Consequence (9 page)

The boy is hiding across the street. He won't come home. I go across the street and tell the boy it's time to go home. The boy's friend says this isn't fair. The friend says the boy's father is abusive. The family that is sheltering the boy tells me there is “definitely something going on over there.” They say the boy once spent time at KidsPeace. But the father has legal custody, so there's nothing I can do. I want to get home, and I want to start thinking about working for the DEA. The boy is in the way, so I grab him by the arm, tell him it's time to go, and escort him across the street. When I return him to his father, he cries.

3.4

The day after Thanksgiving, my family doctor calls with results from my DEA physical. The doctor says, “Are you sure you don't feel sick?”

A week later, a team of nurses is staring up at an image of my heart. One of them says, “I've never seen that before.” Then she tells another nurse to call some student nurses into the room. She says, “You only get to see a few of these during your career.” A catheter is inserted into my femoral artery. A wire is inserted into my neck. A real-time image of my chest cavity appears on the X-ray screen. I can see the wires enter my groin and neck and snake into my heart. The team of doctors and nurses ooh and ah at my enlarged and leaking heart. The surgeon talks to the nurses. He says, “Do you see that, right there, right there, wow. I've not seen that before. Take a good look.” The catheter hurts and I make this noise. The surgeon says, “The patient seems to be experiencing discomfort.” One of the nurses puts something in my IV and I stop hearing their conversations.

Later, the doctor comes to my room and uses a plastic model of a heart to help me understand my condition. He takes it apart piece by piece and explains the difference between a healthy heart and mine. He hands me the purplish plastic pieces while he works to dissect the rest of the puzzle. He is kind and compassionate. He treats me the way the good training officer treated people when everything was going wrong for them.

I ask the doctor questions and he takes time to give answers. He puts the heart back together piece by piece and then offers to take it apart again if it would help. By the time I'm in my car, I remember nothing. In my hand there is a collection of medical pamphlets with pictures of old people. On one of the pamphlets I've written a list of terms.

idiopathic

viral

non-ischemic

cardiomyopathy

leaking bicuspid valve

ejection fraction 10%

severe risk terminal cardiac arrest

implantable device

heart transplant

I remember the doctor saying that my law enforcement career was likely over. I asked him what “likely” meant. He said, “You can't be a police officer anymore.”

 

4

“God is a son of a bitch.” This is what I say to Don Hackett. Don says he understands the sentiment. He says, “You're just going to need time.”

I worked as a police officer for one year. I spent very little of that time interacting with Don Hackett. But now he's the first person I reach out to. He helped me start the journey toward law enforcement. I look to him to help me understand why it has ended. I look to him to help me understand what comes next. But he just keeps telling me to be patient. He just keeps telling me to take my time.

The Bethlehem Police Department ensures that I am well taken care of. I haven't taken any of my sick days, but I still don't have enough leave to cover the time I need for additional cardiac testing. My supervisor tells me not to be concerned. The department awards me time off I haven't earned.

The diagnosis is devastating. But Karin takes good care of me. Her salary as a chemical engineer is more than enough for both of us. Her company offers generous medical benefits. She has enough vacation saved to take time to drive me to Philadelphia to see another cardiologist and get a second opinion. That second opinion is the same as the first. I will never be a police officer again. Karin sits and listens to me cry. She tells me everything will be fine. She says we'll do whatever is necessary. I don't have to work. She'll take care of that. Karin protects me.

I ask the cardiologists how much time I have. They say, “It's hard to say.” This is the answer cardiologists give to most of my questions. On the way out of an appointment, one of these cardiologists says, “No alcohol. This goes without saying.”

After Christmas, my family doctor clears me to return to desk work. I meet with the police commissioner in his office. He tells me they were saddened by the news and that it looked like I had a promising career ahead of me. The commissioner assigns me to the records room. I sit at a desk behind a Plexiglas wall and pretend to be a police officer. The police department is working to digitize its records. There is a large machine with a sliding tray and an overhead camera. I remove staples from old reports and place the papers in the tray. There is a large square button that squeaks when you press it. There is a beep, a whine, and a small ray of light. Every time I press the squeaky button I curse God.

There is no explanation for the cardiomyopathy. The doctors talk about genetics and viruses, but they have no real answers. They say they are sorry and they understand how difficult this must be and they will answer any questions I have. But when I ask, none of them will tell me how much longer I will live.

4.1

In February 2003, I sit with the secretaries in the records room and watch a speech about chemical weapons in Iraq. Someone says, “Imagine what you'd be doing right now if you hadn't left the Army.”

Don asks if I'm afraid to die.

I tell my grandmother that I'll be leaving the police department. I tell her I'm going to take some time off. My grandmother says, “I always thought you were going to be a pastor.”

My father encourages me to read through a collection of his great-great-grandfather's sermons from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The pages are well preserved, but Reverend Campbell's handwriting is difficult to decipher. My father says, “It's about time there was another pastor in the family.”

Most of Reverend Campbell's sermons deal with the importance of good behavior. He mentions two particular traits more than the others: temperance and abstinence. He talks about how failing to observe these types of disciplines can turn us away from all that is good, and separate us from God. I read the sermons hoping they will rekindle the call to ministry, but in many ways they remind me that I have already drifted too far.

The cardiologists say I should keep exercising, so Karin asks me to play on her corporate softball team. It's a welcome distraction from visiting doctors and working in the records room. After the game, players gather at a bar for drinks. I listen as engineers talk about hydrogen, membranes, and fiber bundles. They complain about customers and vacation policies. Karin talks about an upcoming work trip to Russia and simulations that need to be run. Someone makes a joke about chemical engineers. He looks to me and says, “You must understand. You live with one.” Then he introduces me to another employee. He says, “This is Karin's husband. He used to be a cop. Now he's going to be a pastor.”

Don says to me again, “When God closes a window, he opens a door.” For the first time, Don's counsel is insufficient. I don't think a door has closed. I think I was sent in the wrong direction, and I blame Don for being an unreliable guide. I can't bring myself to accuse Don, so I pretend to agree with him that it's time to change direction, but I don't. Everyone else is closing doors. I set out to open them again.

4.2

A lieutenant at the police department asks me to shuttle police cruisers to the maintenance facility. It's a generous assignment. It gets me out of the records room. On the way back to the police department, I pass the assistant chief. No one likes the assistant chief. Later, I see the assistant chief speaking to the lieutenant. The lieutenant tells me I'm not allowed to drive police cars anymore. He says the assistant chief won't allow it. He says if someone flags me down for assistance there could be a problem, because “You're not really a police officer anymore.”

In March 2003, I sit in the records room and watch Shock and Awe. I'm missing another war. I speak with a police officer who serves in the National Guard. His unit has received activation orders and will likely deploy to Iraq by the end of the year. He says, “We could have used you.”

At the hospital, the cardiologist strongly recommends I receive an implantable cardiac device. It will monitor my heart and administer an electrical shock to prevent a potentially fatal irregular rhythm. I ask about malfunctions and the cardiologist says, “It's hard to say.” It's also hard to say whether the device will actually work. The cardiologist says the device will close the book on any sort of career that involves physical activity. I ask about reenlisting. He says no. I ask about going to Iraq as a civilian. He says, “That's asking a lot of your heart.” He says it's best to avoid careers that might be physically taxing. “At least you'll be alive.”

After work I visit the recruiting station on Stefko Boulevard. I ask the recruiter if I'd need a physical to reenlist. He says yes. I tell him about my heart. He says I won't be reenlisting. The recruiter checks my records and tells me that there are private firms supporting troops in Iraq who are desperate for people with my skills. He says, “I'm pretty sure they won't ask you to take a physical.”

At the police department a detective enters the records room and says, “Are you the guy who speaks hieroglyphics?” He takes me to a Syrian restaurant in Allentown. The owner's son has skipped bail on assault charges. We sit at a table in the corner and order lunch. The waitress is a native Arabic speaker with a thick accent. She struggles to understand our order so I complete it in Arabic. She is excited to meet someone who speaks her language. We talk about the language school in Monterey and the Syrian teachers who served us lamb and hummus. She talks about the meals her family makes and promises to bring us something special. She says her brother usually does the cooking, but her mother has taken over for the day. I ask about her brother. She says he's in trouble so he's staying at a friend's house. When we return to the police department the detective says, “You're good at this. You should be doing this in Iraq.”

I talk to Karin about working in Iraq. She's unsure. She thought I was thinking about seminary. She liked hearing the stories about the police department, especially the funny ones, but she always felt it was the stories of compassion that mattered most. “Your eyes would light up.” she says. She thinks I'll make a good Presbyterian pastor.

I don't listen to Karin, and I don't listen to the voices telling me to be patient, or give it time, or consider changing course. I apply to seminary to appease these voices and silence the advice. In the meantime, I chart my own path back. I intend to make Iraq the first step.

4.3

In June 2003, in the basement of Bethlehem's city hall, I turn in my police equipment. I hand over the extendable baton, the pepper spray, and my badge.

As I look into a variety of contracting companies, I also send applications to the State Department, the Defense Department, and the National Security Agency. When I left the Army in 2000, most federal agencies were trimming their budgets and reducing their payroll. But in the wake of 9/11, opportunities within the intelligence community are endless. I make copies of my discharge record, Airborne certificate, Arabic certification, and SERE school graduation certificate. I tailor my résumé to highlight my experience in the Middle East and my language skills. In the cover letter, I write about feeling obligated to do my part.

The NSA is the first to respond. While I'm no longer proficient enough in Arabic to qualify as a linguist, my familiarity with the language will be useful in the role of an intelligence analyst. As part of the application process to the NSA, I meet with a government psychologist for personality testing and an interview. As he looks over my résumé and work history, he asks about the variety of transitions I've made over the last three years. He wants to know whether I have any concerns about my stability or my decision-making abilities. I offer explanations for the changes. I say I'm comfortable with my decisions. I say, “Sometimes doors just get closed.” He writes something down and wishes me luck.

The NSA hires me in October 2003. I move into an apartment in Glen Burnie, Maryland, while Karin stays in Bethlehem. I tell Karin and the other voices that it's only temporary, that I'll live and work in Maryland while I wait to hear back from Princeton Theological Seminary.

4.4

In Maryland, I attend an orientation class with a variety of newly hired NSA employees, among them personnel who will be working with the NSA as government contractors. Many of the contractors are recently retired NSA and CIA employees. As the NSA continues to grow in the aftermath of 9/11, it's a struggle to replace retiring employees, so they simply rehire many of them as contractors to do the same job. I sit with an older man who has worked for a variety of contracting companies throughout his career. I tell him that my primary goal is to deploy to Iraq. He asks about my background. He says he worked for a company that is looking for people like me. He says “They'd hire you in a heartbeat.” He hands me contact information for CACI International in Arlington, Virginia.

That night, from the apartment in Glen Burnie, I speak with a hiring manager from CACI looking to hire intelligence analysts who are willing to deploy to Iraq. I tell him I've only worked at the NSA for a few days. He says, “Doesn't matter, we just need your security clearance.” NSA employees hold the highest-level security clearance within the intelligence community. Contracting companies don't have (or don't want to commit) the resources necessary to qualify their employees for these clearances. It is more cost-effective for contractors to poach from agencies like the NSA and CIA whose employees already have the necessary credentials. The contracting companies then assign these new employees to overseas postings that the intelligence agencies are unable to fill on their own.