Tag: LAPD

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, More LAPD Fun

By Hal Collier, Retired LAPD

The next two stories involved a dual status sergeant/detective. He was a nice guy and had the best interests of the LAPD in everything he did. He was just such a kiss ass that he was ripe for practical jokes. He was once on vacation and came in for a tactical alert. Trust me. One sergeant is not going to change the course of war on crime. 

 

I wasn’t present for this joke, but he told it to me. He was working South Bureau Homicide and was sitting at his desk when he noticed a foul smell. The smell got worse as the week progressed. By Friday he couldn’t stand it anymore so he took his desk apart—nothing. Next, he turned his desk chair over and there it was. One of his partners had been deer hunting and tied a deer tail under his desk. Rotting flesh!

 

Another time—and this was all my idea—I got one of those office three hole-punches. You know the industrial ones with about a thousand little white hole- punch dots. I cleaned it out and saved the punches. I placed them in a Styrofoam cup and placed it above the closed office door. An accomplice waited outside so we didn’t get our captain. 

 

Our sergeant, in his nice blue uniform, opened the door and stepped inside. General McArthur didn’t have that much confetti in his welcome home parade. I was pretty proud of myself until I realized I had to clean up the hole- punches. Not a problem– I’ll get the janitors vacuum and clean up the mess. Problem, the janitor’s room is locked. After a half hour search, we find a key and there I am in uniform pushing a vacuum. 

It was worth it.  Again your tax dollars at work.

–Hal

Remember to go to www.thoniehevron.com for the website version.

–Thonie

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Losing an Officer

By Hal Collier

Retired LAPD

Did you ever have one of those incidents where one minute you were calm and actually got to finish a cup of coffee while it was still hot and the next minute is the exact opposite?

My night is going smoothly and I’m hoping to coast for a few more hours and then go home and enjoy my next three days off. We’d just put another bad guy in jail and finished our arrest report. The sun will be coming up in a few hours, my favorite time of the day. It’s about 4:00 a.m. as I drive out of the Hollywood Police Station parking lot. I turn north on Wilcox and head toward Hollywood Boulevard. The Boulevard has been deserted for at least an hour. The bars and clubs have closed, the drunks have found their cars and the predators of the weak have given up and gone home.

Or so I thought.

 

I just crossed Selma Avenue when I notice a strange light lying in the middle of Wilcox. I drive up to the light. It’s a metal flashlight. Just like the kind most cops use! In a millisecond chaos erupts.

A citizen drives up to us and asks me, “Are you looking for that cop who was in a fight?”

“What cop?”  There goes that coasting to EOW (End of Watch)!

I ask the citizen, “Where did he go?”

He replies, “I don’t know, I lost sight of him when I turned around.”

Ok, I’ve got a lost cop who probably needs help. I pick up the police radio to broad cast “Officers needs help!”

Suddenly I hear a shot.  Oh shit, this is turning real bad in a hurry. My heart has jumped into my throat and my mind is racing.

Now in the middle of a big city with lots of buildings, it’s often hard to tell from where a sound is coming. I’m guessing it’s from the street west of me. I speed around to the next street and turn south. I don’t see anything at first. I slow down and hear a voice yell, “Over here!”

There’s a cop sitting on the ground in a parking lot. He’s pointing to another individual lying on the ground in front of the Chesterfield Hotel. That individual has been shot! I get on my radio and soon the entire division has thrown out their coffee and joined us, including the Watch Commander. An ambulance responds and treats the individual for a gunshot wound and my cop for a contusion to his head.

Not only are we not going to coast to EOW but we’re not going to get off on time, and my three days off are going to be cut short by at least a day. It’s overtime but my pillow is going to miss me!

Here’s what happened:  The cop was a Hollywood sergeant just driving down Hollywood Boulevard. He heard what he thought was glass breaking. He pulled to the curb to investigate.

A Drag Queen named, Otha, had just smashed the display window to Playmates, a famous Hollywood Boulevard lingerie shop. I guess he was doing a little early shopping. This was in the 70’s and the only police radio was in the car. If you were out of the car and needed help, you had to run back to the car radio or fight for your life. My sergeant confronted Otha and the fight was on. Otha gained control of the sergeant’s flashlight and hit the sergeant in the head. The sergeant was dazed but not about to give up the fight.

 

 

The two combatants ran westbound through the parking lot. Otha climbed over a four-foot chain link fence next to the Chesterfield Hotel. The sergeant was starting to feel the effects of the blow to his head. Fearing he might pass out and lose his weapon to Otha, the sergeant fired one shot. The bullet hit the chain link fence and split into two fragments. Both fragments hit Otha.

The sergeant survived, as well as Otha, except that Otha went to jail after being treated for two wounds from one gunshot. Me, I had trouble sleeping that day. I kept waking up, it sometimes takes a long time for the adrenalin to leave your body and let you coast.

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, An Honest Mistake

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

The story you are about to read is true, the names have been changed to protect the embarrassed. Earlier I wrote about rookie mistakes, some made by probationers, some made by new supervisors, a lot made by me. I thought I was finished with that category but I had an epiphany. This story is short because the practical joke is long.

 

I’m the junior officer and I’m working with Ron on A.M. watch. It about 3 A.M. and the radio is quiet. Ron is driving and complaining about how little sleep he got during the day.

 

Now, to my non-police friends who think cops don’t catch a few winks during the long nights—they probably think their elected politicians have their best interests when passing laws.

 

After about fifteen minutes of Ron complaining how tired he is, I offer to drive and let him nap. I tell Ron I’ll drive around the hills so the sergeant doesn’t catch us. Ron jumps at the chance and pulls over. We exchange seats on Prospect Avenue, a quiet side street on the east end of Hollywood. Ron adjusts the head rest and crosses his legs. I’m adjusting the mirrors because Ron is shorter than I am. Ron’s head rests on the headrest and he closes his eyes. I put the car in drive and accelerate to about fifteen MPH. I drive about two blocks and realize that the seat is too close to the steering wheel. Short partners are great for looking under things, like beds, but not for looking over fences. 

 

I reach down to pull the seat lever to move the seat back. This is before electric seats so you have to push off on the floorboard with your foot to move the seat back. Ok, remember the car is traveling about mph. Ron is reclined and drifting off to sleep. I put my foot down and slide the seat back.

 

The car jerks to an immediate stop, Ron lurches forward almost slamming into the dashboard. I immediately realize that I stepped on the brake pedal.

 

Ron begins calling me names, usually reserved for the low life’s we deal with. I’m thinking of my stupidity and began to laugh. Ron thinks I did it on purpose and spews more profanity at me. The more he yells the harder I laugh. Ron didn’t close his eyes for the rest of the night.

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More Street Stories Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Supervisors, part 2 of 3

By Hal Collier, LAPD Retired

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

 

Again, these are my suggestions on what makes a good supervisor and they certainly don’t reflect the opinions of the LAPD.

 

I use to think that the LAPD needed a promotion tree with two forks.  One tree fork was for the building boys who promote, they can stay inside and read and write policy books. That’s fine, if that’s your wish. The second tree fork was for street cops who had experience in patrol and knew what worked regardless of what the psychologists said. I once expressed my two forked tree theory and found myself peeing in a cup and taking a Rorschach exam. After that I kept my opinions to myself, my first step in being a good supervisor.

 

“I’d like to intervene, but I haven’t completed the appropriate paperwork.”

A good supervisor also needs to have a good working knowledge of the department rules. The LAPD manual has so many rules and regulations that you never can know them all but know the ones that apply to field situations. Only a building boy will care how many copies of a LAPD form 15.7 are needed. That’s because they ask those kind of questions on the promotional exams. This will save you and your officers from complaints or worse yet, termination and jail!

 

One of my pet peeves was sergeants who were never in the field. I remember one sergeant who was always downtown at headquarters looking for a job to get out of patrol. The officers knew where the sergeants were and what they were doing, most of the time. If the cops have mischief in mind, they don’t worry about being caught. If the sergeant is in the field, they might have second thoughts about bending the rules. Sergeants should show up at the routine calls once in a while. The cops won’t expect you. If they ask why, I would tell them I was bored. You’re also available for help if they want it. But just let them do their job and only step in if they ask or are doing something illegal. 

 

Be fair to everyone! That’s means even if you don’t like them. I once watched the watch commander tell the roll call that there were a few days that we were over deployed and officers could take a day off with their accrued overtime. Right after roll call, an officer walked up to the watch commander (WC) and asked for a day off.  The WC (without even looking at the time book) denied the request. He didn’t like the officer. That WC was not a favorite of the officers or mine either. I hated sergeants that played favorites.

 

Ok, here’s a tricky one. One of my training officers use to keep a log of a sergeant’s misdeeds. You know—date, time, location and the violation of department rules. He called it insurance in case he didn’t want this particular sergeant to write him up for his own violations. If you bend the rules in front of an officer, you are theirs. Trust me, they’ll bring it up when the department is trying to fire them. Drowning rats have no friends. Be on time. I remember one sergeant wanted to write up an officer for being late to roll call. The officer reminded the sergeant that he was late more than he was.

 

I was a new sergeant in Watts and working graveyard. We had long quiet nights and I couldn’t find any of our officers in the division. Having been an occasional member of hitting the hole (sleeping) in Hollywood, I knew what they were doing, I just didn’t know where. One night I was driving down Figueroa in the industrial section of the division. A hot shot call came out and before I could turn around I was almost run over by half the watch. They came from behind a big building. Now here is the dilemma: If I confront the officers and do nothing, I’m an accessory and they have me. If I write them all up, I’ll have no back up. It’s not a major violation and the other seasoned supervisors probably already know about it. I kept my mouth shut and took the information with me when I transferred a few months later. They might have asked me to join them.

Wait, I forgot. I’m not one of them anymore.

 

Next, the last installment!       Hal   

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Supervisors part 1 of 3

Part 1 of 3

 

I was recently asked by a close partner to give her some advice for her husband. He was getting close to promoting to sergeant and wanted to know what makes a good sergeant. Now, I’m not an expert and I’m not even sure I was a good sergeant. It would be a tossup between what the brass thought and what the field officers thought. The following opinions are mine and mine alone.

 

My background: I worked twenty-two years as a street police officer, my choice. I saw too many good cops promote too soon and miss out on all the fun. I promoted to sergeant only thinking of an increase in my pension. You can’t spend fun after retirement. I spent another twelve and a half years as a field sergeant and watch commander.

 

I’m sure the LAPD has different views but then I didn’t agree with everything they taught either. I attended a lot of leadership classes put on by my department and I actually took some notes. Most of these suggestions are from my own experience and my methods were not always accepted by the brass. The brass thought they were really in charge of the patrol cops.

 

First, what is the job of a supervisor? What a loaded question, but here goes: Supervise your officers, give the officers advice, but only when they need advice. Keep them out of trouble and that also includes jail. I thought the most important thing was to know your officers. I used to pride myself in knowing the officers on my watch. I knew who the hard workers were, who the slackers were and who had a tendency to take shortcuts or stretch the rules. I learned their first names and some of their backgrounds or hobbies. I was always looking for a common ground for communication. 

 

Before making sergeant I wrote down what I liked about a good supervisor and what I didn’t like about a bad supervisor. An example, I worked for a lot of good street cops who promoted too soon. They still wanted to do police work but the LAPD frowned on supervisors being street cops. By the way, the department told sergeants not to even write tickets. I remember one sergeant was told turn in your ticket book or turn in your stripes! Street cops hated a sergeant who made an arrest then handed it off. It’s like someone else catching a fish and giving it to you to clean. Whoopee.

 

I once had a sergeant drive through a dark alley and found a drunk sleeping in a doorway out of harm’s way. He called me to come book him downtown, he then had the nerve to tell me he was going to eat. After medical treatment and booking, I had to have my police car checked for crabs. I worked three hours overtime, itched for two days and no, I didn’t get to eat that night. See who your friends are when you stand naked in the locker room and ask some cop in the next aisle to look for bugs on you. 

 

I don’t begrudge the building boys, as we called them. They promote early, because they wanted out of patrol. My only problem was when they promoted they were then sent back to patrol to supervise us street cops. They often made poor tactical field decisions based of very little experience on the streets. I once had a new sergeant respond to a scene and when asked to make a decision she opened the department manual looking for the answer. It wasn’t there! She actually asked for another sergeant to respond and make the decision. I did respect the new sergeants and lieutenants who asked the senior officers for advice. It’s the supervisors responsibility but it’s good to have a veterans input. Sometimes the cops can keep the supervisors out of trouble. I was told in a leadership class, “You can delegate everything except responsibility.”

 

I saw a lot of supervisors who didn’t make a decision at all, for fear that it would stall their next promotion. If the lack of a decision was news worthy, like during the LA Riots, the supervisor’s career was over and forget about the retirement home in the marina. No more promotions and something they call “freeway therapy.” That’s where you live in northern LA County and your next assignment is in the southern most division in the city. Nothing like an hour drive or two, to and from work to get your mind straight.

 

More suggestions in part 2.     Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings, Probationers

By Hal Collier, LAPD Retired

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

The story you are about to read is true, the names have been changed to protect the embarrassed. In thirty-five years as a police officer I have worked with hundreds of partners, some good, some not so good. Some have been great, some have caused me sleepless nights. This story will deal with probationers. All cops have worked with probationers, boots, and rookies. Hell, we were all probationers once. I was a training officer for over nineteen years, so I guess I could be a department expert.

 

My son is a training officer and he recently asked, “How much time will I get if I kill my probationer”? I told him, “None if you make it look like an accident.” 

 

My first night with a new partner was to get a little background. Not personal stuff, just looking for a common ground to talk about. If you spend eight hours in a police car with someone you need something to talk about. I would start out with “Why did you become a cop?” The following answers would amaze the department shrink. 

 

Female: “I’m looking for a husband, cops are clean and they have a good paying job.” 

 

Male: “This was the only job that paid close to my last job.” 

 

Female:  “I was making over a hundred grand a year but was bored with my last job.”   I heard that a lot from both male and females.  See? Money isn’t everything. 

 

Male:  “I want to right all the injustices done to my people.”

 

Male: I got into the wrong line at the civil service test. Ok, I made that one up but sometimes I think it applied.

 

I would ask what their hobbies or interests were to see if we had anything in common. One probationer asked what I liked and I said hunting. He said he didn’t think he could kill anything! Not what you want to hear from someone who might be asked to take a life to save yours or his. 

 

I had a female probationer with a master’s degree in aeronautical engineering. Nice girl but one night she didn’t talk for three straight hours. I like westerns, she liked science fiction. Her parents hated her because their culture didn’t like cops.

 

I had a female probationer, who sat in the car seat with her knee up on the seat and back turned toward her door, as if we were on a date. 

 

I had a male probationer who spoke five languages, unfortunately English wasn’t one of them.

 

I had a female, just off probation, tell me she felt sorry for the male probationers. I asked why and she said that all she had to do to make probation was sleep with her training officer. I wasn’t surprised because her reputation had preceded her.

 

In the early 70’s, I would ask, “Did you ever cruise Hollywood Boulevard?  Most would say “Yes.”  I’d tell them that my wife and I cruised Hollywood during our dating years. I would then tell them that they were now paid to do what they use to do for nothing, and if we saw something interesting we could stop and question that person. I remember they interviewed an officer on why you would become a police officer. He said, “They pay me $60,000 a year. They give me a gun and a club, a new car and tell me to go out and look for trouble. What a great job.”

 

Probationers come from all walks of life. Some were Vietnam veterans, some from small towns in the mid-west. Some were married, some divorced. Regardless of where they came from, most were about to become Los Angeles Police Officers.

 

What I’m about to tell you next is not news to anyone who ever wore the badge. Being a cop gets into your blood. It’s like an E-Ticket at Disneyland or a roller coaster ride. Hours of boredom, followed by thirty seconds of sheer terror. When there’s gun fire, most people are running away, the cops are running toward the shots. It’s not about the money, because most business people have better hours, and pay. 

 

Not everyone is cut out to be a cop—it takes a lot of desire and sacrifice. I heard of a recruit that said he had to have weekends off because he dated a lot. A probationer is lucky if they get one weekend off a month. They’ll work all the holidays, miss birthday parties, anniversaries and graduations. It’s a known fact that if you have five days off and a trip planned, you get a court subpoena for the middle day. The kiss of death is telling your partner you need to get off on time. 

 

The hardest to teach were the naive. They led a sheltered life and think all people have a little good in them. I remember a female probationer from Texas. She had a degree in interior decorating. She lost her job and came to L.A. One day at start of watch she asked her training officer why we keep dynamite in the trunk of the police car. Her training officer, trying to keep a straight face, informed her they were road flares.

 

Another male probationer went out in the middle of a cold night to sit in the police car while his training officer finished up some paper work. When the training officer got into the car the probationer remarked that the car heater was broken. The training officer started the car and the heater came on full blast. The probationer didn’t know that the ignition had to be turned on for the heater to work. I think he’s now employed as a Wal-Mart greeter in Bakersfield.

 

Being a training officer wasn’t easy but damn it was sure fun!

–Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings Reprise, Cop Funeral

This post is a reprise LAPD veteran Hal Collier’s post of December 12, 2012. America has lost four policemen in violent deaths this week and I thought it would be appropriate to recall Hal’s emotions as a pall bearer for his friend Duane C. Johnson in 1984. The emotions never change, just the date. —-Thonie

 

By Hal Collier, LAPD, retired

I’m about to describe the funerals where I knew the officer and in some cases the family. These still haunt me after four decades.

It was raining, just six days before Christmas, December 19, 1984. I was on a day off when the phone rang. It was Keith, a partner and he flatly stated, “Did you hear the news, Duey Johnson was shot and killed in China Town!” Duey and his partner had responded to a robbery alarm at a jewelry store.

I swear, it took me minutes to breathe again. Duey was a probationer that I had trained just two years ago. I had trained over hundreds of probationers, but I never lost one.

Duane C. Johnson, was a “Baby Huey” type of kid. He had a heart as big as he was. Duey had 3 loves, His wife “Cat” Catherine, the United States Marine Corps and finally the LAPD. Duey use to brag that he was in one of the Rocky movies. He was in the Marine Corps color guard in the boxing ring.

Unlike most probationers, Duey stayed in touch. We even talked about having dinner together sometime in the future. It was a few days after, that I got a call from some officer downtown that I was asked to be a pallbearer at Duey’s funeral. I had attended dozens of cop funerals but I was never a pallbearer.

I spent the next two days shining everything that was visible on my uniform and everything that was under it. I wanted to make Duey proud. Along with a few dozen other Hollywood cops, all in their finest dress blue uniforms, black elastic bands across our badges, we headed to the church.

I walked into the church and almost fainted. Duey’s twin brother, Dana, met me. He was in his Virginia Beach Police uniform and I swear he was the spitting image of Duey. Duey and Dana were both cops. They gave each pallbearer a pair of white cotton gloves. I’ll talk about those damn white gloves later.

The service at the church was very difficult for me and ride to the cemetery seemed to take forever. I don’t think I brought enough Kleenex. At the cemetery, you put on those white cotton gloves. The gloves look nice and have a dignified appearance. The casket is removed from the hearse and the pallbearers will now carry Duey to his final resting place.

As I mentioned earlier, Duey was large boned and the casket was heavy. I could hardly hold the polished handles of the casket with those damn white gloves. The graveside service was a blur, I remember the 21 gun salute and the folded flag from Duey’s casket being presented to “Cat”. The pallbearers then walked up to the casket and placed the white gloves on Duey’s casket and said good bye.

We left the cemetery and headed back to Hollywood. My shift started in 2 hours. I have never let a December 19 pass by without thinking of Duey.

October 9, 1990 I, arrived at work early to go for a pre-watch run. I saw the Hollywood Homicide Detectives already at work. They informed me that Russ Kuster had been shot and killed at a restaurant by a deranged Hungarian mobster. Russ was a renowned Hollywood Homicide Investigator and had handled many high profile cases. Russ had returned fire and solved his own homicide.

The drive to the cemetery was lined with citizens. Firemen had American flags draped from their hook and ladders. I attended the funeral with my current female probationer, she forgot her Kleenex, but no problem I had plenty. They played those damn Bag Pipes.

I have been a pallbearer at two other Hollywood officers’ funerals and attended a lot of others. They were all just as emotional. Joe Rios, 5-27-93, a Viet Nam Veteran who always said, “Hal, got a quarter for a cup of coffee for a Vet?”  Joe owed me over 10 dollars. James Pagliotti, 6-22-87 who I played flag football with on Hollywood’s team. Rob Cottle, 3-24-10, who I supervised at Southeast Division and later at Hollywood. Rob died in Afghanistan serving as a Marine reserve. He was a SWAT officer on LAPD. He always went out of his way to say “Hi Sarge!”

I don’t go to cop funerals anymore, I just can’t handle the emotions, some nights I don’t sleep very good with all the memories of lost cops!  I don’t know how their families live with it.

You might think I had dozens of those black elastic bands that go over your badge. No, the sad part is I just saved one and kept it in my locker and wore it every time we had a cop funeral. I still have it.

Still want my job? These scars don’t show on the outside.

Hal

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Writer's Notes

Joseph Wambaugh’s WATTS, 50 Years Later

This is from Joseph Wambaugh: This was  1 of 3 riots in LA. Coming  will be the 1968 and 1992 down the road

OP-ED WATTS, 50 YEARS LATER

Inside the unrest
First a warning at the station, then a tense patrol car ride.
BY JOSEPH WAMBAUGH
AT 7 P.M. on Thursday, Aug. 12, 1965, about 2,000 people gather at 116th and Avalon. Tension is still high after the mob violence of the previous night following the arrest of an alleged drunk driver, but the people are not rioting.

A short time later, random shots are fired at a police vehicle on Imperial Highway, but there are no reports of massive rioting. Many of the officers in police divisions north of 77th Street Station listen on police radios and do not believe that the volatile unrest near Watts will spread to other parts of South Los Angeles.

The next afternoon, however, calls go out to officers at home, even those who work plainclothes assignments, ordering them to report to 77th Street Station in uniform. The nameless voice on the line adds: “Leave the necktie and soft hat but bring your helmet and baton. You’re about to witness anarchy.”

It’s 6 p.m. at 77th Street Station, and officers are arriving from divisions all over the city. A desk officer manning two phones waves them to the watch commander’s office. The WC only asks for a name, serial number and division as he sends the cops out into the field, telling them, “Pick up two boxes of .38 ammo from the sergeant. Make sure there’s one shotgun in your car and an extra box of rounds.”

Going down the roster, he mumbles two names to the most recent arrival and provides a car number. “You’ll be known as Twelve-Adam-45. Look for your partners in the parking lot.”

The WC is asked if all personnel are working three-man cars. He nods and says, “You’ll wish it was six.”

The three helmeted partners meet up in the parking lot. They don’t know one another or the geography in this part of southeast L.A. The oldest, a Korean War veteran, has a sudden gastrointestinal attack and has to run back to the station. While he’s gone, the two younger cops elect him to drive; nobody wants that job. One of them agrees to sit in back and navigate the unfamiliar streets with a map book.

The sun is still high and they are not three blocks from the station, passing mobs on both sides of Broadway, when a chunk of concrete smashes the rear window of their car. A cheer goes up from 100 people at the corner of 81st Street, daring them to stop and investigate. Another 100 yell and jeer from the opposite corner.

The cop riding shotgun turns up the radio and they hear the frantic female operators:

“Officer needs help, Manchester and Broadway! Officer needs assistance, one-O-three and Grape! Officer needs assistance, Vernon and Central! Looting, five-eight and Hoover!”

Another operator cuts in: “Looters, four-three and Main! Looting, one-O-five and Avalon! Shots fired, four-three and Main!”

And then something happens that none of the cops in the car has ever heard before. The stress overload gets to one of the operators and she starts sobbing.

A third female voice takes over the litany of chaos: “Officer needs help, Florence and Main! Looters, one-O-two and Central! Officer needs assistance, Slauson and Vermont!”

Littered streets. Debris everywhere. Screaming, chanting crowds everywhere. Mobs surge in human tidal waves, breaking plate-glass windows of commercial buildings, swarming inside. Men, women and children carry away anything of value.

It’s early evening now, and ambulances and fire engines roar past, but surprisingly few black-and-whites. The police are so vastly outnumbered that they are protecting one another instead of attempting to answer radio calls. It somehow feels cowardly to arrest a rioter and escape the streets for a quick booking. It seems akin to running away from danger instead of running toward it.

The older cop in the trio spells it out in Korean War terms: “The hell with dying on some nameless hill. Your first duty is to protect the guys in the trenches with you.”

The cop in the back seat closes the map book and says, wild-eyed: “So what’re we doing then? Why respond to calls? There’s a dozen felonies taking place everywhere you look! I’m sick of this! Just pick your spot where they got some coppers surrounded and let’s go all kamikaze!”

That’s when they see the first building explode in flames. Looting is no longer enough for the multitudes. The fires are starting. Soon the smell of fire permeates everything. The sun sets but the temperature rises, along with the fear level. The roar of the flames makes the raging mobs scream louder.

The nameless voice that ordered the cops to 77th Street Station that afternoon was right. They are witnesses to anarchy.

JOSEPH WAMBAUGH, a former LAPD sergeant, is the author of 21 books of fiction and nonfiction about police and crime. He was assigned to Juvenile Division in 1965; these are his memories.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Short Stories

By Hal Collier, LAPD Retired

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

The following stories are true and instead of a long rambling story they are short remembrances.

To some, Hollywood is the glamour capital of the world. Movie stars, fancy restaurants, expensive houses and night clubs. To cops who spent too much time in Hollywood, know it for what it is, a town of broken dreams, runaway kids and violence. To keep your sanity, cops had to find humor in little incidents.

First, you can’t live in a big city without seeing some strange sights. I’m sure farmers see strange things too but I don’t think you want to hear about animals having sex in the back seat of a rusted out Chevy. Photos available if you have a note from your therapist.

I’m still amused when I recall this story.

I worked all night and then went to court. I spent all day in court, so I’ve been up for about twenty-three hours. I’m dead tired and the freeways are jam-packed with rush hour traffic. It’s November and cold. I drive up Temple and I’ll take Glendale Boulevard to the 2 freeway and head home to Eagle Rock.

So did everyone else.

I’m sitting in bumper to bumper traffic as I’m passing Echo Park Lake. Echo Park Lake is a city lake, filled with used diapers, tossed hand guns, and any other trash that our lower IQ population throws in. Oh, I forgot to mention, there’s something resembling water in the lake. I wouldn’t put my hand in that water on a double-dog dare.

As I’m sitting there I look over at the lake and see a man swimming out toward the middle of the lake.  Yew, I can’t imagine what would make a man swim in that filth and then I see it. One of those $200.00 remote controlled boats. It’s dead in the water in the middle of the lake. He obviously didn’t use the Energizer batteries. I wished I hadn’t had the sixth cup of coffee at court, I almost peed in my only court suit.

This is a very old story (early 70’s) but still makes me smile. One night, my partner and I stop this car for a traffic violation. The driver jumps out and tells us how important he is—he’s a defense lawyer and doesn’t like cops. He’s already late for a court appointment and we shouldn’t waste the tax-payers’ money detaining him any longer.

He has already committed three ‘contempt of cop’ violations. I write him a ticket which he says will cost me my badge. My partner checks him for warrants and the gods shined down on us that day.

That’s right. This fine upstanding member of the legal community has an unpaid $10.00 parking ticket. In 1971, a warrant required immediate arrest. We took this very important lawyer’s ass to Hollywood Station where he was booked. He immediately paid the $10.00 and was free to go. Only an hour delay in his important life. He had the nerve to ask us for a ride back to his car. Ha Ha. We only give rides one way. By the way, I kept my badge.

One more story. An off duty LAPD officer was brought into the station for an alleged act of misconduct involving illegal drugs. The officer was placed in the captain’s office, unattended, until his lawyer could arrive to represent him. After the officer was removed, a sergeant, asked: what if that officer hid some drugs in the captain’s office?

A K-9 dope-sniffing dog was requested. The dog started his search of the office. I was present as the dog made a quick trip around the space. Suddenly the dog did what most policemen would have paid a month’s salary to do. That’s right, the dog squatted and crapped right on the captain’s carpet. It wasn’t the solid kind either. It looked like the dog had a Pink’s Chili Dog on the way to the station. The dog left a trail of squirts from the captain’s office all the way out the back door.

Priceless!

Next week: August 16th, 2015 will feature “The Character who is somewhere between the street people who inhabited Hollywood and the cops who gave color to the station–Howie Lesser.”

 

Categories
Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Stupid Crooks, part 2 and Stupid Cops

By Hal Collier, LAPD Retired

 

How many times have I arrested a suspect with a gun that wouldn’t work because he had the wrong ammunition? 

Here’s a classic. I was investigating a shooting where a suspect ambushed the victim in the dark parking lot behind an all-night hot dog stand. The suspect shot the victim with a shotgun at fairly close range. The victim sustained non-life threatening wounds to his left upper body and face. The victim was shot with #8 shotgun shells. That’s small birdshot. Two days later I arrested the shooter in a motel on Sunset Boulevard. I’d like to tell you it was my superior investigative skills but the truth is, a snitch told me where he was staying. When I arrested him, he had the shotgun and a bandolier full of shotgun shells. My suspect was mad that he didn’t kill

the victim. The bandolier had shotgun shells that contained #4 shotgun shells. A #4 shot would have easily put the victim into the next world. My suspect just didn’t know that #4 shot shells were larger than #8’s. Stupid, huh?

 

In 1993, I made a mistake and promoted to Sergeant. I was transferred out of Hollywood and sent to South Central Los Angeles, AKA Watts. I left the town of glamour, movie stars, and millionaires. I spent the next 15 months watching the sun rise over the Watts towers. Impressive, but not Hollywood.

 

One of the favorite crimes in Watts was stealing cars and taking the engine and transmission. The culprits would then roll the car a few blocks away and abandon the car. The cops would then follow the oil trail back to the thief’s house and arrest the occupant with the oil on his clothes and an engine in the living room.

 

Not only are the crooks stupid but sometimes I suspect that cops are in competition. Hollywood had an officer who married a “reformed” prostitute. He shows up for work late one night and sees his bride handcuffed to the hallway bench along with the rest of the soiled doves. He releases his wife out the back door of the station without the proper paperwork. I believe he’s now a greeter at Wal-Mart.

 

We had another JPL (Jet Propulsion Lab) reject who wanted to book a suspect for possession of a controlled substance. The officer displayed the drugs to the Watch Commander in the suspect’s prescription bottle in the suspect’s name. The W/C explained that if he had a prescription, it was not a crime. Our brilliant officer scratched off the suspects name and went to another supervisor and obtained booking approval. The former officer was later observed selling magazine subscriptions.

 

It’s not just the junior officers who do stupid things. I had a captain who was arrested by an outside agency for making and selling pirated DVD’s. She was arrested at Hollywood station and walked out the back door in handcuffs. How about the Hollywood sergeant who owned a big sail boat? He bought a million dollar home at a marina only to discover that his boat was too big for the boat slip at his new house that just cleared escrow. 

 

Last stupid cop story.  My partner and I are having a cup of coffee at the Winchell’s at Melrose and Vine. Were into about two sips of our coffee break when a hot shot radio call comes out. I toss my almost full cup of coffee and jump into the driver’s seat. I’m racing northbound on Vine Street and as I cross Santa Monica the road rises and then drops. My partner screams out in pain. He was cradling his hot coffee over his lap. Think about jumping on a trampoline with a hot liquid poised over your privates.  By the way the coffee was free. Saving a free cup of coffee verses cleaning a uniform or possible burns to your groin area, stupid. 

Footnote:  The officer recovered and later had children. 

 

We’re out there and we’re reproducing.  I won’t even get into politicians.