BAD COP

I have lived in Brownsville for more than 40 years and I have nothing but respect for the men and women of the Brownsville Police Department. I have also taught for four decades in the BISD. When the administration calls me to the office, they aren't congratulating me on a job well-done. The principal wants me to prove my innocence after a parent or a student has accused me of acting in an unprofessional manner. That is the nature of the beast. You are guilty until you prove your innocence.

When the police shoot an unarmed man in the street, the culprit or culprits are faced with the same reality. They are guilty until they prove themselves innocent. As a teacher, I couldn't make mistakes. If I were in law enforcement, the stakes would be significantly higher, particularly if there were a dead man with several bullet holes riddling his body.

We know that our politicians figuratively get away with murder. They escape the consequences of their actions because The Brownsville Herald doesn't hold them accountable. It was the Feds who sent the district judge, the district attorney, the state rep and the sheriff to prison. They would still be passing bribes back and forth under the table if the newspaper were responsible for maintaining a transparent government in the Third-World Capital of the United States.

I want to emphasize that I hold our officers on a pedestal. They have not only treated me with respect, but they have cut me slack on more than one occasion. If my job as a teacher was tough dealing with students whose parents had abdicated their duties, the police face challenges that makes education seem little more than a day-long recess.

But I have experienced first-hand a BPD cover-up. I was returning from a night of drinking in Matamoros with my younger brother and Greg Fieg. Fieg was driving and hadn't downed a single beer. We were both reporters at the Herald at the time. Fieg had pulled to a stop in front of the flea-bitten, cockroach infested Nel-Roy Apartments on Levee where my brother and I resided. We're talkin' the early 1980s.

I was riding shotgun and was opening the door when my brother in the backseat jerked my shoulder and yelled, "That guy has a gun in his hand."

I turned and spied a car that had appeared behind us. A burly figure was exiting the vehicle with a drawn pistol.

"What the fuck?" I exclaimed. "Get the fuck out of here, Greg! Some son-of-a-bitch wants to kill us."

Greg sped away, but the individual pursued us. I told Greg to head directly to the police station, which was located on Washington. He hit the accelerator. We were within a few blocks of the police station when a red light flashed behind us.

"Don't stop," I pleaded.

"I have to stop," countered Greg.

He stopped. The red flashing light continued behind us, but the car that had been pursuing us swung in front at an angle to prevent our advancement. Against my warning to stay in the car, Greg exited. The same burly figure rushed at Greg and unleashed an attack with a billy club that dropped Greg to the ground. Inflamed by my Irish temper and more than my share of tequila, I exited my side screaming obscenities at the aggressor when I came face to face with an immigration officer whose vehicle was flashing the red light.

"Get back in the car," he commanded me in a no-nonsense voice.

"Don't you see the son-of-a-bitch who is beating the shit out of my buddy?"

"Get back in the car," he said. "I'm not going to tell you again."

As I returned to the car I noticed the aggressor was in a BPD uniform with his shirt open. He quit pummeling Greg who crawled back into the car. He was in a state of shock.

"Drive straight to the police station. What are you muttering? Shut the fuck up, pendejo. A goddamn cop beat the fuck out of you for no fuckin' reason."

We entered the station. I was cursing and calling the cop who had followed us into the foyer every name in the book.

"Keep it up and I'll arrest you!" he threatened

"Fuck you, you goddamn cock-sucking motherfucker!!!"

By this time four or five policeman had gathered around me and were on the verge of handcuffing me when the booking sergeant called me into his office. I knew him well from the Palm Lounge.

"You've been drinking, haven't you, Jerry?"

"I'm drunker than a skunk, but my buddy hasn't had a drop and one of your gorillas beat the fuck out of him for no reason."

We were debating the incident when a mortified Greg entered the room.

"Everything's cool," he said. "Let's go."

"Are you fuckin' stupid? You look like George Foreman closed your right eye and your nose is bleeding. We've got to fuck this motherfucker!!!"

"Watch your language, Jerry," warned the sergeant.

"There's been a misunderstanding," began Greg whose car had New York license plates that must have given the off-duty officer a false sense of confidence that he could unleash his fury because he needed a scapegoat for whatever reason. "It seems I went from one lane to the next without signaling. They have told me that they won't ticket me if we let bygones be bygones."

"Shut the fuck up, pendejo! We're going to fuck this motherfucker!!!"

"Get out of here," yelled the sergeant. "Both of you! Get out of here."

To make a long story short, I drove Greg to the hospital. After a series of x-rays, we went home, but two days later the Herald ran a banner headline decrying the beating of the newspaper's reporter by one of Brownsville's finest. In the end the officer received a one-month suspension and Greg benefited from a small compensation.

Shit happens.