The Wall

He thought about this for a minute. "If you stayed on for two years, you could get in the FBI. Now that," he said, looking off past the lemon tree that grew by the driveway, "that would be a hell of a book."

BETWEEN THE APPLICANT AND THE WALL there was a written exam. On the morning of my test, my father said he wanted to drive me over to the police academy and then pick me up. He said it was the only way he could participate, and I thought, yes, this is our team effort. As we drove up Elysian Park, we saw an endless line of people snaking down the drive, people lining up to take the test. It seemed that everyone in the world had come in hope of landing a spot on what was reputed to be the country's most reviled police force. It made me think this was indeed a good idea for a book. My father, who had not taken me to school since I was in the early weeks of first grade, kissed me and drove away.

In line, I was handed a blue card on which to write my name, address and where I had heard about the LAPD. An attractive woman wandered back and forth through the line, repeating over and over again in a loud voice that we must have a picture ID and be at least 20 1/2 years old as of today. A few people peeled away from the group and slunk back toward the parking lot. Most of the people in line looked like they'd barely scraped in under the wire for age. The group was less than 10 percent women and, I would guess, less than 10 percent over 25. The multiple-choice test wasn't difficult: four ways to spell "calendar," a definition for felony, the kind of simple grammar that would only be difficult for non-native speakers and those who had slept through high school. I was put in with the out-of-town group, and our application process was accelerated to warp speed. While the other people who took their test wouldn't get their results for weeks, ours came in minutes.

I was then sent off for an oral interview, another written test, and then was told that I should report back for my physical agility test (PAT) at 6 in the morning.

MY FATHER KNOCKED ON MY DOOR AT 5. He had made me a tiny bag on a string to wear around my neck; it contained two quarters so that I could call him to come and get me when the test was over. Every year when we left California, he made index cards for me and my sister. He wrote down every phone number where he might possibly be reached and taped a dime at the end of each line. After we got back to Tennessee, I would take the dimes off my card and spend them. My sister saved her card just the way it was. She still has them all, one from every year.

When we arrived, the parking lot was full, and cars were parked down either side of the street. It was a combination of the Jehovah's Witnesses convention that had been going on all week in Dodger Stadium and the 215 people who had shown up to take the PAT.

We waited in lines that looped around the picnic tables. The gnats came through in dark swarms, and we twitched and stamped like horses. The men made up about 80 percent of the group, and they were huge: Marines, airmen, police officers from other cities. The T-shirts people wore gave a lot of information: "Explosive Ordnance Disposal 'Pau Hana' Mobile Unit One." I wore a shirt from the University of Iowa, a reminder to myself that, even if I failed, at least I had gone to graduate school.

The two women who had overseen the written test yesterday were back today, controlling the crowds with blanket authority. One walked back and forth over the picnic tables. "I don't want to see your blue cards," she called out, waving a stack of blue cards. "You don't need them; don't show them to me. You need a picture ID, people. Don't tell me you don't have a driver's license. You drove over here, you better have a driver's license."

The track at the police academy had been ripped out to make way for a new drainage system, leaving us to run the parking lot at Dodger Stadium. We went out the front gates of the academy and up a long, steep drive. By noon, the temperature would reach 120 degrees. The smog was a thick, woolly blanket over the city while we waited without water or shade. They broke us into groups of 30, and for that first group they called out -- Patchett -- 28. It was a godly piece of luck. When I ran, it would be 95 and not 110. I picked up my neon orange rubberized vest with the giant 28 on the back and snapped it up.

"Attention, people!" the proctor called out. "You must run around the pylons. The lap is one-tenth of a mile, and you need 10 laps to qualify. You must not stop running until you have completed the 12 minutes. When they call stop, you must stop dead in your tracks or be disqualified.

"Go."

I began to run with the pack. My saliva was gone on the first lap, and I began a shallow panting. I felt faint, not from heat or exertion but from the fear of fainting. But my feet trotted on. I could not keep count of my laps. People passed me. I passed people. I tried to see the Charles River in my head, the tender saplings sloping down toward the water. When they called "Time" I stopped and put my hands on my knees and began to hack. The Marines were coughing, too. The Los Angeles air was two packs of Marlboro Reds every day of your life. My lungs were full of the rusted-out S.O.S. soap pads that linger behind the faucet. I spat into my hand to see if there was blood.