Blog #9: My personal choice to carry a firearm while off-duty: Is that a Glock .45 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

“Let him who desires peace prepare for war.”
-Flavius Vegetius Renatus

“Hey, rookie! You’re in the Wild Wild West now. Might wanna put some meat on those bones or the wind might carry you back home to mommy!” Laughter filled the roll call room. I didn’t dare turn around. The anonymous voice from the back of the room continued, “Make sure you meet me at the gym after end of watch!” I replied with an obedient “Sir, yes, sir!” I was assigned to infamous 77th Division. 11.9 square miles of an iniquitous part of the city located smack in the middle of South Central Los Angeles. A small section of the city where remnants of the crack boom from the 80’s still snarled it’s ugly teeth. Nefariously claimed by a culture of gang-warfare, toothless prostitutes and an illicit drug trade. It’s a place where children play gaily and naively in school yards adjacent to walls spray painted defiantly with “Rolling 60’s” “Hoover” “Nine Duece Crip” “Slob Killa” & the occasional “Fuck LAPD” or “187 Officer [insert name here]”. The local “crackheads” push shopping carts in masses. They trudge along with their jaundiced eyes & missing teeth, aged beyond belief. Their uncannily slim bodies proof that addiction had gripped their lives long ago. Liquor store walls lined by jobless alcoholics who drank all day and all night from brown paper bags, it’s contents a mystery.

The summer of ’05 was a particularly violent summer. The infighting between a violent street gang on the west side of the division filled South Central sewers with a steady flow of fresh blood. With each vicious homicide I continued to develop and hone my police skills. Sadly there was plenty of practice to go around. Setting up a crime scene became second nature to me. Even the Nation of Islam stepped in with a failed attempt to quell the black-on-black murders occurring on a daily basis. But even with their attempt at peace, a clash with police nearly broke out into a riot. It was surreal. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Every addict had crack. Every parolee ran from the police. Every gangster had a gun. Every pursuit ended with force. Every PCP suspect fought officers until the bitter end. Every officer involved shooting was one too many. It’s a small section of the city where bullets are fast, violence is plentiful and life is cheap.

Most police officers will remember their first year on probation for the rest of their lives. The dreaded “rookie year” is the first 13-months spent in the streets immediately following the academy training. It is a time period where you take everything you have learned and apply it to the streets. A probationary time alloted to determine if a person has what it takes to do the job or not. It’s sink or swim in a world full of hungry sharks where rookies are seen as the guppies at the bottom of the food chain. We had to earn our keep in a fast division and most of us figured out real quick we were far, far away from the safe & comfortable air-conditioned classrooms back in the academy!

On my very first day on the streets my probation officer had me remove my academy issued low-top parade shoes and put on my boots. He ordered me to add any additional ammunition and any additional handcuff case onto my duty belt. He had me get rid of my academy issued firearm holster (he referred to it as the “Take-Away 2000”) and replace it with a holster that had atleast double retention capabilities. He made it clear that certain things I will have to earn. However incidents unfold fast and hard in 77th Division and certain equipment can mean survival for the both of us. Little did I know that on my first day I would be counting bullet holes on a dead 22-year old drug dealer’s lower extremities, compliments of a fully automatic rifle. Little did I know I would be making the death notification to his hardworking mother. Little did I know a parolee would run from me while handcuffed with MY handcuffs on him. Little did I know I would conduct a search on a crack addict who had freshly defecated in his pants, therefore learning a valuable lesson in ‘gloving-up’ and what’s known in the medical world as ‘universal precautions’. And all on my first day! Every citizen, gangster, thug, pimp and stray dog I came in contact with could smell the brand new leather I wore. My virgin duty belt still squeaked from lack of use. My boots were untarnished and missing scuffs, further announcing my inexperience. My bald head screamed: ROOKIE!!! My stance was a perfect robotic posture. I might as well have had a neon sign above my head that read: “First Day Rookie!” I have to confess I didn’t know much about ACTUAL police work yet, but I was ready handle business if called upon!

Believe it or not, one of the first things I was taught early in my career was to lie. Honesty is a trait in my character and in my profession that I don’t take lightly. But even with that, I was taught to lie to strangers when I was off-duty. I was told to always have a different profession in mind when asked what I did for a living. It was a let down to not be able to share with others who I was and what I did. I was, and still am, extremely proud of my profession. So why was I taught to lie about my day job? Unfortunately, the stigma of being a police officer comes with negative perceptions, stereotypical assumptions and a bona fide hatred for what I do. Telling the wrong person I’m a police officer can often mean having to deal with small discomforts: bad service, “special” sauce in my food, questions, expectations, people shaking their heads in disapproval. Those are only little things. I can deal with that. But what if the person is a true cop-hater? That would suddenly put me in a hostile position when all I wanted to do was be honest during small talk with a total stranger.

So I thought of what profession would be fitting AND believable. What would suit me? Doctor? Can you see me in a white coat with a stethoscope hanging on my neck? Me neither. Fighter jet pilot for the good ol’ U.S. of A? I could go on and on with stories of top secret combat missions behind enemy lines! Impressing the ladies! Then once they asked too many questions I could end it with the classic: “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” That would be rad! Hmmm....naw, not believable enough. I thought some more. Maybe I could tell people I was a Chip’n’Dales Dancer. I looked down at my beer belly and knew THAT idea was not an option either. After a while I noticed the question came up a lot more than expected. So I finally decided on the pseudo-career of firefighter. Both the professions of firefighting and police officer are in the business of saving lives. The difference is people actually like firefighters. So there it was. I was officially unofficially a firefighter for the city of Los Angeles. I was on probation when I was told to lie about my profession while off-duty. And it didn’t take long to figure out there were more serious reasons to hide the fact that I was a police officer to strangers while off-duty.

This finally brings me to the topic at hand: My personal choice to carry a firearm while off-duty. I have debated quite frequently with a couple of my family members on this issue. I have been accused of trying to be a “tough guy”. So I want to attempt to find the fulcrum between the police officer mentality and the non-police officer mentality on this issue by explaining some of the reasons why most law enforcement personnel choose to carry their firearm while off-duty, or atleast MY personal reasons for doing so.

First and foremost I want you to remember that I chose to work in the very same community I lived in. I did that for over three and a half years. Only after realizing the danger that posed to my mother did I decide to move elsewhere. Even now that I moved I still frequent my old neighborhood when I visit my family and friends. Forget the fact that I’m a police officer for just a second. As a fellow survivor of the hood I understand the realism and frequency of violent crimes in the neighborhood I am from. I continue to live a big part of my life there. It is obvious that one can live in a bad neighborhood without being armed and live a relatively worry-free day to day life. But the fact that I am allowed to carry a concealed firearm off-duty and choose to do so has nothing to do with me trying to be a “tough guy” and everything to do with the protection of my family and friends when I am with them. I cannot protect them every second of the day, but knowing firsthand the violence that occurs, my sense of responsibility to protect them when that worst what-if scenario hits the fan is paramount in my soul! This reason for me carrying a concealed firearm while off-duty is THE most important reason for me doing so.

The second reason I wanted to explain is the fact that a police officer is more prone to encounter violence on AND off-duty as compared to a normal citizen. A sad truth in the world of ‘good guy vs bad guy’ in America is the notoriety a gangster will achieve if he/she assaults or even kills a police officer. Most gang members have been put away or know someone who has been put away for a long time behind bars. Their sociopathic ways always lead them to believe it was the cops fault that they or their loved one is doing or has done hard time. They truly believe that they are the victim and the police officer is the sole reason for their criminal record. This results in a hatred for any person in an police uniform. It’s an ugly game of cat-and-mouse on the streets of LA. As a police officer, I’m game when they are! It’s all fair play out there on the streets. However, when police officers are off the clock and their uniforms come off, the rules do not change. It’s a small world. There are countless stories of my co-workers being off-duty and running into a gangster or thug they arrested a week prior. Think about an off-duty officer in this situation with his/her daughter or son at the park or local supermarket. Should we as a society say, “Oh well! He’s off the clock! The gangster should know that and take it into consideration!” I’m hope the answer is an overwhelming “no”. The criminal element in todays modern world is even brazen enough to follow police officers home at the end of their shifts and ambush them! It’s frightening to know the general public never hears about these attacks. A police officer is called upon by the community for protection from gangsters and thugs on the street. They put themselves on the line to protect life and property. Sadly when they go home at the end of the night, the violent world of ‘cops and robbers’ continues. It doesn’t cease when they clock out for the day. It is a reality that police officers live with every day of their life and, in my eyes, a perfectly valid reason to carry a concealed firearm while off-duty.


April 16, 2007-Virginia Tech Massacre: 32 shot dead, 23 others wounded
April 20, 1999-The Columbine Shooting: 13 shot dead, 23 others wounded
November 26, 2008-Mumbai, India: 10 terrorists, 172 shot dead, 293 wounded


I searched “shooting rampages in America” for a few examples to list and was taken aback by the number of shootings at workplaces, shopping malls, schools, churches and parks across our country. So I simply listed three well known shootings above. In this modern day of terrorist attacks around the world and homegrown al Queda cells within our own borders, protecting our citizens is a priority. Be it from international or domestic terrorists. It is a daunting threat that looms precariously over our country and we must continue to find ways to protect our citizens on many fronts. Former President Bush took the police officer’s right to carry a concealed firearm one step further and allowed that right to be exercised in any state in the country. It was done in the interest of Homeland Security from both domestic and foreign terrorists. Like him or not, it was done in the interest of YOUR safety and livelihood as well. Whether it’s a terrorist attack on our soil, or simply someone gone postal in a public place with numerous potential unarmed victims (an unimaginable phenomenon that has occurred over and over and over again in our country), an armed off-duty officer is a benefit to our country, our society, our community and our families.

Some might argue that off-duty officers carrying a concealed firearm is a liability to our community and puts citizens in greater risk of injury. It’s imperative that I explain my thought process as a trained professional. An extensive part of my training, along with that of my colleagues, is our off-duty responsibility while being armed. I was taught that I am more useful as a good witness and alive rather that a dead hero. Drawing and exhibiting my firearm while on an off-duty capacity is even more dangerous than doing it while at work. I do not have the luxury of a partner, extra ammunition, a back-up gun, a radio to call for reinforcements, a bullet proof vest or even a uniform to provide an obvious identity of who I am & my intentions. Officers know these dangers well. I also have to balance the situation at hand and be sure it’s worth putting the loved ones I am with in precarious positions. Obviously it’s all thrown out of the window in an immediate defense of life situation, but these are decisions that have to be made at a moment’s notice. It takes a person with higher training and a true sense of responsibility to carry a firearm off-duty. We always have to AVOID conflict at all costs and always be the bigger person when challenged BECAUSE we are armed. I feel comfortable enough in my training and in the discipline of my trade to carry a firearm off-duty.

Throughout my probation and further into my career I have observed senseless violence at levels that boggle the mind. It has evolved into a greater sense of readiness (not to be confused with paranoia). With time, a part of me has become calloused to the initial sting of such violence. The frequency of robberies, murders, rapes and beatings on a day to day basis is an epidemic that slowly became part of the reality of my life. Have I became jaded in a sense? I would be lying if I said I wasn’t. As much as I love my profession, I make a conscious effort to balance out my off-duty life as a way to combat the harsh effects so much exposure to violence can have on my the mind, body and soul. But no matter which way you slice it, at the end of the day, even after I clock out and am officially “off-duty”, like it or not I will remain a police officer. My actions in my personal life are scrutinized at a higher level than a civilian. As a police officer, an error in judgement can cost me my job or even land me in prison. The same error in judgement committed by a non police officer will have little or no effect on that person’s profession. It’s a higher set of standards I live my personal life by and a way of life I accept with pride.

Certain career fields choose you. They are an encompassing representation of a person’s personality and character. If someone is lucky enough to be in a profession that they feel they were destined to do, it usually comes with a higher degree of passion in ones duties. In so many of these career fields when it comes time to clock out, the person lives their personal life as most do. However, in the core of them, the thread of what represents the foundation of their belief system can never be truly shut off. Law Enforcement is one of those careers.

Bottomline: no police officer wants to be put in such an unnerving situation. Especially while surrounded by their loved ones. But there are REAL reasons why I choose to carry my firearm while off-duty. It is not to be that “tough guy”, rather it’s the nature of my profession coupled with my sense of duty to protect the safety of family, friends, community and of course: myself.

Well, it’s that time again, time to “clock out!” Until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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Fallen Officer Since Last Blog: 4 Souls
Total Line-of-Duty Deaths for 2011: 73 Souls

Police Officer Robert V. Oswain
New York City Police Department, NY
End of Watch: Saturday, May 15, 2010
Age: 42
Tour of Duty: 10 years
Cause of Death: Toxic material inhaled during Sept. 11th 2001 terrorist attack
Survived by: Wife, parents & 5 siblings

Police Officer Andrew Garton
Hawthorne Police Department, CA
End of Watch: Thursday, May 26, 2011
Age: 44
Tour of Duty: 7 years, 6 months
Cause of Death: Motorcycle accident while providing funeral escort for fellow officer
Survived by: Wife & 2 children

Sergeant Kenneth Gary Vann
Bexar County Sheriff's Office, TX
End of Watch: Saturday, May 28, 2011
Age: 48
Tour of Duty: 24 years, 6 months
Cause of Death: Ambushed by gunfire while stopped at a red light
Survived by: Wife & 3 children

Police Officer Kevin Will
Houston Police Department, TX
End of Watch: Sunday, May 29, 2011
Age: 38
Tour of Duty: 1 year, 8 months
Cause of Death: Struck by a drunk driver’s vehicle while investigating a hit-and-run
Survived by: Expectant wife, 2 children & parents

Blog #8: “But You’re Raza! Why Are You Taking My Car?”

“Discussion is an exchange of knowledge; argument is an exchange of ignorance.”
-Robert Quillen

The outdated marquis at my middle school reads: “Beautiful Berendo”...but to the lesser non-aristocratic commoners, a better known name was “Berendo Burritos.” It was a condescending school moniker, yet it’s pupils (including myself) were strangely supercilious to it’s connotation. Maybe it was the burritos-in-a-bag we doused with salsa packets atleast once a week. Maybe it was the ESL classes we were all forced to attend. Or maybe it was the correlation of a “burrito” with a student body made up of mostly Latino immigrants. **Shoulder Shrug** What I DO know is those burritos tasted quite scrumptiously delicious and oh so Heavenly!!! : )

The school sat on a downward sloping street called Berendo. It’s front entrance crossed 12th St where a picture perfect staircase lead to the campus’ blue front doors. Above the doors was a medium sized marquis gallantly bearing our school motto. Stepping behind those doors was like entering a portal into the pubescent realm of adolescent existence. A world filled with life altering rumors, never ending peer pressure, countless moments of “first times” and traumatic homeroom crushes. Unwitting boys chasing girls with their eyes in a perplexed state of catatonic transfixion on the opposite sex. Zombie-like in their gait coupled with a bizarre smirk that could only equate to one thing: Pre-Teens playing the game of Growing Up, high from the hormones-on-acid coursing through their veins while they ran amok!

That was life in middle school during the early 90’s. We’d stop at Dino’s on Pico Blvd for dollar fries in a brown paper bag, translucent from the grease. We confronted the usual obstacles in Da Hood on our walks home, then we would return early the next morning to do whatever it was we did all over again. However, even with all the memories I shared with my closest friends during my tenure at Berendo Middle School, there was something that just didn’t fit. Even with the congruency in our upbringing and culture, there was always one factor in my life that made me different from most of my peers: RACE.

Everywhere around me were pressures to fill in the bubbles describing my race "accurately and completely". It was a normal question on various official forms and documents. The smudges of lead from erasing, filling and re-erasing those bubbles on my Scantrons proved my ethnocentricity. I was a bit sheltered in my home. Well, in BOTH my homes. I lived in a one bedroom apartment with my mother and my two elder brothers. We were a family of four who spoke Spanglish, ate Guatemalan food and went to a Catholic Church. All fine and dandy. On the weekends my older brothers and I would go to my fathers house, which included my younger brother and step-mother. My dad would speak to us in a quasi Thai/English language, we took our shoes off when we entered the house, we ate mainly Thai food and went to a Buddhist Temple. The juxtaposition of cultures was normal to me. It was the best of both worlds! It was great!

As I entered middle school, the idea of “identity” became all too clear to me, or should I say UN clear. I was Latino (or Hispanic, whichever makes you comfortable) in a school made up of mostly Latinos but for some reason it was important for my Latino friends and acquaintances to make it clear to me that I was “only half”. I was also Asian, but apparently my facial features were not Oriental enough for me be accepted on that part of the school yard. The normal question of my life was “What are you?” There was always a big bright asterisk floating just above my head like a huge, annoying, pulsating, class-5 zit!

I always wondered why the people around me didn’t let me be both races. I did not understand why I had to choose one or the other. I was always “only half”. Eventually that confusion metamorphosized into a strong acceptance of who I was. Today, all the applications and empty bubbles in the world could never make me question my identity. It’s pretty simple actually, I merely fill in the race bubble that reads “other”. I decided I would let others get caught up on labeling me, while I moved ahead.

(Side Note: My personal experience with identity is my own, I do not wish to take away YOUR personal identity. I do believe identity is an important part of culture and society. More importantly I respect whatever identity you choose for yourself.)

These personal experiences have molded me into a person who believes strongly in the acceptance of others no matter what. When I joined the police department, I incorporated this part of who I was into my work ethic in policing. It has been one of many successful mental tools I have used to make sense of all the senselessness around me.

Three years into my career. I was partnered up with one of my best friends. Life in my career field was all hunky-dory. I knew it all. Confident beyond belief. Young and loyal to the cause of justice. Then the day came when I realized the importance of my power and authority to conduct traffic stops and confiscate peoples cars and THAT is where our story begins:

It was a quiet and still chilly November night. The long johns under my uniform were no competition for the frigid wind that whipped through the cockpit of our police cruiser. On this particular night, I sat on the passenger seat. The right side of my face was icy cold to the touch. Keeping the windows rolled up while on patrol is a tactical no-no for various reasons. It’s a luxury we don’t have the benefit to enjoy. A tactical nuance that holds importance in more ways than one. We had just entered our police car after playing teacher/lecturer/psychologist/parent at a radio call of a family dispute. I immediately pressed my hands up to the heater vents and began defrosting my fingers. The feeling in my ears, nose and face slowly crept back from numbness. As we drove off into the brumal streets of Koreatown, I saw two cars up ahead with their hazard lights on and a person waving his arms attempting to catch our attention. An apparent traffic collision. Easy enough.

Our investigation of the traffic collision revealed that one of the parties did not have a license, registration or insurance. He had two small children who were appropriately bundled up. His car’s bumper was dented and scratched. The driver of the other car had a license. He drove by himself. His car a bit banged up as well. Thankfully, nobody was injured. My partner began the collision report as I began on the vehicle impound report. The unlicensed man was in his late 30’s. He was a family man. The paint chips on his clothing, callouses on his fingers and painting tools in his trunk where more than enough for me to understand that this was a hardworking man. Another unlicensed driver on the streets of Los Angeles. Like many other unlicensed Latino drivers, he was unable to get issued a driver’s license because he was undocumented. As I began my report, the unlicensed driver noticed me taking notes on his vehicle. I asked him if he needed anything from the car before I impounded it. He looked at me with a disgusted look. Then he said: “But You’re Raza! Why Are You Taking My Car?” (Raza=Race, referring to our assumed shared race) Apparently the angle of the street light upon my profile made me look more Latino than Asian on this particular evening. He then gestured over to his two children as if looking for pity.

A flurry of emotions ran through me when he said that. I felt anger. Angry at him for blaming me for HIS actions. I felt guilt. Guilty that my police authority was the reason for these kids walking home in the cold. I felt content. Content that justice was served for the other legally licensed driver. I felt sad. Saddened by all of the other issues concerning immigration that affect everyone in our community. I felt confusion. Confused on my intentions of being a police officer. I wanted to help people, but now I was taking away someone’s car at the scene of a fender -bender on one of the coldest days in the city’s history!

I eventually convinced myself that taking away his vehicle was not only mandated by law and my department, but also that it was the correct action to take. Allow me to take you on a walk through the mind of Me:

1. California State Law and my department policy state that I SHALL impound the vehicle of an unlicensed driver with a 30-day hold penalty. I have enough career survival sense to know that allowing these unlicensed drivers to continue driving opens myself and my department up for major liability. If I allow an unlicensed driver to drive and he/she becomes involved in an unfortunate accident, that accident will be my fault. Neglect-of-Duty issues arise and now I can lose my job. Especially if the accident is a serious one!

2. Getting a driver’s license requires a written exam and a driver’s test. The dangers and responsibilities behind a wheel are serious enough to make driving a vehicle a privilege not a right. Even a citizen or legal resident cannot have a driver’s license without passing these exams. It’s a right that gets taken away with the irresponsibility of driving as well.

3. Think about the fairness to other drivers on the road. Most of us pay our registration and insurance costs. Most of us would not want a person driving a vehicle who did not take the appropriate schooling and exams to drive safely. Especially when we are out there with our children in the car, right?

If nothing else helps to make you see the ugly side of unlicensed drivers, think about this before continuing all the hullabaloo about me impounding an unlicensed Latino’s car. I recently went to civil court as a witness for my girlfriend who was involved in a traffic collision with an unlicensed driver where he was at fault. Somehow, she still lost the civil lawsuit against a person who should have not been on the road to begin with. She is currently paying his medical expenses and his salary for days he lost at work due to the accident. It was a minor fender-bender. Believe it. We are all vulnerable to this. All of us.

The “But You’re Raza! Why Are You Taking My Car?” inquiry did bother me a bit. Someone asking me to give them leeway for the simple fact that we possibly share a common ethnic background equates to a form of racism. It’s an offensive gesture that challenged my integrity and my identity, but I stood strong in my beliefs of who I am. An officer impounding an unlicensed Latino driver’s car has nothing to do with race, or unfair immigration rights, or me being Raza. It has everything to do with protecting the community from injury, civil suits, costly vehicle repairs and hiked insurance prices.

I believe the issue of immigration is an extremely serious topic in our country today. It is especially significant in Los Angeles where the Latino community consists of almost half the population (48% county-wide and 46.5% city-wide, according to the latest census). It’s the second largest ethnic group in the city. The debate over immigrant rights is not what I wish to tackle on this blog. We can go back and forth on countless issues and remedies. Sure we can begin legislation to allow undocumented immigrants to apply for drivers licenses, but until then it would be a disservice and unsafe for the police to allow unlicensed driver’s to simply drive off without repercussion. The reasons I mentioned above cannot be ignored.

I also want to challenge you with this: The next time you see an officer impounding a person’s vehicle, remember first and foremost that you cannot judge that officer merely on the face value of what you see. There are many other factors in an investigation that you do not know. Those factors can range from drug charges to child abuse charges, from DUI’s to stolen vehicle charges. You simply do not know. Judging my police actions of impounding vehicles without knowing the full story is simply not fair. So the next time you see a police officer impounding a vehicle on the side of the street, I hope this blog will influence you to think about the big picture before shaking your head in disappointment.

This message has been brought to you by a proud “Berendo Burrito” alumni...until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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Fallen Officer Since Last Blog: 2 Souls
Total Line-of-Duty Deaths for 2011: 69 Souls

Border Patrol Agent Eduardo Rojas Jr.
United States Department of Homeland Security, DC
End of Watch: Thursday, May 12, 2011
Age: 35
Tour of Duty: 11 years
Cause of Death: Vehicle struck by train
Survived by: Wife & 2 children

Border Patrol Agent Hector Clark
United States Department of Homeland Security, DC
End of Watch: Thursday, May 12, 2011
Age: 39
Tour of Duty: 10 years
Cause of Death: Vehicle struck by train
Survived by: Wife & 2 children

Blog #7: My World of Donuts and Violence

The following video is a deep and emotional confession to the candid truisms of donuts & violence:

http://www.youtube.com/user/watchitbend7?blend=3&ob=5#p/a/u/1/GNn6Yy3aAtY

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Fallen Officer Since Last Blog: 2 Souls

Sergeant Brian Dulle
Warren County Sheriff's Office, OH
End of Watch: Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Age: 36
Tour of Duty: 12 years
Cause of Death: Vehicular assault
Survived by: Wife, three children, parents, and two siblings.

Trooper Andy Wall
Tennessee Highway Patrol, TN
End of Watch: Saturday, May 7, 2011
Age: 36
Tour of Duty: 7 years
Cause of Death: Motorcycle accident
Survived by: Parents, sister and girlfriend

Blog #6: Are Mandatory Verbal Warnings Before Utilizing Deadly Force Necessary?

“A good battle plan that you act on today can be better than a perfect one tomorrow.”
    - Gen George S. Patton

I had a debate with my Brother/Blog Editor, Dennis J. We debated about the pro’s and con’s of mandatory verbal warnings before utilizing deadly force as a police officer. At the end of the debate I realized I was unable to convey the importance of my point. Maybe it was my lack of debating skills. Maybe it was the Jack Daniels in my system. I’m not sure, but the debate was heated! I struggled all this week on a method to make the non-police mentality understand that mandatory verbal warnings equal deadly consequences for innocent victims and show too much fairness for murderers. Finally I decided to keep it simple. No need for statistics. No need for long descriptive scenes of tense stand-offs. It’s a simple game of What-If’s:

What would you do?

You see a gangster thug low life pointing a handgun at a cowering senior citizen’s head. (Sadly, a common occurrence and an actual scenario I observed from nearby surveillance cameras.) Mr. Lowlife yells at the victim, “Give me all of your money!!! I’ll fucking kill you!” His finger dangerously flirting with death as it hovered over the sensitive trigger. The senior citizen’s eyes are huge, filled with terror and panic. Mr. Lowlife doesn’t notice you there. You have a gun of your own.

What would you do?

1.Shoot him on the arm? What if you miss? What if you miss and then he kills the senior citizen? What if you DO hit him on the arm but it does not immobilize him and he kills the victim anyway? Then what?
2.Would you WARN Mr. Lowlife to drop the gun? What if he turns and shoots you before you can finish the statement? What if he gets startled and shoots the senior citizen?
3.Would you wait and hope he doesn’t shoot. Maybe he’ll just rob the senior citizen and leave. Or maybe not. What if? Are you willing to knock on his family’s door and tell them that they have to make funeral arrangements because you wanted to be fair and warn a criminal who had a gun pointed to their family member’s head?

I can What-If this scenario a thousand ways. This particular surveillance video showed Mr. Lowlife pistol whip the senior citizen into unconsciousness. He then went into his pockets and removed an unknown amount of money and a gold crucifix that hung from his neck. I want you to put yourself in the senior citizen’s place. This time it’s me who spots Mr. Lowlife pointing his gun at YOUR head. I’m watching it unfold as I draw my firearm from it’s holster. All the while my sharpshooter medal gleams proudly on my uniform chest. Would you want me to yell out a warning? Would you want me to attempt to shoot his arm? Would you want me to wait and see what happens in hopes of him not shooting you? Remember, his gun is pointing at your head. What actions are fair to you? Should I balance Mr. Lowlife’s rights with yours at that moment in time?

Think about somebody you care for deeply and endlessly. A grandparent, a son or dauhter, a parent, your husband or wife. Picture his/her eyes being huge, filled with terror and panic as that gangster thug low life points his gun to their head. As you helplessly watch this unfold, you see me in uniform with my gun. What would you want me to do? If you could yell at me to save your loved one, what instructions would you yell? Honestly. If it were my loved one in that situation I would want that cop to do what he is paid to do and shoot that lowlife! End his life and make it a quick death! Not because I like death. Not because I am some kind of trigger happy police officer, but because a sure quick death is the only way I can assure my loved one doesn’t get shot! The fair chance at life in this situation SHOULD be given to my loved one.

If we look at the other side of the coin, many more What-If situations can occur as well. What if the scenario is not so black and white. Maybe what you see is actually an off-duty police officer pointing a gun at a robber. Maybe a victim was able to wrestle the gun out of the suspect’s hands and has him at gunpoint while waiting for police to arrive. The ultimate decision to shoot falls on the trained officer’s determination of the totality of the circumstances. Given all the scenarios mentioned above, yes a verbal warning could prevent tragedy in certain situations. It’s an unfathomably difficult situation to be placed in. As a police officer, it is my duty to utilize my training and experience to make the right decisions on a case by case basis. By developing my training, constantly going over the countless What-If scenarios and learning from actual police occurrences around the world I continue to build and improve on my expertise. Thus, there is justification to trust that I, or any other officer, will make the best decision given the situation at hand.

No police officer wants to shoot an innocent person. No police officer will shoot at a person who they think is off duty officer or citizen protecting himself. If I were forced to give a mandatory verbal warning before shooting my firearm in every single situation imaginable, it would equate to neglect-of-duty on the police officer’s part when that innocent victim is shot. In my opinion the negatives of mandatory police warnings far outweigh the positives. Either way it proves once again that police work is no picnic!

Death and violence runs rampant in Los Angeles. We are used to the bad guy causing death and violence. But somehow when a police officer uses death and violence to protect life, the officer is scrutinized as a brutalizer rather than regaled as a hero. I’m not suggesting we have a parade for every officer involved in a shooting. But in scenarios like the first one mentioned above, the actions from a police officer that cause death and violence actually saves lives! If you cannot agree with that then stop reading here.

Applying to the police department was never an agreement to get shot. I don’t get paid to die. My profession does not have me sign a waiver saying I agree to be paralyzed by a bullet shattering my spinal chord. I signed up to protect life and property of citizens in my community. While I know the inherent dangers of police work, there is no stipulation of my own potential murder written in the job description. I am not aware of any one of my duties requiring me to give a criminal a fair chance to kill you or me first. There is no job in the world with these requirements. Think about our troops on the battlefields protecting our freedom. I want every single one of them to come home safe and healthy to their families. I assume that is a goal we all wish for. Because their duties include defending our shores through war, should we allow the enemy to shoot .50-caliber rounds at them BEFORE they defend themselves? That sounds silly and absurd. The battles on our own nations streets and neighborhoods are no different.

I gave an “extreme” example of the negative consequences a mandatory verbal warnings can have. The scary truth is that a scenario like Mr. Lowlife vs the senior citizen is actually not that “extreme.” This type of criminal violence is a sad and realistic truth. Having a mandatory verbal warning rule before utilizing deadly force will cause an officer’s hands to be tied behind his back when one of these tragic scenarios unfolds. Scenarios of life and death. Scenarios that have no room for compromise.

It is understandably hard to comprehend the fact that a person actually has the ability to shoot a gun at the face of complete innocence at point blank range. Even as a police officer who is constantly exposed to violence, I sometimes find myself shaking my head in disbelief when I am investigating certain crimes. Some situations may call for a verbal warning before the use of deadly force. However, binding an officer into giving a mandatory verbal warning before pressing the trigger does not account for all cases where innocent victims or police officers themselves would be placed in a greater chance of dying by doing so. Think about whose rights a police officer has the duty to protect at one of these situations. The possible outcomes from all the What-Ifs in the world will NEVER balance out on the criminal’s side.

If you don’t agree with my values on this matter, I hope I atleast gave you a different perspective. If, God forbid, you are ever in the grim situation of having a gun pointed at YOUR head, I hope I can be there for you with my sharpshooter medal, my gun and of course, my values on this matter...until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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Fallen Officers Since Last Blog: 2 Souls
Total Line-of-Duty Deaths for 2011: 65 Souls

Police Officer Rolando Tirado

Buckeye Police Department, AZ

End of Watch: Sunday, May 1, 2011
Age: Not available

Tour of Duty: 11 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived by: Wife and two children.

Captain Ralph Braden

Wartburg Police Department, TN

End of Watch: Monday, May 2, 2011

Age: 58

Tour of Duty: 22 years

Cause of Death: Assault
Survived by: Mother, step-father & brother

Blog #5: April 29th 1992

Inspired by my cousin, Melissa Waller.

An orange glow blazed brightly from the 12-year old's bemused face. He stood silent and transfixed on the scene before him. Like in a dream his ears were temporarily muffled by the shock and the fear. All sound was blocked out for a sliver of time as he looked on with hypnotized eyes. Black plumes of smoke cast off of his innocent eyes like a projection on an old silent movie screen. A fiery backdrop of hellish fire roared in silence behind him, evoking curious amazement in the 12-year olds expression. The horizon of haze ascending into the skies told a muted story of anarchy and chaos from the streets below. As this 12-year old stood on the roof of his apartment building four stories up, gazing into the orange glow, the sudden shatter of business windows snapped him back into reality.

Down below, the streets he was used to playing jovial games of 3-Flys-Up and Pickle with other neighborhood kids had transformed into one of disorder and disarray. Familiar families pushed Jons Market shopping carts filled with TV’s, stereos, Nintendos, shoes and clothing. They scurried down the street with smiles on their faces as if they had just won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, only to return up the street a short time later with now empty shopping carts, ready for a second, third and even a fourth freeloading frenzy. Nothing was out of the question. A family somehow managed to fit a sofa, three tires and a cash register into one of those shopping carts! I remember the register’s power chord getting stuck on a fence and tipping over. They laughed uncontrollably as they mounted their new “belongings” back into the shopping cart then continued on with their precious family time. Back and forth the laps continued. It was a highway of thievery at the peak of rush hour traffic!


The 12-year old wondered why his friends, neighbors and acquaintances would participate in such destruction. He continued to watch...

The friendly Jons Market manager walked down the street with a bloody face, a beating from the very customers he smiled to on a daily basis. The 99-cent store owner who always smiled and greeted you in Spanish with a thick Korean accent stood in front of her store. She had her hands on her head and tears in her eyes. She was powerless while the same customers she was happy to serve everyday shattered her windows, stole her belongings and ruined her life.

The sharp clash of shattering windows from one of the many appliance stores on 8th St. drew in a mindless mob who ran from business to business, emptying the stores of everything that wasn’t nailed to the floor. The 12-year old could see the other rooftops from where he stood. Korean business owners held AK-47’s in one hand and water hoses in the other in an attempt to protect their businesses and their families. A Korean mother hunkered over her two children, genuflected and put both hands up towards the sky as if asking for answers. But there were no answers. There were no miracles. There were no police. Only lawlessness, violence and complete devastation.

April 29th 2011. It has been 19-years since the infamous Los Angeles Riots of 1992. I found myself looking back at my 12-year old self on that rooftop. As I drove around those very same streets, now proudly donning a police uniform and badge, I couldn’t help but have a moment. My mind flashed back to the eerie absence of police sirens. I remembered the surreal presence of military tanks rumbling down my neighborhood and the images of innocent bystanders being beaten on live television without repercussion. As I drove this past Friday in my black-and-white I decided to turn onto my old street and stop my police car in front of the 840 S. Ardmore apartment of my childhood. I couldn’t help but to look out onto the streets and picture all the ignorant violence that took place there 19-years ago. It was a moment in my childhood that filled me with dejection, confusion and heartache. It was THE defining moment in my life that awoke my fervor for duty and justice...

...and the rest, is history...

Blog #4: Ticket Quotas, Fact or Fiction?

“The dead cannot cry out for justice; it is a duty of the living to do so for them”
-Lois McMaster Bujold

Benjamin Franklin once said: “In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.” Valid point. However, as great a countryman as he was, Benny never lived life through the eyes of an Angelino’s front windshield during rush hour traffic! He has never had a careless driver cut him off without signaling. He has never been tailgated for no apparent reason other than to raise his blood pressure. He has never been stuck behind Driving-Miss-Daisy catching all red lights. And I doubt he’s ever been flipped the bird after honking at a horse drawn carriage who drifted into his lane while on his cell phone. Ugh! Don’t you HATE it when inconsiderate people do whatever the heck they want without repercussion!? It’s a part of life that’s all too certain in the life of an Angelino. If Benny Franklin were alive today he WOULD have said: “In this world nothing is certain but death, taxes and bad drivers.” How many times have you wished the police was around to give that weasel a ticket? That way they’d get what they deserved! That would feel great!!! Wouldn’t it? Like true justice was served! And best of all, you’d get the last laugh **long sigh** Even simply daydreaming about it feels good...but of course, the police are never around when you need them.

For my father, the convenience of police presence seems to always work against him. He is a ticket magnet! Always getting pulled over ‘unjustly’ by a police force that is never around when the TRUE culprits of road-rage are terrorizing innocent drivers like himself. Since I became a po-po in the summer of 2004, he has inquired about the issue of ticket quotas over and over again, as have many of my family and friends. I find it interesting that anything less than a “yes” fails to satisfy their need for an answer to the question of ticket quotas being a part of my job or not.

I can tell you what you want to hear:

Yes. My sergeant tells me: “Son. I expect 15 tickets from you today” As I reply with an obedient “Yes, Sir!” I scurry into my patrol car and look for 15 average Joe citizens to issue citations to. I can tell you what you want to hear by saying how I received an award and a pay bonus for being a stellar ticket-writer amongst my peers. I can tell you what you want to hear by telling you we have betting pools at work for the officer who comes in at the end of the shift with the most tickets. Then what? You’d say, “Aha! I knew it all along!” Well thats simply not the way things in my line of work go. And thats definitely not a work ethic I go by. But it seems like these are the only answers that will appease my inquisitive family and friends.

I can tell you what you DON’T want to hear:

That public safety is one of our main responsibilities. When there is a pattern of citizens (usually children and the elderly) being struck by vehicles at certain intersections, the public has scrutinized police records and noted the lack of citations for speeding at these intersections, then placed blame on the local police department. This scenario happens quite frequently across the nation. And while I believe writing citations simply for the purpose of avoiding public blame is wrong, I do believe issuing citations at these intersections because we sincerely do not want anyone getting struck by a car is completely valid. Enough citizens get seriously hurt or die as a result of these accidents that the police department SHOULD be proactive in analyzing all the problematic intersections in our city. That way we can implement traffic enforcement plans and lessen the potential for these accidents to occur. Is that not something you want the police department to do in your community? I feel it is safe to assume that the answer is Yes. (Except of course the city would give YOU an honorary ticket exemption card, that would be sweet! Good luck! Tell ‘em Chris sent ya!)

In my pre-police life, I noticed that the general public in Da Hood was only exposed to the police in one of two ways. Either Deputy Big Shot and his entourage were pointing big guns and yelling orders at obscure nameless criminals, or the common law abiding citizens themselves were being issued citations for relatively small infractions. Aside from that there were no positive community policing efforts like we see in modern day police work. It was simply not a priority back then. Result? The community feared the common patrol officer instead of that officer being a symbol of public safety. I truly hope I can change that mindset in people through my day to day actions while on duty.

Personally I don’t write very many tickets. I’m not a big fan of ruining a hardworking citizen’s day in this age of financial distress. Occasionally I see blatant violations which make me cringe in fear of potentially witnessing a bad vehicle-vs-pedestrian impact. When I do write those tickets it is with the purpose of public safety in mind, as cheesy at that sounds. There is no malicious intent or lack of compassion in that part of my duty. I know that my family and close friends still continue to walk the streets that I patrol and I will use all the tools in my power to protect them. If your mother or child was hit at an intersection, I’m sure you’d wish that a police officer was there to issue those careless and inconsiderate drivers a ticket with a hefty fine. Maybe...just maybe, a ticket on a prior occasion would have slowed that driver down an extra second, or made that driver not read his text message so he could see the pedestrian in the street before a catastrophic collision.

How many times have you been driving and slowed down at the sight of a police car then quickly looked down at your speedometer? Shoot, even I do it! And I have a get-out-of-jail-free card! (Well, kind of. I’ll touch on THAT issue on a future blog, dont worry.) I understand that for most of you police work is a profession you choose not to do for various reasons. On the other hand I guarantee at times you would LOVE to have the power of ticket writing. Heck, even off-duty I sometimes wish I could write these road-rage terrorists a ticket. Unfortunately, as a police department and as a community we can’t catch them all.


I was going to begin this blog with a morbid narration describing the visceral reality of traffic collisions with an example of a vehicle-vs-pedestrian accident that I was unlucky enough to witness. Instead I’ll allow you to do the math. The average vehicle is 4,000 pounds of hard metal. The average human body is 180 pounds, 61.8% of which is made up of water. There is no competition. Pedestrians must be protected and the police department looks to protect YOU. It’s a hard concept to ascertain. Especially when you’re the recipient of a ticket. “I’m getting fined for my protection?” It seems not to make sense. But in a parental kind of way it actually makes perfect sense.

The simple answer to your question is: No. I have never been given a ticket quota responsibility. There are many issues concerning citations that I will touch on with future blogs. But the issue at hand here is the ‘Ticket Quota’. They are as real in police work as unicorns and mermaids are in our skies and oceans. The occasional ticket you get is annoying, inconvenient and pricey. You curse the officer under your breath and feel like the system cheated you under some codified ticket quota clause stipulated in our department policy. The way I see the big picture of things, receiving that ticket makes you merely collateral damage in the fight to make your stroll around the block with the family a safe one. We can’t make citizens care about common courtesy while driving, but utilizing citations and fines we can make them think twice about driving with some common sense. Instead of focusing on proving the police have a quota for tickets, focus on the main objective of the tickets themselves. Citations educate the general public, make people think twice before making unsafe decisions and best of all prevent accidents which can seriously injure or even kill citizens. If we can all atleast agree on that, then we can start working together on other methods of influencing safe driving for the protection of you, me and our loved ones.

In the meantime I’ll be working on your honorary ticket exemption card...until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

==============================================================

Fallen Officers Since Last Blog: 3 Souls
Total Line-of-Duty Deaths for 2011: 63 Souls

Police Officer J. Christopher Kilcullen

Eugene Police Department, OR

End of Watch: Friday, April 22, 2011

Age: Not available

Tour of Duty: 12 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire
Survived by: wife and two children (11-year & 4-year old)

Deputy Sheriff Clifton Taylor

Johnson County Sheriff's Office, TX
End of Watch: Saturday, April 23, 2011

Age: 31

Tour of Duty: 3 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived by: fiancee, parents, and siblings.

Police Officer Daryl Hall

St. Louis Police Department, MO

End of Watch: Sunday, April 24, 2011
Age: 34

Tour of Duty: 5 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived by: mother, stepfather and a brother

++This blog is dedicated to LAPD Officer Jose Diance. 23-years old. Died off-duty in a traffic accident on 4/24/11.
Officer Diance, I will continue protecting and serving in your honor with pride and courage. God rest your soul.++


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Blog #3: Street Food Vendor Wars

“If a man is called a streetsweeper, he should sweep streets even as Michelangelo painted, or Beethoven composed music, or Shakespeare wrote poetry. He should sweep streets so well that all the hosts of Heaven and Earth will pause to say, here lived a great streetsweeper who did his job well.”
-Dr. Martin Luther King Jr

The frequent walk my mother and I took to our local supermarket was an eclectic frenzy of sights, sounds and especially smells. It was a short walk, about one city block roundtrip, but one that felt like an expedition through several worlds, all wrapped up into one tiny insignificant neighborhood. A neighborhood that boomed with as much cultural diversity as it reeked! Oh yes, good ol’ Jons Market on 8th St. and Irolo St. We’ve come a long way, friend...we’ve come a long way...

It began with a journey through our Koreatown apartment on the South 800 block of Ardmore Ave. The long unventilated hallway through two closed doors allowed the boiling kimchi to fester and linger. There was a Korean Kimchi Cook-Off Festival and we were ALL invited, like it or not! There was an orange tint in the air as we swam through the thick of it. I remember my mothers expression distinctly. It soured her face as she puckered up her lips and wrinkled her nose in a feeble attempt to seal her nostrils. The old Korean lady with a baby wrapped on her back simply looked at us and laughed. We escaped out through the lobby and into fresher air. My mother held my hand, as mother’s do, and we walked briskly towards 8th St. Catcalls from drunken winos (aka: ‘paisas’) were a norm.
(I remember fantasizing about drop-kicking them one by one, with the help of The Ultimate Warrior & Hacksaw Jim Dugan, of course. My fantasy starred Me, bouncing off the ropes and drop-kicking multiple paisas. With their bodies scattered around the ring, The Ultimate Warrior violently jerked the ropes up and down in celebration of my victory while Hacksaw Jim Dugan gave me one thumb up and held a 4X4 on his left shoulder...HOOOOOO!!!!)
POOF! The smell of a sharp Budweiser-urine medley, vomit and half eaten burritos wrapped in aluminum foil quickly slapped me back into reality. These paisas weren’t studying for the Bar or the MCAT-exam anytime soon, and as quickly as I was ready to escape the kimchi corridors, I was ready to step up my pace and leave paisa-country far behind as well!

We cut through the Jons Market parking lot as usual. Larry in the orange work shirt and bottle cap glasses fed bread to scores of pigeons as he always did. He didn’t look my way. The skinny 26-waist sized MS-er normally rocking a size 44-waist pair of perfectly creased tan Dickie pants passed by my mother and I. He was with HIS mother. But this time he wore 26-waist sized pants. He didn’t look my way either. Nor did he sport my Swatch Watch. One of my best friends, Pablo, passed by us too. He wore the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shorts that my other best friend, Henry, and I always made fun of him about. He had a patch on his left eye from a rock that hit him during horseplay. Pablo said hello to my mother in Spanish and “what’s up” to me. My mother was fond of Pablo and ordered him to get home quickly. She wondered why he was out by himself. I was more interested in the elote (corn) he had in his hand. Slathered in mayonnaise, parmesan cheese, hot butter and chili....my mouth watered.

We exited the parking lot for the last stretch before making it to the market and were met by a fresh plume of dark black smog which engulfed us, compliments of an RTD bus with so much undecipherable graffiti on it you could barely make out the Marie-Lu Cookie advertisement on the side of it. As it loudly sped away to it’s next stop, I could make out the all too familiar “Chaka” tagged on the Chupa-Chups advertisement on the backside of the bus. The smog ascended and cleared as we were then teleported to a whole new part of the block. We were now in what I like to call, Little Central America. El Salvadoran and Guatemalan restaurants, bearing their country’s flags proudly, could be seen up and down the street. The distinct slang of Salvadoran and Guatemalan chatter penetrated my ears, but it was the food that really caught my attention.

Steaming silver buckets of tamales in boiling water inside of shopping carts. Yellow water jugs filled white styrofoam cups with hot champurado to willing customers. Buckets of corn-on-the-cob laid under hot damp towels. Pupusas were being prepared from scratch, the maize being sharply slapped from hand to hand, as a few already sizzled on the tin tray with a bunsen burner below it. Propane tanks, market produce baskets, shopping carts, colorful umbrellas and bowls of uncooked foods were all set up in a make shift food court along the sidewalk. The smells were delicious. Familiar feel-good-foods like tamales reminded me of Christmas dinners at home and home-cooked meals in the motherland of Guatemala.

I looked up at my mother with hungry eyes. She knew exactly what I wanted and quickly snapped back in Spanish, “You’re not eating that disgusting food! They don’t even wash their hands! Look at the streets they are serving from. There are roaches and rats all over the sidewalk where they keep their surplus food! They’re two feet from that sewer! Are you crazy?!” With a hard tug of my arm we were finally in our destination, Jons Market, only to once again retrace our steps back on that expedition to the safety of our apartment on Ardmore Ave.

**Time Warp Five Years Into the Future**

As I entered my early teens, my mother no longer held my hand when we walked around. As a matter of factuality, she even sent me to those Jons Market Expeditions on my own! Despite her best effort to ward me off from the sidewalk food vendors, I used my paycheck from the part-time job at Clean & Green to fill that curiosity. It was my first job. I cleaned alleys and painted out graffiti while wearing a green shirt and hard hat at a hefty $4.25 an hour. In my mind I was my own man now. I made my own money. And for the next few years I enjoyed the tasty treats that my mother warned me against. Of course, I would never admit it to her.

**Time Warp Thirteen Years Into the Future**

Two years into my career, I found myself assigned to a task force with a specific mission to shut down these makeshift food courts in Da Hood. The team I was assigned was to shut down business on James M Wood St. east of Vermont Ave. Our Bicycle Unit, Senior Lead Officers, Patrol Officers, Vice and monstrous city dump trucks stormed in and shut off escape routes with a letter-of-the-law mentality. My job was merely presence, watching my brother’s backs while they did what they had to do. Food, stoves and supplies chucked into the mouths of hungry massive dump trucks. Ticket after ticket issued to every violator without hesitation. Every municipal code, every business and professions code, every city ordinance & every vehicle code violation imaginable, nothing was out of the question. Proprietors attempted to abandon their business but we were too swift, too organized and too well prepared.

Clientele came from far and wide to get a taste of home from this particular street on the weekends. They slowly walked away from the ruckus and I received dirty looks by people shaking their heads in disgust as they looked at me with abhorrence in their eyes. Comments were thrown out here and there reinforcing their seditious sentiments. “There are gangsters killing people out there”....”We have to make a living too, ya know”....”You are all racist assholes”...the onslaught of opposition weighed heavily on my morals, values and childhood memories. Before this incident I thought I knew exactly what I stood for. But as I watched my fellow officers cite these hard working people with whom I could relate to, I was genuinely conflicted and confused. I had not eaten at these places since I was a teen, but witnessing the project unfold made me question a small part of who I was.

In the following years working patrol in Da Hood, I slowly became exposed to the reality behind street food vendors and how they affect a community as a whole. The different radio calls and personal observations I made slowly made me think twice about this issue.

March 22, 2006. Daywatch in Koreatown. My 26th birthday and I spent it at work. I responded to a call for service at a local mom-and-pop restaurant and met with the owner: Mr. Hernandez. He was in his 60’s. A widower with four children, three of which were in college, also survivors of Da Hood. He had a twelve year old daughter whom he still provided for. He told me of how he worked hard, sacrificing everything for his children to have a better chance at life than he did, despite the challenges of raising four children in this gang and drug infested inner city. He told me of how he saved his money for years and was finally able to open a business and put some away for his children’s education. An American Dream come true.

I listened intently....

He continued his story, lamenting about how he had six months to shut down his business. He said that the street vendors sold the same food he offered and their presence dropped his business by 70% in the last year, sadly not enough to provide for himself and his daughter. He had business-owner taxes to pay, city codes to follow, laws to abide by. The street vendors who were sending him into bankruptcy did not have to follow any of these decrees. They simply abandoned ship when the police drove by. Only to reemerge the following day. They were bold and persistent. The lack of repercussion from the police and the system allowed them to flourish while causing legitimate businesses to fail. The people that followed protocol and ran a lawful business were being ousted by the businesses that defied the law. Mr. Hernandez was frustrated and had a valid point. And so did hundreds of other businesses throughout the LA area.

Dispatcher: 20-Adam-44, respond to a battery-domestic violence investigation at 842 S. Mariposa Ave. Respond Code-2.

Arriving at this radio call I immediately noticed equipment strewn around the tiny apartment: maize, pork chunks, banana leaves, red salsa & large steaming pots told me she sold tamales on the street. As I investigated the crime at hand, all that ran through my mind was the countless cockroaches that roamed freely around and in between her tamale paraphernalia. Goosebumps arose and my mind flashed back to a time when my mother scolded me about the not so well kept habits of these street food vendors. They didn't have to worry about the County Health Department inspector making surprise visits. It was hard to focus on the matter at hand as my personal opinions continued to evolve.

The truth is the city of Los Angeles is flooded by similar arenas of illegal street food vendors in most, if not all, Latino communities. We receive daily radio calls and have the street vendors leave. Seldom do they get cited for their actions, probably because the average cop realizes that this is how people earn a living for their family. But that is simply not fair to others and it cannot be ignored without alienating law abiding community members. The street vendors have grown accustomed to the street cop simply shooing them away for the meantime. Both sides know the vendors will be back to open up shop the very next day, and it’s hurting many legitimate business owners like Mr. Hernandez and his family.

Zero tolerance task forces like the one I participated in are projects called for by the community members THEMSELVES!!! That is what I want my readers to understand. As uniformed police in the streets, we get the middle fingers pointed at us for what we do. So be it, I’m thick skinned and so are my colleagues. However if those who blame the police realized that the ones calling for the removal of street vendors is actually the community and NOT the individual police officers, then maybe they would think twice before shouting out to me “Pinche Chota Racista!” (translated in nicer terms: “Racist Police!”) I will continue to do what I think is right and what current law mandates I do as a police officer. I’m sure my inner conflicts will undoubtedly continue to adjust as I am exposed to more food vendor adventures.

May your next tamale be roach-free and follow local city-ordinances....Until my next blog, dawg!

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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Fallen Officers Since Last Blog: 2 Souls

Public Safety Officer Eric Zapata

Kalamazoo Department of Public Safety, MI

End of Watch: Monday, April 18, 2011

Age: 35

Tour of Duty: 10 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived By: Three Children

Deputy Sheriff Sherri Jones

Bowie County Sheriff's Department, TX

End of Watch: Monday, April 18, 2011

Age: 54

Tour of Duty: 6 years

Cause of Death: Gunfire
, from her own gun
Survived By: unknown

Blog #2: DUH!!!! Just shoot the knife out of his hand and voila!

“The test of a vocation is the love of the drudgery it involves”
                                                            -Logan Pearsall Smith

My neighbor told me the other day after a ‘contreversal’ police shooting of a drunk knife-wielding Guatemalan immigrant, “Of course you can shoot the knife out of a suspect’s hand, silly! Haven’t you seen that one movie?  You know, when that dude tries to rob a liqour store with a knife?”  I have no idea what movie he was referring to, but my mind drifted into a daydream....

Opening Scene:

The bad guy, sweaty and nervous, hunkers down behind the liqour store counter, knife in hand.  The store is in disarray, presumably from a struggle of a robbery gone sour.  Why has it gone sour, you ask?  Because Deputy Big Shot has arrived on scene.  Deputy Big Shot has a big badge........and a big gun.

Numerous police cars are parked in a chaotic fashion just outside the front door, red and blue lights spinning.  Every lawman is taking a knee behind their two-toned cars, revolvers at the ready.  An occasional cop runs from one police car to the next police car, mainly for dramatic effect.  It’s a tense scene.  Everybody is crouching and hiding behind whatever cover they can find.  Everybody that is...except for Deputy Big Shot.


Camera pans to a muscular silhouette, slowly moving up from sole to Smokey. 
Deputy Big Shot stands out in the open and centered between all the chaos directly in front of the liqour store.    One hand on each side of his duty belt.  He’s the only one with his gun still in it’s holster.  He stands as tall as Christ the Redeemer . Fearless.  He charismatically twirls a toothpick in his mouth. It’s the only movement giving life to this   statuesque man of law standing behind those mirrored sunglasses.  


Suddenly the robber sprints out of the store in a hysterical panic, knife in hand, straight for Deputy Big Shot.  Every lawman gets startled, except of course, Deputy Big Shot.  In one fluid motion he draws his weapon & fires a shot towards the robber.  A spark from the bullet impacting the knife gives way to a now unarmed robber.  He looks at his hand for a bullet wound.  Nothing.  Then slowly looks at Deputy Big Shot in amazement.  A slew of lawmen tackle the stunned robber as Deputy Big Shot is already half way back to his patrol car.  All in a days work for a man with a big badge...and a big gun.

If we could all be as perfect as Deputy Big Shot, criminals would think twice about attacking police officers or citizens with knives.  I practice my marksmanship skills once a month.  And my Sharpshooter medal gleams proudly on my uniform chest.  However it is not the highest accolade an officer in my department can bear for their marksmanship.  Many police officers have achieved the challenging “D-X” medal (Distinguished Expert).  This medal requires scoring an average of 385 points out of 400 for six consecutive months!  While earning these achievements is something to be proud of, keep in mind that these shooting courses are stationary targets made of paper.  There is not a drug induced criminal running at you at full speed flailing a Rambo knife around.  There is not a school filled with children in the background to worry about.  There are no professional cameras, special affects or directors yelling “cut!”, cueing a stunt man to stand in your place.

The grim reality of the criminal element out to hurt you with a knife is a sad and vicious one.  The blade of a knife, no matter the size, can disfigure your face in under a second.  While on probation I witnessed the aftermath of a jealous lover (partnered up with a two-inch Swiss Army knife) who made sure his pretty girlfriend was never appreciated for her beauty again.  I stood guard at the crime scene to make sure nobody accidentally stepped on her nose, left ear, both lips and a partial eyelid.  They looked like movie props on the kitchen floor.    I have seen a grown man on Normandie Ave and 7th St. holding his own intestines as they hung from an eight-inch long, horizontal, dark red gash just below his belly button. He looked up at me with glazed eyes, mouth ajar, face in shock.  Some areas of the body are purposely aimed at to ensure exsanguination within two to three minutes.  Sadly not enough time for a rescue ambulance to arrive and stop the bleeding.

The logistics of shooting on a police range in a controlled environment attempting to reach a certain score certainly help an officer’s ability in the field to utilize a firearm efficiently.  After all we are trained professionals.  However, The chances of hitting a tiny moving target (target being the knife), without hurting the criminal who is trying to kill you, and somehow controlling that bullet to fall on the ground instead of continuing it’s sizzle at 1,100 feet per second towards innocent victims in the background seems...well...what do YOU think?  Possible? Impossible?  If you sincerely believe you can make that shot, then take it!  If you miss, you will be responsible for the consequences.  If you miss, you will be stabbed by a big knife.  If you miss, that bullet will continue on a death path into that school yard filled with children.  These potential consequences are the things officers have to balance while making that split second decision to shoot or don’t shoot.  But who cares, right?  As long as we don’t injure the nice person trying to kill you.  As long as we don’t hurt the feelings of the quick-to-judge Monday morning quarterbacks yelling “murder!”

(Side Note: I don’t mean to be condescending or rude with the last three sentences. Your opinions are valid and important to me.  I once had the opinion that law enforcement in my community was heavy handed.  I used to believe law enforcement took action now and asked questions later.  But as a fellow survivor of Da Hood, it would be a disservice to you if I omit the fact that living life on the other side of violence and being exposed to death and mayhem while wearing a police uniform has dramatically altered my attitude for protecting the innocent, which is the emotion I spill onto this blog with fervent words.  Please do not misconstrue these words as judgmental to your personal opinion.  My adjectival narration merely represents my passion for protecting the innocent DESPITE the risk of officer’s losing their jobs or their lives.)

For those of you that know me, I love having big family and friend events.  I enjoy putting in the time and effort in preparing family picnics, cousin Thanksgivings and my infamous annual b-day shindigs.  Seeing my nephews, nieces, cousins, brothers, parents, aunts, uncles and friends all in one place is a reward in itself.  That effort fulfills my life.  Think about your own family.  Your husband or wife.  Your parents.  Your siblings.  Your children.  Would you risk your children being raised without you in order to be fair to a murderer out to kill you?  If you merely tried to shoot the knife out of the assailant’s hands, is that fair to your children?  Is that fair to you?  How many more innocent people would suffer if that mentality governed police work?  I don’t have children yet, but I wanna see my momma.  I wanna eat her homemade cooking.  I want to enjoy the beach...Fridays...Happy Hours...Family Guy re-runs...laughter...music....I want to travel...I want to live!

 The “shoot the knife out of his hands” theory is a concept that I wish my family, my friends and my community could understand is merely fantasy in everyday police work.  The ugly truth is, I have witnessed people who were stabbed and shot then continued running or fighting officers.  The combination of a criminal on drugs, adrenaline & fearlessness is an unnerving thought.  We shoot to stop a persons actions.  Shooting a knife out of an assailant’s hands is next to impossible.  Police work is hardly rainbows and giggles.  As a servant to my community, I want YOU to determine the fairness of judging a police officer who is put in this grim situation.  A situation in which we have half a second to make a decision.  Put yourself in my shoes.  Actually I’ll give you more than half a second to decide.  Heck, I’ll even give you a few days.  

In the meanwhile, I’ll keep striving to be like Deputy Big Shot.  Until my next blog, dawg.....

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY

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2011 Law Enforcement Line-of-Duty Deaths Thus Far: 58 Souls

Fallen Officers for April 2011:

Sergeant James Timothy (Tim) Chapin

Chattanooga Police Department, TN
End of Watch: Saturday, April 2, 2011

Age: 51

Tour of Duty: 27 years
Cause of Death: Gunfire
Survived by: wife and two children

Deputy Sheriff Eric Stein
Keokuk County Sheriff’s Office, IA
End of Watch: Monday, April 4, 2011 

Age: 38 

Tour of Duty: 11 years
Cause of Death: Gunfire
Survived by: 9-year-old daughter, sister, and father

Trooper Jeffrey Werda

Michigan State Police, MI
End of Watch: Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Age: 43
Tour of Duty: 11 years

Cause of Death: Automobile accident responding to a pursuit
Survived by: wife and three children

Patrolman Jonathan Schmidt

Trumann Police Department, AR
End of Watch: Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Age: 30

Tour of Duty: 4 years
Cause of Death: Gunfire

Survived by: wife and three children

Blog #1: Da Hood

“...’cause everyone in LA got a little bit of Thug in him...” -Tupak Shakur

What LA native hasn’t been robbed once or twice in his or her life? It’s a frightening experience which would make the average kid tremble and tear up with fear...but this ain’t no average city...and I ain’t no “average kid.”

No...no trembling here.  No tears.  My body goes into it’s ghetto survival mode.  That’s IF my preventative techniques and skills, acquired from living in the heart of MS-13 territory in it’s prime, didn’t do the trick.

“Where you from, puto?”

Being that my attire resembled a Grungy-Cobain existence and that I had played a fun game of 3-Flys-Up with this neighborhood acquaintance just the other day, I knew he wasn’t really interested in what gang I represented.   Now he rolled four-deep, and wasn’t interested in catching fly balls either.  I was “caught slippin”.  I transform into a hypnotic trance, giving up my bright red Swatch Watch (with big moving yellow digits) & the 50-cents I was going to use for a pack of Garbage Pail Kids and a paleta from the OG Yellow Ice Cream Truck on San Marino St.  As I surrendered my belongings to this skinny 26-waist sized MS-er rocking a size 44-waist pair of perfectly creased tan Dickie pants, maybe 2 years my elder (a lifetime in teenage-years), all I could think about was what excuse I could give my mother for not having my watch!  No way was I going to tell her about what actually transpired...are you kidding me?  She would have went looking for him! And I definitely cannot have that.  My adolescent street cred would have been tarnished!  This is youth-survival 101 in Da Hood.

I share this snippet of my life in Da Hood in hopes of relating to YOU: My soon-to-be blog followers.  If you ever crossed the street to avoid a thug on your way to school...if you ever had to cement dive at the sound of gunshots and screeching tires... if you ever lost sleep because of the ghetto bird circling your block... if you ever had to literally run for you life, then laughed about it with your friends and continued the conversation you were just having about baseball cards without skipping a beat....then the series of blogs that will follow is for you.

Being raised by a single mother in Da Hood was no walk in the park.  The potential for me becoming a product of my environment was enormous.  The odds of surviving and becoming successful were completely against me.  Luckily for me, the wrath of my mother’s death-glare and the sting of her heavy handed discipline far outweighed anything a common street thug could dish out.

Years of witnessing and experiencing ignorant violence has given me a sense of duty to protect the innocent from evil.  I never earned a sewing patch in the Boyscouts, so secretly tailoring a custom fit cape and mask was out of the question.  Result?  I joined the local police department and am now serving the same community in which I was born and raised.

Being a police officer has sparked many heated debates with my closest family and friends.  Topics such as ticket quotas, mandatory verbal warnings before using lethal force and arresting street vendors are only a few of the subjects I have debated about.  My inner conflictions with such issues have evolved throughout my seven years of being in this chosen profession.  With my blog I wish to humanize the badge through me: Chris.  A son, a brother, a friend, a cousin, an uncle, a God-father and a fellow survivor of Da Hood.

It is not my intention to recruit you into the police department.  Nor is it to convince you that all of your negative opinions about law enforcement are wrong.  I can’t compete with the morals, ethics and values which have been instilled in you throughout the years of living in Da Hood.   If I can dispel a rumor or two along the way and feed you a different perspective here and there, I’ll be a happy camper.

So read on with an open mind, that is my challenge to you.  Until my next blog, dawg.....

PIECE LOVE & WHISKEY