Gold and Blue - "Prince Charles"Written by Ray Shay

Gold & Blue is a series of police stories which may be inappropriate for younger readers.  This is a small peek behind the badge of America's FinesLike most rookie cops, I was naive or, "real green" as one of the veteran police officers mentioned when he sat down next to me at one of my first police line-up.  I was not surprised.  It was pretty obvious Rookie police officers are all shiny and new.  As a trainee, your daily responsibilities are purposely limited, as much as they can be. Not much driving of the police car, talking on the radio, or writing complex reports.  If things turn ugly as they sometimes do, you may be tasked to make the most complicated and difficult decision of all ... using lethal force.

If a police recruit's duties were not limited, they would likely have sensory overload and ultimately foul something up or possibly get someone seriously hurt.  As a police trainee you are basically a ride-a-long with a gun. You are careful not to make the mistake of going, "hands on" with someone too early, or too late, or saying something stupid that results in you and your partner fighting your way out of a situation. 

Gauging the value of a new police recruit can sometimes be a crap shoot, until he or she has proven themselves in the frequently unforgiving streets of the City of San Diego. I think it is probably similar in the military.

If you were a new "grunt" in Vietnam or a seal team member going into your first combat mission in some foreign country, your fellow warriors are looking for someone they can trust to perform when the chips are down. 

I still recall my first phase, FTO (Field Training Officer) John Tefft.  He had the perfect personality to train, "fresh meat" as rookies are sometimes called. Officer Tefft was really funny.  His dry sense of humor was both hysterical and insightful. He had been a street cop for about fifteen years when he was unlucky enough to get stuck with me in my first day in the field as a San Diego Police Officer. 

 

We were a, "Frank" unit assigned to Western Division. The "Frank" radio designator alerted everyone from dispatchers, the watch commander and every officer in all seven patrol divisions, there was a rookie in the patrol car.  

It was probably our third day on the beat, and the sun was setting over Point Loma when we stopped at a traffic light on University Ave. It was a busy intersection with lots of traffic and people walking around. I was living the dream. I was smiling and waiving to people in the cars around us. I probably looked like Prince Charles riding in a royal motorcade on Victoria Street near Buckingham Palace.

Prince Charles

John had seen enough. He knew what he needed to do. Years later, when I was a Field Training Officer, I did the same type of thing.  As the police radio crackled in our marked patrol car, I was again smiling and waiving at a family in the car next to us, John asked very matter of fact, "What the hell are you doing?" I leaned back in my seat as I turned towards him. I could feel my twelve layers of Kevlar body armor push up the back of my collared wool uniform shirt.  

I was confused. I asked him, "what do you mean?" John repeated the same statement again, just slower this time, "What the hell are you doing?" His piercing blue eyes and the look on his face meant a lesson in being a real cop was soon to follow.  I will never forget what he said next, "look, let's get something straight right now. See all these people around us. They really do not give a shit if we live or die. They will not come to our rescue. The only people who will risk their lives to save us are other police officers."  

I still recall thinking, That is pretty harsh.  Everyone seems so nice. They smile at me and they are generally respectful. Maybe John has been pushing a beat car too long.  I think any citizens would help us.  Like when your carrying something heavy out of Home Depot and you need help loading it into your car.  I wondered if I would become negative about the human spirit the longer I was a cop.   I was of course an idiot. 

   

It did not take long to realize how accurate John really was. Citizens coming to your rescue is generally an illusion. I know there have been exceptions and a few people really do care. Especially that warm summer morning soon after the sun had begun to rise from the previous nights darkness and terrible violence. The elderly woman walked out of her home in Golden Hill and begin her slow shuffle towards us. She was wearing an old, worn bathrobe and her blue slippers were badly faded as they scrapped along the ground.  The woman was carrying four colored ceramic cups of coffee, two in each hand.  

The cups clanked together as she walked unsteadily towards myself and several other police officers who were guarding a crime scene. When she began to speak tears filled her eyes until the liquid began to overflow and stream down both of her cheeks.  She then haltingly said, "I am so sorry about your fellow officers dying last night." The momentary silence following her comments was unbearable.   Her words just hung in the air like unwanted proof it really did happen. That both Officers, Timothy Ruopp and Kimberly Tonahill were really gone, (click for more info).    

I really liked the woman and we thanked her for the coffee, but privately I wanted her to leave. She reminded me what we had all lost. The type of loss you pack away, to deal with at another time, not while you are on duty.  

So a few people do care, but you can never really rely on anyone but a cop. You are a fool if you think you can. I soon learned never to expect a citizen to help. Most people hesitate to act when they see any act of sudden violence and it is accentuated if it is a police officer who is fighting for his life or trying to restrain someone. I get it. Most citizens are afraid of not doing the right thing, don't really care, or are so unaccustomed to seeing violent acts, they simply stare.  

The best example of this phenomenon occurred soon after leaving field training.   My partner and good friend, John Tangredi and I were stopped at 32nd and Market street when a local nightclub was closing. There was well over 100 persons loitering around.   We noticed one particularly heavily muscled individual who appeared to be in a daze and possibly high on PCP, (Angel dust).  As I stepped out of our patrol car, I did not know he was a hardened street gang member who had recently been paroled from Chino State Prison for killing a man.  

It all happened so quick. With a deep guttural sound, his right hand suddenly struck me across my wind pipe, pinning me against my marked patrol car as his left hand unsnapped my holster and began removing my sidearm.  A combination of powerful moves

which are practiced in state prisons across our country.   

To keep precious air flowing into my lungs, I twisted my upper body while struggling to hold on to my firearm.  As John and I took the fight to the ground, I recall glancing over his shoulder and seeing a sea of different faces staring at us.  No one moved to help us.  The scene turned more chaotic and threatening when the crowd then began screaming at us and closing in.  It was like a bad sequel of a Batman movie where citizens turned on the peacekeepers.  

The crowd then began throwing things and yelling at us to let him go, as we struggled over both the trigger and direction of the barrel of my department issued Smith and Wesson handgun which was fully loaded with six hollow point lead bullets.  

The crowd seemed unaware that if the hammer struck any of the six primers, the gun powder would detonate and there there would be a deafening roar followed by a burst of dark smoke trailing the 148 grain hollow point bullet on its path down the spiraled lands and grooves inside the metal barrel of my revolver.  The spinning red hot bullet would then exit my handgun and not stop until it mushroomed on impact. As I had learned early on in police work, a bullet has no conscious and does not care who or what it strikes.  

John was so right.  This was not a Home Depot parking lot.  As we fought on the darkened pavement, John Tangredi calmly broadcast "cover now" over the screams of the crowd.  A call for help which is one step below "11-99" which would have gone to a city-wide emergency request for assistance.   We could hear the approaching sirens as we yelled at the crowd to "get back" while still struggling to maintain control of the suspect and retain my sidearm.    

The crowd ultimately parted as the sound of fellow police officers running down the street with batons jingling in their rungs as red and blue lights reflected off the graffiti covered walls of the nightclub.  Despite the potential lethal confrontation, each citizen still wanted to retain their seats in the front row.  

It was just as Officer Tefft had warned me. It was not the public, but fellow police officers who risked their lives to save us.  It is a strange conundrum to realize the same police officers would also do the same for anyone in that violent crowd or any other complete stranger.   

The same manner that San Diego Police Officers Timothy Ruopp, Kim Tonahill and Gary Mitrovich were performing their duties on that fateful night in Grape Street Park.  

   

 

Ray & Theresa Shay  

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