The following stories are true. I’ll only use first names if I remember them correctly. These are bits and pieces of things that happened in my career. Hope you enjoy. I hope I don’t get sued.
Dale Hickerson and I are working together. Dale and I have been partners and friends since 1971. Partners come and go; friends like Dale are for a lifetime. Ok, enough mush, I’m going to drive today. We check out a black and white (B/W) from the kit (equipment) room. You never know who drove it last, does it have gas, does it have a half-eaten Pinks Chili dog with jalapenos under the front seat that’s been there five days!!! Anyway, you get your car keys, walk around the parking lot for twenty minutes, looking for your car, they all look alike. Ok, I found it.
I open the trunk and drop in my 25-pound equipment bag. Dale’s a few steps behind me. He was searching the west end of the parking lot. I open the driver’s door, lean in and put my baton in the door holder. I lean in a little farther to put my clipboard between the front seats.
I freeze. Sitting there between the seats is a pineapple hand grenade. Dale opens his door and I yell, “freeze.” Dale looks down and sees the hand grenade. Now anyone who’s been married for a long time knows that husbands and wives often think the same things and finish each other’s sentences. Now, Dale and I have been partners for so long that we both stand up and look for cops or a sergeant laughing at us. No one’s looking at us, so we check the fire department next door, (see earlier story about firemen’s practical jokes). Nothing. The hand grenade is wedged between the seats, all we can see is the middle part of the body.
Dale and I were young cops when the SLA and other subversive groups were targeting police officers. They planted bombs under police cars. We didn’t want our pictures on the wall in the station lobby. That’s reserved for officers killed in the line of duty. We called the bomb squad.
Any time a suspected explosive device is found, you clear a 300-foot perimeter. The entire police parking lot is shut down and it’s change of watch. Detectives are showing up. All they want is to park their car, go to their desk and have a cup of coffee. Even worse, the previous watch wants to go home and climb into bed. None of that is going to happen until the bomb squad checks out our car. Dale and I look at each other; this day is starting out bad. Detectives are making a Starbucks run and the previous watch is asking if they get overtime because they can’t get to their cars.
The Bomb Squad arrives and checks out the hand grenade. Apparently, the thing is a dud. The bottom is drilled out, but we couldn’t see that. Two night watch officers found it in a parking lot, saw that it was a dud and put it between the seats of the police car. At the end of their shift, they forgot about it and went home. They got their asses chewed and Dale and I spent the rest of the day looking over our shoulders.
At one time, our police station parking lot had planters with some trees. The planters were next to parking spots where officers would have arrestees get out of the back seat of the police car. If officers were not watching, the bad guys would drop their dope in the planters. One year, we had a twelve-inch Marijuana plant growing in the police station parking lot. The planters were removed when they built the new fire station next door.
This is a locker room story. It was a known fact that I was the first one in the locker room every day for almost 35 years. I even beat the probationers. I didn’t like being late or rushed. It was also well known that I always had chewing gum in my pocket and carried a sharp knife. I hand-sharpened my knives and liked to keep them very sharp. Early one morning, I’m polishing my badge and Billy is in the next aisle. Billy Berndt yells over the row of lockers, ”Hal do you have a knife?” I reply, “Yea, but be careful—it’s sharp”. Twenty seconds later, Billy asks, “Hal do you have a bandage?”
The following stories are true. After 35 years of working patrol, I have been exposed to a variety of partners. Some were rookies, some became your close friends, some were your immediate supervisors, and some were the captains of your station. Some were “good,” some were “bad,” and some were just plain “ugly.”
Dallas police partners
I read in the paper recently where the L.A. Sheriff’s Department has a program where they rate their leaders, anonymously of course. Some of their quotes were amusing and some probably true. I’ll pass on a few.
“I wouldn’t follow him to a free buffet lunch.” “I wouldn’t follow him out of a burning building.” “He couldn’t lead a sing along.” “He couldn’t inspire a flea to jump.” He plays favorites like a DJ at the VFW.” “Couldn’t make a decision if he had a pocket full of quarters.” OK, the last two were mine.
In some business environments, you work around a co-employee. If you’re talking about a patrol partner, you spend eight hours or now days, ten to twelve hours in a car with your partner. After a few days working with the same person, you know everything about them. Their financial situation, how their marriage is working out, and yes, even their sexual history. You know their kids and their wife’s/husband’s names and in some cases, you know her menstrual cycle, like it or not. Partners become very close, or bond as they say. Some are easier to bond with than others.
I’m going to break down partners into four categories. Those partners you work directly with, those who you supervise, or who supervise you and your commanding officers (if you’re lucky they don’t even know your name).
First, I’ll talk about probationers, or rookies to my non-police friends. Probationers graduate from the police academy, wide-eyed, and ready to save the world. They are going to turn prostitutes away from a decadent sex life into the adults their parents hoped they would become. Drug addicts will turn into health freaks, and bums into productive members of society. After their first month in patrol, their balloon has burst or you hope they have come to their senses. Cops deal with the shallow gene pool of humanity and our short interaction won’t change their lifestyle.
In the early days, the training officer probably told them the first day, “Forget everything they taught you in the academy, I’ll teach you the right way!” That means search and seizure rules went out the window. It’s the way you write the arrest report and laws of arrest are a little stretched. If force was used, it depends on how many independent witnesses were present, if it was excessive. Your first day or night, you talk about an hour to get to know your probationer.
The first question you ask is, “Is your gun loaded?” Don’t laugh, some forget or think they’re still in the academy. One real story goes like this. The officers are enroute to a shooting in progress call and the training officer is advising his brand new partner to be careful and stick close to me. The probationer turns to his training officer and asks, “Should I load my gun now?” Never mind, we’ll get coffee first! Don’t laugh, it happens. I’ve had partners with college degrees but not a lick of common sense.
Some partners had the same views and values that you have. You could spend six hours on a stakeout and never be at a loss for words. Then again, I once spent three hours with a probationer who didn’t say a word. No kidding, not a word, for three hours. We didn’t have much in common, I liked John Wayne and she liked sci-fi movies. She didn’t even get out of the car for coffee.
I’ll start out with the bad and in some cases, they were also ugly. You’ll see. I was blessed with some very good probationers which I’ll talk about in later Ramblings. One of the bad probationers didn’t seem suited for police work. I was looking for a common bond to talk about and I asked him his hobbies. I said, “I hunt, do you hunt?” He replied, “No, I don’t think I could kill anything!” Stop the car!!! A lot of cops don’t believe in hunting but do I want to work with a partner who might have reservations about using his gun to save a life, maybe mine?
Exeter PD rookie nbcnews.com
Part of the training program is letting the probationer drive. Driving a police car is more than just driving down the street. Officer safety is very important to his partner who is looking forward to retiring alive. Probationers have a tendency to park right in front of the location of a man with a gun, or they will look for a legal parking spot. They often park next to a trashcan, mailbox, or fire hydrant so the passenger can’t get the car door open.
I had one probationer who thought that red lights were for non-cops. I let him drive twice and both times, I took the car keys away from him. He kept driving through major intersections against the red light figuring that no one would hit a police car. I once supervised a probationer who had never driven a car. He lived in New York and always took a taxicab. I watched his training officer’s hair turn grey. We had a few female probationers who weren’t use to driving big four-door cars with a powerful engine. We didn’t have any two-door police equipped BMW’s.
Florida police partners photo by policeone.com
The worst probationer I had was Jeff. Jeff was a graduate from USC and thought that being a cop would be fun. Jeff couldn’t write a sentence without help. No, he wasn’t an athlete. He told me that he paid someone to write all his college papers. I thought that was strange because Jeff was the cheapest cop I ever met.
We were eating at Denny’s one morning and I just had coffee, Jeff had steak and eggs. Jeff wanted to split the bill down the middle. Another time Jeff and his partner walked into a restaurant to eat and spotted a wanted burglar sitting at the counter. The whole watch was looking for this crook. They grabbed him and Jeff objected. He wanted his half price meal instead.
The worst trait about Jeff was that he was a coward. Yep, Jeff wanted to wear the uniform and collect the paycheck but didn’t want any of the danger that came with the badge.
We had a “man with a gun” radio call and the witness told us the armed suspect went into a parking lot. Jeff and I were to go down one side of the parking lot and two other officers were to check the other side. We started searching the parking lot. I was in the lead after about thirty yards I looked back, Jeff was still out on the sidewalk hiding behind a building. I motioned for Jeff to join me; he refused and said it was too dangerous!
Another time Jeff and his partner got into a pursuit. The suspect’s vehicle crashed and the driver fled on foot. Jeff’s partner chased and caught the suspect. He looked around and no Jeff. The partner walked back to the police car and there was Jeff. Jeff said he was guarding the police car! Jeff was asked to leave the LAPD.
I had another probationer, Tom, a nice enough guy, but he use to sit at code-7 (meal break) and tell me he had the next day off. He would ask me if he should get drunk and go to bed or sleep then get up and get drunk. I sent Tom AA cards for years after we worked together. Another time, he informed me that he went to a Doobie Brothers concert in Santa Barbara instead of sleeping. Tom asked me if we could coast tonight. I told Tom that if I caught him with his eyes closed, I’d send him home. He’s my back up. Am I hard ass or just a music critic? Come on—the Doobie Brothers!!
During the height of affirmative action hiring, I had a probationer who had no common sense and couldn’t make a decision. We once were given a bag of possible narcotics to book. He took custody of the bag and then informed me that he had gotten some of the powder on his hand and had touched his lips! I told him that if he started acting strange, I might have to shoot him. I hope he’s now working as a Wal-Mart greeter.
Some thought my hair loss was hereditary. I think it was probationers. We all learned the hard way.
Next I’ll describe some of the best, or good, partners I worked with or for. Hal
The following story is true and my last chapter on complaints. I spent thirty-four+ years on the LAPD and received my share of complaints. Some I did, most I didn’t do, and a few I was accused of, I wasn’t even there.
Serious complaints were handled by I.A. (Internal Affairs). They were cops just like the rest of us but some I.A. guys thought of us as the enemy. Almost any cop who wanted to promote did a tour of I.A. It looked good in their personnel package. I don’t know if they were rated on how many complaints they sustained (officer found guilty) but some of their tactics were suspicious.
I was a young officer and arrived at work one night after a few days off. In roll call, I discovered I was assigned to the jail. Officer Gary Hines thought he was working the jail and dressed for jail duty so we swapped assignments and I worked the desk.
Months later, I was told that I’m a witness on a very serious excessive force complaint. The I.A. cops always told you: “you’re just a witness,” or in today’s language, “a person of interest.” To I.A. it was synonymous with accomplice.
Sergeant Carlson comes to Hollywood to interview me. He takes me into the captain’soffice and sits me down. He doesn’t smile and opens his briefcase, inside is a tape recorder. He shows me a work sheet that shows I’m working the jail on the night in question. I check my officer’s notebook and I see that I marked jail on said date.
Sergeant Carlson turns on the tape recorder and begins the interview. The complaint was that Officer Jack choked out an arrestee in the jail during the booking process.
Now, anybody that knows me very well, knows that I have a very good memory. For the life of me, I can’t remember the incident. Sergeant Carlson looks at me like I’m the biggest liar in the L.A.P.D. The old Hollywood Jail wasn’t that big and if anybody got choked out I would have known.
After numerous questions and my denial of any knowledge of the incident, Sergeant Carlson pretends to turn off the tape recorder. He then asks me, “Is there anything else you want to tell me about the incident?” This time, he’s smiling like were old friends. I stick to my story and plead ignorance, not a big stretch for me. As I’m walking out of the captain’s office I look back and see Sergeant Carlson turn off the tape recorder.
A few weeks later, I run into Gary Hines in court and he reminds me that we switched and he worked the jail that night. One month later Sergeant Carlson promoted to Lieutenant and transferred to Hollywood.
We never trusted each other.
My most serious complaint involved a pimp name “Bobo” and two other black men who picked up a drunk white valley girl at a club. They took her to their apartment on Beachwood Drive in Hollywood. After repeated sexual assaults and beatings, the girl escaped and ran into the street, screaming.
Dave and I were working the Hype car and our hours were 8 PM to 5 AM. We responded to the screaming women call and were told that the suspects were last seen northbound on Beachwood in a car. We stayed with the victim as other cops searched the area. As luck would have it, the suspects drove back down Beachwood and were arrested right in front of us.
Dave and I drove Bobo and his accomplices to Hollywood station. We found the victim’s keys under the back seat of our police car. We tucked Bobo and his friends in a holding tank and went home.
A week later, I went to court and testified about recovering the keys in our police car. For the next few months I was subpoenaed and attended every court hearing. The jury found Bobo and friends guilty and sent them to prison. The presiding judge had a question about why Bobo and accomplices were bloody in their booking photos and ordered an Internal Affairs investigation. Bobo and his cell mates were interviewed and all pointed me out in a photo lineup. They claimed that I beat them up in the police car on the way downtown to be booked. That was hours after I went home.
Two I.A. sergeants come to Hollywood station to interview me. They show me the face sheet of the complaint and point to a “PF” initial in the corner. It represents where the D.A. has said if true there’s a prima fascia case against me for assault under color of authority. In laymen’s terms that means if I’m guilty, I go to prison. I can’t go to prison, my son hasn’t graduated 6th grade yet.
The sergeants read me my Miranda Rights, which was then unheard of. They show me pictures of Bobo and his friends after booking. They have bloody shirts, swollen eyes and fat lips. When I left them in the Hollywood holding tank they were wearing clean shirts and no visible injuries.
Now, I’d like to tell you these two sergeants were smart, but I can’t. They asked me if I beat them up. I asked when they were booked at Jail Division. They said after 10:00 A.M. I showed them a copy of my daily log and pointed out that I went home at 5:00 A.M. I then pointed out a photo lineup of the three suspects taken at 8:00 A.M. by the investigating Detective. Bobo and friends are not beaten up.
I look these two I.A. Investigators in the eye and ask, “Do you think I waited around 5 hours on my own time to beat them up.” They then ask, “Well then, who beat them up?” I’m exasperated and answer, “How the hell would I know? I’m home in bed.” These two rocket scientists are going to interview my partner, Dave Balleweg who is off IOD (injured on duty) and living near Yucca Valley. They call ahead and get directions and set up an appointment. An hour after the appointment time is past, they call Dave and are lost somewhere near Indio, Ca. These two are going to keep Dave and me out of Prison. They can’t find Yucca Valley with a road map and directions.
Later, I was told that Bobo and his accomplices got into a fight in the holding tank and beat each other up. I’m not going to prison, so I don’t have to bulk up to protect myself from a cell mate named Peaches. They picked me out of the photo lineup because I attended every court appearance.
Two short complaint stories. “Mike” responded to a “burglar there now” radio call. They detained a couple of guys as suspects. One was acting like a complete “asshole.” He was handcuffed and placed in the back of a police car. After interviewing everyone and determining that no crime occurred, Mike said, “I guess I’ll have to let this “Knucklehead” go.
Well, the “Knucklehead” complained that he was insulted by the remark. That’s right, I was assigned to interview eight to ten witnesses and spent dozens of hours investigating this terrible miscarriage of justice. I tried to rationalize that a “knucklehead” was a motorcycle and not misconduct, but the department wouldn’t buy it. Mike received a reprimand.
photo by utahcriminallaw.net
Last one: this officer stopped this nicely dressed lady for running a stop sign on her way to work. She didn’t want the ticket and wanted to make a complaint against the officer for using profane language. I was called to the scene. This particular officer was known for using swear words in a normal conversations. I was a little worried for him.
When I interviewed the lady she was very prim and proper and obviously well-educated. Of course, she denied running the stop sign but was more concerned with the officer’s language.
I next interviewed the officer and he smiled and said, “Sarge, I have everything on my tape recorder!” I listened to the tape and this was no lady, she swore like a drunken sailor. The officer was very professional, he didn’t even call her a knucklehead.
I played the tape for the violator and she blushed at first then want to make a complaint against the officer for taping her conversation. I told her the Police Department encouraged officers to carry tape recorders to avoid just such complaints. She called me a bad name and drove off.
Chief Parks was not asked to come back for a second term and some of the complaint procedures were changed. Frivolous complaints were made into short form. One day, I stayed home and completed eight short form complaints in four hours and got paid for eight hours. I didn’t even have to dress and shave for work. I was also able to write off my computer on my taxes.
Hal Collier was on the case: last week, he sent me some very moving photos of LAPD Officer Nicholas Choung Lee’s funeral (–yes, Hal knew him). As in the case of retired cops, Hal got them from a friend; the friend from a friend of a friend. It took some doing, but Hal was a diligent detective. That’s about the only thing he didn’t do at LAPD, right? But he proved himself here and was able to track down the owner of the photos, ask and receive permission to post them here. I ask that they not be re-used without the permission of the owner, Mike Nelson. Contact me if you need his address.
LAPD Officer Nicholas Choung Lee
On March 7th, 2014, Police Officer Nicholas Lee was killed when his patrol car collided with a commercial vehicle at the intersection of Loma Vista Drive and Robert Lane, in the Beverly Hills area of Los Angeles.
He and an officer he was training were responding to a call when the patrol car collided with the truck carrying a roll-off dumpster at approximately 8:00 am. The other officer and truck driver both suffered critical injuries.
Officer Lee had served with the Los Angeles Police Department for 16 years. He is survived by his wife and two daughters.
These K-9’s are Belgian Malinois. They are often ribby like the one in the foreground because they are working dogs that need to keep trim. I thought they were underweight the first time I saw one but this is standard.Nick’s funeral–mounted unit waitingNick’s funeral mounted cops near gravesiteNick’s funeral–riderless horse; the backward boot symbolizing the last time the officer will look back on his troups.Nick’s funeral–at the cemetery
“Any officer who spent time in the streets got complaints, fact of life.”–Hal Collier
The following stories are true and because of the confidential nature of personnel complaints I will not use last names. Some cops will recognize themselves and others will remember the described incidents. Non-cops will think some of these complaints are ridiculous and a waste of the tax-payers money.
First, the legend. A female, with questionable mental capacity, accused an LAPD officer of stealing her ovaries. That’s right—the department took the complaint but the investigation stalled when the female refused have surgery to see if her ovaries were missing.
When I graduated from the police academy I was sure that I wouldn’t get any complaints. That lasted two weeks. I was accused of something I insisted I didn’t do. Funny, the department didn’t take my word as proof. After a lengthily investigation, the complaint returned, “not sustained.”
LAPD complaints had four results, Sustained= Guilty; Not Sustained= we can’t prove it either way; Exonerated= not guilty; and Unfounded= which meant it was a false complaint.
Funny thing about complaints that return ‘Not Sustained’. The department had the theory that where there’s smoke there’s fire, which translated into ‘Not Sustained’ which meant you were probably guilty they just couldn’t prove it. Too many ‘not sustained’ complaints showed a pattern of misconduct.
Any officer who spent time in the streets got complaints, fact of life. You arrest some dirt bag and send him to prison for the next three to five years, he’s not going to be your BFF. He’s going to make an allegation of some sort. Young officers who have the ambition to promote up through the ranks, leave the streets as soon as possible. No complaints, no speed bumps on the road to the top. Some of those on the top were the same ones who decided policy or the discipline you if you got caught calling a non-tax paying citizen an anal orifice.
Not all our brass fell into that category. I once saw a video tape of a Deputy Chief and Commander taking care of business at the rear of Sears during the riots. The Deputy Chief was butt stroking looters with a shotgun as the commander was clearing the parking lot with his revolver.
I was also fortunate to have good leaders who gave me minimum punishment when I screwed up.
Residents of Mitchell Housing Projects flirt with Officer Devine in Mott Haven neighborhood photo by gold-silver.us
Some of the more ridiculous complaints were, “My neighbor, a cop for your department, doesn’t mow his lawn every week.” Another said the cop was ugly, I knew him it was true but wasn’t misconduct. Many had to do with a cop dating a female, having sex, then not calling her back. That’s just the way some men are, jerks but not misconduct.
Occasionally the female would claim rape. A whole new set of headaches. The District Attorney wouldn’t file charges against the officer, but by the time the department was through with the officer, he wished he had gone to jail.
Some of the minor offenses included fail to appear in court and fail to qualify on the gun range. Each of these sustained complaints could result in one to two days off without pay. How many days off you got depended on repeat offenses.
In my early days with the LAPD, supervisors were allowed to determine if a citizen’s complaint was valid. The lady who called and said that when she opened her bathroom medicine cabinet this officer was inside looking at her. She was told to take her medication. No complaint, no lengthy investigation.
Later, when a new chief was appointed by the political powers in Los Angeles, he dictated that all complaints would be taken, no matter how frivolous. They would all be investigated, no exceptions. To make sure you documented all complaints, the department called in fictitious complaints. The next chapter will include some of the complaints I took and some I investigated.
This Ramblings took me a long time to write and it’s Part 2.
I try to keep most of my Ramblings fun and on a positive note but the fact is that there are a lot of negative aspects of police work. If you work for over three decades in a dangerous job, there’s going to be some tragedy.
I saw a lot of partners seriously injured and pensioned off. Some couldn’t even work other jobs. Think of being sentenced to watching soap operas, or Oprah every day. It’s just like being retired but without good health. Believe it or not some of them were the lucky ones.
I attended more police funerals then any cop should have. In the Police Academy they had a class on officer survival taught by Bob Smitson. It was very graphic with pictures of dead cops on a morgue table. The class taught that you had to survive any confrontation. After the class, I walked to my car with my hand on my gun—and I was at the Police Academy. A month later, I was sent into the streets of Los Angles praying that I’d never be in the pictures shown in that class.
photo by californiareport.org
I wasn’t even off probation when I attended my first police officer funeral. My training officer told me that I had to attend; it was my duty. I was a training officer for twenty years and made my probationers attend at least one police officer funeral. It’s something that you will never forget. You see an American Flag-draped coffin, knowing that it contains a police officer who last week was doing the same job you did last night. If it’s an open casket, seeing a cop lying there in uniform is a sight you’ll never forget. You see the grieving wife, kids and family. It’s a real wake up call. You suddenly realize that you’re not invincible.
I couldn’t tell you how many cop funerals I attended, but it was more than I should have. For a while I attended every LAPD officer’s funeral, and a few LA County Sheriffs. There were also a few smaller city officer’s funerals. It was the least you can do for officers who have paid the ultimate sacrifice.
The news media will make an appearance and show a thirty second clip of the funeral on the 5 o’clock news. They will then show two minutes on a drug rehab for out-of-work actors.
Funeral band on badge
A police officer’s funeral is a fitting tribute. I have seen officers attend from all over the country. All wearing their best dress uniforms, their leather gear shined to a high gloss.
All had that black elastic band across their badges. Some come thousands of miles to honor a fallen comrade. I have been at funerals where the procession of police cars stretched for miles, sometimes lined with citizens who appreciate the sacrifices we make.
The first funerals I attended just had the service and the 21 gun salute at the cemetery. My partner, Jim Tomer, collected a shell casing from each funeral we attended. Later funerals had a helicopter flyover with the missing man formation.
Riderless horse
The LAPD Mounted Unit has a riderless horse with the boots reversed in the stirrups. Then there’s those bag pipes. Those damn bag pipes!!! I can usually control my emotions at funerals until those bag pipes play Amazing Grace. I have learned to bring enough Kleenex for both my partner and I.
Most of the funerals I attended, I didn’t personally know the officer. They were easier, if there is such a thing. You still see the grieving family and know that their Christmas, birthdays and anniversaries will never be the same.
This is the first of two Hal Collier Ramblings about Cop Funerals. This is a topic no police officer wants to deal with and yet we have to. Hal speaks eloquently of the friends he has lost.
Thonie
By Hal Collier
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
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.
Russ Kuster
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.
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!”
James Pagliotti
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.
Rob Cottle
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.
Promoting! This is a question that every police officer ponders once in a while. By the way, these are my observations and certainly don’t reflect the opinions of the Los Angeles Police Department or officers everywhere. These observations are based on a large city police department. We all have different reasons for wanting to promote. Actually, some think about it all the time and base their police decisions on, will this hurt my next promotion? More on these individuals and my own reasons later.
March 23, 2007-Almost Sgt: Last week, Officer Kris Werner informed Arts District residents that he passed the LAPD Sergeant Promotional interview with flying colors–and that he may soon leaving his post of Senior Lead Officer. Standing By: Werner now reports that his “Sgt School” is delayed, so he will be sticking around. Seen behind Werner is the panel of a dancer in a digital mural called “Gabriela”, at the Regent Gallery. photo by viewfromaloft.org
There are many reasons for wanting to promote. Everyone starts out on the bottom of the police food chain. Some linger on the bottom longer than others. Some of those on the bottom might have made bad decisions, or they just don’t have any ambition to promote. Others planned their climb up the ladder from their first day in the police academy.
I’m going to break down some of the reasons for promoting. Money, ambition, retirement, power and the urge to get out of patrol. Some put off promoting because of the love of what they’re doing. Some recruits in the academy thought they would someday run our department or another department. Only a very few did, none in my academy class, and I was in a good academy group.
We all had ambitions as a young child. I was going to be a professional baseball player until I discovered that I couldn’t hit a curve ball and when running, I was slower than a turtle.
Like a lot of my partners, I wanted to be a street cop. You know–wearing a blue uniform, driving a black and white police car, chases both on foot and in cars, hours of boredom followed by thirty seconds of sheer terror. It gets into your blood, it’s addictive and hard to kick. You make life and death decisions and enjoy the adrenalin rushes. Your chest swells when you put a bad guy in jail due to your superior observations and tactics. Oh yea, luck entered in a lot. In my 35 years on the LAPD I observed a lot of cops who pondered over the decision whether to promote or not.
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 on your stripes!! Street cops hated a sergeant who makes an arrest then hands 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. 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, not the Alaska kind. I worked 3 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 to look for bugs on you.
Those with aspirations of being the Chief of Police got out of patrol as soon as possible. Patrol produces complaints and complaints slow promotions. Cops couldn’t take a promotional test until they had four years of seniority, but that didn’t stop them from transferring to an inside job. We use to call them “building boys.” The building boys would take a job in Manuals & Orders or Planning & Research, where the biggest danger was a severe paper cut. They took two hour lunches and hobnobbed with the Department brass. Now days, they call it networking. They usually took a promotional test the day after they were eligible and most did very good. Of course, they helped write the test.
I don’t begrudge the building boys for promoting–that’s what they wanted. 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 on very little experience in the field. I once had a new sergeant respond to a scene and when asked to make a decision, he opened the department manual looking for the answer. It wasn’t there! He actually asked for another sergeant to respond and make the decision. I respected any new sergeant or lieutenant who asked the senior officers for advice. It was still their decision to make but at least they asked.
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 newsworthy, like during the 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 and half drive to and from work to get your mind straight.
I use to think that the LAPD needed a promotion tree with two forks. One fork was for the building boys who promote, they can stay inside and read policy books. The second 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 and the dog.
One of the problems with my theory was that the building boys made policy for us street cops and worse yet, they sat as jury on our discipline boards. Swell, some building boy wearing a uniform that only needs dry cleaning once a month, is going to decide if the decision I made in a split second in a dark alley will determine if I’m employed next month.
Not all supervisors were building boys, thank goodness. I also worked for some of the best street cops who promoted. I remember one sergeant showed up at a scene where the suspect was acting up–ok, he was being an asshole. The sergeant stood back, let me handle the uncooperative miscreant, then turned and walk away, saying, “Good job, Collier.”
Police range training Photo by lastresistance.com
I also worked for two of the best captains the LAPD ever produced, Bob Taylor and Garrette Zimmon. On more than one occasion they would take off their captain bars and work a patrol car, handling any radio call that came in. “Walk in my shoes.” That’s leadership. Most captains will ride around with a sergeant for an hour and never get their hands dirty. Those two captains had the respect of the whole division. They also showed up at shooting training days and went through the different scenarios, same as the street cops. They showed the cops that they could shoot just as well as run the division. If they hadn’t promoted, I might still be working Hollywood patrol.
My next Ramblings will deal with my motivation to promote or not to promote.
Hal
Next Ramblings will be the “why”–what made Hal want to promote?
The following stories are true and can be verified by more than a dozen people who have no ambitions to run for political office. You know, politicians can’t be trusted to tell the truth. As usual, I’ll only use first names and all incidents are true to the best of my fading memory.
My last Ramblings dealt with the first day of the L.A. Riots. The L.A.P.D. was mobilized, which means all days off are cancelled and everyone works 12 hour shifts. That’s 12 hours on the clock, it doesn’t count travel time to and from work, putting on your uniform. I worked 13 straight 12 hour days. I was one of the lucky ones. I had a wife who cooked, did the shopping, banking, took my uniforms to the cleaners and acted as an alarm clock when I wanted to hit the snooze button. After about the fifth day your body gets into a rhythm. After the 13th day they gave me one day off. It screwed up my rhythm and I couldn’t do anything but sleep.
Ok, back to the riots. The first day, I was relieved at 7 P.M. and told to go home. I had to be back at 6 A.M. I wasn’t working at night but the following was told to me by officers who worked nights. The Department set up a huge command post in south central L.A. 52nd and Arlington, if memory serves me correctly. They sent a large number of officers from the night shift of each patrol division to report to the command post. RTD (Rapid Transit District) bussed them to the command post. Hollywood officers then spent the whole night sitting at the command post. Nothing irritates a cop more than sitting, when there’s crime happening.
They were being held in reserve, for what, only the department command staff knew. At the end of their shift they were bussed back to Hollywood. These cops were angry, they weren’t hired to sit while the city burned. The RTD bus was N/B on Vine Street at Lexington. Amatron, a large electronics store was being looted. A supervisor halted the bus and said, “Let’s go.” Can you imagine the surprise of the looters, when 60 cops get off a RTD bus and with blood in their eyes and charged into them?
The next night as the bus was being loaded, our Captain, an old timer, saw the flames of burning buildings on Hollywood Boulevard, ordered the officers off the bus and told the officers, “Well, save Hollywood first.” That’s leadership.
After a few days, the National Guard was called in and some order was restored. One citizen tried to run a National Guard roadblock, he was shot in the ass. I guess the National Guard doesn’t care about the L.A. Times opinion.
Cops and Firefighters
The Calif. Highway Patrol (CHP) had been doing escort duty for the fire department. Yea, even the firemen, the good guys, were targets. After the third day, the CHP left and I was assigned to escort the fire department. Two police cars were assigned to a fire station for the whole shift. Whenever the paramedics left the station, one of the police cars went with them, even if it was for lunch. I followed a paramedic truck to Pink’s for lunch, then spent an hour as they cruised Melrose looking at girls. It beat being shoed. The other police car went with the engine truck. I discovered that when following a fire truck code 3, lights and siren, the cars that do pull over, pull right back out when the truck passes. I almost got hit four times in three days.
LAFD Truck 27
Most cops know that the firemen have nice break rooms with aircraft seats, not the small ones found in coach, but the big oversized recliners. They have a large screen TV with surround sound. They also have a fully equipped workout room. These are all paid for by the firemen through their own station fund. Although this was easy duty, it was boring as hell. I took a book the second day. I was assigned to fire station #27. It was an old building, built in the 20’s. It had fire poles where you could go from the second floor to the first in seconds. Yea, I tried it once. If you land too hard you get your knees shoved up into your neck. Fire Station #27 is a Battalion Station. A battalion is 2 Engine trucks, a Hook and Ladder, 2 Paramedic trucks, a Hazmat truck and a Battalion Chief. That’s as big as it gets.
If you know firemen, you knoq they don’t just sit around waiting for a fire or medical emergency. They take a perfectly good wood ladder, strip it down, sand it, then re-varnish it. They wash the underside of their fire trucks and wax everything that doesn’t move. Ok, I’m sitting around the break room, killing time. The firemen are always pulling the trucks in and out the doors for washing. About mid-day Keith, calls out to me on the radio.
“Hey Hal, they’re all gone”.
I ask, “Who?”
Keith says, “The whole battalion, they’re gone.”
I ran downstairs and sure enough, we’ve lost a whole fire battalion. How am I going to explain losing seven fire trucks including a hook and ladder truck? This won’t go well when I take a promotional oral. I know they didn’t get called out, because I’ve learned the bell and buzz sounds signaling a call for Station #27. Remember the TV show Emergency? After a few frantic moments, I found out they went to another fire station for lunch.
The following story is true. I’ll use first names unless there is a civil rights issue. This story will deal with my experiences during the L.A. Riots. I don’t usually put politics in my stories, but after 35 years of being politically correct in the L.A.P.D. I can’t be quiet anymore. These opinions are mine alone and are in direct contrast to the opinions of the L.A. Times, but I don’t care! We were told to refer to the riots as civil unrest. BS, there was nothing civil about what happened.
Rodney King video ignited LA riots photo courtesy photoblog600
In March of 1991, the CHP pursued a speeding car into the San Fernando Valley. The car stopped and the passengers were arrested without incident. The driver, Rodney King, resisted arrest and even charged the officers. L.A.P.D. officers took over the incident because the CHP Officers were placing themselves in danger. The arrest was videotaped and broadcast on all TV the stations for months. The media conveniently omitted the first few seconds which show King resisting arrest. King was described as a black motorist by the media when in fact he was a paroled convict and under the influence. A trial was held in Simi Valley and the officers were acquitted. On the evening of April 29, 1992 the city broke out in riots.
There were two riots that broke out in LA that day. The riots that the media reported and the riots LA cops experienced. One based on a racial issues the other based on multi-racial people who saw an opportunity to get free stuff. Again my opinion.
I was a Senior Lead Officer in Hollywood Division. The Police Department mobilized, which means everyone works 12 hours shifts. I was assigned to A watch 6 A.M. to 6 P.M.
The watch started out slow, a few reports of looting in South Central L.A. As we checked all the Hollywood business districts, we could hear that the looting was spreading north. By noon the looting was sporadic in Hollywood. As officers caught looters and took them to the police station, we had fewer resources to deal with newer looters on the street.
My partner and I caught two white guys throwing rocks at a business window. So much for the race issue, they just wanted free stuff. They ran but we caught them a few blocks away. I was enroute to the station when I heard officers requesting help for widespread looting. I figured these two guys would be plead out to misdemeanor attempt vandalism. I released them and responded to the “help calls”.
(Published in special section May 12,1992) — April 30, 1992– The second day of the Riots on 3rd street I photographed this guy running past a burning Jon’s market with a shopping cart full of diapers. I affectionately call this image “A Huggies Run”.
Up and down Western Avenue from Hollywood Boulevard to Beverly Boulevard were reports of looting. Some businesses were set on fire. A supervisor requested all available units to respond to Santa Monica and Western Avenue. When we arrived, numerous businesses were on fire, there were thousands of people in the streets, mostly Hispanic. A shoe store was being looted. We formed up into a skirmish line.
Now I’ve had rocks and bottles thrown at me during demonstrations and at rock concerts at the Palladium. This group was throwing shoes from the shoe store on the corner. I just dodged a ladies pump, the officer next to me got hit with a cowboy boot in the shoulder. I’d never been shoed before. We moved the crowd west until we reached St. Andrews. Another few hundred people were gathered to the north. We didn’t have enough officers to protect our flank if we continued west. We had less than a dozen officers against thousands of people. We stood our ground as rioters threw at us whatever was handy. Most of these people were Hispanic, illegal immigrants, and I wonder if they knew who Rodney King was.
LA riots photo courtesy of KoreAm Journal
At one point I saw a guy in the back ground raise a handgun and fire off a shot in the air. We were told that the Sears store a block away was being looted, our sergeant says we don’t have enough officers. A few minutes later an unmarked police car drives up to me. It was two policemen and the Deputy Chief and Commander from our Bureau. The Commander, Bob, a great guy asked me is this all the officers you have, I reply “yea”. They turned around and left. About two months later, I was given a VHS tape taken by a news crew. The tape shows the back door of Sears. The two policemen and the Commander are chasing away the crowd. The Deputy Chief is standing at the back door, he has a shot gun and is butt stroking looters as they flee Sears. I’ll bet it was hard to carry a TV, run and be hit in the ass with a shot gun. It was the only justice I saw that day. Nothing politically correct, just old fashioned police work, taking care of business.
Another part of that tape shows a man standing outside a drug store on Hollywood Boulevard. He had a handful of shopping bags and was stopping people walking by and giving them a bag, then directing them into the drug store to take whatever they wanted.
My next story will deal with some of humorous incidents that happened during the “RIOTS”. It won’t be the stuff you see on the news or in the official L.A.P.D. documentary.
