The Chef Read online

  TYPICALLY, THE NOPD Use of Force Review Board hearings are handled internally on the third floor, inside a stuffy conference room furnished with a beat-up oval table and a bunch of uncomfortable chairs. I know this because over the course of my fourteen-year career with the department, I’ve testified in three such proceedings on behalf of fellow cops.

  But in this, my fourth appearance before the Board, I’m the focus.

  Not a great feeling.

  Usually the hearings are kept confidential and closed to the public, except in cases where the department is looking to make an example of someone and try and look good to the public.

  Like this one.

  I’m kept waiting for nearly twenty minutes in the hallway outside the spacious ground-floor briefing room co-opted for today’s event. The uniformed officer acting as the hearing’s sergeant-at-arms—a kid barely out of the academy, with a face so pink and boyish I bet he gets carded at R-rated movies—tells me the committee must first address some “administrative matters.”

  “Sounds like a bullshit excuse,” he adds under his breath. He’s clearly trying to buddy up to me, gain some macho props. “This whole thing’s bullshit, if you want the truth, Rooney. Everybody knows it, too. Your shot was cleaner than a nun’s ass.”

  I pity-chuckle at the officer’s attempt at humor, but smile with genuine thanks for the support. I couldn’t agree with this kid more. Every police shooting should be investigated thoroughly, but what the department’s making me go through is ridiculous. It’s all politics. Pure PR.

  But that’s the job. Sometimes it’s your turn to be “made an example of,” and my number just came up.

  It pisses me off so much that some nights I can’t sleep, just replaying the events over and over again in my mind: the chase, the gunshot, the aftermath.

  Each time I think it through, I know I made the right choice.

  But facts aren’t going to matter today.

  Appearances will.

  Finally, the young officer opens the door to the briefing room and I walk in. Five NOPD brass are seated behind a polished wooden table up at the front. They range in rank from lieutenant to the big cheese, Deputy Superintendent of Field Operations Charles Bossett, a burly African-American man whose mere presence projects authority.

  About two dozen people are crammed into the gallery. As I take my seat by myself at a separate table, I give the crowd a scan. It’s a mix of spectators, reporters, a few department colleagues and police union reps, as well as the friends and family of the late Larry Grant.

  His death last month by my use of a department-issued sidearm—which is currently being kept inside a locked steel cage deep in this building’s evidence room, alongside my silver badge—is why we’re all here today.

  “For the record,” Deputy Superintendent Bossett begins with a stern voice, “Detective Caleb James Rooney has joined the proceedings.”

  “Good afternoon,” I respond with a respectful nod.

  Bossett continues. “We now return to the matter of the detective’s use of lethal force in the line of duty against Lawrence Christopher Grant, age twenty-nine, at approximately 11:43 p.m. on the night of January 10, 2018—an episode, we are all aware, that has been the subject of ample media coverage, both local and national.”

  No shit, I think. That’s why the department is making such a big spectacle out of this. Not because of the facts of the shooting, which was about as by-the-book as could be. But to try to regain some shred of public respect after all the negative press over the past years.

  Grant had been on my radar for a couple months. He was a mid-level Franklin Avenue Soldier and well-known drug dealer. But he was also a devoted husband who coached his little cousin’s youth basketball team and took night classes at nearby Delgado Community College. Not exactly your typical criminal lowlife.

  And I’m not exactly your typical police, either. Just try to find another major crimes detective anywhere in the country who moonlights as an award-winning chef and runs a popular food truck in his spare time.

  The blogs and papers had a field day with that. The story spread far and wide. The headlines practically wrote themselves. KILLER CHEF TURNS KILLER COP. NOPD IN BOILING WATER AFTER FOODIE FLATFOOT FIRES FIRST. PUBLIC TO CITY: ‘COOKING COP MUST FRY.’

  I’ve never tried to keep my double life hidden from anybody. Not from the community, not from my superiors. Killer Chef even catered the policemen’s ball three years running, and the wedding of my chief’s niece. I understand police use-of-force policies are being put under a fresh microscopic examination across the nation. So overnight in my hometown of New Orleans, I’d become an embarrassment to the entire department. A liability. Any support I might have gotten from my fellow cops and senior officers dried right up.

  So here we are.

  “This board has had the opportunity to read your official statement regarding the events of that evening, Detective,” Bossett says. “Before we begin our questioning, is there anything you’d like to add to your story? Now is your chance.”

  My story. Like I was a suspect hauled in for questioning!

  What a shit-show. What a betrayal.

  But I know if I ever want to get my gun and badge back, I have no choice but to play along.

  I take a breath, knowing everything—my life, my future, my dual careers, hell, even the possibility of a prison term—rests on what I’m about to say.

  Chapter 4

  “THANK YOU, sir,” I reply, grabbing the armrests of my chair to try to control my building anger. “I stand by my story one hundred percent. But yes, there is something I’d like to say before we get started.”

  The room grows pin-drop quiet, everyone anxiously waiting to hear the accused speak.

  I swivel in my seat so I can address Grant’s family, who are sitting off to the side in the front row. Among them I recognize his soft-spoken widow, Crystal, her eyes puffy from crying. Next to her is Grant’s younger brother, Ty, his face clenched in a tight scowl. It’s no coincidence he’s wearing a pale-yellow dress shirt and a mustard-yellow tie, a symbol of his Franklin Avenue affiliation. A warning—like I needed one after seeing that SUV earlier today—that the gang is watching me.

  “Larry Grant may have made some poor choices in his life,” I calmly say. “Like selling crack cocaine. Like pulling a handgun on a police officer. Still, his untimely death is a tragedy, for both his family and our city. My sincere hope is that his memory lives on, and that the legacy of the good he did for his family and community serves as an inspiration to others. Thank you.”

  The crowd reacts with murmurs of pleasant surprise. Even Crystal and Ty look taken aback. I don’t feel I owe an apology to anyone for following protocol and taking out a dangerous would-be gunman. But of course I mourn the man’s death. I’m a human being. Unfortunately, that’s rare to hear any cop publicly admit in this day and age.

  “Very well, Detective,” Bossett says, looking a bit distracted from my statement. He shuffles some papers. “To begin…can you please explain why you chose to continue chasing suspect Grant, despite the situation meeting multiple criteria for terminating a foot pursuit as set forth in Section 458.3 of the NOPD policy handbook? Among them: you had been separated from the rest of your unit, and as you informed the radio dispatcher, you were unaware of both Grant’s exact location as well as your own. Do I have that correct?”

  Now I’m the one caught off guard. Bossett is hitting me hard right out of the gate. I wasn’t expecting this hearing to be a breeze, but I didn’t think I’d get grilled like this, either.

  “You do, sir,” I reply. “But I believe the exact wording of Section 458.3 lists guidelines for an officer to consider terminating a foot pursuit. Doing so is still up to his or her discretion.”

  Bossett frowns. We both know I’ve got my facts right.

  “So even though you were all alone, in the pitch dark, in an unfamiliar part of the city…”

  I cut him off. “Actually, sir, I had been
on a team surveilling suspect Grant all over his St. Roch neighborhood for the past week. I felt I knew my way around well enough. And there were multiple streetlights and porch lights on that night. A full moon, too.”

  “I have a question, Detective Rooney,” says Major Deborah Katz, the sole female on today’s board, a compact woman whose bun is tied so tightly, her hair looks as flat and shiny as glass. “Your report says you pursued the suspect with your sidearm in hand. Which is also against department guidelines. Some might say, having your weapon out and ready like that would make you…more likely to use it.”

  I give the major a polite smile. “Was that a question, ma’am?”

  She gives it right back to me. “Do you have an answer, Detective?”

  “My Glock was out, yes—because I’d drawn it moments earlier. Me and my fellow officers had just moved on the suspect and his accomplices after observing them selling narcotics in an abandoned lot off Touro Street. When Grant ran, I chose not to waste even one second re-holstering my weapon. I also knew I might have to use it, too.”

  Major Katz’s eyes grow perceptibly wider. “So you admit you were predisposed to firing your sidearm that night?”

  I grit my teeth. I’m starting to lose my patience with these grandstanders.

  “I admit I did my homework. Grant was a Franklin Avenue enforcer. Known to be armed and dangerous—which, as seems to have gotten lost in today’s hearing, he was.”

  Bossett interjects, “Yes, about that handgun allegedly recovered at the scene…”

  Allegedly? No way. He’s not about to suggest I planted it, is he?

  “A number of witnesses have come forward to say they saw you placing the weapon near the suspect following the shooting,” he continues. “How do you respond?”

  Okay, this is beyond ridiculous now. It’s downright insulting. And another thought about my future is starting to demand attention.

  “With respect, sir, that’s absurd,” I reply, working to keep my voice calm and level. “Those witnesses are all fellow gang members. And not one has offered a single photo or frame of video to back that story up.”

  I feel myself picking up steam so I keep going with it.

  “And let’s talk about the weapon itself for a minute,” my voice rising. “Earlier I’d learned from an informant that Grant was rumored to pack a golden, personalized piece. It’s in my field paperwork from two days before the shooting. And that’s exactly what was recovered at the scene: a gold-plated 9mm Heckler & Koch, engraved with the letters L-C-G. The gun he pulled on me before I fired two shots of my own.”

  I’m right at the brink of losing my cool and I know I should back down, but I can’t help myself. This isn’t a hearing. It’s a ceremony of a human sacrifice, a good cop being put down to ease the anger of others.

  “Is this committee really suggesting that forty-eight hours earlier, I somehow tracked down a golden handgun, engraved Larry Grant’s initials into it, then jammed it into his dead hand without one single bystander taking out their phone to film it…all to justify my shooting some random drug dealer I’d never even met before?”

  I let that question hang in the air for a moment. Then I make my final statement.

  “I want all of you to think about that,” I say. “Then I want you to consider my fourteen-year record. Then consider who I am. What I do in my off time. And ask yourselves, if I was just another average cop, would any of this charade be happening?”

  My little monologue leaves me practically winded but also leaves Bossett and the other committee members briefly speechless. They lean in and whisper among themselves for a few seconds. Then the deputy superintendent clears his throat. I think I even detect a bit of contrition in his voice as he says, “Detective Rooney, this board has no further questions.”

  I get out of my chair, wanting to feel triumphant, but only feeling relief it’s over.

  Chapter 5

  I WALK out of the hearing room about two inches taller than I walked in as Ty leaps to his feet and shouts, “Shit, Rooney, you’re good as dead!”

  I try to ignore the commotion that breaks out as I exit, Bossett struggling to maintain order, raising his voice. I also ignore the subtle offer of a fist bump from that smirking young officer posted at the door.

  Look, a man is dead. Passions are running high on both sides of the blue line. And the press is having a field day because I happen to love food as well as justice. I get all that. I do. But none of that is any excuse for the way my department has treated me. Which I think—I hope—I just made clear in there.

  I’m confident the review board will rule my use of force was justified. Until they release their final recommendation, however, letting me get my gun and badge back, technically I’m still on administrative leave.

  But even with the hearing over, there’s one more thing I have to do. To my surprise, the decision came to me as I was walking out of that chamber, leaving behind the shouts, curses, and insults.

  As I walk through the building’s central ground-floor hallway toward the elevators, I exchange greetings with the many officers, detectives, and administrators I pass. Each one tries to act casual, but I can tell they’re a little spooked to see me. They all know my hearing was today. And watching a colleague catch heat is never easy. I feel like I have some sort of contagion that they want to avoid catching.

  I ride the elevator to the fourth floor, then turn left and head for the bull pen of the Major Crimes Unit. I reach my desk—which is usually covered with bulging folders and stacks of papers, but today is eerily clean—and keep going toward the corner office.

  Lots of memories in that crowded bull pen come to me, of long days and longer nights, endless phone calls and data searches, interviews with grieving family members and sullen suspects, working to serve and protect the city I love and its citizens.

  Through the open door of the corner office, Chief of Detectives Brian Cunningham is inside, sitting behind his desk, barking into the phone. This smart, driven, paunchy, balding middle-aged cop has been my boss for the past six years. A good one, too. He’s got a passion for cracking cases and keeping this city safe that rivals my own. The moment Cunningham sees me, he hangs up the phone with a heavy slam and beckons me in.

  “Caleb!” he calls out. “Come in, come in. You’re out of the hearing already? How’d it go?”

  “You could’ve seen it yourself,” I answer. “It would’ve been nice to have my chief in the stands cheering me on.”

  “Jesus, don’t start,” Cunningham says, popping a fistful of Tums into his mouth like candy. “I submitted my supporting statement. Spoke to Bossett. Having a CO show up at one of his guys’ review panels—it’s just not done. It’s poor form. It could hurt rather than help, Caleb.”

  I shake my head in disbelief.

  “Know what else is poor form?” I ask. “Turning that panel into a circus. Putting a top detective through the wringer, making him a scapegoat just for doing his job. This department’s changing, Chief. I barely recognize it. And I don’t like it.”

  “I know, I know,” Cunningham says, his voice tired. “Me neither. But to do what we do, that’s the system we have. What else can we do?”

  I consider his words for a moment, and feel something brewing inside me, something that’s been haunting me for weeks ever since the shooting. I take my detective ID badge out of my pocket.

  “I can think of something,” I say.

  I toss the plastic card and lanyard at Cunningham, who fumbles to catch it.

  “What the hell is this?” he asks in disbelief.

  “You already have my Glock and shield,” I say. “Keep ’em.”

  Cunningham’s jaw goes slack, his eyes wide with disbelief.

  “Jesus Christ, Rooney! Hang on…you—you’re not really—”

  “I am,” I say, my voice thick. “It’s been a good run, Chief, but I’m done with all this horseshit. I’m out.”

  I turn and walk out, dust from somewhere suddenly collectin
g in my eyes.

  Chapter 6

  AFTER THEY leave the force, most cops I’ve known like to hit the links. Or the bottle. Or maybe get a little place on the Gulf Coast, do some fishing, take it easy.

  Me? I got rid of my NOPD uniform shirt, threw on a fresh black T-shirt and apron, and went straight back to work.

  Marlene moved the truck after the lunch shift, and this evening Killer Chef is parked on Elysian Fields Avenue, a main drag through the heart of the Marigny, a colorful neighborhood known for its legendary jazz clubs and bumping nightlife. Today is no exception. It’s barely dusk when I arrive and the party is already in full swing.

  Though I’m not looking forward to this conversation, I was hoping to pull Marlene aside for a minute or two before dinner service to fill her in on what happened. But since a line of hungry customers is already winding around the block, I see she’s decided to open up the truck a little early.

  Tossing a few jalapeños into my mouth, I jump right in and give her a hand.

  I spend the next four hours grilling up slabs of juicy, rum-glazed pork belly. Deep-frying heaps of Cajun-battered shrimp and oysters. Stirring a giant, simmering vat of kidney beans and spiced ham that’s so thick and rich, I worry my arm might fall off.

  The shift is exhausting. Endless. But like always, it’s pretty damn exhilarating. And after a day like today, it’s just the distraction I need.

  Once we’ve closed down for the night, Marlene and I finally have a chance to talk. Mopping the sweat from my brow, I tell her all about my review board hearing earlier that day. About how shitty I was treated. About my heart-to-heart with Chief Cunningham. About my decision to throw in the towel as a cop. Recounting all of it, I feel a whole range of emotions, from worry to relief, just like I did when it was happening. But I try to keep my story as matter-of-fact as possible.

  Usually chatty, my ex-wife listens in total silence. When I’m finally finished, she turns to me, squints a bit, and asks, “So what are you going to do now?”