Prologue + Chapter 1: Shared
Prologue
It’s hard to be seen as a real writer in the age of AI. Because everyone can be an AI-enhanced writer. As our world becomes more and more artificial, the only thing real writers can do is become less and less. Research writing not associated with laboratories…dead. Or gonna be. All that will be left to wonder about is what’s going on in our minds and in the minds of our fellows. For now, AI cannot access that.
The first time I got in trouble for seeing the world differently was in 4th grade. It was my final year in parochial school. My teacher, Mrs. DiLeonardo, suffered a stroke, and as a result, the right side of her mouth was permanently closed – lips tight. But the left side worked. So she had a Humphrey Bogart kind of thing going on, when she spoke. And at the age of nine, I had a knack for getting her to use that side of her mouth, often loudly.
She had the haircut of a boy – with a part on one side of her head. Her bangs went across her forehead, all the way to the opposite ear. She wore pants, but seeing them was rare because it was hard to recall times when she was not seated at her desk. On Monday mornings, she would take attendance and ask each of us whether we had gone to church and whether our parents had put their envelopes in the basket.
My father would put a buck in the basket when it came around – without the envelope. I’d have to explain this to my teacher in front of my classmates every Monday. That’s how they tracked the clientele in the Roman Catholic Church back then. And they were so cheap that they wouldn’t even supply their classrooms with Kleenex. I know this because when Mrs. DiLeonardo told me that I could not have a tissue, I improvised by blowing my nose on my blue Saint Joseph’s School tie. The next day, my mother gave me a box of tissues as a donation to the class for all to share.
Uniforms were the same for decades.
One day, we had to leave our classroom and line up in the hallway so that Monsignor Fanece could bless our throats. That’s what the devout Catholics do on St. Blaise Day. I had no idea what was going on at the front of the line, and as I moved up, I could see the short, chubby fella, black dress shirt, white priest collar, with a long white candle in each hand. When the kids got to him, he crossed them and placed them on their shoulders so that the candles were in an X – the center of which touched the front of the neck. He said some mumbo jumbo, and then, after making the sign of the cross, it was the next person’s turn.
When it came my turn, I questioned it – the candles on the neck thing. That didn’t go well. My problem was that the Monsignor had one of those chins that connected to his chest, without any contour. Like a turkey. And if whatever he was doing to me was going to make me look like that, I wanted no part of it. I tried to decline. That did not make Mrs. D. look so good in front of the big boss. So when we got back to the classroom, I found myself in the back of the room, standing, facing the wall, until my feet and legs were tired.
Perhaps if I hadn’t tried to reject the honor of the candles, the words that’d come out of my mouth in the years to come would’ve been better accepted. It’s a blessing and a curse to see things differently than prescribed. Alternative views are great for conversation, and some people find them interesting. Others, though, punish you for it. How much time and effort do you spend keeping your views of things to yourself – because someone else might not like them?
It was said that Oliver North got to where he was by never questioning anything, doing as he was told, and not thinking for himself. Maybe I coulda been a big shot like Ollie if only I coulda STFU now and again. I tried. I still try. But not here. This story is going to be told my way. My voice. Through good editing, the punctuation may change, but it’s my book, and it is going to be written my way.
The first half of my life was lived in the City of Niagara Falls, NY. It’s a place that once had a population of more than 100,000 – and in the time that the population of our country doubled, the number of people who live in my homestead has been cut in half. It is a struggling place, with many of its inhabitants struggling too. A struggle I’ve watched up front and in person, and then continuously from afar. And I didn’t just watch the struggles – I’ve also been a part of them.
The through line of this book is the events of January 18, 2025. A life-changing night for me. Things will be shared here. I anticipate both encouragement and rebuke. It’s said that the pen is mighty – and social media kind of proves that, doesn’t it?
I am writing a book. Even if nobody reads it. It’s mine.
I dedicate this to all of the people who worked so hard to take my voice away, but more importantly, to those who told me it’s okay to have one.
CHAPTER 1
1994. I was 21. The Pleasuredome in Niagara Falls, NY, was a massive, massive nightclub. At full capacity, there’d be somewhere between a thousand and two thousand patrons – many dancing on the main floor, others in the sports section, and lines of people moving like caravans in a desert from one section to the other. Girls walked around with old school cigarette trays from the 1930’s. If you’ve never seen one, it’s a box that is held to their waists by a strap that winds around the backs of their necks. Only these cigarette boxes weren’t carrying cigarettes. Rather, the boxes were trays that held an array of shots. In test tubes, though. Not the typical shot glasses.
Dancing on the bar was not only approved. It was expected.
They wore miniskirts with sneakers. A uniform with mandatory cleavage, and 1990s-approved teased hairstyles. On one side of the tray, they had a few shots that weren’t shots at all. They were just fruit juices. This way, when a patron said, “Let me get you one too,” they could suck one down and pocket the money as an additional tip – without getting tipsy. It was a trick of the trade that paid off in an alcohol-infused, sexually charged environment.
Every once in a while, just like in the movie Coyote Ugly, a bartender would stand up on the bar with a bottle of something and walk around, flat out pouring booze in any open mouth they passed. The song "Gin and Juice" by Snoop was a good one for getting that kind of action going. By the end of the night, the place was a smell bomb of alcohol and sweat. Vomit and piss covered the bathroom floors. It was open until 3 AM – and with most people arriving at around 10, there was plenty of time to work up a stink.
The Rainbow Bridge – the one that separates Niagara Falls, NY, from Niagara Falls, Ontario, was within walking distance. So, there was a bit of a United Nations thing that went on between two countries separated by a river. We shared a giant waterfall, so you’d think we’d all get along. And we did…sometimes. The American boys loved the Canadian girls, and the American girls often dug the Canadian boys. They were different, and there are times when hanging with someone different is both exciting and fun.
When it first opened, there was all this hype. People would line up to pay the cover charge just to get inside. When the hype wore off, the cover charge went away. When that happened, a Canadian fella decided to sit on a stool in front of the place, checking ID and collecting a cover charge for himself. I was in line the night this happened and unknowingly contributed to his scheme.
Just as he’d taken the money from my hand, I saw a fast-moving, black-gloved fist, seemingly from nowhere. The scammer, who was sitting on the stool, took that fist right in the left side of his face. I watched as his head jerked to the right, just like Rocky’s head snapped again and again in the movies. He was off that stool and on the ground so fast. The swarm of people I was in froze. I remember jumping back with my arms spread out, just looking to get some room. This was happening way too close to me, and I couldn't decipher if I was going to be a part of a Battle Royal or not.
I wasn’t the only one backing up. Others did the same, and in an instant, a circle formed, just like in high school when two combatants were going at it, and everyone wanted to cheer and watch. But we weren’t in high school. These were grown adults, with no teachers around to break things up. The most nuclear sucker punch I’d ever seen was cause for a burst of adrenaline, and my body’s fight or flight response. The body that lay on the ground covered its face with both hands. The one who threw the punch leaned over and, with both hands, snatched him, trying to stand him up.
He grabbed him by the hair, yelling, commanding him to rise. The fist that hit the man was connected to an arm, which was connected to the body of a uniformed Niagara Falls Police Officer who stood no less than 6’ 4”. I knew him. His little brother was in my graduating class. Collectively, we onlookers went from panic to confusion. Like, what the hell is going on?
There was money all over the ground, and no one was moving to pick it up. Other boys in blue came into the picture. They started grasping up the money and handing it out to the spectators. “Mike, did this mother fucker take money from you?” the puncher said. I answered in the affirmative. He held the guy with one hand, pulling money from his pocket with the other. This cop – who lived two blocks from me – handed me a wad of cash, telling me, “That should cover it.”
Like all of them, he wore a bulletproof vest and carried a gun. He was Batman, with his utility belt, a can of mace, and a stick he could beat people with if he wanted. A radio to call his friends when he needed them, and handcuffs to slap on once the beatings were done. All those tools. And he just used his fist. The police department's night shift in Niagara Falls, NY, wasn’t policing. It was Steven Seagal in Above the Law. Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Jean Claude van Damme, in Bloodsport.
He slammed the guy into a wall a few times. Turned him around, put cuffs on him, and dragged him through a crowd that parted as though Moses and the Israelites were going through the Red Sea. The fake bar employee was Canadian, and he was on his way to an American jail – pockets turned inside out. The bail money he needed was in my hands. And shortly after that, it’d be used to buy test tube shots for me and a girl with long brown hair, a golden tan, and blue eyes, who was wearing a black cocktail dress. We’d have a shot, then dance. Another one, then dance some more. Until it was 3 AM, and we were covered in sweat, hoping we didn’t smell like the place we were in.
No body cams. No iPhones. Law enforcement, in 1994, was real-life, immediate, and painful…enforcement with force. And nobody questioned this. Without a doubt, when that Canadian was delivered to the holding cell in Niagara Falls, NY, he was charged with resisting arrest. This charge, and only this charge, could be the one to explain his concussion and swollen face.
At the old Niagara Falls Police Department building, arrestees would roll in through a garage at the lowest level. The garage door would shut, and then they’d be escorted in their cuffs to an elevator, taken up to be booked, and shown to their suites for the night. When the elevator doors slid closed, justice was often doled out again. We were told as kids that if we should ever be arrested, as soon as the elevator doors close to drop to our knees and beg for mercy. There’d be two of them, and one of you. Neither your screams nor your complaints could help you.
There were certain restaurants and bars in the city that were haunts of the NFPD. Even when off duty, they traveled together. Often, they didn’t see one another as colleagues. It was more of a fraternal order. A NATO of sorts. Any attack against one was an attack against all. Even if someone complained about a thing that went down – like a kamikaze KO blow to the face while seated on a stool, the effort would be futile. Because none of the 40+ people who watched it would have remembered seeing it happen. Especially if you lived there. The last thing you’d want is to be on the collective radar of the NFPD.
They’re team players. But not always. In the early 2000’s, a Niagara Falls Police officer got into it with a civilian while off duty at a shithole bar on Main Street in the city. They wound up in an altercation outside of the bar, and the off-duty officer, whether he won or lost the scuffle, made it a police issue. He said things that weren’t all that true about what happened. He expected that his badge-worn brothers would support his cause. That was until they realized the fella he was fighting with was the real DNA brother of one of their posse.
There were a lot of rumors about this one. The outcome of which was less relevant than the fact that the off-duty officer took his own life and was found hanging by a fellow officer who’d gone to his house to check on him. I knew him, and the one who found him. I considered both of them fiends. They gave me a low-level membership with its privileges card. For instance, I got a speeding ticket once, and when I went to court, the file was empty. No officer appeared to testify that I was speeding, and with no ticket to refer to, I walked out of there scot-free. In return, I’d deliver a box of cigars or other liquid consumables to anyone who helped me out.
My perception of law enforcement wasn’t only shaped by what I’d seen and known of it growing up in my city. Like many my age and beyond, the recesses of our minds hold fuzzy camcorder footage of a man lying on the ground, while a circle of men leaned over him, taking turns hitting him with clubs. It was one of the most devastating and brutal beatings to air on television sets across the nation. A saga that resulted in the burning of city blocks, and a retaliatory, unforgettable attack on a man who was pulled from a truck and nearly murdered in broad daylight in Los Angeles, California.
Rodney King and Reginal Denny were both pawns on a chessboard of which the pieces continue to move, thirty-five years later. In November of 2006, a Buffalo Police Officer named Cariol Horne responded to a call. When she arrived, she found fellow officer Greg Kwiatkowski with a chokehold on Neal Mack. Hey, these things happen. The problem was that Mack was already in handcuffs while he was being choked.
Horne did the right thing. She intervened. She yelled for Kwiatkowski to stop, then physically tried to remove Kwiatkowski’s arm from Mack’s neck. Kwiatkowski responded by punching his colleague in the face, causing her to require facial reconstructive surgery. Horne, with her broken face, was then internally charged with interfering with an arrest and fired in 2008. She lost her job. She lost her pension.
Fifteen years after that, Horne was awarded back pay and her full pension. And the City of Buffalo passed “Cariol’s Law,” requiring officers to intervene when one of their own is seen using excessive force. It also provides them with some protection when they do. Imagine – Cariol Horne had to fight her termination for a decade + one half.
I know it is a stressful job – being law enforcement. A distant cousin of mine, Dave Kinney did it for 19 years. In 2014, he took his own life, too. A single, self-inflicted gunshot wound at the age of 48. He had four sons. If only he’d chosen a different profession.
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January 18, 2025
In December, 2025, while on my way home from work, I was rear-ended by a semi on the curved stretch of I-290 leading to I-495. My 2015 silver Camry SE, still drivable, would be delivered to the autobody shop approved by my insurance company the next day for repairs. The rent-a-car place right down the street had a replica of my car in its lot, only newer by nearly a decade. That was the one I chose. When it comes to cars, I am a creature of habit – having been in a Camry SE for nearly 20 years.
On January 18, 2025, much too late in the evening after taking the exact same curve from 290 to 495, as I did five days a week, the blue lights of the Massachusetts State Police came on behind me. My pullover was smooth. I flipped my turn signal to let the Trooper know he had my attention, slowed, came to a stop, and activated my hazards.
That is where this story begins.
The pause of time from pullover to police to motorist contact is torture. There’s an entire world of possibilities now. The only things I believed were these…be honest. Don’t lie. They hate liars. Be respectful and do as you’re told. Make sure they can see your hands. Stay calm. Apologize. Admit wrongdoing. Make eye contact. Be human. They are humans, too. These people are used to and trained to manage assholes. Don’t be one, and everything should be fine.
In most circumstances, they know who you are before they even get to your car. Aside from the driver’s history on the road and prior engagements with the law, they can even take a moment to check a Facebook profile, LinkedIn, or Instagram. In a couple of minutes more, they can know the value of your home and what you pay in taxes. If they see you are a fellow first responder, you’ll be treated as such. If you are a keyboard-warrior cop-basher with images of you and Ice-T on your Facebook page, good luck.
What is the first piece of information they had about me? That I was in a rental.
My window was down before he got there. And, when he did, I wanted to see his face. But I couldn’t. The light in my face was an intimidator. For I could be seen but could not see. I have no complaints about this practice, because that is what I would do, too. If the person in the vehicle wants to hurt the soon-to-be captor, it can only be done while blinded by a light. It is the first line of defense in an interaction that’s really unknown by both sides. Advantage police – and that is the way it should be.
He had an accent. A strange one. It was a nuance that threw me a bit. Not as authoritarian as I’d expected. But talking at me. Not to me. He wasn’t alone. On a dark highway at 3:00 AM, with almost no passersby, there were two of them. Two troopers, working me together. I didn’t know if this was a blessing or a curse. My gut, my experience, told me to stay cool. I know that whatever is said by one will be sworn to by the other. I’m a good boy with no priors. Maybe they’d both feel like giving me a pass.
And that is where this gets bad. Really bad. The reason there were two of them is this…the one with the funny accent was being trained. He was wearing pull-ups. And the veteran was tasked with teaching him how to use the potty. Field training means strict adherence to policy and shared accountability. The only way to teach him how to do the paperwork is to have paperwork to create. For me, this was bad.