Justice was swift for Tannehill's career as a policeman, but not necessarily impartial. Scores of jealous peers, tired of years of watching Tannehill rise in the department without participating in requisite corruption that should be needed to secure status were willing to swear witness to his malevolent deeds the night of the shooting.
Each subsequent witness told a more fantastic story than the last. By the end of the hearing, a bystander in the room could hardly be faulted if they believed a Tannehill, formed of smoke and fire, appeared on the slick city streets that night, stretching incendiary arms 10 feet wide in order to consume any small child in the vicinity while the police present at the scene shivered cowering from such evil and could do nothing to prevent such insidiousness from occurring.
The enormity of the exaggeration worked in Tannehill's favor.
Without it, the department would've had the opportunity to condemn him as a loose cannon - someone who'd become too entitled with his own sense of power and was callously indifferent to lives of those he swore to serve and protect. This narrative would've opened him up to prosecution or worse. The department, in turn, would have the opportunity to show that they'd reformed their previously (perceived) corrupt ways and were in the process of weeding out the ne'er do wells among them.
With it, the department would need to admit that they sanctioned allowing the devil incarnate walk through the city streets on their behalf with a group of agitated policeman following him around and speaking up only when the pinnacle of tragedy demanded it.
Instead, the department issued a statement indicating, that while a decorated war hero, a valuable member of the force, and a generally upstanding citizen, Tannehill had exercised poor judgment the night of the raid and, given the circumstances around the event and the growing chorus of voices within and outside the department expressing displeasure with his behavior, it was untenable to keep him employed as a sworn officer.
Surprisingly, this statement wasn't far from the truth. Tannehill himself believed he exhibited poor judgment and didn't feel he was fit to perform his duties to maintain law and order within Capital City anymore. He realized that, even in a city that wasn't rotten to the core, the fact that he was simply fired rather than persecuted was a gift he shouldn't overlook.
Of course, what went unsaid were the institutional decisions and events that led to both the night in question and his firing that shouldn't have occurred in the first place. He shouldn't have been taken off desk duty while still suffering from the trauma of the war. The department shouldn't have escalated the war on alcohol to the violent level it reached, and shouldn't have allowed the criminal enterprises to grow so large through its own need to bolster corruption and graft to line the pockets of its leaders. Spinoza shouldn't have let his own singular focus and jealousy of his friend shade his reporting. The Volstead Act probably shouldn't have been passed in the first place. However, like most things in life, the most proximate and simple causes were taken to be the root ones, while the underlying infrastructure continues to elude all of those but the most diligent investigators. And even the diligent typically remain silent, aware that, in whispering their secrets to others, they are simply Cassandra in the land of the deaf.
Posthumously, Charles Peabody's legend grew past what most 9-year olds or their parents could expect. His penchant for simple jokes was elevated into a precocious rapier wit. His mischievous streak became an unquenchable curiosity. His boundless energy became a budding graceful athleticism. Contrary to other cases in which the city often elevated the reputation of the most base individuals humanity could produce, Charles was an average, or even an above-average, if misdirected, child. However, his status after death elevated him to the level of a saint for the anguished city.
In memoriam for such a prodigy with unlimited potential, the city named the new park located in the tony Backbay neighborhood "The Charles Peabody Memorial Park" and installed a bronze statue of his quasi-likeness at the entrance. The park's intent was to remind all citizens of the sacrifices made in the name of justice and the tragic acts that accompanied those pursuits. Sadly, the seagull citizens of Capital City didn't comprehend the metaphorical intent and took to shitting on the statue with thoughtless abandon, causing the statue to begin to discolor almost immediately.
As is typical with most sweeping change, the mechanism for movement is completely divorced from the underlying causes that brought the problems to bear. Tannehill, Peabody and the other innocents gunned down, and even the griping police officers caught up in the corrupt workings of their department with little attention paid to their own self-awareness were all simply tangents to the main forces at play.
Still, Spinoza's screed against Tannehill and the department began to have effects. Citizens who previously assumed the department would protect its own at all costs began to believe that, if the department could cast out its most favored son, the city stood a chance at actual justice, however erroneous their assumptions may have been about the department's actual motives. As a result, though, the department recognized the futility of a law that few wanted on the books and were too shamed by recent events to continue to buy into the naked corruption of associating (explicitly) with bootleggers. Surprisingly, one of the most violent cities at the outset of Prohibition quickly became one of the most reasonable. Rather than worry about staunching the flow of illegal liquor, Capital City focused on keeping the violence around turf wars in-check in order to avoid naming another public park after someone other than a local politician.
Spinoza's exultation was short-lived. He realized that the city and the department enacted reforms for the wrong reasons, and that the benefits of change would be short-lived and narrowly scoped. While Tannehill wasn't completely blameless, Spinoza realized much of the ire directed at his former friend was a result of events neither of them had much control over and tried to make amends in a style typical of the male of the species and the time -
Both men met, staring the ground beneath them.
"Sorry to hear about your job," Spinoza mumbled as an opening gambit.
"Yeah, well," Tannehill trailed off in response, sighing.
"Look, I think there are some things I could've done differently," Spinoza countered.
"I think there are all things we could've done differently," Tannehill retorted with a philosophical flourish.
Still staring down at the ground, Spinoza awkwardly swung a rigid right paw to awkwardly connect with Tannehill's shoulder. "Can I offer you food, by way of condolence?"
Tannehill cocked a subtle eyebrow, "what were you thinking?"
"Egg sandwich."
"Egg sandwich? Just plain egg?"
"You'd be surprised how good they are."
Tannehill shrugged, "ok, where?"
"There's a new diner near your former precinct. Named The Happy Hour. It just opened. I figure it's worth a shot."
Tannehill shrugged again in acceptance as the two men made their way toward the waterfront, suddenly overcome by hunger.
[Author's Note: Hope I don't get sued! 1204 words today for a total of 40996 in the novel.]
No comments:
Post a Comment