A Matter of Protocol
Steven Bird's stomach tightened as the woman in front of him described her troubles. Her voice cut like a blade, accusing her husband of handling her roughly and making threats. She was full of anger and desperation, and Steven, just a rookie, felt overwhelmed. This wasn't in his training manual. He'd signed at the New Orleans police station in summer, itching to get his boots dirty. With Corporal Richard Dickson out for the day, Steven figured he'd get a shot to prove himself. But this— a woman unloading her marriage woes? He was no counselor.
Her words hit like a storm surge, each one heavier than the last. Steven shifted in his chair, her intense stare and sharp tone setting him on edge. "Ma'am, I am not sure what you want," he said, his Southern drawl steady. "We can't arrest your husband based on suspicions."
Her eyes narrowed, voice rising like a banshee. "It ain't suspicions! I see how he eyes other women, sweet-talkin' 'em like I ain't even there!"
Steven rubbed the back of his neck, searching for words that would not worsen the situation. "Look, Ma'am, him talking to other women doesn't mean he 's unfaithful."
She leaned forward, her words venomous. "I know he's cheating! He treats me like dirt, uses me up, and tosses me aside like yesterday's trash!"
Steven's stomach churned. He was in over his head. "Ma'am, I understand, but—"
"No, you don't!" she snapped, cutting him off. "You're just some young man who knows nothing about marriage or what I'm enduring!"
He bit back a sigh, keeping his cool. "Ma'am, I'm tryin' to help. Let's take a breath and talk this out, alright?"
Her face turned to ice. "I don't need your pity. I need somebody who'll act."
Steven knew he could go no further. He stood, ending the conversation. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. I've done all I can for now."
Her cheeks flushed red. "You're brushing me off? Just like that?"
"I'm sorry," he repeated, firm. "That's how it's gotta be."
As he escorted her to the door, relief mixed with guilt tangled in his chest. He hadn't handled it perfectly, but he'd done what he could. Just then, Corporal Dickson strolled in, his boots clicking on the linoleum.
"Rough one, huh, Bird?"
Steven managed a small smile. "Somethin' like that, Corporal."
Dickson gave a knowing nod, his eyes crinkling. "Don't let it eat at you, cher. Some folks, you can't fix their mess no matter how hard you try."
Steven dipped his head, Dickson's words sinking in. But as the corporal clapped his shoulder, a bigger challenge was coming—one that would test him far beyond a diffciult complaint.
"Hey, Bird," Dickson called as Steven started to leave. "Captain's got a big job for you."
Steven turned, curiosity sparking. "What's that?"
"Security detail for a Senator
Thomson comin' to town."
His jaw dropped. "A senator? That's a big deal."
Dickson grinned, all teeth. "You'll be with the old hands, kid. Stay alert and follow protocol."
"I won't let you down," Steven said, offering his hand.
Dickson's grip was solid as iron. "I know you won't, Bird. Stay sharp and keep learnin'."
Steven's pulse quickened as he left Dickson's side, the responsibility of the senator's detail settling over him like the city's humid air. A senator in New Orleans, and him—a wet-behind-the-ears rookie, thrown into the mix with seasoned cops. He wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks, the station's fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of cicadas.
The New Orleans police station was a hive of chaos—phones ringing, officers barking orders, the faint smell of chicory coffee and stale cigarettes hanging in the air. Steven wove through the bullpen, dodging a grizzled detective who was cussing out a jammed printer. His desk, tucked in a corner, was a mess of paperwork and a half-eaten po'boy from lunch. He sank into his chair, the senator's detail replaying in his mind.
"Big leagues now, Bird," he muttered to himself, his drawl soft but shaky. He wasn't ready for this. Not after fumbling that woman's complaint earlier. What if he screwed up something this high-profile?
He grabbed a notepad, jotting down what little he knew: Senator Thomson, security detail, convention center, tomorrow. Dickson had said to stick with the veterans, but Steven couldn't shake the feeling he was out of his depth. He'd grown up in Alexandria, which was quite a bit far from the city, dreaming of being a cop like his uncle. But dreams didn't prepare you for the real thing—angry folks, big-shot politicians, and the kind of pressure that could crush a man.
A shadow fell over his desk. Steven looked up to see Lieutenant Stane, a bear of a man with a permanent scowl. Stane was the kind of cop who'd seen it all—drugs, murders, corrupt city hall deals—and his glare made Steven's stomach knot.
"Bird," Stane growled, tossing a crumpled memo onto the desk. "You're on the senator's detail, so don't go playin' hero. Follow orders, keep your mouth shut, and don't make me regret this."
"Yes, Sir," Steven said, sitting up straighter. "I'll stick to protocol."
Stane leaned closer, his voice low. "This ain't just some photo-op, kid. Senator Thomson's got enemies. Word is, he's been pokin' into things—business deals, the kind that don't take kindly to snoopin'. You see anythin' off tomorrow, you report it. Got it?"
Steven swallowed. "Enemies? Like who, sir?"
Stane's eyes narrowed. "Don't ask questions you ain't ready to answer. Just do your job." He turned and stalked off, leaving Steven staring at the memo.
The paper was a standard brief: Senator Thomson, 62, visiting for campaign event. Security detail, 0800, convention center. But Stane's words—enemies, business deals—stuck like a splinter. Steven's mind raced. Was this more than a routine gig? New Orleans was no stranger to shady dealings, but a senator? That was next-level.
He shoved the memo into his pocket and headed for the briefing room, where the detail team was gathering. The hallway smelled of mildew and burnt popcorn, the walls plastered with faded wanted posters. As he passed the coffee machine, he overheard two officers muttering.
"Thomson's stirrin' up trouble," one said, stirring his coffee. "Heard he's got dirt on some big shot downtown."
"Yeah?" the other replied, voice low. "Hope he's got a good bodyguard, then. Folks like that don't play nice."
Steven paused briefly but continued. Listening in would not help, but their words fueled the unease gnawing at him. He pushed open the briefing room door, where a dozen officers were already seated, their faces hard and focused. The air was thick with tension, like the calm before a hurricane.
Captain Lewis, a wiry man with short hair, stood at the front, attaching a map of the convention center to a corkboard. "Alright, y'all," he said, his voice sharp. "Senator Thomson's event is tomorrow, and we ain't takin' chances. Bird, you're the rookie, so you're on perimeter duty with Officer James. Stay alert, keep your radio on, and don't wander."
Steven nodded, his cheeks burning as a few officers smirked. Perimeter duty was basic work, but he'd take it. Better than sitting at a desk.
Lewis went on, detailing routes, checkpoints, and crowd control. Steven tried to focus, but Stane's warning echoed in his head. Enemies. Snoopin'. He glanced around, wondering if anyone else knew more than they were letting on. Officer James, a tall man with a toothpick in his mouth, nodded causally at him. Steve smiled back, hoping James was dependable.
As the briefing wrapped, Steven lingered, studying the map. The convention center was a maze of entrances and exits, a security nightmare. If someone wanted to make a move on the senator, they'd have plenty of chances.
"Bird!" James called from the door. "Quit daydreamin'. Meet me at the armory in ten. Gotta get you fitted for a vest."
"Coming," Steven replied, his voice steadier than he felt. He grabbed his notepad and headed out, the station's noise swallowing him up. Outside, the New Orleans evening was alive—jazz drifting from a bar down the street, the air heavy with humidity and the faint tang of the Mississippi. Steven paused on the station steps, the city's pulse thrumming through him. Tomorrow was his shot to prove himself, but Stane's words hung like a storm cloud.
He didn't know it yet, but the senator's visit would drag him into a world of shadows, where trust was scarce and danger waited around every corner. For now, all Steven could do was take a deep breath, square his shoulders, and step into the humid dark, ready—or not—for what was coming.
In the armory, the air was cool and metallic, with racks of vests and gear lining the walls. James tossed Steven a bulletproof vest, its weight heavy in his hands. "Try this on, kid. Ain't no fashion show, but it'll keep you breathin'." Steven slipped it on, the straps snug against his chest. It felt like a shield, grounding him.
"Fits alright," Steven said, adjusting it.
James grinned, spitting his toothpick into a trash can. "Good. Tomorrow, you stick close and keep your eyes peeled. Politicians like Thomson got folks linin' up to take a swing. You hear anythin' weird, you sing out."
Steven nodded, Stane's warning still ringing in his ears. "Got it. You think there's real trouble brewin'?" James shrugged, his eyes guarded. "New Orleans, kid. Trouble's always brewin'. Just do your job, and we'll all go home."
As Steven left the armory, his resolve hardened. The senator's detail was his chance to prove himself. His uncle's words echoed: "Show up, do the work." He'd show up, vest on, eyes sharp. No mistakes.
At the station, Steven grabbed his jacket, the evening shift settling in. Phones still rang, but the bullpen's chaos had dulled to a low hum. Outside, the New Orleans heat hit him like a damp blanket, thick and suffocating. The sky was bruised purple, streetlights flickering on. Jazz notes drifted from a bar down the street, mingling with the hum of traffic and the faint tang of the Mississippi.
Steven trudged across the parking lot, scanning the sea of cars for his beat-up sedan. The asphalt shimmered with heat, brake lights glowing red in the crawling traffic. A street vendor hawked roasted peanuts and sweet potatoes, the smoky aroma teasing his empty stomach. A group of teenagers laughed on the sidewalk, their voices loud and carefree. Under a gnarled live oak, a young couple shared a kiss, lost in each other.
As Steven slid into his car, his eyes drifted to the pedestrians. A businessman hustled down the street, briefcase swinging. A mother wrangled two squirming toddlers, her face worn but patient. An elderly woman with tight silver curls pushed a shopping cart piled with groceries, her steps slow but steady. Steven wondered about her life, what stories she carried.
The city's sounds pressed in—car horns blaring, voices shouting, sirens wailing in the distance. Steven drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, frustration simmering as traffic inched along. The woman's complaint, Stane's warning, the senator's detail—it all swirled in his head, a jumbled mess of nerves and ambition.
Finally, Steven pulled into his apartment complex, a squat brick building off a quiet street. He parked, kicked off his shoes at the door, and stepped into his one-bedroom place. It was sparse—a couch, a small TV, a kitchen table cluttered with mail—but clean. He dropped onto the couch, exhaustion settling into his bones.
Flicking on the TV, Steven caught a news anchor droning about the Y2K scare and the Saints' latest loss. The words blurred together, his mind too fried to focus. He thought about the woman at the station, her anger, and how he'd fumbled it. Then the senator's detail—his shot to prove himself. Stane's words about enemies lingered, a shadow he couldn't shake.
As his eyelids drooped, the TV's chatter faded to a hum. The city pulsed outside his window—jazz, traffic, life—but Steven was out, sinking into a fitful sleep. Tomorrow, he'd face the convention center, the senator, and whatever trouble was brewing. For now, he was just a rookie, dreaming of the cop he wanted to be.