V-1, W-1, DV-1

Last night and into the early morning hours of Sunday, I had the fantastic opportunity to ride along during a midnight shift with a Metropolitan police officer. I signed my waiver, stating that if anything happened to me during the ride, they were not going to be responsible. I was up for the adrenaline rush.

During the time I had to wait for my officer's shift to begin around 9:30pm (we'll call him Vee), I sat in the waiting room of the police department. People filtered in and out, some to retrieve lost property, some to report a burglary, and still others to pick up their personal items from the early morning when they were released from lock up. My favorite story, however, turned out to be the girl's sitting a few seats away from me.

She was facing away from me, her body turned toward the window. She eventually caught me looking at her. I wasn't staring, just exhibiting a healthy curiosity. Both of her cheeks were pierced, metallic dimples. I smiled at her. She smiled back. Then she said she wished the taxi would come soon, her ride home was going to be a long one. So, I bit. I asked a single question that ended up transporting me into this girl's life, what would essentially turn into a long, eye-opening conversation. Where was home?

She was from Philly, she and her boyfriend had arrived in DC on Wednesday to sight-see for a few days. They drove her car. They fell asleep on Wednesday night, and she woke up Thursday morning to a pair of scissors stabbing her arms, neck, legs. The boyfriend, after stabbing her, took all of her clothes, money, and car, and left her stranded, bleeding.

She spent two days in the hospital handcuffed to the bed, awaiting statements and official reports. They needed both sides of the story. She then relayed to me that she was 3 months pregnant. My eyes must have bugged out of my head. This girl was thin, and I could barely see a bulge. His baby, I asked. Yes, his first.

The way she stated her answer must have seemed odd, because she said she had a 2 year old and 9 year old back in Philly. She asked how old I was, and I said 24. She was 24, too. I did the math, but not quick enough, because then she described being molested at 15 by a man who was into drugs.

I asked if she had eaten anything, and she said no, that all they'd been giving her at the hospital was an IV. She and I walked to Taco Bell, and I told her to get as much as she wanted - she needed to be taken care of. We ate in front of the police station, two strangers with two very different lives. When her taxi came, we exchanged a few hugs. She told the police officer that even though she had no family or friends to go back to in Philly, she had found a friend in DC.

I watched her cab pull away and my heart went out to this girl, and to the girls like her who don't know how to escape a bad situation. To those who have no family to go back to or friends to help them through a life-altering escapade. To those who can't even find a kind-hearted stranger.

My patrol was starting, and Officer Vee came to collect me from my thoughts. Ready for some action tonight, girl? I said absolutely, though I felt like I had just witnessed my fair share of action for the night. We climbed into his SUV and immediately, we got assigned to a domestic violence call.

Welcome to the ghetto, girl, where all hell breaks loose all of the time. He told me that this particular case we were assigned to is a bunch of repeat callers. Every weekend, they call about someone getting drunk or high, being loud, and causing fights. I expected a bunch of frat boy college students. Instead, we pulled up to a run down apartment complex. A man in his forties was leaning against the entrance railway. Officer, he slurred. Officer, she hit me right here. He pointed a lazy finger to his nose. Vee took out his flashlight and waved it in the man's face. There was a deep cut above the man's left eyebrow, nothing on his nose.

This began a 25 minute stint of Vee explaining to the man that he wouldn't have to call the police every weekend if he would simply evict the two women from his apartment. Woman 1 is the man's mentally unstable wife. Woman 2 is Woman 1's aunt. Woman 2 could not stand the fact that Woman 1 and the man would consistently get drunk, smoke weed, and become belligerent human beings every weekend.

The moment Vee and I walked away, and I had my handle on the door of the SUV, Woman 2 sticks her head out of the top floor window and screams bloody murder. "He's going to kill us, he's not right, lock him up, he'll murder us all, bastard police officers!"

Vee looked at me and asked if I was ready to get some action. I followed him upstairs and into these people's apartment. Bottles lay empty in the corners of the room. Bunny slippers sit by a well-loved chair. A Bible sat dusty on the cluttered coffee table. Woman 2 is in a rage, pacing across the living room, pointing and screaming at a closed door. The door, I notice, does not have a doorknob.

Man and Woman 1 are behind the door, apparently unable to come out. Vee counts to five before he kicks the door down - it takes two tries, and the door flies off its hinges and onto the floor. Woman 1 yelps. I glimpse the truly destitute welfare of a person who is lacking - I don't know what she's lacking, but something is very wrong. What appears to be powder covers her arms, which she rubs continuously.

Vee handcuffs the man and forces him into a chair. He falls onto a stuffed animal. Essentially, after the man is questioned about the cut on his head one more time, Vee makes an executive decision- he takes the handcuffs off the man and walks over to Woman 2, who looks like she's going to scratch Vee with her obscenely long nails. He pats her down and arrests her.

While she is being put into the SUV and the ambulance shows up to assess the man's cut, I hold the common door to the building open. A neighbor opens her door and peers at me. She's eating a chicken wing. "Is [Woman 1] okay?"

"Yes," I say. "She'll be okay." I do not know this, but it seems like the right thing to say.

"You with them?" She points upstairs.

"No, I'm with the police."

The woman squints at me. "You a detective?"

I assess the situation, and "yes" comes flying out of my mouth. Why not?

She nods and throws a bone over my head and into the bushes. She magically produces another and starts chowing down.

I am Detective Kramer, hear me roar. I play the part. "So, how long have you lived here?"

She peeks her head out of the door to stare at Vee, who is walking in our direction. "They just moved me here 3 months ago from a safehouse, but you know, I don't feel very safe here. So much yelling."

Vee pulled me away before I could ask her for a chicken wing. Detective or not, I was getting hungry.

The rest of the night is a blur. Woman 2 gets booked and locked away until Monday morning, where she will be transported to the courthouse. I learn the intricacies of paperwork and writing official police reports. We screech the wailing siren and speed down city streets at 90 miles an hour. We stop for a few more domestic violence calls. I watch as Vee translates in Spanish to two men who are so inebriated they have no function over their motor skills. We raid a few club parking lots, pat down a few sweaty teenagers, eye-up the prostitutes on the corner gas stations.

I finally arrived back to the Castle around 3am. I shake hands with this officer who has taught me so much in just a few short hours. I collect his business card. I bid my goodnight to all of the craziness that I just witnessed. A goodnight to all of those lives that are touched by things like domestic violence. A goodnight to paperwork and fingerprinting and the average Saturday night of a DC police officer.

And I think once more of the girl who may or may not be back in Philly. I bid her a better life ahead.