AGAINST THE WALL

Time flies by when you're having fun. However, when your back's against the wall and treacherous circumstances exist, all your thoughts race through your head so fast that time stands still, passing slowly, with each second ticking away like an hour. Action is imperative; you will defend yourself, but how?

That was the situation I found myself in on New Year's Eve. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department assigned my rookie partner, Officer Willy Wells, and me to the corners of First and Fremont and the surrounding area in the downtown corridor. On the festive New Year's Eve, all the downtown streets were barricaded to automobile traffic, and were alive and packed with happy, celebrating, mostly heavily intoxicated citizens and visitors to the legendary, magical city. The temperature was in the mid-sixties, cold for residents, but warm to those from snow-blown winter wonderlands. As the evening wore on, the dazzling lights enthralled the merry makers, and the din of the music and loud voices made even the emergency sirens seem muted. As usual, it was crowded shoulder to shoulder. The pushing and shoving of cheerful partiers and their lack of caution or consideration caused some minor disturbances, and revelers considerable distress; the pickpockets, the prostitutes and their pimps worked the area, and many small skirmishes arose. It was our job to keep the peace on those four corners, up and down the sidewalks and on the pavement, to settle the fracases, or to send the combatants off to jail.

Wells, his tall frame allowing him to see above the milling crowd, called out, "Hawk, over there in the middle of the street, one guy just hit another with a beer bottle, and he's down." We pushed and shoved our way through the swarm of people to the scene.

"You've got my back, Wells," I declared as I quickly swung my PR-24 baton, cracking the wrist of the suspect. BONG! Perfect hit, score one for the good guys, I deduced as I heard his bones snap. He immediately released the jagged, bloodied beer bottle and grabbed his wrist, cursing me as he did. In my calm, controlled, professional manner, I brought my PR-24 low, and deftly conked the suspect on the shin. That had to hurt! I concluded as he dropped to the street writhing in pain. I seized his good hand and twisting his arm behind his back, cuffed his wrist, and placed my foot squarely between his shoulders. Wells still had my back as I worked.

Looking toward the other man, I noticed that he was down on his knees, holding his throat, and raising one hand for help. Jerking the cuffed suspect, I literally dragged him along with me as he staggered to rise. Rushing to the second man as he collapsed, I saw that he was bleeding profusely from the neck, and quickly guessed that the sum-bitch in cuffs had slit the man's throat.

"Wells," I ordered, "snatch that beer bottle. We'll need it for evidence." Willy shoved the gory weapon, neck first, into his back pocket. "Call for backup and an am-bo-lance! We have to get these guys to that wall now!"

Lifting up on the suspect's cuffs, I pushed him in front of me and the injured man, and handed him off to Willy. Limping badly, he headed for the curb. Raising the poor, drunk, bleeding bastard and dragging him by his belt as I grabbed his neck, I tried to stop the flow of blood.

From the crowd I heard, "Did you see that cop, he's choking that man."

"Police brutality," called a woman.

Another man yelled, "Let's take him out!"

Immediately turning, I looked into a sea of blurred faces. I was trying to watch my gun and my holster, and to protect my rookie and the victim at the same time. A rush of adrenalin surged through my body. Though time was of the essence for saving the bleeding victim, I moved as if in slow motion, my feet barely moving toward the wall. Every muscle felt the straining and stressing to convey me faster.

"Cops can't do that," shouted an angry bystander. "Let's help that poor guy!"

I ordered the cuffed suspect, "On the ground!" I leaned the injured, semi-conscious man upright against the wall and placed my foot in the back of his assailant.

"Oh sheee-it," shouted Wells, "we're gonna have a riot on our hands, Randel. What we gonna do?"

In s.l.o.w m.o.t.i.o.n I answered, "Willy, start swingin' your PR-24 as hard and as fast as you can. Call for back up! We need help, or we're gonna be trampled." Why weren't the words coming out faster? My voice seemed garbled and distorted, even though I was shouting over all the commotion.

"P.o.-l.i.c.e! B a c k, back! Get back!" yelled Willy in half time. "Control, Frank-3, we need backup and an am-bo-lance at First and Fremont, South side. The crowd's getting out of control! We can see patrol car lights on South First, but we need help to clear for them. We're about to be over run."

"Frank-3," dispatch came back, "we've got as many coming your way as we can, but they can't get through. The streets are jammed with people and they aren't moving. Code Red at First and Fremont!" Any and all available officers would head our way, but could they get through? It sure as hell didn't look like it!

"Frank-3, this is Adam-2, Roscoe, we can't get through. Gilmore and I are trying to get to you, Randel!" I could hear the anxiety in her voice, but I couldn't respond.

I cursed under my breath, sure could use some experienced help, but where the hell is my partner, Grumpy, when I need him? That's when his loss really hit me. "Damnit!" I cursed aloud.

I felt the hot, heavy, angry bodies of the surging crowd as they came near me and then backed off as Wells violently swung his PR24 to protect me; then they rushed me and Wells backed them off again. It was cold out, but I could feel the clammy sweat running down the...