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
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 toldLAPD 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
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
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
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.
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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
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
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
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.
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
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.
My apologies for posting this and Hal’s last in the wrong order. This should have been “Foot Beat Stories One” and his previous post should have gone second. I promise I’ll do better with “Foot Beat Three” and Four. –Thonie
The following story is true and most of the officers are real live cops, some are legends and some fall into the infamous category. I often say the best of all my jobs on the LAPD was when I worked a Hollywood Boulevard foot beat. That’s not easy to say: I was a Sergeant for 12 years, a Senior Lead, (Community Relations Officer) for 11 years—both good jobs but my 3 1/2 years as a foot beat officer were the best.
Most of the names are real Hollywood cops and most of the stories are true. Some were passed down by other Hollywood cops and they might be legends. That’s in case some ACLU attorney is looking for a civil rights violation.
The foot beat cop of the 50″s 60’s & early 70’s were the toughest cops in the division. They ruled their beat with an iron fist, with the emphasis on fist. They didn’t have radios. If they got in a fight, they won or lost their life. Foot beat cops walked their area every day and knew the store owners, pimps, drug dealers and pan handlers all by name and those same people all knew his name. If a store owner was having a problem with an individual he would tell the foot beat cop and the problem disappeared, don’t ask me how.
George Kennedy was “The Blue Knight”
If you ever watched the TV series “The Blue Knight”or read the Wambaugh novel, that was a tame version of what a foot beat cop was.
First the legends of Hollywood foot beat cops: Gene Fogerty. I didn’t know Gene very well and never worked with him. He was the typical old time foot beat cop. He ruled Hollywood Boulevard and no one had any doubts who’s boulevard it was. I was told that Gene never paid for anything. He ate for free, shopped in the boulevard stores and walked out saying “foot beat gratuity.” Those days were gone when I came on. We were told in the academy that a free cup of coffee led to corrupt cops. Come on, my standards are higher than 10 cents, the price of a coffee in 1971. Throw in a glazed donut and I might consider a bribe. Just kidding, I was never big on eating donuts.
One of Fogerty’s regular partners was Jim Conrad, a former boxer. Together they handled anything and everything. I was once told that a street person walked up behind Conrad and tapped him on the shoulder. Conrad felt the guy was too close to his gun, spun around and knocked him out cold. Police work in the 60’s was a lot different.
As you already know and are tired of hearing, is that I worked Morning Watch for the first 14 years I was on the job. That’s 11:30 PM to 7 AM. I only saw the Mid PM foot beat for a few hours before they went home.
Although this picture was taken in the 1950’s, it gives a better feel of the area during the ’70’s. Today, Hollywood and Highland sports an upscale mall.
In 1977, Hollywood Boulevard was out of control on Morning Watch after 2 A.M. We had two businesses in the area of Hollywood & Highland, that were open all night. The “International Hot Dog Stand” known by all cops as just the hot dog stand and “Danielle’s.” The hot dog stand was just that, a small hot dog stand, but it was open all night and behind it was a dark parking lot perfect for dealing drugs or any other crime you can think of. Danielle’s was a coffee shop which catered to drag queens as we called them in the un-politically correct ‘70’s. I always thought it curious that Marilyn Monroe’s star was right in front of Danielle’s, a drag queen hangout. Danielle’s is now a McDonalds’.
The drag queens would eat at Danielle’s, then go to work on Highland. By work I don’t mean that they were setting out traffic cones for Cal-Trans, they were collecting money for a service for which they paid no taxes or Social Security. A Drag Queen’s overhead was the cost of their clothes and whatever they stuffed into their bras, usually yesterday’s dirty socks. No kidding.
Anyway when the rest of Los Angeles closed up, Hollywood and Highland was just starting to go strong. I approached my Lieutenant and asked if he ever considered a Morning Watch foot beat? He cocked his head to the side, somewhat like my dog does when I talk to her, and he asks, “What did you have in mind?” I laid out my plan and the following month I was told I would be working a Morning Watch foot beat. I was then asked who I wanted to work with. Holy cow, I was never ever asked who I wanted to work with.
I selected Randy for my partner. Now Randy was not the easiest cop to work with. In fact half the cops on the watch didn’t like Randy and he felt the same about them. I picked Randy because he worked. All I needed to do was keep him on a short, tight leash.
Most people think that walking a foot beat is just walking along and watching for crime. I thought so, too. I was told that I needed some foot beat experience. Let’s see: I have 7 years on the LAPD and I’ve been walking since I was around one. My childhood records have been sealed so I’m guessing.
The next month I’m going to be assigned to work a Mid Day foot beat. Mid Day, that’s when the sun and all those citizens who pay my salary are out. Crap. I going to learn foot beat techniques from a Hollywood Legend, J.J. Brown. J.J. took over the the Mid Day foot beat when Fogerty retired. J.J. had been walking a foot beat since before I was a rookie. This should be fun. Next chapter, I’m learning how to walk all over again.
We are happy that 35-year veteran Hal Collier is sharing his ‘stories behind the badge’ with us. This was originally posted 7/24/2013. Thought you might enjoy it again.–Thonie
The following stories are true and I’ll use real names as long as it doesn’t get anyone indicted or divorced. Several posts ago, I talked about how my favorite job on the LAPD was walking a foot beat. I never worked Vice but I did do a three month undercover tour in an elite West Bureau unit whose chain of command was a sergeant, then the Bureau Deputy Chief. I still had more fun on the foot beat than any other job.
You ever watch a movie or TV show and the Captain threatens the officer that he will have him pounding a foot beat? I’d have volunteered in a heartbeat. I snowed my Lieutenant into letting me walk a Morning Watch foot beat, but first I have to learn how to walk a foot beat. They assign me to Mid Day Watch with J.J. Brown. Cool, J.J. is a Hollywood legend on the Boulevard. He’s been walking for over 28 years, so how hard could this be?
I show up for work like I’m working a radio car, I carry my 40 lb. gear bag with riot helmet, extra ammo, tools, street guide and every report known to the LAPD.
J.J. just laughs at me and says, “We walk little lighter!” My first lesson, we only need one traffic citation book, one parking ticket book and one handheld radio. The radio was a Dumont and it only worked on a nice day without any tall buildings between you and the radio tower on Mt. Lee. Everything you needed, you carried in your pockets or on your belt. Hats were a must, department policy and you carried a baton which often became your best friend in a fight.
We get out of the car and J.J. asks, “Where’s your flashlight?” Lesson 2: You need a flashlight for dark bars and the very dark porno theaters. Ok, I’ve got my pockets stuffed, I’m ready to start walking. J.J. said, “Where are you going?” I’m starting to walk eastbound with traffic. Lesson 3: Foot beat officers always walk against traffic. This walking might be harder than I thought.
Cop walking the beat
J.J. and I start walking, facing traffic. I’m thinking how cool I must look in my fresh uniform and in front of all these business people and tourists. Three buildings later J.J. grabs me by my Sam Brown Belt and says, “Slow down, we’re going to be walking for the next 6 hours. You’re walking like your late for dinner.” J.J. tells me, “You walk at a much slower pace and stop every so often.” OK, I’m wondering if I need to write all this down. J.J. is very patient with me. I feel like a rookie. If I find myself walking too fast I stop and find J.J. 30 feet behind me and laughing. I’ll learn, maybe.
I soon find that J.J. knows everyone on Hollywood Blvd and everyone knows him. We stop at various businesses and J.J. introduces me to the owners or managers. I have worked Hollywood for over seven years and I don’t know any of these people. We stop at London Britches, a clothing store and J.J. introduces me to the manager. I don’t remember her name but I’ll never forget that smile. She was gorgeous.
I remember another group of businesses, Artisans’ Patio. This young sales clerk walks out to talk to J.J. She is also very pretty, I’m beginning to like this Day Watch foot beat. J.J. is talking with the young lady and I glance over, she is wearing a white cotton full length dress. When she stands in the sunlight I can see that she isn’t wearing anything under her dress and I mean nothing. J.J. asks, “Ready to go?”
I said “Ah, not just yet, I have to, ah, catch my breath.”
J.J. also introduced me to some of the Boulevard people, Bill Conkey & Tillie who were street people. J.J. and the other foot beat officers took care of them. Giving them money, buying them clothes and taking them for medical care. You don’t see that much anymore. The less friendly street people are advised of the rules of Hollywood Boulevard, known as the “Boulevard Rules.”
From the movie, Pretty Woman–hooking on Hollywood Boulevard
Remember the movie, “Pretty Women” where female prostitutes worked Hollywood Boulevard? Boulevard Rule #1, no whores on Hollywood Boulevard. They were always politely directed to Sunset. The tourists were on Hollywood Boulevard. I soon learned that there were all kinds of rules. Businesses couldn’t put signs on the sidewalks, no blaring music and most important don’t piss off the foot beat cops. My second day, we did bar checks and wrote parking tickets.
The Nest Bar was on Hollywood Boulevard and was a known biker hangout. Not so much on day watch but at night the bikers and the cops were always in conflict. Parking regulations for motorcycles were simple. Back tire must touch the curb. If a foot beat cop can slide a thin piece of paper between the back tire and the curb, the motorcycle got a parking ticket.
I was told that on occasion a passing car would throw something at the foot beat officers. The foot beat cop would write down his license plate and issue him a parking ticket. The motorist found out six months later when he tried to renew the registration to his car. I never did that or saw it done, could be a legend, I just don’t know.
Bar checks—how hard could that be? Well, you don’t just walk into a dark bar from the sunshine of the Boulevard. Pause inside the door and let your eyes adjust to the light. One officer walks to the back and the other stays by the front door. The foot beat officers didn’t enforce ABC (Alcohol, Beverage & Control) violations, like serving a drunk or bugs in a bottle. We mostly wanted the owners and patrons to know that the cops were around.
My favorite bar was the Tourist Trap. The Tourist Trap was a dive and certainly not for tourists. It was a bar frequented by black pimps and drug dealers. I loved walking to the back where the pool table was. I would stand next to the pool table, in front of the pocket where the pimp was going to shoot his next shot. They always missed the shot.
There were other bars on Hollywood Boulevard, like The Powerhouse, The Alley bar, The Frolic Room and a few others I have forgotten. There were also a couple of porno theaters. The Cave comes to mind. It had a live strip show during the day that packed the house. Porno theaters are not my cup of tea. They all have the same smell and sticky floors. Use your imagination.
I remember one girl who approached us walking on the Boulevard. She was sweet and I thought, what a nice girl, I’ll bet her parents are proud. Later that day I caught her show at the Cave. Now, I hope her parents don’t know.
I enjoyed working with J.J. a Hollywood Boulevard Foot Beat legend. J.J. has read this chapter and approved its contents.
Next chapter: The following month I’m assigned to work mid PM’s. A different set of Blvd rules and new partners…
