Month: August 2013

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Death Notifications

The following post is somewhat out of order. So much for best laid plans…

Hal is beginning a series on types of calls. I don’t know what came before this one so we are starting anew and will post one every week for the next six weeks. Enjoy!

By Hal Collier

If you found my last Ramblings depressing, this one won’t cheer you up.  I usually like to write about the fun and sometimes exciting side of police work.  This is a darker side that most cops dread—death.  I’ve put off writing about death for over a year and even waited for the holidays to pass.

 

I’ll admit that most cops won’t shed a tear when some dirt bag gets killed trying to rob a liquor store that is owned by a gun carrying NRA member.  Drug overdoses where the hype still has the syringe sticking out of his arm won’t even cause a rookie to blink. The news media always makes a big deal out of cops giving each other a high five after surviving a “my life or your death” shooting.  You will never see the news show an emotional cop who just had to tell a family member that their loved one is not coming home.

 

Death Notifications:  That task usually falls to the coroner but when the deceased passed away in another state, the coroner needs someone to make arraignments for the body. They call the local police and ask them to inform a family member also known as a Death Notification.  If it’s a homicide the Detectives will make the notifications because they have questions for the surviving family members, like did you know he was a gang member or mass murderer?

 

 

Death notification Photo by Policemag
Death notification
Photo by Policemag

Some notifications go easy, the recipient already knew that their uncle had died, or expected the news any day.  Some didn’t care, but asked if they were in the will.  Most were very difficult.  A complete stranger in uniform comes to your house, often in the middle of the night and knocks on your door.   The cop gives you the worst news imaginable and then leaves.  If he’s a rookie, he probably says something stupid like, “Have a nice day” because he doesn’t know what else to say.

 

The most difficult one I handled was telling a women at 3 A.M. that her husband had been killed in an auto accident in Bakersfield.  First, she wouldn’t open the door to us, she didn’t believe we were the police. Then she wanted to see where we parked our police car, and when I moved our black and white to below her apartment window she called 911.  She thought we were impersonating police officers.  It took us 30 minutes to get inside her apartment and sit her down and tell her the news.  It’s been 35 years and I’m still not over that one.

 

The first look you get when you knock on someone’s door is panic.  They see two cops standing at their door and asking to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Whatever.  They know it’s not good news.  They want to know what you want right away.  Death Notifications rule # 1: you don’t tell them on the front porch that their only son or daughter has died.  All react differently, some faint and injure themselves, some attack the messenger, the cops, but almost all are in some form of denial.  It’s best to get them inside sitting down and out of public view.  You don’t need the nosey next door neighbor butting in.

 

Ok, you’ve broken the news that they’ll never forget. Trust me you’ll never find the right words. There aren’t any right words.  You offer your sympathies and if they’re alone, you offer to call someone to come stay with them.  Then you leave, feeling like a piece of crap.  Heaven help the next traffic violator who pisses you off.

 

It doesn’t make much difference how much experience you have or how compassionate you are, death notifications suck.  Some people don’t understand why cops drink, have a high divorce rate or commit suicide.

 

Next and thank goodness, my last on death, I’ll discuss “Welfare Checks.”  Welfare Checks can be a hodge podge of outcomes.  Some bad, some good and some of them sort of amusing.

 

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Categories
More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Seriously?

By Gerry Goldshine

 

It is a truism, that police officers face a bewildering variety of hazards every day, from flying bullets to toxic chemical spills. In the final phase of my field-training program with Petaluma Police, I encountered one such hazard that seldom gets airing. We had been having an uncommon cold weather spell for the Bay Area, with nighttime temperatures hovering in the low twenties for several weeks. While this may be sweltering winter weather in some other parts of the country, for us it was damn cold! Since a good patrol officer always keeps a window partially open to hear what’s going on around them, cranking up the car’s heater and defroster was de rigueur and venturing outdoors in such temperatures was akin to freezing one’s arse off.

Still, duty calls and a possible residential burglary in progress call, on an otherwise quiet night, was not to be passed up. My Training Officer, Dave Long, advised dispatch that we would respond out of beat and be the primary unit on the call. He felt it would be good training for me on such a “brisk” night.

By that time in my training, I actually knew where I was going without having to look at my city map (no computer navigation devices back then). Making a textbook tactical approach, I came in slow, blacked-out and found a place to park in the shadows several houses down from the reported address. Once my backup had arrived, we conducted a thorough, stealthy search around the house in question only to discover the “suspicious” noises that the reporting party had heard were coming from two old tomcats duking it out in the backyard. I got an “A” for effort anyway.

This is what Gerry needed
This is what Gerry needed

It was so cold, I really wasn’t disappointed it had turned out to be a nothing call. We notified the homeowner of what we had found then made haste to get back to the warmth of our patrol car. I was just about to step off the curb when I felt my one of brand new Rocky Brand Police boots, with the deep waffled soles, lose traction and suddenly slip along in the grass. I knew without even having to look, what I had just done. From the loud expletive I let loose, Officer Long knew exactly what I had just stepped in.

 

Naturally, he thought it was hysterical and was laughing uproariously as I tried to get the foul substance off by scraping it on the curb edge. Waffled soled boots do NOT scrape clean on curb edges, the fact of which only made him laugh harder. Dragging the offending boot through the frost covered grass, limping like Chester from the old “Gunsmoke” western television show didn’t help much either. His eyes now watering from the mirth he was experiencing at my expense, he suggested I find a hose from in front one of the houses and wash off the bottom of my boot. I politely pointed out that this would be futile as all the hoses were undoubtedly frozen solid.

Dave’s laughter slowly trailed off as he slowly began to visualize the unpleasant scenario about to unfold. It went without saying that both our windows were going to have to be rolled down. As a result, the car heater would have to be on at full blast for us to stay warm. Unless we wanted our lower extremities to become numb, that would mean keeping the ALL the heater vents open. Thus, there would be hot air blowing on the offending boot, spreading the noxious odor throughout the car. Moreover, we were on the far, east side of town and more than a few minutes from the station. I suggested that I could remove the offending boot and put it in the trunk. Dave considered it but then said it would be our luck to get a hot call and I would be “hobbled” with one boot, so that was not a viable option.

The ride back to the station was just as bad as you can imagine it would be. Of course we manage to hit every red light. I’m not certain who gagged more, Dave or I and each time one of us did, the other would laugh until the tears flowed. For some reason, cops always find such things hilarious. Fortunately for us both, the hose at the station hadn’t frozen solid and I was able wash to my boot clean. I suppose that it was with great relish that Dave made sure that my evaluation for that night reflected that I had really put my foot in it.

Striped skunk (Mephitis mephitis) spraying, USA By: Tom Brakefield | Collection: Stockbyte images.yahoo.com
Striped skunk (Mephitis mephitis) spraying, USA
By: Tom Brakefield | Collection: Stockbyte
images.yahoo.com

Epilogue: This was not the end of my aromatic adventures with FTO Long. Several nights later, I was the recipient of a baby skunk’s expert marksmanship from underneath a redwood deck. Once again, we were about as far from the station as we could be and it was just as cold outside. I was not allowed inside the station and was made to change my uniform outside the back door. Someone in the dispatch center made sure the outside intercom was on so that I could hear the belly laughs from everyone watching me on the backdoor security camera feed. Embarrassment aside, that damn little bastard of a polecat cost me a brand new uniform because no drycleaner would touch it.

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: A Funny

By Hal Collier

The following is not really a practical joke, it’s just funny as hell.  I worked a Morning Watch Foot beat on Hollywood Boulevard in the late 70’s.  As I’ve said before, it was probably the best job I ever had.  For my police friends, yes, there was plenty of work to do on morning watch.  Remember, Hollywood never closes and after midnight most of the crime involved drugs, prostitution and street crimes.  I actually walked my foot beat until 5 A.M. 

 

It’s about 2 A.M. and I’m talking with my sergeant, a former Metro cop, and a good guy.  I’m about a half of block from the famed Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. We’re discussing our new lieutenant who would need a street guide to find Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Ave.  We see two obviously intoxicated fellows walking toward us.  They need the entire width of the sidewalk to keep from falling into the street.  As they near, we notice that one of the chaps has a Metro door panel under his arm.  For my non-police friends, a Metro door panel is a magnetic panel, 4 ft by 3 ft that Metro officers attach to the doors of their plain cars.  It has a city seal and the cars shop number.

 

Ok, my investigative senses kick in and I stop the pair.  I’m thinking they stole it off a parked Metro police car.  I ask where did they get the door panel.  The least drunk of the two slurs, “Hello chaps, we traded for it”.  I detected a strong accent and an even stronger odor of numerous alcoholic beverages.  I asked where they were from and they said they were Bobbies (cops) from England, in America on holiday.  I asked again where they got the door panel.  The spokesman said they met a couple of our comrades who invited them to their training site for a few pints.  That would be the Police Academy Lounge.  They traded a real Bobbie helmet for the door panel.  I looked at my Sergeant and he just shrugged his shoulders.  Thank goodness, they were not driving.

Bobbie hat
Bobbie hat

 

Somewhere there is a retired Metro officer with a Bobbie helmet in his den and a retired Bobbie with a Metro door panel on his icebox. 

 

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Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: On Duty Jobs

By Hal Collier
If you read my Ramblings about off duty jobs you’ll love the jobs I worked on duty.  Now I said I worked the streets for my whole career and that’s true, but every once in a while something special came up and I was in the right place at the right time.
 
I already told you that I worked a Hollywood Boulevard Foot Beat, the best job I ever had.  When you hear about some of the other jobs I worked you’ll wonder why I liked the foot beat the best.  I was on some sort of “A” list for good jobs.  I’d like to think I earned those jobs due to hard work and my pleasant personality.  If that was true I should have been promoted way past my rank at retirement.

I worked a “hype car” where I arrested speeders (and not the traffic kind).  Speeders are abusers of methamphetamine.  They were a big problem in Hollywood.  Dave, my partner, and I would go to the local dirt-bag motel and check the register.  Oh look, “Kentucky Bob” is in room #13.  We’d knock on room #13 and “Bob” would greet us like we were kin.  Bob was so eager to snitch on other speeders that we couldn’t write down the information fast enough.  He just wanted us to go away before we discovered he hadn’t paid that traffic ticket and was expecting a delivery of a dime bag of meth.  We already knew about the warrant.  Dave and I worked the speeder car for about a year until deployment needs caused us to return to patrol.

Today's undercover togs
Today’s undercover togs

I once was assigned to an elite undercover unit in my Bureau.  The chain of command was officer, sergeant and Bureau Deputy Chief.  The whole unit consisted of 12 officers.  It was plain clothes and beards, long hair was the norm.  I hate long hair and wore a store-bought wig.  Four days without shaving was all my wife would stand.

In 1984 the Olympics came to Los Angeles.  Some officers gave up their whole vacation to work the Olympics and earn that extra cash for a newer car or house.  Me, I gave them three of my off days.  My wife and I needed a vacation.  I worked the athletic village at UCLA for those days.  Two days were fun and the third was a nightmare (more on that in an upcoming Olympic Ramblings).  The third day I sat on a folding metal chair next to the athletic field from 6 PM to 6 AM.  The bus drivers that passed by me were not pro- police.  I could tell when they revved their engines as they drove by.  The exhaust gave me a gold medal head ache.

1984 LA Olympics
1984 LA Olympics

I really enjoyed working patrol during the Olympics.  The citizens were polite and didn’t bother calling the police with petty complaints.  I’ll never forget one incident.  We were stopped at a red light on Sunset.  This lady honks and hollers to us.  “I love they way you cops are handing the Olympics, you all look so professional.”  I puffed out my chest and thanked her.  Then she said, “but your police cars are crap.”  The department took all the newer police cars and assigned them to the Olympic venues.  My car that day wouldn’t have qualified for a taxi in Tijuana.

March 9, 1986 was  the first Los Angeles Marathon.  No, I didn’t run a marathon, but I did work the first LA Marathon.  Ok “work” might be a stretch of the truth.  Chuck and I were assigned to monitor the race as it passed through Hollywood.  2 cops, thousands of runners and hundreds of thousands of trapped cars.

Traffic in Hollywood became a parking lot due to the runners course and closed streets.  Traffic was so bad that citizens caught in the grid lock felt to urge to show Chuck and I their new ring on their middle finger.  Chuck and I decided to park in a closed gas station on Sunset Blvd.  We sat on the hood of our police car and watched the runners, walkers, and tourists go by.  Did I mention that we also sat behind the Playboy Playmates who passed out water to the contestants.  One even offered us some water but we’d never accept a gratuity on duty?  Ok, ask me if I know what color her eyes were?

Every year Hollywood hosted the Hollywood Christmas Parade.  I worked the parade for over 30 years.  In my early years I worked the parade route, most were long hours of standing and returning small children to their parents.  Later, I got a job working the Green Room.  The Green Room is the hospitality room where the celebrities stay until it’s their time to be in the parade.  The Green Room was inside and warm and if you stood by the back door you got first pick as the caterer brings in the appetizers.  Caterers love a man in uniform, especially if he’s got a gun.

May 19, 1991.  I was not a big fan of movie stars but I did get to work the Green Room at the “Welcome Home Desert Storm Parade.”  I was with Dale, my long time friend and partner.  As usual we were standing by the back door, waiting for the next round of hors d’oeuvres.  We were approached by two old codgers who wanted to shake our hands.  I thought they must be the fathers of some Hollywood big shot.  Then I noticed they had Congressional Medal of Honor medals around their necks.  Damn, real American heroes, I had lump in my throat and could hardly talk. One received his medal at Pearl Harbor.  I wish I had written down their names but I was star struck.  They spent 30 minutes talking to us.  What a thrill.

General Westmoreland
General Westmoreland

Later, we were introduced to General Westmoreland, general during the Viet Nam war. He was warmer than some of the Department brass I’ve spoken to. We met Martha Raye, who entertained our troops during WW II, the Korean, and the Viet Nam Wars. We also met other soldiers but these made the biggest impression.

September 14/15, 1987.  Pope John Paul II visits Los Angeles.  The Pope appeared at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum and Dodger Stadium.  I was selected to work at the Satellite Command Post at Dodger Stadium.  I sat inside the club house and watched the Mass, I was the only one below the rank of Lieutenant.  That was after they fed us at the restaurant.  Boy, what do I do with the sack lunch I brought from home?  I told my wife her lunch was delicious.

Department schools:  Every Police Officer in California has a POST (Police Officer Standards and Training) certificate.  You have to have 40 hours a year of state approved training to keep your certificate.  I have been to a week long school in San Luis Obispo.  The department gave me a car, gas credit card, a hotel room and a food voucher.  What ever money I didn’t spend on food I had to return.  I ordered from the right side of the menu.  Get it?

Twice, I attended schools in the seaside city of Oxnard.  Nothing better than a three mile jog around the Marina before a city paid breakfast.  I also worked the Democratic National Convention in L.A. in 2000.  A group of Democratic delegates from Wisconsin wanted to take a picture of us wearing cheese hats.  We declined. We were smarter than the two officers who agreed to put women’s underwear on their heads for a picture.  One’s now a Wal-Mart greeter and other is on permanent desk duty.

I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that I was on three department training cadres.  For almost 20 years I taught shotgun tactics and building searches for Hollywood Division.  I also taught High Risk Vehicle and Van stops on a Bureau-wide basis.  Hollywood started a rapid deployment training for an active shooter after the Columbine incident.  The training was later taught on a department-wide scale.  I was almost an expert on “I don’t remember” response during a Internal Affairs interview.

Ok, you must think I was some kind of golden boy geek on the LAPD.  Actually, if you spread these nice jobs over a 35 year career and I got a good job every 3 1/2 years.  The rest of the time, I was a patrol grunt and enjoying every minute.  I spent numerous nights standing outside the police station in the dark on station security.  I once spent fifteen hours in a wet uniform that turned my underwear LAPD Blue.  I’ve been exposed to lice, crabs and yes, even AIDS.  I’ve been pricked by a hypes syringe, but I prefer to remember the good jobs and I had a few. 

I can’t believe we got paid for what we do. 
                                                                                                                                                                            Hal

Categories
Writer's Notes

Officer Safety — Yes, I Take It Personally

By Melissa Kositzin

July 9, 2013

I am proud to be a 9-1-1 dispatcher. I think I was meant to be a 9-1-1 dispatcher all along; I just had to take the circuitous route getting here.

The job comes with thrills and chaos and boredom and personality conflicts. It’s not for just anyone; you really must come with a pretty thick skin or be deft at compartmentalization. I definitely sit in the latter category, not the former. I’ll own it: My skin’s pretty sensitive and I am not made of Teflon. I am, however, a professional and prefer to be treated and respected as a professional.

The job also comes with its own built-in challenge: the great divide between cops and their dispatchers; between the sworn and the civilian. I like to think of that great divide as an urban myth that can be destroyed with a little one-on-one communication from time to time, thus avoiding this scenario:

I just pissed off dispatch
I just pissed off dispatch

 (Click on the pic and you’ll see the joke better.) The great untold truth is: We (dispatchers) don’t really do that. We don’t wage a war of shitty-ass calls in response to a shitty-ass attitude. It’s tempting, I’m sure; but we don’t. At least, I don’t and I don’t work with anyone who does.

Yet, I’m pretty sure there are officers out there who truly believe we do. I’m so sorry you live in that world with that belief and were treated in such a fashion to make you believe that. 

In our small town, we dispatch officers based on their beat (their assigned geographical area). If a call is in their beat and that officer is available, it’s their call. Doesn’t matter if it’s a barking dog, a landlord-tenant dispute with no crime to speak of, a rape or an assault. It’s their beat; they gotta take the call. We don’t make up calls in their beat just to spite them for a perceived earlier insult or lack of patience. We don’t send them from one end of town to the other just because we can. I’m not gonna lie; sending an officer from one end of town to the other and back again happens, but not because we are being vindictive.

In the past — over my nine years of working here — whenever I’ve had a miscommunication with an officer, I’ve addressed that officer directly. Usually that resolves it. The officer shares their perspective, I share mine, and we each (I hope) walk away from the conversation with an understanding and common ground. Rarely have I had to go to a sergeant or supervisor with a problem.

However… lately, I’ve been a little frustrated. More and more often, we’re getting a rash of what I call “second-guessing” from units enroute to a call. Have we done this, have we done that, what is the suspect’s description, what does the vehicle look like, which way are they going? Guess what, guys? WE’RE WORKING ON IT. We have the SAME checklist you do. We know what information you’re looking for and we’re working our butt off to get it to you as quickly as we can, given the challenges of slow computers and even slower callers who don’t answer the question you ask but the question they want to answer… which is another story for another day.

In attempting to address this through dispatch meetings and supervisor/sergeant meetings the word has come back: Deal with it. We (the officers) are just working the checklists in our own minds. Don’t take it personally.

Well, okay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt that from time to time something gets missed, or unasked, or undone, but not on every single call. When I am being second-guessed on what feels like every single dispatch, then yes I start feeling like I’m not being trusted to do my job. That hurts, because in the core of my being I am doing everything I can to get that officer the information they want in a timely manner SO THAT THEY GO HOME ALIVE AT THE END OF THEIR SHIFT. Believe me, that is my sole concern: that everyone gets out alive and unhurt.

Along those same lines, another aspect of our job includes knowing where our officers are at all times. We are accountable for their status and location. So, if they’re taking too long to get somewhere, we’re suppose to check on them; make sure they haven’t been in an accident or jumped on their way from point A to point B. Does it make us seem like “Big Brother/Sister” to our officers? Probably, but again it’s all about officer safety and I don’t want to be the dispatcher that loses an officer because I wasn’t paying attention.

So, after several meetings and discussions, including some one-on-one conversations, I still have this unresolved dilemma of I just “have to deal with it” — the being second-guessed and not trusted because it’s not personal it’s just the new way of doing things I guess (because the more veteran team does not do this nearly as often, I’ll just go ahead and put that out there). So, I’m sitting with that, and trying to just roll with it and not take it personally because it’s not just me, they’re doing it with all of us and you know whatever it’s fine as long as everyone gets home safely.

Then this past weekend, while I am working dispatch (as opposed to call-taking), I status check an officer who hasn’t advised that he has arrived on scene of an in-progress call, and another officer has advised that the scene is “code four” — everything is okay. Even though the scene is code 4, I still need to know if this not-on-scene officer is actually on scene and hasn’t told me, or if he got in an accident along the way and needs help. So, I call him on the air. Once. Twice. Three times. I’m just about to ask another officer on scene if they can see him — otherwise I’m going to be sending some “code 3 cover” to check his route and find him, when he finally answers me… and he’s got all kinds of attitude about it in his voice. Like, WTF am I doing calling him three times?!

Okay, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe he was tussling with a suspect — in which case the other officer shouldn’t have advised the scene was code 4. Maybe he was in the middle of a conversation. I’m not on scene, I can’t see what’s happening, which is why my imagination runs to worst-case-scenario, precisely because I don’t know what’s going on out there. There are a thousand reasons why he couldn’t answer me the first or second time. NONE of them are a reason to have an f-off attitude in his voice when he finally does answer me.

I know there’s another side to this story (like Mercury being in retrograde), but I would like to think that any officer would prefer to have a dispatcher who cares, who takes it personally if they get hurt, who is professional enough to have conversation after conversation trying to work this stuff out, rather than a dispatcher who just goes into robot mode and stops thinking about what they’re doing. I think that’s what I want from an officer, too: Don’t be a robot checking the boxes on your list. Know us well enough to know when you have to ask and when you don’t have to ask because you know we’re working on it.

I’m not supposed to take it personally. Guess what? I refuse to be a robot. I’m gonna take it personally. Deal with it.

:}

Re-posted with permission from Melissa Kositzin. Check out her blog at

Wandering Voiceless

Exploring spirituality, relationships, family; with occasional side trips into managing chaos, dealing with stupid people, and cooking with Tastefully Simple
Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Foot Beat Stories, part 4

By Hal Collier

This is the conclusion of Hal’s Foot Beat Stories, for now. He might have another one cooking that he will share with us soon. Next week, we’ll look at Hal’s take on different types of calls for service. Leave us a comment if you care to ask Hal about his life in LAPD. And as always, I’m here to answer questions, too.  –Thonie

I never expected the foot beat chapter to be this long but once I started, all these memories flooded my brain.  Don’t panic, I’m not ready to climb up on roof like those knuckleheads in Louisiana.  The fond memories even pushed out the thoughts of the ugly daily news.

 

Cop walking the beat
Cop walking the beat

I asked for and was given a Morning Watch Foot Beat.  I don’t think any other division in the city has a Morning Watch Foot Beat, but then none looked like Hollywood in the late 70’s.  When all the other night and strip clubs closed up Hollywood was just getting started.

 

My Lieutenant didn’t want me making a bunch of misdemeanor arrests, like lewd conduct in the porno theaters or drunks in a bar.  That was a job for vice. 

 

I had almost 8 years on the job but felt as if I was on probation.  We had to produce or go back to a radio car, handling barking dogs, loud parties and explaining to citizens why we took 3 hours to handle their call for service.

 

We would clear roll call at 11:30 and park our police car in a taxi zone right next to the Hot Dog Stand.  Well, we were sort of a taxi, we just made one-way trips and didn’t charge a fare.  We would walk one round of the Hollywood Boulevard foot beat boundaries.  La Brea to Vine.  After Midnight there wasn’t much open on the east end and a waste of energy and shoe leather.  We would spend the next 6 hours in a 3 block radius of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland.  

 

I learned some interesting tactics while walking a foot beat.  First, most crooks look up and down the street for a police car, they seldom look on the sidewalk for a foot beat cop.  I often could walk right up behind two guys on the Boulevard and look over their shoulder and see them exchange dope for money.  I also discovered I could walk right by two suspicious characters, turn down the next corner and circle back through the alley and watch them break into someone’s car.

 

We did some of our best work walking through dark alleys and parking lots behind Hollywood Boulevard.  Another foot beat tactic was dodging vomit, urine and used condoms.  Still want my job?  I often questioned the wisdom of putting carpets in the Watch Commanders Office.  No cop washes the bottom of their shoes before entering the station.

 

We often saw an empty car alone in a parking lot even when there was lots of free street parking.  Run the license plate for wants and bingo, it was stolen.  Other times we looked at the ignition, punched ignition meant it was stolen and not reported.  Now comes the hard part, you had to keep your eye on the stolen car, go get your own car and then hide it someplace where the suspect won’t see it.

 

Any cop who spent more than a day in patrol, knows how hard it is to hide a Black & White police car with a light bar.  It’s easier to hide a face pimple on prom night.

 

One of us would stay in the car, and the other was watching the stolen car, usually hiding behind a trash dumpster, with urine and vomit under your feet.

 

I won’t tell you about all the arrests we made walking a morning watch foot beat but we often led the watch in arrests.  Of course, we seldom got tied up handling radio calls. 

We often free-lanced and responded to crimes where the suspect might still be in the area.  We also didn’t want to piss off the other hard working cops on our watch.

 

Yesterday’s radio car cop was my partner the next night.  If things got busy we would jump into our police car and handle radio calls.  I remember once the radio operator tried to assign me a radio call high in the Hollywood Hills. I agreed to handle the call but quoted a long delay, because I was on foot a mile and half from my car. 

 

I was fortunate that I was given good partners to work with.  Every once in a while I would get a cop who didn’t want to work or for that matter, walk the foot beat.  One night I was assigned this cop who was known for being lazy.  I noticed that every half block I found myself walking alone.  I would look back and my partner was leaning against a closed business. Once he was sitting on a bus bench next to a homeless person.

 

His attitude changed when a suspect shot another drug dealer in the face with a shotgun behind the hot dog stand, 30 feet away from where we were standing.  He stayed pretty close for the rest of the night.  Two nights later we arrested the shooting suspect.  I had a snitch who told me which motel he was staying in.

 

I had a lot of fun walking the Hollywood Boulevard Foot Beat and I got to work with some great partners, J.J., Dan, Stan, Bill, Cliff and a host of other good cops. 

 

Mike Castro walked the Hollywood & Western Foot Beat, (6FB4) with Dave Smith and Ken Hobbs and said it was a great job.  Other officers walked a foot beat in Ramp (Rampart) or Central Divisions and all agreed pounding a beat was a fun and rewarding job.

 

After 3 1/2 years, I was told that they needed my foot beat spot for a new radio car that would handle all the burglar alarms.  It was called a code 30 car and was staffed with officers Jack Myers and Ron Venegas.  That’s right, they became the famous Hollywood Burglars.  They were the cops that broke into businesses to steal property–on duty.  I’d hate to be the supervisor that made that decision.  Walking a foot beat was the best of times, that later turned into the worst of times.  That will be another Ramblings story.

 

Today’s Hollywood Boulevard foot beat cops ride bikes or drive around in their cars.  It’s just a different time.  I was one of the lucky ones who got a little bit of the good ole days.

Hal

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Officer Douglas “Scott” Russell, CHP eow July 31, 2007

Mounted Patrol Lt. Phil West of Mono County SO honoring fallen CHP Officer
Mounted Patrol Lt. Phil West of Mono County SO honoring fallen CHP Officer Douglas “Scott” Russell on July 31, 2013

The Mono County Sheriff’s Department Honor Guard, Mounted Unit, and other department personnel stood alongside the California Highway Patrol to honor a fallen CHP Officer.

Please see the below press release issued by Officer Anne Morin of CHP.

-Jennifer Hansen, Public Information Officer

CHP HONORS FALLEN OFFICER DOUGLAS “SCOTT” RUSSELL

On July 31, 2013, a variety of law enforcement personnel and friends gathered at the Antelope Valley Cemetery in Coleville to honor fallen California Highway Patrol (CHP) Officer Douglas “Scott” Russell, who was killed in the line of duty on July 31, 2007. Officer Russell was 46 years old and was an officer for 22 years. He was assigned to the Placerville Office at the time of his death, six years ago. He was deploying a spike strip to assist other CHP units involved in a high speed pursuit when the driver of the vehicle intentionally struck Officer Russell with his car. Officer Russell died from his injuries. The driver that struck Officer Russell was convicted of murder and is currently on death row.

At 12:30pm yesterday, the time the pursuit began six years ago, personnel from the CHP’s Bridgeport, South Lake Tahoe, and Placerville offices; Mono County Sheriff Ralph Obenberger and his staff; Mammoth Lake Police Department Chief Dan Watson, Mono County District Attorney Tim Kendell; representatives from the US Marine Corp Mountain Warfare Training Center; and some close friends gathered for a few moments in a formal ceremony to place flowers on Officer Russell’s grave. CHP Lieutenant Ron Cohan, Commander of the Bridgeport Office, described the events of six years ago and his acquaintances with Officer Russell. In Lt. Cohan’s remarks, he noted that Officer Russell knew the dangers of being a pedestrian on the edge of a high speed pursuit. Despite his understanding of the dangers, Officer Russell honored his CHP oath, “…if necessary, lay down my life rather than swerve from the path of duty.” All uniformed personnel saluted while the US Marine Corps bugler played “Taps” and flowers were placed on Officer Russell’s grave.

Officer Russell, and his wife, Lynn, were longtime Antelope Valley residents and met while she was employed as a Mono County Sheriff’s Department dispatcher and he was assigned to the CHP’s Bridgeport office. Officer Russell was very athletic, an outdoor enthusiast, and loved living in the Eastern Sierra’s. For these reasons, his family chose to bury him at the Antelope Valley cemetery.

If you would like more information, or additional photos of the event, please contact Officer Anne Morin at the CHP Bridgeport Office (760) 932-7995.

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More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

First Night The Last Night?

By Gerry Goldshine

 

SCSO BadgeI was living the dream. That’s what I was thinking as I checked my appearance in the locker room mirror before heading into the briefing room. I was a Sonoma County Deputy Sheriff fresh from the academy and it was my first night on Swing Shift in the field-training program. I checked my badge for any smudges to its highly polished surface. I had spit shined my boots to a gloss that would have passed the most meticulous military inspection. There wasn’t a speck of lint on my uniform. My hair was freshly trimmed. I was ready! Still, like most any rookie on their very first night, I had a stomach full of butterflies.

My Field Training Officer (Deputy Jim) and I were assigned to patrol the Roseland area, which, at that time, was one of the busiest beats in the county.  As I recall, it had been an unusually quiet night with hardly any calls. Then, around 2230 hours -11:30 PM for you civilians types – we happened to pass by the “Generic Dive Tavern” on Santa Rosa Avenue and noticed at least a dozen motorcycles parked out in front.

Hells Angels
Hells Angels

Now these weren’t your usual Harley Davidson, Honda, Kawasaki or similar type of street bikes. These were choppers and not the fancy-schmancy kind you see on shows like “American Chopper”. Deputy Jim decided it was the ideal time to show me how to make bar checks, so we pulled into the parking lot. I’m sure he passed along some enlightening words of wisdom before we went inside but the specifics escape me after all these years.

As we walked inside, I suddenly had this mental image of an old Western, where the town Marshal walks into the saloon and everything, including the music would suddenly go silent. Then all eyes would be on the Marshal. Sadly, the half dozen or so patrons seated at the bar all quite deliberately ignored our presence while the jukebox music played on uninterrupted. So much for that old Western cliché.

Looking around, I quickly focused my attention on the group of bikers clustered around the bar’s pool tables. I’m sure my pulse rate must have jumped from “Gee, I’m so happy I’m a deputy” to “Holy shit, what the hell am I doing here?” So, what about them that rattled my cage?

Hells Angels Logo
Hells Angels Logo

Well, they were not your run of the mill, generic grungy biker types; no siree! This was my introduction to the notorious “Hell’s Angels”. They were all “flying colors”, which means they were wearing those cute little black leather vests with their infamous club logo prominently displayed on the back. Most wore a variety of “merit badges” signifying their various “achievements” within the Hell’s Angels organization. Seated around the tables watching with rapt attention were a couple of the obligatory skanky looking “biker mamas”. Like the rest of the patrons, the biker group also ignored our presence.

I followed Deputy Jim to the bar where he chatted briefly with the bartender who told us that everything was just peachy keen. As far as we could tell, everything appeared to be copasetic, so after a few minutes, we left.

Back in our car, Deputy Jim asked me if I noticed anything unusual inside the bar besides the fact that the bikers were flying colors. I thought a moment and replied that it seemed to me that everyone seemed to be making too obvious of an effort to ignore our being there. He nodded his head and then asked what I thought that meant. He smiled when I said that we probably interrupted the beginnings of some unpleasantness more than likely caused by the Hell’s Angels. I figured that valuing their own well-being, no one wanted bring whatever was going on to our attention.

Then, I asked him if I was right in suspecting those bikers were probably carrying enough weaponry to outfit my old infantry rifle platoon.

His disquieting reply was, “Yep.” I was immediately sorry that I had asked.

He added, “Want to bet we’ll be called back there before we go off duty? I think we’ll hang out on the Avenue for a bit.”

We headed south until we reached the far end of our beat. Deputy Jim filled me in on the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels. He told me that they generally tried to keep a low profile in Sonoma County so as not to draw undue attention to their drug trafficking. That was not to say they weren’t above creating havoc and random violence when it suited them.

It wasn’t more than thirty minutes later when the alert tones sounded out on the radio.

“10-Frank-14 (our call sign) and any available units. 415 fight, possible 594 (vandalism) in progress inside the Generic Dive Tavern at 1234 Santa Rosa Avenue. Anonymous Reporting Party (RP) states that 10 to 15 Hells Angels are tearing the place apart. Unknown if any weapons. No further information.”

Bar Fight
Bar Fight

Deputy Jim acknowledged dispatch and took off, rolling “Code-3”, hitting at least Warp Factor Five. I don’t remember if we discussed tactics or anything else about what I was supposed to do when we got there. The one thing I clearly remember thinking at that moment was, “Well, it’s my first night and now I’m gonna die.” Then, because this how my mind works, some of the lyrics from a sixties anti-war song popped into my head:

And it’s five, six, seven,
Open up the pearly gates,
Well there ain’t no time to wonder why
Whoopee! We’re all gonna die. *

I felt it best not to share these thoughts with my FTO.

We pulled into the tavern’s parking lot, along with another unit, probably not much more than five minutes after the call went out. It was eerily deserted; not a car, motorcycle or person was in sight. There were shards of glass and smashed beer bottles all around the front of the building. I saw a broken chair lying by the door. Surprisingly, all the lights were off, both those inside and the ones outside. The door was locked. No one responded to our banging on it or Deputy Jim’s “Sheriff’s Department” announcement. After a few minutes, he advised dispatch that we were “Code-4” (situation under control) and canceled any other units that were responding. We checked around the parking lot and building just to make sure there weren’t any injured patrons or bodies lying about. As we found nothing, Deputy Jim requested Dispatch to call the bar. Moments later, we could hear the phone ringing inside and it went unanswered. Dispatch then advised us that called the listed emergency contact number and had spoken with the owner who said that no one had been hurt and he didn’t want to file a report.

By then, Sgt. Mac arrived and after Deputy Jim explained the situation, he told us that since we had nothing to show anyone had been hurt, we should call it a night. He would have Dayshift check the bar when it opened the following day. All I remember was that no one turned up seriously injured or seriously dead.

This was the first of innumerable bar checks that I would make during my career. At the time, I couldn’t say if I was relieved that we didn’t have to tangle with a dozen or more Hell’s Angels or disappointed that my first night had such an anticlimactic ending to it. Looking back, older and wiser after having been in plenty of raucous and nasty bar fights since then, I think that first one worked out just fine.

____________

*”I-Feel-Like-I’m-Fixin’-To-Die Rag” copyright 1965 Country Joe McDonald