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NOTE: 07/14/14 - I am bumping this story, because it has an update, which took place took place a couple days ago. It will be at the end of the thread.
This portion posted in May, 2007.
Just a sea-story, and even I don't know if there's a point/moral to it, or a reason for telling it...but here it goes, anyway...
Yesterday, I was finishing up a call I had cancelled for another unit when I heard someone shout out, "Hey, Sergeant M!"
I had not seen him in years. T was a, sometimes, radio car partner who I liked (but did not love) to work with, in Hollywood, in the 80's. He was an Army Ranger in Vietnam, a martial artist, a sometimes technical advisor/stunt player in movies/TV. He was a sometimes bodyguard for various high-profile clients. Despite the fact we thought he was full of BS, sometimes, I had seen his DD214 (verifying his MOS, and awards). A low-end men's magazine had chronicled some of his story, complete with photos (prior to the creation of Photoshop). A real character, he was. Maybe he still is.
The few times we worked together, we were always getting guns off people.
His off-duty life was nothing I longed for...his numerous 'girlfriends' were the lower-end exotic dancers, and looking back, I'm sure he made friends with many of the working girls on Sunset Blvd. He was the stereotypical guy that would hump a pile of rocks, if he thought there was a female snake inside, he could get at. These contacts, however, resulted in one of my favorite arrests. Some "girls" had told him about a 30-something white guy in a beat-up compact, with a gun under the seat.
Sure enough, one midnight the guy drove right by us. We stopped and took him down, high-risk style. While T placed him in the back seat, I searched under the driver's seat and came up with a loaded .38. I walked back to the police car and told T, "Yeah, I got the gun." The suspect in the back seat said, "Hey, that's not my gun!" I told the suspect, "Yeah, they all say that, pal." The suspect contiunued, "No, that's not my gun, that's my brother's gun...my gun is the .380, under the seat!" A return trip, to the suspect's car, yielded a loaded .380, ninja throwing stars, knives, handcuffs, lots of wierd stuff.
Another night, T and I found three car burglars in a garage, across from the back fence of the police station. Two of the three guys were armed with loaded guns.
Although I had fun working with T, his personal habits annoyed me. His uniform went days without ever visiting the dry-cleaners. His leather gear and polish had stopped speaking, years ago, and reconciliation wasn't ever going to happen. Often, he showed up for work minutes late, and I would catch a whiff of whichever street denizen he had just shared the dirty sheets with. Not only was I getting his B.O., but hers, as well.
One night my car broke down on the way to work. Rolling in an hour late, I saw the biggest apartment building fire, I had ever seen, off in the distance from the freeway. I learned that T had actually leaned over a fire escape railing and, one-handed, caught a baby which had been thrown by a mother from one of the upper floors. Five people died in that fire. More could have, if it weren't for T, and the other cops present.
T was awarded our department's medal of valor. Tommy Lasorda was the narrator for the event. Lasorda complimented T for his "catch." Darryl Gates had just recently made the remark about how the "choke hold affects black people differently than it does normal people." When Gates placed the ribbon around T's neck, T (who is African-American) whispered to Gates, "Careful with that ribbon, Chief, you can see I ain't all that normal!"
In the wake of the 1992 riots, T was placed on the list of officers, who were identified as "problem." By that time, I had promoted to sergeant and moved on from Hollywood. We lost touch and as I said, he wasn't my kind of guy, given his choice in playmates.
Later, there were allegations of sex with underage girls, improper relationships with drug-dealers/strip-club owners...add insubordination and you know the outcome. He was fired with 18 years on the job. Depending on which officers you talked with, I would hear his firing described as way overdue, or the usual department railroading of a good, street cop! That was in the day when one could not cash-out the pension contributions. He later sued, successfully, for a stress disability pension. He also had a smaller military service disability pension, for his combat wounds. I heard he was still supporting his children in Vietnam, as he had left a couple behind.
The local U.S. Courthouse hired him as a Marshall. Another city PD gave him a CCW permit, as our department would not. And then...
One night he got into a beef with a can collector/transient over the use of a payphone, or the transient's bothering of a liquor store owner, who allowed T to eat candy, drink soda, and read magazines, in exchange for "security" prior to his shift at the courthouse. T shot the man dead. A blurry video showed him picking up his brass. A prostitute witness told detectives, "Hey, he's one of you guys...or was!" She eventually picked him out of the photo lineup - they used his old police ID photo.
Eventually in custody, he said he had shot the man in self-defense and had tried to call the police, but the line was busy. The best deal he got was ten years for manslaughter. I have since seen his rap. He's got a "tail."
And there he was, out and about...providing me a business card with the CIA logo on it, describing himself as an "Operations Specialist" - "America's Jedi Knights." I am not making this story up. Another old partner believes this murder conviction was a cover story for T's covert activities in Afghanistan. Someone still buys his BS. Not me.
We spoke about mutual friends, my plans to retire, and carefully avoided his story, altogether.
He is now 60 years-old. His one-time height of 5'11" is now about 5'8". His hair is either gray or missing in some places. His skin has a dusty appearance to it. His teeth are bad. Yet, he still looks like he could kick a...tail, or two...but he's just had eight, or so, years to hone his fighting skills, while looking over his shoulder.
One more thing...he was wearing what looked like a badge on his belt...and as I drove away, jacking up the air conditioner, I wondered if there had been anything else under that worn, faded, gray Members Only jacket...on a scorching, hot, 97 degree day. Maybe I didn't want to know.
This portion posted in May, 2007.
Just a sea-story, and even I don't know if there's a point/moral to it, or a reason for telling it...but here it goes, anyway...
Yesterday, I was finishing up a call I had cancelled for another unit when I heard someone shout out, "Hey, Sergeant M!"
I had not seen him in years. T was a, sometimes, radio car partner who I liked (but did not love) to work with, in Hollywood, in the 80's. He was an Army Ranger in Vietnam, a martial artist, a sometimes technical advisor/stunt player in movies/TV. He was a sometimes bodyguard for various high-profile clients. Despite the fact we thought he was full of BS, sometimes, I had seen his DD214 (verifying his MOS, and awards). A low-end men's magazine had chronicled some of his story, complete with photos (prior to the creation of Photoshop). A real character, he was. Maybe he still is.
The few times we worked together, we were always getting guns off people.
His off-duty life was nothing I longed for...his numerous 'girlfriends' were the lower-end exotic dancers, and looking back, I'm sure he made friends with many of the working girls on Sunset Blvd. He was the stereotypical guy that would hump a pile of rocks, if he thought there was a female snake inside, he could get at. These contacts, however, resulted in one of my favorite arrests. Some "girls" had told him about a 30-something white guy in a beat-up compact, with a gun under the seat.
Sure enough, one midnight the guy drove right by us. We stopped and took him down, high-risk style. While T placed him in the back seat, I searched under the driver's seat and came up with a loaded .38. I walked back to the police car and told T, "Yeah, I got the gun." The suspect in the back seat said, "Hey, that's not my gun!" I told the suspect, "Yeah, they all say that, pal." The suspect contiunued, "No, that's not my gun, that's my brother's gun...my gun is the .380, under the seat!" A return trip, to the suspect's car, yielded a loaded .380, ninja throwing stars, knives, handcuffs, lots of wierd stuff.
Another night, T and I found three car burglars in a garage, across from the back fence of the police station. Two of the three guys were armed with loaded guns.
Although I had fun working with T, his personal habits annoyed me. His uniform went days without ever visiting the dry-cleaners. His leather gear and polish had stopped speaking, years ago, and reconciliation wasn't ever going to happen. Often, he showed up for work minutes late, and I would catch a whiff of whichever street denizen he had just shared the dirty sheets with. Not only was I getting his B.O., but hers, as well.
One night my car broke down on the way to work. Rolling in an hour late, I saw the biggest apartment building fire, I had ever seen, off in the distance from the freeway. I learned that T had actually leaned over a fire escape railing and, one-handed, caught a baby which had been thrown by a mother from one of the upper floors. Five people died in that fire. More could have, if it weren't for T, and the other cops present.
T was awarded our department's medal of valor. Tommy Lasorda was the narrator for the event. Lasorda complimented T for his "catch." Darryl Gates had just recently made the remark about how the "choke hold affects black people differently than it does normal people." When Gates placed the ribbon around T's neck, T (who is African-American) whispered to Gates, "Careful with that ribbon, Chief, you can see I ain't all that normal!"
In the wake of the 1992 riots, T was placed on the list of officers, who were identified as "problem." By that time, I had promoted to sergeant and moved on from Hollywood. We lost touch and as I said, he wasn't my kind of guy, given his choice in playmates.
Later, there were allegations of sex with underage girls, improper relationships with drug-dealers/strip-club owners...add insubordination and you know the outcome. He was fired with 18 years on the job. Depending on which officers you talked with, I would hear his firing described as way overdue, or the usual department railroading of a good, street cop! That was in the day when one could not cash-out the pension contributions. He later sued, successfully, for a stress disability pension. He also had a smaller military service disability pension, for his combat wounds. I heard he was still supporting his children in Vietnam, as he had left a couple behind.
The local U.S. Courthouse hired him as a Marshall. Another city PD gave him a CCW permit, as our department would not. And then...
One night he got into a beef with a can collector/transient over the use of a payphone, or the transient's bothering of a liquor store owner, who allowed T to eat candy, drink soda, and read magazines, in exchange for "security" prior to his shift at the courthouse. T shot the man dead. A blurry video showed him picking up his brass. A prostitute witness told detectives, "Hey, he's one of you guys...or was!" She eventually picked him out of the photo lineup - they used his old police ID photo.
Eventually in custody, he said he had shot the man in self-defense and had tried to call the police, but the line was busy. The best deal he got was ten years for manslaughter. I have since seen his rap. He's got a "tail."
And there he was, out and about...providing me a business card with the CIA logo on it, describing himself as an "Operations Specialist" - "America's Jedi Knights." I am not making this story up. Another old partner believes this murder conviction was a cover story for T's covert activities in Afghanistan. Someone still buys his BS. Not me.
We spoke about mutual friends, my plans to retire, and carefully avoided his story, altogether.
He is now 60 years-old. His one-time height of 5'11" is now about 5'8". His hair is either gray or missing in some places. His skin has a dusty appearance to it. His teeth are bad. Yet, he still looks like he could kick a...tail, or two...but he's just had eight, or so, years to hone his fighting skills, while looking over his shoulder.
One more thing...he was wearing what looked like a badge on his belt...and as I drove away, jacking up the air conditioner, I wondered if there had been anything else under that worn, faded, gray Members Only jacket...on a scorching, hot, 97 degree day. Maybe I didn't want to know.
light bulb)! 
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