The Lady... or The Beast?
- Korben Dallas
- May 1, 2013
- 5 min read
April 1st, 2014... 0430 Hours
Signal 76 In Progress - Code 3
Domestic Battery, Aggravated
It was, literally, 30 minutes until my 12 hour shift would be over. I was fifty-sixin(sitting with) my squad partner. Just talking about the day and how it was almost over. Radio pipes up, "HOTEL FIVE - ANY OTHER UNIT FOR BACKUP - COPY A DOMESTIC AGGRAVATED BATTERY..."
My partner has two and a half hours to go, so I figure, "He's got this, I'll go back him up." Two other units and myself are enroute to the scene; rather hastily, I might add. Dispatch advised us two subjects, male and female, are in a fight, no further information.
We arrive on scene and we only see the male. It's a white house, single story, facing East with one SUV parked in the driveway facing the residence. The male is seated on the ground, leaning against his car. The rear window is shattered, glass strewn about, all over and around the male. He's got a deep laceration to the left side of his head. He refuses medical attention.
He tells us he got into an argument with his girlfriend. She's on disability. Bi-Polar, among other psychiatric ailments. They decided, mid-argument, to split up and both drive away, come back when cooler heads have prevailed. The male returns to the house to find it empty, so he waits outside. When the female returns, she crashes in his car, then peels out in the yard and off she goes. A few minutes go by, she returns only to crash into his car again. Furious, the male Hulk smashes her front window. This sends the female into a rage, so she reaches into the rear seat of her car, whips out a vice clamp, exits the vehicle, and proceeds to beat her boyfriend with it. A few good whacks later, and she leaves again for the final time.
The other deputies and myself, find ourselves a little confused. She's the one who called 911... where is she? Well, it turns out, she was down the road. So Unit Hotel 6 and myself drive on over and sure enough, she's sitting in the parking lot of a nearby business.
I go to make contact with her. to be furthermore referred to as The Beast. She's probably about 6'1" 325lbs of woman. She's wearing a spaghetti strap top with short shorts, unbuttoned at the front as if she was some college girl at the beach. She steps out of her vehicle and is carrying the vice clamp... for future reference, not a good idea to hold the weapon when confronting police.
She's immediately placed under arrest, the weapon then secured. Everything in the area screams the originally testimony, by the male, is absolutely true. The Best begins to show her furious side. She begins pushing and shoving, trying to get out of the cuffs. Then she begins screaming, "Owwww! Not my back! Not my back! I got injections!!!" Something we'd hear again another hundred times before this call was through. She rears back and pushes me, which means it's time to go to the ground.
I escort her to the ground, as safe and securely as I possibly could, but her legs give out beneath her before I can ever execute a move. When she hits the ground she begins screaming over and over about the injections, her surgery, her hips... anything that could be wrong is apparently wrong. So, we call Fire Rescue out to do a medical lookup.
While we wait for Fire Rescue, she begins what can only be described as a mix of a cat removing a furball from the deepest darkest depths of their throat combined with major league baseball spitting techniques. It was vile. Fire Rescue arrives, laughs, checks The Beast for any signs of trauma, and advises she's fine.
This is when things actually begin to go south. The Beast begins to progressively decide she can no longer function as a cooperative adult. Piece by piece, she begins to lose motor function, only to gain it back promptly when the opposite is requested. Ask her to straighten her legs, "I can't!!" as she forces them bent. As her to bend her legs? "I can't!!!" as she forces them straight. Everything she could do, to make our lives a living hell, she does.
It's about that time we get sick and tired of it. My squad partner and I finally decided we'd had enough of this lady's bullshit. We pick her and and stuff her into the back of a patrol car like a Thanksgiving Turkey. The wailing is only progressing.
First we transport her to the hospital. Upon arrival to the hospital, she can no longer walk. A wheelchair becomes a requirement, but she refuses to get out of the car of her own accord. A simple, albeit straight to the point warning follows, "Ma'am, I understand you're hurting, that's why we're at the hospital. However, if you don't get out of the car, we will force you out of the car, and that will hurt a lot worse."
She chose not to take us up on that offer. We glove up, because we don't want to make skin contact with The Beast, and we pull her out of the car feet first. THUD! We lift her up, put her in the wheelchair, and she just slinks out of it. It was like watching a mud slide, in Florida. We eventually had to tie her to the wheelchair using a combination of wheelchair accessories and bedsheets.
She makes it into the hospital, I can't even remember how we got her into a bed, and she goes TEN-EIGHT (crazy)! She begins throwing punches at nurses, CNAs, doctors, paramedics, everyone. Thankfully, the hospital had a few fluffy cuffs hanging around (get your mind out of the gutter!). She was strapped down to the bed and given some time to cool off.
About an hour passes by and finally the Doc is in to see her. They talk a bit about the injections, again. Turns out they were pain relief injections... so although she was in furious amounts of pain, she shouldn't have felt any of it. The Doc asks her to stand up and walk around a bit, she does. The Doc asks her to do a squat, she does. The Doc asks her to waltz, and they dance around the room like it's the Black freaking Swan.
Doc turns to me and says, "Yea, she's full of shit. She's fine. You're clear." then leaves the room quite promptly. The other deputies and myself glance at each other, confirming what we've known all along. Now, however, it's time to leave the hospital and go to jail.
By now, morning shift has arrived, and one of my favorite units has come to aide. His temper has a fuse much shorter than mine, and by now, he's been apprised as to the situation. We ask her again, quite nicely, to get into the chair so we can leave. She decides, yet again, her body is no longer cooperative. She's in pain. Needs time. Wants to stay over night.
Nope.
The day shift unit leaves for a moment and comes back with shackles, cuffs, bedsheets, and rope. I won't say how, but we got her back into that wheelchair. By the time we were done, had we been boyscouts, we would have been deported out of America. She looked like something straight out of Hellraiser. We take her to the car, stuff her in, and slam the car door shut.
We shake hands. HOTEL 4 takes her to jail.
Word is, the jail deputies had the same trouble getting her into the jail. I heard, through the grapevine, she was follicly escorted right where she needed to be. Thank god she didn't have the money for bail.
