High Noon

always will be the primary goal of negotiation. Everything, absolutely everything else, is secondary to that. Therefore, in this instance—as every single instance is different—I elected a face-to-face, elected to provide the subject with a single beer because I believed those choices would assist me in talking him down. As he’s alive, as there were no injuries, as the weapon he held was never discharged but given to me by him, I believe—in this instance—my choices were the correct ones.”
    “You also used a third-party intermediary.”
    Now Phoebe smiled, sweet Southern sugar. “Officer Meeks, it appears you have several questions and problems with this particular incident and my handling of it. I wonder if you’d be more satisfied if the subject had just jumped.”
    “Seeing as he was only sitting up four stories, he’d only have a couple broken bones if he had. Unless he shot you and himself beforehand.”
    “There’s an interesting train of thought. Disbelieving a subject is serious about suicide, or could indeed cause his own death.”
    Casually, she reached up to secure a stray wisp of hair that had escaped from its pins. And kept her voice just as casual. “I was acquainted with a negotiator who had this train of thought over a jumper who was about twelve feet off the ground, unarmed. Mostly being a nuisance, from my acquaintance’s point of view, one that was keeping him from doing more important things with his valuable time. And he allowed that opinion to show. The subject jumped, headfirst, crushing his skull on the sidewalk. He was very dead, Officer Meeks.
    “Anybody know why this nuisance ended up with a toe tag?”
    “Negotiator screwed it up,” someone called out.
    “That’s right. The negotiator screwed it up by forgetting the prime directive: Preserve human life.
    “If you have any more questions or comments about the incident, please feel free to write them up for me. But for right now? We’re moving on.”
    “I’d like to—”
    “Officer.” The temper Phoebe rarely set free strained on the leash. “You may be mistaken about who is running this session. I am. You may also be confused about the order of rank here. I am your superior.”
    “It seems to me, ma’am, that you don’t want to address your questionable decisions during a crisis negotiation.”
    “It seems to me, boy, that you are unable to take no for an answer, by a woman who happens to outrank you, and that you’re both rigid in your thinking and argumentative in attitude. These are very, very poor qualities in a negotiator. I’ll so note to your captain, and hope that we’ll be relieved of each other before much longer. Now, I want you to close your mouth and open your ears. That’s an order, Officer Meeks. If you choose to ignore it, I’ll write you up for insubordination here and now. Clear?”
    His face had gone an angry red, and his eyes spoke furious volumes. But he nodded curtly.
    “That’s fine. Now, tactics, teamwork and the negotiator’s role.”
     
    The minute the session was over, Phoebe headed straight for the women’s room. She didn’t beat her head against the wall, though she considered it. Instead, she turned to the mirror, gripped the sink below it.
    “Arnold Meeks has a dick the size and width of a baby carrot, and his smirky, insulting, juvenile behavior is a pathetic attempt to compensate for his pinkie-sized weenie.”
    She nodded, relaxed her shoulders. Then dropped her head when she heard a toilet flush. How stupid could she be to mouth off to the mirror without checking the stalls first?
    Phoebe knew the woman who stepped out, but that didn’t negate the mortification. Detective Liz Alberta was a solid cop, a strong-willed brunette who worked in sex crimes.
    “Lieutenant.”
    “Detective.”
    Liz ran water in the sink, turned her own face right and left as if checking her reflection. “Arnie Meeks is a fuckhead,” she said casually.
    “Oh.” Phoebe sighed. “Well.”
    “He tells tits-and-ass jokes in the break room. I like a good joke same as the rest, and boys will be boys and all that. But I took some exception, and made my exception known after he told me the majority of rapes are bogus, pulling out the old chestnut about how a woman can run faster with her skirt up than a man can with his pants down.”
    “The fuckhead said that?”
    “Oh yes, he did. And I filed a complaint on him. He isn’t a fan of mine.” Liz fluffed at her short, dark hair.