The ScarecrowWritten by Ray Shay

Gold & Blue Is a series of police stories which may be inappropriate for younger readers.  Most people have no idea what it is like to be a law enforcement officer. This is a small peek behind the badge of America's Finest.

I always liked Jerry W.  He was a dark skinned African American, San Diego Police Officer and one of my FTO's, (Field Training Officers).  Jerry had a reputation of being tough. I like tough. His barrel chest, bright smile and engaging laugh made him memorable, but Jerry did not share many smiles or laughs with me.  I understand why he didn't, after all, he thought I was going to get him killed.

I still remember waiting in the coffee shop at Southeastern Division Police Sub-station on that hot summer night in the early eighties.  Jerry did not know I could hear his voice as he told a police supervisor, "Sarge, he is unsafe." I knew the, "he" Jerry was was referring to was me.

It was the first and only time in my field training experience to be a San Diego Police Officer,  I thought I may get fired.  In police work you can make mistakes, but errors that place your fellow officers in fear of being carried by six of their closest friends as taps are being played, and their loved ones weep, are not tolerated. And they shouldn't be. 

In my first short four months of field training as a rookie police officer in the streets of San Diego, I learned first hand what death really looked like.  Not the "TV" or "movie" deaths most of you are familiar with, but murders where the end was not necessarily quick or painless, and much messier then you can imagine.

Fortunately at the time, I had not yet witnessed the death of a fellow police officer.  A few months earlier, I attended SDPD Officer Kirk Johnson's funeral.  Kirk was a rookie Police Officer who had been on the department only two years when he drove his patrol car into a parking lot located in the University City area of San Diego and was ambushed.  Kirk was shot dead with his sidearm securely snapped in his holster.   

(More details on SDPD Officer Kirk Johnson).  

SDPD Officer  Kirk Johnson

It was always strange walking past Kirk's police car when it was locked up as evidence in a cage at Central Division, while homicide investigators looked for his killers.  I would sometimes stop to look at his white police car sitting alone behind the fence. The bullet holes in the driver's side door and frame were silent testimony to the tragic events of that evening.  We all knew it was just a matter of time before our garage people would patch the holes, repaint the car, and send it back out on patrol.  No one wanted to drive a car that seemed to be the only witness to Kirk's violent death.

Cops know it, but citizens have to stretch to comprehend that regardless of what casualties are taken on a shift, you always know the next shift of police officers will go right back out into the streets of San Diego or any other city in America.  It would be a dishonor to those who had died in the line of duty not to do so.  San Diego is and will always remain our city.

An important element of the process of developing peacemakers are Field Training Officers, or FTO's as they are called.  They don't train new officers for the money. I believe they do it because they want to help. They want to guide what was once a civilian through the turmoil or hurricane of emotion and events they must endure if they are ever going to walk alone and bear the responsibility of keeping the peace.  In essence, it is extending a hand to a brother or sister officer that needs help to stand on their own.

As part of your police training you learn quickly there are many "don't evers." Don't ever sit in your car to write a ticket, don't ever sit with your back to the entrance of a restaurant, don't ever park in front of a hot crime scene and don't ever relax too soon.  Any violation of these rules can and will get you killed. It's a very long list.

Another vital, "don't ever" is to never stop so close to the car in front of you in traffic that you don't have enough room to leave to cover other officers, citizens in need of help, or to escape in case you are suddenly, "taking rounds" i.e. being shot at.  As the saying goes, If you cannot move your car in an emergency situation it is no longer a car, it is just a metal coffin with an engine.

That was the "don't ever" I kept messing up. As a fresh rookie driving a police car, the swirling sound of emergency radio calls, people being shot, family fights, drug addicts, drunks, transients, writing reports and trying to show confidence in a hostile and dangerous environment makes one feel like Dorothy in the tornado. The house is spinning so fast you can't seem to get your footing.

As I recall, Jerry and I were on Imperial Ave near Euclid Ave. on a searing hot Saturday night in July. Windows were wide open and air conditioning on full blast. AC that cooled our faces and arms but had no impact on our thoroughly soaked t-shirts under 14 layers of Kevlar body armor and a ballistic metal trauma plate covering our hearts that provide our bodies with life giving blood. Your senses are on edge because it is early evening on a hot Saturday night and you are waiting for the drive-by shooting calls to start rolling in.

I was focusing on doing everything right as I looked for criminal activity among so many people drinking beers and carrying their "boom boxes" on their shoulders as they strolled on the sidewalks. The traffic light changed ahead of me so I brought our patrol car to a stop. The next few seconds happened very quickly. You are trained early on to always scan your mirrors in anticipation of a threat.

We both heard and saw the low-riding vehicle approaching on our right. All four hardened street gang members were wearing their bright colored matching bandanas pulled down low across their foreheads. Their muscular and heavily tattooed arms were resting on the window frames as their car eased up alongside the right rear quarter panel of our car.  Jerry and I both looked to the front of our car and saw I had, yet again, pulled up tight to the car in front of us.  

With a raised curb to my left and a car stopped behind us there would be no escaping this confrontation. I had prepared our casket perfectly. Jerry sent me a searing glare and said one four letter word.  The word fully expressed the gravity of the situation and I wondered for a moment if it was the last word either of us would ever hear.

We both looked to our right and knew immediately our adversaries were well aware of our precarious position.  We were boxed in with no tactical advantages. To be flying their colors so prominently and "rolling deep" as they say, you can bet they had at least one rifle, shotgun, or semi automatic pistol on their laps or within easy reach.

I knew if either Jerry or I raised our right shoulders to try and draw our sidearms and hold them pointed under the window from a seated position they could likely fire their weapons and reload before we even broke leather.  If we pressed the electrical release on our dash mounted shotgun and tried to cycle a double 00 buck round into the chamber, it would also be a "gong show" moment. Both attempted actions would likely be the spark to an explosion we all knew was so close to detonating.    

The driver would not look over. The front right passenger and the rear passengers began to whisper. The right rear passenger scanned quickly looking around for other witnesses or cars. The tension hung in the hot summer air and was accented by the deep booming sound of the rap music emitting from their open windows.

Jerry used a tool that only veteran cops have.  I could see the muscles under his dark black sweat covered skin and face become very tense and he turned and looked directly at all four of the street gang members.  Jerry stared directly at them and did not say a word.  He showed absolutely no fear, just resolve.  He had faced evil people his entire career and with that look, I believe he saved both of our lives. You could see them hesitate.  The gang members slowly turned away from his intense gaze and began moving their heads slightly with the music they were playing. It seemed like an eternity before the light finally changed.

As the car in front of me pulled forward allowing space for me to move I began to accelerate. As we crossed through the intersection Jerry used the four letter word one more time as he told me to pull over. As I pulled to the curb, I knew I would not be driving anymore that night.  

As Jerry drove me to the police station in silence I looked out the window of our marked patrol car at the passing small homes and graffiti covered commercial buildings. I felt like I was no longer in the hurricane, but I was now the scarecrow, since I obviously had no brain.  Beneath my treasured gold badge and tan uniform, I felt like I was made of straw as pieces of my confidence swirled out the window and into the hot summer air before scattering among the bus benches and the dark pitted roadways.  

The days and nights that followed I ultimately rallied until I learned to stand on my own. In years to follow, I sometimes shared this story with my trainees, most of whom made it while others did not. Despite the short time period someone may wear a law enforcement badge it changes them forever. Jerry changed me and provided me life lessons for which I will be forever grateful. Lessons, I passed on to other brothers and sisters for the next twenty three years.

Give your children an extra squeeze during this holiday season and reflect on how fortunate we are there are peacekeepers past and present like Officer Kirk Johnson, who are out there risking it all to protect us and our families.      

Have a safe and enjoyable week,

 

Ray & Theresa Shay  

Info@TrustShay.com
 

  

Copyright 2012 All Rights Reserved.  No duplication of this material without written consent of Shay Realtors.