$100,000 and 4 Speeds

Jason Blum

Officer Jon Parker could not wait to get home nor could he not wait to get to the 18 District parking lot. He found an alley running along Rudman Avenue near 53 rd street. He pulled his car to a stop, threw it in park and sobbed like a boy who just lost his father on Christmas. His day would only get worse.
th

******

48 Hours Earlier

Is it true one can be content in life when there are unresolved issues that tear at the soul? Officer Jon Parker was on his way to discovering the answer. After 16 years as a Philadelphia cop and living in rented apartments from the Northeast to University City, he finally bought a one bedroom condo in Northern Liberties or NoLib as the hipster class calls it. Parker just turned 40 and except for the two parties his shift threw him at Surranas, the Irish cop bar, it really was more of a drink fest for his cop pals than a birthday celebration for him. Jon Parker was on his own.

Sixteen years ago he was graduating from Saint Josephs University when a professor of his, actually, a mentor, suggested he apply for the Philly cops. That was not in his plan. He thought he was going to return to Michigan after his five year stint in Philadelphia, degree in hand, and go to work for a little police department outside Ann Arbor, get married, and everyone knows the ending. Marriage, kids, home, weddings, grandkids, pension, retirement home in Minnesota, then death. Nope, that did not happen.

*****

Parker threw the covers off. He slowly awoke at noon and creaked out of bed. 40 years old and no one next to him he thought. Wait, he thought, did I get laid last night? The answer was no, but the thought was nice. He stood up, stretched and took a look around his bedroom. A few pictures on his dresser, but other than that a decorator would think he was formerly homeless. The condo was a place to store temporary beer/food and the occasional love interest. His life was not found in the condo but in his patrol car. Sixteen years had taken its toll on this man who looked more like 50 than 40. He came into the police academy lean and strong. The years of neglect had taken their toll. His support network was slim at best. He fell out of touch with his mom in Michigan. His dad died from cancer when he was in high school. He knew, like everyone else in his small town, that he left for the east coast to flee the pain of losing his dad. By 40 his pain turned to a severe case of guilt that no psychologist was going to fix. First, seeing a police psychologist in 2011 still held the same stigma as it had 40-50 years ago. Second, as taught by far more experienced officers, Doctors Budweiser Miller, and Heineken, along with nurse Xanax would assist his difficult issues. He left his mother with his two younger sisters behind. They would stay in the same house, look at the same pictures, and see dads tools, his lawn mower, his golf clubs, and fishing poles. Parker would not. He would be in Philadelphia. He would be exploring a new life, only returning home when he could not stay away any longer. Its funny how so many memories and thoughts can come to life as you get out of bed after heavy drinking the previous evening and present morning. Parker didnt feel as if he was breaking, he knew he was broke. He spent the past sixteen years living in a city he never fully knew, working in a city he knew only parts of and did not feel the complete sense of brotherhood a badge and gun is supposed to bring. Oh, its true, Jon Parker was a brother on the force, but he lost the title of being a real brother and more importantly, a son.

*****

It was a drive he made at 3:30pm every day for his career. His shift always started at 4:00pm. For 16 years the same starting point. Through five police commissioners, seven captains, and countless lieutenants and sergeants, his shift was and has been 4:00Midnight. Other cops told him repetition was good for the mind and body. What they really meant was that during 4-12 your mind could figure out what bar to go to and your body could enjoy drinking until 6AM. He pulled into the officers parking lot of the 18 th Philadelphia Police District. The 18th covered major parts of west Philadelphia. It was referred to by many adjectives but mostly C-Pool or cesspool for its undeniable filth and relentless poverty. Discussing police strategy in a district like the 18th was like discussing peace between Jews and Arabs, racism, or rye versus whole wheat. No one was going to solve it so why the fuck try. There was an economy on the streets of the 18th that functioned on its own way outside the norms of the pretty Philly suburbs. When you patrolled the 18th as a cop, you were rarely respected, usually not liked, and many times hated. Stereotypes of poor drug dealing blacks degenerate lazy Hispanics, scumbag West Africans and the newly arriving terrorists from Pakistan were all formed after his tenure policing some of the most crime ridden and socially backward areas of the United States. Every class, every racial background, every person walking the streets were all described first by derogatory adjectives. Even if Parker tried to stop judging, his perceptions were so set, he was trapped. Parker worked three other districts prior to coming to the 18 th. All three were just as poor if not third world poor, just as racially polarized, and just as hateful of the cops assigned to the 4-12. This was Philadelphia to Jon Parker. Sure, it maybe Fairmount Park or Kelly Drive in the spring, or maybe Chestnut Hill. Those were nice, cleansing places like dinner on Main Street in Manyunk or a cool pub in Old City where all the tourists went to drink. But Parker spent his life in a Philadelphia most people only sped through to get the hell out. He started thinking that if he found a nice neighborhood to live in, eventually the shit would flow in and inevitably he would move out. He started to believe the shit he saw every day was always trying to find him and always out to fuck up his life. Parker remembered telling another cop, over beers, that he almost felt like he was driving around in a cage for eight hours. He was safe in the car, but once outside, he felt panic. Parker was now seeing his own life in terms of a cage.

******

For some reason calls were light on this Saturday at 6:30PM. No cop ever said that because you would instantly jinx yourself and a full scale Rodney King riot would break out. Parker received a call to go to 52nd and Chancellor Avenue to meet a female party who wanted to make a complaint. Parker pulled up to the corner and found a tiny, young looking black woman, who looked surprisingly healthy. She was actually very pretty. Parker exited his car and was almost shocked at how normal this young woman looked. This is not what young black females look like in this part of the 18th. When Parkers encounters focused on women they were usually extremely aggressive, usually due to severe substance abuse, especially heroin and cheap wine. They were agitated women who could not be dealt with verbally, but only by arrest. They were usually gaunt, malnourished were more like it, and stank of dirty clothes, sweat, stale beer, and semen from a john they just blew. This woman was not the case. Standing in front of Jon Parker was Adnana Watkins of 5135 Chancellor Avenue, Apartment 1. She was 26 years old and completely coherent, calm, and unbelievably polite. A single mother who worked full time at the University of Pennsylvania. Yes, maam, what can I do for you? Sir, I need someone to help me, to help me find my son Michael. Parker saw concern, actual fear, and yes, even a real need for help. This was not the way. Parker was thinking to himself, After lecturing me about why I cant find her boy, she would usually curse me up and down, make a scene and mother fuck me to death only to return to her bottle and her man and get high. They never cared about the kid. They felt a duty to call the cops since social services might investigate. And if the kid was found, social services would take the kid and the state and government check. Officer Parker, Michael went missing three days ago. I called the police that evening and was told it may be best to wait, to give him a chance to come home. I tried to talk to the man but he sounded so busy. I just hung up and went looking myself. Shit, Parker thought. She called the same damn night he did not come home. Thats a first. Ms. Watkins, how old is Michael and when did you last see him?

Hes 13, and I last let him out to play Thursday afternoon. I told him to be home, in the house, at the kitchen table no later than 5:15PM for dinner. She began to cry. Hes only a little boy, he is my only little boy, I need him home, please help me. Parker was watching a visibly shaking mother who saw in front of her the only person who could do a thing to help her. This was not routine any longer. This was not the 18th district mother who expected the police to watch, educate, play with, and do their kids homework. Parker watched as Ms. Watkins tried to calm herself down. I need Michael home. I need him home. She did not scream it for the entire world to hear. She said it softly as if her entire world was crumbling without that little boy. She grabbed Parkers hand, looked up at the 63 man and begged him to help her get her son back.

******

Ms. Watkins gave a statement to Parker and Detective Joanne Russell. Detective Russell was the type of cop who was blessed with good common sense and intense street instinct. She had the highest clearance rate in the district and was the go to detective for gang information and intelligence. Parker saw her as someone who had not lost her drive to fight the violent Latin and Black Street gangs. Parker and many other patrol officers, while never able to admit this in public, knew she was better than they were. She still cared about the victims and had to yet to become jaded enough to constantly question police work and how fruitless their efforts were in the 18th district. Det. Russell was getting up to leave the interview room to confer with Parker when she asked Ms. Watkins to provide a picture of Michael. The two walked across the hall to a private conference room. I cannot fucking believe these assholesit was probably Freeman, fucking Freeman, tells a mother to call back later to see if her kid comes home. You know I ought to kick his black ass. Det. Russell knew police work but she also knew the vocabulary of an angry construction worker. A lot of the male officers would say Russell was at her sexiest when threw around a few F-bombs and motherfuckers. Alright. This is what we got to do. First, Ill get his name and picture into the Missing Child database and the Amber Alert database. Three damn days Parker. That is a tall ass mountain to climb.

What do you think Joanne? I dont know. My gut says hes not a runaway. Unless shes pulling an Angelina Jolie on our asses , she is probably mother of the year for the 18 th district and all of West Philly. No. No. Gang initiation? Thats possible. You know how jaded a parent can get about her baby? Cant do nothing wrong, always loving, kissed his grand mom every night and all that bullshit. Who are you going to work with on this? Det. Russell threw Parker a sly grin and then laughed. Are you for real Parker? This one is on me. They slashed detectives 25% over here. My man Ramirez is gone to the 25th were all those Bloods are shootin up Temple. No way. Im on my own baby. And, I also caught a double last night. Two brothers with Glocks in a shootout with some other stick up boys over a 17 year old girl. It was like Baghdad at the scene. Shell casings everywhere. What the hell, what about Juvenile Squad? Cant they get involved? Look Parker, because I like middle aged white men with protruding stomachs Im going to be honest. Its just me or it can be me and you if you want to get involved. We do not have the numbers. Ive got six open cases ranging from a heroin whore who shot her mother from $15.00 to a Mexican day laborer who was raped by his own people and he aint talking. So, if you want to burn a few calories, get out of the car and start ruffling the neighborhood, because honey, that is the only way this kid gonna come home. Parker looked more wore out than usual. Something resonated with this call. He wanted to help Ms. Watkins but was not sure, even with 16 years on the job, how to do it. Police work for Parker became chasing the radio. Chasing the radio meant just answering the calls that came your way. Not doing anything more than you have to. Just put out the fire so your name never made it to a supervisor for any reason. Detective work was not Jon Parker. Maybe 16 long and lonely years ago it was when he graduated with his degree in Criminal Justice. He remembered the day well. His mentor, former Detective Gary Parmely, pushed him to take the police test. On the day he graduated college he found out he was hired by the Philadelphia Police Department. There were no limits to what Parker could do with his career. He could solve murders, take neighborhoods from drug dealers, and clean up all of Philly. That never happened. By year seven he had finally told his mother and sisters he was a cop and staying in Philadelphia. They never attended his graduation from college or the police academy. They never went out to dinner with his partners like other guys families had done. He drove a police car up and down dirty and shitty streets with no purpose or

sense of desire. He woke up with guilt and went to bed with the guilt of letting his family leave him without a fight. Now, for the first time in several years, a call came in that actually pulled at him, a call that made him seek out Joanne Russell for help and he still could not muster the courage or strength to do anything about it. Both Det. Russell and Officer Parker walked back across the hall to see if Ms. Watkins produced the picture of Michael. Det. Russell exchanged a smile with Ms. Watkins as she leant forward to look at Michael. Russell was a raw bone on the street. Three shootouts and one kill made her a semi legend of Philly toughness. No one person or gang intimidated her. But as she stared at the picture of a happy little boy her hand trembled. She wanted to yell, Oh my motherfucking God, but knew she could not. But that sentiment was written all over her face. Parker looked at the hurt overcoming Russell and immediately leaned over her shoulder to see a beautiful little boy, about half the size of what a 13 year old should be with a smile as wide as JFK Plaza. Only little Michael Watkins was not playing with friends or sitting in the normal school picture poses, he was sitting in a custom made wheelchair. He has cerebral palsy. Parker looked incredulously at the picture and then to Ms. Watkins. This is Michael ? I thought you said he . He could not finish before Ms. Watkins smiled at him with tears just aching to fly out of her eyes. He has had cerebral palsy since he was three. I am so used to him living in a wheelchair that I forget to tell people he is wheelchair bound. He is just so normal that he makes me forget how hard it is to live his life. He has such a smile every day. Will you help me? Please. This little boy is life itself. This was not eight hours and go to the bar any longer. In a matter of a minute, Jon Parker was again shield number 4052, a Philadelphia Police Officer. He looked at Ms. Watkins, felt himself slightly taller, and holding back a cracking voice said, Michael is mine to find, Ms. Watkins.

*****

At 3:15 AM Parker was no closer to finding Michael than he was during the remaining hours of his shift. He thought about going to Sheas Pub for a few beers, maybe round up some help to search for Michael. Was he kidding? They would all be smashed and could probably care less about Michael.

Parker could not go home. His mind was fixated on seeing a smiling, happy boy in the picture his mother provided. What could of happened he kept thinking. Leave the house, run away from home? Come on, he was in a wheelchair for Christ sake. A younger, more energetic man was now taking over. Parker felt different. He felt like a cop again. He had a purpose that he did not have for many years. He was not chasing calls on the radio, he was chasing a child who could not defend himself. Was that not his job when you really boiled it down? Wasnt he the guy responsible for protecting the defenseless ? Where was this little boy? How fast could the goddamn thing go? Was he on I-95, was he stuck somewhere? Did he become so frustrated with his life trapped in a moving seat that he just needed to get away? Parker was up and down Chancellor Avenue. He drove from 40th & Chancellor to 63rd & Chancellor. He checked the alleys, the back lots, the playgrounds, the parks, and the hospitals. By 1100 AM on Sunday, Parker was feeling the pain. He was worn. He needed help. His Captain at the 18th was a good man waiting to retire. He did not like what Parker was doing. Even though Parker told him he would put in for no overtime, he only wanted his patrol car. The Captain gave him one day and that was coming to an end. But he had Sunday and Monday off. He would continue with his own car. But he needed help. Joanne, hi, sorry, I know its Sunday, but , but.. You cant find him can you? No. I cant. What do I do Joanne? What do I tell her? How do I tell her? You mother fucker, was the terse reply. How long have you been a cop in this city? How long? And you dont know how to tell a mother she may never see her son again? You cracker ass asshole. I dont believe you guys. Oh, woes me, the job is so tough, so tough, Im tired Joanne, I need to drink to run away from a job I wanted in the damn first place. You listen to me. If you think you are done and cant do anymore, than do what you washed up assholes always do, quit! Just quit, go to the nice black lady and tell her you gave up after 24 lousy fucking hours. Parker was in shock. Parker wanted a pat on the back from a decorated, well respected detective. What he got was a verbal boot up his ass. You there Parker? I know you are. Look, you do what you think is appropriate but remember that picture because if you give up that picture will remember you for the rest of your damn life. Now call me when you are serious and maybe you could check his

immediate neighborhood. All you white boys think black people hop in a Benz and travel all over the place. Maybe your answer is closer than you think. Bye. Parker looked at his cell phone. He drove over to 53 rd & Chancellor to Ms. Watkins home.

******

Ms. Watkins answered the door of her apartment after one knock. Parker could hear her running to the door. She opened the door with a blank stare that could lead to crying depending upon the words. Parker knew he had to be careful. Ms. Watkins, I am still looking but I could use some additional information. Sure, what can I do? Why did you let him start going around the block by himself? There was a pause between the two. Parker felt this hot wave crawl up his neck. He thought oh god, I just accused her of something. This woman is aching and I She replied quickly with a smile. I saw him in the house one day when I came home from work. You know, he was just sitting in the chair watching TV. He was looking out the window and wanted to know if it was warm out. I hugged him and told him it was a beautiful day. I think I set a spark in him. His wheelchair took us three years to get. It is one of the best for his condition. I looked at my baby and said you need to smell spring. I helped him outside and walked with him around the block. Officer Parker, my baby laughed, smiled, and actually lived. I could not stop him. Going around the block was his freedom. It was his release from that chair. His daddy left us when he knew he could not, no, when he would not be strong enough to care for Michael. We have not seen or heard from him since. Michael said to me once, if I go out, I can find daddy. What could I do Officer Parker?

Dont die dad, I love you. Please dont go. I need you. Please, Please!

Johnny It will be fine. Take care of everyone. Im with you kiddo. You are tough as nails. Youre my son and I will be near you and your sisters forever and ever but you have to accept this.

Parker refocused again. He heard everything Ms. Watkins said, but also heard his own dad in his head. He heard their next to last conversation before he died from cancer. Give me a little more time. I have some ideas. Hang in there. You are not alone in this. Parker grabbed Ms. Watkins hands and gave her the most confident face he could. Is there anyone in the neighborhood who had any kind of relationship with Michael? Ms. Watkins thought how a cop in this neighborhood could be so naive. She was just too polite to correct him or yell at him for such a dumb question. Michael has me Officer Parker. He has me and his chair. No one in this neighborhood has taken him under their wing, helped him, or even noticed him. Its West Philly. He does not sell, use, purchase drugs, so what damn use are they going to have for a handicapped kid? Parker finally heard some strong emotion from a tired, heartbroken woman. This was the first time this genteel, polite woman cursed. Parker felt her breaking, he felt her coming to terms with the unthinkable. He felt that she wanted to lash out at a callous uncaring neighborhood that didnt do a damn thing to help her find her boy. I told you I would return him home. I am going back to find Michael. She hugged him, stepped back, and shut the door.

******

It was late Sunday evening. All the training, all the patrolling, all the days he wore a badge meant nothing. Parker pulled over near Chancy Avenue & 45th. He rubbed tired eyes and thought. Im useless. All these years of pretending and its finally hit home. I dont

know what to do. I can look tough driving around in a police car but what the fuck does it matter when I cant do anything when it matters. He thought of Michigan and his mother. Shit, Im just a fucking lost as Michael Watkins. His cell phone rang. It was Joanne Russell. Hey, whats up Joanne? Youre still out looking huh? I checked every part of this district. I cannot figure it out. Who did you talk to? Parker could not answer. He could not answer because in all of 16 years he only stared at what many officers termed, them or shittums. These were the Nigerians, the Dominicans of the new 18th district. But Parker never took the time to reach out to learn his territory. He sighed. No one. Fucking right no one. What in the hell have you been doing for the past six years? I know, I know, just driving around, waiting for midnight and going to get your fun on at your lily white Irish bars in Fishtown. Alright, alright. In an hour go to 46 th and Cheney. Pick up a brother go by Old Top. He knows the 18th better than any brother out there. Let him school you. Your time is up Parker. I hope you didnt make no promises to that woman. Joanne hung up. Parker was in plain clothes. He was in his own car. He wanted this to be an achievement. He wanted his pride back. He opened up his wallet and stared at his badge. All he could do was shake his head.

******

Old Top was his street name. He lived in West Philadelphia for all of his 52 years. If anyone were in West Philly, Old Top knew. He was a short skinny black man wearing a red sweat suit and a Phillies cap. He climbed into Parkers car and began the conversation. My secret angel tells me you need some assistance finding a kid in a wheelchair that left his mama. Old Top made some inquiries and you looking for some corner boys about two blocks from that boys house on Chancellor.

You got names? Damn officer you got to do some work. She told me you lost the feel a long time ago. Go down Jefferson. You get answers down there. But you need to know, you dont intimidate this new bunch. They aint got no soul these boys. I dont know what happened to the boy in the chair but they will. Now I got to get. What can I give you? Man, this is a favor for my sweet guardian angel. She saved my ass too many times. Find the boy, make it right. Just as fast as he got in, Old Top got out and was down the street.

******

I need to go Ma. I need to leave for a while. Ill be back and you can come to Philadelphia to visit. It will be good for everyone.

It was never good for Parker. Coming to Philly was the escape, the way out, the exit from a terrible wound that distance would never heal. He felt like little Michael Watkins but the difference was Michael smiled and wanted to explore and be free. Parker could be free but was chained to a career he sucked at because he found every way and every excuse to not care. Michael Watkins finally made him care again.

It was now almost midnight and Monday was here. This would be day five Michael had been reported missing. Up to this point, as far as he knew, he was the only officer looking actively for the boy. He drove two blocks over from Michaels home and pulled curbside at 3675 Lexter Avenue. He shut the engine off and observed the activity. Loud cursing, shouting, and several cars with white kids, probably from outside Philly coming to snag crack drove up to the corner. Parker sat in his car all night and morning just watching. He wanted to know who he was going to be confronting soon. The corner boys were selling all morning and would be tired. They would not, Parker thought, be ready for him. Shit, the truth of the matter was Parker wasnt sure what he was going to do. He needed a partner, he needed

Joanne. But this was her version of tough love. It 634 AM. Parker was nodding off uncontrollably. He was never a detective, never worked surveillance and this was not what his out of shape body was used to be doing. A blue Ford Econoline pulled up in front of 3688 Lexter. The van double parked and two white guys got out. They approached three black kids. No greetings, just quick talk with constant head turns like they were looking for who else, a guy like Parker. The two white guys walked back to the van, got in and drove slowly past Parker. Parker slumped down and looked into his side mirror. The van made a right. Parker saw the three black kids went into the row house. This was the chance. He wanted to follow the van. Parker turned around, and followed the van. He saw the van pull down Alley 362. The van pulled behind the approximate spot of the row house. The three black kids came out and took a tarp off of an object Parker could not really see. The two white guys got out and watched as one of the kids, laughing and screaming got into a wheelchair, and started steering it up and down the alley. Parker got that hot tingle up his neck. That was Michaels chair. Parker was overcome with his own panic. I got em, I know it. I cant do it myself, I need back up. He got out his cell phone, called 911 and told them an off duty officer needed immediate assistance in the rear alley behind 362 Lexter. Dispatch stated units were responding 10-12 or immediately with lights/sirens. Parker was smiling. He pulled out his Glock 17 service weapon, checked to make sure a round was chambered. He then prayed to the Lord little Michael Watkins would be brought out. He wasnt.

******

Most of the day shift officers arrived after hearing a fellow officer call for assistance. Parker arrested two black males at gunpoint. The other black male, about 17 years old ran west down the alley, and was eventually caught by responding officers. The two white males were Russians who worked out of a garage in Northeast Philadelphia. The detectives who responded told Parker the Russians were claiming they could not speak English. An interpreter would take about an hour to get to 18th district interview. Detective Hakeem Smith figured out the caper as soon as he saw the wheelchair. Wheelchairs are expensive, especially the model Michael Watkins had been

using. Corner kids are told by their lieutenants or in this case the 16 and 17 year olds are told by criminal middle management or the 19 year old thugs to keep an eye out for motorized wheel chairs that old ladies and men ride in. They beat up the victim, take the chair, and fence it with the Russians who black market it for an automatic big profit. Middle management gets a piece and the corner boys get crack to sell for their troubles. As Smith put it, Just another no soul scam by heartless brothers in West Philly. Parker listened with just enough attention to be polite. He wanted in the beat up walk up the corner boys were staying in. After the scene calmed down, he ran into the building. It smelled of decades old piss and shit from humans and animals. Mattresses were on the floor sharing space with coffee mug size roaches. Parker did not know if that was even Michaels wheelchair and as of that moment Parker caused a huge stir for a few cheap arrests considering all the other bullshit that was going on in the 18 th district. If Michael were found that would mean a whole new set of federal charges and Michael would be safe and back with his mother. That was the scenario that played out in rookie detectives who didnt know any better. Parker was no rookie but he also never was as involved in rescuing a life as he were now. He only found needles, food wrappers, cheap liquor, condoms, mostly used, and a few bags of old clothes. He went up the stairs and turned to his right to a more lived in room. There was only one mattress on the floor, food in a corner, a small flat screen TV rigged up to a cable outside the window. He drew his Glock, and quickly opened a closet door. His palms were sweating and he was scared he was going to drop the handgun if he was startled. His mind was pleading with his eyes to see Michael Watkins tied up in the closet. Parker lowered his gun and pulled out a bag of clothes. They smelled of shit but they were newer clothes. For the cop who gave up on his career and lost his sense of purpose, something in his mind was clicking. Parker heard Detective Smith yell up to see if the second floor was clear. While Parker had not checked the other room, he told Smith to come up. Smith and Joanne Russell used to be partners. The two together could probably find Jack the Ripper in a day and have a signed confession the following night. They were that good. Smith knew the situation and knew Parker was another in a long line of cops with talent wasted. But he also knew there would always be that one case, that one call that would mean everything. This was it. Finding Michael Watkins was now a mission for Parker. Smith walked down the narrow hallway into the second room. In it was more than shit stained clothes and food.

Three handguns with serial numbers etched off, two small rocks of crack, and a one of those flip video cameras you can pick up cheap at Best Buy. Yo, Parker get in here. Right here is the kill shot my friend. Smith knew the culture of young corner boys. Everything had to be recorded to prove their bona fides and especially their manhood. This was better than a taped confession if it had anything good. Smith turned the video and sound on. The first video was of a young black kid, definitely one of the ones arrested screwing a girl while some other kid was making obscene commentary. That video ended and then Parker saw Michael for the first time. The view was taken of Michael in his wheelchair going around his block. It was hard to make out his face, but Parker knew. There was no audio, just video of Michael in his chair. The next video was the kill shot. Both men watched as one black male, identified as one of the ones arrested was pictured watching Michael come up their street. The other, taking the video was also giving great play by play analysis. Yo boy, its that fucked up kid we seen the other day. Oh, shit, you right. Yo, look at the chair boy, that motherfucker need to be told to Foo Boo. Thats what he and those white dudes want. Yo, he comin up the block. Go get the chair yo!! Nah, nigga, you get the chair. Michael was plainly seen with a big bright smile loving freedom and life as he moved up the block completely oblivious as to the predators watching. Yo, fuck that, go get the chair D, aint nobody around. Dump that gimps ass out of the chair and wheel it to the alley. The video showed a boy named only as D run across the street, tip the wheelchair with Michael still strapped into the seat. D could be heard and viewed yelling across the street to his video man. What do I do? The boy stuck in the chair. Smith and Parker could only hear each other breathe. Smith had seen the worst brutality humans could inflict on each other, and he was in complete awe. But the worst was yet to come.

The boy with the camera ran into the apartment they were in, leaving the camera on, they watched as he ran into the room they were standing in. He pulled out a small handgun. He ran back outside, across the street, and without a seconds hesitation, shot Michael Watkins in the head one time. They ripped apart his harness and a limp boy fell from his chair onto the sidewalk. Take him into the room. The boy who tipped the chair dragged Michaels body back to the row house. In a display that only evil could orchestrate, the shooter got into the wheelchair with the camera on and started to move up the sidewalk in the same direction Michael was going. He was heard by Parker and Smith laughing and a chest level video was seen of the upcoming sidewalk. Yo D, this chair is bad. It must be worth $100,000 and got four speeds. We gonna make some green on this. After five minutes more Smith shut the camera off and walked out of the room.

******

The rest of the day and afternoon were taken up with reams of paperwork. The administrative process of a homicide was not a simple case file as seen on Law & Order. The boys, Julius Simpson, 16, Omar Adkins, 15, and the shooter, Terrence Guiney, 17, were all charged with murder among multiple other offenses. Michael Watkins was found naked in an old shed in the alley. He was naked because Omar Adkins wanted his Philadelphia Eagles jersey and sweatpants. When he found that out that Michael, probably out of complete terror, soiled his pants, Adkins put the clothes in a bag in a closet where Parker found them. The three were completely forthcoming in their confession in the murder of Michael. They just could not figure out why he didnt beg for his life like the rest did.

******

Jon Parker was told to go home by Captain Heller. Parker was in a no mans land of sorts. This was not the end of one of his routine shifts. He witnessed the murder of a little helpless boy whose only fault in life was that he owned an expensive wheelchair. He began to drive home. As he drove he felt nauseous and had to pull over. He put the car in park and felt the urge to wretch. He then began sobbing like he had never done in his life. He fell out of his car onto the roadway. He sat next to the drivers side door and could not stop the hurt, anger, and violent hatred of what was done to Michael Watkins. Saying Michaels name over and over, a car stopped to see if he needed help. He waved about four cars away when ultimately a Philly police cruiser stopped. He looked at the cop he had only seen in passing and hugged without judgment. Im sorry, Im sorry. The officer followed him home. Jon Parkers career with the Philadelphia Police Department ended that night.

*******

Two months later

He could not go in. He was gripped by fear. This may be one of the most difficult meetings he would ever make but he knew it must be done. He walked under a pretty white archway along a sidewalk surrounded by lilies and daffodils. The grave was about 100 feet ahead of him but each step was more difficult than the next. When he reached his destination he stood as straight as he could but his emotions gave way and he fell to his knees. His hands covered his eyes as he wept. He looked at the grave marker and felt a hand on each of his shoulders. The marker read Steven Jon Parker, Beloved Father, Devoted Son, Husband and Brother. Jons father had been buried at Holyfield Cemetery in Willis, Michigan when he was just a teenager. This was his first visit to see his dad. Behind him were his mother and two sisters. Jon was home for good.