath instructions for the third time.

The drunk was wearing orange coveralls outlined with reflecting tape with an American Flag on his left shoulder. He probably got off work hours earlier, went straight to the bar, and didn’t leave until they shut the doors. Mason took his time, but the drunk stood at parade rest, refusing to follow any of his instructions or even acknowledge he was there. He was a statue, except for one thing…his face was blood red.

I looked behind me to see if there was any traffic. There wasn’t. The cool night kept everyone at home. When I turned back around, the drunk was staring at Mason, and then he dropped his gaze at Mason’s waist and stared at his pistol.

Before I could take a step, Mason was on the ground having landed there after being heaved in the air like a child and body slammed. It was a violent move of a desperate man. I found out later this was his third DUI, and even if he survived the legal implications, he was sure to lose his job. He was strong and surprisingly agile for his size. He grabbed Mason’s pistol and tried in vain to free it from the holster. Six months earlier, Mason got one of the new synthetic, security holsters that require you to disengage a guard and push a button before the pistol will come out. The old cop complained because he thought all holsters should be made from leather just like they were in the days of Wyatt Earp, but thankfully, this one wasn't leather. It held on to the pistol like a pearl inside an oyster. Unable to free it, the drunk tore Mason’s rig belt completely off him. He was still trying to pull the pistol out when I hit him.

Coach Ollie Swanson would have been proud of my form tackle, but it helped that the drunk never saw me coming. He exhaled a groan that held more air than both Mason and I could have breathed in five minutes. He was on his stomach while I sat on his back and willed every ounce of my girth to attach me to the ground beneath him. The air around us was foul with whiskey. The giant still held onto the pistol grip of Mason’s gun. I brought my right arm up and found my pistol in my hand, having gotten there I knew not how. I rose up and stomped my foot on his wrist, pinning it to the fog line, but he did not release the gun. He strained his neck to look at me, wondering who I was and where I came from. I pressed the muzzle of my Glock 22 against his temple.

“Are you ready to meet Jesus?”

I felt the tension in his body, and it seemed for a moment I was going to have to shoot him, but the thought of Jesus seeped into his conscience. He sobbed and through spit and snot he screamed, “N-o-o-o!”

He extended his fingers, and the pistol dropped from his hand. I kicked the gun, holster and all, over to Mason where it skidded across the pavement and stopped against his ribs with a thud.

Up to that moment, everything was adlib, but now my academy training kicked in. I told him to lie still with his arms spread while I backed away from him. He cried like a baby but did not move.

“Mason...get over here!”

My buddy was shocked embarrassed but able to get up after being dropped from midair onto the pavement. He put his rig belt around his waist and stood beside me with his pistol drawn. I put my pistol up and told him, “Shoot him if he moves.” We approached shoulder to shoulder in unison. When I reached down and grabbed the giant’s wrist, Mason held the Glock to the base of his neck. “Don’t make me kill you buddy boy, ya hear?”

For years Mason had been telling me stories about fighting drunks in ditches, chasing fleeing felons, and tracking the VC all over Vietnam. To avoid a PTSD flashback from the soldier beside me, I handcuffed the big drunk quicker than a steer wrestler at the rodeo, got him on his feet, and loaded him in the back of my car.

I had been out of my car less than five minutes, and we had an attempted murderer in handcuffs, ready for jail. It was good work by any standard. What had started bad for Mason ended up a happy ending because we worked together, side by side…me putting the drunk in handcuffs while Mason covered him with unescapable disaster, ready to drop him at a moment’s notice. There were no cross fire issues. Nobody got hurt. It was the for Cs from our training: Contact-Concealment-Cover-Control.

With the drunk contained, I walked over to Mason and patted him on the back. “You all right old buddy?” But he turned at me with a flash of rage. “Don’t you ever do that again you son of a bitch!”

He gave me his back and walked to his car.

It wasn’t the response I expected. 

I wasn’t asking him to tell me he owed me his life and from now on he would be my personal slave, but I thought he might have appreciated the unexpected intrusion. It could have been bad. Did he realize how close to death he was?

He opened his car door and looked back at me.

“Go on. You’ve done your good deed Mr. Goody Two-shoes. Get your ass outta here.”

Now I was mad.

It was the first time I ever saw him that way, and it was ugly. His dark, sullen resentment was out of character. I watched him drive away a stranger, oblivious to the fact I held his prisoner in the back seat of my car. I couldn’t cut the man loose because Mason just lost his mind. Now it was time for the fifth C: Clean-Up. I called Johnny James who was not far away and convinced him to impound the drunk’s F-250 while I took Mason’s prisoner to the jail and made him my prisoner.

When I left the jail, our shift was over, and I had no idea where Mason was or what was going on with him. I drove to the station in auto-pilot, my mind replaying the incident over and over, frame by frame. What could I have done differently? 

I could have ignored Mason’s policy and got right in the middle of his field sobriety test. With both of us hovering over the drunk, maybe he would have been submissive. 

My other choice was to do nothing at all, and apparently that was the choice Mason wanted me to make.

Mason often told me his family history, and his fear of growing old and feeble. Occasionally, he joked about dying while on duty, but I ignored him. I didn’t know what to say because it wasn’t something to joke about. I don’t believe in luck, good or bad, but it has never made sense to me to joke around about getting killed on duty, but now I knew Mason wasn’t joking at all. What happened on that Highway was exactly what he wanted to happen. He didn’t actively plan it, but he knew the inherent dangers of traffic stops and the odds of coming across a desperate person, so he merely increased the odds by making as many stops and arrests as he possibly could. Sooner or later he was bound to stop a drunken fool who would attack him…and he knew it. He knew death was just a matter of time, so he played the odds to shorten his time, and the legacy of taking care of Marie overshadowed his fears and abated the inconvenience of losing his mental capacity or dying of a heart attack. His plan was playing out nicely until I came along, and for that I was goody two-shoed SOB.

When I got to the station I found Mason’s reports in the basket, but he was long gone. His report was concise and accurate. I wrote my report and a use of force form. It was well after 9 am when I left.

Bette and the kids were gone when I got home. I had the house to myself, and it was quiet. I spent half my night struggling to stay awake, but now sleep impossible. I did not understand why Mason wanted to die. It is one thing not to fear death but another to desire it. It was so important to him that he put our friendship in jeopardy, and that’s what hurt the most. I did what I did because that was the reason I became a cop in the first place. If I left him alone, he would have died a hero. Marie would have had his pension for the rest of her life, and his name would have been chiseled in granite at the LEO’s Memorial, but not now. Now he was just a grumpy old man facing impending and anonymous death.

I finally got to sleep, but I relived the incident in my dreams, woke up for a few minutes, and went back to sleep to remember pulling up behind his car, getting out, and watching him with the drunk from the darkness, but this time it was different. This time, instead of running to his rescue, I tried to move but couldn't. I was paralyzed. It was the report of a gun shot that jolted me awake, out of breath and sweating. When I realized it wasn’t real, I said aloud, “Thank you Lord…thank you...thank you.”

When I was a kid, one of my friends shoved a girl down at recess, and she broke her leg. I was one of four kids that saw what happened, and our principal, Mr. Mack, called all us to the office. Old Mack was shrewd in the ways of education and discipline. He called us in his office and talked to us one at a time with a pen in his hand and a tablet on his desk. 

Vincent Jones was the most popular kid in our class, and I so badly wanted to be his best friend, but when he threw Agnes down for no other reason than she got in his way, and I saw her leg bent abnormally, her tears, and the fear in her eyes, my attitude changed. It was no accident, and I knew it. When Mack asked me to tell him what happened, I did. Problem was, I was the only one, other than Agnes, who told the truth. The result was instant shunning. I was an informant who appeased the enemy. I became an outcast among those who were once my friends. My name became synonymous with rat, snitch, tattletale, and sell-out.

Two days later, I got home after a lonely day at school. Before I could unlock the door, Dad opened it. It was strange because he never got home before 6 pm.

“Have a good day boy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Why don’t you and I go for a ride?”

I wanted to be left alone, but I couldn’t deny my dad. I wondered what he was up to and where we were going. We drove for five minutes in silence.

“Tell me about your day boy.”

Somehow he knew. I couldn’t hide it from him. I didn’t want to be a baby, but the tears fell, and I couldn’t stop them.

He let me cry.

When I caught my breath and dried my eyes, I told him what happened…how a guy I looked up to hurt a little girl and didn’t care. How my friends turned their backs on me, and that life was as bad as it could possibly be. He listened to all of it.

“Well, I’ve always loved you boy, and I always will, but today, I came to respect you. There’s not one person in a thousand who would alienate himself from his friends to do what was right, but you did. That’s what you call character boy, and I always thought you had it, but now I know you do.”

I was an outcast at school for two days, and it made me regret being honest. It convinced me being a tattletale was ten times worse than being a liar, but the greatest man I ever knew told me he respected me, a twelve year old kid who just wanted to be accepted.

“When a man does what is right because it is right despite what anyone else thinks, he has earned respect, and no one can ever take that away. One day some of your friends will understand, some never will, but by then you’ll be so far ahead of them on the road to manhood that they’ll never catch up. Mr. Mack called me and told me what happened. He said you were one of the few kids he’s ever known that stood up for what was right. You have honored me, and I am proud of you.”

Laying in bed twenty years later, I heard my dad’s words all over again, “You have honored me son. I am proud of you,” and just like that day twenty years earlier, nothing else mattered anymore. Just like I didn’t care what Vincent Jones thought , I didn’t care any more what Mason thought, or that his legacy had been thwarted. Doing what was right was all that mattered and knowing that my dad taught me the lesson a long time ago so was all the vindication I needed.

It was a week and a half before I saw Mason again. I avoided him all night, but at 2 am the bars closed. At 2:13 he was on the radio.

“One forty-nine to dispatch...traffic stop at Stockdale and Main with a blue Chev-ro-lay four door.”

For a full 30 seconds,  I was headed in the opposite direction and didn’t care, but I thought about my old man, turned the Impala around, and made up for lost time.

When I got to Main Street, Mason was in the middle of a walk and turn test with a middle-aged, barefooted woman on the shoulder of the road. A pair of high-heels was propped up in the grass next to the shoulder. The woman walked the fog line like a clumsy tight rope walker at the circus. She was wearing a ball room dress, and her tears, mixed with mascara, spilled down her cheeks. She invoked pity rather than justice. Somebody somewhere was singing a country song about her, but Mason was unfazed. In his world, there was no black or white, male or female, only drunk or sober. She was drunk, and she was going to jail, high heels and all.

Despite the flood of tears, he handcuffed her behind her back.

“Now, now…it’s not the end of the world ma’am. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

He put her in his backseat and asked me to wait for her son to pick up the car. Usually he smoked a cigarette before going to the jail, but not this time.

“No cigarette tonight?”

“Gave ‘em up a week and a half ago.”

“Oh yeah?”

He smiled. “Making some changes. If I got to be alive, might as well be healthy.”

It was the old Mason I knew, so I played along.

“Does that mean you’ll be in church Sunday morning?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but one day I’ll be off midnight shift, and we’ll see.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

I turned to walk away, but he called me. 

“Jackson…there’s something I need to say to you.”

He walked over, stood directly in front of me, and looked me in the eye as if what he had to say was important.

“I respect what you did the other night.” He dropped his gaze to the the ground and twisting his wedding ring around his finger.

“You would have done the same for me.”

When he looked up, his bottom lip trembled. “Well, I like to think so anyway.”

I nodded. He looked away and was gone.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.