It was late 1990 and I was working Wilshire Division day watch patrol as a new field sergeant. Wilshire Division is bordered on the north by Hollywood Division, on the west by West Los Angeles Division on the east by Rampart Division and on the south by South West Division. At about 1130am I monitored a broadcast of a robbery that had just occurred in South West. The suspect was described as a heavy set male black, driving a yellow van, last seen south bound on La Brea Boulevard. I was stopped for a red light at Washington and La Brea facing south when I spotted a yellow van approach the interaction going north. The South West robbery suspect was last seen proceeding south on La Brea. The lettering on the van identifyed it as rental van. I radioed my location and asked communications to ask the South West unit if the van had writing on the sides. I was told that there was, and they added that it had a number on the back.
As the light changed, the van passed me and sure enough the number matched the one given to me by the unit. I communicated that I was following the van NORTH bound on La Brea, requested back-up and settled in for a possible pursuit. I heard an air unit was enroute, so I hung back. The van proceeded into a residential neighborhood, pulled to the curb and the driver exited. I set up a felony stop, shot gun and all, and told the heavy-set driver to prone out. He turned and ran up a drive way into a back yard. The air unit was now over head and the observer told me to start star walking north.
“A little faster, Sarge,” the observer said, so I picked up the pace. I passed three residences and was approaching the last house before the end of the block when I was told to run to the end of the block and take cover facing east, so that’s what I did.
“Wait for it, Sarge.” Looking east I could see a wooden fence paralleling the street, west to east and the sidewalk next to it. This time the observer chucked as he said, “Here they come.”
They, here they come?
I had my weapon drawn, facing east when the frail wooden fence shattered into pieces as the suspect ran right through. Behind him were a pit bull and a mutt in hot pursuit!
The guy saw at me and began yelling, “Shoot the dogs, shoot the dogs!!”
The aircrew must have been laughing hard because I heard the engine whining down (pilot not paying attention) but my attention was on our robbery suspect. The dogs got alarmed when they saw the vehicle traffic did a 180 and headed for home.
“Shoot the dogs,” ran into a responding black and white and the rest is history.
You know for a heavyset guy, he was running pretty good. Well, he was highly motivated!
Morning Watch and the Flying Badge
Wilshire
It was late 1990 and I was working morning watch at Wilshire as a patrol sergeant. Our end of watch was 0800 but I had a report to finish and didn’t leave the station until 1030. I was on my way home eastbound on the I-10, the Santa Monica portion and this time of the morning the traffic still stinks. My patience is boarding the edge of—well, I’m tired and when I get home I have a couple of “honey do’s” to complete before sleep. Drive time, 45 minutes. Crossing the Harbor freeway, the traffic lightened up, so we picked up the speed. I’m in the #2 lane and a yellow city dump truck is in the #1 lane. As we transition from the east bound I-10 to the north bound I-5, the truck—without signaling—cuts me off! Had I not slammed on the brakes, we’d have had a terrific collision. Now I’m going to catch up to the truck and let the guy know who he just cut off! I take my badge place it into my left hand. The badge pin is between my middle and index finger. I catch up to the truck who is back in the #1 lane and now I’m next to him, I roll down my window and as he looks over at me, I produce my badge out the window…….and my badge is yanked out of my hand by the rush of wind! It’s gone, rolling down the freeway. My almost new sergeant badge is GONE!
Told you I was tired, lacking any judgment and now my badge was gone. I got off the freeway and went back to the location.
Somewhere in badge heaven that badge is telling the story of the first and last knuckle head he was with.
Three ounces, that’s what my badge weighs. I shared in common with those around me, a three-ounce piece of polished metal, whether it is a star or shield. Some wore uniforms in shades of blue, others tan and a few, khaki. Soon, they had filled all the seats. Yet, more filed inside, civilians and officers alike, lining up against the walls. More of them stood outside, uncomplaining. I saw few familiar faces among those assembled. Many showed the strains of unimaginable grief.
I finally looked to the stage in front. A small group of Marines, resplendent in their dress uniforms and stood at attention on both sides of a casket covered with an American flag. A single spotlight shined on it, bathing it in a bright white light. Photos taken during more serene and happier times lined a table to one side. On the other side, in front of many ornate floral displays, hung the dress uniform of a United States Marine Corps Major. There among the many decorations pinned to the tunic, I recognized a Silver Star and the Purple Heart.
The officer was experienced, with more than seventeen years of service. He had gone into one of the half-dozen McDonalds in the small city where he worked, for lunch. Nothing heroic, nothing dangerous, he just wanted lunch. He never knew that the man sitting in the corner, next to the soft drink dispenser, had just shot and killed his wife.
Looking around the auditorium, I glanced at some of the people in uniform. Was I the only one there wondering if a similar fate awaited me?
When the police chaplain began the service with a prayer, we bowed our heads. Friends, family, coworkers and a few city dignitaries then came forward to tell of the impact this officer had on them or the community. Some of those speaking could not finish before their anguish overwhelmed them. A Marine Brigadier General, his eyes red with tears, spoke of the officer’s heroism while serving with the Reserves in Iraq. The Chief of Police, his voice breaking, next spoke of not only the community’s loss of a dedicated police officer but also of a family’s loss of a son, a husband and a father. When he introduced the widow, many of us were surprised to see she wore the same blue police uniform as her husband had. She stood there, tears running down her cheeks, unable to utter a single word. She finally broke down, sobbing and needed the Chief and General’s help to move from the podium. Then, as if her tears were silent permission, most of us also lost the tight grip we had on our own feelings.
An eerie silence fell when the color guard moved out, marching together up the center aisle in step to a trained silent cadence. The American flag went first, followed by the California State flag and that of the US Marine Corps. Following them was the honor guard, consisting of four police officers and three Marines, each of whom carried a ceremonial rifle. We stood as the pallbearers walked past, carrying their sacred burden and my eyes started to water. I struggled not to surrender to the grief I felt for this man I’d never met. This was not the time, not yet.
None of us spoke much as we filed outside to our cars. I took my place in a motorcade dominated by black and white police vehicles that officers drove there from police departments all over the state. Behind the dozens of police motorcycles leading the way were six camouflaged Marine Corps Humvees. Driving out of the parking lot, we passed beneath a huge American flag, hanging from the top of the raised ladders of two fire trucks. Black bunting hung from each of them. The hundreds of flashing red and blue lights drew attention to the orderly procession that stretched out for more than a mile. How strange this all must have appeared those we passed, to those who did not know. If only they had an inkling of the emotional turmoil within us. I imagined the disruption caused by our little convoy annoyed more than a few, as we worked our way to the cemetery, some miles distant. I’m also certain, not one of us cared.
citizens honor fallen officer photo by sfgate
I marveled at the skilled performance of the motorcycle officers, leapfrogging from intersection to intersection so we could pass unhindered. We drove under a bridge from which hung dozens of handmade signs honoring the fallen officer. I felt my eyes tear up yet again as car after car drove past two disheveled homeless men standing motionless, at attention, presenting a salute as smart as that of any active Marine. The officer had been a regular visitor to their shelter.
Silently, we walked to the gravesite, the creak of our polished leather gear the only sound anyone could hear. For some odd reason, I couldn’t help noticing how the gray of the granite headstones starkly contrasted with the vivid green of the freshly mown grass. Soon, we could hear the distinctive sound of helicopters approaching and a flight of five passed overhead. As they did, one peeled away, leaving a vacant space to create the traditional missing man formation, honoring a fallen comrade. As those sounds faded, a sharp and precise command rang out a short distance away.
“Honor Guard, Attention!”
With practiced precision, the seven people, each with a ceremonial rifle, snapped to obey.
“Ready…Aim…Fire!”
Most of the civilians present flinched when seven shots rang out simultaneously, shattering the solemn quiet of the cemetery. Twice more the commander gave the order to fire; a twenty-one gun salute.
As the sound of the last fusillade resounded across the grounds of the cemetery, someone else called us all to “Attention” soon followed by the order “Present Arms”. Those of us in uniform rendered a hand salute and held it. Moments later, two buglers, one a police officer and the other a Marine, began to play “Taps”. Hauntingly, one echoed the other. Several more of us lost the struggle to hold back our tears. The command “Order Arms” rang out just before the pallbearers removed the American flag from the casket and folded it with military precision. One officer then handed it to the Chief of Police.
Though I couldn’t hear what he said, I could well imagine the Chief’s words of solace as he presented the tightly folded flag to the widow and her young son. Finally, the mournful sound of a lone bagpipe playing “Amazing Grace” tore at our already aching hearts; aching for someone, most of us there never knew. Everyone around me was crying unashamedly. I felt no shame at the tears running down my own face.
The ceremony had ended. We had lain to rest a brave soul and a fellow law enforcement officer.
I shared with those present and the one now gone, three ounces of polished metal.
A female police officer makes an arrest in the 1980s. Photo courtesy of Los Angeles Police Historical Society.
This is a re-post from John Wills’ blog written by Dean Scoville
It’s difficult to determine when the first American female police officer pinned on her badge and began her watch. Several departments say they swore in the first “police woman” sometime around the turn of the 20th century so the issue is contested. It’s easier, however, to pinpoint the dawn of the contemporary female officer, that one moment in time where law enforcement’s and the public’s attitude toward women with badges began to change and female officers began to be perceived as “real police.” That year was 1972.
Forty years ago women didn’t have much of a toehold in law enforcement. A mere 2% of all police officers and sheriff’s deputies nationwide were female. Yet there was a growing presence of female officers and a growing recognition that female officers could take on duties that were once thought only suited to men.
Of course, women who wore badges in the 1970s faced old school stereotypes and biases, both within their departments and from the public. They were also accorded little consideration in sartorial matters, as they were required to wear impractical skirts, high-heeled shoes, and unisex ballistic vests that ignored the natural contours of the female figure. It wasn’t even until the late ’70s that Sally Brownes—uniform belts designed for women—were widely used. Before that belt was available, female officers kept their weapons and handcuffs in their purses.
Assignments were also an issue for pioneering female officers. They were shuffled into female-only duties, given desk and clerical work, sent to women’s jail wards, or posted to juvenile investigations units. But in the 1970s some female officers fought for and won patrol positions that would serve as promotional stepping stones.
These early ’70s female officers fought for and won respect. They also paved the way for more and more women to become officers.
A generation later, female officers make up 14 percent of the Thin Blue Line, and their ranks are growing. Female officers have yet to reach parity with their overall representation in society, but women have successfully integrated themselves throughout the ranks of law enforcement, serving as integral members of SWAT teams, K-9 units, investigation divisions, training staffs, and special task forces. Many have even gone on to helm major police departments as chiefs.
To trace the arduous path that women have forged in law enforcement, POLICE contacted women who worked their way up the ranks starting in the 1970s. Their personal experiences tell the story of what it’s like to be a female pioneer in a male-dominated profession.
Hitting the Streets
Patty Fogerson retired in 1994 as a detective supervisor III with the Bunco Forgery Division of the Los Angeles Police Department. Her career was even the subject of a television movie of the week starring Linda Hamilton. She says initially there was much trepidation on both sides of the sexual fence.
“My first partner didn’t know whether he should open the door for me when we got in the car,” reflects Fogerson, who joined the department in 1969.
Also in Southern California that same year, Judith Lewis was starting her law enforcement career with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department.
“When I joined the department,” Lewis says, “we were called ‘lady deputies.’ Our uniform was a skirt, high heels, and a blouse. We went through a 10-week academy vs. a 20-week academy for men. We got a 2-inch gun to carry in our purse. I was a deputy in an administrative job.”
Lewis went on to play an instrumental role in creating a program to usher women from working behind the desk to working the front line. In exploring this new territory, her task force encountered its share of hurdles on both sides of the gender line. And she wasn’t even sure that she wanted to hit the streets.
From the female perspective, Lewis explains, “I didn’t want to go to patrol at that time because I had three small kids. Patrol wasn’t what I joined the job for, and neither did most women. Opinion was mostly negative in the department to do that.”
As Lewis’ task force searched for positions for women on the department, a detective from the automotive division piped up, saying that women couldn’t or wouldn’t work there because they would have to crawl under cars to find VIN numbers. “I replied that I knew some obese male officers who couldn’t do that job,” recalls Lewis.
Retrained
Eventually, at Lewis’s request, the department asked for volunteers rather than implementing a draft. The first women on patrol were still required to wear high heels, a purse, and a skirt, but some women violated the rules and improvised their own uniforms for practical purposes.
And before they could become full-fledged patrol officers, women had to pass full academy training. For women like Fogerson, who had already completed a shortened training course designed for police women, a second round of academy training was required.
“In 1975, I experienced some double standards in the academy,” says Fogerson. “Physical training instructors in the academy didn’t want us there, and they made life as difficult as possible for us. One guy changed my time on the obstacle course. I had won medals in the Police Olympics, so I had done well. But he read off my time as being slower than the slowest person there.”
Fogerson’s response was to glare at the instructor who posted the bogus time. “He looked at me and asked, ‘Do you have a question about your time?’ I said, ‘No, sir.’ He said, ‘Good.’ I ended up having to do 10 pull-ups instead of four to pass the exam.”
Such harassment and hazing was commonly inflicted on early female recruits for patrol duties, but Fogerson and others are quick to note that many instructors and supervisors treated them fairly. While they could not excuse subtle or overt forms of discrimination that they experienced, they made the point that both men and women were subject to various acts that were largely dictated by their newness to the profession rather than their gender.
Trying Harder
Sexual harassment was also a common experience for these female pioneers, particularly in the early years. Unfortunately, there was not much that they could do about it.
“Phrases like ‘sexual harassment’ and ‘hostile work environment’ didn’t exist back then,” says Fogerson. “My attitude was, get the job done and you’ll be able to prove yourself. I was able to work robbery and detectives, background investigations, and was one of the first female drill instructors in the academy. I just got along and survived in the beginning, then things settled down.”
Former Tucson, Ariz., officer Ruthanne Penn agrees that the females she knew tended to try harder. In part, because they had to. “Males wouldn’t be considered a screw-up until they made 10 mistakes,” she reflects. “A female could make only one mistake and be considered a screw-up.”
Standing Out
John Wills, a former Chicago police officer and FBI agent and the author of the forthcoming “Women Warriors: Stories from the Thin Blue Line,” is sympathetic to Penn’s observations.
“Women stand out a little quicker when they make mistakes than their male counterparts,” Wills notes. “They stand out to the public and to their male counterparts because of their numbers. Large departments with lots of women on the street don’t have that problem. But in a small department with only two women on a watch, if one makes a mistake it sticks out like a sore thumb.”
Penn cites a peer’s unfortunate experience as a prime example. While the error made was not demonstrably different than those made by male officers, it proved to be one that the woman had a particularly difficult time living down. For a time it also made Penn, who worked in law enforcement from 1976 to 2001, hyper vigilant against making errors. Eventually, she relaxed. Not because she became apathetic to the prospect of committing some transgression, but because she simply acquired faith in her own abilities.
“After I’d been working for a while, I felt good about what I did so I didn’t care what men thought of me,” Penn says. “In the beginning there was a lot of pressure, for about five or six years. After several assignments, particularly when I became a detective, I was more confident. We were all on the same playing field.”
Promotions and Legal Action
Unfortunately, hard work alone could not bridge the gender gap that existed in many department policies, particularly as they related to promotional opportunities for women.
Capt. Rebecca Meeks with the Waynesboro (Va.) Police Department recalls her promotional struggles. “When I tested for lieutenant, I outscored a man who was promoted before me. They said it was because he had a four-year degree and I had only a two-year degree. It was the chief’s call. I’d heard that he asked other captains who they wanted to be promoted, so I felt discouraged. But the man who was promoted was an excellent supervisor, so I didn’t hold it against him.”
Faced with similar discrimination, two Southern California female officers stood up on behalf of their peers and filed lawsuits against their departments.
In 1973, a sergeant with the LAPD, Fanchon Blake, sued after she and other female police sergeants were not allowed to take the lieutenant’s exam because they were women. She won. A similar lawsuit filed against the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department by Sue Bouman in 1980 was eventually settled in 1988.
Among the legacies of these landmark suits were decrees that required departments to make amends to women in law enforcement. These guidelines were designed to bolster the presence of women in the profession and to remove barriers for promotion and assignments to coveted positions. They served as precedents for departments across the country to implement similar policies.
“Promotional boards are much different in today’s environment when you’re trying to promote from patrol,” notes Wills. “The testing process has evolved in terms of being more academic, especially with more technology being involved in police work.”
Still, it has not been easy for women to stand up for their rights in their law enforcement careers.
Lewis recalls the hardships that Bouman and others experienced in the wake of taking their stands against their departments. “Back then there really was no place for women to go with sexual harassment or job discrimination complaints, and it would definitely negatively affect your career if you complained publicly. By the time I left, there were places for women to go and either talk to someone confidentially or to place a formal complaint. However, the one thing that still existed in a few cases, was a peer and career backlash for making such a complaint. Sue Bouman paid heavily for her lawsuit and was the subject of continuing hard feelings and backlash against her for the rest of her career.”
Few Role Models
To counter the chilling effects of harassment, discrimination, and negative stereotyping on the job, women officers have turned to one another for support.
But for those women who were part of the vanguard for women in law enforcement, mentors and role models were in short supply. It was not only up to many of these women to undergo a baptism by fire, but to ultimately become mentors and role models themselves.
“There were role models for the jobs that women had traditionally done,” Lewis recalls, “but there were no role models for women working patrol. The women who went out to patrol early became role models for those who came later.”
Some, like Lewis, tried to establish formal mentoring programs. As recently as 1998, the International Association of Chiefs of Police concluded that while the need continues to be great, there are very few mentoring programs for women officers. What support there was typically came from informal contacts.
“The support women sergeants gave us was mostly in the locker room, urging us on,” recalls Fogerson.
Wills notes the importance of formal organizations for women in law enforcement. “In some parts of the country, women are still a minority. They need women’s organizations for the smaller contingent on smaller departments to give them support and direction.”
To that end there is no shortage of organizations developed by and for women, including a growing cadre of instructional institutions that focus on providing women gender specific training in areas of promotional and officer survival.
Wills sums up the progress made by women in law enforcement over the past four decades. “Back in the day, in the 1970s and 1980s, women wanted to be involved in law enforcement and it was something to prove—to society and themselves—that they can do the same job. In today’s environment, this is a sought after job and it’s highly competitive.”
Wills believes that women officers have earned respect from their colleagues and from the public because of the courage and dedication that other women have displayed on the job. “Some have paid the ultimate sacrifice and are listed on the memorial wall,” he says. “We saw a lot of heroics on their part and we still do. Now we look at them in a different light.”
As the light changed, the van passed me and sure enough the number matched the one given to me by the unit. I communicated that I was following the van NORTH bound on La Brea, requested back-up and settled in for a possible pursuit. I heard an air unit was enroute, so I hung back. The van proceeded into a residential neighborhood, pulled to the curb and the driver exited. I set up a felony stop, shot gun and all, and told the heavy-set driver to prone out. He turned and ran up a drive way into a back yard. The air unit was now over head and the observer told me to start star walking north.
I had my weapon drawn, facing east when the frail wooden fence shattered into pieces as the suspect ran right through. Behind him were a pit bull and a mutt in hot pursuit!
rking morning watch at Wilshire as a patrol sergeant. Our end of watch was 0800 but I had a report to finish and didn’t leave the station until 1030. I was on my way home eastbound on the I-10, the Santa Monica portion and this time of the morning the traffic still stinks. My patience is boarding the edge of—well, I’m tired and when I get home I have a couple of “honey do’s” to complete before sleep. Drive time, 45 minutes. Crossing the Harbor freeway, the traffic lightened up, so we picked up the speed. I’m in the #2 lane and a yellow city dump truck is in the #1 lane. As we transition from the east bound I-10 to the north bound I-5, the truck—without signaling—cuts me off! Had I not slammed on the brakes, we’d have had a terrific collision. Now I’m going to catch up to the truck and let the guy know who he just cut off! I take my badge place it into my left hand. The badge pin is between my middle and index finger. I catch up to the truck who is back in the #1 lane and now I’m next to him, I roll down my window and as he looks over at me, I produce my badge out the window…….and my badge is yanked out of my hand by the rush of wind! It’s gone, rolling down the freeway. My almost new sergeant badge is GONE!
