Category: The Call Box

How things were back in the day. Ed Meckle of LAPD, retired, shares fascinating stories.

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Another Deuces Wild

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Several more years have passed and I am working with my sometimes partner, Billy Tibbs.

We are in East L.A., an area unfamiliar to either of us, working a narcotics round-up with dozens of teams throughout the city with arrest warrants for dealers.

We are at Hazzard Park, a known hang-out for our two suspects. We have backed off quite a distance and we are using binoculars hoping to spot our targets. Off in the distance, I see a vehicle on Mission Road headed our way.

I call Billy’s attention to it. “Notice anything unusual about it, partner?”

“Well, if you ignore the eight to ten foot piece of telephone pole protruding from the right rear wheel well, the fact it’s doing 20 mph and that it’s on fire—why, nothing unusual at all.”

The very last thing we want to do is “get involved” with a deuce and call attention to ourselves, but we really don’t have a choice. We request a radio car and fire department then we stop the deuce right by the park.

Now the fun begins. He will not pull to the curb but leaves the car in the middle of the street. When he gets out, he is one of the drunkest and biggest people I have ever seen up close—that I’m going to arrest—6’5” or 6’6”, close to 300 pounds, with muscles going to fat.

Billy takes him by the elbow to lead him to the curb when he decides he wants to play. He grabs 5’9” Billy by the throat and tries to lift him off the ground. My sap is out and as I was behind him, I smack him a good shot behind the right ear.

He lets go of Billy, turns to look at me, blinks and makes a grab for me. Billy was on his back like a lion on a water buffalo and I had the impression the drunk wasn’t even aware Billy was there.

The three of us danced for a while, when he suddenly decided he was tired and wanted to sleep. It was only when the fire department arrived that he realized his car was fully engulfed.

As it turns out (and to our pleasure) instead of a radio car, we got the accident unit (T-Car) which had been investigation the missing telephone pole and several hit-and-runs. We were more than happy to give him our deuce.

We never did find our narc suspects. Do you suppose something spooked them?

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: More Deuces Wild

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

I am now three years older and smarter (?) and working Vice with my regular partner, Frank Isbell. We find ourselves behind Hollywood’s exaggerated version of a deuce: curb to curb, then on the sidewalk, slowly through a red light then stops on green where he immediately falls asleep. Needless to say, working Vice, we are “dressed down” trying not to look “cop-like.” Our car however, is the cheapest version made and wouldn’t fool a child. Yet, it fooled the deuce.

We really, really didn’t want to get involved here but you do what you gotta do. Out of the car, he is a friendly and happy drunk. He asked who we were and when told, asked, “Are you sure?”

When asked to walk the line, he got to the end and took off running, yelling for help. With him in the back seat, we pulled into the station parking lot and he asked where we were going. When told it was the police station, he asked, “Are you sure?”

We walked into the watch commander’s office to get booking approval and he told the sergeant he didn’t think we were really the police and he was being kidnapped.

jailBy now, Frank and I realize we have not only a happy drunk but also a funny one. In the small holding jail, he got serious and asked me, please, not to book him for 502 V.C. (Drunk Driving) as he had several priors. I promised I wouldn’t but told him he was being booked for 23102 V.C. I didn’t, however, tell him the vehicle code had been completely re-written. 502 had become 23102.

Then he asked the jailer who he was. His response to the jailer was, “Are you sure?”

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Deuces Wild

To our out of state and/or non-law enforcement friend, a “deuce” is police slang for a drunk driver. It’s also known as DUI (Driving under the Influence) or DWI (Driving While Intoxicated/Impaired). The term is a leftover from the last number of the old, old vehicle code section for DUI—502 VC.

California seems to breed them. Maybe the warm weather or perhaps the fact that the courts didn’t treat them seriously for many years.

Police officers by their very natures are tellers of good stories. I am sure most have their own, funny, bizarre, strange or just unique deuce stories.

Those I arrested while in uniform were all routine and uneventful. It was only while wearing plain clothes or “God Forbid” off duty, when things got crazy.

Here are a few examples:

I am a young officer only a few months on the job and working night watch at the jail. Iam ride-sharing with another newbie, Lou McClary.

typistIt is about 0100 (1 A.M.) and we are on our way home in civilian clothes, when we have to take action of this DUI is going to kill someone. Neither one of us has ever made an arrest before. Now that we have him, what do we do? The radio car we called to transport him shows us the proper drill.

Then, at the jail, a very kindly clerk typist takes pity on me. “Just tell me what happened, Sweetie. Then go get us some coffee.”

 

When I returned, there awaiting me was a very professional arrest report.

God love her.

lapd-busNow the twist: while awaiting the radio car, we stood around with the deuce for twenty minutes so he got a good look at both of us. When Lou and I went back to work at the jail, who should step off the jail bus but our deuce. I was now in uniform and he was somewhat sober. As I greeted him by name, I got the longest and most exaggerated double-take ever. I told Lou and he went over and again called the deuce by name.

I can only image what was going on through his fuzzy recollection. He was probably thinking, “Just how many of those damn guys are there anyway?”

He took a plea because we never saw him again.

More stories to come!

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Watch Commander Primer

Ed’s newest post serves several purposes: it helps writers and civilians understand the police hierarchy. For cops, it teaches new Watch Commanders what is expected of them, reminds more senior Watch Commanders of their responsibilities and maybe even illuminates (to field units) the rocky road that Watch Commanders face. Maybe it will give, as Ed said in a much earlier post, perspective. –Thonie

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Watch Commander-The term is not unique to the police. With the accent on the first word, to those in the cop business, no introduction is necessary. To the uninitiated, this will be a primer. “Watch commander” has a militaristic sound to it; “the commander of the watch” brings to mind the quarterdeck of a British frigate or man-o-war, or medieval castle and the changing of the guard.

 

In cop speak, a “watch” is what the civilians would call a “shift.” In the military, it is “standing a watch.” The police usually have three watches: day, night (I knew it as “swing shift”), and morning, aka; graveyard.

 

Using logic, the person in charge of said watch is the watch commander, herein after known as the WC. The position is usually filled by a lieutenant or senior sergeant. The term is used throughout the department; however, we will confine this essay to patrol, the people in uniform.

 

The average big city, for police purposes, divides itself along geographical lines, known as divisions, areas or, zones. Precincts is the popular east coast terminology. Let’s use L.A. divisions for our example.

 

Each division is carefully laid out and can contain hundreds of thousands of residents, business, etc. Each division has a police station, housing patrol, detectives, traffic, juvenile and what have you.

 

The uniforms (patrol) are divided by need (usually determined by activity level like calls for service, on view events, etc.) among the three watches and are mostly assigned to “radio cars” aka: black and whites or in some cases to foot beats. (We can consider motors, mounted, K-9 and other specialties, too.)

 

The average division has a captain as a commanding officer. This is one rank above lieutenant. He/she usually works days and very rarely is concerned with day-to-day police activities. He/she is basically an “administrator” more concerned with the “overall picture” and community relations.

 

So, with that out of the way, what does the WC do? Who is he/she? What are the duties and responsibilities of the WC?

 

Hopefully he/she has a solid background with ample field experience to handle any situation. Too often we have seen the “book” supervisors with minimum field time, a staff job, then study, study, and now they have the bars. Some do well and some are in over their heads. That is the time when the people who “run” any organization, be it USMC or LAPD come to the fore.

 

If the WC has good sergeants, he will have an easier task. Good supervisors can handle most field situations and do it without putting their foot on the necks of the officers.

 

The WC should be paternal, but authoritative, approachable, informal, but never, ever overly friendly. The WC must be able to make decisions not only calmly but also in times of stress. The WC must never appear indecisive.

 

The WC is responsible for the health safety and well-being of everyone in his/her division. He/she is also responsible for crime suppression, officer/supervisor training, discipline, traffic, disasters—natural and manmade, citizen complaints, special events, public relations and on and on and on. Whatever happens it’s yours.

 

In the off hours, the WC is the senior officer on duty and is in effect, a “mini chief of police.”

 

lapd-lieutenantA sobering thought: think of any and all disasters, riots, plane crashes, fires, floods, mass murders, etc. And think, somewhere there was a WC who had to stand up and do the “right thing.”

 

I have told you of the things the WC should do, and should not do, but I believe the number one responsibility should be, above all else—

 

Take care of your troops.

 

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Vignettes, part 2

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Vignettes—are they funny, bizarre, ironic, poignant or maybe horrific? Why do some stories stay so vivid in our memories?

 Here’s another that won’t go away…

I am the day watch commander at Wilshire division, a fairly busy house and a good place to work. A “little old lady” has called the desk officer to report a suspicious vehicle parked down the street. She was sure the occupant was watching her house.

Would we please check it out?  I had the area car call in and gave it to him. I asked for a call back with the disposition so I could calm “little old lady” down.

Twenty minutes later, the patrol officer called and said he had found the car.

“Yes, and there was a man behind the wheel just like the lol said.”

“Yes, and—”

“Well lieutenant, he is dead.”

When the detective came back from the scene he told me he figured the body had been there about 48 hours or so. The death seemed like a “natural” but the unusual thing was there were two parking tickets on the windshield and the body was very probably there when both were written.

 

I asked the traffic control officer (civilian) about it and she replied she never made eye contact with any occupants to avoid confrontation. Ok, but how about ticket number two (both written by her)?

She said she never noticed him.

 

I guess we can’t all be detectives—

FYI: Just the Facts, Ma’am will be on hiatus through the holidays until January 15th, 2017. Can it already be 2017?? Look for Hal’s next installment on that Sunday and Ed will resume his stories January 18th, 2017. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Happy Kwanzaa and a blessed New Year to you all–whatever you celebrate.

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Vignettes

 

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

** A word of warning: this vignette is graphic. If you can’t stand gruesome details, skip the fourth paragraph–although this will alter the impact of the story.**  

Read the second Vignette next Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Vignettes—are they funny, bizarre, ironic, poignant or maybe horrific? Why do some stories stay so vivid in our memories? Here are two that won’t go away…(look for the second one next week)

Ting-a-ling, ting-a ling

I am working a night watch radio car (3A15) with my partner Frank Isbell. It is late, nearing end of watch on a particularly dark night.

We get the call every copper dreads— “unknown trouble.” This means the person taking the call for the PD was unable to determine what the problem was. It could be anything from a cat up a tree to a multiple homicide. It’s the type of call that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

The street is dark as is the house. The front door stands wide open. We talk for a moment on the sidewalk. It is decided I will check the back door before we go in. It is locked and shining my flashlight into the kitchen window shows me nothing. The front door opens into a large living room. As we enter I take the right half the room, Frank the left.  My half shows a doorway to the back of the house and a shotgun on the floor, far right.

 

Frank sweeps his light left. Then I hear his voice, saying softly, “Whoa.” Against the far left wall is a large overstuffed chair. In the chair is a young woman, legs sprawled, arms flung out, head back with the left upper side of her face missing. Her ear, eye, part of her nose and scalp are sprayed onto the wall behind her, blood spattered to the ceiling. We quickly search the rest of the house, empty, when—she moans.

Yes—it startled me.

I went to the car to request an ambulance and was met by a man standing in the street. “The guy who did the shooting is hiding behind that car over there and he has a rifle or a shotgun.”

While I waited watching the car I sent the citizen in to get my partner. Now. Quick plan: I would go to the rear of the car. He would take the front, careful of potential “crossfire.”

We could see a shadowy figure in a half crouch. And when I hit him with the light he was facing me holding a rifle muzzle down, half bent over trying to close the bolt.  (he had the wrong sized ammo and the rifle would not operate) I told him to drop the gun and he ignored me. To this day, I don’t know why didn’t not fire. Frank then appeared and told him in very colorful street terms what would happen if he didn’t drop the rifle.

He did.

He later told us he shot her because she had broken one of his favorite phonograph records, however he “loved” her so he shot her with the .20 gauge, rather than the heavier .12.

When she testified in court, she said she only remembered him pointing the gun at her. Then she heard bells, “Like you know, ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling.”

Ain’t love grand?

 

 

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Improbable Journey, part 3

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

We learned of the law and evidence, physical training—and we ran. We learned traffic codes, penal codes and more codes—and we ran. We learned how to arrest, when to arrest and who to arrest and we ran some more. We learned how to shoot; when to shoot and who to shoot and we still kept running. We fired tear gas and as it drifted into the heavy brush, we watched as illicit “lovers” ran away crying and still we ran. 

 

Thirteen weeks later, on May 4, against all odds, all 34 of us graduated and were turned loose upon the criminal element of Los Angeles. The LA of 1956 was a world apart from 2016.

 

There were few freeways. The Harbor Freeway had only made it to Adams southbound. The Valley had one division; Van Nuys ran out of City Hall. There were no seat belts in the cars, air support, K-9’s, mounted unit, or SWAT. Motor officers wore soft hats while we wore shoulder straps and carried .38 revolvers. There were no computers, portable radios or DNA. The wages were meager, but who cared? We were the best of the best—we were Los Angeles police officers. Bill Parker was chief; we were young and invincible. 

 

In March of this year, 8 of the 11 survivors gathered to celebrate 60. Conversations were subdued as though we marveled at where we had been, what we had done, and who we had become. We raised a glass as I read the names of those gone before and toasted those present.

 

The feeling of camaraderie and sense of nostalgia was almost palpable as though we were surprised to be there.

 

 

 

So who were we and what had we done and become? We produced captains and lieutenants. One chief of police, (Culver City)] who became the longest serving chief in California. One of us became “Mr. Robbery” with over 50 years on the job, most of it as a robbery detective. We served in all capacities—some became famous, but most unsung.

 

 

Three of us got shot, one twice—what are the odds? We produced heroes and nobodies. We laughed and cried at our victories and defeats. We mourned fallen comrades and celebrated togetherness. 

 

We were gray warriors living on memories of deeds past. We were the 8 percent. Did we really make a difference? I like to think so.

 

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Improbable Journey, Part 2

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

I was “home” just long enough to earn plane fare and some new clothes. They say “home” is where when you go there, “they” have to take you in. Well, here I am three years later right back in North Branch, but not for long. The nearby town of Jeffersonville, aka “Jeff” offered the only local chance of a job. I convinced the owner of Seager’s Coal and Feed that I knew how to drive a large truck. You know—8 or 10 speed stick shift. How hard could it be? Right?? After a few misadventures, I was able to fake it for three months, long enough to save the money needed. I delivered chicken and cattle feed to farmers and using a different dump truck, delivered coal to families. For those of you who have never had a coal-burning furnace the coal was loaded in a dump, truck which backed up to your basement window. Then I attached a chute to the truck with the other end going into the window to the coal bin. Viola! All went well except for one very minor mishap when I knocked the front porch loose from the house. It separated about 8 to 10 inches. So, I simply backed the truck up to the porch and pushed it back into place. As of this writing, I don’t believe it has been discovered.

 

By early November, I was ready, a new suit case filled with civilian clothes and a plane ticket to California. I flew first to Oakland to visit my older brother for a few days. Then, being overly anxious, I took the train to LA. 

 At the academy

The money I’d saved was a Godsend as I was running out of funds and had been eating several day-old bread and cheese whiz. We were sworn in and began the learning process to become police officers. Also in progress nearby was a class of “policewomen” recruits, about 8 or 9. They were kept apart from us and we only occasionally caught glimpses of them (no comment).

 

We learned of the law and evidence, physical training—and we ran. We learned traffic codes, penal codes and more codes—and we ran. We learned how to arrest, when to arrest and who to arrest and we ran some more. We learned how to shoot; when to shoot and who to shoot and we still kept running. We fired tear gas and as it drifted into the heavy brush, we watched as illicit “lovers” ran away crying and still we ran. 

Part 3 of Ed Meckle’s Improbable Journey will post here on December 7th, 2016.

 

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Improbable Journey, Part 1

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

 

I am a sergeant of Marines stationed at Quantico, Virginia. It is the first week of August 1955 and I am awaiting my discharge on the 12th when my three-year tour of duty will be up. Moving north along the Atlantic seaboard is hurricane Connie, due to arrive here on August 12th. Several months prior, I’d read an article in the USMC magazine publication, Leatherneck, which followed two former marines through the LAPD academy.

 

In answering my inquiry, the LAPD was not very encouraging, advising me they accepted approximately eight percent of applicants. And don’t bother to come to LA unless I had a backup plan. I was not discouraged as I had could always get whatever I went after. My current assignment with the military police had sparked my interest and I eventually headed to LA. 

 

Where I began my journey

On August 12th, 1955, Connie arrived and I left, headed home. Home was North Branch, New York, a dairy farming community not large enough to qualify as a village. So, we were a hamlet. Is that cute or what?

Three years prior, I had graduated from Jeffersonville Central School, graduating class size 7. The population was 244 and the story went that the number never changed since every time a baby was born, some guy left town. The way the system worked was, you married your high school sweetheart, moved in with your parents, waited for them to die, then took over the farm.

 

My problem was no farm, but a general store which I helped my mother to run. Another complication—there was no one I was interested in marrying. The Korean War was on, as was the draft. I had no desire to go to Korea with the Army. My older brother had been a WW II Marine so my choice was obvious. 

 

 

 

As luck would have it, when I graduated boot camp I was tall, slender (sob) and looked very good in uniform. As a result, I was assigned sea duty for two years aboard the largest war ship afloat at the time, the USS Coral Sea, CVA 43. I spent the next two years cruising the Mediterranean. 

 

 

At the end of WW I, the song, How Are You Going to Keep Them Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree? was very popular. Even in 1955, the song held truth. I didn’t quite make it to Paris and you know about the farm but you get the idea.

Part 2 of Ed Meckle’s Improbable Journey will appear here on November 30, 2016.

Categories
The Call Box

The Call Box: Not Miami Vice, Part 2

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Also assigned to nights was a three-man prostitution squad, of which my old partner Frank Isbell, was the newest member. Whatever they were called, ladies of the evening, soiled doves, or my favorite, fallen angels, they were simply targets for the Hooker Squad. As conspicuous goes, they were the ultimate. They generated almost daily citizen complaints and no matter how many we busted, they proliferated. There were several small pockets around the division but the main attraction was Western Avenue from Adams south to Jefferson. This six block area supported 12-15 sporting girls each and every night. Sadly, this was “Sugar Hill” my old radio car beat.

 

Watching the cop shows on TV these days, the vice squad procures two or more hotel/motel rooms. One is the “command post,” the other is wired for sound and video. You would think they were after a Russian spy, not some street-walker. I’m sure they would find our method “quaint” and overly simplistic.

 

Using our own cars (no special insurance or waiver of liability), we drove up to the corner. When she approached, we waited for the magic phrase, “sex in exchange for money or something of value.” usually money of course. The pitch was usually street slang but the meaning was clear. After a short bargaining session to lend credibility, she got into the car and we said our magic phrase, “You are under arrest.” We drove them to a nearby location where the paddy wagon was parked, unloaded, and went back for more. It was all verbal, no witness, no fancy recording. It was all “He said, she said.”

Mostly to amuse ourselves, I suppose, we sometimes donned disguises. I had a white lab coat with stethoscope around my neck and a head mirror on. Now for those of you too young to know: it was a chrome disc on the forehead by means of a black strap. Doctors used to direct reflected light to a specific area. Some ENTs (Ear, Nose, and Throat docs) still use them.

Now to think, would a doctor wear one in the car? Well, I suppose it lent an air of familiarity. She even called me doctor.

 

One night, I got third in line behind two real tricks. She turned them both down and got in with me. When I busted her she said, “Damn. I turned down two live ones and get in with you. I look in and see them long legs, blue jeans, cowboy boots and hat and think I got me a date with “Cheyenne.”  Actor Clint Walker played Cheyenne Bodie on a popular TV show then running. The ladies were usually cooperative when hearing the magic words and very, very seldom ran or resisted. There were exceptions. One of our ladies threw a milkshake in Frank’s face. Part of it hit the inside driver’s window, running down inside the door panel and shorting out the electric windows. Another of our guys had his jaw broken when slugged by a Good Samaritan who saw the arrest and thought the lady was being kidnapped.