I rolled to the other side of the bed trying desperately to block a sharp noise. Every few seconds the noise emerged again and I placed a pillow over my head. I opened my eyes and looked at the time: 7:34 a.m.
I removed the pillow and realized the noise was the ringing of the telephone. Who could be calling me this early in the morning? I don’t get up until almost eight. My voice mail should have picked it up by now. I waited, but the ringing started again. Why did this person continue calling me?
Annoyed, I answered it. “Jon Rupret.”
“Jon, sorry to wake you up so early…”
“Roberta?” I said. “It’s 7:30 in the morning. I’ve just lost twenty minutes of my beauty sleep.”
“I know…”
“Is everything okay?”
“The sergeant left me a note to tell you to come to headquarters early today.”
“Early? What for? I didn’t do anything, Roberta. I swear. They always blame the black guy.”
“Don’t get paranoid. It must be a shift change or someone called in sick. I don’t know. Just come in early.”
“How early are we talking about?”
“Jon, now!” she nearly yelled.
I hung up and sat silently.
This wasn’t right. Not that I haven’t been called at inappropriate times to fill in for a colleague before. But I had a bad feeling.
I changed into my uniform, ate my favourite chocolate cereal, said my morning goodbyes to Michael Jordan, and left to pick up my car, all in less then my usual time.
I drove to the department, which took almost twenty-five minutes because of the morning rush.
“Thank goodness,” Roberta said, seeing me come through the doors. “You’re late of course.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I smiled.
“The sergeant is waiting impatiently.”
What did he say?” I inquired.
He said, ‘Wake Jon up and tell him to come to the department right away and see me first.’”
“Did he say that while he was smiling?”
He seemed happy.”
“That can’t be good,” I said to myself.
“Jonny, go,” she said, pointing in the direction of the sergeant’s office.
“Do you think I should buy him some roses?”
“Go.”
“How about dandelions?”
“Jonny!”
“All right.”
The door to Sergeant Motley’s office was open and I found him reading a piece of paper.
I tapped at the door and said, “Sir.”
He instantly got up. “Jon, come in.” He walked over and slapped me on the back as if we were good friends. “Have a seat.”
I sat.
Motley went around and sat behind his desk. He smiled broadly. He was beaming, in fact. “How long have we known each other?”
“A year and a half, I think,” I said.
“That long, wow,” he said as if he was pondering over the date. “Jon, let me first say that I’ve always enjoyed having you work under me. Always.” He paused. “In fact, it’s been a privilege. That is why it is with great sadness that I have to see you leave.”
“Leave?” I was shocked. “I’m being fired?” My mind suddenly jolted to our union, the Toronto Police Association.
“Not fired,” he said waving his hands. “Transferred.”
“Where?”
Motley went silent. His face turned grave.
He slid the lone piece of paper in front of me. Without touching it, as if it might bite me, I scanned it.
“Drug squad!” I shrieked. My voice was so loud I bet the whole department heard it. “I’m being assigned to the Central Field Command Drug Squad?” I asked, still not sure if this was happening.
He nodded.
“You can’t do this,” I said.
“Take it easy, Jon,” he said. “It can’t be all that bad.”
I gave him a hard look and Motley went silent again.
Almost a year ago, when I was in my fifth month as a PEO and new to the department, I was given the night shift. I was very naive. One night on patrol, I saw two vehicles in a supermarket’s parking lot. There were three people in one vehicle with two sitting in front and one in the back. The other vehicle was unoccupied. I had a feeling something wasn’t right. I drove up in my marked cruiser and parked right behind the occupied vehicle. I got out.
My radio crackled but I turned it down. It was rattling my nerves. I pulled out my flashlight and approached the driver.
I flashed my light into the driver’s window and motioned him to roll it down. Reluctantly, he did. He was Hispanic with a heavy moustache.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I said as I flashed the other two passengers: one white, the other black.
“May I ask what you gentlemen are doing here?” I said. My radio crackled again, but I ignored it.
“Just talking, officer,” the Hispanic driver said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”
I smiled. “Of course not, sir.”
“Do you want to check my driver’s license?” the driver said, offering it to me.
I flashed the passengers again.
The other two were getting nervous. But the Hispanic driver calmly offered me his driver’s license again, “Go ahead, officer. Check it out.”
I said, “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Just checking to make sure you guys aren’t dealing any drugs.”
As I finished the last sentence the two passengers bolted.
Within seconds I was surrounded by police cruisers and unmarked cars. Two cruisers cut off the other car.
“What the hell are you doing?” said the Hispanic driver, turning to me.
I was confused.
“That was a crack bust,” he said.
“Crack…bust…?” was all I could utter.
Detective Constable Mark Lopez had been undercover. He had arranged to buy a large amount of crack from a local dealer. He needed to make a physical purchase in order to charge the two dealers with trafficking. Prior to my arrival at the scene, he was about to gain possession of the goods, but when my cruiser pulled up behind them the one dealer became frightened. Lopez assured him that he’d take care of it and was hoping that I would check his driver’s license in order to find out who he really was.
Across the parking lot, members of the drug squad were waiting for the exchange to take place. Detective Ronald Garnett saw my cruiser approach the lot, and had me radioed. Instead of contacting the dispatcher, I had to be the hero.
Next day the front pages of the major newspapers read:
