Turn for the worse by Lt. Pata

As a cop you are not really supposed to have that moment where you actually see your life pass before you. Not really. I mean of course it happens on every episode of popular cop shows, along with the shootout and paramour experience, but in real life, it happens - but it is not as sexy as on TV and at least in my experience I did not jump in the bottle or take drugs or seek out some cheap one-night stand. However, now looking back I am wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Built in excuse, a little legal- but immoral bad behavior-How long will Catholic guilt and Italian pathology poison my opportunities to have the adult “E” ticket experience? Sheesh!

Don’t get me wrong, I am a little interested in some vices. A nice bottle of Rafanelli Cabernet or Zin perhaps? I am not a prescription medicine guy but the company of a beautiful woman, Madonna (The mother of Jesus not the naughty singer-Said lovingly, almost like singing it- while looking up and both my hands flexing the index fingers to both thumbs.)…don’t hate me. It is my heritage. I love women.

As far as meds -once I brought back a canister of Oxycoton to the Emergency Room the day after a wonderful doc at Kaiser prescribed it for one of my many bumps from the job. I did not know what to do with it because it made me sick and I figured someone else could use it. I figured I could trade up- or down for something that would not make the lining of my stomach introduce itself to my mouth and nostrils. I am a really really bad patient. Some would call me pathetic. The idea of barfing, makes me sweat. Anyway, I remember the doc saying to me, “Are you kidding? You know the street value of this stuff?” Ya, like I was going to sell it to my pals.

After fighting fair, once-I remember seeing my life, short as it was and not quite as adventurous or interesting, pass before my eyes. Actually the fist of the bad guy, his knees, and the cement passed before my eyes first. I guess the moral of the story is if this misfortune is going to happen, then it really should happen late in life, so at least the story – actually the slideshow in your spinning head -is interesting. Mine was about silly stuff, you know, the past gals I dated, my pets and my mom’s ravioli, maybe a couple of really good donuts. It was probably a PG maybe an R rating – tops if it were a movie for others to see. Now, of course it would require the almighty version of a motion picture rating of an NC-17. I confess, I have enjoyed my life. Forgive me, it’s been 25 years.

So the slideshow- while in the heat of the battle- is a little distracting. Thankfully you have the loss of consciousness that works out the details with your subconscious. They are pals. “Unconscious, meet Subconscious.” A little synaptic handshake and POOF! You’re on your way.

It’s hard to swing or take a shot at the bad guy when in my subconscious – “life passing before me delirium” - my sweet mom is there in my hallucination, trying to feed me. “Not now mom I am getting my butt kicked!” In my experience, it is the few moments in between the well placed -fist-assisted clock-cleaning- punch that provide this little visual hallucination. But everyone is different.

The best way to describe it for you, the consumer of my nightmares, is to put in foam ear-plugs, then take a couple Valium- go to your girl or guy friend’s home and tell them you cheated on them and watch the festivities. Be sure to duck when the book War and Peace is thrown at you. Oh and jump off the roof for the pain factor that sneaks past the experience goal-keeper. Another good way to experience the wonder of this is to crawl in an industrial dryer at the Laundromat.

Of course, while many won’t get there, at least on a assault-induced level, Murphy’s law, or the Italian version, lets call it Peppino’s law’s, would ensure that I have this wonderful life fulfilling event. Twice. For now.

The first event was completely born out of my sense of stupid cop-ism. I normally don’t participate in my own behind whipping, but for some silly reason I decided to stay in the fight this one time. I should have handed this guy the keys to my car and bailed into the bar for a drink. I devoted a blog to my butt-pounding and if it makes it past the censor – you should get it any week…So – I won’t bore you here with the details.

The second event was much less painful, but more of a mortality-reality check. Facing down a guy with a gun is “Interesting.” I don’t really recommend it…well not for most, but there are a couple of folks I think of who would benefit from it. It is the big equalizer or perhaps the huge roadside sign in life that sets the perspective on the balance of your life. ATTENTION RALPH – Duck!

My little late night lesson in fight or flight, or survival was an attention getter to many, but mostly to me. I remember it like it was yesterday. It was another event that caused me to relive it in a cruel little way- designed by God I’m sure, to make me never forget that I am totally expendable, mortal, and made of water and gooey stuff that when damaged leaks red.

The beginning started like this: I was driving in at the end of the night and I was looking for trouble. I was driving west on a troubled boulevard in our city when I saw a felony car driving past. A felony car is a nice moving container of “suspected” criminals. The car was filled with people and was driving past me really-really slow in the opposite direction. It was like every nerve receptor in my body was alerted and telling me….turn around….turn around NOW. So, stupid Ralph, did. In hindsight, I now know it was God and his pals “Saint Pain” and “Saint Scare the Pants off of You” that dropped a nickel in the Ralph juke box of life and ordered up this little event.

I tried to not fall into this trap by evoking the innocent citizen clause. I said to myself, Naaaaah, these guys are just passing through. Well, just as I was about to disengage, they did a naughty thing that caused me to close the deal and pull them over. The result was my traitorous right hand lowering from the steering wheel, to the police light bar thing and then the fateful un-twitching deliberate right handed motion across the lever that sealed my fate. I activated the overhead light-bar. Oh, the naughty thing they did to seal their fate…they used their blinker to indicate a left turn. NO ONE uses their turn indicator. That coupled with the other stuff, like a burned out license plate light, (totally serious) and the fact they were driving the speed limit, was it for me.

I called out that I was going to stop this car. Smart Ralph called out the number of people in the car. There were 4 seen, but actually 5 in real life once I pulled them over and could see all of my new friends. In San Rafael we get an automatic cover for this, a car stop at night was the trigger. (So to speak.) The fact that there were 5 guys in the car, gave me an extra car for cover.

My pals Rob Guidi (now the Chief Inspector at the D.A.’s Office) and a martial arts expert kind of guy with a cool name and now retired Officer Bart Snyder, a muscular guy who actually reminded me of pit-bull, were my cover officers. The stop was in a good place for trouble. In a certain part of town, not unfamiliar with things that go “pop” in the night.

Before my cover could arrive I walked up to the car’s passenger side, a little trick I learned to keep people off balance a little and give me or any cop the only advantage that they could have in a car stop. Remember that most people getting pulled over have that time to hide or pull out things to make your life miserable. These guys would not disappoint me.

“Hi guys! I stopped you because your license plate light is not working…” (Said in my best Beaver Cleaver cheery way.) Yep, that was my probable cause. Oh. My. God. Getting it out fast and as friendly as you can is the key to keeping any weapons in their pants, which would, in turn keep mine in my holster. Its basic street cop stuff designed to put the bad people at ease. Think about it…you’re a crook, you just robbed or maybe killed someone. You are paranoid and now this pudgy cop is pulling you over. Now, throw in a little crack cocaine and you have a recipe for the OK Corral.

The old license plate light is a cheap little reason, but one sanctioned by the law and one that gave me what I needed, a legal introduction. The astonished crew from North-Richmond California gave me the look like, “Seriously?” It is not a stretch for me to play Colombo and act like an idiot…one would say that, perhaps it comes naturally. So – I gave these guys my best stupid cop – nothing is wrong pitch, which probably saved my life. These guys bought it.

Ok, you may not believe this…but there really is something to feeling a vibe. I had a really bad feeling as I walked away from the car that something bad was up. I guess it is part of the reason I stopped them. Officer Tom Sabido was in shrink school and was doing his Master’s Thesis or a paper on the “premonition” thing or whatever you call it when cops get that spider-sense hair on the back of your neck feeling. Ask anyone, - ask him it is real! It is also another of God’s misguided games – at least on me. Sure, he will give it to me for labor reasons, but when it comes to matrimony, or perhaps investments…I get the big goose-egg. Nothing. Zilch. Zip. Nada. Not even a wave of nausea.

By the time Officer Guidi and Officer Snyder got there, I was ready to invite these guys to the beautiful scenery that is the sidewalk in this lovely part of town. I remember walking up to the car, a crappy dumpy rusted-out lowered Chevy and I asked the occupants if they would not mind stepping out. OK, so here is every cop’s dilemma. Keep your audience in one place, making a smaller target, or getting them out so you can keep your eyes on those filthy little trouble-makers – their hands. I got them out. I wanted to see what was in the car. I asked the driver if I could take a look around. He said yes. Remarkably, people normally always say yes. In his case, he knew he had nothing bad in the car. It was on him. I came out of the car dejected. I knew that something was up. But where was the dope? Grrrrr.

This next little event proved to be annoying. I should have just said thanks, dusted these guys off and left…but no. Not me. I asked to search these guys individually. As luck would have it, of course they said yes. What I did not know, was that their “yes” was my little avenue to personal growth that would cause a vacuum effect relationship between my trousers and my lower gastrointestinal area.

So I picked the wrong-or maybe now as I look at it…the right citizen to search. Rob and Bart are dialed in to the other 4 guys and I start to work my way down this guy’s prize-fighter shoulders – searching all the way. This guy could have been a welterweight boxer. He was fit. But his fitness betrayed his central nervous system.

I like to take it all in when I am dealing with people…no matter what I do. So the artsy guy in me noticed a couple clues: One, he was sweating, Two: He was talking really fast, Three: I could actually see the beating of his carotid artery on both sides of his neck, as I stood behind him and Finally: I could see and feel his muscles contract as I touched his shoulders to check under his armpits. (Ya sexy job eh?) Now, Ralph was getting nervous. This guy was nervous like a priest in a line-up.

I asked a really-really stupid question, but one, again that I think may have contributed to me not getting shot. I asked my new pal “Um, you don’t have a gun, do ya?” Flabbergasted and a little hurt, he assured me that he did not. Phew! OK, now that I got that out of our system, you know the 300lbs elephant in the room, I said, OK, and started to search him again. Because, of course, he would never lie to me. People are too good.

I put my mitts back on this guy’s shoulders as I prepared to search under his armpits and down his spine for hidden stuff. You know, knives, machete’s guns bombs. Etc. Don’t laugh. I actually took a hand grenade off of a El Salvadorian guy once. I’ll share later.

The second I put my hands on this guy’s shoulders again he tenses up. Now it is the late in the evening, around 11-ish it’s not cold and my hands are not especially repulsive or cold to cause such a reaction, in fact I think they were nice and toasty –if not sweaty so I am wondering, what is going on? And I do it again…the question thing. This time, I am NOT HAPPY with the answer…Actually it was more of a statement…. I said “You have a gun don’t you?” Not really wanting the truth, I got it.

My new criminal friend said “Ya!” I tell ya…the planet stopped rotating for a second.

OK, lets dissect this a little. He didn’t just say “Ya” and direct me to his blued steel pistol….no no, well, not really, I guess he did in a way, He decided that our friendship, or acquaintance was over. It was terminated and he no longer was interested in forging a working relationship that would allow me to help him mend his ways. One that would help him find a new path. Nope. He made the decision that although he did not know me, he was more interested in ending my short life. Perhaps it was a harbinger for things to come.

My new client had a pistol and decided to go for it. I did not get the “sit around the campfire wanna see my new gun” vibe. I really-really got the trouble signal that this was not going quite as I had planned. Now I was wanting to be in my happy place, perhaps in Vegas, or maybe surrounded in a bathtub full of my mom’s lasagna or gnocchi. I would have settled for having to eat my way out of a tub full of peas, while listening to Justin Bieber – I hate peas and need I comment on JB?

My would-be terminator was going for it with all of his energy. I responded by paying attention and turned to basic survival and did what I thought was reasonable at the time. All of my parts were working. I remember the submarine “Dive Dive Dive!” alarm going off in my head. Aoooooooga Aoooooga!, then there was the fire bell “Ding ding ding!” Followed by my guardian angel flying down grabbing me by the front of my shirt collar and vigorously slapping the taste out of my mouth as he shook sense into me that this was the real deal. This is what the silly firearms and defensive tactics instructors had prepared me for. This is why cops drop dead at 50…the stress of this one moment. All of that training was for this moment. Holy #%$@! (My pulse is rocking right now as I write this and yes I have gone to the bathroom twice since I wrote this little paragraph.)

As the non-visual and inaudible alarms went off in my head, my body became a task oriented piece of equipment. My epiglottis slammed shut. PROBLEM, I need to tell someone. Mr. Epiglottis, my soft pink squishy pal designed as a safety hatch to keep barf down, squeaked open-long enough for me to say those nauseating but necessary words….”GUN! HE HAS A GUN!” That was it, my pink soft palate slammed shut so I would not barf and still be able to breathe. AND breath I did. My lungs inflated twice their size, I’m thinking now that it was their little way of getting my last breath in or perhaps getting ready for the organ donor recipient.

Next: The behind. My rear-end started to consume my underpants and trousers in an alarming rate. I actually think this is why I am interested in clothes. I believe that this event integrated the natural fibers of my boxers into my DNA on a chromosomal level.

Every muscle contributed to this fight. I remembered instinctively going for the bad guy’s gun. There was a flurry of action going on and I distinctively heard the sound of a metal hitting the ground. But it was not my guy’s gun because I had it in his hand. OK, new problem….HOLY @#$%! His pals are also armed. This is a big problem to cops. Um, there are five of them and three of us. And I am fighting this schifoso with all I have.

Dilemma. What the hell do I do now? I have his hand trapped over his gun. My right hand is pushing down in the guy’s waist band as he is trying to pull the freaking gun up. It was a push pull thing and the whole time I am thinking…no you don’t! My other hand was punching him in the head then as he moved forward toward Bart, I got a hold of his puffy jacket from my position behind this guy. New problem. Bart is standing in front of this guy with his pistol drawn pointed at the couple of guys that are remaining.

Two bailed and ran. So Bart – not by any design of his own, is not in a good place, but he and Rob are probably the reason this has not digressed into a big shootout.

I think Rob called out the “Officer Needs Help” on the radio, but still all of this… these last few pages lasted literally seconds. The fact that I can remember it is because of the slowed down time perception that happens in these “OMG” moments. I can tell you right now that I can smell my crook as I sit here typing. I think I can smell the foundry his pistol was made at and I might be able to tell you if the guy that poured the metal was wearing deodorant.

Back to my problem. Let go of the hand holding the gun…giving this guy a split second to turn around and blast me or Bart as I pull out my Beretta? OR, keep him from pulling it out giving me some time to try and strip it from his hand and maybe if I am lucky, this jerk will shoot himself. I suck at gambling and this was the gamble of my life. Maybe Bart and Rob’s too.

Another little concern…my Beretta holds 16 really fast rounds, I feared I would end up shooting this schifoso and a couple would get past the goalie and hit Bart. This, in official police terms – SUCKED! I am not ashamed to tell you, I wanted to shoot this guy. I did. I still do. My index finger is cramping right now.

During the fight, apparently the good Lord found it in his best interest to keep me alive. I remember punching this guy in the head and holding on for dear life, seriously, to his right hand. Well, in doing that, I actually did strip the gun from his right hand. Of course I did not know that at the time. My hearing was shut off and the aperture of my vision was about the size of a quarter. The suspect pulled out of his jacket, and did another no-no. He grabbed Bart’s gun and tried to steal it from him. Bart did an awesome job of pulling it away. Now all of this really made me quite upset, and I fell to the ground – disturbing the natural fibers of my LAPD blue pants. Ralphy is no longer scared. He is angry. Really Reeeeeeeeallly angry.

Once the crook pulled out of the jacket, it was like the beginning of a horse race. This guy was ON! Now, a sane guy would say, “see ya!” and let him go. But not us. Cops go after these guys and Bart and I ran after this crook who was pulling away from us like he was in the Olympics.

I remember seeing Bart try to light the suspect up with the laser on his pistol but it was bouncing all over the place. Once this guy made a quick left, poof! He was gone. About 100 yards into the foot chase, I could hear the sound of my feet hitting the pavement, and almost like the guy directing the soundtrack for this race was turning up the stereo slowly introducing the sound of my flat feet running. There was also the huff and puff of my Mediterranean body sucking in air like a jet engine.

Bart and I called out the last direction of the crook and that we lost him in the apartment complexes West of us. While we were chasing this guy the couple of blocks, I remember one of the OTHER crooks, who was with him, was not running toward us in this dark industrial part of the street. I guess the sigh of us running make him hop a fence at a car dealership –right in front of us! It was a bad move for him for a couple of reasons. It was a fenced-in lot AND-the top wire was razor wire. Yes, at this moment I am smiling. This guy just jumped into the Cusineart food processor. But imaging the confusion, we are chasing one guy and another is running toward us. If it was not so serious, it could have been a comedy. Did I mention the razor wire?

The “Officer Needs Help” call turned into a county-wide response of cops. It was beautiful. There were probably 60 cops there. This guy was in our perimeter. I remember I was assigned to check every a group of apartment complexs with our police K-9. It was with one of my personal cop heroes now Sgt. Rick Clary and I think it was his alligator-with a toupee- (disguised as a police dog) MAX. Max was a very angry little German Sheppard. And he was so good. Max was the piranha of dogs. Max, or as I called him Maximum or Maxi-tude, was ready to find my guy who disappeared in the night, That dog put his nose to the ground and pulled Rick toward an apartment complex in this heavily dense populated neighborhood. Max took us to these carports and then to the laundry rooms of this one complex. Picture, if you will, a small room that is not unlike a box, with a couple of windows, containing washing machines and driers.

Max is all over this one room. Rick knew the crook was there. Max looked like a junkie ready to get his next meat fix. His fur was all spiked up on his back, I could picture him tying a hankie around his neck while the saliva lathered up his snout. I looked in the window with my pistol drawn ready to do this again with the crook. All I could see was a huge pile of clothes in the corner of this room. I don’t think I blinked as I scanned the room for my crook. And then, I received a gift from God.

As I stared at intently at all of the stuff in the room, suddenly, the pair of shoes in the pile of clothes moved. But just a millimeter. I remember shouting…he’s in here! I was a maniac. I was shouting for this guy to put his hands up, because as far as I knew, he was still armed. I was rewarded for my observation, by receiving a love bite from Max who tried to get my attention. I think Max was trying to get me to shut up so he could go do his job. Or maybe he was jealous that I found him first. All I remember is seeing teeth of what I thought was a werewolf coming my way and Rick - with his eyes wide open and pulling as hard as he could to keep Max from devouring my lower leg. The boot saved my shins – and the pooch went in to get his treat. The crook really should have put his hands up. But he didn’t and I was ok with that, I know Max was. He literally became a squeaky toy for Max.

After Max introduced his canines to the suspect (liberally) I noticed that Mr. Tough-guy had enough. As soon as he popped his hands up, Max stopped chewing and again, good overcame evil. The hands up part was not quiet as fun as the chewing part for me, but all good things come to an end.

I don’t think I slept for a week after this. I do remember receiving a telephone call from a Richmond Police Officer the next day. I did not know who this guy was, and actually still don’t. I remember him saying “Congratulations, you are alive.” He then told me that the crew I stopped was conservatively estimated to be responsible for a half dozen robbery homicides in North Richmond and Contra Costa County. The cops were very interested in the guns for ballistic work.

As for the rest of the crew…the “clink” I heard during the fight was another gun. The guy who ran and hopped the fence was armed too. Thank God he was too much of a chicken to pull the trigger on us. I also thank God for razor wire. He needed some help from an emergency room doctor to stop the leak and put him back together. Yes I am still smiling. I suspect it was Rob and Bart having the crook’s behinds in the sight of their guns that kept me and us alive. Two of the other guys were wearing bullet -proof vests. Moral to the story, never use your turn indicator. As far as I can tell, the guy that tried to introduce me to his pistol is still in prison. I think he got 15 years. The others stayed in the joint for 9 years. The guy who hopped the fence, last I heard he was on the run.

Stay safe. Ralphy. More to come.

The Good, the Bad, and the Hawaii.......

This blog comes to you from the Island of Kauai. I thought I’d bring you up to speed on what’s going on around the PD. It has been a busy couple of months for us. Like any family we have had people sick and injured even a death to our family and have had to muscle through it all while trying to maintain the same level of service our customers and clients have grown to like. Needless to say it has impacted the blogosphere but, I have a remedy for those moments. I have saved up a couple and they are on-deck to submit in the next few weeks. So here I sit in Hawaii, listening to the water and typing this little filler article until I can get my head around the next wave of blogs. Oh, and let me tell ya…there is a next wave…No pun intended. (Hawaii)

The last few months our team has been working with Dominican University to help them pull off the California Governor’s Debate. A huge endeavor, especially when you look at the stakes in this race and what it meant to San Rafael, not to mention the University. Now add a stabbing, shooting, miscellaneous thefts and missing people and bad stuff and you should get the picture that our shrinking staff has been working pretty steady trying to make it all work. It reminds me of a chainsaw juggling act

I have to hand it to Dominican; they did a great job of pulling off this debate in a well managed if not frenetic way. The energy level, months, then days leading up to the event could have powered a small town. Setting up an event like this is not like planning a wedding. Well, it might be if the bride and groom were polar opposites and the vows they were taking –literally “for richer or poorer” had a profound effect on everyone on their guest list…the welfare of Californian’s from the Oregon border to the Mexican border.

I will write more about this event another day, once we figure out who we want to drive the USS California, and once my medication wears off. For now, suffice it to say, I am qualified to be a Sheppard who specializes in herding cats.

In September one of our finest young officers lost his brother in a tragic auto accident. I can remember being at the range with 20 officers and police staff who were trying to learn how to deal with difficult people with the application of firepower and negotiations. During the range day, Captain Starnes announced the loss of our officer’s brother. It was like all of the air was sucked out of the room. God wound up and pitched a fastball directly to the private parts of our team. Immediately heads dropped to the ground. I watched as our officers, dispatchers and police specialists put their hands on their hips, turned and walked away from each other to have the moment alone. The wiped-out lack of expression, punctuated by the thousand-mile gaze said it all. (Hard to do by the way with shots being fired all around you. Gave me a new appreciation for our troops…)

While none of us knew this officer’s brother, it might have been anyone of our brothers. No smarty pants Ralph here. It was sobering. We all knew the struggles of this officer in growing up in a not so pleasant world – and knew the sacrifices his parents and grandparents made for their entire family. So, to hear this news was especially difficult and disappointing. Like all good cops, we took a few minutes, then immediately brainstormed on how we could rally and surround this family with what we could offer. Solving the problem and rescuing the innocent. It is kind of our way. Our dedicated and woefully inadequate but genuine way.

The day of the funeral was interesting – to say the least. I drove over to Richmond on a Saturday, with the Chief of Police. A number of our officers came on their own time to stand beside this family and our pal in his moment of need. The arrival of black and white police cars, and officers in a very weary and torn part of this city was not met initially with praise or a feeling of “come on in, we were expecting you.”

The tension could have been cut with a knife. We were not what people expected to see. I remember feeling like maybe we were being self indulgent or perhaps selfish in showing up. After all, the officer was our friend, but this was their brother. Those feelings left almost after I stepped out of the Chief’s car. The gray in the sky seemed to yield to sunlight as the hardened suspicious looks, thawed and retreated to acceptance and tolerance.

The service for our officer’s brother was amazing. More life was present at this funeral than I have experienced in both of my weddings and in all of my religious experiences. The singing was on par with any professional group on the radio or any choir twice its size. The sermon and recollection of the young life by family and friends was warm and sincere. I was in the most real and loving event than I could recall in years. The pastor acknowledged the 300lb elephant in the room, the cops. The parishioners and mourners gave us applause. I was touched. We all were.

Finally, I have to share the wonderful sight of men and women of all ages standing, singing, and I will never forget seated in my pew, looking up at the beautiful woman, maybe 80 years old, now standing, who pulled out her own tambourine from her purse and joined the young man on the drums and one on the organ as they celebrated this lost young life. As I looked up and around the room and reflected on our arrival, I wonder how many other young lives were celebrated in this hall. Well done. Attention organized traditional religion: time to take a field trip. I have an appointment with the Pope. We need a little facelift.

As if this emotional shot to the ribs was not enough, our organization dipped to an injury level I have not seen in more than 10 years. Some were detectives; some were from SWAT others from our patrol teams. Cynical cops always dissect the mechanism of injury and then apply their own physicality to the injury… it’s our version of water-cooler talk about the weakness of one of our own. Like the recipient of the injury was made of glass or china. That is part of the culture, and I would say “there but for the grace of God…” I am a court- recognized disabled officer who was damaged in a 1996 car accident. I get it. I can still work, mostly because I love my job and I feel like I have more to do and offer. I can work through the pain, but I have to admit getting up some days is not so easy and at times not so smart. I can do it, does not mean everyone can do it. But many before me have worked through injury and illness and I am sure after I go many more will deal with their pain in their own sobering ways. So long as those ways are not tied to the pharmaceutical industry. A couple of my friends have gone that way and sadly, they are no longer employed and others are no longer alive.

I still go to the Emergency Room a couple of times a year for the “big shot” that will fix my neck. Most of our officers have or are headed to surgery to fix their injury. It’s hard to fake that. It gets back to my saying that this job is like being in the NFL for a couple of years.

The treatment for some of these injuries, a sinister byproduct of this vocation, is second to some forms of Chinese torture. Imagine being 25 years old and having to have your nerve endings burned off to ease the pain. Or maybe a nice cadaver bone affixed to your spine? Rods, pins and screws used to hold together the frail and failing skeletal infrastructure? Sure. How about seemingly routine arthroscopic procedures to knees and shoulders almost like ordering a sandwich at a local deli?

Our department Chaplains has had a spiritual workout these lasts few months. I am sure their white collars can stand on their own from all of the use. From the death in our family, to the injury and illnesses and two very critical incidents involving young people, our officers have been navigating demons from these events with honor and valor as the robberies, crashes, domestic disturbance and violence calls do not cede to our moments of misery and seem to slide in between our “normal” calls for service, oh and the debate.

Its’ been a rough season at SRPD, but still our people move forward as we enter robbery season. Like a watch you can count on, a few days ago our first in a series of robberies started. Note to Detectives’ - stock up on legal note pads and pens – oh and keep your sport coat handy.

I can’t tell you how proud I was as a San Rafael Police Officer, an OLD San Rafael Police Officer, when I heard Officer Chuck Tirre call out on his radio that he was in foot pursuit of a robbery suspect a few weeks ago. Chuck is one of our most senior – if not the most senior officer in the organization. I love it when one of our “mature” officers runs down a young hyena as they rob or victimize a citizen. It sets the tone for the young officers that we, the infirmed and lame are not done. These young criminals have no idea. While the years do affect the infrastructure of a cop, usually in the form of ravioli deposits throughout the body, the mind and engine of these cops is ready and willing to take on any threat. Officer Tirre is a great example, well, actually, he is one of those weirdo’s that never got fat, but still, his motor was on when the robbery call came out.

The suspect picked wrong - that day. Chuck, Officer Bob Henkle, also part of the department’s tenacious “venerable” team and honorable survivor of a violent act that nearly cost him his life more than a year ago, ran this guy down into a building where he tried to hide from our guys. I ran from the police building after ordering up a helicopter from the CHP. I was determined that we were not going to lose this guy and I wanted to be there. The wise-guy in my head was chanting “neener neener neener!” because I knew this guy was done and we were going to resolve this situation professionally (Neener neener withstanding.)

In police work we get clues, delivered to us at times from the almighty. A big-big clue is when a handful of ordinary people, just trying to do their jobs, run like they are on fire from a building in all directions. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a clue from God. The bad guy is in the building. Of course those running out were normal. Once we secured the perimeter, it was time for us “abnormal types” to go in. The adrenaline was palpable. I recall hearing the shouts of our people on the radio and live from inside a phrase that is a “gut bomb” for anyone in the business- “we are not code 4!” What they were saying in polite hurried police talk was: ‘get the %$#@ inside we need help!’ While maintaining a perimeter, those who could go in-did. When I got inside I saw the suspect kicking, screaming and resisting the best he could on the floor. Of course he was a gang member who was threatening to kill our officers while they tried to subdue him on the floor. Of course good overcame evil and our client was arrested and taken to the hospital for evaluation, prior to being booked. When a suspect is acting pretty violent, we take them to the hospital in an ambulance first to avoid any conflicts that might occur, like maybe a cardiac arrest.

Attention bad people – hereinafter are clues that your criminal ways have betrayed you this fine day: One: Sgt. Wanda Spaletta, a great street sergeant, who is not shy about overcoming resistance from suspected criminals (wink) is the boss; Two: Sgt Coale a weightlifter who has to turn sideways to walk through a doorway is on duty; and Three: The likes of Officer Tirre, Officer Sabido and Officer Henkle all seasoned vets who are hip to your wily ways are working and have arrested people probably before you were born.

Good overcame evil and the “alleged” bad man was arrested. I love the word alleged…the press use it all the time. It is a dishonest word, but one used all the time because apparently we always arrest the wrong guy – or gal.

So from Hawaii, stay safe…bruddah! Ralph.

Next few weeks – A blog on fighting fair, an archeological dig and who knows…

Busy Busy!

Hello everyone,

I just wanted to apologize for no new blog posts. I take full responsiblity as Ralph sent me a blog to review weeks ago but it has been a very busy month. Ralph is on a well deserved vacation in Hawaii but when he gets back I will have him re-send the blog which I have since lost in the mass of e-mails I get everyday. I hope all is well with everyone as we move towards the exciting holiday season.

Lt. Dan

The Kilo Club by Lt. Pata

Back in 1989 I was a new cop. I tested and got the best job in the world, undercover guy in the Marin County Major Crimes Task Force. It still remains one of my fondest memories and the pals I made in the unit have become life-long friends and really are like family. I worked with I think the best Marin County had to offer back then. An eclectic group of professional’s who thought outside of the box, politely teased and poked each other, but when it was time to get to work, or pick on the Fire Investigators that shared our office for a couple of months…we did the heavy lifting on serious cases and did a great job of messing with the hosers and chasing them out of our office. Regarding the best job in the world thing…OK, food taster for Food and Wine magazine and Bed – Room comfort researcher for the Four Season’s Hotels might be a better job.

We were a “Major” unit because we were not limited to just narcotics. It was our focus, but back then, there was a nice variety of criminals for us to pick on. The beginning of our unit was pretty cool. We were each hand selected for our strengths and personalities. Then Lt. Walt Kosta and then Sgt. Scott Sibbald were the team leaders. I will never forget the interview. I was totally nervous. I gave the panel all of the standard cop answers about why I wanted to be in the unit.

I think I wore a J.C. Penny Blue suit and a horrid wide tie to this little soiree. Oh, the humanity! Let me take this minute to apologize to the late Gianni Versace and Mr. Armani and Zegna. I’m certain my punishment will be purgatory consigned to a WalMart brand suit, or worse, shoes.

At the end of the questioning the stoned faced leadership thawed a little. Sgt. Sibbald looked at me and reminded me that while all of my answers were correct and very professional, that being in the unit would be “a blast” too. He was not kidding.

After I was selected I packed my bags and left behind SRPD for the Task Force. There was a certain lieutenant who was not supportive of my move and did not feel I was a good candidate, so, I had something to prove. And, prove it, I did. Neener neener neener, ya big meanie. – Oh and thanks for your office!

It was a cool experience. I remember saying goodbye to my pals and did not look back for a number of years. That was a little problematic, when one day my black and white buddies forgot what I looked like.

You see I was setting up a drug deal in a parking lot when my beautiful paramour Beretta 92F Pistol, apparently made a surprise performance. The very hip Hawaiian shirt, pulled up and over my gun which was in the small of my back. So there I am at a really nice grocery store in a really nice part of town looking like one of characters from Miami Vice on the payphone and my pistol is making friends with all of the housewives. I told you, God likes to play hide and seek with me.


Oblivious to my armed rear-end’s “how ya doin’” act, I sat in my car waiting for a delivery of cocaine. Suddenly I see a number of black and white patrol cars circling me like I was a seal and they were sharks. I am getting a little frustrated because Mr. Drug Dealer only likes to deal one on one, not with a bunch of cops as spectators. Suddenly a group of police cars pull in behind me and I hear that nauseating sound a universally recognized sound that can only be a police issued Remington Model 870 shotgun. It is a beautiful sound when you are on the trigger side and you hear the gentle steel hands of your long-legged long gun escorting the plastic canister of death to receiver of the gun. That little canister containing those 9, 32 caliber hemisphere’s suitable for non-voluntary insertion into the unwilling recipient. This time, ME!

My frustrated fog of boredom is then illuminated by the following unfriendly demand: “YOU IN THE CAR PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” My brain had the following conversation with the rest of my body…Holy @&$! My eyes dilated, the eyelids of my “ravioli eyes” opened way past their intended aperture, nostrils-open wide and take over breathing duty as Mr. Mouth prepares for babbling and, or vomiting. Hands slllllooooowwwly move from the steering wheel to the roof of the car. Lower gastrointestinal tract, secure the aft hatch!

I look in the rear view mirror and I thought I was facing the firing squad. There were 4 cop cars and all of them were pointing guns at little old me. My arms were spring activated and immediately attached themselves to the roof of the car.

Now a couple of things were going through my mind. 1: If I get shot I am really going to be upset. 2: If I get shot, I am going to a hospital, where I dig this nurse and they are going to cut off my pants and she will see my beer-mug patterned boxer shorts. 3: #2 won’t matter, because in a second it will look like I spilled a beer on my boxers. And Finally, I knew if they pulled the trigger none of this would matter because I would be an ornament on a cold stainless steel table and some ghoul doctor would be taking pictures of me naked as they part my waterproof full body leather container and expose my insides.

It is never a good idea to negotiate with the cops when they are ordering you to do things. Especially with guns. So, I am trying to comply, but I also don’t want them to feel silly when they discover it’s me. I shout out of the window, “Jimmy – it’s me Ralph!” After I am told to be quiet and comply, I start to wonder if I owed any of these guys time off from a shift trade or something…I finally get someone’s attention and my pals put away the arsenal and dust me off. I thank them, and they drive off, probably to coffee. Of course my deal never happened and I drove out of the area quickly, completely embarrassed. I wanted to take up smoking. One gun pointed at you is bad. Four with a couple of shotguns mixed in, sucks.

The first week at the Task Force was kind of an introduction to how things used to work. But I was not selected to do things the way they used to be. We were all selected to do this job our way. Walt was the best boss. He was very supportive and he was a giant in the cop world. Lt. Kosta had worked a number of homicides and was really a star at SRPD and in the county. I mean when Detective Magazine writes a story about one of your cases, well, then you hit the big-time! He also had two master’s degrees, so he was not a slouch. Walt gave all of us enough room to get the job done. I can still remember seeing Walt standing in the door of his car at a shopping center after my team arrested a prison guard for buying cocaine to smuggle into prison. I recall handcuffing this dirty cop and hearing loud claps and someone (Walt) speaking loudly to a crowd of people in the lot “Another drug dealer goes to jail ladies and gentlemen!” The whole crowd started clapping and some sang the tune to “bad boys,” seriously, as we lead this guy away. This was a pretty cool experience.

The Task Force was located in a non-descript building, far away from any police station. Of course we were the undercover pool for the county and to do our job we all dressed funny, grew our hair and drove a combination of cool cars. Except mine, of course. My first car was a Chevy Beretta. What a dump-truck car. (Sorry to the Beretta owners of America, but seriously, yuck.)

We ended up switching cars pretty often, because some entrepreneur decided to sell a list of “Task Force” cars, with their descriptions, capabilities – like monitoring conversations (You know James Bond stuff) and license plates to patrons of local bars. Of course they were all wrong, but you have to hand it to the guy that thought that little one up. I think he sold them for $20.00 a pop. Nice. By the time I was out of the unit, I had a Buick Regal convertible, A Mercedes Benz convertible, A BMW, a Camaro and a Toyota and a few others.

One of our jobs was to attach ourselves to the feds when they came to town. The DEA liked us because we played well with others. So did the FBI and State Narcotics. Our unit had a great reputation because we worked pretty hard and were not territorial. All we wanted to do was catch crooks and send them to jail. By the way DEA does not stand for Don’t Ever Apply but FBI does mean Forever Bothering Italians. I keep trying to tell them what my dad told me, the “Mafia” was invented by Richard Nixon. That’s my pop…I love him, but he needs a little work.

One afternoon my pals were ready to leave and the DEA blew into town. The group was doing this “reach out and play with the local’s” thing. So, I was single and had no life and volunteered to go out with these guys. I was doubled up with this agent in a car in a Southern Marin restaurant parking lot when without provocation or warning, this high-roller in a really really nice car parks next to us and starts talking about ounces. Seriously, it was like Christmas. We are in a parking lot and a drug dealer pulls in next to us and starts talking about ounce deals of cocaine in what would later become my car.

The agent looked at me in amazement and asked if I heard the same thing he heard. We watched this arrogant guy (completely metro by the way) drive across the street into a secured parking lot. Well, it was not that secured because I got into it and watched in amazement as this dealer stocked the front seats of a half dozen unlocked cars with ounces of cocaine. Each car was parked next to each other and the driver’s doors were unlocked.
The suspect opened each one and slid a Ziploc bag containing cocaine under the front seat of each car. The cocaine gods were all over me. I should have bought a lottery ticket.

We took this guy off and found a kilo of cocaine and a huge amount of money in the trunk of his – now OUR car! We whisked him away and towed all six cars. All six cars would later be forfeited and sold at auction.

This guy thought he was Pablo Escobar or something. We get him to the county jail and roll him. Its funny these guys never hold their own. They roll over on their sources pretty easily but they like to feel like they are getting a deal. The art of the roll – to develop a client into an informant – will test your patience at times because these guys and gals are generally self-centered, and greedy. We nicely make the wannabe government informant disappear from jail because it seems that everyone knows everyone and the word gets out that the police talked to the them. It’s kind of like government sanctioned and consensual kidnapping, or “Rendition.”

I decided to let this guy cool his ego in the jail for a night and brought him down for a nice talk the next morning. The crook got escorted down to the sheriff’s office to a private room where I and the DEA agent were waiting for him. Immediately this loser starts to mouth off about what he wants and needs. He looks terrible. He has a little stubble on his face and the gel wore off. He tells me that he can’t talk to us or do anything without an espresso. Hey, it’s Marin. I have had about as much of this princess that I could have and its only 7AM. I didn’t get much sleep and one could say I was grumpy. I was not in my happy place.

I agree to get him an “espresso” – at the sheriff’s office, right!
I go over to the coffee machine in the hallway with the institutional prison quality coffee; you know the stuff that comes in a foil pack. I dump yesterday’s all day long brewed coffee into a cup. I look around and then dump some of grounds into the cup and give it a stir and bring it back. He drinks it and looks into the bottom of the cup after taking a sip and gave me one of those looks like, “OK, ya got me.” I smile back and ask if I can get anything else for him. Surprisingly, he says no. It’s too bad too because I had a great idea for a cold cup of water.

We set up the deal and like all good dope deals, we wait and wait and wait then set up the deal in a couple of locations. Dealers always want to change the location. We like to control the location because on more times than I can remember on major deals there usually is help or some other person you don’t know about hiding. It’s a huge risk, but one we try to plan for. Try is the optimum word.

Once the deal is arranged, we give Mr. Drug Dealer back his car, temporarily, of course. We set up a 5 key deal with his crime partner another pathetic pretty boy, from southern Marin. You know, tanned, manicured fingers, probably wore a little makeup. Because of the weight of the deal and the amount of money involved we pulled out the stops and manned this case with several agents and detectives.
We put my crook up on a wire and my boss and I team up in a car nearby to monitor the wire and eat Doritos. The wire car calls the shots usually with the case agent inside.

After our team is set up we sit there for what seems like forever. We wait and wait for the deal to go down. My boss and I are parked across from the meet location and we send in our crook to wait for the connection. Finally after about four hours the middle-man drives up in his foreign convertible. He gets in my bad guys car and the two of them start to talk.

After a little small talk the middleman says to my crook, “Crook, I heard you got arrested.” Of course I am now preparing to make a boom in my pants. He then says, “Lift up your shirt and show me you don’t have a wire.” My heart squeezed shut. This is my first big case and it’s going to go down the toilet. My quick-thinking criminal reminds the suspect of their long business history and blows him off. The two have a little more small talk and then the middle man says “Um Crook, you have not shaved today, you never not shave…show me that you don’t have a wire.” My informant tells the middleman that he got up late and did not shave. I’m telling you the transmission in my car was smoking because each time the guy did that, we went from park to drive thinking we were going to have to rescue this informant. My hair was starting to fall out.

Finally, the middleman says, “Crook, you’re wearing the same clothes you did yesterday and there is a helicopter up there that has not moved….show me your not wearing a wire.” My whole team is on edge, I am feeling like I am going to barf and we are ready to end this when suddenly the cocaine gods shined upon us again. The middleman’s pager goes off and he exits the car to use the pay phone.

When he does this my informant rips his wire off and ditches it under the seat of his car. OK, I dated this, right? Pager and pay phones? For those of you to young to remember,
we used to not have cell phones. Pay phones usually came in a booth and were popular places to make calls, change into superheroes outfits and pee.

When the middleman comes back to the car, I could see my informant lift up his shirt. Once he did this, the middleman left the car and made a telephone call from the phone booth. When he returned, the informant gave us a prearranged visual cue that the deal was being completed.

Without notice and right freaking in front of us, a new guy appears from the bushes and runs across the street. The freaking mule was right next to us in the bushes! He too was watching the deal. I wonder if he needed to down a bottle of Tums to keep from getting sick like we did.

Once the mule crossed the street, he delivered a key to the middleman and ran off. The middleman gave the key to my informant and the group split up. OK, now we had a little problem. Um, where’s the dope? Who do we follow? A team split and followed Mr. Middleman while a team stayed with our informant and another team split off to follow the guy on foot who delivered the key.
Within minutes we stopped the middleman, stopped our informant and arrested the key guy. But we still did not have a car or dope and no one was talking. It’s not against the law to talk about drugs and last time I checked, it’s not a crime to carry a key. So, I now feel like I have been slugged in the gut. Of course it was nothing, just God poking me and having more fun with me. What a knee slapper! I am guessing John the Baptist and St. Raphael, the Saint who was “represntin’” for the home team here in San Rafael had a big laugh.

Our high-stakes game of hide and go seek was just beginning. We carefully delivered all the criminals back to the local police station where we tried our best to motivate some truth from our drug dealers. Of course everyone was worried they would get whacked by the source, who is now out 5 kilos of cocaine (more than 10 pounds) AND the money.
I applied that fear liberally as leverage to get one person to roll. Loudly talking to your pals like “WOW! I’d be really mad if I lost 5 Keys and all that money. Sheesh! Glad its not me!” And roll they did. Later this case would get a little dicey and Mr. Mule would end up rolling. But not until we found the drugs for ourselves.

It took a couple of hours but our group found the car in a parking lot. It had a broken window. Not what you would expect to carry tens of thousands of dollars worth of cocaine. The cocaine was wrapped up, just like you see it on TV and was lying in the hatchback, not even under a dirty sheet.

So everyone went to prison. The source was never fully disclosed, but the mule, our informant and the middleman all went to federal prison for some time. The mule however had a much harsher sentence. He was deported back to his native country after being released from prison. When he was returned, I was told by the feds that he was hanged by his fellow countrymen for violating his religion. I still have a picture of him. He was younger than 25 years old.

For perspective drug dealers: It’s not like TV. Only three things happen to dealers. They go to prison, they get killed or they start using and end up dead.
I have not seen many successful dope dealers. The guys in the big house on the hill that you see glorified in movies are few and far between. Even they get killed. One of ours ended up being the spare tire in his car left at the park and ride for a while. Eventually, like in this case, someone will talk. They always do…and it’s been my experience that the girlfriends you promised to take care of, and ex-wives really, really like to consult undercover narcotics agents for the purpose of blab therapy. Thanks girls.

More later. Ralph.

Dog Watch by Lt. Pata

Night patrol rocks! If you love the dump of adrenaline and spooky night stuff, well, then let me introduce you to the main event of police patrol, the overnight shift. In San Rafael our teams work from 5PM to 5AM. It is a long night, but you usually get your second wind around 11PM. Our officers (who want to work the shift – you like them less after you have a family…) like the watch because there is less traffic to deal with, generally the admin is gone and the crooks wake up around 2.

Ahhh the criminals…. After a nice lunch of chips washed down with a little white port and Kool Aid or maybe a tasty glug-glug of a fortified “wine” the crooks usually want to play during the night watch. Oh and lets not forget the methamphetamine dessert buffet course that goes on for as long as our customers have cash… and the adventure some go through to get it, until we get them or they crash at 5AM. Sometimes literally.

At our little slice of heaven in Marin, we are pretty busy with stacked up calls right out of briefing until about 7 or 8PM. Briefing is like homeroom. We get together for a half hour of show and tell about the night before, do some update on quality of life stuff plaguing our community, you know barking dogs and pesky neighbors lighting bags of dog poop on fire, new law stuff and humiliate the poor rookie that drove off with the gas pump still in his or her gas tank. That sort of stuff. Oh we also read letters of appreciation from the community at the end of briefing. That sets the tone for the night. After briefing it’s steady with calls until about 11PM to 1AM – but not steady enough for a rather sizeable cup of coffee to start the watch. After a certain time the coffee well runs dry and you are stuck with institutional prison coffee.

It kind of breaks down like this: 5PM to 7PM, traffic crashes, “group fights” – some call them gang fights but lets be nice…shoplifts - for dinner- I presume, and missing kids probably at their girlfriends or boyfriends without telling mom. From 7PM to 9-ish is violence prime time. It’s our robbery, shooting, stabbing and miscellaneous ringside beat up your fellow citizen or loved one time. 9PM to 1AM is drunk at the bar time, prowler time and a couple of robbery straggler’s who missed the 7 to 9 larceny shift. No night would be complete without illicit social engineering time. The red-light is usually turned on around 5PM for the dinner crowd and goes pretty much until midnight. From 1AM to 3AM is DUI- I’m an idiot time, and crash into the building or tree time. From 1:30AM to 5AM is burglarizing cars and business time. It’s probably the same in variety and volume in just about every town.

There are a couple anomalies that pop up like miscellaneous insane acting and wannabe insane acting people along the night watch, but that pretty much sums it up. Of course in between all of this from oh, around 5PM on, is powder induced social inhibition acquisition time or for those of you less complicated, drug dealing. How ironic, and moronic, that people actually sniff up stuff that your nose tries to sneeze out.

Attention OLDER PEOPLE: Grow up! Learn the lesson from the former guy in the Righteous Brothers and John Entwistle from the band “The Who,” don’t use cocaine or really any drug – especially if you have to show your AARP card when you buy it! It will kill you. Your ticker is not designed for this stuff…that’s why you sleep 14 hours a day and play bingo.

At your golden years you should be chasing your grandchildren, eating a nice fruit compote on your dinner tray and planning your next TV show to watch. You should not be chasing the dragon. Duh.

I have to say that I am all right accommodating your expedited arrival to the afterlife and will lump you down the stairs in your new plastic suitcase if you don’t heed my warning, I have done it hundreds of times before. Think of your kids or maybe the hot ocentegenarian down the hall in 21B, but if you do want to risk it, for the love of God, do it on the ground floor and have your ID with you.

While I have you, take this from a guy that cares: don’t pretend to be young and wear black T-shirts and hit on 20 year olds. Stop trying to be hip with wearing the latest sunglasses inside, and by buying tickets to Lady Gaga. Ladies, your not off the hook either…facelifts leave scars…we can see them. Take if from a Police Artist…it’s the HANDS that betray you! Spend the money on the hand-lift not the face. Also leather or suede pants, not so sexy at 65. Remind me to tell you someday of a pathetic story in my past. All of this play 20-ish stuff will kill you. I know. Trust me. It could be part of the natural order of things. Kind of a modern thinning of the heard but let’s try the word dignity on for size. Don’t get me wrong…. I am not saying succumb to stretchy pants and other stretchy unmentionables, but a happy medium seems to work.

Ladies and Gentlemen, back to our story: Once you have figured out the nightly schedule and the seasons of the year, you know, Bank Robbery season (October to December), Stabbing season (End of May to September), Fraud season (January to March) then you have conquered what police work is all about.


Night watch is a “trip” because the world goes from brilliant color to awesome shades of gray after the big orange ball in the sky sinks past the horizon. I love it. It is an experience driving in the cool night air with the sky setting the stage. It is seemingly black in the heavens but then the night sky becomes perforated with dull orange brown dotted lines from the low-watt streetlights.

In some areas of the city it is like you live in a video game. The sky seems black and orange all night. There are so many of those low watt bulbs that they actually take over from the dark of the night and you live in this orange brown world.

It’s cool on nights because you get to experience the sunset and sunrise each watch. I used to park on San Rafael Hill and watch the sun come up. What sucks is seeing the lights in homes go off, as you drive down the street or see the goodnight kiss on the porch and you still have 6 hours to go on your shift. It especially sucks if your pet dog is asleep when you get home and you sleep on the couch because you don’t want to disturb her.

I actually used to sleep in my closet. OK no closet jokes this is honest sharing time. Many cops do. It is the one place in the summer that is cool and dark. Take for example the one-year I decided I wanted to work with my pal Blair. I volunteered for the night shift. It was the same year that the developer behind my house decided to build 40 new homes. Hmmmmm they start at 7AM, Ralph gets home at 7:30AM. They stop for lunch and Latin American Polka songs I lay in my sleeping bag on the floor in my closet praying to the Madonna of air hammers and drills to wash away the sound of the Latin American Polka. At 3PM I wake up and my pals are going off duty. It was a wrong decision.

When the lights go off at night you go to a gas station and load up on caffeine or chemistry enhanced stay-awake tonic stuff. When you drive by from the street, it looks like a well illuminated fish tank with your garden variety night crawlers inside. You know garbage truck drivers, cops, newspaper delivery people, off-duty strippers from the city, and a few burglars. The prison grade coffee beans imported from Siberia are yucky, but the conversation inside the gas station is pretty interesting. It is kind of a like a weird episode of Cheers.

Probably one of the most terrifying calls we get are the “Hot Prowls.” Usually these are perverted deer buck’s walking through back yards, trying to score a sexy doe, but from time to time it is actually a bad guy looking through the window. I’d pay to see a buck gore one of these guys in the behind. How cool would it be to have a turf war over backyards between big mean bucks and pathetic, creepy prowlers? Or better yet – Mountain Lions!

We run to those calls because it really makes cops mad to think that there is a guy peeking in on someone. It could be their family while they are at work. So, we don’t like these hyenas. Technically, I am thinking Santa Claus would be a prowler. Huh? That just hit me. And you can’t tell me the red nose and cheeks are from the wind. Let’s face it; he’s a gin-head.

Prowler calls get quick and stealthy response. Turning on the siren and lights is like erecting a giant billboard for the crook announcing that the Calvary is coming. So we get sneaky. Its funny but you can actually hear a siren from miles away across the city at 2 in the morning.

If Mr. Prowler listens closely he can hear the hum of a half dozen Crown Victoria Police Interceptors, their V-8’s spinning up with some smartly dressed men and women who would like to meet him. He could probably also hear the grinding of our teeth and the squeezing of the steering wheel as we quickly and deliberately drive up the street. (OK dub in the Adam-12 soundtrack for emphasis.)

Mr. Prowler could enjoy this experience with all of his senses, not just those silly ones he reserved for himself and his victim. We come fully equipped for totally sensory immersion. Let’s look at it as if it were a nice dinner: This tasting menu of police work starts with smelling the brakes of our cars as they now seem like a memory of what used to stop us. From there the main course of prowler. The police illicit behavior intervention team comes in the form of a nice group of male and female protein, carrying with them decorated metal and plastic; let’s call them the silverware of this little dish. Products named Glock, Sig Sauer, Kimber and Heckler and Koch are clearly visualized. Sounds like an East German Escort service not a cops handgun, doesn’t it?

No one likes running in the night and doing the freaking middle of the night prowler triathlon, especially with a flashlight and all of stuff hanging off our Batman belt. Running in people’s back yards, with dogs nipping at your ankles, or worse, poorly lit swimming pools, and poorly maintained fences, and yes, Mediterranean bodies like mine, having to navigate sharp slivers suitable for crucifixion or insertion into your palms or behind is not so fun.

It looks cool, but in reality, it sucks. Especially if your neighbor violated the municipal code and put a swimming pool directly on the opposite side of the fence. It’s happened. I had a pal once hop a fence during a search warrant in Richmond. His pant leg got caught on the top of the fence. Thankfully there was a swimming pool on the other side. Unfortunately he fell into the bottom of the drained 12’ deep pool. I am guessing that water would have broken the fall instead of his ankle. Ever since that, Ralphy pulls the slats off.

To get the complete picture, the puppy landmines all over the backyard, the ones your husband or the kids were supposed to pick up, well they provide that nice, but stinky ice skating experience but is only fun while you are upright. And of course, the bigger the dog, well, ya know….better the Apollo Ono experience. Of course, as luck would have it, the crook never – ever steps in it. We usually do. It is like there is a doggie poop magnet in our shoes. Thankfully you don’t realize it in the chase as to not distract your attention; it usually comes to you in a nice aromatic experience when you get back in the car take a deep breath, clear the call on the radio and settle into your seat and accidently transfer the nauseating yuckiness to the brakes and accelerator. Get the picture? Now add the floor heater and 6 more hours of this lovely experience.

Of course most of our prowler calls happen in nice places that are heavily landscaped with rose bushes, lemon trees with sharp mean fangs, poison oak, and ivy with rats lounging beneath and did I mention mean dogs? Ya, for some reason Mr. Guard dog loves to let the prowler into the back yard, hopefully to devour them, but more times then not only becomes a hero after we get there. “Woof woof woof - Grrrrr!” A couple of times I can recall, man’s best friend becomes “Mr. Magoo” and bites or gets angry at the wrong guy! I tell ya I have wanted to give a number of dogs the walk of shame back to his or her kennel. Nice job Lassie.

I have pictures of me after a nice foot chase in one of these little palazzos. I looked like I wrestled a bear or was tossed in the Cuisine art. I guess the rose bushes worked, but on the wrong guy!

After a couple of years you learn to do cool things to catch or help you catch prowlers. Human nature dictates that if you are a pathetic letch, and you enjoy late night walks in people’s back yards you will run once discovered, down hill. You could almost set a watch to that little theory. Makes sense, who really wants to run up hill? Some of these aspiring rapists go to ground and try to sit it out. That’s why we call our pals at Novato PD to take their puppy for a walk. You would swear you could hear that guttural demon soundtrack the second the door to the K-9 car opens. Makes you wonder if the dog’s badge number is 666. We used to have 2 police dogs and I swear they were alligators with a toupee. We all loved them because they brought a new element to police work. I truly believe those dogs saved our behinds because people do not want to be a lunch or chew toy for them. It is also cool to have them around the station. I’d swear I caught one sharpening his teeth one afternoon while drinking a cup of blood. To whom it may concern: We need them back.

For training one time a while back, I decided to volunteer to wear the bite sleeve and hide in a car. Mistake. Once again the common sense meter, the one that is supposed to keep me out of the emergency room, away from the altar and from drinking water in Mexico was not functioning.

I love all of these tough guys and gal cops who come back from Taser training and always ask, “Hey did you get Tased?” “Well how are you gonna know what it’s like to testify in court?” (A small note to my silly friends: I am not shot regularly in training to testify what that’s like too. . .but I’d be happy to help you demonstrate.”) As far as the dog sleeve adventure, well, I was feeling frisky and I thought it was an extension of petting. So I was wrong. I’m still in therapy for that little mistake.

Sgt. Rick Clary, a true hero in our department, used to be one of our dog guys. His dog, “Max” was one of the best. I am serious I used to look for the buttons and fabric in the post lunch remains (know what I mean?) This dog used to run so fast that it looked like those cartoon animals with the wheels for feet. I was always too afraid to look this dog in the eye. I thought some satanic demon was going to jump out of its pupil and devour me. It was like looking at one of those mesmerizing pinwheel’s slowly spinning, capturing your attention, and then your soul. I’d swear I felt like I was in a trance when I looked at his pooch. I could hear a doggie voice in my head say “unleash me; pet me with the hand that is holding the sandwich…..gooooooo noooooow.”

We had another dog that was operated by Officer Joel Fay, “Rocky.” This pup was not as angry, but let me tell ya, equally effective. Joel’s dog would not hesitate to jump in the fight. One Christmas Eve in the 90’s a soon to be chew-toy decided to rob a convenience store using a gun. OK, that usually equals 10 years off of everyone’s lives. His for the minimum time he is going to get in the joint and ours for the stress of running into them and the possible shoot out.

We never find these guys near the scene. Usually by the time we get the call, the crook is long gone. Of course, not that night. Maybe it was a Christmas present from the robbery gods. As our officers rounded the corner, there was our bad guy and he had a GUN! There were a number of us that pulled up to this guy, including Joel and his wonder dog, For a split second I wondered, what am I doing on Christmas Eve, with a man with a gun in his hand directly across from me…and then the little man on my shoulder walked down my spine and put his boot directly in my behind. Suddenly everything became clearer…he had a gun, but so did I. Time to go to work.

My pals and I bailed out of our cars and used our best motivational speaking to get this guy to drop the gun (at gunpoint of course). When that didn’t work, we decided to introduce him to our canine motivator. Rocky was like the Anthony Robbins of motivation for crooks. Usually they saw Rocky and did absolutely everything the nice police officer wanted. But this guy was drunk and wanted to fight Rocky. The situation was going from bad to worse. I was really worried for Rocky, because I knew Joel was going to send in Rocky to take one for the home team if needed. Sorry pet enthusiasts, Rocky like all police dogs are loved and treated better than some humans, but when the rubber hits the road, they go in first.

Suddenly Joel made the decision to send Rocky in for an intimate introduction. Rocky ran so fast that in a blink he went from the car and attached his dentition to an area just left of the bad man’s privates. Now, believe it or not, that crook did not scream or anything. He simply looked down at the dog that clearly needed to get a better bite. And so he did. When Rocky repositioned his chops, he clearly made an impression on all of us. The crook with his gaze downward looked up, his eyes grew in size disproportionate to his face, his mouth dropped open and some unintelligible language was passed forcefully from his vocal cords to the rest of mankind. It resonated with all of us. He dropped the gun and all of us, back at our cars made a collective groan. The up side was this guy got a nicely wrapped present for Christmas from his new friends in the emergency room. Wonder if he unwrapped it on Christmas day?

I once saw Rick’s dog get so angry at the bad guy that he turned to Rick and snapped at him to let him go so he could have a nice criminal entrée. Or how about the time I saw the pooch go in a house to get an armed crook and used his nose to move the kitchen table this guy was wearing as a deterrent to his pending dog dentition perforation. The dog actually went under the table, got a nice grip and pulled a 150lbs guy out- tugging all the way. I tell ya, I felt like a proud uncle. So it would make sense that I would put the sleeve on, right?

I hid in our corporation yard like I was a kid playing a dangerous game of hide and seek. I’d swear the dog smelled fear, or perhaps that little pressure relief moment when I saw Cujo running toward me. That dog must have been cheating when he counted to 10 because he ran right at me.

I was in the middle of a number of cars and this dog was like on a mission to eat the nice officer. I wanted to take a timeout and protest the cheating, but the dog, now with glowing red eyes, or so I thought, was on a mission.

I put the sleeve way out ahead of me so the dog would not miss and get my face. And get it he did. This dog grabbed the sleeve and bit like he was possessed. His bite broke my watch under the thick canvass sleeve.

I mean the teeth, the slobber, the growling, and the inability to talk him out of it. I even tried to throw him off by yelling – “Look free steak!” Didn’t work…I was used to most of that from a past matrimonial experience, and had equal luck. (Just kidding dear…)

If you don’t have a pooch readily available, the poor man’s way of tracking down prowlers is simple. Park your patrol cars in the street, but space them out, kind of like a perimeter. Roll down the windows and turn off the motor then look down the street. This is not scientific, but I tell ya, it works. You will hear dogs’ barking as the crook goes from one back yard to the next, you might see lights turn on and you should hear stomping on the plants as the crook runs away. Another less heard, but equally pleasant sounding noise is the screams of pain as these suspects break a leg or fall into the cactus.

Weekend nights are the best. I love them. But I also like my new life away from work. Usually. Of course I wink to the overnight felony gods as I tuck my Blackberry good night. Wondering if this will be the night I am jostled from sleep with a call from the sergeant announcing the next “big one.”

More later. Ralph

"Mom, get out of the way!" By Lt. Pata

Code 3 driving is the spring-roll of police driving. It is exciting, dangerous and frustration all wrapped in a nice black and white package. Most people take their driving test and usually know what to do, of course, most of the time they don’t do it. The pull to the right thing is not an option, it really is mandatory, unless, of course you are my mom.

One day watch, years ago I was driving on Second Street in San Rafael, a pretty heavily travelled multi-lane one-way street. As I was driving around looking for my next bad person, I received that adrenaline inspired radio call “3L43 – 415 Physical…” That little phrase means a couple of things…it requires me to drive Code-3 (lights and siren) to a fight call. I and 750lbs of back up officers would drive to that call in the hope of getting there before too much damage was done to the victim. Oh the other thing is I am required to get there safely. I know, party poopers.

I went through the ritual, answered up for my call on the radio and then rolled up my window, turned up the volume to the radio, checked my seat belt and said a prayer. Police cars should include a statue of Jesus on the dash, just like my little aunt “Nini” used to have in her car, because you really take your life in your hands when you drive in a black and white, but no more so, then when you have to drive Code-3. Code -3 is the cool police term for loud noise and disco lights. It’s actually not the driving that is spooky, it’s the response from the world the second you turn on the siren. But I’m Italian and we are predisposed to driving, lets say, unconventionally. It’s so hard to drive and curse in Italian with both hands on the wheel.

Think about it, pedestrians who stop in the middle of the sidewalk and cover their delicate ears and have the “what? what?” Look on their faces as I sit patiently with my siren on waving for them to move…bicyclists, hybrid cars, big trucks, cars that should have been recycled years ago and semi-deaf mothers in Ford Futura’s that think their son is messing with them are typical hazards.

As I drove over a bridge and around a corner there ahead of me is a gold Ford that will not pull over for the nice police officer. I‘m driving 20mph with my siren blaring and lights flashing. I think smoke was coming from my ears, as it usually does when I think, but now it’s because I am not happy with the Ford in front of me. I am going to an emergency. The siren is usually the universal language and there is this woman, driving probably 20mph. That’s what you do in a 25mph zone. You drive 20; well that’s what you do if you’re my mom. So, I hit the cool siren, the “yelp,” you know the one that goes “whoop whoop whoop!” its kind of the “move over already!” version of the siren. It is also pretty good for “I can’t stop-move!” It is designed to help vibrate you or elevate your car up and over traffic, to the next obstacle.

It was after the yelp siren that upon closer inspection I noticed that the 60-something year old “Nonna” with the jet black hair could only be one of two people. My mom or Ronald Reagan in drag.
I don’t think I have seen another person, aside from President Reagan, that had that almost blue-black colored head of hair. Its funny, as a kid I remember seeing my mom wash her hair and she used to tell me it was black shampoo. Now, I know. Duh! I wasn’t so smart as a kid.

Apparently my mom thought I was just messing with her, like its something I do at 2pm in the middle of traffic. My dear mom responded with putting her left hand out the window and made the up and down waiving motion with her left hand and arm. I was familiar with as Italian sign language for “shut up.” I know this, because she used to do this from time to time at the dinner table, church, backyard, bedroom, and especially while watching Beretta on TV. By the way, Mr. Blake, thanks for ruining my life. After your ex took a dirt nap, near that Italian joint in L.A. my mom thought I was going to be an “alleged” wife murderer. Thanks pal.

My mom had a heavy accent and messed up words like “Lake Taco”, for Lake Tahoe, but with the helpful assistance of her hands and feet – oh and the wood cooking spoon and her slippers, we all understood. The kick under the table was probably her biggest non-verbal skill and it was a universal language. Even the dog got it. Mom ran the show.

With great humility I had to turn off my siren and get on the PA system, because mom would not pull over and now the conga line of cop cars was getting bigger behind me. It’s hard to whisper “MOM MOVE OVER” on the loud speaker, but I had to do it. The only bonus was that I did not have to do it in Italian. My mom took her sweet time, but finally gave me and my pals enough room to pass her. Of course, she just stopped in the lane of traffic. I was seriously waiting for her to throw a shoe at me. Needless to say it was a topic at dinner on Sunday and everyday for about a month in briefing. Her response: “Ralphy, I thought you were being stupid, I’m, sorry.” Then she cackled her trademark laugh and passed the lasagna.

My mom was well known in San Rafael so I couldn’t even lie about who the non-responsive driver was. My mom was the gal who worked at the local See’s candies and sugared up everyone from the Chief to judges and of course cops. Her favorite pastime was to pass out stuck together deformed candy that could not be sold, then tell everyone she knew that I was born premature and with no skin. Ya, it’s now no wonder I could not get a date. She always asked Chief’s and judges, “my Ralphy isn’t being stupid is he?” Mom also always made breakfast for my team members on special days, like Christmas. She was definitely one of a kind and a class act. I miss her.

OK, sirens are obnoxious, but it is kind of cool knowing in seconds you are going to cause a little noise and panic for some and activate the “frozen in place” hormones in your unsuspecting fellow travelers on the street. We don’t do it for no reason, (Usually – OK, there were a couple of times, like when we booby trapped patrol cars at lunch breaks to activate the siren once you opened the doors, but aside from that…)


There is no rhyme or reason as to who does what on the street. Young and old, men and women make up how they will respond to the police car or ambulance driving behind them with the sirens on. It’s like musical chairs. When the music stops, or in this case when the siren starts, people just stop -or worse, they pull to the center of the road, (left).

Stopping in the middle of the road, usually at the last second, or maybe the adventurous X-games driver who pulls from a driveway, in front of you as you are passing a car on the left, is a bladder and lower gastrointestinal pressure valve moment. The only thing I have found to alleviate the lower gastro-intestinal pressure is a nice combination of multi-syllabled profanity reserved in the confines of what could be your black and white coffin.

Most people continue to drive like this because we don’t have the time or opportunity at the time to pull them over and issue a nice coupon to remind them of their driving errors – because we are busy driving to the emergency! I can recall a couple of times hunting the driver who would not pull over for me or the ambulance, but usually it’s too late to catch them so they get a pass. It’s too bad, it’s a great ticket.

I have considered the healthy application of my push bumper to the rear of the car that won’t move. I have tried it before with crooks and it works. The problem is that is usually causes some damage. Our budget doesn’t support these little maneuvers anymore, so we wait for the NASCAR moment, draft off of the back end of their car and slingshot around them when the time is right. A nice prayer to the “wrong way gods” helps so that when you do pass on the left you are not met by a semi who already owns that lane. I used to work for the Coroner’s office…people lose to semi’s. In a big way.

There are other reasons to drive Code-3, but they usually get you in trouble, but I have to admit, I have done it.

Sometimes we have to drive quickly to other events. Take for example the lunch gone wrong. Safely and quickly getting back to the station after you had a meal that did not agree with you is also important. You know what I am talking about, don’t ya?

The toxic fare that caused an unmistakable internal combustion which reminds you that it is not smart to eat at a place where they can’t spell the “food” item right on the menu. Or how about that meat-like product that you have never heard of before? I actually walked away from a restaurant once that had the words POOSH and POOL on the door. Seriously.

Officers know what I am talking about. Let me frame this shot for you…you just finished a nauseating combination of rice, beans and either seagull or squirrel, nicely disguised in a flour vessel that, when gift wrapped, looks remarkably like a suppository for an elephant. Truthfully, it can and has been any hygienically challenged food product.


After lunch you are lured into a sense of satisfaction. Within 3 minutes of swallowing your last bite…you stand up and feel the hand of God poke you in the abdomen. Huh? You think to yourself, maybe my gun belt is on a little too tight. NO no no….after your first step away from the table, you notice that your body has turned on the perspiration machine. With each step toward your patrol car you feel like your gastrointestinal tract is starting to unwind. God is playing catch and release with your lunch. You pull at the collar of your T-shirt and try to get a little cool air down the front of your shirt and bullet resistant vest. Without notice, embarrassing symptoms of your intestinal dispute become apparent and you immediately look to see if anyone noticed.

The moment you sit in the driver’s seat, the red alert notice transmitted from your lower digestive system to your brain is activated. (Think of the soundtrack to a submarine diving: A-OOOGA A-OOOGA!) Your hands start to sweat. You feel God knocking on the inside of your stomach…and then the cramping starts. The anatomical vice-grip starts to twist your mesentery like it’s on a taffy puller. You don’t call out that you are finished with lunch on the radio and drive as assertively as you can to the station.

On the way to the station you look at the computer screen and pray to the emergency call gods that none happen. As you drive back you scope out every possible burrito reception center on the way, but are careful not to make eye contact with any citizen because there is not room for error, no time to waste. (So to speak.)

Finally you see the finish line… the police station. The problem is that the guy in front of you is in a hybrid and is testing the gas to mile per gallon ration as he lets his car slowly cruise using the electric motor. Or he (or she) wants you to see how good they are that they are actually driving 25MPH. It’s a dirty trick. You would swear that you can hear your heart beating faster and faster…nothing else matters.

Suddenly you realize that soon, you may not actually make it to the station. Thoughts of living in exile come over you. By now you have rolled up the windows of the car, turned the AC on full blast, removed your seatbelt and have unlocked the doors. Finally, you decide to accept the written or verbal reprimand by activating your emergency lights to blow past Mr. Hybrid. As you scoot past him you accelerate like a dragster into the parking lot of the station, now removing the belt keepers and decisively sprint to the back door of the station and directly to the burrito recycling center. Sound familiar?

OK cops, be honest- How many of you reading this has activated emergency lights less than 100 yards away from the station to get to salvation?

Once you make it into the station you have the police station obstacle course to complete to get to the official police lounge. You have to code-into the back door, you have to be polite to wayward citizens who happen into the back lot and dodge their questions, lets not forget about the pigeon meteors falling from the second floor, conveniently located above the back door of the station. Once you are in you have to sneak by the sergeant who wants you on the street or wants to tell you about his or her vacation…finally you have to avoid and maneuver around the senior volunteers in the hallway.
God bless them, they are awesome, but not now…MOVE! All of this while not chancing any potential relief maneuvers that could earn you a terrible nickname, exile or clear the building and activate the alarms.

For you non-cop types, getting your trousers off in a hurry for the sake of grease infused lunch is not easy. We have this junk, you know, guns, Taser’s pepper spray and such that we just can’t toss to the side as we sprint to the executive lounge. No, no, someone thought it would be a great idea to make our uniform complicated. I am guessing this guy would later go on to design lingerie or naughty subculture accessories, made of leather and snaps. We wear two belts, and then they are connected by strips of leather with snaps, called keepers.

You just can’t leave your gun on the bench or on a seat, so it comes in with you and the second you unsnap the front keepers, if you’re a guy, watch out because your sidearm may become an impact weapon and could swing around and get you briskly in an area that would make you vulnerable, subject to nausea and certainly would activate your lachrymal system causing you to ball your brains out.

So you see, driving code-3 is not for the faint at heart or for rookies. I think everyone at one time in their life would like to drive this way. It can be fun, but totally nerve wracking. Especially if you are in an unmarked car and no one really see’s you. That is actually fun, it looks like someone dropped a siren bomb and everyone is looking around for the black and white. I do it too for grins. Then when it’s safe try to get to the call.

More? OK. Stay safe. Ralphy

All in the Name of Science by Detective Phil

My name is Phil Melodia and I am a police officer with the San Rafael Police Department. Along with being a police officer one of my other assignments is as a Crime Scene Investigator (CSI).

I am sure that the San Rafael Police Department has had some form of a CSI team since the beginning of time. In fact, we used to be called Field Evidence Technicians before the popularization of the TV show with the same name and all their spin offs.

Ever since, then San Rafael Police Department Chief Cronin, and continuing with every Police Chief since, they have felt that a police department of our size should have a self sufficient CSI team.

In order to have a self sufficient CSI team, the police department has had to provide adequate training for all the CSI members and buy the proper equipment. We finally got rid of the converted ambulance that was our old “CSI van” and got a dedicated CSI van with all the bins and storage compartments, drop down tables, lights, and all the other necessary accouterment for a properly outfitted CSI team.

One of the new pieces of equipment that the police department purchased was an Alternate Light Source (ALS). If you have seen one episode of any of the incarnations of the CSI shows you know exactly what I am talking about. It is when the CSI investigator is using a black light in conjunction with a pair of colored safety glasses in an attempt to locate biological material left behind at the crime scene by the suspect. It makes for dramatic television and it is not nearly as technical as portrayed.

An ultraviolet light source, in conjunction with the properly colored lens, will cause bodily fluids that might not be visible with the naked eye to fluoresce and become readily apparent. Some of the bodily fluids that this technique is used locate is: blood, urine, sweat, saliva, mucus, vaginal secretions and seminal fluids. Basically, if your body produces it and secretes it, the ALS will help you locate it. The ALS is vital tool to be used at any crime scene where a sexual assault took place.

Our first ALS was the Spectroline TFK-100. The sergeant in charge of the CSI team was Sergeant Correa. He assigned me to learn how to use the ALS and teach all the other CSI investigators how to properly use the ALS. I read the instruction booklet from cover to cover.

About this time in my life, my grandfather had recently passed away. I had taken his old v-neck under shirts and brought them home to be used as rags. I came up the brilliant idea that I would take each tee shirt apply a small amount of biological fluid on the tee shirt. I would then write on the label of the tee shirt what the biological fluid was so the CSI investigator could see what each biological fluid looks like while using the ALS.

The first one, blood, was easy. I took a sewing needle sterilized the tip with a lighter and I pricked the tip of my finger. I dropped a few drops of blood on the white tee shirt.

The second one, saliva, was a little more difficult. You never realize how difficult it is to spit on demand until you have to do it. The first time I attempted, the shirt was hanging and the spittle beaded up, rolled down the shirt and fell off the tee shirt and onto the floor. I then placed tee shirt horizontal and I repeated my experiment with much more success.

The third one, urine, was easy. I used the learning experiences I had with the saliva test and duplicated my experiment with urine. I applied a few drops of urine on the third tee shirt.

The following day I facilitated my demonstration of the ALS machine to all my fellow CSI investigators. The training was a smashing success

Since then, the San Rafael Police Department CSI team has used the ALS on numerous crime scenes. I am glad that my blood, sweat, and tears have been utilized to arrest bad guys and put them away for many years.