Devin Fussa

3/10/15
Mr. King
Period 1
I silently looked over the files from the case. I opened the drawer, and began
to put the papers away. I stopped. Those memories still haunt me and I know they always
will. My name is Alec Coleman. This is my story.
Born in 1948, I had grown up in New York. The descendant of Irish-American
immigrants, I had a slight accent and reddish hair. My mother had raised me on her own; my
father had left when I was just a boy. My mother preferred not to talk about him, and so I
never asked. We lived in decent sized house and while we never had a ton of money, we
always got by. Over the years, I grew up. I went through school, sports, and friends like any
other kid. By the time I was nearing the end of grade school, I had begun to search for a real
job. I eventually decided to enter the citys police academy.
One winter day, I returned home from work to discover my mother was nowhere to
be found. I called the neighbors and was eventually told she had been rushed to the hospital. I
took her car and drove to the local hospital as fast as possible. When I arrived, the doctors
informed me my mother had had a heart attack. She had barely had time to call the
ambulance. The doctors did the best they could, but she was already in a bad condition. After
about an hour, she passed away. I said my partings as she lay at her deathbed. Following her
passing, I didnt leave my house for a week. My neighbors and relative gave me time and
peace. The winter winds felt colder than ever that year.
It took me a while, but I eventually recovered from my loss. My life moved on, and
the years went by. I continued my work for the NYPD and soon became an official officer. A
man now, I had bought my own house, my own car, and had a promising career. By the time I
had turned 24, the year was 1972 and mobsters were the most common problem for us police.

Devin Fussa

3/10/15
Mr. King
Period 1
The movement of illegal substances and participation in other dangerous activities caused an
issue for the general public. I had been labeled as a talented officer, and was more than
willing to prove myself when I heard of an upcoming opportunity. A trusted informant had
tipped the NYPD of a shipment of illegal drugs to a nearby port. The group moving the goods
was a notorious Irish-American gang known for their illegal alcohol trading and their
constant fighting with the Italian mob. Our police chief, Harrison OConnell, quickly
prepared a large team to catch the mobsters and secure the goods. I, of course, was selected.
The raid was to be one of my first real experiences as an officer.
About a day before the raid took place, OConnell invited me to his office. Alec,
take a seat, he said. He proceeded to inform me that I was unable to participate in the raid.
No excuses; just that it was too dangerous. I pressed for answers and received nothing.
Dangerous is an interesting word. And it was not one I wanted to hear. His answer wasnt
good enough for me. I left for the port the same night.
It was late, about two oclock in the morning. A sheet of darkness blanketed the port.
The area was void of noise, save the few boats that had been tied down and were gently
bumping the decks. A slight rain poured down from the sky. It was a massive harbor, used for
moving imports and exports in and out of the city. To me, coming to the docks had been a
great way to learn any extra information and in turn, prove myself to OConnell. I crept along
the docks of the port until I saw a light shining from inside the old warehouse near the harbor.
The warehouse had been abandoned years ago; now it was only home to some birds and
empty cargo. But still, I had seen a light. I crept closer to the large building, pressing my ear
against the outside walls. I pulled my gun out in anticipation but it was not needed. A swift

Devin Fussa

3/10/15
Mr. King
Period 1
punch to my head knocked me out almost immediately. The last thing I remember was my
attacker dragging me into the warehouse.
I awoke like a bear would from hibernation; slow and lethargic. My eyes adjusted to
the light and I groaned in pain. Blood was slowly dripping from where I had been struck on
the head. My hands and feet had been bound to a wooden pole with rope, and I was unable to
move. I struggled to free myself, but found my arms were tied in an outward position and I
couldnt muster the strength. I glanced around the empty room I was in. I soon realized I was
in part of the warehouse; I could see the rest of the harbor from the distance through a
window. It must have been morning because the sun was out and I could see it was still
raining gently. I seemed to be above the first floor. Some boats were moving in and out, and
so I started to call for help through the glass. Surprisingly, my calls had an answer. Hello
Alec, came a deep voice. It seemed to be having a hint of an Irish accent. They cant hear
you, said the voice from behind me. Youre too far away. I strained to see my captor, but
to no avail. I was stuck. My captor proceeded to prod me with questions, ranging from Who
sent you to How much do you know. I informed my unknown assailant that I knew very
little, and simply wanted to investigate. I finished my so-called interview and was relieved
when the strange voice said he believed me. I heard more shuffling from behind me and my
kidnapper emerged from the shadows. He was a middle-aged man, with red hair, and who
seemed to stand about six feet tall. A small scar ran under near his right jawbone. He was an
imposing figure, to say the least.
He began to talk to me and mentioned his affiliation with the Irish-American mob we
had been trying to follow. The mob! How could I have forgotten? Any hour now, the NYPD

Devin Fussa

3/10/15
Mr. King
Period 1
was going to raid the harbor. I had to get out of danger. I snapped back to the conversation.
The man was still talking, mostly about his large involvement in the mob and how he rose to
power. He stared into the distance as he spoke. Suddenly, the expression on his face changed.
He stared right at me and said, But why am I telling you all of this? He answered his own
question. Because my name is Brutus Coleman. You are my son.
My heart almost leapt out of my chest. How could this man, whom I had never met,
be my father? I almost laughed out loud. This man was crazy. He was an infamous mobster! I
had absolutely no reason to trust him. Yet still, I wanted to listen to what he had to say. He
continued to talk. He continued to explain how my mother had wanted him away from me.
She had thought he and the people he worked with were too dangerous to be around a child.
He had respected her wishes and left. My mind screamed that this man was lying but I knew
he wasnt. Somehow, I knew. Brutus ordered one of his men to come and cut the rope that
held my hands together. I never wanted to leave you, Brutus continued. I kept watch over
you for many years, but it still wasnt enough. I was never able to truly meet my son. He
continued to recount details of my past only someone very close to me would know, as proof
of his identity. He talked of how I had grown up and of my mother. He addressed me again.
Our meeting seems to be a sign. So I ask you now, will you join me? The rain picked up in
noise, as I grew quiet. My first reaction was to say no. I barely knew this man. But at the
same time, I wanted to say yes. This stranger might be my father! Brutus could see my
indecision. You know OConnell knew the truth? He simply chose not to tell you. Brutus
words hit me hard. There was a deeper reason than danger than not being allowed on the

Devin Fussa

3/10/15
Mr. King
Period 1
raid. OConnell had known of my father and had done nothing! He could have told me! Just
as I was about to make up my mind, gunshots rang from inside the warehouse.
The police raid must have begun. Somehow, they had found the warehouse. Gunshots
rang from outside the room like thunder; Brutus grabbed me and told me to follow him. We
ran down the stairs and across the warehouse floor to a different room (which appeared to be
some kind of office). As we ran by, I caught glimpse of what was happening. The mobsters
had opened fire on a group of policemen who had entered the building. What ensued seemed
like a small battle. Both the police and mobsters took turns firing rounds into the opposition.
We reached the room and Brutus opened the door. He gestured for me to enter the room. As I
did, he closed the door and locked it from the outside. Surprised and angry, I turned around
and hit the door. He mouthed some words to me through the doors window. He said
something that looked like, Stay put, Ill be back. I tried to open the door but it wouldnt
budge. As I saw him run towards the fight, I searched for something to help me escape the
room. I knew he had put me here for safety reasons, but I still had to escape. I couldnt sit
here while my father and my friends shot at each other. After spending time looking for
something of use, I gave up and tried to slam into the door. That too, failed miserably. After
what seemed like an eternity of listening to the gunshots, I glimpsed OConnell run by the
door. His eyes connected with mine, and his face changed to an expression of pure surprise.
He sprinted over to the door and proceeded to enter the room. I quickly informed him of my
situation and he told me to follow him. Just as I was about to tell him I wanted to stay,
another figure entered and closed the door behind him. It was Brutus. He pointed his gun at
OConnell and forced him to drop his weapon. As soon as OConnell was disarmed, Brutus

Devin Fussa

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Mr. King
Period 1
placed his gun on the ground and slid it towards me. I was now the only armed man in the
room, stuck between two enemies. I stared at him blankly, confused. Well? he said. Will
you join me? I realized what he meant. The steel of the gun felt cold against my hands. He
was giving me a choice. His smile reached both corners of his face; like a hungry shark
watching a school of fish. On one side of the room stood my father and on the other side
stood a liar. I pointed the gun at OConnells head. But then I thought about it. OConnell had
lied to protect me from the truth. My father had talked of how he had wanted to be with me,
but where had he been when my mother had died? My father was the liar. He was a criminal.
I knew what my mother would have wanted. There was a reason she had made him leave. I
put the gun down. Brutus face expression changed like a mask. He growled and in a sudden
fit of rage, rushed towards me and punched me in the face. He pulled a knife out of his
pocket and charged forward. I stumbled over, and began to fade out of consciousness. Before
I blacked out, I graded the gun next to me, and shot my father in the shoulder.
I was told afterwards that the police secured most of the mobsters and their goods. I
had been helped to safety by OConnell. My father was to be tried for his crimes and would
most likely spend the rest of his life in jail. I was to be promoted and given an award for my
bravery. To this day I remain in the NYPD.
As I put the file away, I stopped and thought. After a couple seconds, I placed the file
back into the drawer. I locked it this time.