A Grandma's Wrath

Any copper will tell you that, on the job, you take your humor where you can find it, such as the juvenile who wants to go to lock-up.

It's probably been nearly thirty years ago when this happened; it still makes me chuckle to this day.

I was working midnight shift on a summer evening; it was a warm, midweek night and there wasn't much happening, save for a loud music call, maybe, or some other type of minor disturbance. When it gets in the shallow end of the pool as far as calls for service you start looking for something to do, to make the shift pass a little more quickly.

Parked next to an abandoned building on the north end of town, in the shadows where it would be hard to spot my darkened cruiser, I sat with windows down and engine off, listening to the whisper of distant tires-on-pavement as well as the common night-sounds, Cleveland's WMMS FM keeping me company in the background. Across the road was another abandoned structure, its cracked parking lot sprouting low, sparse vegetation every few feet.

'Something to do' then decided to make his appearance. Walking quickly right-to-left a mere fifteen feet in front of my cruiser, a teen who was obviously too young to be out on the streets at 0130 was oblivious to my presence. I made him very aware.

"Hey, young man". To my surprise he didn't bolt.

I got out of the cruiser and walked toward him. "What are you doing out at this hour?"

Nervously, after the thought of fleeing made its way through his brain: "I was playing video games at my boy's house. I'm going home right now."

"Well, c'mon over here and have a seat in my cruiser. I'll make sure you get home." I didn't mention we'd be stopping at the station first to make a phone call.

Needless to say, the youth wasn't very happy when we pulled into the police compound lot.

"Listen, we're just gonna call your Mom to come and get you." Sometimes not issuing a summons for a curfew violation is the better solution; parents do not like to be awakened by a phone call from the police in the middle of the night, telling them they need to come pick up their youngster. Their being inconvenienced at that hour usually translated into some significant punishment.

"But you can't call my Mom."

"Why not?"

A hesitation. "Because she's in prison."

I started to feel for the 15-year-old as we walked into an empty office, especially after he told me his Dad lived in another state. "Well, who's taking care of you, then?"

"Grandma."

He told me her name but refused to give me her phone number. "Just take me to the Attention Center", referring to the county's juvenile holding facility.

I looked him in the eye. He was serious about being locked up. "Why would you want to go there? Why not just go home?"

"Man, you don't know my Grandma."

I called Records and had Grandma's phone number in short order; as I started to punch the numbers into the phone the teen became alarmed.

"NO!! PLEASE, please don't call her! Just take me to jail! PLEASE!"

Obviously his grandmother ran a strict household. The kid actually had tears in his eyes; this tall, lanky teen would rather be locked in a sparsely-furnished room than face the woman who was raising him in his mother's absence.

"Look, I can't take you to the Attention Center for a curfew violation. They won't take you for only that."

I spoke to Grandma when she answered her telephone, explaining the situation concerning her wayward grandson, who'd left the house sometime after she went to bed.

"Thank you, Mister Officer. I'll be right there."

It wasn't long before I was notified there was someone in the lobby to see me. It was the teen's Grandma. She was short, her gray-streaked hair contrasting against the chocolate skin of her face, eyes framed with big, round eyeglasses. A large purse was slung on her arm.

 Looking sternly at her grandchild, who was actually trying to resist being guided into the lobby from the police offices, the woman apologized for any trouble the youth had caused me. "I'm sorry you had to call me, officer. I guarantee he won't cause you any more trouble."

After thanking her for coming to get him, I told Grandma the teen had been no trouble and had, in fact, been very polite. "He's all yours, ma'am."

As I turned and walked back into the department, what I heard next was music to my ears.

"NO GRANDMA, NO!! I'M SORRY!! GRANDMA! OOWWWW!!"

Justice was served. There's nothing like a Grandma's wrath.