Deer in the Headlights

The snow started to come down thick and heavy as the cruiser rolled to a slow stop. The officer noticed two figures shuffling in between the vehicles, realizing that they didn’t belong in the parking lot.

Baker 5, I’ll be out with two.

The officer and his partner approached them; a middle-aged woman and teenage boy, both looking guilty as sin. They stood sandwiched by parked cars of all description. He started asking the woman questions; her name, her address, her date of birth. Her answers were all rather dubious. Ma’am, are you SURE you were born in 1934? The boy was her son, she said. The car next to her was also hers, she said. She was in the parking lot waiting for a friend. The officer kept asking questions; soon he ran out of them. Meanwhile, the woman and the boy continued to meander in and out of the parked cars. “What else can I possibly ask her?” he wondered to himself as he followed the two around, occasionally glancing woefully at his partner who glanced just as woefully back at him. His notepad had become damp from the snow, and his ballpoint had ceased to function entirely.

Suddenly, a flash of inspiration came upon him. He retreated from the maze of vehicles, leaving his partner to hold down the fort while he took care of business with the dispatcher.

Baker 5, file-check! First of, uh, rather last of Juju, that’s um, J-Juliette… ah…

He finally got through the file check, but the airwaves offered no help. He tried again with the license plate of the car claimed by the woman and again was met with silence. Jumping back into the fray, the officer prodded the woman for information about the car. She circled around the vehicle in question, reading bumper-stickers in an attempt to sound knowledgeable about the thing. A light-bulb went on in the officer’s head. I bet it’s not her car! Ask for her keys! He did so. The car was dead, she told him. Emboldened by her unwillingness, the officer decided it was time to act. He was too late.

The woman casually strolled towards the cruiser. Following her, the officer yelled, “Hey, you can’t go in there, ma’am!” Undaunted, the woman hopped in the driver’s seat and began rolling toward the now-helpless officer.

Baker 5, um, I need backup to my location! 10-39!

And so the recruit’s first scenario came to a close.

Becoming a Poh-leece

Tonight I sat down for the traditional hour of COPS on Fox. Even though the show adheres to a strict pattern and is heavily edited, I still really enjoy watching. As I learn more and more about the profession, I notice more and more things about what I see on the show that I didn’t before. For example, I just learned this past week what it means to double-lock handcuffs; tonight I saw it happen for the first time on TV, even though I previously had watched handcuffs being double-locked on the show a dozen times or more.

It’s a lot like percussion. As a drummer, I notice so much more about music that I listen to than I ever thought possible. This is both a blessing and a curse. Being a drummer is a curse because I can no longer just listen to music and enjoy it (unless it’s the Beatles). I hear the drums. That’s all. I interpret the music from the perspective of a percussionist, no longer just a listener.

This phenomenon is beginning to happen to me with law enforcement. As I watch COPS, I now see the officer taking notes on his hand because he forgot his notebook that night. I see the slight tremor in an officer’s hands as he attempts to double-lock handcuffs after a fight with a suspect. I wonder to myself why the nameplate is attached to the pocket flap rather than just over it. The little details that are lost on the average observer are beginning to stand out.

These days when I listen to a song, especially if it’s funk or jazz, I think about what I would play if I were the one with the sticks in my hand. I listen to the groove, the breaks, the fills, the accents, and make a note to try them out myself later on. Similarly, these days instead of watching COPS for entertainment, I think of every segment as a training video. It’s a bit of a bummer because I can remember watching the show and just wanting to drive fast with the lights on.

For the Love of the Game

Many things were learned in Week 4. It’s very helpful to analyze what’s going on around you rather than just letting the days fly by in anticipation of graduating. The most important lesson I gained this week was how to handle irritations originating from co-workers. Or in this case, fellow recruits.

Without going into detail, I’ve had some minor confrontations with squadmates about trivial issues. I discovered that regardless of how minor or trivial the circumstances were, I still found myself frustrated, angry, and even resentful about what was going on. After thinking about it for a bit, I asked myself, “Seriously? You’re already getting upset about this crap when an entire career of working with people like this awaits you?” Now is the time to learn how to effectively deal with annoying coworkers, not how to get my panties in a bundle over nothing.

A couple nights ago I finished reading David Simon’s Homicide. A truly amazing book, one which I would consider a must-read for serious law enforcement enthusiasts. One passage of the book really spoke to me regarding the above circumstances. One of the players in the book, Balitmore Police Detective Donald Kincaid, gets extremely frustrated about the conduct of one of the other detectives and it eventually leads to his early retirement. Here’s what Simon had to say about it:

For a detective or street police, the only real satisfaction is the work itself; when a cop spends more and more time getting aggravated with the details, he’s finished. The attitude of co-workers, the indifference of superiors, the poor quality of the equipment–all of it pales if you love the job; all of it matters if you don’t.

Make It Happen

A month into the Academy and I have confirmed that I really enjoy writing police reports.  This comes as no surprise to myself.  Many of the law enforcement officers I’ve talked to over the past months about the job have tried to warn me about the “boring” parts of the job, to include report writing.  To me, report writing is energizing.

I was saved by providential circumstances today, when once again I left my uniform belt at home.  Upon realizing this, my first inclination was to just not wear it in the hope that nobody would notice.  I then chastised myself mentally; you need your belt, I said.  It’s part of the uniform.  So suck it up and go get it.  What saved me was that PT got out early, allowing me to get the belt and be back in class with more than enough time left over.  And guess what?  Surprise inspection after class.