Heel

I had been working for several years as a patrol officer when my boss called and told me about a stalker. A young lady, probably about 20, was stalking a young man, about the same age. He had complained to his teacher about the situation and said he would have to transfer to another section of the same class. Mike, my boss, said, “Find out what’s going on.”

I called her and explained that whatever she said to me would go into a confidential report to be seen only by those who needed to know. She asked, “Am I in trouble?”

I said, “No, not for now, but I need to caution you about what you are doing.”

We talked.

I asked if she and the young man were in a romantic relationship.

“Yes,” she said.

We talked some more.

She said, “I had a matter to take care of.”

I knew what she meant—she had an abortion.

The phone in my hand suddenly felt like a truncheon.

I respected the delicacy of the situation and did not say the word, but instantly I was sympathetic. I could say nothing about her decision. I was there to instruct her on how to proceed.
  
“Do not contact him again in any way, in class, out of class, by telephone or email or social media.”

The inflexible imperative had been spoken.

I did not call her a stalker, for that would sound like a boot stomping a prisoner, but she was a stalker and a prisoner.

The reasons for doing what she did were understandable, but there was nothing I could say.

I felt like a heel.

What happened after that?

I wrote the report, my boss read it, and the school's vice president read it.

I wondered how sympathy was expressed by those who had responsibility for her health and well-being, and life went on.