Month: July 2013

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: More Foot Beat Stories

My apologies for posting this and Hal’s last in the wrong order. This should have been “Foot Beat Stories One” and his previous post should have gone second. I promise I’ll do better with “Foot Beat Three” and Four. –Thonie

The following story is true and most of the officers are real live cops, some are legends and some fall into the infamous category.  I often say the best of all my jobs on the LAPD was when I worked a Hollywood Boulevard foot beat.  That’s not easy to say: I was a Sergeant for 12 years, a Senior Lead, (Community Relations Officer) for 11 years—both good jobs but my 3 1/2 years as a foot beat officer were the best.

 

Most of the names are real Hollywood cops and most of the stories are true.  Some were passed down by other Hollywood cops and they might be legends.  That’s in case some ACLU attorney is looking for a civil rights violation.

 

The foot beat cop of the 50″s 60’s & early 70’s were the toughest cops in the division.  They ruled their beat with an iron fist, with the emphasis on fist.  They didn’t have radios.  If they got in a fight, they won or lost their life.  Foot beat cops walked their area every day and knew the store owners, pimps, drug dealers and pan handlers all by name and those same people all knew his name.  If a store owner was having a problem with an individual he would tell the foot beat cop and the problem disappeared, don’t ask me how. 

George Kennedy was "The Blue Knight"
George Kennedy was “The Blue Knight”

If you ever watched the TV series “The Blue Knight” or read the Wambaugh novel, that was a tame version of what a foot beat cop was.

 

First the legends of Hollywood foot beat cops:  Gene Fogerty. I didn’t know Gene very well and never worked with him.  He was the typical old time foot beat cop.  He ruled Hollywood Boulevard and no one had any doubts who’s boulevard it was.  I was told that Gene never paid for anything.  He ate for free, shopped in the boulevard stores and walked out saying “foot beat gratuity.”  Those days were gone when I came on. We were told in the academy that a free cup of coffee led to corrupt cops.  Come on, my standards are higher than 10 cents, the price of a coffee in 1971.  Throw in a glazed donut and I might consider a bribe.  Just kidding, I was never big on eating donuts.

 

One of Fogerty’s regular partners was Jim Conrad, a former boxer.  Together they handled anything and everything.  I was once told that a street person walked up behind Conrad and tapped him on the shoulder.  Conrad felt the guy was too close to his gun, spun around and knocked him out cold.  Police work in the 60’s was a lot different.

 

As you already know and are tired of hearing, is that I worked Morning Watch for the first 14 years I was on the job. That’s 11:30 PM to 7 AM. I only saw the Mid PM foot beat for a few hours before they went home.

 

Although this picture was taken in the 1950's, it gives a better feel of the area during the '70's. Today, Hollywood and Highland sports an upscale mall.
Although this picture was taken in the 1950’s, it gives a better feel of the area during the ’70’s. Today, Hollywood and Highland sports an upscale mall.

In 1977, Hollywood Boulevard was out of control on Morning Watch after 2 A.M.  We had two businesses in the area of Hollywood & Highland, that were open all night.  The “International Hot Dog Stand” known by all cops as just the hot dog stand and “Danielle’s.”  The hot dog stand was just that, a small hot dog stand, but it was open all night and behind it was a dark parking lot perfect for dealing drugs or any other crime you can think of.  Danielle’s was a coffee shop which catered to drag queens as we called them in the un-politically correct ‘70’s.  I always thought it curious that Marilyn Monroe’s star was right in front of Danielle’s, a drag queen hangout.  Danielle’s is now a McDonalds’.

 

The drag queens would eat at Danielle’s, then go to work on Highland.  By work I don’t mean that they were setting out traffic cones for Cal-Trans, they were collecting money for a service for which they paid no taxes or Social Security.  A Drag Queen’s overhead was the cost of their clothes and whatever they stuffed into their bras, usually yesterday’s dirty socks.  No kidding. 

 

Anyway when the rest of Los Angeles closed up, Hollywood and Highland was just starting to go strong.  I approached my Lieutenant and asked if he ever considered a Morning Watch foot beat?  He cocked his head to the side, somewhat like my dog does when I talk to her, and he asks, “What did you have in mind?”  I laid out my plan and the following month I was told I would be working a Morning Watch foot beat.  I was then asked who I wanted to work with.  Holy cow, I was never ever asked who I wanted to work with.

 

I selected Randy for my partner.  Now Randy was not the easiest cop to work with. In fact half the cops on the watch didn’t like Randy and he felt the same about them.  I picked Randy because he worked. All I needed to do was keep him on a short, tight leash.

 

Most people think that walking a foot beat is just walking along and watching for crime.  I thought so, too.  I was told that I needed some foot beat experience.  Let’s see: I have 7 years on the LAPD and I’ve been walking since I was around one.  My childhood records have been sealed so I’m guessing.

 

The next month I’m going to be assigned to work a Mid Day foot beat.  Mid Day, that’s when the sun and all those citizens who pay my salary are out.  Crap.   I going to learn foot beat techniques from a Hollywood Legend, J.J. Brown.  J.J. took over the the Mid Day foot beat when Fogerty retired.  J.J. had been walking a foot beat since before I was a rookie.  This should be fun.  Next chapter, I’m learning how to walk all over again.

Hal

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More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Aw, Crap!

 

By Gerry Goldshine

Prussian Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke the Elder is to have said that, “…no battle plan survives contact with the enemy.”  People are adaptive, innovative and unpredictable. As police officers, we train to expect the unexpected but at the same time it is human nature to rely on patterns of behavior. We think it likely that when we turn on our patrol car’s emergency lights to make a traffic stop, the driver is going to pull over and most do just that. When we hand a driver our pen to sign the citation, we anticipate they will comply rather that subject themselves to arrest. As an officer gains field experience, they develop skill in reading body language, watching facial expressions and listening to vocal inflections using them cues for when a person isn’t going along with “the plan”. However, even the most veteran officer can find there are times when they have done everything right and yet still be wrong.

I was helping another officer search a house for a woman, well known to us, who had a no-bail warrant for her arrest. In past encounters with her, usually involving public intoxication or possession of minor amounts of drugs, she had always been cooperative. After about thirty minutes, we found her in one of the bedrooms hidden beneath a four-foot high pile of dirty laundry. I offered to take her to the station and book her, because the other officer had a mountain of reports to complete. As I walked the

Woman in Handcuffs photo courtesy of newsone.com
Woman in Handcuffs
photo courtesy of newsone.com

woman out to my patrol car, I kept one hand firmly gripped around the links of the handcuffs she wore behind her back. We chatted amicably about her situation; she talked about having difficulty getting into a rehab program. When we got to my car, I did another pat down search for any weapons and finding none, I opened the back door for her get inside. Standing next to the rear of the door, I let go of the cuffs and raised my other arm so that I could shield the top of her head from hitting the door frame, as I had done on countless other arrests. She had just about planted her derriere on the seat when she suddenly sprang back up. She was just small and flexible enough to duck under my arm and take off running with her arms still handcuffed behind her back.

Staring at her in disbelief, the first thought that went through my mind was, “Aw crap!” At the same time, I wondered how in the hell a 40 year-old man, in reasonably good shape but with two bad knees and wearing a cumbersome ballistic vest plus least 10 pounds of police gear, was going to catch this lithe twenty-something year old woman, sprinting as though she had just left the chocks at the Olympics. I took off after her, letting dispatch know that I was in foot pursuit in between gasps for breath. I rounded a corner just in time to see her execute a perfect “Fosbury Flop” into the back of a passing Chevy El Camino pickup. Fortunately, at least for me, the driver saw what was happening in his side mirror and immediately slammed on the brakes. I caught up before she was able to get completely out of the pickup bed, that task made difficult because her hands were still handcuffed behind her back. She apologized profusely for being “stupid” all the way back to my patrol car, while I tried to raise my oxygen levels back to some semblance of normalcy as nonchalantly as possible. I knew that I was in store for not only considerable ribbing from my fellow officers but more than likely, an ass-chewing from my bosses as well.

No sooner had I arrived at the station then I received the expected call, over the station’s public address system, to report to the sergeant’s office after I finished booking the prisoner. His first question to me was a simple, “Well?” I told him what had happened and after he digested it for a bit, he suggested we go out to my car so that he could better visualize what had happened. Along the way, the Lieutenant joined us and almost immediately began yelling at me about losing control of my prisoner. My sergeant cut in and explained the situation and we went going to see what I could do to prevent it from reoccurring. That seemed to mollify the Lieutenant for the moment.

I showed them how I got her into the back seat and the way in which she had made her escape. The Lieutenant proceeded to put me through a variety of different stances in front of the open door, most far removed from common practice and many more out of the realm of practicality. When it became apparent there was no simplistic solution, the Lieutenant glared at me and warned, “Don’t let this happen again or I’ll be writing you a reprimand!” With those sage words of wisdom, the Lieutenant stormed off back to the Watch Commander’s office.

My sergeant offered a more insightful analysis. He told me that while a larger person more than likely would not have gotten past me, perhaps my past experience with the woman caused me to anticipate one set of behaviors, missing the body language cues signaling a new set, namely that she was going to bolt. Then, with a slight grin, he added, “…but sometimes, despite our best efforts, shit happens.”

To coin another saying, “The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.”

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Foot Beat from Hollywood Boulevard Stories

By Hal Collier, LAPD Retired

We are happy that 35-year veteran Hal Collier is sharing his ‘stories behind the badge’ with us. This was originally posted 7/24/2013. Thought you might enjoy it again.–Thonie

The following stories are true and I’ll use real names as long as it doesn’t get anyone indicted or divorced.  Several posts ago, I talked about how my favorite job on the LAPD was walking a foot beat.  I never worked Vice but I did do a three month undercover tour in an elite West Bureau unit whose chain of command was a sergeant, then the Bureau Deputy Chief.  I still had more fun on the foot beat than any other job.

You ever watch a movie or TV show and the Captain threatens the officer that he will have him pounding a foot beat?  I’d have volunteered in a heartbeat.  I snowed my Lieutenant into letting me walk a Morning Watch foot beat, but first I have to learn how to walk a foot beat.  They assign me to Mid Day Watch with J.J. Brown.  Cool, J.J. is a Hollywood legend on the Boulevard.  He’s been walking for over 28 years, so how hard could this be?

I show up for work like I’m working a radio car, I carry my 40 lb. gear bag with riot helmet, extra ammo, tools, street guide and every report known to the LAPD.

J.J. just laughs at me and says, “We walk little lighter!”  My first lesson, we only need one traffic citation book, one parking ticket book and one handheld radio.  The radio was a Dumont and it only worked on a nice day without any tall buildings between you and the radio tower on Mt. Lee.  Everything you needed, you carried in your pockets or on your belt.  Hats were a must, department policy and you carried a baton which often became your best friend in a fight.

We get out of the car and J.J. asks, “Where’s your flashlight?”  Lesson 2:  You need a flashlight for dark bars and the very dark porno theaters.  Ok, I’ve got my pockets stuffed, I’m ready to start walking.  J.J. said, “Where are you going?”  I’m starting to walk eastbound with traffic.  Lesson 3: Foot beat officers always walk against traffic.  This walking might be harder than I thought.

Cop walking the beat
Cop walking the beat

J.J. and I start walking, facing traffic.  I’m thinking how cool I must look in my fresh uniform and in front of all these business people and tourists.  Three buildings later J.J. grabs me by my Sam Brown Belt and says, “Slow down, we’re going to be walking for the next 6 hours. You’re walking like your late for dinner.”  J.J. tells me, “You walk at a much slower pace and stop every so often.”  OK, I’m wondering if I need to write all this down.  J.J. is very patient with me.  I feel like a rookie.  If I find myself walking too fast I stop and find J.J. 30 feet behind me and laughing.  I’ll learn, maybe.

I soon find that J.J. knows everyone on Hollywood Blvd and everyone knows him.  We stop at various businesses and J.J. introduces me to the owners or managers.  I have worked Hollywood for over seven years and I don’t know any of these people.  We stop at London Britches, a clothing store and J.J. introduces me to the manager.  I don’t remember her name but I’ll never forget that smile. She was gorgeous.

I remember another group of businesses, Artisans’ Patio.  This young sales clerk walks out to talk to J.J.  She is also very pretty, I’m beginning to like this Day Watch foot beat.  J.J. is talking with the young lady and I glance over, she is wearing a white cotton full length dress.  When she stands in the sunlight I can see that she isn’t wearing anything under her dress and I mean nothing.  J.J. asks, “Ready to go?”

I said “Ah, not just yet, I have to, ah, catch my breath.”

J.J. also introduced me to some of the Boulevard people, Bill Conkey & Tillie who were street people.  J.J. and the other foot beat officers took care of them.  Giving them money, buying them clothes and taking them for medical care.  You don’t see that much anymore.  The less friendly street people are advised of the rules of Hollywood Boulevard, known as the “Boulevard Rules.”

From the movie, Pretty Woman--hooking on Hollywood Boulevard
From the movie, Pretty Woman–hooking on Hollywood Boulevard

Remember the movie, “Pretty Women” where female prostitutes worked Hollywood Boulevard?  Boulevard Rule #1, no whores on Hollywood Boulevard.  They were always politely directed to Sunset.  The tourists were on Hollywood Boulevard.  I soon learned that there were all kinds of rules.  Businesses couldn’t put signs on the sidewalks, no blaring music and most important don’t piss off the foot beat cops.  My second day, we did bar checks and wrote parking tickets.

The Nest Bar was on Hollywood Boulevard and was a known biker hangout.  Not so much on day watch but at night the bikers and the cops were always in conflict.  Parking regulations for motorcycles were simple.  Back tire must touch the curb.  If a foot beat cop can slide a thin piece of paper between the back tire and the curb, the motorcycle got a parking ticket.

I was told that on occasion a passing car would throw something at the foot beat officers.  The foot beat cop would write down his license plate and issue him a parking ticket.  The motorist found out six months later when he tried to renew the registration to his car.  I never did that or saw it done, could be a legend, I just don’t know.

Bar checks—how hard could that be?  Well, you don’t just walk into a dark bar from the sunshine of the Boulevard.  Pause inside the door and let your eyes adjust to the light.  One officer walks to the back and the other stays by the front door.  The foot beat officers didn’t enforce ABC (Alcohol, Beverage & Control) violations, like serving a drunk or bugs in a bottle. We mostly wanted the owners and patrons to know that the cops were around.

My favorite bar was the Tourist Trap.  The Tourist Trap was a dive and certainly not for tourists.  It was a bar frequented by black pimps and drug dealers.  I loved walking to the back where the pool table was.  I would stand next to the pool table, in front of the pocket where the pimp was going to shoot his next shot.  They always missed the shot.

There were other bars on Hollywood Boulevard, like The Powerhouse, The Alley bar, The Frolic Room and a few others I have forgotten.  There were also a couple of porno theaters.  The Cave comes to mind.  It had a live strip show during the day that packed the house.  Porno theaters are not my cup of tea.  They all have the same smell and sticky floors. Use your imagination.

I remember one girl who approached us walking on the Boulevard.  She was sweet and I thought, what a nice girl, I’ll bet her parents are proud.  Later that day I caught her show at the Cave.  Now, I hope her parents don’t know.

I enjoyed working with J.J. a Hollywood Boulevard Foot Beat legend.  J.J. has read this chapter and approved its contents.

Next chapter: The following month I’m assigned to work mid PM’s. A different set of Blvd rules and new partners…

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: A True Chain Saw Story

Here is the link that goes to LA Times news article from Nov. 24, 1987. The “George Collier” is our own “Hal”.

-Thonie

Murder Suspect Says He Used Saw to Cut Up Dog

The following story is true. I haven’t changed the names this time because they are a matter of public record.  On August 28, 1987, I was working a radio car on Day Watch in Hollywood Division.  I had about 17 years on the job and was working with a probationer.

We received a radio call, “Go to Jack’s Rents on Santa Monica Blvd”.  See the manager, possible blood on a rented chain saw.  Ok, people always say, “I’ll bet you’ve seen everything”, but I tell them if you work Hollywood long enough you’ll realize you’ll never see everything.

I told my probationer that an old partner raised cattle and today’s rustlers use chain saws to cut up the beef and sell it. Now there aren’t a lot of cows in Hollywood but we do have a large deer population in the Hollywood hills.  I also told him don’t believe everything you’re told.  It might not be blood at all.

We arrive at Jack’s Rents and speak to the manager.  He says that a man rented a chain saw last week and returned it a day later.  An employee put the saw under a work bench until he could clean it up.  A few days later, he took out the saw and noticed that the saw was covered in blood and flesh.  The manager said after conferring with the company attorney, they called the police.

Now, I have seen a lot of dried blood in my career, but I’m not a forensic expert or a technical adviser on any of the CSI TV shows.   I looked at the saw, and damn, it looks like blood and flesh to me.  My probationer gave me that you’re the senior officer look when I asked his opinion.  The manager showed me the rental slip.  The saw was rented to a Max B. Franc of West Hollywood.  The phone number that he gave was local.

I’ve been through three Hollywood scandals and know better than to kiss off anything that might come back to bite me.  I called the head detective of Hollywood Homicide, Russ Custer.  I explained what I have and he said, “Well Hal, call the guy and see what he used the saw for.”

I call Max Franc and asked him, ” Did you rent the chain saw and why does it look like there’s blood on it”?  Max tells me he did rent the saw and used it to cut up a dead dog.  I asked who’s dog and he said he didn’t know.  How did the dog die, I inquire.

Max, (See? We’re on a first name basis) said he hit it in Beverly Hills and wanted to get rid of it.  It was too big to throw in the trash can so he cut it up.  I asked where is the dog now and he said he buried it off the 5 Freeway north of L.A.  When I questioned Max about why he cut up someone else’s dog he became vague.  I told Max to hold on a minute and I talked to Detective Custer.  I told Custer, this guys story is crazy, even for Hollywood.  When I returned to Max he had hung up.

Custer and I discussed Max’s odd behavior and answers.  Custer didn’t want to get bit either and said,  “Let’s play it safe. Take the saw to SID (Scientific Investigation Division),”  our CSI. They tested it and confirmed it was blood, but would have to do more tests to determine if it was human.

I was off the next day and got a call from Lt. Ed. Hocking, the Officer in Charge of Hollywood Detectives.  He said the blood was human and they were going to conduct a search warrant of Max’s residence.  He asked if I wanted to go, because it was my superior investigative skills that broke the case.  Ok, maybe that’s not quite the truth but that’s they way I want to remember it.  I had to beg off because I was working an off duty job at the Hollywood Bowl. My daughter needed braces.

The search warrant confirmed that someone was cut up with a chain saw in Max’s bathtub.  Coincidentally, a set of arms and legs were found off the 5 Freeway near Magic Mountain and a head and torso were found in a field near Fresno.  Max was arrested the next day by West Hollywood Sheriffs and charged with murder.

Funny, LAPD determined that a crime had occurred and where and we collected evidence.  The LA County Sheriffs took over and took the credit for the arrest and prosecution.

Max was a Public Administration Professor at California State Fresno College and kept an apartment in West Hollywood where he would entertain male homosexual prostitutes.

The victim was shot and then dismembered in Max’s bathtub.  The murder weapon was found in Max’s desk drawer in his office at CaIifornia State Fresno.  I testified in court, (C-Attachment) and Max was found guilty and sentenced to 25 years to life.  In Sept. of 1997 Max suffered a heart attack and died in prison.

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More Street Stories

Motorcycle pursuit

This will get your heart pumping. Watch this video from the helmet cam of a motor officer in pursuit.

Motorcycle pursuit

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More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Man Down

By Gerry Goldshine

Very early in my police career, one of my training officers hammered home a crucial aspect of officer safety. When an encounter devolves into a physical altercation and fists are flying, it is essential to remember there is always at least one gun available to the attacker and that’s my own gun. This is one of the primary reasons that when an officer becomes embroiled in a fight, as Hal so eloquently stated it in one of his recent stories, “we don’t fight fair—we fight to win as fast as possible.” There is no greater mortal fear than having a suspect gain control of your weapon. When that happens, the outcome is usually fatal to one or both parties involved and perhaps others as well. This is why an officer treats every fight as being for all the marbles.

Front lawn at Petaluma Valley Hospital
Front lawn at Petaluma Valley Hospital

One fall evening, dispatch sent me to check a report of a man down in front of Petaluma Valley Hospital. When I got there, I found a young man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, lying on the grass right by the hospital’s sign. He had no obvious injuries that I could see and though he seemed conscious, he was unresponsive to any external stimulus. I didn’t smell any odor that would indicate he was drunk, so that left some type of medical, mental or pharmaceutical issue. As the saying goes, “The lights were on but nobody was home.” I requested an ambulance to have the paramedics evaluate him.

Once they got there and checked the young man, they radioed the Emergency Room to consult with the on-duty physician. Since it was unclear what was causing his condition, we loaded him into the ambulance. All these years later, I can’t recall precisely why, but I locked up my patrol car and rode in back of the ambulance while it covered the short distance to the back of the hospital, where the ER entrance was located. As safety protocol dictated, the paramedics restrained him to the gurney with its safety belts. No sooner had the back doors to the ambulance closed and we got underway than the kid began trashing about and let loose a series of inhuman shrieks. I had seen this sort of reaction in people with severe head trauma but there wasn’t a mark on him.  

Suddenly, he did a great impression of King Kong, ripping free one of the gurney straps from its anchor point. I immediately suspected he might be on PCP, a very nasty drug that hyper stimulates you, often instilling unbridled aggression and super-natural strength. In seconds, he freed his other arm and began swinging wild punches at us while trying to free his legs from the other straps. Much of what happened in those next few moments is still a bit of a blur. I vaguely recall hearing the driver call for more police units. I remember being alarmed at the number of things in the ambulance he could use as weapons. I was about to find that was the least of my worries.

Petaluma Fire Department ambulance
Petaluma Fire Department ambulance

My adrenaline spiked after when a well-placed kick connected, bouncing me off one of the equipment cabinets. An instant later, he was tugging on my Beretta, trying to pull it out from the holster. Words cannot convey to you what I felt at that moment. In a flash, everything appeared to be moving in slow motion. I was experiencing time compression, a phenomenon that frequently occurs in such critical incidents. I realized that not only was my life in danger but so were those of both paramedics; I was responsible for their safety. As my mind raced to formulate a strategy, instinct and training took over. I yelled a warning that he was trying to pull my gun from my holster. The driver slammed on the brakes thinking that would be helpful. All it did was add to the chaos. The ensuing tangle of bodies eliminated any chance of reaching my back-up gun in my ankle holster.

Thankfully, I was wearing a state of the art safety holster, designed to prevent someone from pulling my pistol out, particularly from the front, which was exactly what he was trying to do. That bought me time. I don’t recall making the conscious decision to do so but I put all of my 140 pounds of brawn behind a punch that I delivered to the left side of his jaw. It was the first time I had ever punched someone in the face and it stunned him just enough that he released his grip on my gun. All three of us piled on top of him and held him down on the gurney. About then, the back doors opened and two more officers jumped inside. The five of us quickly trussed him up better than any Thanksgiving turkey, using every strap we could find.

He was still shrieking and violently thrashing about when we delivered him to the ER a few minutes later. The doctor put him in a darkened, quiet room, still strapped to the gurney. Reducing all external stimuli was the recommended way to treat someone reacting violently to PCP. I honestly don’t recall what happened to him after that.

Fortunately, I had a hell of a good Sergeant that night. He had me park my car at the hospital and then drove us to Denny’s. I had a very bad case of motor mouth – I couldn’t stop talking and my hands shook seeming to move about of their own volition. It took a while for all that adrenaline to bleed off. I was also lucky in that I was about to go on my days off. With that in mind, my Sergeant told me to write up my report of the incident and then go home; he would take care of everything else. Three days later, I was back on the job.

So yes, when cops fight, the Marquis of Queensbury rules go out the window. Absent a Taser, the most effective and safest tactic to neutralize a physically combative suspect is pretty much along the lines of General Schwarzkopf’s  strategy in the first Gulf War; use overwhelming numerical superiority to make the opponent realize his position is untenable and more importantly, unwinnable.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Fighting in Uniform: The Worst and the Longest

This will be the last Ramblings on fighting in uniform.  As I said before I didn’t fight a lot but sometimes I just couldn’t talk my way out of wrestling match.

I worked a few plain clothes assignments but never vice.  Vice officers are always fighting.  They get a violation and the criminal either decides he’s not going to jail on a morals charge, or he claims that he didn’t know it was a cop.  Suspects always use the defense they didn’t know it was a cop when arrested by a plain clothes officer.

Ironic that all the times I was dressed for a fight, you know jeans, tennis shoes and an old shirt, I never had to fight.

Not all my fights were with men as you might expect.  I was brought up to never hit a girl but once as a child I learned a valuable lesson.  My sister had been picking on me and hit me.  I hauled off and hit her back.  She never hit me again. Hum.

It’s December 24 at about 3 A.M.  My partner a female and I get a domestic family dispute call.  We arrive and expect it to be a husband/wife dispute.  No, it’s brother against brother and both have been drinking.  Brother “A” punches brother “B” in the nose, breaking it.  Brother “B” demands a citizen arrest of brother “A”.  Both brothers are in their 30’s and by law we are required to accept the arrest.

Brother “A” gets handcuffed and placed in the back seat of our police car.  I’m about to drive off when the boys’ mother, also drunk, races out of the house and screams, “You’re not taking my son to jail on Christmas Eve!”  She reaches in my open window and grabs me around the neck.  I swing open the car door and knock mom to the ground.

As I step out of the car, Mom attacks me. Mom is about 5′ 3″ and 100 lbs. soaking wet.  I declined using the department approved choke hold and go for a rear wrist lock. I’m thinking it will be more humane for a little old lady.  I hear a familiar snap sound—shit, I broke her arm.  Mom and the son both went to jail on Christmas Eve.  Mom first stopped off at an emergency room to have her arm set.

 

Police grab a union worker as others protest during a tense moment as union workers block a grain train in Longview, Wash., Wednesday, Sept. 7, 2011. Longshoremen blocked the train as part of an escalating dispute about labor at the EGT grain terminal at the Port of Longview.(AP Photo/Don Ryan)
Police grab a union worker as others protest during a tense moment as union workers block a grain train in Longview, Wash., Wednesday, Sept. 7, 2011. Longshoremen blocked the train as part of an escalating dispute about labor at the EGT grain terminal at the Port of Longview.
(AP Photo/Don Ryan)

Another time I’m walking a Morning Watch foot beat.  We are walking thru an alley just south of Hollywood Boulevard at Highland.  We see two guys and a girl standing next to a parked car.  They are acting suspicious and we approach in the dark.  When we get up on the car we see a second girl crouched down.  I walk up on the girl, she screams, jumps up and grabs my badge.

 

Cops are very protective of two things.  Their gun (which if taken away from them will get them killed) and their badge.  The badge is earned and carried with a cop at all times.  An officer keeps the same badge throughout their careers unless they promote.  Most cops shine it every day before pinning it on their uniform and if shined enough the windows of City Hall were rubbed smooth.  My badge said “Policeman”.  Later, when females were hired for patrol, the badges said “Police Officer.”  I use to say that I spent more time sleeping with my badge than I did with my wife.

 

Anyway this young girl grabs my badge and is attempting to rip it from my uniform shirt.  Without even thinking, I grab the girl by the neck and lifted her with one hand and threw her on the hood of the car.  The girl had been to a club drinking and when they got to their car, she decided she had to pee.  She squatted down when we walked up on her.  She was embarrassed being caught and even more embarrassed when she went to jail.  Yea, she made a complaint against me.

 

This last story involved the longest fight I was ever in.  The Hollywood Palladium in the 70’s was notorious for booking rock groups.  With rock groups, comes drug abuse.  I’m working with Officer Bob and we get a call of a 415 Man (disturbing the peace) a block from the Palladium.  The citizen says this guy was running around in his yard acting crazy and jumped over his fence.  He went east.  We tell the citizen the standard Adam 12 line, “We’ll check it out.”  We get back in our car and drive east.  We only travel a few houses when another resident runs out and asks us if were looking for the drunk nut.   The resident says he sitting in his driveway.  Oh crap, we’ll have to take the drunk downtown to book and it will take us a couple of hours.

 

We walk up the driveway and see our suspect sitting in some tall grass.  He’s looks stoned and I can’t see his hands due to the grass.  I walk behind him and grab his hands.  As he stands up he digs his heels in the ground and throws me back against a block wall.  I apply a department approved choke hold as taught to me by Bob Jarvis at the Police Academy.

 

This suspect is only about 5′ 6″ and a 130 lbs.  I’m 6′ and 160 lbs. of a fighting machine.  My partner, Bob is a weight lifter and very strong.  Somehow my choke hold slips and this little guy refuses to pass out.  I’m trying to reapply the choke hold and Bob is whacking the suspect across the shins with his baton.  Both of these tactics just anger our suspect.  I vividly remember Bob throwing his baton away and ripping his clip on tie from his shirt and jumping in to control this drug crazed lunatic.

 

We can each control an arm, but when we try to pull his arms behind him, so we can handcuff him, he gets a burst of strength.  We’re rolling around on the ground for a good ten minutes.  With our body weight we can keep him pinned to the dirt.  We count, 1, 2, 3, and swing his arms behind his back.  After 5 minutes we get one hand cuffed. 1,2,3, pull his arms back, this time we were inches from cuffing him.  This goes on for another 10 minutes, 1,2,3, ah shit we almost had it that time.  After a long time we get this little guy cuffed.  The resident watched from his kitchen window and couldn’t believe the strength of the little guy.  We would need him as a witness later when our suspect made a complaint against us for excessive force.

 

We booked our suspect at Hollywood Jail and the next day he couldn’t walk to the Sheriffs bus due to the whacks across the shins.  We had a couple of interviews with Internal Affairs and were cleared of the charges.  Our suspect was loaded on PCP.

 

There’s a funny ending to this story.  Six months later, I get a radio call to an apartment regarding a loud party.  We knock on the door and the owner gets right in my face about what a brutal cop I am.  That’s right it was the little guy I ruined a uniform fighting with.  I run him for warrants and sure enough, he didn’t show up for court on a traffic ticket.  I can’t arrest him in his residence at that late hour due to a law.  I advise him to take care of his warrant and he tells me to do something anatomically impossible and said something about my mother.

 

The law restricted his arrest in his apartment until 6:00 A.M.  At 6:01 A.M. that same morning, I knocked on his door and asked him if he had taken care of that warrant.  He said he hadn’t.  Guess what, he went to jail again.  Don’t talk about a cop’s mother.

 

As I said before I didn’t like fighting, even when you win, you lose.  Torn uniforms, Citizen Complaints, but thank goodness your skin grows back. 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: More on Fighting

Police in a joint immigration task force take down a prisoner who will be expelled from Canada for being in Canada illegally. All images ©2013 Peter Bregg
Police in a joint immigration task force take down a prisoner who will be expelled from Canada for being in Canada illegally.
All images ©2013 Peter Bregg

I said I didn’t get in a lot of fights and I guess I didn’t for someone who spent his whole career in patrol.  Most cops who fight a lot have two to four years of experience.  After four years they get smart, I think its policy.  That is not based on any scientific data, but on years of my own experience.

 

See, young cops have to prove they are the king of the hill.  They will fight any dirt bag until they get tired of replacing expensive uniforms and waiting for their own skin to grow back.

 

I’m going to take you on a little side trip.  You see, in the academy the city gives you two brand new uniforms, free.  Of course they fitted you for the uniforms after three months of intensive physical training.

Some recruits hadn’t been in good physical condition since high school or boot camp in the military.  So now they head out into the world of crime and bad guys.  Those new uniforms, which by the way cost over a $120, will last as long as you can still fit in them and they don’t get ripped in a street fight.  The next set of uniforms, you paid for out of a less than generous paycheck.  In later years, officer’s got a uniform allowance check, mine was used to pay off credit card debts from Christmas.  I couldn’t afford to fight for 6 months.

 

You pay to replace a few uniform shirts or pants instead of going to a movie and dinner with your family and you’ll wish you had paid more attention in that class on the art of persuasion. It was called “Verbal Judo.” 

 

Nothing will ruin a nice expensive 100% wool uniform faster than a roll around on an asphalt street with some law breaker who will get timed served by some judge.

 

Ok, another reason not to fight is that you might get hurt.  Getting hurt is a part of the job but sitting at a desk for a couple of months while the dirt bag you fought with is out committing more crimes is just not fair.  I know of a half dozen cops who have broken their hands hitting some bottom feeder in the head.

 

I remember Officer Bill punched a guy in the face when it appeared the guy was kidnapping a women.  He broke five bones in his hand.  The husband was only trying to get his drunk wife in the car. Oops.

 

Officer Dale broke his hand hitting some well-deserved recipient and was chastised by the Captain. The Captain then showed Dale the proper way to hit a suspect without injury to your hand.  Dale still had to work the front desk until his hand healed.

 

Most cops are accused of racial profiling certain people.  The fact is that certain groups of people are prone to fight, especially when drunk.  I’m a product of my environment.  Now, Hollywood is multi-racial so we didn’t have an overwhelming population of any race.  My experience tells me that if you want to fight with a Hispanic, say something about his mother.  I’ve been told that after payday Harbor Division Longshoremen get drunk and want to fight.  I also heard that Samoans love to fight.  But no cop disagrees that a drunk American Indian will fight for no reason other than he’s drunk and you’re there.

 

In Hollywood, we didn’t have a large population of American Indians, but I know that Central Division had a lot.  I suspected that Central cops would put a drunk Indian on a bus, one way, to Hollywood.

 

When you get in a fight, you seldom have time to prepare, but every once in a while you know it’s going be unavoidable.  I had one classic time that I knew we were going to be rolling around on the ground. 

 

We were driving around Hollywood one beautiful night when we get an “Arson Suspect” call at the Greyhound bus station on Vine.  It’s about 2:00 in the morning and the bars have just kicked out the last patrons.

 

We drive up to the bus station and see a trash can bon-fire in the middle of the street.  A small group of people are standing on the sidewalk.  I lean out the car window and ask who “Started the fire.”  From behind the smoke and flames, I hear, “I did, what are you going to do about it?”

 

I look at my partner and say, “We have a freebee.”  My partner is already taking off his watch and removing his pen & pencil.  Watches get broken and pens and pencils rip uniforms in a fight.  You guessed it—our suspect is a drunk American Indian.  We tactically deploy; ok, we split up a little.  We tried to talk the Indian into surrendering without a fight.  Later the Department gave classes and called it “Wooshaw.”  Getting a suspect to surrender without a fight, with words.  Well, this Indian missed the class and charged my partner.

 

The two of us and this drunk Indian roll around on the ground for a good ten minutes.  We finally avenge Custer’s fight at the “Little Big Horn” and handcuff our suspect.  Our suspect looks us in the eye and says, “Ok, fellows, good fight, let’s go to jail.”  All he wanted to do was fight before he got a bed and three meals on the city.  Me, I got a few abrasions but my uniform only got dirty.  My partner got a nice tear on a new pair of pants.  What the fight cost:  Indian, free meals and a bed, me, two band aids and some antiseptic, my partner a new pair of pants $80.

 

Next the worst and longest fight of my career.

Hal

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Have you ever been in a fight?

Have you ever been in a fight?  Yea, we’ve all been in fights in school, some on the playground some with our siblings when mom was busy.  I once had a fight on my way home from junior high with a school bully.  I remember it as winning because after that he left me alone—but then I got my growth spurt before he did.

As a rule I wasn’t a big fighter and usually tried to talk my way out of confrontations.  That served me well through most of my career with the LAPD, but every once in a while words were not enough.  You see it every day on the news: some guy gets high and when the cops arrive he has to prove that he’s a man.  He refuses to comply and squares off.  The cop’s thinking, This is not only a clean uniform but it’s brand new.  I don’t want to wrestle this dirt bag and ruin my uniform.  Cops paid for their own uniforms in the early days.

The drunk’s probably expecting the Marques of Queensberry Rules and expecting a fair one-on-one fight.  The cop’s thinking, I’ll get him to raise his hands to hit me and I’ll whack him across the shins with my Baton.  When he collapses, me and my 12 buddies will jump on his back and handcuff him.  I used this tactic more than once and didn’t get dirty or tear a uniform. 

By the way, we don’t fight fair—we fight to win as fast as possible.  Two, three, five, fifteen cops, whatever it takes to win.  The problem with multiple cops was that most cops who got hurt were hit by another cop by accident.  Doesn’t it just make you want to barf when on TV, the good guy throws away his gun and squares off against the bad guy as all those cops watch?

In the Police Academy they teach you that if you lose a street fight you die.  No time out, no King’s X, no do-overs, no “Ok, you can go free.”  You lose a fight you die.  Ok, with that mindset, you head out to the mean streets of Los Angeles.  I’m 21, in good shape and armed with the latest fight techniques, taught at the finest police academy in the world.

Now, my training officer tells me to calm down.  I see violent confrontations around every corner.  I’m thinking she’s 80 but that cane could be deadly and who knows what medication she’s on.  Young cops are eager to prove that they will back up their partner in a fight and take care of business.  Not all new cops fought when they should have and a few were fired for being cowards.  One probationer watched as his partner was fighting a drug intoxicated suspect and didn’t help.  His reasoning was, “it looked like a fair fight!”  Another male probationer screamed as he stood frozen while his partner was fighting for his life.

Photo of a policeman fighting. Photo courtesy of nadir.com
Photo of a policeman fighting.
Photo courtesy of nadir.com

After a few years, on the street a cop can tell when talking will work or when a fight is imminent.  Craig B. said that he knew when his partner was about to fight.  He took off his glasses and set them on the hood of the police car.  It wasn’t always that easy to see the fight coming.  I had a few occasions where I thought I had the situation calmed down and my suspect suddenly decided he wasn’t go to jail without a fight.

Sometimes the sound of you opening your handcuff case would send your suspect into a fighting stance.  I once had a suspect tell me that he was going to kick my ass and I agreed with him that he could—he was huge.  I talked him out of the fight when I told him that after he kicked my ass he would have to kick the ass of my partners and half the officers working Hollywood that night.  I told him that he could spend the night in the Hollywood Jail, or go to the hospital or maybe even the county morgue.  It worked he went to jail without a fight.  See, I’m smarter than you thought.

As I said I usually tried to talk my way out of a fight, but one time my emotions got the better of me.  It was close to Christmas and Tom, my son was about three.  I responded to a family dispute radio call.  The mother answered the door holding a 3 year old, blond haired boy with big eyes. He reminded me of Tom.   The mother was crying as she told us that her husband came home drunk.  He broke the Christmas tree and threw the little boys presents against the wall.  I asked where the husband was and she directed me to the bedroom.  He was sound asleep.

I had fire in my eyes and rudely awoke the drunk.  I’ll admit now, I was very pissed off and tried to provoke a fight.  I finger poked the husband in the chest as I threatened to kick his ass.  I waited for any sign of resistance so I could use all my Academy training in martial arts.  Nothing.  He was either too drunk or a coward.  I told him that if I had to come back to their apartment he would not go to jail, he would be admitted to a local hospital with $20 worth of nickel knots.  Let me save you some time that’s 400 knots.

My partner was as wide-eyed as that little boy.  He had never seen me that angry.  When I got home, I hugged Tom and showed him the proper way to shake a Christmas present to reveal the contents. True story…

Next, I’ll talk about the hazards of fighting and an unusual fight I was involved in.

Hal

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Writer's Notes

Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides

Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides
Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides
Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides

Oak Tree Press has published an anthology of works encompassing what the title portrays by authors who have been there. My story, “Jack Daniels” was chosen to appear with such illustrious company. This anthology was put together by the Public Safety Writers Association–a group of writers in the emergency services field. Editing by Meredith Olsen (check my blog archives for her post “Coming Up With Titles”.)

Felons, Flames and Ambulance Rides is available on Amazon today!