Good Cop Bad Cop

About the Book

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover So you shouldn’t judge a man by his uniform…

Meet Beverley. Bright, beautiful and brave. Seizing upon an opportunity to emigrate from Jamaica to Canada, Bev struggles to make a better life for herself, and despite initial hardships, her hard work and go-it-alone determination reap success. Soon, she secures for herself a house, a car, a good job, several diplomas and eventually, is even running her own businesses.

Then along comes a handsome police officer who sweeps her off her feet with his easy- going charm and good looks. Beverley falls deeply in love, trusting him implicitly. Who wouldn’t? He is an officer of the law, one of the “good guys.”

Or is he? It’s one thing to find out that your lover is an incorrigible womanizing hound who is cheating on you left, right and centre, it is another thing entirely when the man in question wears the badge and the uniform of the city’s “finest”—a police officer. Sometimes those who are there to serve and protect do anything but…

Hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure, this is one woman’s honest account of how even the brightest and the most independent of women can be duped by a man who lies and cheats without conscience, and how a relationship with such a man can irrevocably change the course of one’s life. Countless women will be able to identify with Bev’s experiences, yet her courage and strength in the face of personal tragedy and adversity is sure to inspire.

About the Author

I was born Beverley Hall, on September 6, in Jamaica, West Indies. I spent my early years in Jamaica in a neat and easy-going town with four older siblings: Hyacinth, Sylvia, Richard and Errol, and younger brother, Carlton. My love of learning came at an early age when I followed my brother Richard to school and my mother was forced to enroll me at the tender age of three. Although I was young, I remember that I would carry a slate to school, which had beads for counting. My slate fell and broke one day, leaving the wooden frame with the beads attached. Mother could not afford to buy another one and I did not want to go to school fearing the other children would tease me. Mother recognized my desire to go to school and got me another slate that was made from some type of cardboard material. Other than that incident, I have always loved school. There were times when I would lose my slate pencil and mother did not have money to buy another one, but I learned that if I used a small stone to write, it would still make markings on the slate—so I used the stone to write.