Tag: Hollywood

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Court 5

By Hal Collier LAPD, Retired

We are happy that 35-year veteran Hal Collier is sharing his ‘stories behind the badge’ with us.

I thought my last court Ramblings was the end. Then I was reminded that I didn’t cover Traffic and Juvenile court. The following stories are true and my own experiences. I didn’t write a lot of tickets that went to court but I did arrest a lot DUI’s. Juvenile arrests were the kiss of death as far as court was concerned.

A lot of my friends were motor cops, a rare breed and often under appreciated by the Department. I’ll talk about BCMC (Big City Motor Cops) in a later Ramblings.

Traffic Court: I’d rather visit the dentist for a root canal than go to traffic court. The reason I hated traffic court is because it just didn’t seem fair. I only wrote obvious violations and few people took me to court. Even so, when I did go to court I knew the ticket was good, the violator knew he committed the violation but the judge, or most times a commissioner, would let the violator go free.

Maybe if I wrote more tickets I’d have been used to losing, but I hated being in court on my own time and having some dirt bag smile at me as he walked out of the court room.
An example: I’m stopped at the red light northbound Las Palmas at Hollywood Boulevard. It’s about 3 A.M. My light turns green and I start into the intersection. I have to brake suddenly for a cream colored VW that sails through the intersection eastbound Hollywood Boulevard. I think he might be drunk being that late on a red light. I stop him, he’s sober and admits to running the red light. I write him a ticket. No sweat, right? A few weeks later I get a subpoena–he’s taking me to traffic court, contesting the ticket.

I’m sure all my motor officer friends are laughing. They see this all the time. Me, I write three tickets a month and when someone questions my judgment I take it personally. For the court date, I show up in my best suit. Ok, again it’s my only suit (but I do have two shirts and three ties, all father’s day gifts). Also it’s my day off. Anyway, I testify that I had a clear unobstructed view of the violation and that the violator admitted the violation.

The violator gets up and denies that he ran the red light and denies that he admitted running the red light. I want to jump out of my seat, but I’m wearing my good tie and shirt. I don’t want to be held in contempt of court and placed in the lock up. The Commissioner looks me in the eye and says we have conflicting stories and dismisses the ticket. I walk to the elevators and refuse to get into the same elevator with this lying piece of road kill vermin. See, I still carry a grudge.

Traffic Court was at 1945 S. Hill Street. A beautiful new building that handled most of the LA Metropolitan area. They had nice underground parking, elevators to the officers’ waiting room. No walking the streets answering all those questions, no walking to your car in the rain or 100 degree heat. Then why did I hate it so much? If you had a subpoena on a drunk driver you could count on spending at least half a day. For tickets, you checked in then waited an hour and walked into the court room where your case would be heard.

They had a nice officers’ waiting room, lots of comfortable seats and some cots for the A.M. watch officers who worked all night. One day I’m really tired from working all night. I get to the waiting room early, check in and grab a cot. I’m just drifting off to sleep when a gaggle of motor cops stroll into the waiting room. I’m not sure what a large group of motor cops are called. Gaggle, pod, heard, flock. Either way they are noisy. They yell greetings to each other because they haven’t talked in two or three days.

One cops says, “Did you hear about Joe? He went down the other day.” To a motor officer, going down means crashing. The cop says, “Joe went down under this semi-truck. The semi slammed on the brakes and Joe and the semi skidded to a stop at the same time. Joe was ok but he had tires marks on his leather jacket, it was that close.” The other motor cops are laughing. Me, I’m thinking Joe is lucky to be alive.

My best traffic court story I wrote about in one of my earlier Ramblings, but I going to repeat it since my reading audience has increased.

The best ticket I wrote was a lady who made a left turn without using the left turn lane. I stopped her and hadn’t decided if I was going to write her a ticket. I approached her window and she started in on me. “Don’t you have anything better to do than harass tax-paying citizens? Now you know why people like it when cops get shot”.

Ok, she’s getting a ticket. I write the ticket and when I ask her to sign, she says, “I hope you die in a gutter, and I hope your wife and children die a horrible death in a house fire.” I tell her to drive carefully and have a nice night. Ok, I said it sarcastically.

About a month later I get a Subpoena for traffic court. That’s right, this tax-paying citizen wants to fight the ticket. Ok, I’ve been working all night and now I have to go to court to explain why I wrote this upstanding citizen a ticket. I walk into traffic court and during my early days a City Attorney (CA) would represent the officers. The CA says to me that she’s thinking of dismissing the ticket and wants to know if I have an objection. The CA says the lady had an emergency at home. Of course I object and explain the ladies statements about my family. Court begins, I get sworn in and describe the violation.

Ok, here’s where it gets good. The lady, who is now as sweet as a newborn baby gets to ask me questions about the ticket. She starts out, “Good morning officer.”
I check to see if her blouse is buttoned up.
She asks me, “Do you remember what I said when you stopped me?”
I replied, “You mean when you wished death on me and my family?”
The back row of the traffic court was usually filled with motor cops waiting to testify on tickets. They all burst out in laughter, I glance over at the Judge. He had a grin that I remember to this day. The violator was found guilty. I was proud, pretty sharp for a cop who had been up for the last 18 hours.

My last Traffic court story involves a commissioner hearing other tickets. I’m in court early and sitting in the back row surrounded by motor cops. This lady walks into the court room. She is dressed in a nice business attire and might I say quite a looker. The motor cop next to me leans over and wants to bet that she’s found guilty. He says the commissioner is gay and finds all women guilty.

They start hearing cases and the commissioner is letting half of the violators go free. It’s the lady’s turn; she is well spoken and not confrontational. Even the officer admits that it was a minor violation. Commissioner, GUILTY. I think some of the motor cops were collecting money to pay her fine.

I suspect my next appearance in traffic court will be to fight a ticket I didn’t deserve and got just because some motor cop had to fill his quota.

Just kidding.

–Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Court 2

By Hal Collier

We are happy that 35-year veteran Hal Collier is sharing his ‘stories behind the badge’ with us.

The following story is true. In my first chapter I described how inconvenient it was going to court. I don’t ever remember enjoying a case I had in court. I guess that 95% of the time I spent in court was on my own time. You don’t just show up, you have to prepare. Nothing more embarrassing than making a fool of yourself on the witness stand.

In fact, I’ve heard of judges writing a letter to a captain describing how an officer was not prepared. It didn’t happen to me, but I was close once. Before arriving at court, you had better make a copy of the arrest report and review it.

I used to play good lawyer, bad lawyer. What’s the prosecuting attorney (good lawyer) going to ask me and what’s the defense attorney (bad lawyer) going to ask? What are the weak spots and what might be their defense? In felony prelims, Department policy said the investigating detective brings the evidence and attended the court hearing. In reality, some detectives never went to court. In narcotics cases, the arresting officer brought the evidence.

In some of my past Ramblings, I described Hollywood Characters. The court house is full of them. Some of the more colorful ones are judges. Yep, that’s right—the pillars of the judicial system. Two of the most infamous judges I’ll talk about were removed from the bench by the Commission of Judicial Performance. You have to be a real old timer to know these judges. Then later I’ll tell a few stories about trials I testified in that were amusing. One was even bizarre.

Judge Leland Geiler was rumored to be a former LAPD motor cop. I only testified in his court once but it was interesting. Sometimes when you had a case in another court room and were told to wait, you would wander into Geiler’s court to watch the circus. He was gruff, rude and his speech was laced with profanity. He ran his court room with an iron hand, but then most judges think of themselves as a notch below a god.

Lawyers who angered a judge could be found sharing a cell with their client. No kidding. I was in court more than once when a judge held a lawyer in contempt of court and ordered the bailiff to take custody of the offender. A few times I saw a judge order a lawyer to get out his check book and pay a fine for contempt. I shudder to think what might happen if the check bounced.

I was testifying in a felony prelim and glanced over at Judge Geiler, he was reading a Playboy Magazine. Ok, he was really looking at the pictures. As I describe a location in Hollywood, the defense attorney objected. Geiler told the attorney to sit down because he knew Hollywood like the back of his hand. Judge Geiler actually lived in Hollywood, on Los Feliz Boulevard. It was rumored that Geiler arrested a public defender in his court room for possession of a controlled drug and being under the influence. I would have loved to see that. Judge Geiler was removed from the bench in 1973 for judicial misconduct.

Noel Cannon, there’s a name that struck fear in the hearts of everyone and I mean everyone, cops, lawyers, defendants. If an officer had court in Cannon’s courtroom, you had better not be late or unprepared.

Officers had to be in court at 8:30 A.M. The officers would talk to the DA (District Attorney) and review their case. Most judges took the bench at about 9:30/10:00 to see what cases were ready for a hearing. I once saw an officer get on the witness stand and admit that he hadn’t read his arrest report before court. Judge Cannon ordered him to read his report on the witness stand, while the whole court room waited.

Noel Cannon would take the bench at a little after 8:00 A.M. She would sit on the bench in a pink judge’s robe, sometimes with her small dog on her lap and she was rumored to carry a handgun. She would order the attorneys to get cases ready, “forthwith.” (That means “right now”) I had a case that was heard fourth in her court one morning. I got out before 8:40 A.M. Cool, I got my three hours in ten minutes.

I walked into her court room one morning at 8:15. The court room was silent, I got two steps inside and she demanded to know what case I was on. I replied and she ordered the DA to get my case ready, “forthwith.” I slid into a seat next to my partner, who advised that Judge Cannon was on a rampage.

Judge Cannon, the day before, had ordered a deputy sheriff back in her courtroom at 8:15. A.M. When he hadn’t arrived at 8:25 she issued a bench warrant for his arrest, bail set at $50,000 dollars. I didn’t need to check my wallet, I knew I didn’t have that much lunch money. I testified and almost ran out of her court to the smell of freedom.

I had another case where I testified, the DA finished questioning me and now it’s the PD (Public Defenders) turn to cross examine. Judge Cannon tells the PD to sit down, “There’s no defense for this case. Defendant is held to answer. Next case.” Actually Judge Cannon held just about every defendant over for trial. The U.S. Constitution didn’t exist in Noel Cannon’s court.

Last Noel Cannon court story. I have court on December 24, 1972or 73. That’s right, Christmas Eve. My partner, Jim Tomer and I have worked all night. When were done with this court case, we can go home and share Christmas Eve with our family. It’s a simple case, one officer testifying, ten minutes maximum and we’re out of there. We arrested a drag queen on Hollywood Boulevard for possession of drugs. The defendant is in custody. He needs his case heard today [this is mandated by case law relating to speedy trial] or bail out and he’s not likely to have bail money.

We’re not assigned to Noel’s court, but we’re next door. The courts break for lunch at noon. Damn, we come back at 1:30 and the DA tells us that the judges have all gone home for Christmas. All but one, Noel Cannon. She’s going to take everyone’s held over cases. Last year she held court until 10 P.M. Does anyone else see the irony—Noel—Christmas!!!

I look at Jim and he smiles. I’m thinking he’s suffering from sleep deprivation. He asks our DA, “If I get the defendant to promise to show up for his next court appearance will you release him?” The DA agrees. He wants to go home too. Jim walks back into the lock up and returns ten minutes later. Jim tells the DA, he’ll show up for court. The DA’s happy, Jim and I are happy and the drag queen is happy. The DA, Jim and I are going home for Christmas, the drag queen is going where ever they go for the holidays. If we had ended up in Cannon’s court, no one would have gone home before dark.

A month later we go to court on the same defendant. I’m hoping he shows up. Guess what—he appears and pleads guilty to the drug charge. He thanks us for letting him out for Christmas. Yea, we had his interests in mind.

Noel Cannon was removed from the bench in 1975 for judicial misconduct. Another Character.

One day I have court after working all night. It’s my third day in court and I’m guessing that I have had a total of eight hours sleep in three days. I’m sitting in the officers’ waiting room when they break for lunch. I seldom tried to sleep at the court house because when I was suddenly awakened, I was a poster model for dementia patients.

So on this day I’m so tired I lie down just for an hour. I am suddenly jolted awake by a ringing telephone. I sit upright and I’m in this strange room with some other man. He looks over at me and asks, “What case are you on?” I reply ah, ah, ok that’s right I’m at court. My mind is racing what case am I on? After a few seconds the man says, “Well then what’s your name?” I reply, “ah, ah,” crap I can’t even remember my name. I hope I’m wearing the underwear with my name in them. The fog clears just enough for me to blurt out “Collier.” He tells me my case has been disposed of, I can go home.

I walk out of the court building and discover that it’s past four o’clock. I walk four blocks up the hill to the Music Center where my truck is parked. I enter the parking structure and stop dead in my tracks. Oh double crap. What level did I park on this morning? Lucky I drove my truck. I only had to walk down a ramp and look left and right. If I didn’t see the roof of “Old Blue” I walked down another ramp. I find my truck. Now I only have to remember where I live. I never went to sleep at court again.

My next segment, I’ll talk about the more bizarre court cases and characters.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, The Art of Kicking Doors

By Hal Collier, LAPD, Retired

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

Be sure to click on the links included for some funny illustrations of Hal’s techniques.
To the best of my limited knowledge, what I’m about to describe is not taught in any police academy. That is the art of kicking doors. Admit it, you can’t watch a cop show without the star kicking open a door at least once. It amazes me how easy it looks, sometimes they just lean on the door with a shoulder. Please, all you’ll do is hurt your shoulder.

academy trainingWhen I went through the Los Angeles Police Academy, they taught me when to legally kick a door without violating some citizen’s civil rights, but not how! My initial experience was watching my partner kick in a door on my first day out of the academy. The door flew open and we raced in to save an attempted suicide victim.

I learned my first valuable lesson watching cartoons. That’s right. The Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed and blew down the house of straw and wood but couldn’t blow down the house of brick. I know what you’re thinking: Collier is getting fitted for one of those long sleeve shirts with the buckles on the cuffs. No, what I learned is what door you can kick in and what doors you’ll just hurt you.

I learned the hard way. Let’s start with the door itself. Is it a solid wood door or hollow core? Is the frame also wood and how many locks does it have? I know—who has the time to analyze the structural integrity of a door? Well, you had better or you’ll waste your time and energy.

Smart cops will never try to kick a metal door with a metal frame unless you have a big red “S” on your chest. You’ll just pull a hamstring and look foolish. I once had a welfare check on a family in an apartment building. The police had been out there twice but couldn’t get in. The manager didn’t have a key so we finally called the fire department. The fire department had to cut the metal door and frame open. It was a murder suicide including the three young children. I’ll never get over that one.

My partner Gary and I once had a welfare check call on an elderly woman high up in the Hollywood Hills. She hadn’t been seen in days. It was an older house built with solid oak wood doors and frames. We knocked on the doors and then began looking in all the windows. We found a window where we could see the woman lying on the floor. OK, we’ll kick the door and rescue the woman.

As I said the house was well-built and we kicked that door for fifteen minutes. First one kicked, then both of us at the same time. It almost got comical—this poor lady laying of the floor and Gary and I saying, “Ready 1, 2 ,3, kick, 1,2,3, kick.” We finally got in and discovered that her dog was protecting her. You’ll never see that on prime time TV. We finally rescued her and the dog.

Hollow core doors? They are usually interior doors, like bedroom or bathroom doors, but not always. This incident happened in the early 70’s. Hollywood cops got a “Rape in Progress” call. We all arrived and the person reporting (PR) said the girl next door is yelling for help. We knock and the woman screams, “Help Me”

My partner, Jim Moody says, “I’ll kick the door.” He steps back and plants a size 10, double E right in the middle of the door. It was a hollow core door so his foot gets stuck. Moody’s standing there on one leg, the other stuck in the middle of the door. We laughed as we rushed by and rescued the woman, leaving Moody outside.

That brings up where to kick a door. You kick next to the dead bolt lock. That’s where the door will burst open. Be careful not to hit the door knob. That is worth at least a sprained or worse, a broken ankle. Both will give you desk duty, a curse among patrol cops. A cop’s worst nightmare is a 2 inch deadbolt. It may take 3 or 4 kicks before the door frame gives way. If you’re securing your own house, use 2 inch deadbolts, even the cops have trouble getting in. Bad if you’re the one laying on the floor!!!
Another rookie mistake is not checking to see if the door is locked before you kick it open. Don’t laugh—it happens. I once watched an officer kick a door twice before someone realized it was unlocked.

Kicking doors takes practice and a strong leg, but it’s usually the smallest officer who pushes his way to the front and proclaims, “I’ll kick it.” I usually let them try, that’s how they learn. I once had a sergeant who insisted that the mule kick was the best. He would position himself on the floor with his back and butt toward the door. Then he would kick backwards like a mule. It worked for him but I didn’t like being on the floor with my back to the door.

Kicking a door doesn’t always turn out as planned. The department has a term, “Called the wrong Door.” That’s when cops kick the wrong door. I’m sure your wondering how could such highly trained cops make such a mistake? Easy—poor communication, egos, “me first,” and last, poor leadership. We once had an incident high up in the Hollywood Hills at a party where professional gambling was taking place. The sergeant led the charge and kicked the door across the street from the party. The residents were not impressed with their tax dollars at work. The sergeant was transferred to day watch where he could be better supervised. True story

Another time Mike and I were driving around when we see large billows of smoke coming from a four story apartment building. Oh crap, we have to save all those people. We run into the lobby and are met with smoke filled hallways. We start banging on doors and if no answer we kick in doors. After kicking two doors, we run to the fire escape window and suck in some fresh air. The smoke is burning our lungs and eyes. Residents are running into the streets as the fire department arrives. Hell, Mike and I will get a medal for saving all these people.

Guess what? No medal. The smoke was from a trash dumpster behind the apartment building. It was coming in through an open hallway window. I pulled a hamstring and had to get treated for smoke inhalation. Ever been treated for smoke inhalation? They stick a big needle in your wrist and draw blood from an artery not a vein. Arteries are down deep in your arm.
Every once in a while an opportunity comes along to practice kicking a door. I had one such opportunity as a sergeant. A four story apartment building on Argyle was being remodeled and all the tenants were evicted. The construction foreman told me there are squatters in some of the apartments, you can kick any door that’s locked. My eyes light up. I grabbed every rookie that was working that day and had them kick a few doors. I also kicked a half dozen doors myself, it was like a present from the police gods.

Like I said kicking doors is an art only learned after years of experience. There will also be a few wrong doors and failures that come with that experience. One last kick door story. I got a welfare check call for service on another elderly lady. Her porch light has been on day and night for days. Her mail and newspapers are piling up and the neighbors think there a strange smell coming from the house. These are all bad signs. I do my usual check of all doors and windows. Oh crap. I see flies on the windows—another bad sign. I won’t explain what the flies on the windows might indicate. My partner, a smaller officer, wants to kick the door. (See above!) I tell him we’ll call for an ambulance first. The fire department arrives and they said, “We’ll kick the door.” Now everybody loves the fire department and firemen!

The firemen kicks the door we all rush in and guess what? No one’s home. The smell and flies were from a plate of food left on the kitchen counter. A few days later I get a call from an angry elderly lady who wants to know why I kicked her door while she was visiting her sister in Florida. She wants me or the police department to pay to have her door repaired. I told her we didn’t kick the door the fire department did. Here’s the kicker, no pun intended. We kick the wrong door and the police department has to pay to fix the door. The fire department kicks the wrong door they don’t have to pay.
The firemen are still loved!

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Hollywood Characters, part 5, Old Bill

By Hal Collier, LAPD, Retired

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

The following story is true, I was there. I’ll follow with a story about another Hollywood Character. I asked around for this character’s name or background. Everyone who worked Hollywood in the 70’s knew him but only two remembered his name and only Dale Hickerson remembered his background.

 

Ok, first the story. With today’s TV coverage of car pursuits and police tactics, everyone is an expert on how we stop felony suspects. The Helicopter reporters tell the viewers what the police should do next and they criticize the officer if it’s not according to their textbook. One of the problems is that different police departments have different tactics and policies.

 

Late one night a Hollywood police car spots a stolen car. The senior officer broadcasts that he is following a stolen car and requests a backup and a helicopter. The officer is southbound on Highland passing Sunset. I’m excited because I’m close and fall in behind the lead officer.

 

car stopIt must have been a slow night because two blocks later most of the cops in Hollywood division are behind us. The helicopter is overhead with its bright light shining down on the stolen vehicle. The lead officer turns on his red lights at Santa Monica and Highland. The suspect’s vehicle stops. I look behind me. We have about six police cars all with their red lights on and the entire street blocked. The helicopter is circling overhead.

 

The lead officer gets on the PA system in the police car and broadcasts to the suspect’s vehicle,  “This is the Los Angeles Police Department”  I hear a voice from an officer behind me,  “They know who we are.”

 

Picture this: fourteen officers crouched down behind their car doors, guns drawn, and adrenalin surging through their veins. Suddenly laughter breaks out. The lead officer is not going to let this stop him from conducting a tactically correct felony car stop. He orders the driver to throw the car keys out the driver’s window.

After a brief pause, the driver of the stolen car tosses a screwdriver out the window. More laughter from the officers.

The lead officer did everything by the book, but it was funny as hell.

 

Hollywood Character:  Baseball Pitcher—Old Bill

 

During the 70’s, there was a black man who would stand at the southwest corner of Santa Monica and Western. Other guys like me told his name was Bill. Just after first light Old Bill would be out on the corner with a baseball and a glove. I think he was in his 70’s or 80’s. Bill would bend at the waist and look in to get a sign from an imaginary catcher. He would wind up and throw an imaginary pitch. Sometimes he had runners on base and would throw an imaginary ball to first base.  I once looked at his baseball glove. It was similar to my dad’s glove that he used in high school in 1935, I know because I still have it.

 

Negro LeagueHollywood officers, including myself would stop and ask Old Bill, “What’s the score?” The Dodgers were always winning. The count on the batter varied but I don’t ever recall him giving up a home run. Another officer asked him once if any runner had ever stolen a base on him and Bill replied, “No I have a good catcher.” He was fun to talk to. I wish I had asked him more about his background. Dale Hickerson said he played some pro ball in the Negro leagues.

 

Last time I saw Old Bill was early one morning. I received a radio call of a man down at Santa Monica and Western. When I arrived, I was told that the man had been transported to Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital. I arrived at the hospital and Old Bill was lying on a gurney. A nurse was trying to pry Bill’s baseball and glove from his hand. Old Bill had a stroke and I never saw him again.

The Dodgers lost the best pitcher they never had and Hollywood lost a character.

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Rambling, Desk Duty, part 4 of 4, Let Me Entertain You

By Hal Collier, LAPD, Retired Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

 

The following story is true. I thought my last Ramblings about the desk was the final chapter, but I remembered some incidents myself and I was asked why I didn’t write about so and so. So here goes. You know it almost sounds like working the desk was all fun.

 

Remember these stories are spread out over thirty-five years. I could tell you about the times there were twelve people waiting in line to make a report or get their car out of impound. I could bore you with the time a citizen waited twenty minutes in line to be told he needed to talk to a Detective. The Detective interviewed him for thirty minutes and then walked him back out to the end of the desk line and told the desk officer to take a report. Ah!!! Why didn’t the detective just take the report when he was getting all the information? See? This was why patrol and detectives didn’t get along.

 

There were some pretty amusing stories also. There was a desk officer (JP) who raced out of roll call to be the first one at the desk. No one else rushed to work the desk. After some time the other desk officers discovered that he was placing a sign on the outside of the desk in front of his seat that said “Questions Only.” He didn’t have to take any reports.

It was also common for desk officers to throw items into a desk drawer that needed to be booked into property: found drivers licenses, credit cards, keys, and other items that are beyond description.

 

old grenadeAnother time a little old lady walked into the lobby, with a paper bag. She set the paper bag on the counter and removed a hand grenade. It was something her late husband had brought home from who knows what war. The lobby and the front of the station were evacuated and an hour later, the bomb squad determined it was safe. No reports taken during that hour. This happened more than once.

 

Some nights, there was entertainment at the desk. If Hollywood had a new lieutenant, one of the patrol officers would send “BJ” to the station to greet him. BJ was a well-endowed woman who lived on Yucca. First time I was introduced to BJ was at Yucca and Wilcox. My partner pulled into the parking lot at Playboy Liquor. I hear a female voice calling out, “Officer.” I look up at the balcony and see this woman. She says, “Hi, I’m BJ.” I hunch my shoulders at her and I hear my partner laughing. BJ flops out her boobs and wiggles them at me. Welcome to police work, Hollywood style.

 

Back to the new lieutenant. Some officer would send BJ to the desk and have BJ ask to see the Watch Commander. The new lieutenant would walk out to the desk and you guessed it, BJ would greet the new Watch Commander in the only way she knew how! I never sent BJ to the desk. I had a child on the way and really needed my job.

 

Flash forward a lot of years. I’m a sergeant and the Watch Commander for the day. It’s a Saturday. One of my senior desk officers tells me that a citizen wants to speak to me. Not unusual, people always want to speak to the Watch Commander. I go to the desk and this man says he has a video that he thinks I should see. This is post-Rodney King and we know what a mess that video caused. My heart is racing, I can feel my blood pressure rising, I should have called in sick. I ask him what’s on the tape. He only tells me it pretty disgusting and something needs to be done.

 

I take the tape, and tell the man to have a seat. I go into the captains’ office to watch the tape. I’m thinking, oh please not a video of a policeman involved in some deed of misconduct. I go over the list of notifications if it’s a Rodney King-type tape. If I miss one notification, it’s days off without pay for me. My kids are both in college and I’m broke.

 

RatsI hit the play button and hold my breath. It’s a video of the north side of the police station, near our trash dumpsters. At first, I’m looking for cops, then I see small furry rodents. That’s right—rats, dozens of them. They are living in the storm drain and come out to raid our trash dumpsters.

 

I know from experience they aren’t eating left over jail food. I can breathe again and the only notification I need to make is to the city to rid the station of these pests. Most officers thought all the Watch Commander did was drink coffee and play Free Cell on the computer.

 

Working the Hollywood desk had its moments, but for the most part, it was busy twenty-four hours a day. When I worked Southeast (Watts), the morning watch desk was run by one officer who watched VHS movies on a small TV most nights. The Watch Commander brought in the movies. They even turned off the lobby lights; it looked like we were closed. Different worlds.

 

coffee-readyThis last story is half desk, half Watch Commanders Office. We used to have a coffee machine in the Watch Commanders (W/C) office. It was one of those office machines where someone actually had to make a pot of coffee. No one wanted to make coffee, so a game was devised where you would pitch a quarter at white circle on the tile floor. The farthest quarter from the circle had to make the pot of coffee. You had to be careful that your quarter didn’t end up on its edge and roll into the desk area.

 

Next, it was decided that we would have three quarter pitches. First loser would make coffee; second loser had to buy coffee for everyone in the game. The last loser had to pour coffee for everyone. Soon the third loser had to wear a red waiter’s vest and hang a white towel over his arm as he poured. If you lost all three games, you made the hall of fame and had you picture taken. Sometimes if you had a lot of participants, it could cost you your eating money for the night, not to mention the embarrassment of wearing the red vest. Your tax dollars at work.

 

Working the desk was not a lot of fun, but it had its moments and of course these memories.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, part 3 of 4, On the Desk

 

By Hal Collier, LAPD, Retired

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.   

The following story is true. This is the third and what I thought was last episode of the Hollywood Desk until I had a lucid moment and remembered other incidents that might jog the memories of old retired Hollywood cops. Some of my non-cop friends just find them funny.

 

Hollywood Station front desk
Hollywood Station front desk

I was pretty lucky. I only worked the desk during my first three years on the job, or when I got hurt and couldn’t work patrol. I remember one week I worked five days. Two at the desk, one in the jail, and two on station security. These were called the terrible three’s. This was not exactly what a young cop who’s going to save the world signs up for.

 

In my last Ramblings, I reminisced of the little old lady who came in to the station to get her juvenile grandson. This story is about an adult who made a big mistake, first by being arrested and second by being a Marine at the time. It was common for new Marines to come from Camp Pendleton to Hollywood on their first leave from boot camp. They weren’t hard to spot, short hair, a tattoo and a t-shirt with USMC on the front.

 

I worked with Bill Barren, a former marine. Sometimes he’d see a group of marines walking down Hollywood Boulevard. We would stop the group, line them up at attention, and ask who was in charge. Bill would then lecture them about the evils of Hollywood, things like not everything in a dress is a girl. He would send them off advising them not to tarnish the name of the Marine Corps. Once a marine always a marine. “Semper Fidelis”

 

diOk, back to my desk story. This marine gets drunk and is arrested in Hollywood. He’s placed in a holding tank and the shore patrol is called. Military personnel arrested for being drunk in public are turned over to the Military Police. The shore patrol will give the marine a stiffer sentence than any court in L.A. The marine was being a jerk and yelling things about the Marine Corps that he would never even think of saying sober. He also had a photo album, with pictures of himself in his “dress blues”. In some of the pictures, he was holding the American flag in one hand and his manhood in the other. No explanation needed.

 

The marine is yelling for over two hours when the Shore Patrol arrives. The guy in charge, a staff sergeant I think, walks up to the desk. He asks, “Is that my marine making all that noise?” 

The sergeant is escorted into the Watch Commanders office. He is looking at the photo album and you can see his face muscles getting tense. The sergeant asks if he can see his marine now. The holding tank door is opened and the marine jumps to attention. The sergeant knocks him out cold. The Marine is dragged outside unconscious and thrown into the back of the Shore Patrol’s paddy wagon. I’m guessing that the marine will regret coming to Hollywood and with that photo album.

 

On the bright side, we had a Watch Commander, Bryce, whose pet peeve was officers hanging their car keys from their gun belts. If you walked into the station with your keys in your belt, Bryce would grab the keys and throw them out the front door. I learned to take my keys out of my belt upon walking into the lobby. I only chased my keys out into the street once. I saw another officers keys grabbed from his belt, tossed to a citizen sitting in the lobby, who tossed them out the front door as directed by Bryce.

 

I showed up for work one night and passed Jane Fonda in the lobby. She is one of my least favorite people. She was advising some woman that she has rights and you don’t have to do what the police say. I would have liked to see her in the custody of the shore patrol.

 

In the old Hollywood station, you walked through the lobby to get to your police car after roll call. I remember one night as the line filed down the hallway toward the desk, some of the officers started turning around and back tracking. I wasn’t sure why until I reached the desk. There was a woman of suspicious reputation standing at the desk with officers. I guess some of the officers didn’t want to be seen by this women. Ha ha, I wasn’t afraid. 

 

Of course, there was Gracie Wilde, a homeless girl who lived in a doorway near the station. Gracie wasn’t a bad person, loved cops, and a few officers gave her money for food. Gracie just needed to take her medication regularly. Birdie was another woman who would come into the lobby and look for cans to recycle. She lived in a motor home on the corner. Some of the desk officers saved cans for her.

 

Drum majorThen there was Linda. Rumor said that Linda was a model and came from a rich family. Once a month she would get a check from a trust, clean up, buy some nice clothes, and then get drunk. Linda was an alcoholic and often slept in the lobby during the night. The first few days of the month, Linda looked normal. By the end of the month, Linda was dirty and obnoxious. Actually, Linda was usually obnoxious when drunk and the first thing the day watch desk officers did was throw Linda out. I remember one week, Linda was dressed in Band Majors uniform. 

 

Think policemen are heartless. I remember a young boy, about eight years old, racing into the station lobby, crying, that his new bicycle was just stolen by a bigger kid. After a search proved fruitless, the desk officers replaced the bike with the help of a local bicycle shop. 

 

I wonder what ever happened these characters. These people all existed and helped pass the time on the desk.   

 

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Desk Duty, part 2 of 4–Fun in the Jail

By Hal Collier

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

 

 

The following story is true. The names and the stories are to the best of my memory. This is the second of four parts of working the Hollywood desk. The desk was next to the infamous Hollywood Jail. A door led from the desk to the jail. This made it easy for bailouts to leave and cops to get in on a fight. Sometimes when things were slow at the desk I’d walk into the jail to see what was going on. This leads up to my story of things you will never see on TV.

 

I would open the jail door and asked Fitzgerald, our grumpy jailer, “Hey, Fitz. Anything going on?” 

 

One day Fitz says, “Hey, go back in the misdemeanor section.”

 

I walk back and everyone is awake. It’s about 3:30 in the morning. I announce to no one in particular, “What’s going on?”

 

One of the guys in a cell says, “Hey officer, watch this guy.” He points to a cell. There’s a guy sitting alone in the cell. He is shirtless and his head is wet. He’s sitting on the cell floor, cross-legged, with his hands in a prayer motion in front of his face. 

 

I said to him, “Ok, show me what you got.”

 

He stands up, walks over to his toilet, firmly places his hands on the toilet bowl rim, and does a perfect handstand. I’m impressed. He lowers his head into the toilet bowl water, maintaining his handstand. The drag queen in the next cell reaches through the cell bars and flushes the toilet. Everyone cheers and the man stands up, returns to his sitting position on the cell floor.

 

flushing toiletI congratulate him on his strength, poise, and balance, then ask him, “Can you do it again?” Without a word, he returns to the toilet and completes the above described task. I give him a 9.7. I deducted some points when I saw a little wobble on the handstand.

 

Only in Hollywood.

 

I show up for work one night after spending the whole day in court. My plan is to leave roll call and head to Pinks, because I haven’t eaten since the day before. Back in the old days our vending machines only contained candy bars and peanuts left over from the ‘65 riots. In roll call, I’m informed I’m assigned to the desk. I’m starving and they didn’t make food runs for the desk officers in the old days. 

 

About 3 A.M. I poke my head in the jail and ask Fitz if he would put an extra jail breakfast in the oven for me. All arrestee’s are fed three times a day. The meals are similar to a TV dinner, kept in a freezer, and cooked in a large oven. The breakfast meal consisted of a small sausage patty and a slice of French toast and something resembling eggs. Trust me these were nothing like the Swanson TV dinners you had in the 50’s and 60’s. They served it with coffee, not Starbucks, but some instant coffee made with warm water from the tap. The coffee foamed up when you poured the water in. 

 

Jail mealFitz tells me my breakfast is ready. Two bites and I understand cruel and unusual punishment. I was always taught to never leave food on your plate but I did that day. I rushed home and had a bowl of cereal with my kids while watching cartoons. Never again was I tempted to eat jail food. 

 

I worked with an old timer at the desk, Gerst, who lived in his car with his dog. Yea, he was a cop and I think he had the first dollar he ever made. I’m not saying Gerst was cheap but I think he considered underwear a frivolous luxury. He would go around the jail and gather up the uneaten food. He said it was for his dog, but I wasn’t sure. I felt sorry for the dog.

 

Once a woman came into the station to pick up her juvenile grandson. He was in a holding tank, yelling, and screaming about how he was picked on because he was black. He was going to sue everyone. The arresting officers wanted to kick his butt but remained professional. His descriptions of police officers would make a sailor blush. 

 

His grandmother and guardian, a polite Southern woman, heard him yelling and asked if we would release him now. Her grandson walked out into the lobby. He was about a foot taller than his her. Grandma promptly slapped him across the face and said, “Nigger, shut the f–k up.” She then apologized to the officers and grabbed her grandson by the ear. She led him out the lobby doors, still holding on to his ear saying, “Just wait until I get your black ass home.” As she walked him to her car, she was kicking him in the butt every few steps. I was glad she didn’t live in Hollywood. I know there was a child abuse call about to occur. It brightened everyone’s day at the desk.  

 

Old lady on phoneMrs. Croft used to call the desk all the time. I never met her in person but it was obvious she was lonely. If I had the time, I would talk to her. After a while, she would ask for me by name. Once she promised to buy me and my wife a new Cadillac. I knew that wasn’t going to happen because she lived in a flop motel on Western. She was nice, just down on her luck.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, part 8, Miscellaneous-A Slow Chase

By Hal Collier

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

 

The following story is true, best to my fading memory. Some of my earlier stories dealt with pursuits. One was about my worst car pursuit and one my worst foot pursuits. Even the bad pursuits are a fond memory of an eventful career. As in life, not everything is bad. I actually had a lot of good moments. I remember my lucky arrests. Ok, this story is about the best and longest car pursuit I was ever in.

 

If you remember, I said I don’t like car pursuits. They’re dangerous and they seldom seem worth risking your life. Think about hurtling through the streets at breakneck speeds, because someone doesn’t want a ticket, they’re drunk, or they’re driving a stolen car. Even a stolen car will only get them a few months in county jail. A lot of cops die chasing cars. I knew of one cop who loved pursuits. He would hide out on Forrest Lawn Drive, see a speeding car, and let him get a good head start, before turning on the red lights and siren. The speeding car would figure he had enough of a lead to outrun the cops and take off. 

 

Ok, back to my story. I’m working; yep you guessed it, Morning Watch. I’m working with Bill, a good partner. Some partners you just click with. Bill’s driving and I’m keeping the books. Books are police slang for keeping the log and writing all the reports for the night. Bill and I had a great system for running license plates that were going away from you. The driver would look at the first three or four letters/numbers and the passenger would look at the last three letters/numbers. That way we would have the whole license plate to check to see if it was stolen or wanted. If you’re following behind the car, it’s not a big problem because you can read the license as you talk to the dispatcher downtown.

 

police traffic stopWe’re stopped at a red light at Franklin Avenue and Bronson Avenue. A car drives southbound on Bronson past the front of our car. The driver looks at us then quickly looks away. Ok, if you’ve got kids you know that look when you catch them doing something wrong. Bill and I look at each other, without saying anything. We both know he’s dirty. We pull in behind the car, a 70’s Pinto, and run the license plate. The dispatcher tells us the car is stolen, taken in a robbery, the suspect is considered armed and dangerous.

 

The adrenalin is starting to flow. We request back up and an air unit (helicopter). This is where the action begins. We have a backup police car behind us, a helicopter overhead, and a full tank of gas. That’s important as you will see later. We cinch up our seatbelts and turn on our red lights and siren. The Pinto accelerates to a top speed of 45 mph. To my non-police friends, Bill is responsible for driving the car. I’m responsible for broadcasting streets, direction, and suspect description. Both officers watch for oncoming cars, cross traffic, pedestrians, and Department Brass. 

 

The Pinto drives westbound Hollywood and northbound Cahuenga. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble keeping up with this 4 cylinder Pinto. After all were driving a high performance, police equipped V-8 that the city bought from the lowest bidder.

 

The next 20 miles is pretty boring. The Pinto drives onto the northbound Hollywood Freeway (101). The Pinto is straining to get over the Cahuenga Pass. I’m broadcasting our location as we pass the off ramps. We are now in the San Fernando Valley and as we pass each on ramp we see two police cars waiting to get into the action. The Pinto is now up to 65 mph. We have a sergeant with us who keeps our pursuit from becoming a 30-car procession of police cars. 

 

Ford Pinto
Ford Pinto

As we head into the west end of the valley, our radio begins to break up. Another item bought from the lowest bidder. Communications advises us to let the helicopter broadcast the pursuit. Ok, I hang up the microphone, put up my headrest, and tell Bill to wake me if the Pinto exits the Freeway. Ok just kidding, but the Pinto is not going to outrun us or the helicopter. 

 

We leave L.A, County and enter Ventura County. I see Ventura County Sheriffs sitting on the on ramps. We travel through the communities of Agoura, Westlake Village, and Thousand Oaks. The Pinto strains to get up the hill on the Conejo pass. On the down side it reaches speeds that top 70 mph. We are driving into Camarillo when our helicopter advises us that he is low on gas and has to turn back. Ha ha, we filled up at start of watch. I think were in Ventura when the Pinto slows and exits the freeway at Victoria Ave. He’s out of gas. Hum!

 

The end of a pursuit is usually a dangerous, tension-filled occurrence. Cops are mad because of the danger this dirt bag has put them through, the adrenalin is flowing and after a close call, revenge is on most cops minds. These are the times when police officers lose control of their emotions and end up on You Tube and in court unemployed. This was different. After this slow, long pursuit, the adrenalin has left us. We order the driver out of his car and he complies, unlike Rodney King. He lays down on the street and I handcuff him. I put him in our car and we begin the long drive back to Hollywood. Our Sergeant has to stop and get gas, to get back to Hollywood. The pursuit was 56 miles in 53 minutes.

 

We’re on our way back and I ask the suspect, “Why did you run?” He said, “I was in West Hollywood and I saw the Sheriffs kick a guy’s ass for flicking a cigarette. I’m driving a stolen car, I was just putting off an ass kicking. You guys didn’t even hit me”.   I told Bill, “Stop the car. Let’s kick this guy’s ass.” The guy’s eyes got big and Bill and I both laughed. 

 

The robbery involved a gay man who picked up our suspect for a date. Our suspect took his wallet and car. Not the kind of Armed and Dangerous you see on TV. The pursuit lasted longer than it took me to write the arrest report. 

 

I think my sergeant is still trying to cash a check in Ventura to buy gas so he can get back to Hollywood.

 

We don’t miss him. 

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Miscellaneous, part 6-Extortion Can Be Fun

By Hal Collier

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

 

The following stories are true to the best of my memory, which is suspect at best. I sometimes sit down at the computer and think of an amusing incident that occurred and write it down in my bullets (like normal people use a list—Thonie). When I pick a subject I go over my bullets and see if any will fit into my Ramblings. These are short and didn’t seem to fit into a story. Anyway, here goes. 

 

photo from wtaq.com
photo from wtaq.com

One night my partner, Bill Barren (RIP) and I were assigned to a Z-car. A Z-car means you don’t have radio calls and you can go out and look for bad guys all night long. It means you can go elephant hunting as we use to say. Just big time bad guys, no traffic warrants, drunks, or petty thefts. When assigned to a Z-car you want to show the Watch Commander that he made the right choice in picking you for this pinnacle of assignments in patrol. You stop everything that moves; you even skip coffee breaks and eating. 

 

This night there wasn’t any crime in Hollywood. Ok, none that we could find. About 6 A.M. we’re getting desperate. We see this car on a dark side street with a license plate light out. We stop the car hoping to find a body in the trunk or a back seat full of stolen property. We get the driver out, a young black man, and ask for his driver’s license.  

 

As he’s flipping through his wallet I see him pass by a California driver’s license and then produce another California driver’s license. His license say’s his name is Cleophus Whitehead and he’s 18 years old. Ha ha, we got him; I’ll bet he’s wanted in three states. I ask to see the other driver’s license. He produces it. Same picture, same address, but the name is Rene Whitehead and he’s now 21 year’s old, and of drinking age. Of course, I ask him, “Who’s license is this?”  

 

Ok, you think you’re ready for the answer. He says with a straight face, “It’s my brother. It’s the only picture I have of him.” I fall back against my police car laughing. Bill hunches his shoulders and says, “I give up, let’s go eat.” I give both licenses back to Mr. Whitehead and send him on his way. No elephants tonight. You can’t make this stuff up.

 

 

It’s a nice quiet Sunday morning and I’m the assistant Watch Commander. Yea I’m working day watch. I get a call from Tony Diaz, a great cop and now a detective assigned to Homicide. Tony asks me if the janitor has emptied the trash cans in the detective’s room this weekend?  Huh, I haven’t a clue and should I know what the janitors schedule is?

 

I reverse the scenario; I interrogate the detective. “Ok Tony, what’s up?.” Tony tells me the following story. He got into an argument with Russ Custer (RIP), the OIC of Homicide, on Friday afternoon. During the argument, Tony took off his badge and threw it in the trashcan, proclaiming, “I quit!” Tony was always getting into arguments with Russ and they soon made up over drinks after work. I suspect they were alcoholic drinks.

 

Cool, I got a confession with one question. Tony tells me he went home and didn’t remember until Sunday morning that he left his badge in the trash can.

 

I ask, “Tony, are you asking me to go through the trash cans, looking for your badge?” Tony hems and haws. Oh yea I’ve got him, but Tony doesn’t have anything I want. I don’t need a plea bargain, or a get out of jail free card. Yet. I also haven’t given Tony his Miranda Rights, so his confession is no good in court. Tony says he’ll wait while I go look. I tell Tony I’m pretty busy, I’ll have to call him back when I get a chance. This is so bizarre, a patrol cop sweating a homicide Detective. This is more fun than the time my captain asked if I had a key to his office for the third time.

 

I like Tony, so I go back into the detective room. I dig through the trashcan that Tony described and I find the badge. I call him back and make a ransom demand. Tony laughs and tells me where to put his badge. Tony got his badge back and I got this story.

 

 

dogintoupeeHave you ever been driving around and you see people driving with their dog in their laps standing looking out the driver’s window? We’re driving down Hollywood Boulevard about sunrise and stopped at a red light. I love dogs but I don’t think that dogs belong in the drivers lap. I’m the passenger and I look to my right. There’s a 60+ year old man in the car next to me. On the headrest is something close to a large rat or a very small dog. Yea I said on the headrest, right behind the drivers head. The dog or whatever it was, is giving me that mad dog look.  I’m bored and we’ve had a bad night.

 

HairpieceI stare at the dog and pretend to be barking at the dog. The real dog goes berserk, jumping around and barking. The dog dislodges the driver’s hairpiece. Now tell me that wouldn’t make you laugh. I start laughing so hard my partner thinks I’ve lost my mind. The driver looks over at me and gives me that I hope you’re not getting a raise this year. When the light turns green, he drives off with a yapping rat and a dislodged hair piece. 

 

It’s hard to believe they paid us for doing this job!

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Miscellaneous, part 5-A Smart Burglar

 

 by Hal Collier

Hal is a thirty-five year veteran of LAPD. We are pleased he is sharing his stories with us.

 

The following story is true. In my last Ramblings I bragged a little— ok, a lot about my best arrest. This story is about a business burglar who fooled me. The name of the suspect is real. It’s funny that I can’t remember the name of my best arrest, but this guy’s name is always on my mind. It’s probably because I had him and I let him slip away.

 

I’m working A.M. Watch and I have been studying the Daily Occurrence (D/O) sheets for crime in my area. I patrol the central area of Hollywood which is largely businesses along Hollywood Boulevard and Sunset Boulevard. I notice a pattern of burglaries in small businesses. Some don’t have alarms and the items taken are small. I find myself driving through rear alleys and parking lots along Hollywood Boulevard. I jump on any alarms that are dispatched but don’t have any luck. The crimes continue and I’m getting frustrated. 

 

dark alleyHollywood is unique in that there are always people out in the middle of the night. Most cities don’t have pedestrians walking the side streets and alleys at 3 AM. I remember once I’m working with Frank, who just transferred into Hollywood. I’m driving down Hollywood Boulevard at 4 A.M. and Frank yells, “Stop. Turn around; go up that side street.” My adrenalin starts rushing. I whip the police car around and I just miss hitting a homeless man. I figure we got us a crime in progress. Maybe the Watch Commander will get off my back for not writing enough tickets.

 

Frank directs me to stop this pedestrian. Ok, we got him stopped. I ask Frank, “What do we have?” Frank looks at me like it’s my first day on the job. He says, “You’re kidding, right? We have this guy walking up this dark side street at 4 A.M.” In all fairness, in the Hollenbeck where Frank came from a guy walking up a dark side street is suspicious—in Hollywood nothing”. Remember Hollywood never sleeps.

 

Back to my burglar. I hear a broadcast of a burglar alarm in my area on Hollywood Boulevard. I’m only a block away. I immediately drive to the back. I approach this common courtyard which serves about ten businesses. This guy exits the courtyard. We grab him, I’m sure we got our burglar. 

 

The questioning goes something like this. “What’s your name?” 

“Steven Cox.” 

 

“What are you doing back there?” 

 

“I know it’s wrong but I had to go to the bathroom. Go ahead look under the fire escape”. 

 

I have my partner fill out a Field Interview card. I check under the fire escape and sure enough, someone has defecated. It’s fresh. I won’t go into a description of how I know it’s fresh, just trust me. I check the rear doors and windows of the business where the alarm was activated. Nothing. I look around at the other businesses. I can’t find any evidence of a burglary. We run him for wants and warrants over our police radio. No wants or warrants. I’ve run out of ideas. We release him.

 

burglar by aneta.orgTwo days later, I have the burglary detective yelling at me. Steven Cox is a wanted business burglar and he wants to know why I didn’t arrest him. The detective says that Cox has a warrant. He’s calling me all kinds of names because I didn’t check him. I explain that I did run him for warrants and the detective cools down. His boss is on his case because Cox is stealing Hollywood blind. The detective wants to know why I didn’t recognize Cox. I arrested him two years earlier inside Mike Smith Volkswagen on Cahuenga. He used the name Mark Johnson then. Hell, the detective had to look at my nametag to see who I was and I have worked with him in the same station for years.

 

Cox was caught a few weeks later and sat down for an interview. He was one smart burglar. He pre-planned his crimes. He would case the business during the day when they were open, then come back at night. He always urinated or defecated somewhere close to where he was breaking in. That way he would have an excuse for being at the rear of a business. He would take two swigs of alcohol before going out and act drunk if stopped in an alley. He would breathe in an officer’s face and stagger around. He fooled two Metro Officers that way when they caught him at the rear of a Mercedes Dealership. He would take out a whole windowpane so it didn’t look broken. He would go inside a business run around and see what property he wanted, then exit and wait for the police to check out the business. If the cops left, he knew he had all the time he needed.

 

Cox discussed the time I stopped him. He panicked and gave me his real name and date of birth. Why his warrant didn’t show up when I checked him is anybody’s guess. He admitted he fooled me and was burglarizing a business five doors away from where the alarm was activated. I still have the tape of Cox’s interview. Cox was one smart burglar. 

Sometimes even when you’re lucky you miss a big one.