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It was on a cold Christmas night, several years ago, when my wife Denene decided that she’d like to ride along with me during my shift so we could at least spend a part of the evening together. It would be her first and last first-hand experience of what I did for a living.

I was the officer in charge of operations, the OIC, that night so it wasn’t as if I’d be responding to calls, meaning I thought the danger level for her would be extremely low. And I was right, the evening shift was fairly quiet with a few of the typical pushing and shoving drunks, a couple of thefts, a drunk driver or two, a peeping Tom, a disorderly customer at a convenience store, etc. Nothing major.

I took Denene on a tour of parts of the city she’d never seen, and to a few she had but only during the daytime. Believe me, some typically normal neighborhoods totally transform once the sun is down and all the “creepies” come out to play. It’s the time when neon lights replace sunshine, and when alleyways come alive with feral animals and people who pay for quickie sex behind dented dumpsters overflowing with restaurant waste and wet, slimy butcher shop cardboard and paper.

These are the streets and neighborhoods where wispy tendrils of sewer steam rise from storm drains to twist and writhe their way toward the night sky, floating and undulating until they melt into nothingness. Potholes are deep and overturned garbage cans pour out their innards for all to see. Front yards are bare dirt and sofas and used kitchen chairs sit on front porches featuring leaning posts and broken railings. At the curb laying at either side of the streets are empty beer cans and bottles and used needles and condoms mixed with dry, crispy fall leaves.

In the area sometimes called “The Bottom, prostitutes display their wares in barely-there outfits while local businessmen, average Joes and sometimes Janes, and a few city officials cruise along the dark streets comparing the “merchandise.”

Winos and drug addicts are on their aimless and zombie-like marches, stumbling along cold concrete walks and streets until they finally decide upon a random landing spot in a storefront entrance where they smoke, drink rotgut liquor, or shoot poison into their arms or legs. Then they’ll sleep awhile before setting off on another mindless quest for the next high.

Drug runners, the low-level, bottom of the drug-selling chain, sellers of crack, meth, heroin, and weed, are at nearly every corner in the “hot” neighborhoods. Many times they damage the corner street lamps by throwing rocks at the bulbs, or by shooting them out, so they can operate under the cover of darkness.

Runners stand alone or in small groups of three or so with each holding only a small amount of dope so not much will be lost should a cop bust them. Users cruise the areas in their cars, driving slowly. When the runner spots a customer he approaches the vehicle. The driver hands over cash ($20 for a single crack rock) and the runner offers the drug. Sometimes he keeps the foil or plastic-wrapped rock in his mouth so he could easily swallow it in case the “customer” is a cop. He’ll spit the wrapped rock into his hand to exchange for the cash.

When the runners sell out they head back to the dealers to “re-up.” The process repeats hour after hour, night after night after night. The runners are always at ready to take off should an officer approach. It’s a cat and mouse game that’s played again and again—we get out of our cars and they run. We chase. They drop the dope and an occasional gun. We pick up the stuff and maybe catch the guy or maybe not.

So after seeing enough of the rot of the city, I drove to areas where officers were on the scenes of various calls/complaints, making sure all was well. Then the radio crackled with an “officer needs assistance” call. She’d stopped a car for drunk driving and the driver refused to get out of his vehicle. She’d struggled with him a bit, through the car window, but had no luck. In fact, he’d spit at her and attempted to bite her. He’d struck her arms with his fist and tried to punch her face.

So off I went to see the trouble for myself. Other officers were on the way to assist. When Denene and I arrived two officers were at the driver’s window grabbing at the man and striking at his arms with batons. A third officer was standing at the passenger window preparing to break the glass. I told Denene I’d be right back (the equivalent to “Hold my beer”) and stepped out of my car.

Since I’d trained each of the on-scene” officers in defensive tactics during their time at the academy, and the fact that I owned my own gym and martial arts school, and because I the ranking officer on the scene, well, they’d assumed that I’d handle this situation. So they parted to allow me access to the driver.

I politely informed the wild and drunken and very large man that he had two options. One, remove his seat belt and get out of the car on his on. Two, I’d cause him intense pain while removing him from the car, through the window. When he spit at me it was my conclusion that he’d opted for choice number two.

A few seconds later, after inflicting quite a bit of pain (I knew this because he was squealing and squawking like a wounded animal), I pulled his fat rear end through the seatbelt and through the window (with his helpful assistance since he wanted the pain to stop sooner than asap), pulled him to the ground, spun him around and over using a wrist-turn-out. I then cuffed his hands behind his back.

I told the female officer who’d initially stopped the car to place my handcuffs in the box outside my office door when she’d cleared from processing the man. I then turned and walked back to my car where I nonchalantly asked Denene if she’d like to grab a cup of coffee. Only a minute or two had passed since I first stepped out of my unmarked Caprice.

She said, “How can you be so calm after such a violent event? And how in the world did you get that big man to fit through that window and all so quickly?”

I, like every officer out there, didn’t think twice about it. It’s what we/they do, those sorts of things—pulling grown men through car windows and the like. It’s part of the job, like editing is to a writer.

Yes, it was Christmas and we were together. But she never again rode with me.

She eventually stopped listening the police scanner we had at the house. She switched it off one night, for the final time, after hearing me tell other officers that “I’d go in first.”

Yeah, she’s much happier since writing about this stuff is a WHOLE lot safer …


Aikido

Aikido uses the attacker’s own force against him.

A wrist turnout applies intense pressure to the joint in the wrist, forcing the suspect off balance.

Proper grasp to begin the wrist turnout (Kotegaeshi Nage) technique. To complete the technique the officer maintains his grasp, rotates the suspect’s hand up and to the rear in a counter-clockwise motion while simultaneously stepping back with his (the officer) left leg. The suspect ends up on the floor on his back (see picture below). Any resistance inflcts excrutiating pain in the wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

Combative suspects are normally forced the ground for handcuffing. From this position, a quick turn of the suspect’s wrist and arm will force him to roll over on his stomach. Any resistance causes extreme pain and could severely injure the controlled wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

To effectively control the wrist, the elbow must be stationary. From this position, the suspect is easily handcuffed.

This wrist lock can cause intense pain in the wrist, the elbow, and the shoulder. Forward and downward pressure forces the suspect to the ground.

 

Candies and cakes.

Eggnog too.

Turkey, ham, and stuffing.

Pumpkin pie.

Gingerbread and chocolate fudge.

 

Family and friends.

Around a warm fire.

Dancing flames.

And sizzling cedar logs.

Stockings hanging from above.

 

Family dog.

Sleeping at their feet.

Cookies and milk.

Kids laugh and squeal.

Silent wishes and hopeful dreams.

 

Home.

How I long to be there.

 

Pepper spray and handcuffs.

And puking, smelly drunks.

Radios and TASERS.

Spouses, battered and bruised.

Black eyes and broken bones.

 

Tiny tots and tears.

And drug dealers and thieves.

Sad, pitiful kids.

No toys.

No place to sleep.

 

Home.

Surrounded by those I love.

 

Crack pipes burning.

No food, no heat.

Gunshots and stabbings.

Car crashes and suicides.

Ambulances, hospitals, and morgues.

 

Crying.

Hurting.

Bleeding.

Dying.

Gone.

 

Home.

Thankful that I have one.

Aren’t you?

 

An Iowa woman was arrested yesterday after leaving her three small children—ages five, three, and one—at home alone around 10 P.M. The woman, Natalee Kahl, 23, told police that she’d left her kids at the apartment while she traveled to a friend’s house get her boyfriend. In the meantime, one of the children called 911 to report that she needed help figuring out how to watch videos online.

Upon arrival and in addition to finding three young children in need of services, officers also discovered a glass pipe in plain view, a device used for smoking marijuana. It contained burnt residue and was easily accessible to the children.

If the name Natalee Kahl rings a bell, it’s most likely because you read about her back in 2015 when her daughter, an infant at the time, was hospitalized with a blood alcohol content of .284, nearly four times the legal limit for a full grown adult. Kahl poured two ounces of vodka into the child’s bottle, claiming she thought it was water.

Calls like these, where small children are left to fend for themselves, often during brutal, cold winter months, without heat and other basic needs, are some of the most “gut-punch” situations officers deal with on a regular basis.

Seeing those small shivering bodies, quivering and trembling lips, and the intense hurt in their weak, sad eyes is enough to make even the toughest cop crumble. People in need—kids, the homeless, the elderly, the lonely—especially during this time of the year, deserve compassion, and help. Many times the much-needed assistance comes by way of the men and women who wear uniforms and badges, and these acts most often go unnoticed, unpublished, and unmentioned.

I guess it takes the act of wearing one of those badges to understand, actually. And I suppose not ever experiencing the “other side” of life sort of dulls the senses of people who’re fortunate enough to not need help to survive. But cops, yeah, they see it all. They know, and they understand. And they help.

Just as we did for a little boy named Jimmy Lee Bailey.

Christmas For Jimmy Lee Bailey: A Child in Need

The call—a child in need of services.

What I found was a child in need of love.

His house, held together by random lengths of mismatched clapboard-siding, sat at the end of a hard-packed red clay path. Shreds of tar-paper and rusted tin covered some, but not all, of a rain-blackened plywood roof. Four white, spray-painted cinder-blocks served as a front stoop.

The front door had no knob or lock. Just a curved metal handle, worn slick from years of pulling and pushing. A brick propped against its bottom held the door closed. Someone, I’m not sure who, “locked it” when they left.

I knocked.

“Come in,” a little voice said.

It was just days before Christmas and there was no tree.

No presents.

There was no food.

No running water.

No cabinets. No stove.

No refrigerator. No beds.

No drywall. No insulation.

Just bare studs and rafters.

And cold. Lots of cold.

A small dented and soot-caked kerosene heater fought a losing battle against a brutal December evening. Two milk jugs used for holding fuel sat near the splintered front door. Both empty. The heater’s gauge rested at one notch above E. The weak orange flame would soon fade away. The temperature outside was 20, and dropping. The wind was persistently forcing its way through cracks and holes in the walls, floor, and open spaces around the door and windows.

The place was not much more than a shed. One cobbled together from scrap wood and discarded “whatevers.”

A tattered blanket and two patchwork quilts. Threadbare and slick from wear.

No winter coats. No hats, nor gloves.

Dirty window panes.

One missing, replaced by a square of cardboard.

Dish towel curtains.

A hardware store calendar, two years old.

A cooler with no lid.

Mom, passed out on the floor.

A bottle of bourbon, its contents long gone.

A pipe for crack smoking.

“Mama says daddy will come home … someday.”

A dog. All ribs and backbone.

The floor, bare.

No rugs, no toys. ­

A table.

Two chairs.

A book.

Some paper.

The boy, writing.

Cigarettes.

A saucer for ashes, overflowing with discarded butts.

A deck of ragged playing cards.

Roaches. Scurrying up, down, there and here.

Mouse. Unafraid.

A squalling baby.

The bugs, they’re there, too.

The stench.

A tin lard bucket in the corner.

A checkered cloth on top.

A half-empty roll of Scotts.

The only bathroom indoors.

“You writing a letter?”

A nod.

“To your Dad?”

“No, to Santa.”

“Mind if I have look?”

He held it up for me to see.

“Your handwriting is very nice.”

A smile.

“Dear Santa,

Don’t worry about the bicycle I asked for.

Or the Tonka trucks and new coat.

And I don’t even like video games anymore.

Or DVD’s and toy trains.

I’m too big for those things now.

‘Sides, some men came and took the TV. Said Mama couldn’t pay for it no more. The ‘lectric neither.

What I’d really like is a warm blanket for my brother. He needs some milk too. And some medicine to make his fever go away. And could you help my Mom some? She needs to stop drinking and smoking. I wish you could make those men leave her alone too. They get all lickered up and hit her and do things to her that make her cry. Maybe you could bring my mom a coat for Christmas this year. She don’t have one and she gets cold when she walks down the street to get her cigarettes and that other stuff she smokes.

And if you don’t mind too much could you bring my daddy something to eat. He don’t never have no money. And if you see God while you’re up there flying around please tell him to say hi to my baby sister. And ask him to tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t make Mama wake up and take her to the hospital. If you can do all that, don’t worry about bringing me nothing. That stuff will do just fine.”

Your friend,

Jimmy Lee Bailey

*Jimmy Lee Bailey was definitely in need of some love. So, when Christmas morning rolled around he got his Tonka trucks, a bicycle, and a new coat. He also enjoyed a nice meal before moving to his new home. All courtesy of the guys who patrolled the graveyard shift.

 

It’s that time again, where we all join hands in front of a crackling fire to sing the holiday classic …

The Twelve Nights Of Graveyard

On the first night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the second night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, two ghetto whores and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the third night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the fourth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the fifth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the sixth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, six drunks a-peeing,  five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tridge and a cuff key.

On the seventh night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, seven robbers running, six drunks a-peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the eighth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, eight maids embezzling, seven robbers running, six drunks a-peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the ninth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, nine ladies fighting, eight maids embezzling, seven robbers running, six drunks a peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the tenth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, ten perverts peeping, nine ladies fighting, eight maids embezzling, seven robbers running, six drunks a-peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

Peeping Tom

On the eleventh night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, eleven crackheads stealing, ten perverts peeping, nine ladies fighting, eight maids embezzling, seven robbers running, six drunks a-peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge and a cuff key.

On the twelfth night of graveyard my sergeant gave to me, twelve hours of overtime, eleven crackheads stealing, ten perverts peeping, nine ladies fighting, eight maids embezzling, seven robbers running, six drunks a-peeing, five … cans … of … pepper-spray, four calls from wackos, three stinky winos, two ghetto whores, and a car-tri-idge … and … a … cuff … keeey.

Candies, cakes, and eggnog.

Turkey, ham, and stuffing.

Pumpkin pie.

My favorite.

Family, friends, and sleeping dog on hearth.

Fireplace crackles.

Cedar logs sizzle.

Cookies and milk.

Laughter, giggles, and squeals.

Stockings and gifts.

Silent wishes and happy, hopeful dreams.

Home.

Wish I was there.

Pepper spray, handcuffs, and puking drunks.

Radios, shotguns, and TASERS.

Spouses abused.

Battered.

Black eyes and broken bones.

Not their fault.

Dealers, robbers, and sad, pitiful kids.

No toys.

Lots of drugs.

Crack pipes burning.

No place to sleep.

No food, no heat.

Gunshots and stabbings.

Car crashes and suicides.

Crying, bleeding, and dying.

Ambulances, hospitals, and morgues.

Home.

Glad I have one.

Aren’t you?


Please remember the many police officers, fire crews, rescue workers, hospital staff, and all others who work to keep us safe during the holidays.

And, thanks so much to each of you who’ve helped our daughter’s battle with cancer through donations, prayers, gifts, and healing thoughts. She’s quite ill, her hair is now gone, and the pain she endures daily is intense, but her sweet smile still lights up a room, and my heart. 

Ellen, prior to receiving chemo.

Here’s how you, too, can help Ellen (our daughter). I cannot begin to stress the importance of each and every dollar. No donation is too small. Click here to help. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. You guys are the best and I don’t know how we’d make it through this without you!