Police Business

My grandfather, William R. Belcher, was a judge (both municipal and circuit) of one sort or another most of my life. And because of this, it was a common occurrence for a patrol car to show up at his house on police business. Often there would be some poor black guy or a scrawny white guy handcuffed in the back seat. Sometimes I would be out in the yard playing with my cousins, our faces sweaty and dirty, and we'd shoot at them with our cowboy guns. Mostly they were scared, but sometimes they would smile back at us through the glass.

Occasionally I would sleep at my grandparents when I was sick or my parents were out of town. When I was six or seven, I remember waking up one night to the crackle of police radio. I stumbled out of bed, half sleep walking, navigating my way to the sound of voices. I stopped near the kitchen and peered through the small windowpanes on the door. There was police car parked on the gravel driveway. I could see the deputy sitting with the door open, his legs extended from the car, the radio mic in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His hat was pushed way back on his head. The cigarette would turn orange when he would take a drag. He would slowly blow the smoke out and up over his top lip and then go back to his conversation on the police radio.

There were voices in the kitchen, so I continued there. The light was on in the breakfast room and it illuminated the kitchen floor even though the door was mostly closed. I stepped in something wet and looked down to find blood on the green and white tile, spattered in a line leading into the breakfast room. I could hear voices behind the door and I finally mustered enough courage to push the swinging door open so I could take a peek. When it opened far enough that I could see, my grandfather was sitting on one side of the table in his pajamas. A middle-aged black woman was sitting across from him with a white towel, totally soaked in blood, pressed against her head. My grandfather was going about his job, swearing out a warrant for the woman’s husband who had beaten her in a drunken rage. When my grandfather saw me, he smiled and motioned for the policeman in the room to take me back into the kitchen. The officer was older, his hair cropped in a tight crew cut. He took my hand with a smile and led me back into the kitchen. He put me up on a stool and slid his policeman’s hat on my head. He let me play with his billy-club while he fetched me a glass of water. My grandmother soon came into the kitchen and took me back to bed.

Story ID:	26
Written by:	Scott R. Lupo (bio, contact, other stories)
Organization:	OurEcho
Story type:	Story
Location:	Phenix City Alabama USA
Year:	1969
Person:	William R. Belcher