I have covered my badge with black tape so it will not reflect the light. The January midnight air is colder than the gun in my hand, a .357-caliber Magnum revolver, made of blued steel, so it won’t reflect light. It has etched wooden handles so it won’t slip.
I am standing silently outside the basement window of a home on the San Francisco peninsula. I am focused completely on the three people inside, lying on the bed directly below the window. The window is partly open. The room is brightly lit. How can they sleep in that bright light? Are they asleep? The smallest one is only a month old. She lies between her father and mother, who are both fully clothed, both very young themselves. Far too young for the trouble they have brought upon themselves, and the threat they are now bringing to their child.
My gun is perfectly silent in its aim at the head of the young man. He can’t be asleep in all that bright light. He knows. He is vigilant. So am I.
A light knock at the door of the basement bedroom. An older woman’s voice. I hope they move her out of the way so she will not have to see the most horrible potential outcome of this situation. “Yeah, Mom, what is it?” “Stephen, come on out here; I want to talk to you.” “No, Mom. Later.” “Now, Stephen.”
He knows. He is vigilant. His hand is under his pillow. He has a gun. And he is not moving. That is good. His wife and child do not move either. With a sharp slamming explosion the bedroom door is splintered. Three dark figures aiming automatic weapons burst into the room and hold off all movement with the aim of the guns. I see slight movement in the shoulder of the young man. It is the hand under the pillow.
“FREEZE!” He looks up at me. He freezes. At the direction of the three police officers, the wife peels herself slowly off the bed. The grandmother moves to pick up the infant, and an officer stops her. Ever so slowly the young man is directed to remove his hand from under the pillow. It had better be empty. It is. He and his wife are handcuffed. I replace my weapon in the holster. Thankfully, the revolver continues to be cold. The pillow is removed, and there is the semi-automatic pistol. I move from the window, into the house, into the room. The narcotics officers undiaper the infant. There, in the diaper, is an ounce of heroin.
This article is available to subscribers only. Subscribe now for immediate access to the magazine plus video teachings, films, e-books, and more.Subscribe Now
Already a subscriber? Log in.