Chapter 5: Street Educator Sean—From Tough Love to Office Politics
Jason wanted to stand, but fear locked his knees; they trembled so violently he couldn't get up.
All he could do was remain seated, tears streaming down his face as he raised his shaking hands toward Erin in apology.
"I'm sorry, ma'am! Please forgive me—I'll never, ever do anything like that again!"
Jason finally understood why his mom always warned him not to pull stupid stunts on the streets.
His dad? Well, he'd bailed before Jason turned two—another deadbeat father statistic.
"Okay, I accept your apology. Sean, let's go."
Erin feared this impulsive confrontation might land Sean in serious trouble with Internal Affairs.
She dismissed the teenager's tearful apology, her only thought getting Sean away from the scene before things escalated further.
She could tell the kid didn't actually regret what he'd done; he was just terrified he was about to get arrested—or worse.
Sean said nothing, simply turning his attention to the kid sitting next to Jason, who was visibly shaking.
"You. What did you say your name was?"
"M-Marcus, sir."
"Well, Marcus, let me make something crystal clear. You see young men dying on street corners every single day in this city because they thought talking tough made them hard. You want to end up a chalk outline on some sidewalk because you ran your mouth to the wrong person?"
"N-no, sir! I don't."
Marcus's whole body shook hard enough to rattle the seat.
He'd never imagined some stupid catcalling could bring this kind of response.
"Then keep your comments to yourself and show some respect to women. Next time, the person you disrespect might not be as patient as Officer Gresham here. They might just put you in the hospital—or the morgue. You understand me?"
"Y-yes," Marcus answered in a whisper.
"I can't hear you!" Sean's voice cut through the bus.
"YES, SIR!"
Sean leaned in close and spoke quietly enough that only Marcus could hear:
"My name is Sergeant Sean Horace, Western Division LAPD. If I ever hear about you joining a gang or harassing women again, I will personally make it my mission to find you. Are we clear?"
"Yes, sir," Marcus whispered, absolutely terrified.
Sean straightened up, holstered his weapon, and addressed the entire bus:
"All of you—listen up. You want to act tough? Join the Marines. You want respect? Earn it through your actions, not your mouth. The streets don't need more punks playing gangster—they need young men with futures."
With that final warning, he stepped off the bus, Erin quickly following behind.
The bus driver exhaled in relief once their Audi disappeared from view. For a moment there, he'd genuinely worried this would make the evening news on KTLA 5.
Amid the scattered sniffles and whispers behind him, he caught sight of Jason and Marcus in the rearview mirror and felt a flicker of satisfaction.
"Serves you little punks right," he muttered under his breath.
Those two were notorious troublemakers at their school; today they'd run headfirst into someone who didn't take their crap.
Still, he had to ask for liability reasons:
"Do any of you want me to call the police? File a report?"
Both boys, raised in neighborhoods where calling the cops often made things worse, knew that filing a complaint could mean retaliation—or worse, that scary cop showing up at their houses.
Neither wanted to wake up one morning to find Sergeant Horace on their doorstep asking uncomfortable questions.
So in perfect, panicked unison they both said:
"No!"
"Hell no!"
The driver shrugged and put the bus in gear.
"Suit yourselves. But maybe think twice before you harass people next time."
Inside Sean's Audi
Silence settled over the car. Sean's pulse stayed steady; he drove with calm focus, the earlier confrontation already filed away in his mental archives.
He felt great—he'd handled the situation on the spot, defended his partner's honor, and taught those kids a lesson they desperately needed.
Hold a grudge and it festers; back down and you look weak.
The intimidation had been calculated theater; bare-handed he would've had to actually fight them, which would've meant paperwork, injuries, lawsuits.
A gun and a badge, though, made people adjust their attitudes faster—and with far fewer complications.
Results were perfect: everyone calm, nobody hurt, no shots fired—his version of 'community policing' and 'teachable moments.'
No casualties, everything within acceptable parameters, and if anything went sideways the System could handle the fallout.
A soft chime sounded in his head:
System Notification:
"Reward acquired: $3,200"
"Total available balance: $2,748,200"
"New Skill Unlocked: Quick Draw (You fire before they can rack a slide)"
"Buff: First shot -20% accuracy, second shot +50% accuracy, third shot guaranteed hit"
"Passive Buff: Days on administrative leave = enhanced physical conditioning"
"Special Buff: When your body camera 'malfunctions,' your taser is always fully charged"
"Special Buff: Immune to all biological and chemical toxins"
Ten days' pay for five minutes' work—and completely tax-free.
System cash could appear as direct deposit or cold hard bills, depending on his needs.
Regular salary? Watching $120K gross shrivel to $80K after taxes made him want to scream.
Federal tax bite.
State tax bite.
Social Security bite.
Medicare bite.
Property tax bite.
Sales tax bite.
The "United States of Taxation" was right.
As Sean savored his victory, Erin in the passenger seat finally spoke up:
"Should we call Lieutenant Trist and give her a heads-up about what just happened?"
Lieutenant Louise Trist—the watch commander on duty today—was Sean's direct supervisor.
After what had just transpired, Erin worried Sean might land himself in hot water, so she suggested calling Trist first; that way they could get ahead of any potential complaints and prepare a defense.
"It's fine. Don't worry—I'll handle it if anything comes up."
Then came a long silence, broken only by the occasional honk of passing traffic and the steady hum of the engine.
"Sean...?"
"Yeah?" Sean responded.
"Thank you. For back there."
Sean's actions had genuinely touched Erin; the gratitude she offered came straight from the heart.
He'd barely known her two hours and he'd already gone to bat for her without hesitation.
"You're my partner. That's what partners do."
At that precise moment, Sean's phone rang. He gestured to Erin to answer it—driving while on the phone was a dangerous habit.
"Who is it?"
"Lieutenant Trist."
Sean thought: Speak of the devil.
Erin answered and put it on speaker. A crisp, no-nonsense woman's voice came through.
"Sean! Where are you right now?"
When your commanding officer asked where you were during shift hours, you gave a perfectly 'honest' answer—or at least a plausible one.
"I'm on South San Vicente Boulevard, near Crestia Park, showing Officer Gresham the patrol area and familiarizing her with the division boundaries."
"Funny, I don't recall Western Division having jurisdiction over that specific area."
"Well, Lieutenant, I figured I'd show the rookie the full patrol zone—what if we get called to assist there someday? Shows initiative and thorough training, right?"
Trist cut straight through his bullshit without mercy.
"So—Italian or Mexican food?"
Busted. Sean showed no embarrassment; he just kept the charm offensive going.
Erin, however, flushed red, looking like a co-conspirator caught red-handed.
"Lieutenant Trist, you're the smartest officer I know—you must have an IQ of at least 160."
"Really? Interesting. Because three different women in Administrative Services have told me you said the exact same thing to them, except you pegged their IQs at only 120. I guess mine's the highest, huh?"
Sean grinned. "What can I say? You're exceptional, Lieutenant."
"Uh-huh. So what's the real story? Where are you actually?"
"Grabbing an early lunch with my new partner. Team bonding. Building rapport. Very important for officer safety."
Trist sighed, but there was amusement in her voice.
"You're impossible, Sean. But fine—just don't make me regret cutting you slack."
"Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am."
"By the way, congratulations on your promotion to Detective next month. You'll be the youngest in the division's history."
Sean could hear nail clippers in the background; clearly his lieutenant had some downtime, hence the casual call.
"My esteemed superior Lieutenant Trist, let me remind you—next month I'll be a Detective, same rank as you were when you started. Might want to adjust your tone accordingly, ma'am."
"Roger that, Detective Horace," Trist said with obvious sarcasm.
She laughed at the banter.
She didn't actually care that he'd slipped out during shift hours; they bantered like this daily, yet when it mattered she trusted Sean to be first through the door on any hot call.
The world always grants special leniency to the genuinely talented.
"Honestly, Sean, if your last name wasn't Horace I'd swear you're the chief's illegitimate son or something. Fastest promotion track I've ever seen—minimum time in grade, then straight to the exam and up you go."
Trist's tone carried genuine admiration mixed with playful envy.
"Maybe I'm just that good, Lieutenant."
"Maybe. Or maybe you've got friends in high places. Either way, don't let it go to your head."
"Never, ma'am. My ego's perfectly sized."
"Your ego has its own zip code, Sean. Anyway, I've got a meeting. Try not to create any international incidents before end of shift."
"No promises, but I'll do my best."
Trist hung up, and Erin stared at Sean in disbelief.
"You talk to your commanding officer like that?"
Sean shrugged. "Trist and I have an understanding. I get results, she cuts me slack. It's a beautiful relationship."
"That's... not how they taught us the chain of command works at the academy."
"Academy teaches you theory. The streets teach you reality. There's a difference."
The reference to Sean's rapid promotion had deeper context than Erin realized.
In American law enforcement, particularly in large urban departments, there's always been an element of politics and connections.
It's not as blatant as it used to be—back in the day when police departments were dominated by Irish and Italian communities who promoted their own—but it still exists.
The LAPD Chief happened to be Irish-American, which had led to the running joke that Sean might be his illegitimate son—doubt only dispelled because Sean's family was clearly documented Arizona ranchers, not Irish.
Had Sean actually been Irish, his lightning-fast promotion would've screamed nepotism and political connections.
Think America doesn't have nepotism or back-room deals?
It's just called "networking" instead.
In Los Angeles, like any major city, who you know matters just as much as what you know.
Sean's rapid rise was legitimate—his arrest record, case clearance rate, and lack of civilian complaints spoke for themselves.
But people always wondered.
Erin processed this information, realizing she'd landed in a partnership with someone who clearly operated in shades of gray the academy had never mentioned.
"So... Italian food?"
Sean grinned. "Hell yeah. There's this place in Culver City that makes carbonara that'll change your life."
"Lead the way, Sergeant."
"That's the spirit, rookie. That's the spirit."
(To be continued...)
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