If you’d look at my face, you’d easily notice the dark circles around my eyes. That’s because I used to spend several sleepless nights waiting for my husband to come. No, he didn’t go abroad. He didn’t leave me for another woman either.
My husband was actually a police. He’s PO1 Ronaldo Cabrera, Jr. of the Regional Intelligence Unit, Police Regional Office 11. I asked him why, of all the professions in the world, he chose to be a police—a far more dangerous profession than, say, teaching. Apart from the fact that it was his childhood dream, he said he also wanted to make the city safer, more peaceful, and more orderly. You’re too idealistic, I told him.
My husband’s handsome. Oh, do you know back when we were in college, he had so many admirers? In fact, I was surprised that he courted me. Of course, I didn’t say yes to him right then and there when he asked me if I love him. But I was tempted to say yes because I was also afraid that he might be disappointed and would turn his attention to other woman more beautiful than me.
In his early years of service, he used to come home early. But when he took another job, he started coming home late. Usually around one o’clock in the morning. He was very vocal to me what his other job was.
“Isn’t it illegal?” I asked him.
“No,” he said. “We’re not deviating from our sworn duty: To serve and to protect. We’re just plucking out the thorn on the side of society, the scum.”
“Will you be paid?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have accepted this if they wouldn’t pay me.”
“Did they tell you how much?”
“My boss said the pay normally ranges from 5,000 to 50,000 or even as high as 100,000. He said it isn’t really fixed. It depends on our target. The more wanted the target is, the bigger the pay of course.”
Every night I waited for him. I just waited. No questions asked. No confrontation. No quarrel. Nothing. I wasn’t worried at first because I knew he could very well take care of himself. Of what good he was awarded the Outstanding Police Award two years ago if he couldn’t take care of himself?
The night before last night, however, was unlike the other nights. No, he didn’t come home drunk. He didn’t smell of a woman’s perfume either. My husband’s got no vice. That’s one thing I’m thankful for. Last night was different because, for the first time, I confronted him. I was just worried because I heard from the news that a police had been killed for reasons yet unknown.
“Did you hear the news this morning?” I asked him. My voice was calm. I wasn’t angry. I just asked him pointblank.
“Yes. Too bad for him. He’s a personal friend actually.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. Does he have kids? What would happen to his family now?”
“Yes," he said. "Two boys. I heard the mother-in-law’s going to adopt the children. Don’t know what would happen to the wife.”
“When will you quit that other job of yours?” I told him as soon as he put his .45 on top of the table in the living room, and removed his shoes. He cast a sharp look at me, but I remained calm.
“What are you saying?” he asked me, his voice louder than his normal voice.
“Do you need to raise your voice? Can’t you see the kids are already sleeping? I just asked you when will you quit.”
“All right, you want me to answer you? I don’t have a plan of quitting.”
“What? You mean you will forever stay with your boss?”
“Why not? Had I not met him and stayed merely as a police, we wouldn’t be able to send the kids to a good school; we wouldn’t be able to live in this house today.”
“But I’m just worried, Ronaldo, I’m dead worried. What if you would suffer the fate of your police friend? What if one day, we will just find you floating on the river? Where will we go? What would happen to your kids?”
“That won’t happen. My boss told he’s gonna take care of me.”
But it did happen. It was his compare who broke the news to me. They found him lying face down somewhere in Cabantian, where his police friend was also found. His eyes were bloodshot, there were bruises all over his face, and his hands were tied behind his back—proofs that he was tortured before he was killed. Investigators found sixteen gunshot wounds in different parts of his body. The way he was killed was really brutal.
When I asked him who could have done this, he said he didn’t know. But I knew that he knew who, because they have the same boss. In fact, it was he who asked my husband if he was interested to join.
“Tell me, please,” I told him, almost kneeling.
“I’m sorry, comare, but I didn’t really know. All I know is that compare already knew a lot about the group.”
We left the city after we buried my husband. We are now living with my mother. It was hard, especially for my kids. I have my job here. I grew up here. The kids grew up here. Before we left, one human rights group approached me and broached the idea of bringing my husband’s case to the courts of law. They told me not to worry about the expenses. They would shoulder all that. All I have to do is to cooperate with them. I almost accepted the offer, but I declined. Of course I want justice for my husband’s death, but God’s justice, not man’s.
Call me a coward, but I’m just doing what I think is best for me and my kids. I’m not that brave. I don’t want to gamble. I know that if I would carry on this fight, it would be a fight between David and Goliath. True, that in the bible David won. But my life’s no story in the bible, and I certainly am no David. So I leave this fight to others who are braver than me.
