Guest posts from Keith Bettinger and other street veterans. Also, miscellaneous but important things in the cop world–training, forensics, stress management, etc.
Phil wrote this sometime ago. As you may have guessed, he’s a fan of Cowboy Poetry. We dedicate this to Abby.
The Officer:
“I am the top half of a mounted patrol team, Working from horseback, a fulfillment of dreams.”
“My horse, my steed, just as in the days of old, Together we ride, for together we’re bold.”
“Every muscle I feel, as we both work as one, For it’s you underneath me, that makes this job fun.”
“Although there are days when you give me some attitude, From you I will gather, all of my fortitude.”
“We enforce the laws and meet people, all of the day through, And when we’re greeted by others, the one they speak to is you!”
“You help a cop’s image, in a positive way, An Officer on horse back, we’ll help save the day.”
“For our Maker, he gave you the strength from above, Together we’ll ride, together, in love.”
“Our ride for now is over, it’s the close of the day, You nicker so softly, as I bring you your hay.”
The Mount:
“I am the bottom half of this God fearing crew, The love from my partner, will help see us through.”
“I was born to run wild, leave the danger that’s near, But the strength on my back, says I’ve nothing to fear.”
“I feel your hands and your legs, they help as you guide, It’s your strength that sustains me, when I could run and hide.”
“Your spurs sometimes tickle, you use them to nudge, Sometimes I sure need them, because I won’t budge.”
“The children, they see us, they squeal with delight, An Officer on horseback, what a beautiful sight!”
“When I am on duty, I’m not allowed to eat, But just look at that grass, it’s just under my feet.”
“No one can describe it, this partnership and team, We’ll work as one forever, I’ll feel you in my dreams.”
“The ride for now is over, the tack is recounted, I’ll rest till that time, we again will work mounted.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is the Press Release from Mono County Sheriff’s Office
To: All News Outlets
From: Jennifer Hansen, Public Information Officer
Date: October 21, 2013
RE: Abby, the Mustang Police Horse
The Mono County Sheriff’s Office is saddened to report the loss of one of our mounted team members, Abby, the Mustang Police Horse. Abby had a 17-year career span as a mounted patrol horse with partner Lt. Phil West.
Abby was a former wild mustang, foaled in 1991, and gathered from the BLM Herd Management ‘Area 52,’ near Tonopah, NV. Abby came to Lt. Phil West in 1992 from Officer Rich Perkins of the Bishop Police Department. In the spring of 1994, after Lt. West lost his first mustang police horse, Modoc, Abby went into training to become the replacement horse. Abby became a familiar face in the Eastern Sierras with the inter-agency Eastern Sierra Mounted Enforcement Unit, working details from Lone Pine to Bridgeport and gathered thousands of loving strokes from citizens and visitors in the course of her career.
Abby’s career with Lt. West spanned 17-years. She began with the Bishop Police Department (1994-2002) and continued and ended with the Mono County Sheriff’s Office (2002-2010). Abby accompanied Lt. West to the California Peace Officers Memorial from 2003-2010. She was retired in 2006 and worked only a few details a year, as her replacement, Bigun (also a former wild mustang) was taking a larger portion of her workload. Abby was fully retired in 2010 with Bigun taking over all of her law enforcement related duties.
In addition to working mounted patrol, Abby had her shot at stardom and was featured on BLM’s, “Wild Horse Trading Cards,” and on the Discovery Channel’s, ‘Animal Planet.’ She was also a family companion and pet, involved with Lt. West’s children in various horse shows and high school rodeo events. Sometimes, these events would occur on the same day as mounted details where she would compete and then change demeanor for working the street later that same day. Abby was ‘sent up to heaven’ on Saturday, October 19, 2013 due to complications of Cushing’s Syndrome. Abby was an integral member of the Mono County Sheriff’s Office Mounted Unit and will be greatly missed.
“Abby was an ambassador for and a true testament to the mentality of the wild horses. She was a family companion, show and competition horse, in addition to her law enforcement duties. I can best describe Abby as resolute in action yet gentle in manner. Our family misses her greatly and would like to thank the Eastern Sierra communities for their support throughout the years that she served.” –Lt. Phil West
Written and prepared by: Jennifer Hansen, Public Information Officer
By Phil West, Lieutenant Mono County Sheriff’s Department
Phil and Abby
Phil, an old friend from my Bishop PD days, recently lost his partner, Abby. He posted a moving video on Facebook a few days ago. I asked if I could re-post but needed a bit more info for the readers. Here are his answers. The video is sentimental, unabashedly patriotic and very touching. If you love animals, you owe it to yourself to watch. It’s only three and a half minutes. It features Phil, his wife Karen and two kids, Sheryl and Phillip as well as Modoc, Abby, friend and and partner Richard Perkins. The link in the first sentence “Abby” will take you to the video on Mono County Sheriff’s Department Facebook page. Bring Kleenex.
We had Abby for 21 years. She was late 22 years old and was sent up on Oct. 19th, 2013 due to the complications of Cushing’s syndrome. She patrolled with me for 17 years, although I was idling her back and using Bigun (Phil’s current mount) periodically from the end of 2006 until completely retiring her in 2010. She showed with both kids (flat classes-showmanship, equitation, gymkhana, etc…), calf-roped, cutting, reining classes, in High School Rodeo.
Now the hard part. Can’t make this any shorter:
In the middle of the slide show, there is a big red horse, Modoc. We got Modoc shortly before Rich (Perkins-friend and partner killed in the line of duty, August 15, 2001) gave Abby to us in the late summer of 1992, “for the kids.” Rich said he didn’t have any desire to train and thought she’d get a good start with us, then be a great horse for Sheryl and Phillip.
Richard Perkins, Bishop PD
When I brought Modoc home, he was originally to be Karen’s (Phil’s wife) “dressage” horse. After he settled in, I discovered the freeze marking under his beautiful mane. Rich and I started the mounted detail and Karen lost her dressage horse. She had been training with a neighbor in dressage and I would watch/listen intently. I applied what I was vicariously learning to Modoc. He had a neck like a serpent and his barrel would roll the opposite direction in which you were riding (if you were riding a counterclockwise circle, his barrel would roll right instead of into the center and vice versa). I put literally hundreds of hours on that horse in the short year-and-a half that we had him. There were some folks in Bishop they found out we were starting a mounted unit said, “That horse will NEVER work the street. They were wrong.
We hit the streets.
Modoc and I worked the park, the fair and red ribbon week with the kids all around him while Abby’s training at home was coming along very nicely. Karen did the majority of the work. On November 5th, 1993 (20 years ago this Tuesday), Modoc suffered a torsional twist of his intestine and we had to send him up. There went our newly formed mounted detail with only having two members. So, Karen and I went on the road to find a replacement, “police horse.”
The owner of every horse we looked at (and you’ll see a lot of the poem in all of this) thought their horse would make an excellent police horse. Go figure… used car salesmen. We looked at many different breeds, levels of training and such, but with each horse I would look at and/or ride, I would tell Karen that something was missing that I couldn’t put my finger on. She began to pick up on it much sooner than I and started telling me to use Abby. She said that Abby isn’t as big or flashy as Modoc, but she has the “mentality” that you are not feeling in these other horses. She was right.
As I began to work with Abby for police work, she went from a moderate dominance to a dominant horse. When putting on the department saddle pad and broken stick, it was as if her demeanor created a horse another hand taller. Resolute in action while gentle in manner, is the best way I can describe her as an, “officer.”
She made the adjective ‘diva’, into a noun, “Diva.” When not performing in the arena, she knew when a camera was focused on her and would look at it as we walked the street, posing from side to side as the cameras came up to focus on, her. She was a mare, though. She loved the strokes and attention only for the first few hundred, then I had to direct folks to stroke her neck and shoulder for she was tired of the face thing and I had to be cognizant of the colt disciplinary nip.
She was like a police dog when hearing the handcuff case unsnap, knowing that was when it may go to crap. We had chased a thief through the parking lot of the fair and pinned him up against a pickup truck. I dropped the reins to go hands on with him and when she heard my handcuff case unsnap, I felt her lean just a little bit more into him to hold him in place as I cuffed him from her back.
Another instance was after I arrested an intoxicated fellow who was seated on the ground in front of a raised planter bed (the Mammoth statue at Mammoth Mountain). The arrestee’s buddy was being mouthy and getting too close to the 10-15 (arrestee). I’d had enough and put Abby up in between the two. The buddy went off yelling about how he was going to sue, have my horse (a bit more colorful language) etc… All the while we were quietly side-passing (a gentle sideways movement by the horse) him back. As the guy was yelling, I noticed with each side pass step, Abby took a bite of flowers and was enjoying the smorgasbord. Very concerned.
This is my favorite involving the fireplug, (Officer, now Sergeant) Danny Nolan (of Bishop PD): We had a fight on the Mule Days parade route in front of the park because someone was blocking someone else’s view. Go figure. We went into the crowd to secure the area for the guys on foot, and here comes Danny with his “take-command” walk as he came upon the scene that we had secured. His approach was aggressive/determined and Abby read it. Without command, she began to side pass him back.
“HEY, I’m a good guy!” Danny told her.
Needless to say, Modoc and Abby were the ones that set the wild horse mentality apart, “for us.”
Lisa Whitney, Ventura Co SO
I’ve only written two poems in my life, Abby’s and, Mounted Patrol. Both encompass what we experienced together and that bond. Mounted patrol I wrote after a friend, Officer Lisa Whitney was killed in the line of duty while in her investigator’s unit (a t/c). She was also a mounted officer with Ventura S.O. and then of course, later also dedicated to Rich. “The ride for now is over, the tack is recounted…” at the end of the poem refers to the death of the officer or the mount. I’ll attach it along with the press release that our PIO did so well with some of the info I gave her.
Between the two poems, you can see what the inspiration was to write both of them.
Like I said, it’s pretty doggone hard to condense!
Most people, when they hear the expression “an officer and a gentleman” think of a schmaltzy 1980’s movie Richard Gere and Debra Winger. When I received my commission, as an Infantry Second Lieutenant through Army OCS – Officer Candidate School, those words held special significance for my fellow graduates and me. By longstanding tradition, an officer did not lie, cheat or steal; their word was their bond. Most every officer held those obligations as sacrosanct. Without the unimpeachable integrity of one’s character, how can an officer lead men and women under fire, in combat? To be sure, military leadership entails far more than just character, but without belief, no one will follow. I mention this, as it is central to the following story.
Fort Lewis Gate
I’m going to need to set the Wayback Machine to late summer of 1978 and Ft. Lewis, Washington. Six months earlier, the Army had granted me a transfer from the Infantry to the Military Police and I had just been promoted to First Lieutenant. Though it called for a Captain, I was given command of the Military Police Traffic Section.
For most soldiers, there is usually no such thing as an eight hour day nor is there overtime. You worked until the task or mission was completed. Officers, particularly junior officers like me, were expected to be the first ones in and the last ones to leave. In order to familiarize myself with all the duties and responsibilities that went along with the new job, I was regularly putting in fifteen-hour workdays.
I had been reviewing accident reports and it was well after dark before I realized everyone else in the section had call it a day hours earlier. Back then, base security was amazingly lax compared to nowadays and there were many unmanned gates, through which the public was able to enter or leave Fort Lewis unhindered. On this particular night, I headed out Northgate Road, which was a two-lane road that cut through an undeveloped heavily wooded training area on the north side of the post. Looking at the tall evergreen pines during the day, you wouldn’t have guessed that you were on a military reservation. At night, it was a very dark and depending on traffic, could be quite desolate. I was planning to grab something to eat in the small suburb of Lakewood, just outside the unmanned gate, before heading home to my apartment in nearby Steilacoom.
No sooner had I turned onto Northgate Road, than I noticed the car ahead of me suddenly slow down only to increase speed seconds later. Then, as I watched in horror, this car abruptly swerved into the opposite lane, forcing an oncoming car onto the shoulder and missing a head-on collision with it by mere inches. When the car did the same thing again only moments later, I recalled reading somewhere, the lights of oncoming car often drew drunk drivers to them, much like moths; all too frequently, they steered right into the oncoming vehicle. The car ahead of me appeared to be doing exactly that. Though I was thoroughly lacking police street experience, I could clearly see that a serious crash was all but inevitable.
What in Sam Hell was I supposed to do? I was in my own vehicle, a bright yellow Toyota pickup, with no way to contact the military or civilian police. Cell phones were still the in the realm of science fiction or the very wealthy. There were no payphones or emergency assistance phones anywhere close. The likelihood that an MP on patrol would drive by was nonexistent. While I was considering my options, he narrowly missed hitting a third car, forcing it onto the shoulder before he swerved back across the road onto the opposite shoulder and nearly spun out in the process. However, as luck would have it, he still managed to continue on his way.
Feeling that I had an obligation to do something, I flashed my high beams on and off a couple of times and then honked my horn. To my utter astonishment, the vehicle quickly pulled to the shoulder and stopped just a couple hundred feet short of the exit from the post. I quickly scribbled down the car’s description and license number on a piece of paper lying on the seat next to me. Perhaps I was bordering on the overdramatic; I figured if they found me dead along the roadside, they would have some clue as to who did it. At least I was wearing my fatigue uniform and had my brand new Military Police badge hanging from the button of my left shirt pocket.
As I walked up to the driver’s door, my heart was nervously hammering away. I kept thinking I was doing an incredibly stupid thing but continued on to make contact with the driver. He was attired in civilian clothing, had a look on his face that I would come to know all too well in the ensuing years; dazed, almost to the point of stupefaction and his eyes were bloodshot, watery and unfocused. Well, I was all in at this point, as they say in poker.
“Good evening sir. I’m Lieutenant Goldshine, Ft. Lewis Military Police. How are you? Is everything okay?”
“I’m fine…just fine. Why?”
So far so good.
“Well, you seemed to be having some problems maintaining control of your car. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sick or something.”
“Oh, well thanks but I’m fine.”
“Uh huh. So have you had anything to drink tonight?” I asked, though by then I could clearly smell the odor of intoxicants on his breath.
In an instant, his attitude went from cautious to belligerent.
“Yeah, I have been drinking but so what? I ain’t in your Army, Lootenant, so you don’t have any jurisdiction over me.”
Gerry Goldshine in dress uniform
That said, he put his car in gear and drove off. I decided I had pushed my luck far enough. Within seconds, he was off the base and I started looking for a payphone. By the time I found one, the errant driver was long out of my sight. I called the Pierce County Sheriff, who had jurisdiction of the unincorporated area outside that part of the post. I identified myself and gave them what information I had. The Military Police had an excellent working relationship with the surrounding police departments and the desk sergeant I spoke with told me he’d have someone call my office in the morning to let me know if they found the person. He said he would also notify Washington State Patrol for me. I had done all I could and headed for home and a frozen dinner.
The next morning, I arrived at my office building earlier than usual, just before 6:00. SFC -Sergeant First Class – John D. Commons, the Traffic NCOIC – Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge – had already been at work for about a half hour. NCOICs do that sort of thing.
SFC Commons, who had been in the Army longer than I’d been alive, came to the United States from Ireland as a child and still had a touch of Irish brogue to his speech. It made him all that more intimidating when he was pissed-off. He graciously allowed me to think I would be running things and I respectfully deferred to him on most matters, for among his many duties, was keeping the OIC – me – from making stupid mistakes. Far be it for me to change that dynamic.
“Lieutenant, I took a curious call from the Pierce County Sheriff desk sergeant right after I got in.”
I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not pleased but open to discussion. SFC Commons also had a well-deserved reputation for blistering the hide off errant Lieutenants, without a second thought.
“Would you like to tell me about what you did last night, sir?”
So, I told him what had transpired and after mulling it over for a bit, SFC Commons rendered his verdict.
Deliberately thickening his brogue to emphasize the point, he told me, “As long as you don’t be making a habit of looking for this kind of shit, Lieutenant, I’m okay with what you did. That said, sir, don’t do it again. I have enough gray hair.”
Of course, the inevitable question about what to do regarding the whole incident was on my mind and I hesitated to ask him but I didn’t have much of a choice.
“Sergeant Commons, seeing as how I’m new to this whole Military Police business and never done anything like this before, could you show me what I need to do to write this up?”
He rolled his eyes, as if he was seeking Divine assistance from above and then grinned at me.
“At least you’re smart enough to admit you don’t know shit from Shinola, sir. I can work with that.”
Having won a modicum of his respect by my admission of ignorance, he guided me through the process of filing a complaint with the Federal District Magistrate, who was responsible for adjudicating all traffic matters on the base. With Commons help, I was able to confirm the identity of the driver from his license photo, which we obtained from the Washington Department of Motor Vehicles. We also discovered that he had a prior conviction for DWI two years earlier. I made sure to write a very detailed report focusing on my observations of the suspect’s driving and physical signs of intoxication since I had no evidence of his blood alcohol level. A couple of months later, I received a subpoena to appear in Federal Court before the District Magistrate.
The Ft. Lewis Magistrate Court operated in a similar fashion to Municipal Traffic Court. There were no lawyers present; each side would testify, offer evidence or present witnesses. The Magistrate can and often does ask questions of each party during testimony. At the conclusion, he would consider all the facts of the case and make a determination of guilt or innocence. Since this was going to be my first time in court, I was a tad nervous. SFC Commons, as well as some of the MPs who worked for me in the Traffic Section, told me what to expect and helped me prepare my testimony.
Showing up in blue jeans and a tee shirt is not the best way to impress a Federal Magistrate; telling him that he has no jurisdiction because you are a civilian is almost a sure bet to get on his bad side. The Judge quickly disabused the defendant of any mistaken notions he might have had about the jurisdiction of either the Military Police or the Federal Magistrate in this matter.
After I testified, the only question the Judge had was, had I given the defendant any Field Sobriety Tests. I explained that given the circumstances, I was not able to do give any roadside tests. Next the defendant testified and was brief and succinct.
“I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t driving the way he said I was. He’s got no evidence.”
The Magistrate smiled and then asked, “Had you been drinking?”
“Well, yeah, I had a couple beers but I wasn’t drunk.”
“How many beers had you consumed?”
It had not dawned on this rocket scientist that he had pretty much torpedoed his whole case.
“I don’t know…a couple of beers”
“How many was it? Two? More than two?”
“I guess it was two. Sure, two beers. I know I wasn’t drunk and I think he’s lying about the way I was driving.”
It quickly became clear to everyone in the courtroom that was precisely the wrong thing to say. The Magistrate bristled, now visibly angered; he spoke with a clipped tone.
“Why would the Lieutenant be lying about the way you were driving that night?”
Clueless about the world of hurt about to descend upon him, the defendant haughtily replied, “I don’t know. Maybe he has a quota or something. All I know is that I wasn’t drunk and I wasn’t swerving all over the road the way he said I was.”
The Judge paused almost as if he was trying to collect himself before speaking again.
“Mr. Dumbasarock. This Military Policeman is a Commissioned Officer in the United States Army. Aside from the fact that he testified under oath, you should know that Commissioned Officers do not lie. Since you have admitted to drinking at least two beers, I am more than inclined to believe you were driving just the way the Lieutenant testified. Therefore, I find you guilty of operating a motor vehicle while under the influence of alcohol. Since this is your second conviction within five years, I am also suspending your privilege to drive for a year.”
There could have been no finer lesson as to the importance of honesty and integrity to the core values of being a Commissioned Officer. These days, the media barrages us with a near constant barrage of mea culpas from an endless list of public officials over their transgressions of the public trust. As corny as it may sound in light of that, I like to think that when I traded olive drab for navy blue I never sullied those principles and ideals I learned as an Officer and a Gentleman.
Epilogue – My traffic guys felt it necessary to regale all the other MPs about how “their” Lieutenant obtained a DWI conviction without an arrest, with any field sobriety test and without a blood alcohol level test. Of course, it didn’t take long for the Provost Marshal, Colonel Weinberg, to summon me to his office and explain my actions. The Colonel was a micro-managing authoritarian martinet who seemed to delight in making life miserable for all the officers he commanded.
He frowned menacingly throughout my explanation of what had happened. The Colonel had an especially annoying way of drawing out his words when addressing subordinates, particularly when he was displeased which was all the time.
“Lieuuuuutenaaaant Goldshine. I do not expect my officerssss to be running around at night playing cowboy. If you feel you mussssst do sooooo, I can arrange to have you sssssent right back to the Infantry. Are we clear on that point, Lieuuuutenaaaant?”
“Crystal clear, sir.” – What, you thought Tom Cruise was the first to use that expression?
“The Magistrate called to tell me what a fine job you did on this case and commended you on your testimony in court. Good job. That will be all.”
I rendered a smart salute, did a sharp about face and left his office.
At that moment, much to my surprise, I suddenly felt the longing to dig foxholes and freeze my tuchas off, drenched from the constant rain that is the Pacific Northwest while lost somewhere in the dank woods of Ft. Lewis.
Since I am currently thus afflicted, I bring you this lovely post by another dispatcher-blogger I have recently discovered: Dispatchers Are Amazing!
Yes, yes, we are.
And, yes, our department also suffers from the types of officers mentioned therein. Yet, we love them still and work our tails off so that they get safely home to their families each day because we’re all in this together, yes, we are.
And, while I’m in the mood to refer you to other dispatcher-bloggers, you might also want to check out Scratchy Glitter, who recently celebrated her 27th year as a dispatcher… my word. I only hope I get to kick it around that long since I started so late in life!
With that… enjoy your week. Hopefully, my brain will be on demand next week.
Police work can be soul-crushingly stressful. To keep from going off the deep end or venturing over to the Dark Side, many officers devise harmless but often humorous diversions – well, at least funny to them. To be sure, if the public or police department supervisors were to become aware of some of these high-jinks, more than likely outrage, internal investigations and discipline would surely be forthcoming. Some of these people have no sense of humor. So, as a result, this story may self-destruct when you’re finished reading it.
Having worked Traffic most of my career, there were times that constantly crapping on someone’s day by issuing them a citation or spending hours investigating some gruesome traffic accident occasionally got me thinking about paying a visit to our local 5150 depository. However, I managed to find my own ways to keep from being fitted with a straitjacket.
Kustom Radar
On one occasion, my department had long last taken delivery of a brand new, Kustom Electronics, dash mounted, moving radar for the traffic car. It had all the latest whistles and bells and it was Radar Love for yours truly. This marvel of early 90’s electronic engineering came with an instant on-off feature designed to defeat radar detectors. On this particular day, I was driving through downtown, heading north, when I noticed that the car in front of me had a radar detector clipped to the driver’s sun visor. After a moment of contemplation, I flipped the instant-on switch and saw a small red light illuminate on the guy’s radar detector. I suspected it also had an alert tone because the driver, who had been blissfully gazing out his window, suddenly became alert and vigilant.
For whatever reason, he failed to see me in his rearview mirror, so I flipped the radar off. I could see the light on his detector go out. A few blocks later, we stopped for a red light. Seizing the opportunity, I toggled the radar on and off a couple of times, each time setting off his radar detector. By the time the light turned green, he was making all sorts of adjustments to the device. He even went so far as to tap it a few times, as most all males are wont to do when something electronic appears to be malfunctioning. I let a little distance open up between us and another car soon filled the gap, but I could see that the radar detector was still reacting whenever I flipped the switch. For the next mile or so, I think I might have driven this poor guy to the brink of lunacy when, with what had to be a display of disgust, he ripped his radar detector from the visor and tossed onto the seat. Mission accomplished, I took the next side street.
Juvenile? Yeah, probably. Did I have the giggles for the next couple of hours? You bet!
When I started working Traffic, I became to DWIs what the Great White Shark was to people in Peter Benchley’s Jaws. After awhile, it was almost as if I had a sixth sense and could close my eyes, point at a random car and that driver would turn out to be under the influence. Sometimes that ability was a bit of a curse. One Saturday night, at about 2:15 AM, I was heading into the station more than ready to call it a night. No sooner had I contemplated going home on time than good old Murphy’s Law intervened. The car in front of me began to swerve, weaving from one shoulder, across both lanes and onto the other shoulder, kicking up a slight cloud of dust, all the while, gradually slowing down to about 15-20 MPH in a 45 MPH zone. My inner DWIalarm went off. This guy had to be stopped and while I could have passed the arrest onto a Graveyard shift officer, that wasn’t how I viewed my job; I saw it as relieving Patrol from having to deal with anything traffic related.
Long story short, I arrested the driver for DWI. He was so intoxicated that while we were enroute to the station, he repeatedly kept asking me where he was. Though he wasn’t nasty or combative, around the twentieth time, in the space of five minutes, he asked me where he was, I started to get annoyed. I have no idea why I did it, but I finally told him he was in Reno, Nevada. Much to my surprise, that shut him up until we got to the station.
The first question he asked as I got him out of the back seat of my patrol car?
“How the hell did I get to Reno?”
Clearly, I had him hooked. After I booked him and he completed the Breath Test – I don’t recall his BAC other than, he was way over the limit – the question for me then became, should I tell him the truth or reel him in? I reeled him in, of course!
Reno, Nevada
Though I knew nothing about Reno – this was years before the show Reno 911– I kept up a conversation with him as if we actually were in Reno. Finally, he stared at my uniform patch, which of course, had Petaluma Police embroidered on it.
“Hey! Hey! Hey, wait a minnnnute! How come your uniform patch says Petaluma Police on it? That’s where I’m from…or was…or something.”
“Coincidentally, sir, the Petaluma Police Department is participating in an officer exchange program with the Reno Police Department.” I replied, trying desperately to retain my official demeanor.
Against all odds, he seemed to accept that explanation and staggered his way back to a holding cell, where he promptly fell asleep. The following afternoon, right after briefing, a Dayshift officer came up to me in the hallway.
“Hey Goldshine, I just released your “deuce” from last night. Boy, that guy must really have been plowed because he kept asking me for bus fare back to Petaluma. He thought he was in Reno. Can you believe that shit?”
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 liquorand 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.
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
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.
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
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
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 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!
It is a truism, that police officers face a bewildering variety of hazards every day, from flying bullets to toxic chemical spills. In the final phase of my field-training program with Petaluma Police, I encountered one such hazard that seldom gets airing. We had been having an uncommon cold weather spell for the Bay Area, with nighttime temperatures hovering in the low twenties for several weeks. While this may be sweltering winter weather in some other parts of the country, for us it was damn cold! Since a good patrol officer always keeps a window partially open to hear what’s going on around them, cranking up the car’s heater and defroster was de rigueur and venturing outdoors in such temperatures was akin to freezing one’s arse off.
Still, duty calls and a possible residential burglary in progress call, on an otherwise quiet night, was not to be passed up. My Training Officer, Dave Long, advised dispatch that we would respond out of beat and be the primary unit on the call. He felt it would be good training for me on such a “brisk” night.
By that time in my training, I actually knew where I was going without having to look at my city map (no computer navigation devices back then). Making a textbook tactical approach, I came in slow, blacked-out and found a place to park in the shadows several houses down from the reported address. Once my backup had arrived, we conducted a thorough, stealthy search around the house in question only to discover the “suspicious” noises that the reporting party had heard were coming from two old tomcats duking it out in the backyard. I got an “A” for effort anyway.
This is what Gerry needed
It was so cold, I really wasn’t disappointed it had turned out to be a nothing call. We notified the homeowner of what we had found then made haste to get back to the warmth of our patrol car. I was just about to step off the curb when I felt my one of brand new Rocky Brand Police boots, with the deep waffled soles, lose traction and suddenly slip along in the grass. I knew without even having to look, what I had just done. From the loud expletive I let loose, Officer Long knew exactly what I had just stepped in.
Naturally, he thought it was hysterical and was laughing uproariously as I tried to get the foul substance off by scraping it on the curb edge. Waffled soled boots do NOT scrape clean on curb edges, the fact of which only made him laugh harder. Dragging the offending boot through the frost covered grass, limping like Chester from the old “Gunsmoke” western television show didn’t help much either. His eyes now watering from the mirth he was experiencing at my expense, he suggested I find a hose from in front one of the houses and wash off the bottom of my boot. I politely pointed out that this would be futile as all the hoses were undoubtedly frozen solid.
Dave’s laughter slowly trailed off as he slowly began to visualize the unpleasant scenario about to unfold. It went without saying that both our windows were going to have to be rolled down. As a result, the car heater would have to be on at full blast for us to stay warm. Unless we wanted our lower extremities to become numb, that would mean keeping the ALL the heater vents open. Thus, there would be hot air blowing on the offending boot, spreading the noxious odor throughout the car. Moreover, we were on the far, east side of town and more than a few minutes from the station. I suggested that I could remove the offending boot and put it in the trunk. Dave considered it but then said it would be our luck to get a hot call and I would be “hobbled” with one boot, so that was not a viable option.
The ride back to the station was just as bad as you can imagine it would be. Of course we manage to hit every red light. I’m not certain who gagged more, Dave or I and each time one of us did, the other would laugh until the tears flowed. For some reason, cops always find such things hilarious. Fortunately for us both, the hose at the station hadn’t frozen solid and I was able wash to my boot clean. I suppose that it was with great relish that Dave made sure that my evaluation for that night reflected that I had really put my foot in it.
Striped skunk (Mephitis mephitis) spraying, USA By: Tom Brakefield | Collection: Stockbyte images.yahoo.com
Epilogue: This was not the end of my aromatic adventures with FTO Long. Several nights later, I was the recipient of a baby skunk’s expert marksmanship from underneath a redwood deck. Once again, we were about as far from the station as we could be and it was just as cold outside. I was not allowed inside the station and was made to change my uniform outside the back door. Someone in the dispatch center made sure the outside intercom was on so that I could hear the belly laughs from everyone watching me on the backdoor security camera feed. Embarrassment aside, that damn little bastard of a polecat cost me a brand new uniform because no drycleaner would touch it.
Mounted Patrol Lt. Phil West of Mono County SO honoring fallen CHP Officer Douglas “Scott” Russell on July 31, 2013
The Mono County Sheriff’s Department Honor Guard, Mounted Unit, and other department personnel stood alongside the California Highway Patrol to honor a fallen CHP Officer.
Please see the below press release issued by Officer Anne Morin of CHP.
-Jennifer Hansen, Public Information Officer
CHP HONORS FALLEN OFFICER DOUGLAS “SCOTT” RUSSELL
On July 31, 2013, a variety of law enforcement personnel and friends gathered at the Antelope Valley Cemetery in Coleville to honor fallen California Highway Patrol (CHP) Officer Douglas “Scott” Russell, who was killed in the line of duty on July 31, 2007. Officer Russell was 46 years old and was an officer for 22 years. He was assigned to the Placerville Office at the time of his death, six years ago. He was deploying a spike strip to assist other CHP units involved in a high speed pursuit when the driver of the vehicle intentionally struck Officer Russell with his car. Officer Russell died from his injuries. The driver that struck Officer Russell was convicted of murder and is currently on death row.
At 12:30pm yesterday, the time the pursuit began six years ago, personnel from the CHP’s Bridgeport, South Lake Tahoe, and Placerville offices; Mono County Sheriff Ralph Obenberger and his staff; Mammoth Lake Police Department Chief Dan Watson, Mono County District Attorney Tim Kendell; representatives from the US Marine Corp Mountain Warfare Training Center; and some close friends gathered for a few moments in a formal ceremony to place flowers on Officer Russell’s grave. CHP Lieutenant Ron Cohan, Commander of the Bridgeport Office, described the events of six years ago and his acquaintances with Officer Russell. In Lt. Cohan’s remarks, he noted that Officer Russell knew the dangers of being a pedestrian on the edge of a high speed pursuit. Despite his understanding of the dangers, Officer Russell honored his CHP oath, “…if necessary, lay down my life rather than swerve from the path of duty.” All uniformed personnel saluted while the US Marine Corps bugler played “Taps” and flowers were placed on Officer Russell’s grave.
Officer Russell, and his wife, Lynn, were longtime Antelope Valley residents and met while she was employed as a Mono County Sheriff’s Department dispatcher and he was assigned to the CHP’s Bridgeport office. Officer Russell was very athletic, an outdoor enthusiast, and loved living in the Eastern Sierra’s. For these reasons, his family chose to bury him at the Antelope Valley cemetery.
If you would like more information, or additional photos of the event, please contact Officer Anne Morin at the CHP Bridgeport Office (760) 932-7995.
