Month: September 2013

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Motor Cops, Part 2

By Hal Collier

 

In my last Ramblings, I mentioned Motor cops having dust-offs.  A dust-off was a minor accident where the motor cop got up and dusted himself off and didn’t report the incident.  Motor cops received a tie clip with the number of years that they didn’t have a reported accident.  Robbie said he saw motor cops in roll call with blood dripping down their arms.  When asked, no accident, nasty rose bush or angry Chihuahua dog.

Not all motor cops were as lucky. 34 LAPD motorcycle (M/C) officers have died in traffic accidents.  Paul Verna was shot to death by robbery suspects.  I later supervised his son in Hollywood.  Clarence Wayne Dean died when he drove off a just collapsed freeway overpass during an earthquake. These were just a few.

Ken Osmond after LAPD shooting while on his motor.
Ken Osmond after LAPD shooting while on his motor.

Remember Eddie Haskell of “Leave It to Beaver” fame?  Ken Osmond, his real name, later became a LAPD Motor Cop.  In September 1980, he was shot three times while chasing a stolen taxi.  Two of the bullets struck his bullet-proof vest and the third ricocheted off his belt buckle. See photo, Ken in the ambulance.

One of the other dangers of being a BCMC is the injuries of too many reported accidents.  Almost all motor cops have back problems, most have multiple surgery scars.  Craig admits to two back surgeries, one hip replacement, and one neck surgery.  He says he aches all the time but riding sure was fun.

I knew one motor cop in Hollywood, Norm, who had metal braces attached to his boots for support.  Motor cops take their motorcycles home every day.  I knew one motor cop who crashed with a deer on the way home to Palmdale.  Ouch!  Some survive and return to work, others are not so lucky.  They have permanent injuries and are pensioned off work.  As they get older the more the injuries hurt.  If you’re collecting Social Security right now think of how you feel getting up in the morning—and you’ve never had a dust-off.

Lou described an accident he had on the freeway.  His radio was B/O (broken) and he was enroute downtown to get it fixed.  Lou hit an oil spill on a transition road and went down.  He couldn’t call for help and stood on the transition road for 45 minutes as the citizens drove by with smiles on their faces.  Another time, Lou described how his motorcycle caught on fire while he was riding it.  Not all Los Angeles City equipment is new.  After Lou’s last accident, he gave up riding when his doctor asked him if he planned to walk in retirement.

With all that doom and gloom what’s the attraction?  Why do apparently healthy, mentally sound (?) officers want to ride a motorcycle in a big city or any city for that matter?  The rewards must be greater than the negatives.

I surveyed the many motor cops I have worked with and here’s their replies.  Craig said it was for the money.  Motor cops take their motorcycles home each day.  They have free transportation to and from work and they don’t pay for gas.  They also get a lot of overtime for attending traffic court.  Motor Officers also get hazard pay but I don’t think it’s enough.

Lou talked about the freedom of riding a motor.  You had to write your tickets but let the sergeant try and find you.  Motor sergeants were usually old motor cops who promoted. The working motor cops had more shit on the supervisor then he had on them.  “Tell on me and I’ll tell on you.”

Skip said there’s only two kinds of cops, those who ride motors and those who want to ride motors.  He went on to say there are two kinds of motor cops, those who have gone down and those who are going to go down.  Think about having a dust-off in your future?

Skip also recalled the time he was off-duty and on his way home in Burbank.  He saw an obvious drunk driver and just couldn’t let him drive any longer.  He stopped the driver and found out that he wasn’t drunk, just crazy as a loon.  Skip escorted him into the lobby of the Burbank Police station, then rode away.  Who was that masked motor cop?

Robbie was a little more verbose, (wordy). You either love riding motorcycles or you hated it.  He loved riding.  Most motor cops rode motorcycles before applying for LAPD motor school.  Robbie said riding a black & white M/C with red light and siren was just a bigger rush.  He said going in pursuit on his motorcycle had no equal on the Richter scale.

Robbie also said that the L.A. Police Department thought that motor cops were nuts so they got away with more than a patrol cop.  Robbie has been retired for over 20 years and still has dreams of riding his Harley in L.A. with his partners.  Hopefully he doesn’t have dreams of the dust-offs!  Motor cops love to ride, and a lot ride their own bikes after retirement, not unlike “Easy Rider.”

I’m going to describe some of the motor cop incidents that I observed.

 

LAPD motor officers Venice Beach, Ca May 29, 2012
LAPD motor officers Venice Beach, Ca May 29, 2012 photo from flickriver.com

I worked Hollywood patrol for more years than the Andy Griffith show was on TV.  In that time, I had a lot of interaction with motor cops.  I can’t think of a bad experience that whole time.  I transported their drunk drivers and warrant suspects.  If a motor cop gets flagged down by a robbery victim, I took the report.  Motor cops lose the ability to take non-traffic reports when they graduate from motor school.  No problem, they bailed me out of many multi-car traffic accidents.

I knew one motor cop who was the most interesting.  Avo, was a senior motor officer and he worked Hollywood Day watch.  I never saw Avo mad or heard him complain about anything.  He loved riding motors and loved life.

I once received a radio call for transportation for Avo at Hollywood Boulevard and Cherokee.  I was close and as I arrived I spotted Avo’s M/C parked at the curb.  Avo’s helmet was resting on his handle bars.  The only thing missing was Avo.  I looked up and down Hollywood Boulevard.  No Avo. I sent my probationer up Cherokee to a parking lot to see if Avo was there.  Nothing!  If you knew Avo you knew he didn’t run after anyone.  I’m about to put out an “officer needs help” call when I spot Avo walking out of a ice cream store.  Avo has a single dip cone and his arrestee has a double dip cone, both bought by Avo.  No wonder I never had to fight one of Avo’s arrestees.

Another time I’m leaving the station parking lot and as I drive northbound up the street, I see this official LAPD motor cycle southbound on the sidewalk.  It’s Avo. He’s walking his arrestee to the station for booking. Clarification, the arrestee was walking, Avo was riding.  What no ice cream?

I was once working deep under cover.  I was wearing a wig and hadn’t shaved in a week.  We were driving a Bundy-Rent-A-Wreck.  For my non-police friends, Bundy rents cars that the auto wreckers turned away. Most had bald tires, dents and current registration was not an option.  We were in Venice and looking for real bad guys.  This car I’m driving was cherry—it had a rear view mirror. I look at the mirror.  I see a motor cop with red lights on. Crap, he’s pulling us over.

My partner looks worse than I do.  I can see it on the 5 o’clock news.  Get out of the car, hands up, lie on the hot ground, arms and legs spread out.  Where did I put my badge?  I rip off my wig and step out making sure that I don’t make any furtive moves.  My hands are so high that low flying sea gulls are in danger.  Wait, I recognize that motor cop. It’s Bohlen. He’s worked Hollywood!  I yell out, “Bohlen, it’s me Collier from Hollywood.”  He looks at me then the car and shakes his head.  We both looked like wrecks.

Motor cops are definitely a different breed from patrol cops but damn, they sure were fun to work with.  Motor cops have been seen driving home with a Christmas tree on the back of their motorcycle.

One last thought, a motor cop in Hollywood had a license plate frame on his police motorcycle that said, “Smile, I could be behind you.”  His sergeant made him take it off.       

Hal

Categories
More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Congratulations and You’re Holding Over!

Petaluma, CA, Petaluma Blvd
Petaluma, CA, Petaluma Blvd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
By Gerry Goldshine

The brass ring for pretty much any rookie officer is that final day or night in their department’s field-training program. They’ve gone through the hiring process, completed the academy and are now at the end of twelve to fourteen weeks of having their FTO painstakingly scrutinize every citizen interaction, every arrest, every citation and every report. As a Petaluma officer, I finally grabbed my brass ring on a Saturday night in December of 1980. At that time, the Petaluma Police Department’s field-training program was about 12 week long, broken down into three, four-week phases. The last week of the program was known as “Plain Clothes Week”. During this phase, your training officer wore street clothes and was along only to evaluate you; they were not to assist you in any way though you could ask other officers for help. In essence, this was the police department’s final exam to determine your abilities to solo as a police officer.

Officer Dave Long had been my training officer for my final phase, working the Swing Shift, which ran from 1630 hours (4:30 PM) to 0230 hours (2:30 AM). On this memorable Saturday night, the swing shift sergeant had called off sick. Since Dave was the senior officer working that night, he had to fill-in as the acting Watch Commander. Dave asked Officer Tom Swearingen, another FTO, to take his place as my training officer. Dave then assigned us the busy downtown beat just to make sure I had an “active” final night of training.

As I recall, it was definitely very busy that night but one incident in particular still stands out in my memory; the party on Elm Street (no, not that Elm Street). Somewhere close to 0200 hours -2:00 AM- I was beginning to let myself think about finally reaching the finish line when I heard dispatch sending units to investigate several anonymous reports of a loud, disruptive party in the beat next to mine. A few of the people calling, complained that there were more than a hundred attendees and that some of them were tossing beer bottles and cans into the yards of neighboring houses. Other callers said that there were minors consuming beer and hard liquor. I knew officers, an hour or so earlier, had already warned the people throwing the party to quiet things or we would have to order it shut down.

A few minutes later, Officer Long requested all available westside units to respond to the Elm Street situation and meet up with him. The first clue I had this was not going to be a simple operation, was the legions of parked cars lining both sides of the street and throngs of people making their way down the sidewalks to the party, several blocks before I got even close. I pulled in behind a line of double-parked police cars, in time to see other officers putting on their riot helmets. I wasn’t exactly sure what had transpired before I got there, but I had a hunch that the first requests to shut the party down had been met with less than enthusiastic compliance.

There were about a half dozen of us standing out in the street, waiting for Officer Long to tell us the plan of action when a car drove up and parked in the driveway of the party house. Now you would think a bunch of police officers wearing riot helmets, in front of that same house, might be a clue that something was amiss. Apparently not to the occupants of this car, because the passenger, later identified as ““Stu Pidteen”, got out of the car holding a glass containing some type of beverage. Given the circumstances, Officer DJ Phimister, who was nearby, suspected the beverage might contain liquor and asked the young man to wait a moment. Ignoring DJ, ““Stu”” continued walking towards the front door, which, under the circumstances, seemed to be a rather impolitic course of action. DJ then ordered the teen to stop and in response, “Stu” sent the glass he had been holding, hurtling at DJ’s head, before running inside the house. Happily, it missed Officer Phimister, who took exception at coming close to testing the efficacy of his riot helmet. Naturally, he ran after “Stu” and since I was close by, I followed behind.

Just before making entry, I distinctly remember looking back at Officer Swearingen; he was, after all, my training officer that night. He had one hand raised, as if he were about to offer some sage FTO advice but then realized it was too late. Following DJ down a hallway towards the backyard, I couldn’t help from noticing the scores of people crammed inside that house; in fact, it was standing room only. I remember thinking that more than a few of the young men I ran past appeared to be on the very large and athletic side – as it turned out they were members of the Petaluma High varsity football team.

DJ managed to lay hands upon “Stu” just as he was about to scale the back fence. No sooner had DJ put the “habeas grabus” on him than one of the nearby partygoers decided he wanted a “piggyback” ride…on DJ’s back. Not prepared to play horsey, DJ reflexively let go of “Stu”, who attempted to make a beeline back to the inside of the house. I was close enough to grab “Piggyback Rider”, pull him off DJ and throw him to the ground. He lunged back up at me and I drilled him in the solar plexus with my baton, ordering him to stay down on the ground.

DJ was less than amused and “Piggyback Rider” suddenly found himself the focus of his attentions. As DJ was handcuffing “Rider”, I watched his back to prevent a replay because there were now about twenty very unhappy belligerent people moving to surround us; not a particularly good sign. While this was happening, some other officers managed to snag “Stu” just before he made it inside and he was quickly hustled out to the front yard.

So much was happening; I began to feel as though I were in a three-ring circus especially when I caught sight of another officer turning in a circle, spraying mace at about six or so people who had him surrounded.  As if that weren’t enough, I saw another officer holding his 36-inch long riot baton in such a way to keep another portion of the crowd from moving past him to prevent DJ from arresting “Piggyback Rider”. At the same time, he was trying to keep an avenue of escape open to us. From out in front of the house, Officer Long asked over the radio what our status was in the backyard.

It was then that this officer holding back the crowd with his riot baton immortalized himself as a master of understatement. He calmly replied over all the noise and tumult, “It’s building!”

Finally, someone made the wise decision that was time for us all to “get the heck out of Dodge City” and make our way back out front. Officer Phimister somehow maintained custody of “Piggyback Rider” as we made our way back through the house. I think we were fortunate there were so many people crowded inside that house because none of them realized what had just taken place in the backyard.

A cacophony of noise greeted us when we got out front again. Sirens filled the night air, as units from the California Highway Patrol and Sonoma County Sheriff arrived to help us shut down the party. Up and down this section of Elm Street, you could hear the clipped voices of dispatchers and officers blaring from the various portable and car radios. Adding to the hubbub was the loud animated voices of the partygoers themselves, as they poured out of the house and into the surrounding neighborhood. In the resulting confusion, “Stu Pidteen” got into a scuffle with yet another officer and made his escape into the night, though he was thoroughly sprayed with Mace for his efforts.

In the midst of all this, I heard Officer Long calling me on the radio.

“Lincoln 36…Congratulations…You’ve successfully completed training…Now I need you to hold over for two hours.”

I quickly looked down at my watch and saw that it was 0240 hours; Swing Shift had officially ended! I was at last, exactly where I wanted to be. I wisely resisted the temptation to respond with a loud, ‘Yahoo”!

Epilogue: Since several officers knew “Stu Pidteen’s” identity from prior encounters, the District Attorney filed an assortment of charges and the Court issued a warrant for his arrest. In a town of just slightly over 30,000 people, it didn’t take long for us to find him and serve the warrant. With the passage of time, “Stu Pidteen” eventually became a far wiser adult.

As for the phrase “It’s building!”, for several years after, it became almost obligatory to describe any situation, large or small, that seemed to be spiraling out of control.

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Motor Cops, part 1

By Hal Collier

I usually only write my Ramblings about an incident where I was present or got from numerous reliable sources.  This Ramblings is different.  Some of the incidents I observed and others were passed on to me from former partners.  After writing this, I sent them to my sources for corrections and verifications.  This is what I came up with.
 
LAPD Motor Officer
LAPD Motor Officer

I sent out a survey to former motor cops and some of these observations are theirs and others are mine.  I never wanted to ride a police motorcycle, or for that matter any motorcycle on a city street.  When I was in high school, I had a friend who quit the baseball team and the next day he was in a bad motorcycle accident and lost his leg.  I have dirt bikes that both my son and I ride.  Your chances of survival hitting a pucker bush were better than crashing into a parked car or other fixed object.

 
Police motor cops are a different breed.  It doesn’t matter what police agency you work for.  It doesn’t matter how big or how small your department is, they’re just different than other cops.  Some smaller departments have a rotation system.  You ride motors for six months then you work patrol for six months, then maybe a stint as a detective.  LAPD motor cops are there because they want to or they have a fear of dying in their original skin.  The LAPD Motor Officer School is very difficult. It weeds out the casual weekend rider.  A flunked-out motor cop once described LAPD motor school: they give you a mouth full of marbles.  Every time you dump your motorcycle in school you spit out a marble.  When you lose all your marbles, you’re a LAPD motor cop.
 
In high school, I worked at a hamburger restaurant that was owned by Ivan, a LAPD motorcycle cop. They are called BCMC, “Big City Motor Cops.” He told

LAPD Officer crash southbound 110 in South LA, Nov. 2010
LAPD Officer crash southbound 110 in South LA, Nov. 2010. More than a “dust-up”. Click on the photo, wait for the stupid ad, then watch the news video.

me that all motor cops “go down”, cop vernacular for having an accident.  Ivan told me it was a matter of when and how bad.  Robbie, another BCMC called them “dust offs” for non-serious accidents. “Dust-off” means you get up, dust off your uniform and don’t report it.  The LAPD motor officers wore a tie bar that had the number of years you didn’t have a reported accident.  It was a motor cops badge of honor. Hell, I’ll admit I used to look at the number of years myself.

 
They have their own ideas of what is important as far as police enforcement.  Most motor cops would rather arrest a drunk driver than a bank robber.  They think twice before giving up a good ticket to go to a robbery in progress radio call.  Once, I was walking a footbeat when a motor cop asked for a back up.  I ran four blocks down Hollywood Boulevard to assist this motor cop.  As I rounded the corner, the cop was leaning against a parking meter as a heated family dispute was going on in the street.  He wasn’t going to step in until they committed a traffic violation.  On the other hand, I’ve seen motor cops driving on Hollywood Boulevard sidewalks clearing pedestrians with the siren responding to a officers request for back up.  It was right out of a movie.
 
Ed Meckle recalls two motor cops who stopped a jay walker.  While one officer wrote the ticket, the second officer saw a man hobble out of a jewelry store, gagged and his hands duct-taped.  Their jay walker had just robbed the jewelry store but the officers were upset that they would lose hours of ticket writing.  They gave the the robbery suspect his ticket as they closed the cell door.
 
Some motor cops that I knew were a little crazy. Yea, I thought of better words but crazy fit the best.  Kathy described a motor cop named Lee who would put a traffic cone on his helmet as he drove up and down the street in front of the station. Lee would also put his helmet on backwards and sing “I’m a love machine” while dancing around the Hollywood Station Lobby.
 
One of the Garcia brothers would drive up and down Hollywood Boulevard at night with his siren blaring and he would put his boots on the pavement.  The sparks would fly off the taps on his heels.  That was always a crowd pleaser.  Pat  told of Bob Fiacco who smoked cigars all the time.  When he got off his motor to write a ticket he would put his cigar on the mic cord.  If he forgot about the cigar it would burn through the cord.  He carried spare mic cords in his saddle bags.  If crazy doesn’t fit these guys than I am.
 
I was working fire escort during the last few days of the 1991 LA Riots.  The Department and politicians called it civil unrest, but I was on the streets and nothing was civil about what happened.  (See my Ramblings Riots Trilogy – coming soon.)  So I’m sitting in the fire station waiting for the next call when a motor cop comes in.  He removes his shirt and gun belt, plops down in the large air craft seats that the firemen use for watching TV.  A few minutes later two more motor cops enter and the same thing happens. Soon there’s ten motor cops in various stages of undress.  I later learned that motor cops always hide from their supervisors in fire stations for a break.   Craig said that he was conducting escort duty for President Reagan and stopped at a fire station during a break.  The firemen filled his helmet with shaving cream.  
 
My next Ramblings I’ll talk about other motor cops that made me laugh and some that made me cry.   Hal
Categories
More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Wine Country 5150s or They’re Coming To Take Me Away*

By Gerry Goldshine

Mental health
Mental health

In his most recent ramblings, Hal has been talking about 5150s, so I thought I would continue the topic but from the perspective of a much smaller police department. There were times that it sure seemed like Petaluma, with a population of just over 33,000 in 1980, was the 5150 capital of the San Francisco Bay Area. From my very first call with Petaluma Police to the completion of my “rookie” year, I was convinced that the dispatchers had conspired to assign me every 5150 call the department received including one where the bipolar lady forgot all her English and would only speak in Italian.

(In 1983, one of my sergeants insisted that there was a giant tuning fork under the city. He might have been right–Thonie)

That first call came in while my FTO and I were still in morning briefing. Our sergeant wanted us to Petaluma Valley Hospital and relieve a graveyard shift officer, who had been standing by an injured suicidal man who was on a 5150 hold. The man, in his mid–twenties, and went by the name of Raincloud Mudball. I’ve only slightly changed the name that was on his Driver’s License. Bear in mind, this is the San Francisco Bay Area after all.  He had declared to those who would listen, that he was Jesus, or something like that. He was having the urge to visit his father in Heaven. In order to do this, he proceeded to strip off all his clothes and then flung his body at passing cars on Highway 101 until one inevitably hit him. Surprisingly, he sustained relatively minor injuries, considering a car going 55 MPH had struck him.  While he was being treated in the Emergency Room, Raincloud was completely lucid, refusing any pain medication or local anesthetic while the doctor stitched him back together. He even called his mother, who told us that her son was a schizophrenic and had obviously stopped taking his prescribed medications. Our job was to follow the ambulance carrying Raincloud to the psychiatric facility at Napa State Hospital just in case he got the urge to visit heaven again. It was our good fortune that he did not.

 

Patients in an Insane Asylum--February 1946, Ohio, USA
Patients in an Insane Asylum–February 1946, Ohio, USA

Back in the 1980s, all law enforcement agencies in Sonoma County took those being held under 5150 WIC to the county psychiatric facility in Santa Rosa, known as Oakcrest. While much smaller in size compared to the University of Southern California Medical Center’s psych ward, the attitudes of the people working at Oakcrest were similar to those Hal described. I got to know a lot of dedicated Psychiatric Technicians and some of the Psychiatrists. Sad to say, because of funding cuts, staffing shortages and an overload of patients, many of these dedicated people suffered from job burnout. Some of them no longer cared about what was best for the patients, while others made due the best they could but just went through the motions.

Far worse, were those arrogant techs and doctors who viewed police officers as ignorant, uneducated “jack-booted thugs” who couldn’t possibly have an intelligent inkling of what constituted mental illness. They were the ones “outraged” when it took four of us to bring in a combative person in the violent throes of some type of a mental breakdown. Usually, they would purposely delay us by rejecting the 5150 paperwork we had completed, either because they discovered some picayune mistake or because they just felt like it. They were also the ones who insisted we immediately remove the handcuffs from a “patient”. I learned the hard way before developing Hal’s mindset; the cuffs don’t come off until the combative patient is in a secured room, all the paperwork is approved and I’m on my out the door.

Unfortunately, many of these “patients” were released well before the 72-hour hold period had expired. Sometimes, this was a result of someone deciding that they were no longer a danger to themselves or others, based on a 5-10 minute intake interview. On other occasions, they simply walked out the front door because there had been insufficient staff on duty to watch over them. More than once did I discover that in the 20 to 30 minutes it took me to get back to Petaluma, someone had released a 5150 I had just taken to the facility or they had walked out the front door. It was frustrating, not only to me and other officers but to the subjects’ family as well. In many cases, the family had exhausted all means to get their loved one help and the 5150 hold was their last refuge.

In the case of a “walk-away”, sometimes the good folks at Oakcrest would actually take the time and notify the Santa Rosa Police or us. More often than not, they didn’t and before the individual could make their way back to Petaluma, their behavior would bring them to the attention of law enforcement in whatever jurisdiction in which they happened to be. That department would then have to initiate a completely new 5150 hold. Sadly, once and awhile an early release, regardless of how it came about, would have tragic consequences.

One October, about three or four days before Halloween, a very despondent man walked into the garden section of a local “Paymore” Drug Store. He opened a bottle of Malithion insecticide and proceeded to drink the contents. Fortunately, someone witnessed what he had done and had the store manager call 911. Police and Fire responded and took the man to the local hospital. In the Emergency Room, he told everyone that he had been trying to commit suicide, the reasons for which I no longer recall. I think most would agree that anyone doing what this guy had done, was in need of some serious mental health treatment. He obviously met the criteria for a 72-hour 5150 WIC hold, assuming that he survived, which to everyone’s surprise, he did. Before the day was over, he was well enough for an officer to take him to Oakcrest. However, someone at the facility, made the decision that downing a Malathion cocktail in a drug store was insufficient evidence that someone posed a danger to himself. They released him well short of the 72 hours.

Come Halloween night, at around 10 PM, dispatch sent Officer T and me to check the welfare of a male subject whose family had been unable to contact him; however, we were to call dispatch on the telephone before responding. Officer T and I met up near a payphone – this was in the dark times before cell phones. We learned that the man whose welfare we were supposed to check was the same individual who had swallowed the Malathion a few days earlier.

The man’s house was a run-down old Victorian with a large detached garage; both were completely dark. Naturally, there was no response to our knocking at the front door, which was locked. As we started around to the back of the house, several kids who were Trick or Treating asked us if the house was haunted. That’s how creepy the place looked. Luckily, the back door was unlocked. Being the smaller officer, I did not relish having to climb through a window. None of the lights inside worked and the “décor” was in a state that you would expect from someone seriously depressed. It was a two-story house and of course, every damn tread on the staircase creaked loudly with each step we made. I half expected to find Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, Freddy Krueger or Bela Lugosi around one corner or another.

I can’t say we were tremendously relieved at finding nothing inside the house, because that still left the garage, which was even more dilapidated than the house. The back door to it was open with the obligatory cobwebs all around the frame. Stacks of boxes, scraps of lumber, furniture, auto parts and parts of old wooden shelving blocked the view from outside the door. Officer T discovered a light switch just inside the door but, as was the case inside the house, it didn’t work. As we made our way around inside and past one stack of boxes, we both looked at each other wide-eyed when we suddenly heard a long low creaking emanating from the darkened unseen depths of the garage. Finally, our flashlight beams played over the corpse of a man, hanging from the rafters by a rope tightly noosed around his neck. At his feet was a car battery and it was gruesomely evident that he had drank its liquid contents before hanging himself. Clearly, this man had really wanted to die.

Of course, this begs the question; would a longer stay at Oakcrest have prevented this from happening? For several years afterward, I thought so; however, with experience on the job, I gradually came to understand there are some people, whose minds are so broken, that no amount of psychiatric intervention is going to help. These people see death as the only solution and their only salvation.

I never did learn what ultimately happened Raincloud Mudball. Napa State Hospital has long since closed its doors. I hoped that once he regained an even keel, he continued to take his medications. At the risk of corniness, I like to think that the world is a much more colorful place with someone going by the name of Raincloud Mudball, in it.

______________________

*Apologies to: Napoleon XIV – They’re Coming to Take Me Away

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: 5150’s Part 2

By Hal Collier

 

My last Ramblings dealt with 5150’s, the California Welfare and Institutions Code for crazies, or to be politically correct, the term for the mentally impaired.  As I stated, some people with mental problems can be treated with therapy, some with drugs and others with the firm arm of the law.  That’s where I come in: “I carry a badge.” 

 

Mental Health can be treated with drugs.  Some are very good and allow people to function without notice.  The problem comes when they decide to stop taking the drugs, they start acting bizarre which attracts the attention of the local constable, or the clerk at the 7-11.

 

Bizarre behavior can be caused by taking illegal drugs or not taking prescribed medication.  Kind of a Catch-22 for the cops to figure out.  Illegal drug abusers become paranoid and think someone is out to get them.  We once had a guy run into the police station lobby and demanded protection from the guy who was following him.  The desk officers ran outside to find no one was following him.  They told him he could sit in the lobby for a while.  He refused and demanded that we arrest him and give him protection.  The officers couldn’t arrest him because he hadn’t committed a crime.  The officers never should have told him that.  He punched the desk officer and was arrested.  He was given the jail cell he wanted but only after he received some medical treatment.  He had what we use to say was D & S: Dents and Scratches!

 

I often would ask an individual who was acting bizarre if he was taking medication. If he replied “no,” I would ask him if he should.  The answer was usually “yes.”  That was a warning sign that he might be dangerous.  Another danger sign was when you’re talking to a possible 5150 and he seems to be listening to someone else.  I would ask him, “Are you hearing voices?” If he answered “yes,” I would ask, “What are the voices telling you?”  The voices might be telling him to grab the officer’s gun or fight to the death.  Both of these can be dangerous to the officers and the individual.  I hated fighting the voices and the nut listening to them.  I felt outnumbered, especially when the voice he was listening to was God.

 

This is a similar condo on Kings Road
This is a similar condo on Kings Road

My most scary incident occurred when I responded to a “meet the Fire Department” on Kings Road.  It was at a very nice condo building.  We met the fire captain who stated the tenant started a fire by lighting charcoal briquettes in the kitchen sink.  He had also ripped off the cupboard doors and tore up pieces of the kitchen counter, all by hand.   The captain pointed to the biggest man I ever saw.  He was about 6′ 6″ and 375+ pounds of muscle—he looked like a tackle for the Rams.  He was calmly sitting on the sofa and holding a long-stemmed rose.  His wife, all 100 pounds of her, said he stopped taking his medication and been acting bizarre for days.  Uh oh. Too late to call in sick!

I told my partner to watch him, I’m going to look around.  I walked into the den and suddenly I felt a soft brushing on the back of my neck.  I spun around and looked into the chest of that giant of a man.  I felt a chill go up my spine.  I swallowed my gum and as calmly as I could I called for my partner. 

 

My partner and three firemen came into the room.  You’ve heard of having a command presence in stressful situations, I mustered up a “go sit down!”  He did and I sucked in some air for the first time in 2 minutes.  I estimated that my weight, my partners, and his wife didn’t equal this guy.  If he had decided to fight we would have lost unless we shot him (numerous times). 

 

We broke protocol and allowed his wife to ride along with us the mental ward at USCMC. (County Hospital).  I think she was the boss in the family.  We never had to fight him but I couldn’t wait to drive away from the mental ward that night.

 

Sometimes, I wasn’t so lucky.  A fight with a person who believed he was talking to God or was going to die can have the will and strength of an army.  You couldn’t reason with them and only brutal force will overcome their will.  Almost all of my fights involved 5150’s or illegal drug intoxicated individuals.   My longest fight involved a little guy who got high on PCP at the Palladium.

 

Ok, you’ve just got a 5150 handcuffed and you’re going to place him in your police car.  In his twisted mind, he thinks he’s going to the gallows.  He will kick, spit and bite.  Try getting him in the back seat of a police car with the front seats all the way back.  We didn’t have cages or 5′ female partners in the old days, so the seats were always back, how else could you get in a little nap.

 

In the early 70’s we would lay the patient flat on the back seat or remove the back seat and lay him on the floor board.  Unfortunately, that caused some to receive burns due to the hot floorboard and a few to die due to Positional Asphyxia.  Unlike dinosaurs, we evolved and sat our suspects upright.  This created new problems because our arrestee would kick out the car’s windows and the passenger officer who was required to sit in the back seat with him.

 

The department came up with all kinds of new restraints for controlling 5150’s.  I spent a whole day at the academy being “Net” trained.  That’s right—we had a large net that took four officers to handle.  The first two officers would run past the nut and throw the net over the suspect and then all four officers would run outward with a rope that would cinch the net around the suspect.  It looked like an episode of Animal Kingdom.  The net worked great if your suspect was standing still in the middle of a football field.  Not so good in a small apartment, where most of our encounters occurred.

 

The department also tried using plastic cuffs, similar to the ties that you can buy at Wal-Mart for bundling almost anything.  The thin plastic ties cut into the struggling nuts wrist or ankles.  They later modified the plastic cuffs so they didn’t hurt the guy who just tried to kill you.

 

Cord handcuff
Cord handcuff

Finally someone came up with a cord cuff made out of a material that you could easily apply and remove.  The best part was that you could reuse them over and over again.  It was best if you cleaned them after some nut crapped his pants with your cord cuffs.  You’ve got a kicker? Cinch the cord cuff around his ankles and let the strap hang out the car door and close the door on the strap.  Your kicker can’t kick anyone or damage your car.

 

Here’s a twist: ever try to hand cuff a one armed man?  You can’t cuff his hands together so you cuffed his good hand to his belt or the cord cuff wrapped around his waist. 

 

Other department compliance restraints were Tasers and tear gas.  Both could be effective on sane people who feel pain but fruitless on a mind that thinks he’s going to die.  Tear gas (mace and pepper spray, too) a suspect and then place him in the back seat of your police car, is similar to having your dog sprayed by a skunk then climbing in your car.  No one happy!   

 

Ok, so you squeeze your handcuffed, cord cuffed nutso in the back seat and start to drive him to the mental ward.  In Hollywood you had to stop at Detective Headquarters (DHQ) downtown, and have a detective determines what you already knew: he is nuts.  He writes up a report stating same and you drive your new best friend to USCMC Mental ward.

 

Now, I have a lot of respect for the medical staff who treat mental health patients but I believe they are a little too sympatric to their new patients.  I walk, or in some cases carry in some whack job I just fought with.  I have ripped my uniform pants and have an abrasion on my knee which I suspect is bleeding.  First words out of the doctor is, “Take the cuffs off of him!!!!”   I look the doctor in the eye and say not until I walk out the door.  I fought him once and I won’t do it again today!

 

Dealing with 5150’s was difficult most of the time but sometimes they were fun.  I’ll describe some of fun incidents in the next Ramblings, unless I get that ride to USCMC in the back seat of a police car.

 

Hal

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: 5150’s or Just Call Me Crazy

 

by Hal Collier

My last few Ramblings dealt with death and was pretty depressing.  I purposely avoided describing really ugly suicides and decomposed loved ones.  These were memories that I have spent years suppressing.  This Ramblings subject is dealing with the mentally ill, although a monumental problem in America, it can also have a lot of humor.  Having worked Hollywood for over thirty-three years, I thought I was an expert.  Hollywood is said to be the Entertainment Capital of the world. I disagree–it’s the nut capital of the world.  I honestly believe they bus them into Hollywood to make my day more interesting.

I once surmised that the nuts have a roll call just like the cops.  The head nut gives out assignments: Larry you take off all your clothes and stand in front of the Pantages Theater as the show is exiting.  You get an extra desert for every grey haired lady you

Grauman's Chinese Theater
Grauman’s Chinese Theater

kiss.  Paula, you climb a tree in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, during a movie premier, and spit on anyone wearing Levis.  Jimmie, you and Marty go to the Hollywood Police station.  Enter at different times and ask to speak to the Watch Commander.  When the Watch Commander comes to the front desk, get into a fight on who was there first.  Make sure the desk officers have to use force to arrest you both.  After booking, ask for an extra jail dinner.  Heather, you’re working the phones tonight.  Call into the police station front desk and report a UFO sighting every thirty minutes and include one kidnapping by extraterrestrials.  If the desk officer hangs up on you, call back and ask to speak to the Watch Commander, then spend 30 minutes describing your own abduction.  “OK, let’s go to work and be safe out there.”

5150’s is a well known term used by police officers throughout California.  5150 WIC is a section of the California Welfare & Institution Code (WIC) which allows an officer or doctor to involuntary hold a person who is a danger to himself, others or is gravely disabled.  You can hold a 5150 for 72 hours for psychiatric evaluation.  In layman’s terms, that means he’s/she’s crazy and dangerous.  See? I’m not politically correct anymore.

Lunacy comes from the word lunar and a full moon. There’s not a cop alive who doesn’t go out for his shift and see a full moon and goes back to the equipment room to get an extra set of Taser darts and full canister of tear gas. The full moon really brings out the crazies, don’t ask a scientist, ask a cop or ambulance driver.

Police Officers deal with 5150’s on a daily basis.  I’ll bet every cop I know has a half dozen stories about some 5150 they encountered in their career.  Some were scary, some brought a tear to your eye and others were just plain funny.  Almost all could be dangerous.

I won’t go into the causes of mental illness, because I don’t think anyone, including the experts, know.  The theories run from not being breast feed as a child, to getting the wrong order in the drive-thru at McDonalds.  My knowledge is based on my personal experience.  I do know that some symptoms can be treated with proper medication or therapy.  Others have to be treated with some sort of body restraint applied by the local police officer.

Ok, I said they come in different forms.  Let’s start with the sad ones.  They are the gravely disabled.  Most are aged and their body has out lived their mind.   These are the ones who will bring a tear to your eye.  They don’t know their names or where they live.  If they’re still living outside a care facility, they wander away and can’t find their way home.

I once had a lady talking to parked cars in a carport in Hollywood at midnight.  She said she lived at an address on 52nd street a good fifteen miles away.  I said no way, but found out she did live on 52nd St.  She lived with her daughter and often walked away. She wasn’t even reported missing, even though she had been gone for two days.  That one was easy.  Others don’t know their name or where they live.  It may take hours to identify them and get them home.  If you can’t identify them, they end up at the mental ward at USC County Hospital.

Little old lady driver
Little old lady driver

Another time, we had a little old lady run a red light.  When we stopped her she was lost and couldn’t find the house she had lived in for 50 years.  She had been driving around for hours.  My partner drove her car home and I followed.  The lady had peed on her driver’s seat, my partner needed to change his uniform pants.

The ones who are placed in care facilities also walk away.  They usually have wrist bands with their name and where to return them.  Easy, unless they don’t want to go back.  Ever fight, with a ninety-three pound lady in her nightgown on a city street during rush hour?

Speaking of rush hour traffic, remember the sixty-year old woman who took off her clothes in front of her rest home during morning rush hour traffic.  She entertained morning traffic by showing that she hadn’t concealed her medication in a body cavity.

These are the sad ones and bring a tear to your eye.  We all hope that our own parents don’t end up causing a traffic jam.

Next I’ll describe the dangerous 5150’s.  You usually see them as breaking news.

Hal

Categories
More Street Stories Tales from the Barking Muse

Some Fights

A Fight to Remember

By Gerry Goldshine

 

Altruistic motivations aside, one of the reasons many of us chose police-work as a profession was the unpredictable nature of the job. Each day presents new and differing challenges; one shift might be filled with mind numbing reports while the next might involve ducking punches trying to quell a bar brawl. Business professionals are not usually going to find themselves involved in a physical altercation with a customer. Yet, such confrontations are almost a given in police work, more so depending upon the number of drinking establishments your town happens to have.  In an officer’s career, most of these fights usually blend into the tapestry of innumerable, long forgotten calls for service, traffic stops and arrests. That said, there are always some fights that you never forget.

Swing shift briefing this particular afternoon was unremarkable save for a warning about not using our flashlights in place of our batons. Apparently, a not so happy “camper” was suing officers of a Southern California department for doing just that. I filed that tidbit away in the back of my mind, thinking it would never be of importance, before heading out to patrol my assigned beat, on the east side of town. By the time Graveyard shift hit the streets later that night (around 2200 -10:00 PM) I was buried in reports; since it was the early 1980’s, we actually had to write our reports by putting pencil/pen to paper. This is the less than glamorous facet of police work seldom, if ever, portrayed by Hollywood fiction which in reality, typically makes up the larger part of an officer’s day.

Traffic Officer Gerry Goldshine circa 1985 in his patrol car
Traffic Officer Gerry Goldshine circa 1985 in his patrol car

Our patrol cars were our offices and we would have to park somewhere within our beat to complete our paperwork so that we were available to handle any calls. Back then, a favorite spot to park and write was an old abandoned gas station at the corner of East Washington and South McDowell Boulevard. I had parked facing west, directly across from the “I Forgot Its Name” restaurant and bar, which was nestled in the middle of a Best Western Motel complex.

I had been writing for about an hour or so, my clipboard stuffed with reports yet to be approved by my sergeant. I was engrossed in some residential burglary report that had no leads, when the sound of a man yelling broke my concentration. I could tell, without even looking, that it was the type of howl made by somebody having consumed a snoot-full of booze. I just knew that he was probably going to require my attention, putting me further behind in completing my paperwork. I grudgingly peered out the front windshield in time to see a middle-aged man stagger over to a shopping cart that someone had abandoned in the parking lot. Clearly unaware of my presence and for reasons known only to him, this likely intoxicated clown proceeds to push the cart right into the street where it rolled to a stop in the middle of the far right lane, posing a hazard to traffic.

At almost the same time, Officer Dave Port happened to be making a right turn from East Washington onto South McDowell and witnessed what I had just seen. Dave got on his patrol car’s public address system and ordered this inebriated moron to pull the cart back out of the street. Neither of us was especially pleased with his response, which was in sign language and involved a contemptuous display of his middle finger. I fired up my patrol car and drove across the street to join Dave, who by then had pulled into the parking and removed the cart from the street.

By the time I got out of my car, Dave was in the process of explaining to “inebriated moron” that he was going to get a rather costly citation for causing a traffic hazard. Not surprisingly, he responded in a less than pleasant manner, giving both of us another emphatic, “Fuck you!” only this time, verbally and rather loudly, too. He turned to walk away as Dave and I looked at each other in disbelief. I stepped in front, blocking his withdrawal as Dave told him that he was under arrest for disorderly conduct. It should go without saying that “inebriated moron” was not having any of that and whirled around, quite obviously prepared to fight. I grabbed one of his arms, intending to apply

Demo of compliance holds, wristlocks www.acslaw.org
Demo of compliance holds, wristlocks
photo courtesy of http://www.acslaw.org

a wristlock, when another man came running toward us from between some parked cars. Without a word, he proceeded to shove me away from the first subject. Speaking with a heavy German accent and his breath laced with the unmistakable odor of alcoholic beverages, this new player demanded to know what we were doing with his brother. Given that we were now facing two drunken combative morons, Dave notified dispatched we needed more help.

I tried to explain to our newest “friend” that we were arresting his brother for pushing the shopping cart into the street, creating a traffic hazard and for public intoxication. I had already decided to arrest him once we got some more help, figuring for the moment, a modicum of discretion was the best course of action. Naturally, as Murphy’s Law is wont to do, he swung a balled up fist at me catching me with a glancing blow to my shoulder. The fight was on, Dave grappling with one brother and me with the other. Somehow, Dave had managed to use his portable radio and told whoever was coming to help us, to step up his response to “Code Three” – with emergency lights and siren. This in and of itself was a sign to other officers, that we were undoubtedly in some “deep Kimchi”.  

An instant later, I unexpectedly found myself fighting with not one but two men. My first thought was that Dave had somehow lost control of the idiot who had caused all of this. That was until I saw that he was also fighting with two men. What started out to be a simple “routine” arrest for public intoxication had turned into a donnybrook and we were outnumbered two to one. Dave and I both had the same disquieting thought; where were these guys coming from and how many more were going to join the fracas?

I had already taken a couple of well-placed body shots when I managed to get my hand on the microphone clipped to my uniform shirt’s epaulet and called a “Code Twenty” meaning that we needed any and all help we could get, immediately if not sooner. Just as I heard dispatch sounding the alert tones over the radio, someone knocked the microphone from my shoulder and the next thing I knew, I was on the ground beneath two attackers.  From out of the corner of my I caught a brief glimpse of a third person running towards me. That “Oh Shit!” moment quickly turned to relief when this person tackled one of the two atop me and pulled him off. For the moment, I was back to fighting one on one.

In the ensuing struggle, I managed to get on top of my suspect but unfortunately, the jackass was then lying on his hands and arms, making it impossible for me to handcuff him. I yelled at him to put out his hands, though at this point, I knew it was a futile request. I upped the use of force ante pulling out my trusty can of Mace, which is essentially liquid tear gas, and gave him a generous dose in his face. Unfortunately, the Mace did not work as advertised and he still refused to bring his arms out from underneath him or cooperate in any manner whatsoever.

I reached for my baton and discovered it had popped out of the holder on my equipment belt; so much for that option. It finally dawned on me that I was holding my police issue flashlight in my right hand. It was with a great sense of irony that I looked at the flashlight, then the suspect’s head, then the flashlight. I quickly figured that it was probably an incredibly bad idea to smack him in the head with said flashlight, given the warning we just received in briefing; however, the good Lord knows just how badly I wanted to do just that at that very moment.

Then, the welcomed sound of wailing and yelping sirens piercing the night, converging upon us from what seemed like every direction, finally penetrated my consciousness.

The cavalry arrives! Photo courtesy of the Roanoak Times
The cavalry arrives! Photo courtesy of the Roanoke Times/AP 

The cavalry had arrived! In a matter of seconds, the restaurant parking lot and part of South McDowell Boulevard filled with patrol cars from not only Petaluma Police but also Sonoma County Sheriff and the California Highway Patrol. The sounds of more than a dozen police car radios echoed off the surrounding buildings, which were awash in a kaleidoscope of flashing blue and red colors.  

A couple of officers helped me convince my subject to conclude that it was in his best interests that he let me handcuff him. As one of the other officers led him off to one of the waiting patrol cars, I looked around the chaotic scene and noticed someone in street clothes assisting some officers in cuffing my other assailant. As it turned out, he was an off-duty California Correctional Officer who happened to be driving by and saw that we needed help. He was the person who tackled one of my assailants.

Within minutes, all four were in handcuffs and on their way to the station for booking before transport to Sonoma County Jail. That’s when we learned they were all brothers, living in the San Francisco area, though they were originally from Germany which explained the accents.

As has previously been mentioned on “Just-the-Facts Ma’am”, during these kinds of adrenaline fuel incidents, our perception of time is altered. For me, the wait for help to arrive seemed interminable, yet the entire confrontation from start to finish lasted no more than four and a half minutes. I’m not sure how long it was before I finally felt the adrenaline bleeding away only to be replaced by an overwhelming feeling of fatigue. Both Dave and I had torn, tattered uniforms, in addition to an assortment of cuts, scrapes and bruises; Dave had torn cartilage between several ribs while I had a couple of badly bruised ones.

Now, had this been an episode of Dragnet or Adam-12, this would be the point where the fate of the four suspects was revealed. In keeping with that spirit, some names have been changed to protect the guilty. The District Attorney, in and for the County of Sonoma, accepted the following plea agreement for the four Deutschland Brothers. By each brother pleading guilty to two counts of misdemeanor “Battery upon a Police Officer” and two counts of “Resisting Arrest and Interfering with an Officer”, the DA would dismiss the felony battery charges and request no jail time upon successful completion of 5 years probation. The guilty plea rendered moot the lawsuit they filed against the City of Petaluma for alleged police misconduct. It also meant that the counter-suit Dave and I filed against each of the four brothers was successfully settled out of court for an undisclosed sum. The Chief of Police wrote the off-duty California Correctional Officer a letter of commendation for coming to our aid.

Apologies to the band Fun. and their wonderful song, Some Nights

Check out Just the Facts, Ma’am on Wednesday for the continuation of Hal Collier’s Ramblings on calls for service–next comes part one of 5150’s. For those of you who aren’t familiar with that term, it’s the California Welfare & Institutions Code for mentally impaired. Get ready for more stories!

Thonie

Categories
Writer's Notes

Intent to Hold progress report

 

The second draft of Intent to Hold is done. However, this doesn’t mean my work is finished. It’s been edited, read by beta readers and re-edited. I still have a few manuscripts out to readers and when they return, I’ll do the editing all over again. Invariably, someone will see something that I didn’t, didn’t see something that I did, or the story needs fixing here or there. This is the way of it.  

Next comes the cover. I am working with Bob Crosby on that. He’s a Santa Rosa photographer and Picasa whiz who in his former life was a photo-journalist. His work is wonderful. I’ll also have to get blurbs for promotion, write my own short teasers for the cover, and so on.

I’m considering a print copy this time. My ebook will be out first, by the end of November, if all goes well. I hope to also have a book available in the next months, as well, but that is a lesser priority. I am also fer sure going to set up a deal where a reader can buy By Force or Fear for .99 cents if they buy Intent to Hold. I expect to retail it (ebook, anyway) for $3.99.

This is the Bay of Banderas looking south. It is in this beautiful area of Mexico that Intent to Hold is set.
This is the Bay of Banderas looking south. It is in this beautiful area of Mexico that Intent to Hold is set.

It seemed to take a long time to get this book out (actually just over a year) but I think you’ll like it. My readers have said it has delves deeper into the two main characters, Nick Reyes and Meredith Ryan but is still packed with action and adventure. Intent to Hold is about the two Sonoma County Sheriff’s Deputy investigators who go to Mexico to help Nick’s estranged wife ransom her brother where they get caught in the middle of a cartel war.

I hope I piqued your interest.

Thonie

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: The $50.00 Tomato

Thonie, I started out writing family stories and then progressed to Ramblings.  I still write a family story once in a while.  I wrote this in July.   Hal

By Hal Collier

 

Hal's $50.00 tomato
Hal’s $50.00 tomato

Did you ever see a $50.00 tomato?

 

I’m a humble man, I drive a 10 year old car and a 13 year old truck. I live on a fixed income and my Social Security check which will disappear when I have to sign up for Medicare. I’m not poor, but I’ll admit I have underwear that I bought during the Clinton administration. Hey, they still fit.

So people ask why would anyone be a cop?  Well, I’ll tell you in the next few paragraphs. My dad was great with his hands and could make or fix anything. I took shop classes in school and everything I made was an ash tray. Don’t laugh. I have an ash tray with an electrical cord I made in electric shop. Photos available for a nominal fee.

 

So I made a nice living being a cop. Since retirement I have spread out my interests. I did some wood working in the garage. Want a wood ash tray?

 

I next tried gardening. How hard could that be? Go to the local hardware store and buy an already grown plant. Take it home and replant it in your back yard. Easy—right? Wrong, if you have an orange thumb as my wife describes my gardening talents. I’ve planted flowers, roses, vegetables, fruit and cactus. I have eventually killed them all—even the cactus.

 

Every spring, I think this will be different. I’ll get mature tomato plants, buy new soil, free from contaminates of previous failures. I’ll tend to them and make sure that this year will be different.

 

With new enthusiasm I drive to OSH.  My wife’s proud of me when I walk right by the tool sale and BBQ supply section. We head directly into the garden. We pick out three nice tomato plants. We’re not going to put all our eggs in one basket so to speak. We buy three different kinds of tomato plants. One cherry, one beef steak and some exotic tomato that has different colors inside when you cut it open.

 

We next pick up two bags of dirt and a jug of vegetable plant food and three large planting pots. We head home. I plant the tomatoes and I even read the instructions, full sun, and water every few days until plant is established.

 

Flash forward one month. The tomato plants are growing and flower buds are sprouting out.  I’m going to beat the orange thumb curse. Another two weeks later I have six small tomatoes, three each on only two plants. The third plant seems to be dying from the inside out. The curse returns.

 

I’m going to spare you the slow death of my tomato plants and the few that survived my orange thumb. The bottom line is I spent about $50.00 on plants and supplies and got the tomato pictured. Don’t even ask me how it tasted, I put it up for sale on E-Bay to try and recoup my expenses. Hurry you only have one week to bid on my tomato.

 

Now you see why I was a cop.

 

 

Hal