As I get older the line between good and evil gets more blurry. Everyone makes mistakes; walk a mile in someone’s shoes and so on. You get it. When I need clarity I think of Jerome.

Jerome was with one of the most famous criminal street gangs you’ve heard of. He was on parole for multiple domestic violence assaults and human trafficking (a nice way of saying pimping). His baby momma, the preferred victim, was too scared to say anything, but the DA finally got enough of a case to get him inside. Eventually, Jerome was released to me and didn’t waste a minute. He was instantly in contact with his baby momma and was trying to get custody of their daughter. 

Jerome reported his address in an odd neighborhood, one not known for gang activity. The home was owned by an elderly man who lost his wife years ago and fell into a deep depression. Lonely and scared, he was an easy target for predators. His house was huge and empty, and somehow the gang found out about it. Gangsters contacted the man, convinced him they were friends, and told him he would be better off if they moved in. Before long it was a fraternity house for gangsters, pimping girls, drugs sales, and using the bedrooms to entertain. They kept the elderly man too scared and pumped full of heroin to say anything. Because there were multiple parolees living at that address we put together a raid with the city police. We did not have a shortage of volunteers, everyone wanted to be a part of it. 

On my team were two leathery tough detectives; good Irish boys. Old timers ground up by years of working some of the toughest streets in the city. There was nothing they had not seen. Their faces looked like they were made of stone; with eyes sharp and jaded. They were both giants, north of 6’5” and a combined weight of 595 pounds. They knew Jerome because every time they arrested him, every time, there was a fight. Not a good one either; spitting, clawing, and biting. They were in constant contact with his baby momma, doing their best to keep her safe, regularly transporting her to the hospital for collapsed lungs or a shattered orbital bone. They were excited to get their hands on Jerome again. 

When the raid was over we had multiple arrests, pounds of methamphetamines, and a small armory of weapons. The elderly man was finally free. Unfortunately, Jerome wasn’t there, perhaps out getting cigarettes or something. His daughter was, however. A small African American girl, pigtail braids, maybe 9 or 10 years old. I found her in one of the bedrooms, alone, too sacred to speak, and dressed inappropriately for a girl her age. Now, I’m not saying she was working, but she was found in a room that had been used for work. One soiled, bare mattress with piles of dirty, damp clothes in each corner. The only light was struggling to pierce the darkness through the rips in a bedsheet nailed around the window. In the beams of light, there were specks of dust floating and dancing, the only sense of peace in the room. The stink was unbearable. Thick, rancid, funk. Perhaps the most disturbing thing was a mirror leaning against the wall. On the mirror, about the height of where daughter would see the refection of her own face was the word “slut” written in red lipstick. Other words like “bitch” and “ho” were written on the wall around the mirror. As I crouched down to talk to the scared little girl, I imagined the purpose of those words, written at just the right height. Did she write them, or did someone else? What subconscious damage did it do to her, when every time she looked at herself she saw those words? Child protective services were notified and they took her away. I hope very far away. 

The next few weeks were spent looking for Jerome. No one had seen him, but rumor had it he was in trouble. Some rumblings of him being a part of the raid, turning on his own. I promised the giant detectives I would contact them if I heard anything and they’d do the same. One of them had two pre-teen daughters and the mirror really struck him. Soon I got the call, the detectives were responding to a shooting and Jerome was spotted. I met the detectives outside of a motel. We ran up to the third floor and in middle of the hallway, slumped on the ground was Jerome. 

Jerome looked like he was sitting with his back against the wall, but it was hard to tell with the blood and guts everywhere. His legs were straight out in front of him, arms flopped to the side, palms up, and a pistol lying next to his right hand. The pool of blood seemed to extend down the entire hallway, yeah, like that scene in The Shining (google it!). The blood was a deep maroon, almost brown, and his chest looked like it had burst open like a piñata, but instead of candy spilling out, it was spaghetti and bolognese, and the pasta and meat was replaced by intestines and organs. I haven’t been to an Italian restaurant since. Jerome’s bloated face was pale, almost green and he couldn’t move anything but his eyes, following us as we paced. Amazingly, he was breathing, it was labored but there; a faint gurgle. He sadly looked up at the two Irish giants hoping for help. We called for EMS but knew they were not going to arrive on time, and there was no point in CPR; he didn’t have a chest. Jerome was going to die soon, and the last thing he was going to see was the three of us. The two weathered giants squatted down in front of him, with a warm smile on their faces. Then they made eye contact …

and waved goodbye. “Bye-bye,” they said with a grin. 

Jerome took his last breath and was gone, leaving the world no poorer.