I want to tell you about the day in the park, because I've told it a hundred times now and it still doesn't get easier.
It was a Tuesday, just past noon, and I was walking alone through the green part of Camellia Park near the old fountain.
I was in plain clothes, which is how I do most of my work. No uniform, no vest, no radio on my belt. Just a gray jacket and the badge I keep in the inside pocket.
I heard footsteps behind me, quick and heavy, and then a white officer in full uniform stepped around and blocked my path.
His name tag said Briggs.
I'd never met him, but I knew the type. Young, tight-jawed, looking for something he could call a win.
He didn't say a word. He just bumped into me. Hard.
And in that half-second of contact, he slid something into my left jacket pocket and pulled it right back out.
It was a small plastic bag. White powder. The kind nobody wants to be caught near.
He held it up between two fingers and grinned like he'd just won the lottery.
"Oh, possession, huh?"
I kept my face still. That is the first rule I ever learned.
"You just put that there," I said.
He didn't like that. His jaw tightened and he stepped in, grabbed my collar, and threw a punch at my head.
I've been in this job thirty-one years. His punch was slow. I slipped it, trapped his arm, and used his own weight to put him on the grass. He fought. I held him. He was face-down and I had one knee near his shoulder when I heard the shouting.