I head to the table closest to me, the one just off to the left of the podium, and settle into the plastic chair. I immediately tug at the hem of my blouse, smoothing the fabric over my front and giving the back a discreet pull to ensure it’s not riding up.
Almost like a bell had gone off, officers finish filtering into the room, their casual chatter filling the space as they took their seats. Some carry coffee, and others drop into seats without looking up. The energy shifts quickly from quiet anticipation to something more alive.
Two officers step up to the front of the room alongside Sergeant Rodriguez. One of them—the younger-looking of the pair—immediately draws my attention.
If I had to guess, he’s in his late twenties, Hispanic, and stands at least 6'2". His build is lean but solid, with just enough muscle to make his presence known, even through the Kevlarvest strapped to his chest. While some officers chose to wear the long-sleeved uniforms, he has opted for the short-sleeved black uniform shirt, which fully displays the black and white tattoo sleeve of a snake slithering through a garden of roses wrapped around his left arm.
His black hair is cropped short, the ends curling slightly where they meet his forehead. Under the fluorescent lights, his light brown eyes almost appear golden, sharp, and observant beneath subtly furrowed brows. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache frame a jawline so defined it looks carved.
He glances my way—just for a second. His expression is unreadable, calm. Not hostile… but definitely not inviting either. Then, without a word, he turns his attention back to the quiet conversation he’s having with Rodriguez and the older officer.
He gives off a grumpy vibe. And if I had to bet, I’d say he’s the one I’ll be riding with.
Lovely.
Eventually, he and the older officer take a seat at a table behind me, and my shoulders tense slightly as Rodriguez steps up to the podium.
“Alright, settle down,” she says, her voice firm but easy. The hum of conversation dies almost instantly, giving way to quiet focus. I do a quick scan of the room—twenty-something officers, all in varying stages of alertness—and then shift my attention back to Rodriguez.
“First things first,” Rodriguez says, her voice carrying easily across the room, “we’ve got a new intern joining us today.”
She gestures in my direction—a silent cue to stand. As she continues, I push myself up from the chair, smoothing down my blouse again. “She’s here to assist with whatever needs doing and to get a real sense of what the job’s like.”
I offer a small, slightly awkward wave to the room full of uniformed strangers. “Hi, everyone,” I say, keeping my tone assteady as I can, even though there’s a small flip in my stomach. “I’m Raelynn Carson, and I’m looking forward to working with you all.”
A few heads turn—nothing dramatic—just polite curiosity, maybe mild disinterest.
I give a quick smile and sink back into my seat, doing my best not to look like I’m analyzing every glance thrown my way.
But I got through it—no stumbling, awkward stammering, or spontaneous combustion.
I’ll take the win.
Rodriguez spends the next five minutes going over a few current cases and shift updates—suspected drug activity near the university, a string of break-ins in the downtown district, and a briefing on a recent domestic violence call that escalated fast. Her tone remains composed yet firm, and the room listens attentively. Even the ones who look half asleep seem to take mental notes.
Once she finishes explaining everything and assigning officers to specific areas, she steps down from the podium. She strides smoothly across the room toward my table, her boots barely making a sound against the scuffed tile. Around us, officers begin rising from their seats, conversations picking back up as they filter out of the room to prepare for patrol. The room is nearly empty within moments, except for me and the two officers still seated at the table behind mine.
Grumpy and his partner.
“Miss Carson,” Rodriguez starts, “you’ll be riding along with Officers Emilio Perez and Jacoby Kline today.”
I half-turn in my seat to face them and offer a polite smile. My eyes flick to the name tags clipped to their uniforms, putting names to their faces.
She nods once, then adds, “At the end of your shift, we’ll meet and go over your plan.” She turns and exits the room, leaving me in the increasingly awkward silence that follows.
Officer Kline is the first to break the silence. He leans forward slightly and extends a hand with an easy, warm smile. “Welcome aboard, Raelynn.”
I reach out and shake his hand. His grip is firm and steady, confident without trying to dominate. He gives a single shake, then casually tucks his hands back into the space between his chest and Kevlar vest, like it’s second nature.
Like Perez, he has opted for the short-sleeved uniform, revealing a few intricate geometric tattoos that wind down his arms. He looks to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and about the same height as Perez, with a broad, solid frame and sun-kissed skin that suggests years spent under Arizona’s unforgiving sun. His short-cropped brown hair is peppered with gray, and faint crow’s feet frame his gray blue eyes.
There’s a rugged steadiness to him. The kind that comes from experience—not just surviving this job, but staying grounded through it.
I turn to offer my hand to Officer Perez, but he doesn’t take it. Instead, he stands, stiff and unreadable, and gives Kline a sidelong glance.
“Kline, can you grab our ride-along her observer vest?” he says, his tone flat but laced with annoyance.
Kline gives a quick nod and heads out of the room without hesitation, boots thudding softly against the floor.
