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Chapter One

Rookie Blues

I leaned against the back wall of the small conference room, deferring to the senior officers who claimed the cushy rolling chairs. It was my first morning roll call as a rookie cop for the Mobile, Alabama Police Department. We candidates who’d successfully completed the police academy had graduated the preceding Saturday evening at a formal yet routine ceremony that had taken place a couple of times a year since time immemorial. My chest, which was already sizable at a 40F bra size, swelled even more when the police chief pinned my badge to my uniform and saluted me. I’d never felt so proud of myself. The 800 hours of training had been comprehensive and challenging, not to mention much higher than the 520 hours minimum required by state law, but I felt fully prepared for whatever situations I might face as a law enforcement officer. How naïve I’d been.  

Captain Lockhart, a balding and broad-shouldered black man who led the precinct to which I’d been assigned, addressed the group. “We’ve got a new officer on our beat. She was sworn in Saturday.” He raised a hand to gesture in my direction. “Everyone say hello to Officer Chastity Rinaldi.”

A blush warmed my face as all eyes turned to me. I arced my hand in a demure wave, and gave them a greeting that expressed both my Italian and Alabamian heritage. “Buon giorno, y’all.”

My fellow officers responded variously. A couple waved back. Several murmured words of welcome.

One hollered, “Fresh meat! Boo-yah!”

The officer next to him snickered. “I see an Italian, but it ain’t got no sausage.”

Sexist jerk. Lest my first name solidify with my new coworkers, I said, “I go by Cha-Cha.”

The ruddy-faced guy who’d made the “sausage” comment hooted and hollered, “Whiskey, tango, fox trot, Cha-Cha!” He put one hand up and circled another in front of him, as if holding an invisible dance partner, and performed an improvised cha-cha in his chair. He hooted again, as if he thought his joke was not only hilarious, but original. It was neither. He clearly considered himself a comedian but, just as clearly, his coworkers did not. They responded with eye rolls and shaking heads. There’s one in every workplace.

Captain Lockhart glared from under his brows. “Can it, Officer Stassney.” Returning his attention to the group at large, he said, “Officer Rinaldi will serve in our motor unit.”

The eyes of my fellow officers turned to me again, more curious this time. It was rare enough to have a woman join the ranks—only about 15% of law enforcement in the U.S. was female—but to have a woman officer who patrolled on a motorcycle was almost unheard of. I could deal with it, though. I’d been raised with three older brothers and had long ago learned how to make my way in what was predominantly a men’s world. I considered myself more of a rare treasure than an oddity.

My academy training had taught me that, while all police officers had the same powers, the experiences of officers varied widely depending on whether they patrolled primarily on foot, bicycle, motorcycle, or in a cruiser. While an officer in a squad car could carry rifles, evidence collection supplies, and even stuffed animals to calm traumatized children at domestic violence calls, cops patrolling on foot, bikes, or motorcycles couldn’t carry as much equipment and were limited to the bare essentials. We couldn’t transport suspects, either, and would need to summon a patrol car to serve this purpose. The face-to-face interactions between the public and cops on foot or bikes gave those officers a bigger role in community relations, while motorcycle cops tended to handle a greater share of traffic matters. Even through traffic patrol wasn’t the most respected part of police work, it was a critically important function. Besides snarls and delays, a reckless or distracted driver could cost someone their life or cause life-altering injuries. Enforcing the motor vehicle code was a valiant pursuit.

Captain Lockhart wrapped up the roll call for what I would soon learn was his standard send-off. “Protect and serve, stay safe, and be an honor to your badge. Officers dismissed.”

I set out that morning feeling both nervous and excited to be patrolling on my own for the first time. No training officer. No one looking over my shoulder to observe. No one reviewing my paperwork to make sure it was correct and complete. Just me, my radio, the weapons on my tool belt, and my Honda ST1300PA police bike. Large 31 millimeter intake valves and 27 millimeter exhaust valves fed a combustion chamber with a 10.8:1 compression ratio. As if I have any idea what that means. I’d read it in the owner’s manual, but it was gibberish to me. I knew squat about engines. But I did know the bike was sleek, powerful, and awfully fun to have between my thighs.

Having started with minibikes when I was only seven years old, I was an expert rider. My father and brothers had showed me how. Realizing she couldn’t keep us off the fun bikes, my mother settled for making sure her children wore the best-rated helmets and every piece of safety equipment available. She also sent up prayers to every deity that might be in existence to keep our bones unbroken and our brains unscrambled.    

I left the station that morning and set out on Interstate 10, which runs from Los Angeles, California all the way to Jacksonville, Florida, and takes a curve around Mobile’s coastline on its way through Alabama. It was a cool morning in mid-November. Despite the chill, I was sweating inside my uniform, partially because the poly-blend fabric didn’t breathe well and partially because I was nervous as heck. The power I had as a police officer was enormous, but along with great power comes great responsibility. I wanted to wield it the right way, to do my job in a way that made people feel respected rather than bullied, to be fair and effective. Pretty heady stuff for a twenty-two-year-old who’d graduated mere months before with a criminal justice degree from the University of Alabama. Roll tide!

I headed east into the morning sun, riding only a mile or so and feeling horribly self-conscious before I spotted a dented, rusty horse trailer attached to a pickup truck up ahead, one lane to my right. The trailer was one of the fully enclosed styles. The small windows on the trailer had darkly tinted glass. All were closed. Either there were no horses inside, or the driver believed the morning to be cool enough to keep his equine cargo comfortable without ventilation. As the truck braked in the rush-hour traffic, only the right taillight on the trailer illuminated, glowing bright red. The left one’s busted. Without properly functioning lights, the trailer posed a risk that someone coming up from behind wouldn’t realize it was slowing down. They could rear-end it. Better let the driver know there’s a problem.

I signaled to pull over behind the trailer and switched on my flashing lights. The driver of the pickup eyed me in his side mirror, his lids squinted to shield his retinas from the bright yellow orb just above the east horizon. His mouth moved, his lips clearly forming the F-word. But there was no need for profanity. So long as the guy didn’t give me a hard time, I’d merely issue him a written warning and send him on his way. My stop would cost him a few minutes on the road, but it wouldn’t cost him any money. I wasn’t in the police game to fundraise for the city. I was in it to protect people and keep the peace. Even so, I came from a long line of hot-blooded Italian stock. If this guy gave me guff, I’d give him a ticket in return. It would only be fair.

The driver eased the truck and trailer over to the right shoulder and I followed him. I parked my bike behind him, slid off, and headed past the trailer to his window. The glass came down, revealing that the driver was not alone. Two other men sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the seat, the three of them packing the cab. All of the men were white. All were in need of a shave and a haircut. None of them was smiling. But hopefully I could change that when I released them without a citation.  

The man at the wheel gave me a friendly, “How can I help you, officer?” But the cheery tone in his voice wasn’t reflected in his eyes. Rather, like the busted taillight, they were dark and dull, devoid of brightness and light.

I lifted the faceplate on my helmet so I could speak with him. When he got a look at my face and realized it was a feminine one, his gaze shifted lower, to my chest. My oversized breasts were squashed smooth inside a sports bra and ballistic vest. Until I’d raised my faceplate, the driver had probably taken me for a barrel-chested man. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I gestured behind me. “You’ve got a busted taillight on your trailer, sir.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than sounds came from the trailer. Banging and clanging and high-pitched cries. While a horse might kick at the metal, no way could it cry out like that. I cast a glance back. The trailer rocked on its wheels. What the–?