In the DRPJ, you’re considered a rookie until you serve five years. Five. Maybe, if you take a bullet before that, they’ll give you a Get Out of Rookie Status Early Pass. Me, I was never considered a rookie because I served my time on the streets. I would have liked a rookie period; it might have taken the pressure off, given me a chance to ask questions, make a few mistakes. But I had more experience with crime and violence than guys with ten years on the force, so they threw me in the deep end and said, "Walk on water."
I was slated for the BRI right out of the academy, but I balked. I wanted to get my feet wet first, in vice. And let's face it: there's nothing worse than some snip of a kid zooming up the ladder past guys working their asses off for years. I wanted to make friends on the force, you know? I had to pay my dues.
Fifi is still a rookie. He was put on the fast track, too, because he has friends in high places. But he doesn't want to pay his dues, doesn't care if he makes friends; his ambition is all. He struts around like he owns the place and would never admit to what he doesn't know.
I feel sorry for him.
When I look at Fifi, I see a scared man under extreme pressure. His father was Jacques Poliveau, Internal Affairs, and it's clear Fifi's course is being charted for him. Including a stint with me. But he hasn't been put on my team to learn; he's been put here to shine—shine, or else. That's too bad. If they'd let Fifi be the rookie he is, he'd end up twice the cop—and liked by his peers. Instead, he wraps himself in an arrogant, uptight, know-it-all shell while he goes it alone. I know what it's like to go it alone, which is why I feel sorry for him.
Being a rookie is hard enough, not being allowed to be one is much harder.
