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I'll take speculative suspicion a step further; men, and women, given the badge of Authority and the Weapons of Enforcement, can be compromised by the 'military' rank of 'superiors' who favor an 'accused' over Law Enforcement.
That's the 'Judge', the other cop, the Mob Boss, the rich guy, the rich woman. We're going to let them go, look the other way.
Suddenly honest people are beset with a choice; am I honest? Is Justice, through me, blind? Or do I 'go along'?
If I go along, I'm compromised. Now they've 'got' me, could 'accuse' me, charge and convict me. Their next 'ask' is a little easier, maybe more strategically compromising of my duty as a Law Enforcement Officer, more compromising of my character.
Maybe I think it's time to resist that compromise. I commiserate with other cops, and maybe they've never compromised, never been asked or made to compromise, so they're indignant too. Or maybe they too HAVE been compromised, and, like the 'Plaintiff', decide to join the 'protest', thinking telling the truth will restore Justice.
Or maybe they run to the boss, the higher ranking corrupt cop, or that Judge or rich guy, and 'Snitch' about my complaint.
Suddenly we all 'know too much' and the people we know too much about have a lot to lose, money, power, freedom to continue wielding Government Law Enforcement Authority, a chance to move out of Law Enforcement into Commerce, Politics, comfortable retirement.
Motive, means, opportunity; abundant.
Despair is a possible motive for suicide. Friends and family, circumstances of how the person 'accused' of suicide was 'living' at the time, often contradict the Medical Examiner's conclusion of suicide. Murder can be cleverly concealed by those who know how. Those who 'know how' have the Motive, know the Means. They always have the Opportunity.
"Watch Your Back" is a common phrase in the military, and Law Enforcement. People around you can be more dangerous than the enemy or the reason you're on the scene.
So there is that.
Jacob Cashello was an honest cop, rare in 'our' neighborhood. His grandfather was a cop. His father was a cop, and Jacob became a cop. His grandfather warned his father, "Watch your back!" His father warned Jacob, "Watch your back." Jacob's father told Jacob his grandfather's stories, and some of his own. Jacob was forewarned, and forearmed.
Saturday morning, bright sunshine, April 29, 2025. Jacob has to work. He was out late with Francine, a girl he met a couple weeks ago, who wanted to spend time with him and who he wanted to spend time with.
She was such a counter to his worklife, innocent, not... suspicious, not suspect, naive to the criminal society that is Jacob's daily bread.
She and her friends had come from a party, some of them drunker than it is safe to be in this city. They were finishing out the party and picked the first bar they came to, a bar Jacob came to, where other cops came to. There were a couple there in uniform, more of us in civilian clothes.
But, let him tell you his story, first hand.
I... I'm Jacob Cashello, Jr. I saw her immediately, the one in the crowd who didn't look smashed, fool's faced, simply the nurturing guide, willing to let her friends do what friends do, and to draw the line when and where possible. Herding drunks is like herding cats. Some go where you want them to go. Some go off in a sudden tangent and there's no chance to say, 'No!"
To 'head off' other cops who I knew would close in on her, pretty, calm, smiling, self-assured, I go over first. Her friends are so rowdy they've disturbed the quiet of the bar, Pogo's. Everyone is looking.
"I get the impression you're with these people,"but..." I stop there, not sure what descriptors to use. I certainly don't want to offend her by accurately describing the loud-mouthed, silly group who are obviously her friends.
"I'm the Designated Driver!" she explains, loud enough for me to hear her over the noise. Some are feeding dollar bills into the Jukebox. I call it a jukebox. There used to be one there, that stood on the floor, a real colorful antique from days when my father brought me here as a boy. Now it's a box on the wall. The music comes up, but... we 'regulars' don't like it loud. We're talking.
"Yes, you seem... out of place in this crowd!" I say back.
"I don't drink," she tells me. "No future in it! Alcohol is dope, just like any other dope. It will make you just as stupid..." She pauses as we watch a girl, fall face first against the wall, laughing, and plop into a chair at a table, everyone grabbing for their bottles and glasses.
Alec, the bartender is on the job, over there with a couple bar towels.
"Alcohol is dope," she says again, adjusting to the volume of the music, Eagles, "and it will kill you just as dead as any other dope."
I'm suddenly aware of my second margarita in my hand. I never drink more than two, of anything, beer, mixed drink. I tell her that.
"Well, two might be two too many!" she says, smiling. She reaches, for some reason, touches my left wrist, holding the drink.
"I'm sorry!" she says. "I preach!" She laughs, a sincere laughter. "It's a decision a person has to make for themselves. I decided I didn't want to be 'that' person I became under the influence. It was exciting to... go out and bounce off the walls." She's looking at the girl who 'bounced off the wall'. She's rubbing her left cheek where I saw her make a good contact with that wall.
"But I always woke up the next day regretting it," Francine goes on. I like her voice. Her arms stay crossed across her rib cage, eyeing the party, scanning the room.
"Friday night's drunk was Saturday's do-nothing, and Sunday's too. And Monday's regret. Then, on Wednesday I'd do something stupid in traffic, cut someone off, run a stop sign. And I knew it was last Friday's mistake still giving me grief on Wednesday."
The crowd, her crowd, give out a cacophony of taunts about something one of them has said, or done; I don't know. My attention is... I like her face.
"So I quit," she's saying. "And the first thing I noticed was payday came and I still had money in my purse from last payday!" She laughs. "That was unusual," she explains.
"The next thing I noticed was my friends, family, were just yukkin' it up! Having a great time! And it was all stupid! I could see they just wanted to laugh so no matter what happened or what anyone said it was hilarious to them!
I've drank since then, even drank too much a couple times, but I never went back to..." she seems to search for the words, finds them, "deliberately... intoxicating myself every Friday night. I'll have a drink, maybe two, but then I'm done."
I like listening to her talk. She's... sincere; seems... guileless. This is who she is, not fronting, just... being.
She's looking at the margarita, back up at me.
"You don't seem to be drinking," she says. "Are you a slow drinker."
"I'm like you," I tell her, "never more than two. And this is number two."
Ibex comes in the door. I turn to see who opened it, and there he is, Ibex, the cops call him, a Taxi Driver who is used to hauling drunk cops out of here, known for discretion and service beyond the ride, getting people into their doors, locking and closing the door behind them. Waking up on your kitchen floor is better than waking up on the sidewalk out front, or on the stairs, or the hall outside your neighbor's door.
Sometimes I wonder if he's been... if Ibex has been... compromised. He speaks English well, but his complexion and accent tell me he's an immigrant. He's too... serviceable to cops, I think. His motive is questionable. Nice guy? Maybe. Working an angle? Maybe.
Mackelroy. Mackleroy must have been in a booth in the back. Ibex was scanning the room when I saw his eyes fix back that way, and here comes Mackleroy, in uniform, tumbling foot to foot, looking like John Wayne barreling for the front door. He lays hands on other cops to steady himself and maintain forward motion.
TAKING THIS STORY TO jpfolks.com.