Saw Haddad today after a long time. We met at Girard's so he could pick my brain about the serial killing case. Seeing him again made me realize how much I missed him, my team—my life. I want it back.
“I keep telling you—call your union rep!” Haddad said, banging his glass on the table, whisky spilling over the side. “They’re screwing you.”
True. If Internal Affairs had anything real against me, they’d have brought it forward by now. The evidence tampering charges are bogus—and I’ve let them make me feel guilty. I hung my head and slinked away in shame. Why?
I’m innocent, so why do I feel like I’ve been found out? For what? Is it my past, my life on the street that haunts me? Do I still feel like an outlaw? Is that why I’ve been content to let them take my badge for so long? Do I think I’m a fraud?
Whoa.
Even as I wrote it, I felt it. But now that it’s written down, I feel free from it. Why shouldn’t I have my rightful place in the world? I deserve to have the good life, same as anyone. Maybe even more so because of my hard childhood. And any sins I committed back then I’ve since paid for. If nothing else, hasn’t being a cop redeemed me?
Yes, it has. I need that badge. I’m taking Haddad's advice and calling my union rep. They can’t pretend I don’t exist like when I was homeless. I will not be cast aside. I’m taking my life back.
