Mangrove Bayou by Stephen Morrill Page B

And you taught him. You taught him that this town has assholes for cops and to stay the hell away from here when he comes to Florida on vacation next year.” Troy shifted in his chair to reach his wallet. “The town council doesn’t need that man’s hundred and fifty dollars as much as it needs his hotel, restaurant, shopping and whatever-else business he brings here. And he is busy right now, up in Toronto or wherever, telling everyone who will listen to him about the redneck Florida town that’s a speed trap.”
    “So am I supposed to just wave at him as he speeds past me?”
    “You’re supposed to use good judgment. Mangrove Bayou is a town without a single traffic light or parking meter and mostly wide tree-lined park-like streets with brick pavers on a lot of the streets, and some people would drive at about twenty-five, most thirty, a few thirty-five, if there were no posted speed limits at all. We need to respect human nature.”
    Troy sighed. He sat up and turned to face Calvin across the desk. “New rule. Just for you, Officer Smith. You will not write a speeding ticket for anything less than forty miles per hour. You will not write parking tickets at all. If you see someone who really needs a parking ticket, call the other officer on duty and have him or her take a look and then write the ticket. Now, enough with tickets. You also have a long, long record of ‘subduing’ people you arrest, and you arrest a lot of people.”
    “I can’t help it, they resist. What am I supposed to do, play patty-cake with them? They resist, I deal with it.” Calvin giggled. “Mess with the bull, you get the horns.”
    “That Mex farmhand back there resisted you? I couldn’t get him to stand up.”
    “He’s got no business in town anyway. We don’t cater to illegal fruit pickers. Better run them off when we do see ’em. Teach the rest to stay away.”
    Troy frowned. “Couple things wrong with your philosophy, Officer Smith. First, those guys aren’t here illegally. You saw their work papers.”
    “Permits don’t mean shit. They take jobs away from good Americans.”
    “You ever pick oranges?” Troy asked. “Some of those trees have thorns. Ever pick strawberries? I mean all day, on your knees? I have, and it was miserable. Tomatoes? Lots of people are allergic to the juice and even the leaves, and your arms turn raw in a day’s work. I’m not here to discuss farm-labor hiring practices with you but I don’t see a lot of Americans lining up to do those jobs. I don’t see you volunteering to do what those two men in back do all day, every day, and probably send most of their pitiful wages back to families in Mexico.”
    “Well, I think…”
    “I don’t care what you think, Calvin. I can’t tell you not to subdue anyone else. That varies with the need. But I will look, hard, at every arrest you make and decide for myself if you used excessive force. And I don’t want to see that. And if I see any more of it, you may need to get an orange-picking job instead of a police job. Am I clear on this, Officer Smith?”
    “Isn’t there some kind of police review? Who says you get to decide on your own?”
    “The town council said. You can take it up with them and then they have to decide to back me up or fire me. If I were you I wouldn’t bet on you. I’m not playing games here, Officer Smith. You shape up and start acting like an adult and an intelligent and understanding law enforcement officer or turn in your badge and gun and find some other line of work where it’s actually OK to bully people and beat on people. Am I clear on this, Officer Smith?”
    Calvin looked like he wanted to say more. He thought better of it as Troy leaned forward and stared him down. He looked down at his shoes. “Yeah. Whatever. Is that all? I’m off-duty now.”
    “That’s all. Have a nice day, Officer Smith.”
    Smith left. Troy turned to check on the sailboat but it was already out of sight in the channel beyond the