Call Your Mother

Due to some drama in the city, the Probation Department was not popular among other agencies for a few years.  It seems some probationers were acting wild and shooting at everyone, including city cops.  This did not create a good image for our department, and the police started to hate us.  To counter that, one of our department heads had an idea to send one probation officer to each city police substation to work with them.  They were looking for two volunteers.  John (Green Mile) and I jumped on it.  The Green Mile was always volunteering for things.  He was a good employee that way.  Me, not so much, but he was right about many things, so I did what he did. I was assigned to Mid City and John was South East.   We’d work 2pm-midnight Thursday to Saturday.  We had our own desk and assigned and our own team to work with.  My first few days were awkward, getting to know everyone and offering assistance where I could.  Before long I had made some friends and I was assigned to the night detective team.  I did all sorts of entry training, shooting training, even lock pick training.  I was following up on bar room brawls, robberies, and shootings.  We did surveillance and old school stakeouts. I thought I was so cool.  I even grew my hair long to embrace the undercover vibe.  I didn’t have to, but I did anyway.  My job was to just get these officers to like me and the probation department, that’s it.  I would report to my boss after a shift and when he asked how it went, I’d tell him the truth.

“I didn’t do any probation work, sorry.  I just hung out all night,” I humbly said. 

“That’s fine, as long as they like you.”

I felt like I was in work heaven.  My goof off time was going off the charts.  I was given permission to mess around all day.

It wasn’t all easy though.  Every once in a while things would get slow and the team would look to me to come up with a target; a probationer to contact.  This was not as easy as it sounded.  This probationer had to be worth their time, have something illegal on him, and for the most part he had to be harmless; I didn’t want anyone getting shot. Finally, if possible, it would be great if he liked to run.  Everyone liked a good chase.  I had the perfect guy, Kodiak.

Kodiak was a small time weed dealer on the beach (at this time marijuana was still illegal).  He’d sell out of his ugly orange and brown van in the parking lot next to the pier.  It was always there and so was he.  Kodiak was on my mind a lot because his mother would call me from Arizona all the time.

“I know my son, Kodiak, is on your case load and I was wondering if you could just tell me if he was okay.  I’m worried about him,” mom would say. 

At first I gave her the standard, appropriate, dickhead response; “I’m sorry ma’am I can not confirm nor deny this person is on probation; privacy laws.”  This was an automatic, but I could hear the concern in her voice, so I felt bad saying it. Mom didn’t give up, she was consistent.  She’d call back a few days later:

“Please just let me know if he is alive, I know he is dealing marijuana and I’m worried he is going to get in a turf war with the Mexican Mafia.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her the Mexican Mafia couldn’t care less about her dopey son selling dime bags at the beach.  It didn’t matter, her concern was real.  She was a caring person and unfortunately that’s rare in probation families.  She was just worried about her son.

“I’m sorry ma’am I still can’t confirm anything about this person, but if I see anyone by that name I’ll ask him to call you.” I was softening up.  I couldn’t help it.  This was just a loving mother.  She has rights too. I gotta tell her something. 

After a few calls mom and I developed our own language.  I wouldn’t say anything and she wouldn’t ask, but I communicated to her that he was okay, and every time I saw Kodiak I’d tell him to “call your mother.” 

While my kindness and patience was growing with mom, it was shrinking with Kodiak. 

He’d meet me at the office, “Call your mother.”

I’d see him in his van, “Call yer mother!”

I’d see him on the street with his buddies, “Call yer mutha!”

So the detective team and I were on our way to contact Kodiak.  I figured at the very least I’d remind him again to call his mother.  It was a super sunny day at the beach, the parking lot was bleached from the sun with Kodiak’s brown and orange van right in the middle.  I was dropped off as the undercover car went around the block.  Kodiak wasn’t in the van.  … He was always in the van.  Suddenly I had a thought of him being boiled alive in chemicals by the Mexican Mafia.  Oh no, mom was right, what am I gonna tell her? Then I saw him, cruising around the corner on his skateboard with a backpack.  He saw me first, kicked his board at me and ran into the alley. I was off chasing him.  I felt like I was in a movie, running though back yards and hopping fences.  It was just like the chase scene in Point Break (google it – the original).  The alley opened up and Kodiak had the two other officers waiting for him.  He stopped running and surrendered peacefully.  A search of his backpack found he had a few pounds of marijuana.  He was going to prison for sure.  Before he was booked in, I ordered him one more time, “CALL YOUR MOTHER!!”

Years later I was working at my desk and the phone rang, an Arizona number.  I recognized it right away. Mom said Kodiak was back home with her now, he had a girlfriend and a baby.  He had been working at Wal Mart stocking shelves for a few months.  It was good to hear and mom seemed so proud.   She thanked me for being patient with her and looking out for her idiot son.  She said she stayed in touch with him while he was inside, sending him care packages and visiting frequently. At that time he was calling her all the time desperate for her love that he carelessly discarded years before.  Of course.

Moms didn’t mind. She knew he was taking her for granted, but didn’t care, she had her son back and home safe. That was all that mattered.

Unconditional love.  Underrated.