The Good Dom Read online

  The Good Dom

  Obsession Series,Book Two

  by Paul Preston

  ISBN: 978-1-942331-83-4

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2015, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

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  Pink Flamingo Publications

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  Chapter One

  Bette

  The only thing I ever wanted to be was a cop. My Father was a cop on the streets of Chicago and his Father before him. I attended the University of Illinois at Chicago and eventually earned a Masters of Arts in Criminal Justice. My advisor wanted to recommend me to federal agencies like the DEA or the FBI, based on my high academic ranking. I told him thank you, but no, I wanted to work the streets of Chicago. It’s in my blood, my family DNA I suppose.

  After I passed the written exam, I was placed on a prequalified applicant list based on the lottery system. As positions became available, the applicants on the waiting list would be called for further processing. Even though there was a hiring freeze and hundreds of people had passed the exam before me, my application was green-lighted right away, due to my family connections and my advanced degree. My best friend Big Johnnie was in my same graduating class at the Academy and had to wait another 6 months to get in.

  Once I had the stability of a job and a bright future, I proposed marriage to my long-term girlfriend, a nice woman named Bette, who I had been in a relationship with for 4 years. We met at UIC as undergraduates and she was so pretty I fell in love with her almost immediately. To my surprise Bette said yes and I bought her the most expensive engagement ring I could afford. I was so grateful to her for agreeing to marry me. I didn’t expect it to work out due to the way I looked. You see, my face is a mess. I’m ugly, scary ugly.

  I was just a kid in my first year of high school in Chicago when it happened. I was on my way home one day when I saw two older kids, seniors at my school, drag this older woman into an alley behind a liquor store and attempt to take off her clothes. My Dad always taught me to do the right thing so I didn’t think twice to run over and help the woman. She was crying and her clothes were torn, but I managed to fight off the bigger kids so she could get away unharmed and unmolested. The boys were angry I broke up their little party. They got in a few good licks but so did I, even though I was outnumbered. I was pretty winded when one of them took out a knife and slashed me across the face before I had a chance to react. The boys ran off and left me on the curb, bleeding profusely. I managed to stumble into the store and the cashier called an ambulance.

  I nearly lost my right eye. After hours of surgery I was OK, except for the Frankenstein stitches running across my face, closing a wide gash from just above my cheek bone to my lip. Later, Dad and I hunted down those kids and we pressed charges, getting them a nice stint in Juvie. Hopefully it did them some good. When they got out a few years later they came by the house to apologize. Being raised a Christian I was expected to forgive them for disfiguring me, so I shook their hands and let it go. Perhaps my forgiveness helped the two boys move on with their lives. I heard they went on to college and kept their noses relatively clean. One of them even got married, I heard.

  Looking back, I thought it was all worth it. I had a permanent Halloween mask for a face, but the woman could go on to live a normal life without the traumatic memory of a rape. Due to the way I looked, I never got messed with again. Every time I see myself in the mirror I look like shit on the outside even with a suit on, but I feel good about myself on the inside. My face was deformed, but at least I did something to stop a violent crime from happening. I wasn’t too bitter about it. As they say, “In life, shit happens.” Until I met Bette, all the women I dated couldn’t get over the sight of the deep crease of reddish puckered skin running in a downward slash across my face. I know it makes most people literally sick to their stomachs when they see it for the first time. I loved Bette even more for overlooking my hideous scar.

  Bette was from a police family in Chicago too with two brothers and an uncle on the force. She seemed very compatible for me and would understand and accept the crazy hours and dangerous nature of the job. We got married on an impulsive weekend trip to Las Vegas, before my training as a police officer started. Our families were a little peeved we didn’t have a traditional church wedding, but Bette and I agreed it would’ve been a horror show with the way I looked, even more so with me wearing a fancy tux and looking like the Joker from Batman. So after our quickie wedding, I felt like my life outside of academics was finally about to begin. It was an exciting time for me and I never felt happier in my life. In Bette, I found a woman who loved me for who I really was, despite my deformity. And I was about to begin formal training to fulfill my lifelong dream of protecting and serving the public as a Chicago police officer.

  I passed my background investigation, medical examination, psychological assessment, drug screening and the Police Officer Wellness Evaluation Report Test. I graduated the Training Academy at the top of my class. After receiving practical training on policies and procedures, communication skills, strategies and tactics, the law, professionalism, and the use of firearms and other various technologies, I felt qualified to perform as a police officer. I had the perfect look for a cop too. I stand 6’2”, work out in the gym every day and weigh just over 200 pounds. I might not ever have to use my handcuffs, baton, pepper spray or gun to apprehend a suspect either. One look at my ugly face would stop most criminals dead in their tracks. I figured, let them stare. It makes my job easier and nobody gets hurt.

  Things were going exceptionally well for me, both personally and professionally. My wife and I celebrated our first year of marriage. I became active at my church, volunteering my time for the needy, stocking shelves at the food bank and serving meals occasionally with Bette at the free lunch program on Sundays after church services. My wife and I started making plans to have a family.

  When the paperwork finally went through I was assigned an older black female as my field training officer, Officer Janet Wagner, and was excited and honored to get into the passenger side of the squad car as a probationary police officer for the first time. I had no idea on my very first day of on the job training something would happen that would change the course of my life. Before the shit went down it had been a rather boring day with just a bunch of routine traffic violation stops.

  “You did just fine today Jefferson. I hope your wrist doesn’t hurt from writing all those tickets,” Officer Wagner joked.

  “I think we filled our quota, Officer Wagner,” I said, laughing at her joke.

  Right before the shift was almost over we received a call from dispatch about a drunk and disorderly homeless man who was blocking the entrance of a liquor store close to our patrol area. The man apparently had refused the store owner’s request to move out of the way.

  “It’s your call Jefferson. We’re at the end of our shift,” Officer Wagner said.

  “Sounds like we’re the closest squad car to the disturbance. I don’t mind checking it out Officer Wagner,” I responded.

  “You are an eager beaver. OK rookie, let’s roll.”

  Officer Wagner did a nifty U-turn and sped through traffic, the siren blaring. We were there in minutes and our squad car was the first to arrive on the scene. Since the suspect was unarmed and didn’t seem dangerous, Officer Wagner called dispatch and said the situation was under control and back
up was not needed. The homeless man was lying on the ground, conscious, but in some kind of depressed state. He didn’t respond to Officer Wagner’s repeated requests to stand up and move away from the front of the store. My training officer instructed me to cuff the suspect, which I did. When the homeless man refused to move after several more requests, Officer Wagner became impatient and I witnessed her use excessive force on him. Officer Wagner shouted “Get the fuck up!” and kicked the suspect once very hard in the ribs with the steel toe of her boot. I heard at least one of his ribs crack upon impact, maybe two. The sound of the bone snapping sickened me.

  This happened a few years ago, before concerned citizens started filming acts of police brutality with their I-Phones. It all happened so fast and no one other than me saw it. I’ve replayed that brutal kick thousands of times in my mind, always in slow motion. It shocked me that my superior officer, responsible for training me in the field, would use unnecessary force on the suspect. The poor man wasn’t resisting arrest or fighting back. He was just lying there in a lethargic state. I suppose the officer thought because the man was homeless; it didn’t matter if she gave him a quick kick in the ribs. It knocked the air out of the man and he moaned in pain, holding his ribs.

  I was so angry at myself for just standing there in a state of shock, not saying a word to my superior officer and doing nothing to stop the abuse. Officer Wagner instructed me to remove the man’s handcuffs and drag him away from the front of the store. I heard the man begin to make this horrible rasping sound every time he took in a breath of air. I told Officer Wagner that we shouldn’t move the man until medical personal arrived to inspect his injuries.

  “Move the suspect, Trainee!” Officer Wagner barked out at me.

  Against my better judgment I did as I was instructed to do and left the homeless man against the corner wall of the building, holding his side and moaning in pain. I asked my superior officer once more if I should call an ambulance. She said no and rather abruptly told me to get back into the black and white, which I did. As we drove off, I saw the homeless man still curled into a ball on the sidewalk, clutching the spot on his side where he was kicked. It was the most irresponsible thing I had ever done, leaving the poor man writhing in pain on the corner. I couldn’t get the image of the poor man out of my mind. I know he had violated the rights of the liquor store owner by blocking the entrance of his store, but he didn’t deserve to be kicked by someone whose job it was to protect him from harm. I failed in my duty as a police officer for not standing up for the rights of this man.

  On the way back to the precinct we stopped for coffee. Officer Wagner didn’t seem to be phased in the slightest by what she did and most likely forgot about it minutes later. The officer apologized for raising her voice to me. She explained she was going through some personal problems at home, but didn’t elaborate. I nodded. After sipping our coffee Officer Wagner asked me the usual question I had been answering all my life.

  “So, where’d you get that nasty slash across your face?”

  “Knife fight,” I said.

  We finished our coffee and Officer Wagner paid the tab. We drove back to the precinct.

  That night I spoke about what happened to my wife who basically advised me to forget about it and “not make waves in the department.” I called my Father to talk about what I witnessed and he also told me to look the other way, that if I reported what happened to my supervisor or internal affairs I would develop a reputation as someone who could not be trusted within the department.

  “Was the man seriously injured?” my Dad asked.

  “I’m not sure. After he was kicked, he started making this wheezing sound as he breathed in. My superior officer told me to not call it in.”

  “Was the suspect still breathing when you left the scene?”

  “I’m not sure, Dad. I wasn’t close enough to tell when we drove off.”

  “How hard was he kicked?”

  “Pretty damn hard. I heard the sound of one or more of his ribs crack. Then he began to have difficulty breathing. I should’ve done something more to help him.”

  There was a silence on the phone while my Dad was trying to figure out what to say to me.

  “Look. You’re a rookie, son. These things happen.”

  “But Dad…”

  “Listen to me Jimmy. I know you’re very stubborn and you like to go by the book. I respect that. But being a cop on the street is a tough job. Sometimes you have to make hard choices, which may or may not be the right ones. I’ve done some things too in the heat of the moment I’m not proud of. Your partner was just having a bad day. Cut her some slack. Don’t ruin an officer’s reputation based on one bad decision. She probably just bruised the old guy’s ribs.”

  “The severity of the injury is not the point. The use of force against the suspect was unwarranted.”

  “When you get more established within the department you can speak out, but not now. It’s too soon, son. Let it go,” my Father advised.

  After I hung up, I showered and got ready for bed. Bette put on some sexy lingerie I had bought her for Valentine’s Day, turned off the lights and got into bed with me. I think Bette wanted to help me forget about the awful thing that happened on my first day on the job, which I appreciated. We made love with each other in our sweet and passionate way and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  In the middle of the night I woke up from a terrible dream. I replayed the scene in front of the liquor store, seeing the pointed end of the officer’s boot kick the man in slow motion directly in the ribs. When the man looked up to see who had kicked him so violently, it was my face staring down at him, not Officer Wagner. The image so disturbed me that my hands were trembling. I looked over at my wife, sleeping peacefully on her side. I took a drink of water and tried to go back to sleep.

  I slept very little that night. The image of the homeless man holding his ribs and moaning in pain haunted me. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind, out of my dreams.

  Whether it was wrong or right, I decided to report what happened to my superior officer the next day. I didn’t want to start out my career as a police officer based on a lie. I’m the kind of person that thinks rules are rules and if you break them, there should be consequences. My Dad was right. I can be stubborn that way. I mean, shouldn’t the rules apply equally to everyone, especially the most vulnerable of our society? Citizens who have the least power such as the mentally ill or homeless need to be protected the most, I thought.

  After filing a complaint about my training officer’s excessive use of force, I was immediately reassigned to a desk job during the investigation. Just as Dad predicted word leaked out I was a snitch within the department and no one spoke to me after breaking “the thin blue line”. I found it hard to believe I was being given dirty looks by the other officers for simply following the policies and procedures I had sworn an oath to uphold at the Academy and for telling the truth. Why had I lost everyone’s trust? Was this the way the police department operated?

  Instead of my training officer being disciplined, I was terminated as a police officer on my 2cd month of employment for filing a false claim against Officer Wagner. After 7 years of academic training and a year and a half of additional training from the Police Academy, my career as a police officer was over. The investigation concluded that since the homeless man could not be located to corroborate my story and no other officers had responded to the scene to give an eye witness report, my superior officer’s word was trusted over mine. I took my complaint to the Board of Review, but they reached the same conclusion. My family was so humiliated that they stopped talking to me, even my Father. My Dad told me I had shamed the family name and he was embarrassed to show his face in public over the scandal.

  I was very angry to be fired from the CPD for telling the truth and doing my job. Though I didn’t have much money, I decided to hire a lawyer to sue the police department for wrongful termination. To pay my lawyer’s fee I got a job as a security off
icer, watching over a shopping mall at night and sleeping during the day. I got paid just a fraction of what I was earning as a police officer, but it was a job. Bette got a job as a secretary to make ends meet and help pay the mortgage on the condo. It was difficult time, but I couldn’t just let the matter drop and go on with my life as if nothing had happened.

  Also, to make matters worse, my wife and I unfortunately started having relationship problems. At first I thought our marriage was strong enough to withstand the added financial and emotional stress. It didn’t help that I hardly saw Bette, since we were on completely different schedules and we were both so busy trying to make enough money to survive. My wife was bitter and angry with me that I followed my conscience and filed the report, rather than listening to her advice. She became increasingly short-tempered with me, accusing me of caring more about a homeless person on the street than her. She constantly complained about the money I was spending on the lawyer.

  It all came to a head when Bette overheard a conversation I was having with one of the hospitals in the area near where the homeless man had been beaten. I was calling around to see if I could get any information from the hospital staff about the identity of a man that may have been admitted on the day in question with cracked ribs. Due to HIPPA laws I knew it was a shot in the dark, but I thought I might get lucky and be able to track the man down, or at least find out if he’d survived. When Bette heard the gist of my inquiry, she totally lost it.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you Jim! Are you crazy? You’re calling hospitals now, trying to find out what happened to that guy? It’s been 6 months! Why can’t you forget about that old drunk? You’re obsessed about him. He ruined our life!”

  “It certainly wasn’t the old man’s fault that -”

  “Stop talking about that guy! He got you kicked off the force!”

  Bette was in a bad mood and perhaps it would’ve been wiser just to drop the subject, but since we were married I wanted my wife to clearly understand why I acted in the way I did and why I was still concerned for the well-being of the man who was injured by the officer. I told her once again that even though the man was homeless, he had equal rights under the law like everyone else and his rights had been violated. In the heat of the argument, my wife insulted me. Growing up in the city, she had quite a tongue on her when she got mad.