Bringing Adam Home - Les Standiford [91]
It is one of many stories reflecting Matthews’s refusal to be cowed by blowhards, but it is surely not the only one. Shortly after he’d graduated from the academy and joined the ranks of beat cops at Miami Beach PD, Matthews turned up at morning roll call to hear a pronouncement: there had been too many complaints from high rollers in big cars and the owners of delivery companies with drivers trying to navigate the clogged streets of the densely populated island. Every officer was to make the ticketing of double-parked cars a priority.
Not a problem, Matthews thought, and set out upon his rounds for the day. He had scarcely turned the corner of Lincoln Road onto Alton when he saw a big Buick pull up beside a car parked in front of Alfie’s, a mega-sized Miami version of a New York City candy store cum newsstand. The driver got out of the Buick, gave Matthews an uninterested glance, and then strolled casually into the store. It might have been a brazen enough action, parking your barge of a sedan in a busy traffic lane while a cop approached—but on top of everything else, there were empty parking places both in front of and behind the car the guy had parked beside.
Matthews shook his head and made his own way into the store. There he found the guy from the sedan at the counter, engaged in earnest conversation with the owner. “Excuse me, sir,” Matthews called. “You’re double-parked outside. You’ll have to move your car.”
The guy kept on talking, ignoring him.
Matthews joined him at the counter, holding up his ticket book. “You’re double-parked,” he repeated. “If you don’t move, I’ll have to write you a ticket.”
Alfie the proprietor gave Matthews a doubtful look from behind the counter, but said nothing. The guy at the counter turned, gave Matthews a snicker, then turned back and resumed his conversation with Alfie.
“Okay by me,” Matthews said. “I’ll be outside writing tickets,” he went on. “And I’ll still be writing them until you come out there and move your car.”
He left the store and walked to the back of the car to check the plate number. Having never issued a citation for double parking, he had to consult his statute book to find the proper code, and that took him a few moments. He had completed that citation and was at work on a second—for obstructing traffic—when the door to Alfie’s finally opened and the guy came out, a look of disbelief on his face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the guy said.
“Exactly what I told you I’d be doing,” Matthews said. He finished the second citation and tore a copy out of his book. He thrust the two tickets at the guy, who rolled his eyes and brushed past him.
As the guy got into his car and slammed the door, Matthews approached, lifted the wiper on the driver’s side of the windshield, and snapped the two tickets under the rubber blade. The driver’s-side window rolled down, and the guy thrust his face through the opening. “You don’t know who you’re screwing with, do you?” he demanded.
By the point Matthews had had enough. He bent close enough to smell the guy’s boozer breath. “You don’t know who you’re screwing with, do you?”
The guy’s eyes widened in surprise momentarily. “Fuck you,” he said finally, then floored the Buick’s accelerator and sped away.
“Fuck you,” Matthews called after him. He noted that Alfie had come out onto the sidewalk to witness the scene. The proprietor gave Matthews a baleful look, then went back inside. Matthews shrugged and went on about his day.
Before dismissal at the following morning’s roll call, the patrol sergeant reiterated the need for them all to be vigilant about ticketing double-parkers, and then, as everyone was filing out, called Matthews to his desk. “Captain Webb wants to see you,” the sergeant said.
When Matthews asked the sergeant if he knew what it was about, the sergeant gave him a look. “I think I’ll let the captain explain. Just get your ass down there.”
Accordingly, Matthews made his way to the patrol commander’s office. As Matthews stood nervously at attention, Webb gave him the once-over,