Officer Jones

Chapter 36

While wandering around the Rockfield Fair on Saturday afternoon, in one of the few moments I wasn’t fighting with someone, I ran into an old friend from high school named Adrian Herbert. He invited me to watch the opening week of NFL football at Main Street Tavern with him and some of the old gang, and gave me his phone number. He said it would be like old times, although I couldn’t remember ever watching football with Herbie. I doubted I’d take him up on the offer at the time, but I gave him lip service about keeping it in mind. And following Noah’s death, I suddenly had the urge to meet up with the boys and swap some stories. Preferably about a certain police officer.

Main Street Tavern was a wooden firetrap that was a favorite watering hole of the locals. A small but raucous crowd was always present on fall Sundays to watch NFL games, including some of my old high school football buddies.

They proceeded to greet me warmly, along with providing condolences for the loss of Noah. I spotted my old teammates, Vic Cervino and Steve Lackety. We used to get together once a year for a reunion of our league championship team, but the reunions became fewer and fewer, before dwindling to non-existent about ten years ago.

I knew it must look strange that I’d be here, just twelve hours after my brother committed suicide, but nobody questioned my presence.

Before I could get into the topic of Kyle Jones, there were old football stories to be told. They had grown into Greek mythology over the years, and what they lacked in truth, they made up in grandiosity. Between stories, I continued buying rounds of beer for the boys until one o’clock; when the game between the Main Street Tavern favorite, New England Patriots, and the Miami Dolphins began.

When halftime arrived, it was time to talk Officer Jones. I was counting on the alcohol removing all inhibitions, and assisting in some honest dialogue.

Herbie was the first to take issue with him, “I’ll tell you what that guy did. He came to our softball party-he was dating the sister of one of the guys on the team, who worked at the bowling alley-hung out with us and acted like our best friend. Then he left and hid down the street and nailed half the squad with a dee-wee.”

“But you guys were breaking the law by driving drunk,” I played devil’s advocate.

“I’m not saying we were right, but if Jones really wanted to stop people from driving, he could have taken people’s keys or arranged rides when he was at the party. He wanted credit for making the bust.”

I noticed a bunch of nodding heads. A man named Lucas caught my interest. He identified himself as being a former member of the Rockfield Police force, who had worked with Jones, but left for a job in the private sector. “The guy is obsessed. Something is not right with him,” he remarked.

The bartender, Wally, who was also the tavern owner, chimed in, “He’s not allowed in here anymore. He used to wait in the parking lot in an unmarked car and follow my customers home.”

“You should do one of your investigative reports on that bastard,” Vic Cervino shouted out with a mouthful of salsa chips.

I smiled. “I would if I had something good on him. So far, nothing you told me is against the law. And those he arrested certainly were breaking it. Sounds like he might just be doing his job a little too well.”

The former cop, Lucas, spoke up again, “I’ve witnessed him break the law.”

“How come you didn’t report it?”

Lucas laughed as if I were naive. “If I accused the department’s fair-haired superstar of doctoring Breathalyzer results, or that he pulled people over without just cause, it would have been spun that I was not committed to reducing crime. Besides, with all due respect to Noah, the fact he got off with what appeared to be a slap on the wrist put a bull’s-eye on Rockfield. Maloney, like any public official looking to get re-elected, made drinking and driving his top priority, and Jones became his poster boy for this pursuit. Even if Tolland wanted to do something about Jones, Maloney would overrule him, especially after the money began rolling in from the ADDs.”

“The ADDs?”

“The against drunk driving organizations. They are good organizations, don’t get me wrong. They’ve played the biggest role in cutting fatalities. But sometimes when money gets involved, people tend to turn their heads at the means, as long as they get to the ends.”

Sounded like the Maloney I knew.

Halftime would be ending soon, so I had to move fast. A guy named Scott Busby, who owned a local hardware store, provided me with the incriminating story I was waiting for.

“Jones had heard a rumor that I’d driven home from here, three sheets to the wind. I don’t know where he heard that, but I was home the whole night watching the Yankees game. I put down a six-pack and chomped on a bag of potato chips. I got a knock on the door and when I answered, it was Jones. He dragged me down to the station, where they charged me with drunk driving.”

“And he got away with it?” I asked with great surprise.

“Yeah, they gave me a Breathalyzer, which of course I failed because I was drinking…in my house! It was Jones’ word against mine. The judge basically called me a liar at my sentencing.”

Herbie asked, “Hey JP, what’s your beef with Jones-did he pull you over?”

Before I had a chance to answer, Lackety cut in with a knowing smile, “I hear that Jones has been dating Gwen Delaney. I’ll bet that’s the problem.”

This led to hearty laughter at my expense.

“The woman from the paper?” the bartender asked, obviously new to the town.

Lackety butted in again, “She could put me in her story anytime, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, everyone did.

Herbie cleared it up for anyone who didn’t know the story of JP and Gwen, providing the Cliff Notes version of the past thirty years. It was not a happy ending and I cringed with embarrassment, but kept my mind focused on the task at hand.

“So that’s your issue with Jones,” the bartender said. “That punk stole your girl. He’s bad news!”

Everyone at Main Street Tavern agreed, raising their beer-filled mugs in salute. I shrugged, acting as if I was busted, even though I knew my girl left by her own choice a long time ago. “What can I say, I guess I still have a thing for her.”

The second half began, diverting attention back to the screen. I remained until the game ended. Herbie offered me a ride home, but he was sloppy drunk, courtesy of myself, as were most of them. So I called cabs for everyone on my dime. “Hey, you never know if Jones is out there,” I explained.

Once I made sure everyone was safely getting a ride, I autographed a few things for Wally, and in return, he gave me a lift home.

The house was empty. There was a note on the kitchen counter from my mother. It read in matter-of-fact language that she was making funeral arrangements. It was like she was describing a trip to the grocery store-as if by keeping a sense of normalcy, she wouldn’t have to acknowledge the truth.

I was glad she was keeping busy, but knew that one day it would hit her like a ton of bricks. One thing I learned the hard way is that it’s impossible to run away forever. I vowed to be here for her when the storm hit.

Leaving was not what I did, it was what I used to do.