First let me thank many of you for
your encouragement to keep writing. It's funny because I don't really see
myself as a writer. Many years ago, I would write letters to my mom and
dad about my adventures as a rookie cop in Logan Heights. My dad told me
several times to never stop writing. He is yet, once again, proven
correct. Why do our parents seem smarter the older we get?
I think I am like my dad in many
ways, but more like my mom in others. One of my traits I got from my mom
is hating to see someone loose. I do not necessarily even need to know
the person. It is always worse if it is someone I care about, I am
responsible for, or I am tasked with keeping them safe. Their loss seems
to impact me more then my own failings. It digs at my core. Just
like it did my mom.
When I was a child of ten or eleven years old, I dreamed of owning a brand, new deep maroon painted bicycle. It was gorgeous. It seemed to fill my thoughts for weeks. It was all shiny and new at the local Schwinn bike shop. I always stopped and stared at it. It was close to Christmas and I knew my mom was trying desperately to find a way to buy it for me, (walls were thin in our home and I heard the arguments) but the money was simply not there.
My mom tried to hide her tears when
she told me, "we" could not get the bicycle. I told her it was
ok, that I really didn't like the bike that much anyway. We both lied in
our own little ways. Me pretending not to see the tears forming in
the corner of her eyes as she turned to wipe them and her letting me think she
believed I was telling her the truth. One of those little lies between a
mom and her son. A lie that when you look back you realize how
unselfishly your parents gave everything they could to you.
Hating to see others loose has
helped to shape me. It has made me a better negotiator. As a cop in
poor neighborhoods you negotiate allot. You also have the opportunity to stand
up for the underdog. You could turn, "loosers" into
"winners" with one decision. You could put, "wife
beaters" into jail as well as gang members who preyed on their own
neighbors and their community like overweight, great white sharks that
mistakenly thought they were at the top of the food chain. I admit
it. I enjoyed the sounds of metal handcuffs as they made the
unmistakable, "clicking" sound when encircling the wrists of a
predator. Regardless of how long County Jail may keep them, it reminded
them in a small way that in this country and on this particular night, they
were not above the law.
After about six years on patrol, I
moved to a, "TO" or Training Officer position at the Regional Police
Academy. The place where we would bring raw recruits from civilian
life to that of being a police officer. Other then my many years on the
SWAT and the Gang Suppression Teams, I think it was my favorite assignment.
Over half way through one of our almost nine
month training cycles with my group of about thirty officers, I was watching
them complete a mandatory, timed qualification night shoot at the SDPD Police
Range. The testing involved a combat portion where each recruit had to
remove a shotgun from the patrol car with the emergency overhead lights
flashing. The lights partially illuminating multiple targets. They were timed
as they exited the police car simulating a running gun battle where they had to
engage multiple targets, needing a minimum number of center body hits in a very
short period of time.
Watching the firearms instructors put my section of officers through this testing was to say the least painful. So much of life is about mental focus. Without going into too much detail they sucked. It was contagious. About a third of my recruits failed the shoot. It was like watching one of the police academy movies. They lost their confidence. It was as if they were Austin Powers in one of his, "spy movies" and somehow Dr. Evil had taken their precious, "mojo". They had the skills. it was all a mental failure.
The problem with failing a required shoot is
that if you fail the remediation test the following week you are fired, cut
loose, sent packing. It is as black and white as a marked patrol car. If
you cannot demonstrate you can shoot under pressure in a controlled
environment like a firing range where people are not shooting back at you, you
have no business carrying a gun on the streets of San Diego. I strongly
agree with the standards and over time took that treasured gold badge from
several recruits before they took the long walk to the parking lot and back to
civilian life. Still it was tough, because I knew these recruits had the
skills to pass the test.
Prior to being dismissed for the evening we
all did our regular push ups together. During this particular academy class, my
Lieutenant had a new directive of no disciplinary push ups. Another dumb
idea. So, we of course, did a heck of allot of celebratory push
ups. Before breaking ranks for the evening, I told the recruits to
get some rest and we would fix it tomorrow. I honestly did not know how
we were going to fix it. I knew I would find a way. As I drove home
in my old white Toyota tercel, (slightly crushed on one side) I struggled with
their failure. It really bothered me. They were my responsibility.
I kept thinking they just had a mental block.
What would Austin Powers do?
When I walked into the academy classroom the
next morning, everyone was dressed in their physical training gear. White
police academy t-shirts, blue running shorts. The short running shorts which
would make our three sons, Troy, Raymond and Ryan cringe. As I
walked into class the recruits jumped to attention, staring straight ahead and
yelled out their customary, "Sir, good morning sir"! I knew
what I was about to do would like likely get me in trouble with my
Lieutenant. We did not get along. Again, I tested the edges.
But I looked at all those eager faces and I knew I could not let them down.
Officer Paul Houlsen was an African American
recruit about six feet four inches tall and about two hundred and forty pounds
of solid muscle. His million dollar smile and southern drawl accompanied
his awesome voice. When he spoke it was like warm honey being spilled
over hot, buttered biscuits. It makes me smile thinking about him.
I remember looking him in the eye and saying, "recruit Houlsen I want you
to lead our section on a chair run". He of course yelled,
"yes sir" even though he and the rest of the recruits had absolutely
no idea what I wanted them to do. By the glint in their eyes they knew I
had something special planned. I told them to fall out and take their Miramar
College issued desk chairs with them. So they did.
They hustled out of the classroom with each
recruit carrying their chairs as they fell into formation. As we broke
ranks and started running in a single column up to the grinder, each student
was carrying their chair in front of them with both hands. As directed,
Recruit Houlsen led cadence with his booming and beautiful voice that was
echoed by the other recruits, "Chair run, ..here we go, ...all the
way.... Got my chair...above my head... Out front... Oh yeah ... Love my
chair ...here we go!". They were so excited. It broke the stress
from the previous evening. I heard some sudden laughter coming from the
front of the section and they started chanting even louder and louder. As
I passed my Lieutenant's office I then knew why.
Standing outside his office, as he often did, was my SDPD Lieutenant smoking a cigarette. I'm not sure how to describe the look on his face. I glanced at him once and could not look anymore. We both knew I was toast when I returned. Of course with my luck, standing right beside him in this early morning hour was none other then the Dean of Miramar College. My Lieutenant's cigarette hung loosely from his fingers as his jaw appeared to be dropped. I could only imagine what the Dean of the College was likely asking my frazzled Lieutenant, "Bill, where is Officer Shay and his recruits taking my chairs"? I looked straight ahead as I listened to Officer Houlsen's voice. I kept thinking, let's get to the grinder quick and do this thing.
With the morning sun rasing from the
east scattering long shadows across the grinder, we lined up all the
chairs in a row. For about the next forty-five minutes every recruited
practiced the shotgun combat shoot. No shotgun, no cars, no targets.
But by goodness, we had the police car seats. We mentally and
physically walked through all the steps of the combat shoot. They
even yelled, "boom" when they cycled their imaginary shotguns.
They each were reminded to visualize being successful. Like I said, I
think life is mostly mental. When I returned to the Police Academy my
well deserved, ass chewing was waiting. I could still smell the smoke on
my Lieutenant's breath as he yelled. It reminded of the scene from Top
Gun, when Maverick and Goose, "buzzed" the tower. "I want some
butts"!
You know, I never regretted the infamous,
"chair run". Even while my Lieutenant was yelling. I knew in my
heart I had fixed my recruits. They had their badly needed,
"mojo" back. When every one of them passed the combat shoot and
ultimately strode across the expansive stage at the Marine Corpe Recruit Depot
at graduation, I was so proud of each them. Just like my mom. I
like seeing people win.
By the way, Officer Paul Houlsen, (shown in
above photograph, years later to my right) proudly served about ten
years on SDPD before returning to a small city, I believe in Georgia, where he
became the Chief of Police. I know exactly what Austin Powers would
say, "Yeah Baby.... Shagolicious",
Have an awesome week!
