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There is a series of awful noises from the house. Three more gunshots.
The big glass picture window in the front of the house shatters and crumbles. All the police officers, including my dad and his two companions, drop to the ground.
It’s at this moment that I see something that sends fear through my whole body. My dad squats close to the ground and begins to creep slowly toward the house.
I can see that he’s holding a cell phone in his right hand. I’m so shaken with fear that I actually, really, absolutely think that I should scream at him to get the hell away from where he’s crouching.
Then I hear his voice shouting to someone in the house. “Pick up your phone. Get on your phone.”
Inside the house, I start to make out two figures. Familiar ones. I can see Randy approach some sort of table. DeeDee is near him, but I can’t tell who is threatening whom. They both look terrified.
And so am I.
“Pick it up,” my dad yells.
Then DeeDee shouts, “Go ahead. Pick up the damn phone.”
Randy holds the phone to his ear. For me the whole scene is one huge horror movie. Except here I am, an actual part of it.
I kneel and then crawl around. I find a spot where I think I won’t be noticed, and I watch the floodlighted front lawn where the movie is unfolding. But this is no movie set. This is the very real little front lawn of a little house where my father has become the easy target of a bad guy with a gun.
I hear my dad’s voice. He’s not really shouting, but he’s loud. Commanding. I don’t know how he doesn’t seem afraid.
“Pick up the cell phone, Randy. Pick it up. Talk to me,” my dad says.
A woman’s voice quickly follows. I have no trouble hearing her, either.
“Go ahead, Randy. Pick up the phone. Pick up the damn phone.”
My dad keeps moving slowly toward the house. All the other police officers remain close to the sidewalk in front.
Dad stops moving. He holds the phone to his ear. He talks.
“Randy, can you hear me? Are you with me?”
My eyes are jumping back and forth between the broken window and my father. Randy Pearson does not answer my father’s questions. For a moment, I survey the bigger scene near the sidewalk. There is a lot of quiet movement. I see officers and plainclothes detectives moving across neighbors’ lawns. I hear voices in loud whispers giving instructions.
“473 to house northwest.”
“135 with Glock at barbecue setup.”
“Check 496 and 553 on rear neighbor roof.”
Then I hear my dad’s voice. It’s firm. No shaking, no nerves.
“It would be really great if you could throw your gun out the window, Randy. For your family, for your wife, for yourself.”
Dad gets his answer.
A six-bullet volley of shots. Two or three of the bullets snap the bark off a skinny tree in the front yard. Lots of people drop flat to the ground. Even I duck automatically, holding my hands over my head. Not my dad. For the first time I notice that beneath his jacket, he’s wearing a full-armor vest, neck level to below waist level.
“You’re talkin’ to the wrong person, Alex,” I hear Mr. Pearson yell.
“No, my friend. I’m talkin’ to you. There’s no problem you’re having that we cannot sort out,” says my dad.
“Goddam it, Alex. You’re wrong. You guys have it all wrong. My wife is the person shooting the gun.”
SOMETIMES,NOT Alot of times, my dad would tell me about some of the rough things he faced as a police detective. Yes, I’m sure he cleaned up his stories of the drug busts and the gang fights and the homicides he was involved in. But how many times did I think, how many times did I say,I wish I could have been there? How many times did I race to the scene of a call, hoping to see some action like this?
