Backwards On The Hippie Trail

By Harry Wright

I could'nt silence fierce inner voices critical of the conventional route. Is it mad to flee the security of a professional life staring me in the face? Why would a sane person with no plan step on a jetliner, and set off alone? Is this a test?  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harry Wright
• Release date: May 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201911362

Harry Wright

Harry Wright BA, MA Psychology Retired Peace Officer

Book preview

Table of Contents 

Chapter 1 You’re in Mexico Now Boy

Chapter 2 Cedar Bay

Chapter 3 The Top End

Chapter 4 Sumba Warriors

Chapter 5 Voodoo Man of Nepal

Chapter 6 Ghats on the Ganges

Chapter 7 Scamp’s Journey

Chapter 8 LSD Not for Sissy’s

Chapter 9 Up the Hollar’

Chapter 10 Sneaky Snake

Epilogue

Chapter 1 You’re in Mexico Now Boy

L et me out of here ! Hey, fuckin’ let me out! The young soldier bellowed, pressing his face against the bars of the cell. Hey! Hey motherfuckers! He shouted. His pleading, demanding, and threatening, in no particular order, had droned on since the iron door slammed shut an hour ago. He was stupid drunk, held upright more by his hands clasped firmly around the cell bars than the swaying, semi-elastic nature of his legs. He acted as though his pleading merited some attention, but his thoughts only further mirrored the incoherence of his words.

Mark and I had been marched in a couple of hours earlier, about midnight, by the Federales. Charged with, drunk in the streets, the surly officer speaking Spanish and key phrases of English had said, you’re in Mexico now boy. If only Mark hadn’t teetered, with his upper half folding forward like he might spill out of his chair at the "TJ Discotheque." Our college boy processional had come to an abrupt halt here, our nineteen-year-old male brains transfixed by the sheer numbers of exotic naked women. Everywhere I looked girls were serving drinks and sitting on patrons’ laps. Others coaxed patrons to the dance floor offering sexual favors with whispered prices. To the sixties pulsating rock music, with thighs twisted around, girls ascended then slowly slid down the four central poles surrounding the dance floor.

Our companions, Jim and Tom followed two G-string clad whores who five minutes earlier had straddled them in their chairs. "Fucky-sucky-whole-works, ten dollah?" In those days, my baby face demeanor had precluded any previous north of the border strip club patronage. I suspected the same of Mark now dispatching his third tequila.

Bet that one was a gymnast, I said putting on my best façade of worldly disinterest.  I nursed my beer pretending only mild amusement in the bawdy acrobatic entertainment. I had never imagined in any pubescent fantasy such a volume of female flesh all undulating in real time. But now half our party had disappeared from the main bar, up a dark stairway in the back. Mark was out of it now. A Federale standing near the bar was eyeballing us. Foolishly I led Mark from the smokey barroom to the street for some air only to reencounter the omnipresent odor of raw sewage. It was to be yet another rookie misstep. Once outside, and not actively spreading cash around the local seedy tourist economy, the Federales had pounced. Twenty-four dollars or fifteen days, boy, the cop said. We had fifteen dollars left between us, drinking up the rest on our pub crawl up Avenida Revolution with Tom and Jim.

Midweek the four of us had conjured this little getaway from school. "Let’s go to TJ!" Tom said.

Yeah, we can stay at my parent’s place in La Jolla and drive over the border on Saturday. Jim said sealing the plan. Jim’s grandfather founded a pharmaceutical company capturing a huge market share selling several well-known pain medications. His father also joined the family business as the company’s corporate attorney and lucky Jim was going to be heir to all the wealth and influence someday. Jim’s home in La Jolla Shores overlooked the Pacific. A residence with expansive ocean views, manicured grounds overseen by landscape professionals is called a home not a house I learned. Looking back, I wished I’d stayed there for the weekend. Instead, I sat sullenly beside Mark on a bare metal plank bolted to the concrete block wall of our cell. There was an identical platform below us and a matching set on the opposite wall. Our cold metal roosts, I surmised, were designed as bunks to accommodate four prisoners. Now they were prized perches for a few of this crowd funneled from the raucous streets of TJ into the cramped space of the jail cell. My feet dangled a few feet above the wide band of wet filth that covered most of the cell’s floor. The single central stainless-steel toilet was no longer stainless, nor functional. Roto Rooter would likely not be summoned, and the bowl brimmed and overflowed, with its unmentionable contents slowly inching across the cracked and uneven cement floor disappearing under the iron-barred door. The late arrivals including the vocal baby-faced kid demanding his freedom, were forced to stand in the muck about a quarter inch deep. By their buzz haircuts, our cellmates looked to be military, most likely Marines from nearby Camp Pendleton. It was January 1969 and the war in Viet Nam was raging full force. These guys, most looked to be a year or two younger than me, would be shipped out as soon as their training was completed. The only good news was military police by routine, would scoop them up and haul them back to Pendleton. Their unfortunate detour to the Tijuana Jail would likely preclude any further liberty passes before shipping out overseas. My gloomy surroundings marked a new personal low further darkening my mood. I contained my rage at the injustice of it all. Whining, what good would it do me, or the other dummy’s in here? Baby face and his unabated shouting was evidence enough of that.

Name, boy! The jailer had said from behind a concrete counter with dented metal top. Oliver Chamness, I replied, though even reading it upside down I could still confirm my name was never spelled that way. Booking here consisted of writing some version of our names in a book, simple inventory for future transactions. No photo, no fingerprint, not even thoroughly emptying our pockets. Next, a circuitous route through the Tijuana Jail had wound up steep concrete stairs to a long row of second-floor cells. Accommodations here varied in their amenities. Some cells had curtains covering metal bars, furniture, lamps and even men locked up with women. The jail structure itself had a corrugated metal roof and at the overhanging edges, I could see the night sky! No insulation, they didn’t even bother to finish building this place, it was January, and it was fucking cold. It was obvious, if an inmate’s family could pay, all manner of luxury, relatively speaking, could be arranged including female companionship. Contrary to the popular song of the time by the Kingston Trio, the only way to get your mail in the Tijuana Jail, is if you could afford to pay for it. Some of the jarheads coaxed their buddy to stop screaming briefly, but then he initiated his, let me out mantra once again.

A Marine standing alongside him against the steel bars said, hey, looks like they’re bringing food up here. One guard has a bucket of water and the other one is passing something through the bars, just bread I think, he said dejectedly.

You want some bread and water? I asked Mark.

No, fuck Oliver, you think we’ll be in here long enough to be that desperate for food? he asked.

"Nah, Tom knows us well enough to eventually check the jail. He’ll get us outta here unless the Federales have busted him too," I said. Jeopardizing our premium seats for a hard roll and some water from who knows where, would just be compounding the stupidity I had demonstrated earlier in the evening. The drunken Marine stuck his arm aggressively through the bars toward the jailer holding a cardboard box full of bread. Once extended through the bars, his hand was viciously smacked with a broom handle being carried by a second jailer.

The boy screamed in pain, fuck you! The jailer flipped a bread roll through the bars, onto the floor and into the muck. With no hesitation, baby face bent down retrieving the roll from the shallow river of filth. He busied himself brushing it off as best he could, then ignoring our loud chorus’ of, NO! He bit into the shit-tainted roll.

Don’t think I’m going to be hungry for quite a while, said Mark.

I’m starving in here! I need food! The Marine was back at the bars yelling again. From my elevated vantage point, I could see the jailer with the broom handle pivot and stride back in our direction.

Hey man, get away from the bars! You’re going to get smacked again! I said in warning.

"Gimme another roll!" He barked an instant before the jailer jabbed him viciously in the stomach with the blunt end of the wooden pole. The Marine screamed in pain, jackknifed at the waist, and fell backward on the floor. Two of his buddies pulled him to his feet and guided him to the metal plank they just vacated. He lay there whimpering for a half hour and then thankfully fell asleep.

With the morning’s grey first light filtering in from the high partial ceiling, the jailers rousted our cellmates. A moaning, dejected line of Marines shuffled out of our cell and down the stairs to a pair of helmeted MPs waiting there. I had a fleeting disparate thought of joining the jarheads-should I offer to enlist? But instead, I pulled my knees and elbows closer together searching for any extra warmth on the frigid plank. I wondered if any money changed hands between the M.P.’s and guards, speculating that it had. The jail was a burgeoning underground business of its own.

Both Mark and I said, no gracias, to the breakfast that looked remarkably similar to last night’s dinner. About midday the guards marched us downstairs. I’d never been so glad to see Tom’s round, bearded mug. By the time our companions had discovered the two of us were in the Tijuana Jail, Tom and Jim didn’t have the required forty-eight dollars to spring us. They drove back to La Jolla and pressed Jim’s dad for a loan.

They’re where? How much? Fifty bucks, is that’s all? Dad had readily agreed, being both relieved and thrilled it was Mark and I imprisoned and not son Jim, who unlike the two of us, had a reasonably good shot at a promising future. Dad happily coughed up the money for the release of the two losers.

MY CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED to the glare of the omnipresent computer screen and stark black lines of text required by the department to capsulize a criminal offender’s path toward rehabilitation. The last entry read, "01/16/19- D reported. Provided res info, 6634 Rainer Street. It was law enforcement jargon confirming a defendant under court authorized supervision came into the parole office as required and alerted the agency she had moved. Failure to do so would have placed D, the defendant," in violation of her probation, parole, or court authorized terms of release and at risk of sanction or even rearrest.

Ok, that’s the last contact anyone had with Dena Stevens. She’s in the wind with another felony warrant. I thought to myself. I then entered the address into the notes section of my cellphone. My partner, Deputy Joe Olsen and I worked at compiling as much intel as possible on our list of wanted subjects before undertaking any kind apprehension attempt. The typical brief parolee office contacts usually provided little in the way of valuable information other than knowing the subject was at least recently in the area code. The note did confirm the offender provided an address although she absconded prior to the residence being verified. Dena had left drug treatment, missed two appointments, and ignored a final letter to appear. Previous sentencing reports are often prefaced with a social history section including the names of relatives. Mostly the relatives of our clientele are not fond of phone calls or visits by law enforcement. Occasionally a nugget of useable intel is provided if the subject has sufficiently pissed off the family in some manner.

The case notes had a number for, Lucy, a cousin. Yeah, Dena’s around, bitch stole a bunch of our shit to buy dope. She don’t stay here no more.

To ease jail crowding our felony warrants may have spent previous time on GPS, granted by the Court. Though the GPS ankle bracelets are frequently removed without authorization, the offender’s previous movements can still be accessed. Historical global positioning data can reveal repetitive patterns of movement or residences they frequented. Less often we rely on informants, both paid and those who will bargain for a reduction in the severity of consequences for their own misdeeds. Paid informants are commonly utilized for more high-profile cases or those that involve the potential to seize a cache of firearms.

Is social media evil? Dozens of horror stories emerge daily chronicling the misdeeds being perpetrated via digital platforms. Often my fugitive quarry or their associates can’t resist a presence on Facebook, Instagram, or the Dark Web. They post pictures of themselves with illegal weapons, with gang members, or with other wanted people. Felons enjoy accumulating "Friends, or Followers" just like you and me.

My own name, Oliver, being a bit unappealing, wouldn’t get too many Friend or Follow requests, but Tina, along with photos of my partner’s cousin who lives in Ohio, generates much more interest.

Craig’s List is sometimes utilized as an advertising rostrum for prostitutes and human trafficking enterprises and an attractive target for law enforcement sting operations. Cyberspace is the gathering place for many of us, a tool used for good, ill, and the expanse between. If fake individuals can influence an election with contrived information, I suspect a fake sexy female might arouse the interest of a fugitive person or two.

Hi, Matt, what’s up? I said getting a call on my cell from Deputy McMillan. Matt and I worked together years ago in Lompoc, California.

Oliver, I’ve been messaging your wanted chick; Dena, and she wants to hook up later today, he said. On social media Matt’s posts on the site don’t look or communicate like a cop either. The posts read more like a sexy single mom and become more believable when enhanced with a few enticing photos.

Cool, I was just doing a workup on her. It’s just Joe and I from the team today, but we’ve got some time if you want to try and lure her to a grab, I said. From our small office we mapped out a strategy. I’ve seasoned into the one usually attired in plain clothes best able to pull off the old homeless guy look. Joe will be in uniform, he’s 28 and looks like a Marine or a cop. No surprise there, he’s a cop and ex-Marine. He’s young, but very squared away having been in some nasty shit while deployed in Afghanistan. One limiting factor, I’ve arrested Dena twice before and won’t be able to just cruise right up to her.

Dena wants to meet my chick around noon at the Costco food court. Matt’s text read.

Good, there will be a crowd at the food court, and I can blend a little better. I replied.

Let’s do it. Matt text back.

Copy that, and she’s easy to ID. I said. Dena is a tiny woman about thirty-five with short, bleached hair. Almost feral, at times, she is equally comfortable sleeping homeless in the fields, on the floor of a drug house, or as she does on a regular basis, a jail bunk.

I’ll stage close, behind Home Depot, out of sight, said Joe. Dena likes men or women, she loves everybody, especially if they have heroin. If Dena did turn up, I would alert Joe and he would drive the short distance from behind Home Depot to Costco in our black Crown Vic for the arrest.

She’s lagging, its 12:45, you think we’re burned? I asked.

Maybe, but now she says to meet up at the 7-11 on Telegraph, probably just being careful, said Matt.

That’s about a half mile from here, but it’s close to those apartments on Rainer where we arrested her last time, I added. I walked the distance to 7-11 and text the boys upon my arrival.  Once I had been dropped off initially behind Costco, I didn’t want to go anywhere near Joe and the Crown Vic and possibly get spotted. Drug dealers love to text, having their own version of Neighborhood Watch. Before it was taken down, there was an internet page called, "805 Hood Watch," locations of any cops seen around our county were posted fast as you can text.

Joe moved to set up once more, this time north of the convenience store, same side of the street, ready to come in a hurry without encountering cross traffic. Ten minutes later, I visually scanned the store’s interior, then went inside the small 7-11, taking a final quick peek in case Dena had beat me there. The young female clerk was alone, no Dena yet. To kill time, I shopped the aisle, then grabbed a bottle of Gatorade. As I turned from the cooler to head for the counter, Jason Herbert, an active parolee came through the door. I casually turned back and replaced the Gatorade in the cooler, then used the reflection in the glass door to keep an eye on Jason. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed me. I’d arrested him before. Dumb fuck came to the main office for call in drug testing and I found a loaded syringe in his pocket when patting him down for weapons. The attending parole agent at testing hadn’t even searched him. Glad it was only a loaded needle and not a gun. He strode to the aisle along the far wall and glanced once in the direction of the clerk, decided she was busy, then crouched down out of camera view. Pulling a paper cup from the drink dispenser, he filled it from the Slurpee machine, some neon green flavor. Still kneeling down, he chugged the contents, refilled and repeated the process before crushing the cup and throwing it under the machine.

Guy’s an idiot. I was sure he was high and probably wanted. I text Joe and a minute later he confirmed via text a parole warrant active in the system. I faced a dilemma, whether to grab parole’s guy giving up on Dena or let Jason walk and wait a little longer for our target. I was pretty sure I knew the nearby mobile home park where Jason stays, so we let him walk. I also didn’t want to burn Matt’s sting he had set up and the fact being, Dena was harder to catch than Jason.

I waited until he left the area then drifted outside, partially concealed by a couple parked cars in front. Couldn’t linger here, just like Jason showing up, the place was a magnet for dopers, and I’d get burned. Beyond the small 7-11 parking lot was a dirt field with makeshift shack about four feet tall. The patchwork shelter constructed from a variety of cast-off planks, blue plastic tarp and corrugated metal, housed two homeless guys. They basked in the sun, sitting next to the low shack in beach chairs atop a dirt mound littered with trash.

Within five minutes, a petite blond in a short, tight fitting red skirt and red shoes crossed the field from the apartment complex toward the 7-11. This time I called Joe. Visual on primary. Now approaching 7-11 on foot, blonde hair, short dress, red, shoes, red. I’ll circle and try for a perimeter getting behind her, come hard to the parking lot at my signal, I said.

Copy that, he said.

I skirted the vehicles parked at 7-11 walking toward the street. I turned down the sidewalk heading south towards the apartment buildings behind Dena and the homeless guys. People from the mass of rental apartments in the area travel this route all day, with cap pulled down, I became just one more old guy headed home from the convenience store. From the corner of my eye, I could see Dena was now standing on top of the mound talking to the guys in their beach chairs. I didn’t sneak another peek in her direction until I was well along the sidewalk thirty yards to her right and past her. Once out of view of the little group, I turned and walked briskly back across the field towards them.

I phoned Joe as I walked toward the group, takedown, dirt field, south of 7-11. Dena was still trying to get a glimpse inside the 7-11, torn between her interest in the liaison and a requisite amount of caution, born from a decade operating in the world of criminals.

Joe in the Crown Vic whipped into the 7-11 lot, hitting the brakes with the trailing cloud of brown dust catching and enveloping the car. Joe leaped from behind the wheel. Dena almost came out of her shoes spinning around at the sight of the cop car, but she hadn’t seen me, standing four feet behind her. As she turned, her eyes went wide seeing me blocking her retreat.

Dena it’s Chamness, warrants, don’t run, I said.

Our whole unit was quite practiced in blurting out that admonishment quite rapidly without pause or hesitation. It’s policy to identify yourself, if possible, when effecting an arrest, particularly when undercover and not in uniform. That statement serves to refute any later claim by suspects of not recognizing my authority if the suspect offers resistance or flees. Agency brass and judges also like seeing that type of warning in action reports. Dena had no intention of complying; she knew it and I knew it.

She juked, trying one of those backyard tag dodging moves, fake left, fake right, go left. I didn’t want to tackle her, if at all possible, she weighed ninety pounds, tops. The dirt mound under our feet was not only soil and trash, a nasty smell of urine and human excrement permeated the area. I snatched her right wrist and she lurched backwards, throwing all of her ninety pounds into her desperate attempt to pull from my grasp.

Fuck! I shouted. Swinging her free arm, she clubbed me on the wrist with a metal hydration thermos she had been holding. Releasing her wrist, I lunged forward thumping her hard in the chest with the heel of my hand. We both went down in the shit pile at the feet of the two homeless guys who sat, mesmerized and unmoving despite the little skirmish. At that moment, Joe piled on top, and we quickly got her handcuffed.

Fuck you, fuck you, you fucking motherfuckers! She screamed as I seat-belted her in place in the back of the Crown Vic. Neither Joe nor I said anything. Dena was jacked from the struggle and probably high.

In the course of a long career, I’ve found it advisable to let the adrenaline subside, both hers and mine before saying anything other than, you have a warrant, you’re going to jail. Trying to later explain in court to a judge why you, the professional peace officer said, fuck you too, you little bitch, is never a good look.

A few days later a friendly ex parolee I had given a break in the past, gave me the location of a green mobile home behind 7-11. Along with narc Detective Monroe, we grabbed the Slurpee thief, Jason Herbert with another wanted subject. Counting the earlier grab of Dena, a three-fer arrest was a bonus. Herbert you’re lucky I’m not charging you for ripping off the Slurpee’s yesterday, I said handcuffing him.

He chuckled, and said, thanks Chamness, hey I liked your fight with Dena.

At our Wednesday meeting, Joe couldn’t help but regale the rest of the Warrant Apprehension Team with the story of my unorthodox takedown of Dena atop the shit pile.

And the two homeless dudes just sat in their fucking beach chairs the whole time as we rolled over the top of them getting her cuffed. Joe said laughing.

There was no point in trying to defend my actions in attempting to avoid injuring the tiny woman. It would have only served as fodder for additional comedy.

"Yeah, so I might have lost a step, but just keep breathing til you’re my age motherfuckers." I retorted smiling. Though feigning a small hurt by the rebuke, I remained silently pleased that despite the less than graceful apprehension, Dena hadn’t gotten away from me. Had she run, I might not have caught her. The sprinting speed of my youth was now but a faint memory.

FUCK! WADE SHOUTED out as we both looked downfield.

Yeah, yeah! I yelled almost simultaneously, rising from the turf. The two of us, no longer prone, but regaining our feet with eyes on a pileup downfield. We both had voiced our core emotion. Wade not so happy, but I was ecstatic.

Only an instant before, we were in a tangled, two-human pretzel position on the damp field below Whitman’s dim, antiquated stadium lights. Lights that might have served as a decent perch for resting pigeons, but inadequate for actual illumination. The football had taken an odd, unintended trajectory, nearly straight up and only a few yards past the line of scrimmage rather than toward the quarterback’s intended target, an open wide receiver, in full sprint toward the end zone. Instead of the Pilots tying the score, reasserting their decade-long dominance of the conference, our middle linebacker had an easy interception. We were going to win. Championships were rare at my particular school, like never. My play to that point was unremarkable, just the usual, calling the defensive assignments, barking encouragement, nothing print-worthy.

Late in the fourth quarter, their offense had an opportunity to take the lead. On impulse I initiated a blitz, a hard rush from the left edge. Blitzed all the time last year as a junior, but we had to gamble a bit more that season. Our defense wasn’t dominant like it was this year, playmakers at every position. It was my last collegiate game, what could coach do to me, bench me for next week? There was no next week. With a win, we would have a school record eight victories, but with one early season loss the chances were slim for a bid to the Division II playoffs. The action looked like a handoff. Instead, it was a fake to the running back into the line opposite my rush. The quarterback retreated further to pass. He never saw me, had no chance to scramble, to sidestep or even duck. With a bit of luck anticipating the snap count, I burst right past the hulking offensive tackle and into the Whitman backfield full speed and unimpeded. I launched myself, driving full force into the quarterback’s throwing shoulder and head. He was just able to get his arm going partially forward and with enough momentum to release the errant pass.

Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (CTE), helmet-to-helmet contact, targeting, roughing the passer, crack back blocks. All are now penalties or injury concerns of the modern game, but they were alien, unspoken, even laughable concepts in my era of the sport. Football was violence. The more violence, the better. Wade, the quarterback, wasn’t seriously hurt. He completed a stellar career at Whitman College over the next two years and was even drafted in the late rounds by the NFL Cincinnati Bengals.

The end of the sixties was a time of post WW II trained coaches. Coaches screaming archaic euphemisms, imploring dismemberment and domination of every opponent. Failure to do so meant you were, a gutless wonder or chickenshit or even more unworthy, like a non-football playing person.

Practice sessions with nonsensical amounts of crawling in those days. They crawled in the army, why shouldn’t football players? And no water, too much water was bad. I can’t remember why, but even though your tongue became a chalky, dried out rag inside your mouth, you were expected to minimize water intake. A quick rinse of your mouth every few hours then spit out the precious fluid. I always cheated, gulping as much water as possible and only pretending to spit it out.

A pretty good crowd for Division II showed up, maybe 4000, and they were drifting out onto the field. We won it! A championship! The school’s first. Life is fair after all, I thought to myself. Well-wishers converged, classmates, family, girlfriends.

Shit! Girlfriends, there was Rebecca my high school girlfriend. What is she doing here, she goes to UCSB? I thought in panic as my championship euphoria from an instant before, quickly began to circle the drain. Right there next to Rebecca walked Joey, my ex-teammate, roommate, flunking out the year before, he moved up to Isla Vista. Dumb ass brought her down for the game. A telephone call would have been nice, unless he was trying to fuck with me.

Hi, wow you’re here, I stammered. At that moment Jeanine, my current college girlfriend joins the expanding group at midfield. Could this get any worse? Should I run? No, I go ahead and introduce them. Even in the face of disaster manners are good, aren’t they? Great game huh? I lamely sputter in an octave above my normal voice. I’m aware of a widening circle of onlookers, from conquering hero to laughingstock, everyone knows, it feels like sharks circling me for the kill. It was wrong and hideous, but I do love them both. Rebecca, this is Jeanine, Jeanine this is Rebecca, I said. They smiled curtly at each other and then stared back at me. Did both Rebecca and Jeanine raise an eyebrow simultaneously?

I took a bad fall from a tree when I was about ten years old landing hard on my side. I could manage only a terrifying wheezing sound as the wind was violently forced from my lungs. I was breathless, helpless but to gasp, struggling to inhale, but my lungs just wouldn’t cooperate. There was that distinct flash, a helpless instant of panic as I lost my grip on the limb. Though I flailed wildly for another handhold, I was totally helpless, but to plummet downward. Now, as I looked to Rebecca, then back at Jeanine, I couldn’t seem to get my breath.

Rebecca and I had shared those exciting moments endemic of a first high school love. Physical and heart pounding discoveries born of youthful innocence including the sharp reality of teen pregnancy. It was only a hundred miles between our schools, did I really think this wouldn’t happen?

Over the last two years of our relationship Jeanine had rescued me. I was at the brink of academic expulsion, but she intervened, persevered, supported me in changing my entire academic focus when the wiser path surely would have been to seek a better boyfriend. She was curves, golden hair, big ideas and a genuine innocence, and surely could have found someone less labor intensive than me.

MY THOUGHTS RETURNED to the current tedious task, surveillance. In this business a rich fantasy life or vivid daydreams are useful and acceptable distractions. Gotta piss. Shouldn’t have had coffee at all this morning, but briefing was at fucking 5:30 in the morning sixty miles north in Santa Maria. My departure time, 3:00 a.m. is the middle of the night.

In most TV cop shows, the model that is portraying a hardworking cop does surveillance as follows; parks directly across the street from the fugitive’s apartment not at zero dark thirty, but any old time they feel like it. The TV crook waltzes out the front door two minutes after the cop parks and takes the first sip of coffee from his thermos. That movie cop doesn’t need to piss, of course not, he or she is clairvoyant and knows when this fool is going to leave his apartment. And it’s always via the front door with the suspect wearing the dark hoodie and looking overtly suspicious.

In my experience those TV images do not reflect reality. I reach for the empty one-quart Gatorade bottle in the door compartment. Tinted windows in this 90’s Ford Escape offers some concealment, but I covertly check both directions, nonetheless, making sure while relieving myself I don’t inadvertently flash some unsuspecting mom with her baby stroller happening by.

I have alerted local law enforcement that I am Code 5, meaning surveillance and plain clothes, my radio call sign, Paul 280, and my location. All my contacts with dispatch have been by cell phone to foil any attempts by people using scanners to monitor radio traffic. That type of counter surveillance is a crook’s insurance policy and a` common tactic of drug dealers.

The portable radio is utilized mostly for quick or emergency transmissions, foot pursuits and once one is inside a building. I unscrew the cap on the Gatorade bottle, mindful of where I put it. Wouldn’t want an open bottle of piss bouncing around if you have to leave in a hurry. Do not dribble, others use this vehicle and are sometimes trapped in it for hours. Sanitary wipes are a must. Shit, I dribbled a little bit. Quick wipe, good as new. I heard some agencies’ undercover cops use Depends, the adult diapers when conducting lengthy periods of surveillance. Fuck that. I’m not going to that extreme, but I do try to avoid eating or drinking anything. I text Don, my partner today. No activity, I’ve got good eyes on the building, I’m parked north side of Blosser, half block away.

He responds, copy. Sometimes we’re in the same vehicle, but tactics differ and today he is in uniform and in a marked unit a few blocks away. If I’m able to identify the target subject leaving the residence there is no single, best way to execute a take down. Today Don will be backup with me on point. The subject’s history is thoroughly pre-screened, briefed, and assessed for level of threat. Factors such as prior arrests, propensity for violence, weapons, especially firearms, gang affiliations, mental health issues, children, elderly, and any dogs on the property. Warrant apprehension routinely consists of an unfolding series of unpleasant surprises. Our goal when gathering intel is making sure the crook ends up the only one getting surprised. A SWAT matrix is completed on high control subjects and if the criteria is met, the case is referred out in favor of the more tactically equipped SWAT team. Sometimes we assist them, sometimes SWAT handles the whole operation.

I gave Sarge and Don the following at briefing. Edgar Cisneros has two felony no bail warrants. One for disappearing from state parole, not calling, reporting, or providing an address to his parole agent. The other is for not showing up to court for a new drug sales case. He probably got high, woke up late, was paranoid he would be remanded into custody, so he went on the run. Typical of my clientele. His priors are mostly dope, but there’s an assault conviction and a knife possession while he was on juvenile probation. I located an address for his baby momma from an earlier arrest report.

No Bail Warrants, are our primary mission. Simply put, it means once arrested the parolee can’t post bond and expedite a release until he first appears in court. When we do grab him, the likely consequence will only be about six months in jail then release to a residential drug treatment program.

Prop 47, pure bullshit, those people do not change. Announced Derek, my first partner on the team. California Prop 47 changed the law to make many of the drug convictions in the state non prison eligible. The plan for these offenders is to access more treatment for the non-violent felony convictions by keeping them in the community, not in state prison.

"Derek it’s saving billions, the research shows treatment, not incarceration works for dopers. Do you really think we were successful the old way? Just locking people up in your good old days of three strikes?" I asked.

The new reality my cop partners resist believing is that treatment works. It always has, but criminal justice has taken about forty years to notice the research. Most of them aren’t as vocal as Derek, who was the first to be transferred out of the unit.

You fuckin’ watch, people are going to get hurt and killed letting these people back out on the streets. Derek replied.

My fifth partner Don is young and I’m, well quite a bit older. A lifestyle of weight training, rugby and triathlon has slowed the decline. I tell him, you’re the beneficiary of a very special relationship, grandfather-grandson.  

"Don laughs, I heard you were at Woodstock." he said one morning while we were preparing to check some possible warrant locations I had researched.

Fuck no! I said, "I was a working man’s hippie stocking drywall standing on ledge 30 stories up in Honolulu the summer of ‘69. I had to earn money for school, not get stoned and hang out in a field. I did manage to see Jimi Hendrix at the Honolulu Civic that summer though—didn’t burn his guitar or smash it up on a speaker, I was a little disappointed." I said.

Don has been a deputy about three years and was training as an EMT prior to that. He’s married with two young daughters and he’s a hard worker. Having five partners so far on The Warrant Apprehension Team in six years, I’ve occasionally pondered what that rate of turnover says about me? Am I scaring them off? The sheriff’s department has utilized the team as a springboard for young detectives.

So, Oliver, when do you think you’re going to retire? I get asked by a deputy, detective, agent, or officer almost daily. I understand the motive. Those agencies have a retirement age of fifty or fifty-five. Cops think the job is the domain of the warrior elite and see themselves as, a rare breed. Seeing a guy with white hair doing that same job raises uncomfortable questions for them.

I merely laugh and tell them, I’ll retire when you can get your ass over a six-foot fence or tackle a fleeing felon faster than me.

The boys, as I call them, mostly mark different names on their voting ballot than I do and take opposing positions on political banter in the office. Having each other’s backs every day in dangerous assignments has fostered a high level of respect and acceptance despite those points of demarcation.

Finding men, that don’t want to be found, the vast majority of fugitives we chase, is mostly a mix, art and science, tactics, and technology, but it also starts with some basic research. A few preliminary rules, or the ABCs of warrant apprehension, as I did in Edgar’s case, find girlfriend, baby momma, or mom and you will likely be well on your way to finding him. Edgar has a significant criminal history spanning the last twenty-five years. That much activity generates a lot of data in the form of sentencing reports, probation and parole officer notes, and listed residence addresses. TV cops don’t bother with the mundane aspect of research because it’s only a half hour show, research is not sexy, and the script calls for them to be the beneficiaries of a confidential tip from a reliable source.

Don and I approach the last listed address of Edgar’s baby momma, Gracellia Nunez. Gracellia has probation history but is currently clear of probation or parole. If we had strong intel Edgar was here, we’d bring the whole team with a search warrant in hand, but we are still in the sniffing around stage.

Don, you take the back and I’ll talk to Gracellia, I know her, I said as we pulled to the curb about a half block from the house.

A small boy, about four years old answers the door. Seeing me, he smiles, turns around and places his hands behind his back in the standard handcuffing position. Despite the little guy’s amusing theatrics, I resist the impulse to laugh, his playful behavior is sad and a bit distressing. Even at four years old, he has been conditioned to understand that when cops come to the door, family members leave in handcuffs.

"No guapo, I’m not here for you, you’re a good boy." I said.

The child’s behavior is one of the unsettling, but common negative side effects imposed on families that are caught in the cycle of the criminal justice system. He’s already seen way too much of law enforcement conducting business in his family’s living room. During arrests, some kids will just emotionally shut down, often gazing vacantly at the TV, others wail in tears while parents are marched out of the home in custody. Child Welfare’s arrival at the scene can also set kids off. The children have been yanked from the home so often, CWS’s presence often means parents will once again vanish for extended periods of time or worse, kids find themselves placed outside their home. Puzzled, they watch as measurements of their tiny statures are taken against the access height of drawers or closets found containing guns or dope. Sometimes toddlers or infants are taken to emergency rooms by CWS and cops to assess measurable amounts of drugs inadvertently ingested.

Graciella, the child’s mother approaches the door, get back in here! She snaps at the boy.

Hi, Gracellia, I’m Chamness, from warrants, is Edgar here? I ask. Gracellia is Edgar’s ex, and they are the parents of two small children.

No, he don’t live here no more, she replied.

Ok, can I come in and talk to you for a minute? I ask, in a sneaky cop effort to get a consent entry.

I’m off probation now, she replied.

I know, I’m glad you’re doing so well, I just wanted to talk about Edgar. I repeat. Most of the time, law enforcement does not have the luxury of a search warrant signed by a judge. Unless a cop positively sees the wanted person, consent entry by the occupant is the only other legal means to go inside. As Gracellia pulls the screen door open, I radio Don, alerting him to come to the front to provide cover. If any suspects had been inside, likely they would have bolted to the back by this time. I visually scan the room’s interior to assess for any immediate threats or blind spots before stepping inside. I pause hearing voices across the room. "Graciella, who’s here besides you and the kids? I repeat as a precaution.

Just him, my boyfriend’s old man, she replied. Graciella had motioned with a nod of her head toward an elderly Asian male sitting on the sofa in front of the TV. I step inside moving left, no longer backlit by the open doorway.

Afternoon sir, sorry to disturb your show. I said.

Turning his head in my direction from the television, he stares at me for a long moment. "Dog-a-bounty hunta! Dog-a-bounty hunta!" He shouts excitedly.

Hey! Saito! Shut the fuck up! They’re just here looking for Edgar. Graciella yelled. "Don’t pay no attention to him, he’s half crazy, watches TV twenty-four-seven. He loves that Dog the Bounty Hunter reality show." She explained.

Don, as my cover is focused, zeroed in on the surroundings, visually scanning all areas of the apartment interior. He neither speaks nor engages with anyone.

Does Edgar ever come by to see the kids? I ask.

"That motherfucker! He hasn’t paid a dime of fuckin child support since he got outta prison!" She growled.

You have a phone number for him? Maybe I could call and get him to do the right thing, I asked with the hope of possibly getting a good number. With a number in Edgar’s name, I could write a warrant to track his phone.

"Nah, once in a while he contacts us on Facebook, not in a couple months though," she replied.

Here’s my card Graciella, you can call or text anytime. The sooner we contact Edgar, the less chance he will OD or hurt someone else. You know what he’s like when he’s on a dope run, I said, handing her my business card.

I dole out hundreds and hundreds of my cards in the hope of getting good intel on one of my fugitives. I always give cards to women that have been listed as the victims of previous domestic violence. On rare occasions a man may be a documented victim, but not often. Mostly the cards get tossed or used to separate dope, but once in a great while, a disgruntled girlfriend or parent makes the call to tip me of a location. The daily searching for good intel can often feel daunting with seemingly no clear path forward. Since there are but a few hard and fast rules to the business of finding wanted people, I try to enjoy navigating the chaos.

Sir, could you please sit down. I said.

Despite my repeated directives to stay seated, I couldn’t convince this elderly gentleman to stop following me. Safely controlling the scene is key in felony searches. More a distraction than threat, I ultimately retrieved a business card from my wallet and scribbled on the back side of it. Handing him the card, he studied it for a moment and smiled. He returned to the sofa nodding his head and finally sitting down again.

Once back inside our vehicle again Don said, "don’t think Edgar’s going to be crashing there with the new boyfriend and that crazy old guy. What’d you write on that card anyway?"

"Oh yeah, ha, finally did get him to sit down. I just wrote, Keep the Faith, Dog the Bounty Hunter." I replied.

HEY OLIVER! WHERE CAN we put this? Shouted Tom.

Though he was out front, I still recognized Tom’s bellowing. Drunk like everyone else who had spent the last three hours at the Friday kegger down in the area we called the wash, adjacent to campus. I pulled up my zipper.

Gimmie a fuckin’ minute! I shouted.

Still slightly buzzed, I splashed water on my hands and face, pivoted from the sink and opened the bathroom door. It was Tom alright, along with Ellis, the two stood a little breathless stationed just outside my screen door. Between them was a beer keg, the tap protruding from the top of the half barrel. "Why the hell’d ya bring it here, you think the "Sigs aren’t going to notice it’s fucking missing? I asked.

The Sigma Tau Fraternity raised operating funds by hosting a TGIF, Thank God It’s Friday kegger most weekends, weather permitting. Tom probably pressured Ellis to help him snatch the half barrel keg of Budweiser and tote it the quarter mile from the wash to the off-campus house I shared with my football and rugby teammate, Joey.

Nah, nobody fuckin’ saw us, everybody’s’ drunk, quit bein’ such a pussy. Replied Tom.

Put it in the bathtub, I guess, but I don’t have any ice to keep it cold. I said. Again, my protests were merely a formality. I usually didn’t bother denouncing most of Tom’s antics and antisocial behaviors and I regularly acted as his co-conspirator.

We’ll drink fast, I told a few of the rugby guys to head over here, said Tom.

The fraternities’ Friday events were two dollars for all you could drink between 3:00 and 5:30 p.m. The Sigs typically loaded a frat brother’s faded red, ‘65 VW van with standard half barrels from Lou’s Liquor. Each contained fifteen and a half useable gallons of beer and those containing Budweiser sold retail for about $21, cheaper brands like Lucky or Schlitz went for about $16.00. The Sigs wisely purchased the more popular Budweiser and afterward returned the empties, untapped kegs, and the valuable taps in order to redeem their substantial deposit. Despite the notoriety of sixties student social activities, most colleges still maintained a cursory stance frowning on underaged drinking events. The Sig’s acquiesced somewhat by posting flyers in euphemistic code like, The South Campus Wildlife Society presents, Birds and Small Mammals of Southern California. Lecture and Refreshment Friday 3:00 P.M. Of course, the student’s interpretation was, everyone should proceed to the wash and get drunk for two dollars after your last class. These Friday rituals were usually held in an abandoned outdoor amphitheater in a wooded area south of campus. Everyone but a few fanatical would-be scholars or social isolates did exactly that.

We had just hoisted the pilfered keg into the bathtub when I overheard a few more revelers gathering at my front door.

Hey, hi, we heard there’s a party. Said a red headed girl with her face pressed against my screen. Shrewdly, despite their intoxication, the mob has ushered the attractive co-ed to the front of the line to serve as their spokesperson.

Joey, grab those left-over plastic cups, we’re having a party. I yelled.

The dumpster-worthy furniture of our living room rapidly filled with college kids in varying levels of intoxication which overflowed to the kitchen. In no time, a blue-grey haze of marijuana and hashish smoke rose, then hovered at just above eye level. A continual line established itself at the bathroom to both access the beer keg and to piss, usually in that order. Utilizing my eminent domain as the home’s primary renter, I managed to squeeze in appropriating a seat on the sofa next to the attractive red head.

That’s so funny you swiped a keg, but aren’t the Sigs going to be mad? She asked.

You mean this keg is stolen? I replied.

She laughed charmingly as I deadpanned a look of astonishment best as I could manage.

How ya doing Oliver? Good party. Said Herb.

I recognized the familiar friendly voice and looked up at one of my senior teammates from the school’s rugby club. Still an underclassman I endeavored to show a little respect.  Afterall, we had stolen his keg.

Thanks Herb, ha, yeah glad you could make it, totally unplanned. Just sort of expanded from the wash and you know me, always up for a party. I chuckled nervously.

Known to everyone as Herb, Herbert Carl Muellar III was my teammate and Vice President of the Sigs. Herb had never been to my place before, but it was an easy matter to follow the trail of drunken revelers to my door in search of a missing keg and tap. Herb was playing it cool. No feigned outrage nor accusation.

Later I’ll need the empty and the tap. Lou’s Liquor is holding our deposit. Said Herb.

Sorry about that Herb. I replied.

No sweat, I don’t really give a shit as long as I can retrieve the deposit. I know you weren’t the culprit. He replied with a chuckle.

Kathy, the redhead, had a look of nervous relief on her face following the friendly exchange. She smiled sweetly and resumed sipping her stolen beer.

Herb was not a great athlete, but he seemed drawn by the social interaction of both fraternity life and the sport of rugby. He was notorious for expounding at length on any subject but particularly history. Herb’s father, Herbert Carl Muellar Jr. was chair of the college’s history department. Someone said his great uncle had been Governor of New York. Herb didn’t share much about himself or advertise that his dad was a prof, but the name was a dead giveaway. A charmer, Herb had a subtle but effective talent for focusing on you and what you were saying. It was a rare and attractive quality among the usually self-involved student population. Tom was also a history major, had taken several courses from the elder Muellar and he was the one dropping a bombshell one night as the two of us sat at the Midway Bar.

Herb’s in the CIA., said Tom.

Ha! What the fuck are you talking about? So, Herb’s a spy and was sent to investigate us? Is he a detective too, just because he managed to follow a dripping keg of beer to our door?  I asked.

Tom was not laughing, but that wasn’t all that unusual when he was trying to fuck with his friends. He was fairly skilled at stringing people along mostly as an exercise for