force. You’re here one day and you’re doing your kung fu thing on a homeless person.”
“He was about to grab Angela,” I say, sounding like a little kid alibiing his actions.
“You couldn’t have backed away? You couldn’t have sternly warned him to leave you alone?”
Is this guy for real? Now I‘m pissed off. I control it, though, and reply calmly, “I hear what you’re saying, boss, but if you’ve looked over my personnel file you won’t find one complaint for excessive force, and I have been in many beefs on the job. I do not abuse people and I do not insult my art or my teachers by using my skills unnecessarily. Check with any of my previous partners and they will tell you I am the last guy to use force.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” the lieutenant says, his face still angled toward his desktop. I notice for the first time he has a serious comb over. “This position isn’t about jumping fences, doing karate chops, and shots fired. It’s a low-keyed job about gathering information. Period. And I don’t need to remind you this is especially important for you.”
“Understood,” I say, gritting my teeth, and standing. I want to tell him next time I’ll do exactly the same thing if I think another officer is about to be grabbed, punched, or whatever, but I refrain. His little speech isn’t about me dumping a guy on his butt, at least I hope he’s enough of a cop that that isn’t what this is about. No, this is about him letting me know he isn’t about to be embarrassed and put on the spot by me.
I’m well aware some cops dislike me intensely for what I did nine weeks ago. Well, welcome to the club because I hate what I did too. I destroyed a family, I shamed the PD, I instilled fear of the police in the people I’m sworn to protect, and I scarred my soul. I’ve been through hell over it and now after two months of confusion as to what I should do next, I made the decision to come back here to do what’s right. If my boss has trouble with it, and if anyone else has trouble with it, well, screw ‘em. And if my coming back gets to be too much—for them—I’m out of here.
“I’m done, Sam,” BJ says, giving me all of his face. “Questions?”
“None, Lieutenant.”
“Good. It’s quitting time. See you tomorrow.”
Steve and Angela ask if I want to have a beer with them and I decline, telling them I have to teach. Angela seems disappointed. Oh well.
I get my pickup and head toward my school, stopping first to get a Whopper. I give Mark a call while chowing down in my truck.
“How are you doing?”
“Hey, Sam,” he says, with more life in his voice than I’ve heard since I’ve been home. “Your advice was all good. Your friend Rudy brought me home. What a live wire he is. Even had me laughing. He helped me in the house and with getting settled. And he volunteered to go to the grocery for me.”
“Great, Mark. You sleep at all?”
“I did. Got about five hours in and I feel pretty good. Well, maybe not good, my ribs are killing me, but I feel awake.”
“Heard anything on your case?”
“Nada. The Fat Dicks were in court all day so they didn’t work it at all. Babcock and Tyler checked on surveillance tapes in the area and talked to some construction workers, but they didn’t turn up anything. Hopefully tomorrow. How was your first day back?”
When I tell him about my day with Angela, he laughs and then groans in pain. “You better watch out,” he says. “She is a looker. I’ve heard she’s a bit of a racist, but apparently she’s made an exception for you.”
“You’re funny. I’m not even remotely inter—” Mark’s phone bleeps. “Sounds like you got a call, Mark. I’ll let you get it. I’ve got to get over to the school.”
“Okay, pal. Thanks for taking care of me.”
I head on over to the church and park in the lot.
“Sensei,” someone says from behind me as I climb out of my truck. It’s Nate, the new black belt. He pulls his workout bag out of the trunk of a black Honda.
“Hey, Nate, good to see you,” I say, extending my hand. Last evening when we chatted before class, he seemed subdued, as if he hadn’t an ounce of energy. But he came alive during class. As soon as it was over, though, he slipped back into the same lifeless, quiet demeanor. Before he left, he came over to where I was talking with a couple of brown belts and thanked me. He hesitated for a second, as if he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t, and left without uttering another word to anyone. I haven’t known him long, but it’s apparent he is a troubled man.
“You’re here early,” I say. “White belts are at six and black belts are at seven.”
Nate nods. “I was going to work on stretching while the white belts trained.” He’s wearing all black again, a long-sleeve button shirt this time. A large turquoise ring adorns the index finger of his right hand.
“Sounds good,” I say. We look at each other for a moment, break eye contact, and then look back at the same time.
He clears his throat. “You teaching the white belts?” he asks, his tone more like, “Do you have to teach the white belts?”
“The padre will teach it if I’m not there.” He nods, looks at the passing traffic, sniffs, and then looks back at me. “Nate, you want to sit in my pickup?”
He tightens his lips, blinks several times, nods.
I move my truck just off the lot and park at the curb a few feet away from the church entrance. “The arriving students shouldn’t interrupt us now.”
He sits stiffly, holding his workout bag in his lap, like a woman on the bus clutching her purse. He unconsciously squeezes the fabric with both hands.
“You looked real good in class last night,” I say to get the conversation going. “It was clear you had good teachers.” He bows his head slightly, the gesture reminding me of my new Vietnamese friends in Saigon. “You’ve trained with my black belts already, right?”
“Yes,” he says. “They are very good, strong, fast. I especially like their attitudes. No one shows off. I have seen too much of it at other schools.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment. I have always taught that besides self-defense, the martial arts should teach you to respect the struggle, respect it in yourself and respect it in your training partners. In my school, there is no place for strutting peacocks.”
He nods.
When he doesn’t speak, I ask, in an attempt to establish a comfortable connection, “It’s been my experience most kenpo practitioners are hand specialists.”
“My teacher is a very good kicker but he is amazing with his hands. So I lean toward hand techniques more than kicking.”
“Most street encounters are settled with the hands, anyway. I don’t think I know what weapons are used in kenpo.” Actually, I do. Just trying to encourage conversation.
“The usual: staff, Chinese sword, chain. My teacher helped me adapt
