** Author's Note: A big tip o' the hat to Gene once again. This story is his, not mine.
When Ponch had dropped the bit of advice to him, Bruce honestly hadn't known whether to really believe him or not. "Look, all you have to do is say, 'Pull over! You just went through a red light! Give me your license and registration!'"
Bruce had suspiciously noted the sparkles in his partner's eyes. "That's not what YOU say."
"Yeah, but I don't look like I'm sixteen years old, either," Ponch replied. "And since I've got a court date this afternoon, you're going to be out there all by yourself in the big, bad world! I need to make sure you're prepared!"
"That's very touching, Ponch," he had chuckled as the traffic light flickered to green and they pulled out onto Vernon Avenue in unison.
"Hey, are you kidding? I just want to keep you in one piece. God forbid I should have to switch partners AGAIN..."
Bruce reflected on the conversation with a shake of his head as he swung off his motorcycle and slowly approached the black Mercedes idling in the emergency lane. The window was rolled tightly, the sun reflecting off the glass with a blinding shimmer. He rapped his knuckles against it and began to speak as it slowly cranked down. "I'm sorry, but you just went through a red light. Could I see your license, please?"
So much for being rude. Jeez, Bruce, you don't sound like a cop; you sound like a doofus reading something off of a card.
"Look," the driver snapped with a practiced eyebrow arch, "Don't ruin my day just because you have a quota, all right? The light was just changing." He was a young man, early twenties maybe, straight black hair, struggling mustache.
Later, Bruce would figure that this was where he should have cracked down. But what had he done? Smiled, and said: "I'm sorry, sir, but I had you in view the entire time, and you had plenty of room to stop safely."
The man bristled with annoyance. "And have the rest of the traffic crash into me?"
He has a point...
"There's such a thing as common sense, officer! Or, am I expecting too much from you cops these days?"
Bruce idly noted the snowball picking up speed. "Let me see your license, sir."
"Why?"
"So I can write your summons."
"A-- a summons? A summons?!"
Several people who had been walking nearby paused to watch the motorist get harpooned by the cop. They waited with patient curiosity, enjoying the free entertainment.
"Sir," Bruce sighed, "Any time anyone is driving a car, I can request the license. It is a state law."
"And I am not going to..." the driver of the vehicle started to say when Bruce, with one impulsive motion, reached inside the car, shut off the motor and withdrew with keys in hand. "Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" the man screamed up at him.
The snowball was well on its way!
"Sir," Bruce warned, "I want to see your driver's license. If you don't show it to me in the next five seconds, I'm placing you under arrest."
"You do and that will be the end of your career!"
Without looking away from the driver, Bruce could feel the eyes of the bystanders boring into him. Well, he couldn't very well back down now.
"A summons is issued in lieu of an arrest," he said evenly. "I've warned you once. Give me your license."
Suddenly, inexplicably, the driver started to chuckle, shaking his head. Was he enjoying this? "Go ahead, Officer," he sneered. "Arrest me. Come on, I'd love it. Just so long as you hang around long enough to meet my father. You have no idea who I am, do you? When my father finds out about..."
Just a bag of wind. "I'm not interested in who you are," said Bruce. He was becoming impatient and annoyed. "I'm interested in giving you a summons. Since we're three blocks away from the stationhouse, you know what's going to happen? You're going to drive yourself there, and I'm going to follow you."
"Are you crazy? I most certainly will not!"
"Look, you're not going anywhere else until I see your license! Now, if you don't want to drive, that's fine with me. I'll be more than happy to call a cruiser and send you there in handcuffs if you think you'd like that better."
By now there were five or six pedestrians waiting for the ax to come crashing down.
The driver coughed and sputtered like a dying engine, then clamped down his jaw and extended his hand for the keys.
"You know the way to the station?"
"Yes, I think I do, thank you."
"And you wouldn't think of running off now, would you?"
The man started to laugh again, and Bruce dropped the keys into his lap without comment. Regaining control of himself, the driver looked up at the officer. "If it's money you're looking for, you've stopped the wrong person."
This was the first but not the last time that Bruce had the urge to knock the man cold. Swallowing the need, he stalked back to his motor and followed the man into the parking lot of the stationhouse. Once there, the driver bounced out of his car and straightened his collar. "Well, this should be fun," he said, strutting off toward the front doors.
Inside, the young man lost no time in registering his complaint with the desk lieutenant. "Hey, ah, captain or whoever, I would like to register a complaint against this officer of yours. My family contributes generously to the E.A.P. or whatever it's called and this--"
"Just a minute, please," said the lieutenant, glancing at Bruce.
"I insist on filing a complaint," the driver continued. "Don't give me any trouble or I'll have your badge!"
"Hey!" The lieutenant leaned forward, a hammer in his voice. "I told you to wait, and I meant it! Now, Officer Nelson, what is the problem?"
"He ran a light."
"I did not!"
"Didn't I ask you to be quiet?"
"He refused to show me his license."
"This officer was--"
"Shut up!" barked the lieutenant, slamming a meaty fist down onto the desk. "This officer has a right to see your license."
"You want to arrest me?" shouted the young man, leaning forward. "Well go ahead! Go ahead and try! I hope you haven't forgotten how to drive an ice cream truck, because--"
The lieutenant sprang up. "One more comment like that and you can forget arrest; I'll punch you between the eyes right here!"
The driver sneered, but remained mute.
Running a hand down his face, the lieutenant motioned Bruce off to the side. "You've picked yourself up a real winner here," he whispered. "Any talk of money with him?"
"Of course not!"
"Good; lock him up." As an afterthought: "You didn't catch a crowd, didja?"
"Maybe a few people."
"Make it ten. Then we've got the red light, the license..." He was ticking them off on his fingers. "And disorderly conduct." The lieutenant glanced over at the driver, who was shaking his head with a wry smile at the justice being played out before him. "You do know you're under arrest, right?" the lieutenant asked, raising his voice.
Bruce saw a incredulous look pass over the young man's face. Maybe THAT moment would have been the time to see if he'd accept the summons.
"What's your name?" asked the lieutenant as he flipped open a record book on the desk.
"I-- I can't believe this!"
"Your name?"
"Do you know who I am?"
"Are you going to tell me your name?"
"No!"
"Okay," said the lieutenant. "You are now Jingle Bells." He proceeded to write that name in the records. As the lieutenant continued to ask questions, the driver remained silent, his eyes flicking about like a caged animal seeking escape. After a time, the lieutenant looked over at Bruce. "Okay, Officer, go ahead and search him."
"You will not!" yelled the young man angrily. "I'm not a common criminal!"
"What you are is under arrest," the lieutenant told him, "And we're going to search you like we do everyone who goes under arrest. You'll be allowed a phone call, also."
"This is a trick to find out my name."
"I already know your name, Jingle." To Bruce he said, "Officer, you have the authority to use whatever force is necessary to search the prisoner." Turning back to the young man he continued, "Unless, of course, you would like to cooperate. Just put whatever you've got on the desk, all right?"
The driver hesitated, then emptied his pockets. A wallet, keys, two bubble gum wrappers. Running his hands quickly over the driver's body to look for hidden weapons, Bruce tried not to notice the trembles he felt in the young man's muscles. "He's clean."
The lieutenant shrugged at the driver. "See? It's no big deal... try not to make a federal case out of it." He gestured at a nearby phone. "Go ahead and call whoever you'd like."
The young man only made one call-- struggling to keep the authority in his voice, he pressed the phone tightly to his ear and used his other hand to block any view of his face as he spoke to "Daddy." Finally, he extended the receiver to Bruce. "He wants to talk to you."
Gingerly, Bruce took the proffered phone and quickly related the situation to the person on the other end. "I apologize that things went this far, but I had no choice." He braced himself for a verbal blast.
The deep, older voice that replied to him was surprisingly quiet. "Of course, Officer," it said reassuringly. "I understand. Of course."
Bruce handed the phone back to the young man wordlessly, who had a few more private words to exchange with his father before hanging up. "You might be interested to know that my father is contacting our family's lawyers."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," the lieutenant shrugged. "Officer Nelson, go ahead and put him in the holding cells until transportation gets here."
It was shortly after this that all hell broke loose.
The young man walked along beside Bruce willingly, almost hyperventilating, his gaze directed at the floor. Any pretenses of grandeur had vanished. Bruce watched him with some concern. Maybe I should say something to him... he's a jerk, but still...
Unexpectedly, the man stopped in the center of the hall, not lifting his eyes. Taking his arm, Bruce gave him a gentle tug. The man remained rooted to the spot, his breathing audible. Bruce tugged harder. NOW what's his problem?
Abruptly, the young man turned and tried to push past Bruce, aiming for the front of the station. Bruce instinctively grabbed him in a bear hug, and as the man flailed in panic, his right elbow caught Bruce a blow on the side of the mouth. Bruce twisted the panicked driver around and locked his arms tight from behind. "Hey!" he yelled ahead to the policeman assigned to the detention cells. "Get that door open!"
Squirming, the young man grunted and dealt Bruce a solid kick in the shin with his heel. Sucking in a sharp breath of pain, Bruce released his hold; again, the driver sprinted for the lobby. Bruce lunged forward and snagged him once more. Boy, this is just like some of the knock-down drag-outs Bobby and I used to have. For just a moment he wondered why such a thought would have popped into his mind at such a moment, but pushed it away for future musings. Wrestling with the young man, they both went down to the floor.
In a world of panic, the driver began to swing hysterically at Bruce, who was amazed at the sudden display of strength. Forgetting his inhibitions, he fought back just as hard. Within seconds, both the lieutenant and the cop from the detention cells had joined him in the fray. Punches were flying left and right yet still, the young man was a swinging, twisting, biting match for them all.
The battle raged for a good five minutes before they were able to subdue the prisoner. When it was over, the room looked as though it had been struck by a very localized earthquake-- chairs were toppled, a table sat cockeyed on three legs, papers scattered across the floor like snow. Bruce's uniform was dirty and torn; he could feel a bruise forming under his left eye. The lieutenant nursed his sore hand, muttering curses under his breath.
As could be expected, however, it was the young driver who had suffered the most. They had shoved him into a chair and handcuffed him securely. His clothes were a ripped, tangled mess hanging off of his narrow frame; one eye was swollen and blood leaked from his nose into his sparse mustache. His breaths were nearly as ragged as his clothing. Bruce wanted to say something to him, but there was distance in his eyes-- great distance.
"You'd better get him to Valley," the lieutenant told Bruce. "He's nuts."
The young man moaned, leaning forward as if to stand. The three police officers watched him warily. "You can't do this to me," he muttered.
"All you had to do was show me your license!"
The driver was oblivious. "You just wait," he gasped, and his chin began to tremble like that of an abandoned child. "You just wait until... until my father..."
The ambulance had arrived quickly, and Bruce escorted it to the psychiatric observation ward of Valley General. Once there, Bruce waited on a bench outside as the doctors went to work. Half an hour later, one of the doctors approached and Bruce stood. "Did he say anything, doctor? Do you have any idea what happened?"
The doctor nodded. "I think I do."
"What happened? We didn't--"
"He seems to have claustrophobia," the doctor cut in.
Bruce's eyes widened. "Why didn't he say so?"
"He didn't know; not until he saw the cells. He knew he couldn't go in, but he didn't know why."
When Bruce returned to the stationhouse and explained what had happened, the lieutenant shrugged. "You don't have anything to worry about. You're covered; you did everything exactly by the book. Just put it out of your mind."
Put it out of my mind.
It brought into his mind a conversation he had overhead weeks earlier, between two Los Angeles police detectives. "That guy who just jumped off the roof," said one of the detectives. "Should we investigate that, or go get some lunch first?"
"Six of one, a half a dozen of the other," was the answer.