Real Cops Don't Pay for Lunch

By Leonard Miller

Law enforcement has evolved greatly over the past many years, and that’s not just in reference to the myriad of newer, better, quicker forensics to help investigate and solve crimes. It’s referring to basically everything involved in law enforcement from the uniforms to the cars to the working conditions, assignments, rank, etc.

Basically everything that is except the people who actually do the job. Over a total of near 20 years, the police officer is still in the ‘Cro-Magnon’ stage of development. There are some who have progressed further than others, but the ‘higher life forms’ in the job tend to somehow avoid rank that seems reserved for the non-evolved.

What happens in a day in the life of a police officer? Much of it is probably not at all what the average citizen thinks. Not by a long shot. Real Cops Don’t Pay For Lunch tries to outline “…a day in the life…” honestly (sometimes embarrassingly so), clearly, and often amusingly.

The guy who couldn’t complete a sentence when he was stopped for speeding because “…someone just called my wife – AND THEY JUST HUNG UP!”

Another somewhat eccentric gentleman who was horrified to find he had a pocket full of change and proceeded to disburse said change across three of the six lanes of the highway he was on.

Neither of them got a ticket.  Several women who opted for the crying routine, however, were ticketed.

None of this yet even takes into account the brass and the caste system in place at many police departments; brass who have committed atrocities that fully earned them that hunk of limburger cheese on their manifold. This was completely unbeknownst to them, of course, but it certainly delivered the message.

Real Cops covers all this and more. Barney Miller watch out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449020804

Leonard Miller

Leonard Miller isn’t. For reasons that began as ‘perceived necessity’ and are currently ‘just because,’ it’s a pseudonym. The owner of the pseudonym has just shy of two decades experience in law enforcement, a Bachelor of Science degree in Law Enforcement, and seven years of experience teaching college courses in the Criminal Justice curriculum. The Bachelor degree in Law Enforcement almost shared ‘Major’ status with Journalism. The latter being three credit hours short of major status, Journalism ended up being the minor course of study. Throughout a law enforcement experience that saw the rank of patrolman, records officer, investigator (which was a detective without the rank, pay, or shiny badge), evidence officer, photo technician, juvenile officer, and sergeant, writing remained a constant freelance hobby. Leonard hasn’t ever had a book published before, but has been a publisher writer for many years. Caught  in a sort of limbo in life and the chosen profession due to several issues; around this time, not many police officers would admit to being avid rock fans. He not only admitted it, but played in a couple of rock bands during this tenure. Due to that association, because he failed to see the absolute requirement to arrest anyone and everyone who found themselves in violation of some law somewhere, accusations of “You don’t want to arrest your buddies.” flew. Not being one to back down, this led to a downward spiral. John Mellencamp said it best; “I fight authority – authority always wins.” In the long run, that’s probably right. But if you don’t do what you believe to be the right thing to do at any given time, that’s something you can regret for a long time. Or should.

Book preview

Real Cops

Don’t Pay For Lunch

Leonard Miller

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2009 Leonard Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 10/15/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2081-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-2080-4 (e)

Contents

Pregame skate:

First period

Second Period

Third period

Overtime

Sudden death overtime

Pregame skate: 

Yes, yes, I know. Cheesey – the way I’ve split this thing up. I can’t help it if I’m a hockey fanatic. So just in case you were wondering why I’ve sectioned it as I have… Well, wonder no longer.

What is normally called a ‘prologue’ is a ‘pregame skate’ here.

I tried splitting it up in chapters. I tried to split it up chronologically but that didn’t work for a variety of reasons.

So then I tried dividing it and ordering it with specific topics. The topics were the all topics you might think of when you think about a police department; the brass (administrative officers), the patrol division, promotions, lawyers, court, law suits, pursuits, the public, and sick people.

All that managed to do was really screw me up. The book became really scrambled and I actually lost a good portion of it. I was able to recover some, but there are still parts that are gone and will never return.

Aside from the parts that are gone for good, it took me so long to reorganize things that I’d work a while, get disgusted and quit working for a while. By ‘a while’ I don’t mean a few hours or days. In this case, ‘a while’ means months! Then I’d decide that I really want to get this published and start working on it again.

Finally, I got down to serious business and got through it, enlisted the aid of a proof reader (my mother) and got it done!

Several things I have to do here in this pregame skate; I’ve already done one of them. I also have to thank a few people. So in no particular order;

Bill & Hillary (No, not that Bill & Hillary!) Bill just because. Hillary because someone has to put up with him.

Attorney Evan Levow, for help with the information (photo, etc.) of the breathalyzer.

Rick – my dispatcher-turned-shift partner. One of the people who read through it and believed from the beginning.

Nora – it took me long enough, but I TOLD you I’d get it done. If you’re reading this then you’ve already gotten your copy. Thank you for your help and belief as well. I still have the investment letter. I hope some day I can return the favor.

Rich – the executive editor at the quaint little metropolitan sports ‘zine that published my ramblings for about 10 years. Rich taught me the foibles of starting a sentence with the word ‘and.’ I have to admit it looks much better his way, so I have to express my appreciation to him for that. And I really mean it!

Finally, my family for being supportive and for putting up with me the many years it’s taken to get off my dead rump and finishing the project; for not harassing me to get it done but also not letting me forget I still had to finish it.

If you read this and like it, let me know! [e-mail]

Yes, it’s a real address and yes I’ll really answer. If you’re really nice, I’ll send you what was going to be the chapter listing (before I did the hockey motif) complete with the song lyrics I intended to use as an introduction to each chapter. Even though I believe the use of the lyrics would be subject to the ‘fair use’ exception to the copyright laws I didn’t want to take a chance.

Finally, this book has been modified from its original format. It has been edited to be read at your leisure and formatted to fit your hands.

First period

Once upon a time, somewhere in America, there was a small town. This town was… well, in America is good enough. In case you’re not catching on, I’m specifically not naming the town.

The names have been altered to protect the innocent from the guilty. There are more guilty than innocent. For purposes of this project, there was a woodsman named Jeremiah Stoat. On his way throughout what would become the United States of America, he set camp deep in the heartland. Here, he cleared land, built his home, hunted, fished, etc.

Here, he married. (Well, actually it was common-law), raised his family, and lived off of the land. Jeremiah did very well. The Indians respected him greatly. Of course, the fact that every time they staged a raid on Jeremiah’s homestead, five of their warriors were eaten by various pets the Stoat family kept and cared for around the cabin.

Word travels quickly and many, many more heard of Stoat and his good fortune in the new frontier area. Many, many people came to see his home. Many, many wanted to stay with him. It seemed that the only logical thing to do was to unite… to band together and form a community. All honest men were welcome. All who were willing to fight and die to protect their community from savages and bandits were welcome.

Soon, there were so many people living in Jeremiah Stoat’s they felt that becoming a town was in order. Besides, incorporating was in vogue. Of course, being as everyone felt they owed a great debt to Jeremiah Stoat (who had long-since passed on), it was unanimously decided that the name of the town would be Stoatsville.

It wasn’t until much, much later that it was discovered that Stoat, Jeremiah’s last name, was another word for an ermine: especially in it’s brown color phase. And ermine, as we all know, is another word for a weasel.

This does have a point, because as it turns out, Jeremiah’s descendants weren’t good judges of character - at least not as good as Jeremiah. Remember, Jeremiah felt that all honest men who were willing to fight and die to protect their community from savages and bandits were welcome.

Stoatsville grew up. By the time 1970 rolled around there were 3600+ people in the town. The police department, in one form or another, had been around for some years.

By the time we woke up and it was 1980, the town had grown to about 14,000. The police department had grown to a strength of 20 men. The town was now booming. Industry, business, and residences were popping up all over the area. What had been vast open fields and prairies were now fast becoming shopping malls and subdivisions. The population was exploding. In seven years, the number of residents had grown by over 7,000 people! The total Stoatsville population now stood somewhere in the vicinity of 21,000.

The police department, courtesy of the town’s administration, had kept right in step. In 1987, there were 17 men sworn to serve and protect the town. In keeping with tradition, the only people, historically speaking, of course, to be elected to the town administration or to be appointed to a position of authority within the police department’s administration, were dedicated to emulating a stoat.

Not as cute as a ferret or as valuable as an ermine; rather, they felt it necessary to become, both now and forevermore, full-fledged weasels. You’ll see this again later, but the department was guided onward, through the fog, by the …completely fair and unbiased and unpolitically-motivated and ‘no-we’re-not-picking-on-anybody’… administration which is, in fact, comprised mainly of weasels.

Jeremiah Stoat had founded the community on the basis of fairness and honesty and brotherhood. Some of his descendants had the same idea and some didn’t.

The ones who believed in the same thing died off. Actually, they were probably killed-off by jealous, weasel-like relatives. Eventually, the weasel-like relatives took over… Completely.

One of them was appointed chief of police. Four of them were elected to the town board where one of them will eventually die. I know this because I am going to kill him myself.

Five others assumed positions of authority within the police department; two as lieutenants and three as sergeants. Then, a massive search was launched to locate the weaselliest people in existence to fill other spots. These people would be eventually located. That’s because, as we all know, Murphy’s Law and The Peter Principle both provide that every decent human being in the world will at one time or another, sooner or later or later, work for a walking hemorrhoid. It seems many of these ambulatory swollen anal blood vessels become sergeants or above in municipal police departments.

They say you are your own worst critic. I don’t believe that’s entirely true. I am a rather harsh critic when it comes to much of what I do. However, if you want to find your worst critic, look to your father or your little brother.

See, originally, the town’s name was to be Weaselville. But Daddy and Jeem-Jeem didn’t like that. No!

Can’t have that, Len. You’ve got to come up with a slightly more cerebral pseudonym for the town.

What? Weaselville isn’t good enough for you? You’ve got some problem with my creative train of thought? Weaselville doesn’t accurately convey my meaning?

I’m not saying that, Len. Jim said in his best fatherly tone that I could rip his lungs out for. I just think you could come up with a better name than Weaselville. I just don’t like it."

And you, dad? Weaselville is stupid? Is that it?

"No. I think there are better words you could use to convey the same meaning. And, as if it isn’t enough to have a full 1/3 of my family against me, my mother decided to pitch in. She hadn’t even read it yet.

OK. Like what? What could I use to say weasel without saying weasel?

Now comes my mother and her vocabulary expert, crossword-puzzle dictionary mind. Need a word, ask my mother. She’ll come up with one in a quick heartbeat.

Although I did get her on ‘often’ (which is correctly pronounced without a ‘t’ sound) and ‘fag,’ which does have a meaning other than a male with overwhelmingly feminine traits or my brothers’ sense of humor.

Just for 10-43 (gosh, I get so excited when I talk police talk. That means ‘information’) fag also means a bundle of sticks and is slang for a cigarette in some other countries.

You could say stoat.

Yes, it was said in that triumphant motherly tone.

Stoat? What the hell is a stoat?

As soon as I said it I knew I was going to feel real stupid. The one thing I learned in 29 years, aside from if you keep biting your fingernails, they’ll ball up in your stomach and you won’t be able to go to the bathroom, is not to question my mother on a vocabulary issue in at least 99% of all possible situations.

Len, it means weasel.

Oh. Thanks, Mom.

Yeah, you could explain how it was founded by Jeremiah Stoat and then somehow explain that a stoat is a weasel and how that applies here. my Dad offered.

I wouldn’t get overly excited about input from my Dad in front of my Dad, but I really liked the idea, so that’s what I did. I think it worked rather well. Of course, in the long run I guess you’ll be the judge.

But, see what I mean about the harsh critic stuff? My Dad and my brother had read 31 pages that I had typed and single-spaced, and ONE WORD is a major stumbling block.

Actually, my Dad said he thinks I spent too much time talking about music, too. He said it kept his interest through most of the book so far, but he started to lose interest when I spent so long on the music aspect. Little does he know there’s going to be even more about music before I’m finished.

He tried another tactic and said he skips whole chapters in books if he doesn’t get interested in what ls going on. I interpreted that as a compliment. If he’d bought other books in which he loses interest, then maybe he’d buy mine, too!

He’ll have to, because I’m not giving him a copy now!

One last thing that may help in other areas of this book; my family is strange. I have a mother, father, sister, and two brothers. Mom is sometimes called ‘Moo-Moo.’ Dad is ‘Poo-Poo,’ mainly just because it aggravates him. Tracy is ‘Trace-Trace.’ Jim is ‘Jeem-Jeem.’ Pat is ‘Poo-Poo,’ also mainly because it aggravates him. I am… who I am. (I almost forgot this was supposed to be anonymous.)

My kid is ‘Dave-Dave,’ ‘The Mick,’ ‘The Rodent,’ or ‘Rug-Head,’ because I consider these terms of endearment, rather than insults. He’s also occasionally referred to as ‘Bugs,’ after my favorite actor (you know – Bugs Bunny). I believe all of these nicknames were in place well before I broke his nose.

You, of course, are free to make your own judgments concerning the mental stability of my family. They’ll probably be fairly accurate.

You wanna save the world, kid? Sit back; keep your eyes open and your mouth shut!

Shit! 13 years of midnights and now they stick me with a rookie. Worse yet, a college-educated rookie. There’s only one thing worse than a rookie, and that’s a college-educated rookie.

And they give the goofy fuck a gun, too! Probably even gave him bullets! What the hell were they thinking?!"

Just four months, Schultz. He goes to school in four months, Schultz. Just show him the town for a while, Schultz.

As you might guess, Schultz wasn’t regarding his new partner as a day at the beach. Of course, their natural rapport aside, it wasn’t any day at the beach for Miller, either.

But that was the first day of duty. What a change! It was all smiles and handshakes at the swearing-in ceremony. Congratulations and welcomes. Now this?! The best he got at roll call was an obligatory nod from some of the younger guys and a few snorts from the older ones.

Schultz hadn’t even acknowledged his presence until he got into the squad with him. Miller liked it better when he didn’t exist. Not much more was said for the rest of the shift. They answered a few calls, but it didn’t do much good. By the time Miller called in their (arrival) 10-23 and (location) 10-20, Schultz usually had things about sewn up.

At shift change, all the equipment was turned in and any important information was passed on to the day turn.

See ya tomorrow night, Schultz. Miller yelled as they left the station.

Officer Schultz, college-boy. Officer Schultz.

Well, at least his schedule won’t be disrupted by his ‘Mr. Congeniality’ award.

So now it’s back to my brand new apartment. I never lived in a one-bedroom anything before – let alone a $328/mo. One bedroom apartment.

Finished the first week OK. He wrote in the journal that he refused to call a diary (not masculine enough).

"My FTO isn’t real friendly, but I guess that’s to be expected in this field. That’s what they taught at school, anyway. In this line of work, you tend to make friends with considerable difficulty.

And that’s the cop! It’s about next to impossible for an outsider to work his way in. If he takes a badge, it’s a little easier. But it still takes time."

Miller closed the journal.

That’s OK, he thought. I’ve got nothing but time.

You see, this was his chosen profession. If you put his desires and his abilities together, a cop is it. 20 years old when he graduated, he had everything figured out. There was a haphazard way to do things and there was an academic way.

He chose the academic route. First, he got a job to hold him until he got on with a police department. His dad helped there, but six months of flipping chicken only made him sure that he wanted to be a cop.

Nine months before he graduated, he took a compass, set it for a 50-mile radius of the South Chicago suburb he lived in, and then sent letters to every police department that fell within the circle.

In retrospect, he should have known something was up when only eight out of over 100 letters got responses. That didn’t faze him.

"Ever since I realized I wasn’t smart enough to be a doctor or good enough to play baseball, being a cop is all I ever wanted to do.

That was his standard response to the question ‘Why did you become a cop?’ It didn’t answer a damned thing, but it shut people up. So anyway, he tested with a few departments and got bounced from a few. Three departments added him to their eligibility list. But ‘eligibility list’ often means Thanks anyway, but the Superintendant of Parks has a son who really needs a job… But maybe in three or four years…

Then, Weaselville, called him. After the second interview and told him that he was hired pending satisfactory completion of a medical, physical, and polygraph exam. Those went well, even though the polygraph examiner made several references to him as a ‘college boy.’ He even took the medical, which included considerable standing/walking/stooping/bending/stretching, with a broken ankle.

As soon as he left the police departments’ doctor’s office, he went to the hospital to have his right ankle put in a cast, as it was to remain for six to eight weeks. I guess Chinese doctors have a low tolerance to hearing Americans bitch. A few choice complaints and a few strategically-placed phone calls and that doctor was more than happy to take the cast off after only three weeks.

Please, Doctor Su? You don’t understand. If I don’t go to work soon, I’m going to lose my chance at this job. In retrospect (again) he should have let that happen.

Ah, you want cahst off now, round eyes? We take cast off now!

All this happened right after Christmas. Swearing-in was December 29, and the first day of work would be January 1, 1981! Two weeks in radio, and then an eternity with Officer Schultz.

The worst part is when you have to go to court. Everyone asks you some really stupid questions. The defense attorney, especially.

The court calls Leonard Miller to the stand. Raise your right hand, please. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?

I do.

Please be seated.

Would you state your full name, please, and spell your last name for the court reporter?

Leonard Miller – M-I-L-L-E-R.

Thank you, Mr. Miller. And where are you employed?

With the Weaselville Police Department.

Are you a police officer with the Weaselville Police Department?

No sir. I’m head of the sportswear department.

Pardon me?

Yes, I’m a police officer with the Weaselville Police Department.

I see. And how long have you been so employed?

mumblemumblemumble.

You’ll have to speak up and speak into the microphone, please.

Five months and one week.

Oh, and what did you do prior to being hired by the Weaselville police department, Mr. Miller? They always refer to you as Mr. rather than officer. The only reason I can figure is that it pisses you off.

I was a college student majoring in law enf…

I didn’t ask you about your interests, Mr. Miller. I asked what you did. Were you employed in any way?

I managed a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant.

"I see… well. Could you please tell us - tell the court, what you saw that led you to believe - relying on your ‘vast’ experience as a police officer - that Mr. John Q. Public here, in fact, violated the statute with which he was subsequently charged?

Here’s where I did better than a lot of guys. Defense attorneys like to talk like that in hopes that the police officer will respond in the typical police fashion - Huh? This makes the cop look dumb and will hopefully throw more of a shadow of doubt on his credibility.

What throws them is if you respond to them using even bigger and more useless words. If you can find an obscure, big word and use it correctly, that’s better still. Now, you’ve amused the judge and the jury (which is, more often than not, a point in your favor) and you’ve either confused the defense attorney, or irritated the shit out of him, either of which is desirable.

‘This causes the defense attorney to attack everything from your experience and knowledge to your heritage and your after-shave lotion. A chain reaction starts here. The defense attorney gets nasty, causing the prosecuting attorney to ask the judge to caution the defense to refrain from personal attacks against the state’s witness (that’s if you have a capable prosecuting attorney that day). The judge will comply; The defense will be so-cautioned.

About now, the jury may start feeling sorry for you. They start thinking about how little money you make and having to work shifts and holidays and weekends and now this mean old lawyer, who probably makes more in two months than you will all year is picking on you and…

Hey! All the judicial system is now is a big game. You’ve seen the bumper sticker Whoever dies with the most toys wins. Why not try to beat them at your own game?

For example; I had a case once where I arrested two kids for Criminal Recklessness. They were driving through a residential subdivision at about 50 MPH. Of course, they’d slow down considerably when they were going to run head-on into each other.

They went all through the subdivision running into each other. We’d been getting complaints about them for about a month, but we could never catch them. When I finally did catch them, everything matched; driver’s descriptions, vehicle descriptions, etc.

Anyway, I caught them and arrested both of them for Criminal Recklessness. They both decided to fight the charge. Of course, there were two separate court dates - both on my days off. The first kid represented himself, and he was found guilty. He was the one with four points on his driving record.

The second kid got an attorney and was found not guilty. And he was the one who we later found out was suspended with 15 points against his license.

Most of the time, you’re in court on your off-duty time, and you’re not going to waste a day off trying to convict some mope who will most probably wind up with probation. So you try and accumulate as many toys as you can. If you’ve got a strong enough case that it’s going to court anyway, why not try to play by their rules and beat them at their own game.

There are a few things to remember when you’re going to court. The most important thing is, DON’T LIEI!! If you lie, you DIDN’T win, and you may get caught (which would be a very bad thing). Another thing to remember is that ‘perpetrator’ is a stupid word and everybody knows it’s a stupid word. Shortening it to ‘perps’ isn’t any better. So don’t use it in hopes of looking intelligent, because you’ll look like a dork.

Small-town cops tend to like that word, it seems.

Well, sir. I was on routine patrol in a fully-marked squad car when I observed the defendant acting in what I believed to be a very suspicious manner. He was driving a 1986 Mercury Cougar – a two-door. A computer check of the license plate showed that plate to be registered to a 1968 Dodge 4-door to a subject from the other side of the state.

I then activated my overhead lights and siren in an attempt to stop the vehicle (if you don’t say ‘activated’ my overhead red lights and siren, they’ll usually try to aggravate you by asking And how did you attempt to stop the vehicle") and the driver refused to pull over.

The defense attorney sees an opening. What makes you say he ‘refused’ to pullover?

He hopes you’ll say you followed him for a mile and a half and he wouldn’t stop, in which case the attorney will suggest that perhaps the defendant didn’t see you until a mile and a half later. Maybe there was just this really good tune on the radio and he couldn’t hear he siren – despite the fact that everyone on that section of highway pulled over immediately.

When I activated my overhead red lights, I noted that the driver looked into his rearview mirror, then his side view mirror, and then over his shoulder at me. He then he began reaching onto the floorboard and into his glove compartment. I activated my siren, and he checked his mirrors and looked over his shoulder again. He continued for approx. a mile and a half before finally pulling over.

And what, if anything, did you see then?

They always say …what, if anything… probably trying to put what you’re going to say in a By the way. It’s not really worth mentioning, but… context. Just one more part of the game.

"I saw that the defendant appeared to be very nervous. By this time, a back-up unit had arrived and I ordered the defendant, over the PA, to step from his vehicle and to the rear of his car. While my back-up watched the defendant, I proceeded to check the interior of the vehicle. First, I noticed that there was a single key in the ignition. I turned the ignition housing with my hand and it twisted off of the column - having been held there by a piece of chewing gum. I also noticed that there were pieces of metal and plastic on the drivers’ side floorboard.

I saw a wire of some kind sticking out of the edge of the closed glove compartment. I opened the glove compartment and found a bam-bam, screwdriver, wire-snips, and a compact, fully-loaded automatic weapon with a round in the chamber."

Officer, can you tell me what is so strange; about finding tools in a person’s vehicle?

These particular tools, nothing… if you’re a car thief.

Objection, your Honor. The witness is merely speculating and has no grounds for making this assumption. That’s a defense attorney’s favorite phrase when he slips up a bit and you finally get to say what you want to say. The game begins anew.

The prosecutor should say, Your Honor, the attorney for the defense asked what was so strange. In his education and experience, and speaking from facts which are certainly within his knowledge, the witness responded to exactly the question he was asked.

Hopefully, the judge will say, Overruled. The defense will continue.

Now the defense attorney will either rip you to shreds (because he has been made to look bad), or he’ll start making mistakes because your team has connected with a hard right.

Well, Officer, what kind of gun was it? the defense counters; loudly.

I really have no idea, sir.

There’s the right/left combination you needed to win. If you can prove he’s a car thief, who cares what kind of gun he had?! He doesn’t have a permit, anyway. But if the defense can trick you into answering beyond your knowledge, he may be able to convince the jury that you’ve been answering beyond your ability during the whole trial.

By admitting that you don’t know, you may have dealt the fatal blow to the scum-sucking bleeding heart.

That was a hell of a digression, but I’d have said it sooner or later, anyway. Better to have gotten it out of the way early.

But a rookie is regarded with only slightly higher esteem than an ex-wife. The only difference is that the latter is understandable. Of course, many rookies go through what is widely referred to as The John Wayne Syndrome. The attitude that comes across like Because I’ve got the badge, that’s why!

The guys with 10 or more years despise you. The guys with five or six years avoid you - they remember all too well what it was like and they have no desire to become involved again. The guys with two or three years have been brow-beaten into such a state of confusion it’s hard to really say how they’ll react.

Fortunately for me, I was hired by a small-town police department with a distinct manpower shortage. I didn’t have to ride with Schultz all that long.

In retrospect, it’s kind of scary. I hadn’t been wearing a uniform for nine weeks yet, and I’m out in a squad car by myself. It was a Sunday day-turn; generally very uneventful. But still - if you were a merchant in town, would you like it if you knew that one of the only two possible police officers responding to your armed robbery had only nine weeks on the department and hadn’t even gone through the academy yet?! Nay, I think not. I hadn’t even ever fired a handgun before.

Being a part of a small-town police department is incredible, and I don’t mean that in the positive application of the word. Being a part of a small-town police department in a town where the town government has a farm-stand mentality is even more incredible.

Well, you don’t get paid as much as other area departments, but we give you a take-home car. We figured that to be a benefit worth about $2500/year additional.

That’s what the commission says when you’re hired. They’re right, too. If you take into account the maintenance, insurance, fuel, car payments, etc., it figures to about $2000 to $2500 per year.

Of course, that’s if you like pulling up to a grocery store of a restaurant with your family in a vehicle that everyone’s going to stare at, or one that marks all occupants with the same target you wear eight hours a day. I doubt that anyone who is unstable enough to attack a cop would think Well, he’s off-duty now, and he’s got his family with him. I guess I’ll just wait until tomorrow to kill him.

But then the commission takes the cars away. The car-per-man program is not now and was never considered to be a benefit, and the commission is discontinuing the program without increasing the benefits elsewhere in the police department’s budget. We even had to sign papers that we understood and agreed with this statement. And you had the resident weasels pushing to make sure everybody signed one. Another feather in their caps.

Okay?! Well, fuck you too, sir! Eh, too bad. That car was a real babe magnet, too!

You develop really severe attitudes at times, and not all of them are home-grown. Some of them are thrust upon you, once again by the politicality of the environment. For instance, one commissioner had a real bad habit of whistling to get your attention, then looking away and waving you over to him with a look of disdain on his face; yes, much like you would your standard cocker spaniel who had just, ummm, had an accident..

Excuse me, sir. I’m not your fucking dog. If you’d like to speak to me, may I suggest that you rephrase your request? I’d like you to keep in mind, while rephrasing this request, that I am a police officer with immediate access to no less than 46 9mm. rounds of ammunition.

More often than not in a small town, the police commission is composed of three to five men who are ‘pillar-of-the-community’ types, but who have no idea of what law enforcement is about. Period! Our newest commission didn’t even know what it meant to have a horse on the commission or the town board. I thought that was universally understood as being necessary to get promotions, etc. Even if you don’t understand that from the context in which it was used, it shouldn’t be too difficult to figure out.

Let’s see. We’ve had Armed Services Generals, morticians, electricians, barbers, a retired police officer, a steel mill administrator, lawyers, and even bank presidents as police commissioners. They all thought this was New York, or Los Angeles, or Chicago PD. Forget the fact that those departments have more people to clean the washrooms than we have total!

This is the big-time, jack! I control police officers. I can suspend them. I can hire them. If I hire them, they’ll owe me something. Oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy oh boy!

Sorry, that’s how it seems and it really makes me sick. It’s real easy to get off on the wrong foot. For instance, if a member of the administration asks your opinion of something and your opinion differs from theirs - well, it can ruin your whole week.

Actually, saying exactly what I meant or what I thought has kept me on the shit-list for all of my approximately eight years (give or take) as a police officer. It reaches a point where anything you do or say is wrong; whether it’s right or not.

And although it may be fun, engaging in psychological warfare does not help your cause. The rules and regulations are so generic that they have you by the balls for anything from shooting a file cabinet (that actually happened to a lieutenant who wondered