Off Duty Incidents

Once you become a police officer, you are on duty 24 hours a day. That’s what they say. And, there is certainly a mindset officers obtain and a sense of vigilance that stays with them in whatever they may be doing on or off the job. In these mildly paranoid days of the early 21st century, it is well for anyone, police officer or not, to be on his or her guard. Fault me for this if you wish, but I refuse to live my life constantly “in the trenches,” like there’s an armed carjacking about to occur or a terrorist plot unfolding in front of me every time I pop my head out to get my mail or run to the grocery store.

That being said, I have made an observation about those I know in the world of Law Enforcement. There seems to be two camps to which officers subscribe when reporting to work or going off duty—those who arrive and leave in full uniform, and those who travel in their “civvies.” Both sides have their reasons—preparedness, efficiency on the one hand, and comfort, anonymity on the other. While I don’t think any officer who comes to work or drives home in sweatpants and a non-descript jacket never has his firearm more than an arm’s length away from him at any time, there is something to be said for traveling to and from work dressed in full uniform and gun belt, which I will attempt to demonstrate in the following narratives, taken, once again, from my own experiences.

For many years, I would dress for work in the uniform of the day. And, just prior to leaving the house, I would retrieve my firearm in its off-duty holster from the shelf in my bedroom closet. I left my gun belt in my locker at the station, usually giving myself plenty of time to put it on once I got to work. We didn’t have as many tools on it as we do now, and since I took my gun to and from work with me in its own holster, my thinking was that the gun belt was not a necessity traveling with me everywhere-- the comfort issue coming to light here. We also did not have personally assigned radios in the early half of my career. Instead, the senior officer manned the Radio Room in our Headquarters prior to roll call, handing out the radios upon officers’ arrival. The functionality and appearance of a radio given to an officer was in direct proportion to one’s time on the department. If you were on for any length of time, you might actually get a radio that stayed in one piece and could transmit and receive throughout the whole district.

Providence, or Fate, has a very prevalent role in a police officer’s experiences. Ask one after his involvement in a major incident. All the things that occurred, or did not occur, all the little circumstances leading up to a moment that cause a situation to unfold the way it does. One part out of place can determine a completely different outcome. What’s the saying? “A butterfly flaps its wings in Africa and there’s an avalanche in the Himalayas.” Or something to that effect.

One particular night in early fall, I’m actually working on my day off for another officer, trading days with him as manpower had been expected to be short and he could not get the day off work. I am working his 4 p.m. to midnight shift, not my normal graveyard shift. As luck, I believe at the time, would have it, we are not that busy, and I am able to take a few hours off to go home early. Following my habit, as described above, I head home in my personal car, wearing the pants and short-sleeve shirt of my uniform. It is about ten o’clock. My gun rests in a detached belt holster on my passenger seat. Business as usual. I even have some classical music playing loudly on the radio, not wishing to be bothered by some of the obnoxious junk that passes for music nowadays.

I’m four cars back at a T-intersection a little over a mile away from my home. The light for crossing traffic at the top of the T turns from yellow to red. We slowly pull forward, and the second car to go through the intersection, a white Mercury Cougar, picks up speed, preparing to turn left. BAM! It strikes the passenger side of a black Chevy Monte Carlo that seemingly comes out of nowhere from left to right. The Monte Carlo spins 360 degrees, and the Cougar takes a sharp right on a crippling path into a gas station lot at the corner.

I see the third car pull into the lot to get close to the disabled Cougar and assume its occupants will check on the Cougar’s condition. The Monte Carlo heads in the same direction for a short distance before it too pulls into the gas station at the far end of the lot. Knowing this vehicle to be at-fault, and being the police officer that I am, “on duty 24 hours a day,” I decide to pull up to the Monte Carlo and address its driver in my position of authority. I am a little surprised, even though in the back of my mind with what I’ve seen people capable of doing in the past I shouldn’t be, when the car pulls back out onto the street.

“Uh, hello! You just got involved in a serious crash that should have knocked you senseless!” I think to myself. I don’t even get a chance to approach the car, and now it’s headed for the highway on-ramp up the street. I make a decision and elect to follow the car, thinking at some point it will pull over and I can point out to the driver the error of his ways. This was also in the days before everyone had a cell phone attached to his or her brainstem. I’m speaking figuratively of course.

My options are running out the farther and faster we go down the highway. At this point, I believe the driver may not even be aware that a witness, me, is behind him and wanting to talk to him in regards to what just happened. Knowing I can’t follow him forever, I flash my bright lights and honk my horn in my little red Honda Civic as I pull up along the crumpled passenger side of the speeding black car. Without the benefit of a loud speaker or the convenience of flashing blue and red lights, all I have is a very limited “Officer Presence” in order to affect the detention of this hit-and-run driver. I make my presence known by turning on my interior lights and pointing at the gleaming silver badge on my chest. The driver, a skinny scraggly-haired female looks undaunted as we make eye contact. She returns her eyes to the road as her speed increases. Just to make sure she saw what she saw, she quickly turns her head back in my direction. This time I’m smiling and playfully wagging my gun still in its holster as I hold it up to reinforce my position of a law enforcement officer. And, to add to the surrealist nature of this, another unorthodox event I find myself in, Wagner’s classical masterpiece “Ride of the Valkyries” plays out majestically in its entirety over my radio sound system.

Well, my “Officer Presence” tactic backfired! Or did it? The woman accelerates past me and quickly takes the next exit. We are now actually headed back into more familiar territory, where I just came from spending six hours of my day off—District 5. Feeling a bit more confident, I follow her with renewed vigor, waging a constant assault on my horn and bright lights lever. Hey, it’s the next best thing if you don’t have overhead lights and a siren, right? My thinking is thus—there’s bound to be a cruiser hanging around on the main drag as we exit off the highway.

Heck, our Headquarters is just a few blocks north of us, and we’re heading right toward it. Attract enough attention and at least one diligent officer has got to notice and pull us over. Even if he insists on pulling me over and not the other vehicle, at least I can quickly identify myself and provide the license plate and description of the other car, in the hopes that he re-engages.

We pass by the District 5 Headquarters, its lot visible to my left out my driver’s side window. Where is everybody? The lot is deserted. Another saying rings ironically true, but only in that moment. “There’s never a cop around when you need one.” Once again, I find my options limited. There is absolutely no way I’m following this car, just for a traffic offense, deep into the jungle of the West Side without any proper means of communication with the outside world.

As luck, or Fate, would have it, the woman pulls to the left into the lot of a Rally’s Drive-Thru Restaurant. I guess fleeing and eluding takes its toll on one’s appetite. She passes the menu billboard and order station and takes the horseshoe drive around until she’s next to the delivery window and now facing back out toward the street. She swings her door openwildly and saunters out, standing beside the open door as she sways slightly side to side.

“What the @#&*(French, toast!—as my kids are fond of saying)!” she calls out indignantly as I scramble to get out of my car as it comes to a skidding stop right behind hers. And here’s where I will first address the main point of my story. I reach for my weapon, which has remained loyally on the seat beside me, luckily not having been forced by sheer momentum under the floor mats from any of the sudden turns or changes in speed the “two of us” have encountered within the last thirty seconds.

“You just about killed somebody back there!” I call out to the woman, still maintaining my distance beside my own open car door. The moment plays out not unlike a Wild West showdown, if not for the extreme cultural clash of the classical music still booming from my car stereo.

“They hit me!” she angrily replies, neither of us moving. Well, that was true. Gotta give her that. A Gold star in the Observation Department, young lady. OK, how to argue out of that point of logic…

My main point? I’m getting to it. I have a loose gun in a holster in one hand. My only tool of the trade at my disposal. I take it out and elevate the situation. Now I have a loose gun out of its holster in one hand and an empty holster in the other hand. OK, lose the holster and free theother hand. Now I have a loose gun AND no holster. See what I’m getting at?

“Well, why the gun at all?” some may say. Don’t produce it unless you intend to use it. The truth is police officers don’t always know the entirety of a situation they face at every given moment. Even the benign situations can turn ugly really quickly. In this case, I am going to maintain the upper hand right off the bat. Even though one could look at it from outside the fish bowl and comment that it is just some drunk female who left the scene of an accident, so there’s no need for a gun, officer. It is not unreasonable for the officer in that particular set of circumstances at that exact moment to believe that any number of things could have already happened or have the potential to happen that would necessitate the need for the weapon’s presence. I am not ruling anything out about this woman’s conduct and what she may be capable of doing in the next few seconds of our encounter.

The problem I brought on myself is that if the situation truly turns ugly, well—uglier, then I have the possible problem of an unsecured firearm in the mix. Recognizing this fairly quickly, and not wishing to debate with myself at that moment over how I should dress traveling to and from work, I keep the upper hand by taking charge of our interaction.

“I’m a police officer! Get your hands behind your head!” I yell at her, now closing the distance between us. “You’re under arrest for hit and run!” It sounds so phony when one reads it after the fact, but those of us who live the profession know we’ve all said these “textbook” phrases. Of course, it’s not always what you say; it’s how you say it.

My second problem: no gun belt means no handcuffs. I realize this quickly as well. I see that she is not complying with my command. Coupled with the knowledge that “Fight or Flight” may soon kick in for this woman, I keep one step ahead and charge at her with the forearm of my free arm. As I strike her at shoulder level, she flies backward in slow motion, her feet coming off the ground as her body leans back, like in one of those Japanese animé cartoons with the streaks of color whooshing by in the background. The back of the woman’s head strikes the concrete with a sickening thud. The hollow cantaloupe sound it makes upon impact actually hurts my head. At first, looking into her dark, wide, unblinking eyes that stare upwards back at me, I think matter-of-factly, “My god, I’ve killed her.” But then, the expression in her eyes change ever so slightly as she registers at the figure lurking over her, seemingly saying “[see previous colorful alliteration above involving French toast].”

By this time, the employee working the drive-thru window pops her head out at all the commotion. Perhaps she too heard the loud thump of a melon against the hard ground.

“I’m an off-duty officer. Call 911. Tell ‘em I have a suspect in custody.” Yes, I really say those words. I guess they work, because she ducks her head back inside and within a few minutes after I turn my suspect over on her stomach and sit on her back, I hear the distant wail of sirens begin.

As the undulating tones become increasingly louder, I realize “The Calvary has arrived!” Cruisers soon surround the tiny drive-thru and line up along the main street, lights flashing. I stay kneeling on the woman’s back, my gun in one hand, my other hand grasping her skinny wrists together, preventing her from flailing her arms. The first officer on scene helps me by handcuffing the woman as I secure my weapon. While not overly stressed or worn out, I am still glad to see him and the support he brings as I hand the arrest over to him. I will now be busy with witness statements and arrest reports. Instead of having a few hours of extra time to myself like originally planned, I actually get two hours of overtime out of the whole ordeal.

Testing fate, I had decided to leave my shift two hours early and found myself at the exact location at the precise moment when a vehicle crash occurred right in front of me. Is there another saying about Fate favors the prepared mind or something like that? Fortunately, this time, it favored the unprepared officer.

Fast forward many years later. I have learned from my experience. Nothing of a similar nature had happened since. To me, at least. Officer Clint, whom I mentioned in another entry as being his Training Officer in his early days, recounted a situation to me once in which he was leaving for home after his shift, Officer Clint is one of those officers who chooses to completely remove the uniform before traveling home. He does, however, dutifully keep his firearm in the center console between the seats during his travels. Only three blocks away from Headquarters, he stops at the light at the deserted intersection that early morning. A crackhead, seemingly waiting for a bus at the nearby bench, suddenly rushes his passenger side, jerks the door open and plops down in the seat next to him.

“Gimmee a ride. I need a ride,” he tells Officer Clint as he fidgets in the seat.

Officer Clint introduces him to his “passenger” of which the dope fiend must have been unaware.

“I think you need to get out of my car—now!” he replies, the Glock handgun now inches from the man’s face. The man is a vapor trail. Problem solved. But, it could have been a bigger problem.

As I mentioned, as the years passed, I adjusted my routine and traveled to and from work fully prepared. The issuance of personal radios certainly added to my confidence level. But nothing out of the ordinary happened for many years. Then, on one evening early in the summer, the cogs and spokes within the machine that is God’s infinite design of the universe spun in such a way, maintaining the delicate balance of fate and free will. This set a particular situation in motion-- one that I was finally adept at handling, one that had a determinedly neater outcome and a more convenient set of circumstances.

Still working the midnight shift after nineteen years, I have become accustomed to a specific routine coming to work. I would start my shower at a specific time each night, knowing that I had to be putting on my uniform within another specific range of numbers on the clock, which then allowed me to be out the door by another predetermined time. This, in turn, allowed for an expected travel time at a set speed, traffic lights included, to allow me to arrive at work within two minutes of roll call—usually.

This particular night, I had no precognitive dream within the nap I took prior to getting ready for work. I had no little hairs on the nape of my neck standing up, nor any general feeling about the night. For whatever reason, I was finding myself with time to spare. Perhaps shaving was a little easier this time, or I didn’t have to hunt as long for something to put in my lunch box. Whatever the reason, it is lost on me now. I ended up being ready to go out the door about seven minutes ahead of schedule.

I typically park my car in the street upon coming home from work in the morning while the wife is at work. In the evening, she then parks the noticeably larger minivan in the driveway. It’s safer, more convenient, and just how we do things. However, this night the van was along the curb, and my sports car sat alone in the driveway. Why? Once again, the exact set of circumstances at the time of this recollection escapes me.

At 11:40 p.m., I exit my front door with my lunch bag, a book (for those slow, quiet times when nothing is going on) and some other paperwork in tow. My neighborhood is a quiet pocket of Americana, in an otherwise slowly corroding big city. It was built in the 1940’s with small cape cod homes set smartly right next to each other and large trees lining the streets. There is never any through traffic on my street, and between the ornate street lamps, one can see from one end of the block down to the other.

The tree frogs and crickets in full chorus are the only sounds in the night. I hear nothing else as I place my items atop the roof of my car prior to unlocking it. It is at this moment that I am aware of a tall, large man lurking quietly out from between the dark space between the garage side of my house and my neighbor’s house to come along my driveway and stop directly across from me. I don’t mind admitting that his immediate presence “scared the crap out of me.” While neither of us jump or show any sign of uncontrolled surprise, we keep our eyes locked on each other for a moment. It is a short enough moment for me to realize I do not know this man, nor recognize him as an acquaintance of anyone on my block, especially the young lady who lives alone next to me. It certainly is enough time to realize that he does not belong in my backyard either.

I will say this—being in full uniform does put one in “cop mode” more readily, especially when faced with a situation an officer could be dealing with out there on the streets. A greater sense of confidence is gained than if one were suddenly approached or accosted in the parking lot at the grocery store while in lounge pants and a t-shirt, perhaps not even having one’s firearm concealed on his person.

This man’s lack of surprise or emotion unnerves me a little bit as we stand there looking at each other. My first thought is that he was prowling in my backyard, trying to break into my shed, or perhaps looking through my back windows. My second thought is “Oh, hell no! Not in my neighborhood.” This current narration is not the time to address this topic; however, recently, our department finally won its long battle against residency, which is the practice of an employer (i.e. “The City”) dictating where its employees can live as a condition of employment. I like my neighborhood and consider it relatively safe, but it is slowly choking, surrounded by the grittiness that is the metropolis of the city I work for. And, I guess I should have known it was only a matter of time before something like this happened on my own doorstep.

But, what exactly was happening?

I shout to him, even though we are less than ten feet from each other as he now stands in the illumination of the lamps attached to either side of my garage door.

“What-are-y’doin’-in-my-backyard!”

The white male, in his 20s, past six feet, 225 pounds, in his jeans and t-shirt, is certainly not dressed the part of a prowler.

He replies quickly, “Aw, man. It’s not like that.”

“Well, what’s it like then?”

He doesn’t have an answer for that one.

How about this one? “I could’ve shot you-- messing around my house!”

“I wasn’t doin’ nothin’,” he counters, looking like he’s wondering what to do next.

I’m wondering the same thing, as we seem to be in a Mexican Stand-off. He’s dealing with the fact he’s been caught red-handed doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, and I’m standing there trying to figure out what that “something” is.

“I’m just tryin’ to get home, man,” he tells me.

“Not through my yard!”

Again, we stare at each other. My right hand rests out away from my body, but ready to go for my firearm if needed. Or, I may need to cross-draw and pull out my Taser. It all depends on his body language at this point. If it looks like he’s going to run, I’ll use the Taser and stop him in his tracks. If his hands go toward his waistband or behind his back, I’ll be quick to stick my Glock .40 in his face. If he decides to charge right at me, then a fight it will be. There’s nothing worse than having your weapon out, pointed at someone if the situation doesn’t call for its immediate potential use. I learned a long time ago, my previous experience mentioned earlier as a prime example, that it does no good to “bluff” someone by pulling out the gun in order to gain compliance. The majority of bad guys we run across tend to know in what situations we can use deadly force, or they are too stupid to care. The others are just plain crazy and might fight anyway. So, having a gun out is one more risk factoring into the equation for me and for this bad guy.

Something has to happen. We can’t stand like this forever. I see him thinking about running off. The subtle glances to the side. The shifting of weight from foot to foot. I decide the safest thing to do is to just charge him. Take him by surprise. Get him off balance.

I yell, “Get on the ground!” as I swing my right arm in an upward hooking motion toward his neck. At the same time, I’m stepping in with my left foot behind his legs as I grab his left arm and pull downward. He bends over and leans to his right as he is knocked off balance and onto the ground. I continue to yell at him to stay on the ground and to put his hands behind his back. If he can’t get past my yelling, he may not be able to focus on any coherent thoughts himself, plus the direct, forceful and repetitive commands tell him what I expect and that I mean what I say.

As I wrench his other arm behind his back and bring it close to the other one for handcuffing, I’m aware that the front door of my house is opening. On this otherwise quiet night in my neighborhood, my shouts have alerted my wife who heard me through our open upstairs bedroom window.

“What’s going on? Are you OK?” she calls out, staying on the porch. She’s guarding the front door and keeping a safe distance from me and my captive as I kneel down on top of him.

I tell her I’m fine and that I caught a prowler. He doesn’t struggle, and I’m able to secure both hands behind his back inside the handcuffs.

“You want me to call the police?” the wife shouts back.

“I think he is the police,” the guy beneath me replies.

“Shut the hell up!” she retorts.

“I got this!” I tell her.

Despite the unintended hint of humor I find in the man’s comment and my wife’s sharp response, I realize I have the means to call the police myself—right on my shoulder. I can take advantage of the fact I have a radio with me this time. I continue to keep a knee in the back of the man and one hand on the hinge of the handcuffs between the man’s captured wrists. With the other hand, I reach to the radio on my gun belt and turn it on. My words are controlled. I’m not panicked, and I keep any excitement suppressed as I get on the air with my crew number. I advise that I’m off duty and have captured a suspicious subject in my back yard. I give my address and ask for assistance.

Officer Mike, who works the evening shift in this area of Second District, responds, “Is he a white male, about six-four, wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans?”

Wow. “Yes. That’d be him.”

“He just sucker punched the manager here at Carmichael’s and took off without paying.” Carmichael’s is a Mexican restaurant right on one of the main thoroughfares outlining my neighborhood. It’s within walking distance of my house, which is good because they have awesome margaritas which can knock you on your can after only a glass and a half. “We’re coming to get him,” Officer Mike assures me.

From several blocks away, I hear the squeal of tires and the alternating tones of the sirens as the cruisers at the scene of the crime head my direction. As I wait for the back-up, I ponder the fact that a fleeing robbery suspect has just come through my yard. Yep. Technically, this man committed a robbery. Causing harm to a person in the commission of a theft offense. That’s a robbery. Not your typical “guns out, fleeing with the cash” kind of thing, but still.

Within seconds, Officer Mike and his partner, Officer Matt, arrive in front of my house. They help me pull the suspect up off the ground as I hand him over to them, only too glad to let them deal with this guy. As they walk him to their cruiser, he’s complaining all the way, wondering why he’s being arrested, pleading that all he was doing was trying to get home. We switch out handcuffs, and I get my pair back before they put him in the cruiser’s back seat.

“What do you need from me, guys?” I ask.

“Nothin’. We got this."Officer Matt says. "We’re taking the original robbery report. We’ll just put your name in the narrative, take this guy to jail, and that’ll do it.”

Great! The cruiser soon pulls away, the officers not wanting to draw any more attention to my house than necessary. I make sure my wife is doing OK, then head into work. Even with all that excitement, I still make it in three minutes before roll call. You can bet I’m still putting in an overtime request!

Following up on this incident, I learned that the man we arrested had gotten quickly drunk at the bar at Carmichael’s and ran up quite a tab. The bartender had expressed doubts that he was going to even be able to pay for his drinks, especially after the man said he was going to step out and have a cigarette. The bartender alerted the manager, Mr. Bob, who is also the owner. As the man walked toward the exit door, Mr. Bob told him he needed to pay for his drinks before going outside. The man then said he had to go to the restroom in an effort to get Mr. Bob to stop following him. But, the man went outside anyway and proceeded to relieve himself on the side of the building. Mr. Bob had enough and stood in front of the man, demanding he go inside to pay his bill. The suspect then punched Mr. Bob in the face and ran across the street into the neighborhood.

It’s easy to get turned around in the dark backyards and among the many small houses packed closely together in my neighborhood. As he wandered blindly through the yards, putting as much distance as he could between himself and a very angry Mr. Bob, he picked the wrong yard to cut through and ran into the wrong man while trying to make his getaway. He’s now doing seven years for his troubles.

"Riding the Lightning"

For years whenever I encountered someone who had just learned that I was a police officer, invariably the question most often asked of me had been, "Have you ever shot anybody?" Although I have come close a few times, I can say without disappointment or anticipation that I have not. But, nowadays, a new question, borne from new technology, springs forth at these encounters—"Have you ever 'tasered' anybody?" Oh, sure. Loads of times. This answer does not come with any malice, or with any regret. The ice has been broken, and many a funny story can now commence.

The Taser is a relatively new technology for Law Enforcement but has had its roots in the public consciousness for some time, most notably from the TV Series Star Trek with "phasers set to stun." From our science fiction dreams comes our reality. The Taser, which is actually a brand name, is a form of "stun gun." While not quite matching the abilities of its pop culture space age counterpart, it does live up to its name. There are, however, propagated by uninformed or exaggerated accounts in movies and TV, a lot of myths surrounding the capabilities and effects of the common "stun gun," like those commonly used by police officers.

The first truth that most everyone gets right is that it hurts. A lot! How do I know? I've been shot with it myself—once in a controlled setting and numerous times inadvertently out in the field. When our department acquired the Taser a few years back, each officer had to undergo training with the weapon. We learned the principals behind its technology, along with its proper deployment and care. We also learned what it felt like to be "tased," a sensation so unique, the act of which has assumed its own slang name within the rank and file, as well as out there on the street.

To understand its effects and even to possibly garner sympathy for those we were sure to use it on, our department, short of making it policy, strongly suggested each officer receive the shock from the Taser. Initially, this was accomplished by simply shooting each officer with the weapon. Through trial and error, the process was eventually tailored for the utmost in safety. I'd like to say that gym mats had always been in place underneath each "subject" prior to getting shocked. I myself was in one of the earlier training classes, and we had them. But, I wouldn't want to assume. Falling to the ground after getting shocked can actually hurt more than the electricity itself. We were also one of the first classes to wear mouth guards after an individual chipped a few of his teeth clenching his jaw so tightly as the volts coursed through his body.

What does getting shot with the Taser involve? It helps to understand the dynamics of the weapon. At the end of the barrel, for lack of a better term, is seated a square cartridge. It locks into place between two small flush-mounted tabs from which comes the electric charge. The gun is not a fast-deployment weapon. After it is turned on via a thumb switch at the top of the grip and its simple internal computer boots up, normally no more than a second, a laser dot is painted on the potential target, along with a strong blue-white illumination from the LED mini-flashlight mounted forward of the trigger. Inside the cartridge, hidden by thin plastic "blast doors" facing outward are two coils of thin wire, each ending in a cylindrical, weighted probe about ¾ inches in length with a thin needle about a half inch long protruding from there. Each of these presents itself with a barbed hook on its end. As the trigger is pressed, the electricity is sent to the tabs which connect to tabs within the cartridge. The energy propels the probes, which are recessed within small "launching tubes" inside the cartridge, through the blast doors. The probes continue outward, gradually spreading out from each other until they reach their target.

Normally, the type of person I would use a Taser on would not find himself reading these entries regaling my law enforcement career on a regular basis, so I do not feel bad in sharing this little secret with my faithful readers. Unlike the "phasers" of Star Trek fame, which conceivably, like a beam of light, would have had unlimited range, there is a limit to today's Tasers. Maybe someday we will be able to shoot beams of light at fleeing suspects a hundred feet away or more, but for now, the crippling current is carried through the extremely thin wires with a finite length—currently twenty-five feet. If I am chasing you and keep you within seven yards or so, you are mine!

Once the probes, which resemble miniature whaling harpoons mounted on small torpedoes, reach their target, the momentum of the weighted cylinders carries the sharp probes through any fabric or clothing, and the barbs stick into the skin. Their shape is just like the end of a fish hook. Those probes are not coming out without a little work. All the while, the current is traveling through the wires and into the probes for a factory-set time of five seconds.

Out at the Academy, as we go through the deployment portion of this training, each street officer elects to get in line to receive the shock. Out of the fifteen people in my class, all but one, a sergeant, mans up to get the "ride of his life." Even though getting shocked was voluntary for the class I attended, I for one was not going to stand there and just watch while the rest of my co-workers took it. I felt educated enough about the process to trust that my eyeballs would not explode or that I would not suffer memory loss, pee myself and forget who I was after getting "tased."

The specific distance an officer stands from a suspect when he fires a Taser at him is important because, while the Taser has a range of twenty-five feet, that is not its optimum effective range. The principal behind the process involves immobilization of muscle mass to stop an action or movement. As the probes are deployed outward, the distance between them increases the farther the probes travel. If the probes connect with their target within only a few feet of deployment, they will only be a few inches apart upon contact with the target. If the probes reach their target at the end of the wires' twenty-five feet length, they may be too far apart to effectively immobilize the area of the body they have contacted. With a current running out from each wire lead, an electrical circuit is completed upon contact with a conductive target, namely human tissue. The current runs through the body only within the muscle mass that is present between the two probes. Proper placement of the probes on the target is critical for the area between the two probes to effectively carry the electrical current. Since body movement is a result of muscles attached to bones, with these muscles moving as a result of electrical impulses generated within the muscles themselves, any outside addition of electrical current to those muscles would result in muscle movement disruption or incapacitation. Therefore, a small "contact" area will not effectively immobilize an area of the body well enough to stop it from working completely. And, too large of a "contact" area may result in dissipation of the current with more than one muscle mass receiving the current, giving the body the sensation of a lesser current. This process puts to rest the fictitious accounts in many movies and television shows that would have us believe that a typical "off the shelf" Taser —the kind available to the public and, with a few enhancements, the Law Enforcement community—could incapacitate someone, knocking him out for hours by only a contact "stun" to the back, or, for some oddly portrayed reason, the side of the neck.

To demonstrate the full effectiveness of the Taser, the subject officer is lined up about ten feet away from the instructor, his back to the weapon. This will result in optimal placement of the probes into the muscles of the back about two feet apart, ideally one hitting shoulder height, the other lodging in the small of the back. With the body's muscle placement in this area, the effect will be instantly crippling.

It's now my turn! Two spotters stand next to me—another safeguard learned from trial and error when a previous deployment in an earlier class resulted in an unsupported officer taking a head dive into a wall after getting shocked. I can't see anything but the wall in front of me a safe distance away. I can only anticipate when the instructor decides to "tase" me. I know I will hear a small "pop" as the probes force open the "blast doors" of the cartridge and come my way, carrying their current of 50,000 volts for a total of five seconds. If the instructor were sadistic, or if the situation calls for it out on the street, the trigger of the Taser may be pressed and held continuously to provide an unending current well beyond the default time of five seconds. So far, in the classroom setting, that has not been the case.

Where will the probes hit? When will t-- POP!

"#$*%!" my brain says. What comes out of my mouth is actually more like a primal, guttural scream. Intense, silent, vibrating pain radiates up my back. At first I think it is my imagination, but the current actually fluctuates, increasing in intensity midway through. I remember some of the officers who had gone before me, leaning forward as soon as they were shocked, then being gently escorted by the spotters to the gym mat at their feet, allowed to writhe in private agony for the remainder of the shock. For some reason (maybe I don't give off the right signal), my spotters do not guide me to the ground, but support me as I stand there. I don't know how I manage to stay on my feet. It feels like my whole body is shaking violently. I am acutely aware of the mouth guard clenched between my teeth. Will it be the same shape when this is all over? In the back of my mind, I know the process does not cause this to occur, but I wonder if I may have wet myself. I also wonder if I have the loudest yell of all the officers so far.

Count to five. Do it right. You know—"One thousand one… one thousand two… one thousand three…" It's actually a longer time than you might think, isn't it? Many of us have been shocked mildly in one way or another at some time in our lives— touching an outlet, an exposed wire, maybe even an electric fence (growing up on a farm, I've had some interesting experiences with those), but the contact during those instances was brief. Five seconds "riding the lightning" might as well be five minutes. The passage of time is all relative. If you are receiving an effective shock from a Taser, time doesn't matter.

Whew! It's over. Hey, it doesn't hurt anymore. Not at all. No residual pain. Not even a physical muscle memory of the sensation. I am now allowed to lie on the mat to give my body a rest. And, that's exactly what it feels like I need. It actually feels like I got in an excellent one hour cardiovascular workout crammed into those five seconds. My back tingles in a good way. I actually feel refreshed. Not that, if I were a suspect fleeing or fighting an officer, I'd want to pick up right where I left off. But, things are different now. I survived. Then I remember I have two barbs, fishhooks really, stuck in my back somewhere. As of this date, our department's protocol does not require we seek any medical attention for anyone shocked by the Taser, and the probes may be removed by an officer at the scene, with proper health concerns addressed obviously. There is a marking on the weighted part of each probe that indicates which way the barb faces. By applying pressure on that marking while pinching up the skin around the area of the penetration, pressure is lessened on the barb's connection with the skin, and it can be pulled out more easily. As a matter of fact, the probes in my back are pulled out before I know it. I hardly felt a thing. I'm sure it has to do with some recent adrenaline in my system and the tingly feeling I mentioned earlier. Two Band-Aids and I'm good to go.

Within the training, and out on the street, there is another manner of deploying the Taser. It's called the "drive stun." A situation may not be appropriate to let loose with two probes flying outward, trailing twenty-five feet of electrified wires. In close quarters, or perhaps with a resisting or struggling subject, this second method is very effective. The officer simply removes the cartridge from the end of the weapon, turns the Taser on, and "drives" it into the body part he wishes to affect. Intense pain at the spot, perhaps a flailing leg or a tensed up arm, can psychologically draw attention to that area and bring the subject into focusing on what the officer wants the subject to do with the offending body part—namely stop kicking or put his hand behind his back. The trigger can be depressed upon contact with the target area, or shortly beforehand. Sometimes hearing the crackling sizzle of ozone and seeing the pale blue veins of electricity arc across the one-inch gap at the end of the Taser is enough to gain instant compliance without one even having to feel its effects.

Officer Dan, about whom I've written before from our department's trip to Washington, D.C., not to mention from his "running and falling" fame, elects to have the "drive stun" during the training. The instructor, Officer Joe, outweighs him by at least a hundred pounds. Officer Dan takes it in the upper right thigh as Officer Joe thrusts the gun down on his leg with one arm and secures Officer Dan about the chest with the other arm so escape for the agonizing five seconds is impossible. Having two hooks shot into your body is one thing, but comparing the aftermath of the two methods, I think Officer Dan gets the worse end of the deal. He has two holes in his pants and scorching where the contacts rested against the fabric, and a similar pattern and light burns to his skin directly beneath. He later mentions the extremely localized pain was almost unbearable. Man, I am so ready to use this in the field!

I would like to say my first Taser usage was a huge success. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Officer Dan and I are together one evening shift and respond to an event at the local Fairgrounds. It seems a dealer at one of the booths did not like that a huge crackdown led by our own department on trademark counterfeiters at that very moment might put a damper on his business, not to mention his social life if he were to get caught and spend some time in jail. He decides to flee—on foot. We happen to arrive in the area just as Muhammad, or some such, is running out the main gates and into the surrounding business area. With fresh legs, Officer Dan stops the cruiser, and we run after him. Cutting through a parking lot, the man slips on the pavement and crashes to the ground. We close in on him, and I take my Taser out of its holster, ready for the moment he tries to get up and flee again. However, as I approach the man, I slip as well, falling onto my side. The only thing to stop my fall is my outstretched hand that is currently holding the Taser.

Stopping the action here for a second, I know one of the morals of this story should be to never run on unfamiliar ground with your weapon in your hand. I know this moral. In my defense I would say I believed the situation was coming to a close, and the territory was familiar to me, and the ground— a parking lot— seemed relatively nonhazardous. That is, until I slipped on whatever made ol' boy slip.

Back to the present. As my knuckles make contact with the ground, then the rest of my arm, shoulder, and then legs, my fingers tighten their grip around my Taser. It discharges. The probes skitter out, dancing about on the concrete like electric snakes of the gods freed from captivity. Their cries mock me as I can hear the crackling of the current from the unharnessed probes and their wires. At this same moment, Officer Dan has reached the suspect and pounced on him to prevent him from getting up. In the heat of things, one does what one has to do. Leaving the Taser to finish its five second cycle, I lightly toss it aside so the weapon itself is no longer part of the equation. We still have to contend with the probe wires that any one of us could come into contact with at any moment, depending on how dynamic this ground-based arrest might get. But, that's not a major concern at this point.

I did have another option open to me, but in the interest of time, decided not to go that direction. After it discharged, the Taser could have been turned off with the thumb switch and/or the cartridge ejected from the front of the weapon, then finally put back into its holster in a reverse cross draw motion. We were trained to carry the Taser on the side of our gunbelt opposite our firearm. It faces backward to allow for our gun hand to reach across and pull it out, ready to fire. However, the Taser was not designed for rapid deployment. There are more motions involved in drawing and firing this weapon compared to out handgun. Our training did not call for allowing muscle memory to develop in drawing the weapon— something we do almost subconsciously with our firearms when the situation gets ugly fast.

Officer Dan and I avoid contacting the live wires lying nearby as we make quick work of the middle-eastern terrorist and take him into custody. Although many of my entries I've chronicled may seem like a Murphy's Law account of Law Enforcement, it is true that crazy things happen and things don't always go according to plan or like they did in training. I've had my share of screw-ups, and I like to think of myself as a police officer with sound tactics and common sense. But, as any officer who's been is similar circumstances will share—what can go wrong, will!

In regards to Taser incidents, that mantra certainly continues to hold true for many officers who find themselves on the wrong end of the Taser. Similar circumstances would arise when an officer used pepper spray on a subject, inadvertently spraying his partner in the face as he had just moved in to help the situation or maybe opened his mouth to give out a command. Or, perhaps within an army of swarming officers, a hand reached out to grab a combative subject and was dealt an unsuspecting blow from a fist or baton. We recognize this as the inherent danger of "The Pig Pile." Well, now, with this new tool at our disposal, a whole new world has opened up for "collateral damage" when it comes to officers getting in the way of a deployed Taser. But, as mentioned before, our training has allotted for that eventuality by providing us a preview of just what it feels like to "ride the lightning."

I am happy to say that the first time I "got in the way" did not involve wayward probes sticking in unfortunate areas of my body at an inopportune time during an incident. However, if you recall the pain described during a "drive stun," I'm not sure I was all the luckier. Officer Paul, a veteran from my own academy class, was my back up one early morning as we responded to a disorderly individual on a city bus. He had been yelling and cussing and threatening to fight the other passengers. The driver was fed up and called it in. The bus was waiting at a stop when we pulled up, and for some unknown reason, the individual was still inside, seated at the rear of the bus. If he knew the cops were coming, why he didn't take that opportunity to leave and disappear between the time the bus stopped and the police arrived was beyond me. He was instantly defensive when we walked on and approached him. When telling him he needed to exit the bus didn't work, a more firm hand was needed. He didn't take kindly to being touched in an effort to manually escort him out to the sidewalk. He became disorderly again then refused to move. At this point, we had enough to arrest him for disorderly conduct, and if he continued like this, we were not going to be messing around. In consideration of the other passengers, we needed to deal with him as quickly, decisively and safely as possible. He was told he was under arrest and instructed to put his hands behind his back. Yadda, yadda, yadda. We've said it all before. He's heard it all before.

Now the Taser comes out. Officer Paul pulls his and trains it at the man, keeping it tucked safely close to his own body, after making sure the subject sees him purposefully remove the cartridge from the end of the weapon. The ideal situation involves warning a suspect he is about to be tased, in the hopes of gaining compliance at that moment. It also serves as a warning to other officers that a potentially "live" Taser has entered the arena. The breakdown in communication between the officers and the element of surprise for the suspect occurs when all other parties realize they are not mind readers and the individuals act simultaneously and counter-productively. At the same moment the angry bus rider decides to rush forward, I reach for the nearest part of his body, the area of most control, and the quickest spot to reach—the baggy sweatshirt and sagging waistline of his over-sized jeans. I'm determined to bring him to the ground as quickly and efficiently as possible. Officer Paul determines at the same instant that a drive-stun might be more appropriate.

My right hand connects with a bundle of clothing, only to be met with searing pain as the bare contacts of Officer Paul's Taser get ground into the tendons on the back of my hand and the zapping begins. It is quite the unwelcome surprise. I'm not sure what I yell, but let's just say I'm glad it wasn't a Sunday morning right after the pick up at the local retirement center. Whatever Officer Paul hears, he realizes he has not made the contact he intended. He backs off and tries again. A drive stun directly to the gut is decidedly effective. Besides the small of the back, as long as the individual isn't protected by a beer belly of fatty tissue, the muscles surrounding the abdomen are very susceptible to electric shock, producing the desired effect when immobilized. The man doubles over as if he has just received the finishing blow from a boxing Heavyweight Champion. It's enough for me to recover my senses, flex my tingling fingers, and help Officer Paul take the guy to the bus floor. He then puts his hands behind his back at our command and is promptly handcuffed. No more problems, and he's no worse off than when he first boarded the bus.

I can't say the same for my hand. Straddling the tendon that stretches from the knuckle of my middle finger down to my wrist are two small bloody rips in my skin resembling a snake bite. I jokingly blame Officer Paul for tasing the wrong guy, and he kids me for getting my hand in the way in the first place. It's the nature of the game. No hard feelings. It is several years later, and I still have the scars to remind me of the fun we all had that day.

Another officer on my shift, while suffering no permanent damage, wasn't so lucky one evening when he got in the way of his partner during an incident that played out very much like the one just described. The dynamics were slightly different in that his partner shot probes at the suspect, instead of going for a drive stun. The incident has since passed, and I try not to find fault or dissect it too much. I wasn't there until after the fact, but I do revel in listening to each of them giving the other a hard time about the whole thing when it comes up every now and again.

It seems Officer Ron inadvertently shot his partner, Officer Greg with the Taser at very close range. One probe lodged in his right forearm and the other pierced his left index finger. The humorous thing about this incident (and all officers I know who are familiar with the circumstances besides Officer Greg do find humor in this) is what happened next. Officer Ron was aware he shot the Taser at the resisting suspect but was wondering why it had no immediate effect. He was fairly close to the guy and knew the probes had to have made contact with some part of the suspect. Officer Greg was wondering something else entirely. Why did my partner just shoot me with a Taser? Not one to back off and say "Woe is me. I've been shot with a Taser," Officer Greg remained in the fight. At the same moment Officer Ron was pondering how his Taser might have malfunctioned and wasn't doing its job, Officer Greg was "riding the lightning" and taking steps to remove the offending probe from his forearm in order to "get off this crazy ride." Simultaneously, as things so often happen during these types of situations, Officer Greg reached over to grab the wire attached to the probe sticking in his arm while Officer Ron pressed the trigger again to deliver another shock to the suspect in hopes that this one did the trick. Officer Greg goes for Round Two with the Taser, with the electrified wire now clutched tightly in his grip.

I don't recall what specifically happened to the person they were arresting, but, suffice it to say, when an officer's original plan does not go accordingly, he does not sit idly back, wondering what to do next. Truth be told, as time may be running short by then, or the suspect's thought processes begin to catch up to those of the officer's, the situation, right or wrong, usually escalates. The suspect was effectively dealt with in one way or another, leaving the officers with the dilemma of Officer Greg having a menacing piece of metal stuck fast in his body.

The normal rules of extraction didn't apply here. There is very little fat or tissue to grab on a human finger in order to assist in yanking out the probe, and the tight muscle, tendons and ligaments make for an interesting surface in which to anchor (think lip, eyeball, or scrotum —as all of these areas of the body have been hit at one time or another by some agency's officers somewhere across our nation). If you are unlucky enough to get a fishhook through your thumb while fly casting some relaxing summer afternoon, I am sure the day is no longer an enjoyable experience. A through-and-through penetration results in snipping off the end and pulling the rest of the offending metal back through the skin. Not pleasant, but bearable, with a solution in sight. But, a fishhook generally does not enter one's body with any real significant force.

This was an untested deployment for our department. Could the probe be stuck through a ligament or the tough density of the tendon? Could the voltage have done any serious damage to a nerve that close to the surface in an area as rich with nerves as the hand? I didn't know the immediate answers to these questions as I stood there dumbfounded, looking at the probe wedged deep into my friend's finger, its V-shaped end poking out the other side. I've always prided myself on not falling for any myths or rumors surrounding the Taser. I took the training seriously and believe, level-headedly, if it's been shown not to cause heart attacks or short out a pacemaker if a Taser is shot at someone's chest, then I trust the scientific community to have their facts straight about a weapon of this magnitude that is now on the market for widespread use. It seems like it's the uninformed or the grossly over-informed, in the guise of the media, who succumb to the fear-mongering. They cater to the misconceptions surrounding the Taser, or any new technology when first used by Law Enforcement. The media is dusting off the same tired arguments they used when pepper spray first came on the scene about fifteen years ago.

"Man Dies after Shot with Taser," the headlines read. They pride themselves on their sound logic—A follows B, and a statement like that sure sells newspapers, but did A cause B? The answer, as it's been shown in incident after incident involving pepper spray, is a resounding "No." As with any new item within a police arsenal, there will be a larger number of usages at its onset when compared over a length of time. There will also be a more heightened community oversight regarding its use. The facts surrounding an item's particular technology or make-up may not have had time to become mainstream knowledge in the eyes of the public. Here's where the media, at least for the time being, get to be seen as the experts. However, all they seem to be doing is setting up Law Enforcement with potential lawsuits that end up going nowhere and costing taxpayers a lot of money.

A Taser, as deployed in the field, does not stop a human heart. As previously described, the electric shock affects the muscle mass within the area of the two probes in contact with that muscle. One doesn't have to be an Anatomy major to see that reaching the heart, even in the most pristine, ideal, and laboratory-like conditions of a Taser deployment, would not happen with the way the Taser and its probes are designed. What kills a man, unfortunately, is the circumstances surrounding his initial encounter with the police and his subsequent conduct with them when its determined he is under arrest and he decides he doesn't like that answer. Drugs already in the bloodstream or a pre-existing medical condition along with a subject's activity level all factor in to what may have made his heart stop.

Positional Asphyxia is a hot topic right now as well. The way a restrained individual, especially one of a greater body mass, is lying or placed in a cruiser after his arrest can affect a person's breathing and result in a slow, silent suffocation. The fact that it occurred after a man fought the police for fifteen minutes after a cocaine binge doesn't make it into those front headlines.

Although one area of concern, and at this point it is of small concern for me, is where it appears A almost certainly causes B. What about when an officer shoots a Taser at a fleeing subject? It's better than using a real gun when deadly force is not authorized for something minor, like running from a traffic stop, or "bolting" out the back door of a house upon the arrival of the police at one's door. Plus, we are aiming for the small of the back, just like in training—where a stunned muscle mass in that location is the most effective in stopping a person's action. The probes make contact with the person, he is instantly immobilized, and his legs and hips can no longer function. He cannot run any more—or stand, for that matter. Down he goes! Right onto his face. It's not pretty, but, like I've said before, it's the nature of the beast. Don't like it? Don't run. Usually, as has been the case in our department, a broken nose or a few missing teeth are the results. Again, it's not the ideal ending, but it sure beats dying.

But what about the guy who goes down, smacks his head, and never gets back up? Significant blows to the head can cause death. So, as it recently happened just this way not too far from here, the media picked up on this and reported A caused B. It's not true of course when looking at the logic. The impact with the ground caused B. A was just closer to the proximate cause of B. Never one to over think the tools given to us officers, or "look a gift horse in the mouth" as they say, I certainly don't want anyone dying on me in the course of doing my job, properly or otherwise. This situation just bears watching, is all I'm saying.

Back to Officer Greg's finger. No, it did not lose all feeling in it, turn black, and have to be amputated a week later. All the on-scene officers' attempts at taking out the probe were unsuccessful, so it's a trip to the Emergency Room. The doctor was able to remove it without any damage to the underlying workings of the finger. Officer Greg did report a lingering numbness for about a week or two. In the sentiment of his partner, Officer Ron: "See? No harm done. Get over it."

Enough with the horror stories and eerie images. I'd like to leave you with a success story, of sorts, involving the Taser. I won't even bother with you with more accounts of its effect on the human body, or anger your sensibilities with explanations of why a person feels the need to fight the police in the first place. For this tale involves the most vile of creatures I've come across in this line of work—the pitbull. Ordinarily an ardent animal lover, I have no love lost between myself and these canines which were originally bred to be purposefully aggressive. Granted, I don't like to see one in the process of being abused—shot, and left to slowly die by its previous owner in an alley after losing an organized, and highly illegal, backyard dogfight. Or, discovering one hung up by its choker chain over a low-lying tree branch as it is left abandoned beside a vacant property. OK. Sorry. No more eerie images. Starting now.

But, I just don't trust pitbulls. Never will. I know people say their temperament is caused by its environment. It's all about the owner. But, I don't believe that. Not completely, anyway. Animals are instinctual creatures. They know what they know without knowing why they know it. And, with all the traits that are bred into this breed, it's only a matter of time before their true colors come out. No more so than one particular day when I was working overtime on the 4 p.m. to midnight shift and, while driving about, I happened to notice a little girl about nine years old walking her dog. She was heading westbound down the sidewalk along a side street off the main drag in my District. The dog? A pitbull, of course. The trophy dog of The Hood. I wondered what possessed anyone to allow a little girl like that to walk a dog like that in an area like this. Then, in a scene that temporarily had me doubting my sanity, until I remembered that I did work the city's West Side, I saw the identical thing play out on the same sidewalk coming eastbound. Another little girl about the same age was walking another pitbull about thirty feet away from the first girl and her dog.

How was this going to play out? I recalled the ancient Greek Theorem about what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object. I was about to find out. The sad thing was, these young girls were going to let it happen before I could maneuver my cruiser onto the side street in time to stop it. They apparently thought nothing of it—letting two aggressive furry fighting machines pull their way toward each other to an uncertain fate. These were not the kinds of dogs who pass by on a leisurely stroll, sniff each other's hind ends, smile at one another, pass on by, and look forward to the next time they meet each other on another evening walk with their masters.

At first, it seemed the dogs were going to pass without incident, but then, like a shark slowly circling a piece of bait, watching and waiting for any movement, the first dog struck—just as quickly and just as decisively. It reached forward with its jaws just as they started to pass each other and snapped them shut over the muzzle of the other dog. Each dog instantly pulled back. Each girl, in a fruitless effort, attempted to pull back her respective animal. While the hip thing to have for people parading their pitbulls around is a heavy duty quarter-inch chain wrapped around their dogs' necks (where does the license attach? License? Ha! Yeah, right), the first dog was being led around with a length of swing set chain that was entirely too long for the situation at hand. The other dog struggled against a fraying coil of yellow nylon rope.

I pulled my cruiser to the curb and jumped out. Any aggression by a dog against me would normally be instantly met with gunfire to quickly end the threat. I knew that wasn't going to be the case here. I was on a sidewalk next to brick buildings and several passing cars, not to mention two little girls in my proximity. My first thought was to help the first girl pull on her leash in an attempt to get her dog to let go and move on to other things. It was then that I thought the "other things" might be me, and I really didn't want to have my leg right near his mouth when he decided to avert his attention elsewhere. But then I remembered, pitbulls are nothing, if not determined. When they fight or bite, nothing else exists for them. The bite is all there is. Nothing can divert their attention or make them let go, short of an act of God. Or a Taser!

What an ideal weapon for this scenario! Close quarters. No collateral damage. Non-lethal (if you don't believe the headlines). Perfect. During training, I saw footage of a specially adapted Taser taking down a thousand pound steer, so I thought to myself, "I can do this!" I let go of the leash and took a step back before drawing my Taser.

"Don't shoot my dog!" the first girl cried. She must have known how this could possibly play out.

"I'm not gonna shoot it," I told her when, in fact, I was, just not lethally with my firearm as I believe that's what she was thinking. I was just going to give him the chance to "ride the lightning." I had never shot a dog before in the course of my job. Never shot my weapon outside of training and recreational pursuits, for that matter. But, shooting a dog is a very common occurrence in this line of work. Not that I look for any excuse to kill a dog while I'm on duty. Baby steps.

Obviously, a drive stun technique was out of the question in this situation. I pointed the stun gun down toward the aggressive dog and heard the pop of the blast doors as I pressed the trigger. From the distance I shot, there's a six inch spread of the probes over his right haunch. Perfect placement. No, the dog did not bite down even more fiercely, like the officer I mentioned during training, but instead released his hold, and fell over on his side, all four legs sticking straight out. It looked like a waddling, automated child's toy that suddenly ran out of batteries, its owner knocking it over in boredom or frustration. For the whole five seconds, it lay there immobilized as the other girl collected her dog and went off to parts unknown.

After the first five second ride, I had the option of pulling the trigger again to deliver another shock. I needed to wait and see what the dog decided to do. I hoped it wouldn't be angry and come charging. Prudently, the dog felt the best course of action was to turn tail and run. He broke free of his handler's hold on the leash, and broke free of the wire leads of the Taser, as they easily snapped off near the base of the cartridge. While I stood there, I last saw it sprint around the corner of a building, taking the probes with it, the shiny gold wires fluttering about and the trailing chain of the leash scraping along, all the while looking like some hyperactive, juvenile version of Jacob Marley's ghost.

The dog was later located at the little girl's home a block away, curled up in a corner of their front porch and looking completely humbled. The small cylinder weights of the probes were still stuck in its side. The little girl (where was Mom, anyway?) met me on the porch.

"Can you get those things out of my dog?" she asked.

"He's not gonna like it if I do it," I told her. I wouldn't like it either. I didn't plan on going anywhere near those probes. Granted, we are supposed to gather all parts of a deployed cartridge: the probes, the wires, the blast doors, even the tiny circles of colored confetti labeled with the cartridge serial number that are thrust out upon discharge. But, in this case I make an exception. I feel this dog has learned his lesson, and I let him keep the probes as a souvenir.

Exposed to quite a bit of material in this entry, albeit with a few rants and tangents thrown in, one should now be well versed in the world of the Taser, and be expecting in the mail any day now the degree from this makeshift home correspondence course. The public, by and large, have no real idea what police officers go through on a daily basis, or they have an unreal concept of our duties or abilities thanks to crime drama shows on television that would have one believe all crimes can be solved in sixty minutes thanks to the resourceful detectives who can get fingerprints off anything—including water! Through the entries in this Officer's Journal, I have enjoyed educating the public on the various facets of law enforcement, including procedures we endure and the new tools we implement, such as the Taser. If I am humbled along the way through recounting potentially embarrassing moments, which is frequently the case when telling my adventures, then it just makes for more interesting reading. I think I've done that enough in this entry, so you'll forgive me if I keep to myself, and the select few who were there, the story of my accidental Taser discharge during Roll Call resulting in a sergeant's near miss "riding the lightning."

Another Unique Opportunity -or- "Protecting Your Right to Protest"

In the early fall of 2002, through connections our incumbent chief had with the Washington, D.C. area, our police department was invited to send a contingent of officers to our nation’s capitol. The World Trade Organization was planning on holding two summits over the course of two weekends, and local law enforcement was expecting heavy opposition and protesting. Calls went out for Mutual Aid on a grand scale.

This time, to take advantage of this unique situation, it wasn’t who you knew or what position you worked. It all came down to seniority—and chance. An announcement was read at the roll calls detailing the specifics of the assignment, with a special sign-up to be held in the near future. We learned that each weekend would include the potential for 40 hours worth of overtime pay. This included pay for our travel time for the nine hour journey, a briefing, and two twelve hour-plus shifts on post. There would also be a per diem for meals and spending money. A sweet deal indeed.

Duties would include standing on post along a scheduled protest parade route. We needed to be prepared to march in formation and deal with potential riot situations—including tear gas deployment, take-downs and extractions. We were advised this assignment was not for everyone, and successful completion of a riot training refresher course would be mandated for those who signed up.

With the opportunity to practically double my paycheck, I was able to work out being available for each weekend and looked forward to signing up for both. At the sign-up, many of the usual regulars who signed up for overtime monthly were there, along with a few newer officers. There were 70 slots available for officers—35 each weekend, with five sergeants each as well. My seniority of nearly eleven years and the fact that many of those ahead of me could not work both of the weekends assured me of spots on both details. I was going to Washington!

A week later came the first bit of bad news. We learned that the Summit was being shortened and would not hold over for another session the second weekend. All those who happened to sign up for the second detail, regardless of seniority, were canceled. Those on the first weekend were still in the game. Although not looking at quite as big a payday, we who signed up for both weekends were considering ourselves very lucky.

The next piece of bad news came shortly thereafter, but only for a few of us—although we all were a little nervous not knowing what was in store for us. Our riot control refresher course required some marching in double-time in our riot gear, which included our gas mask and baton. It happened to be a particularly warm and sunny day that spring, and many of us wore long sleeves and thick clothing in order to ward off the effect of the tear gas we would be marching through. It was tough, feeling like you were breathing through a thin straw, never able to get the air as fast as you wanted while the instructors ran us harder than I think we were expecting. Then, our Lieutenant lobbed a CS gas canister into an open field. As the thick yellow cloud blossomed, we were told to run through it and back again. I could feel the particles in the gas stinging the top of my head and the backs of my hands as I made my way through the dense fog. Then, the worse part—we had to remove our masks, stow them properly, then run through a newly deployed canister completely unprotected. By this time, the shirt I was wearing was soaked through with sweat, and it acted just like a sponge, sucking the irritant in the gas right through to my skin. Not an inch of me was spared. It was also a bad time to find out that my sweatpants and underwear were also soaked through! The ones who could not keep up with the run or who had severe reactions to the mask or the gas were advised that they would not be able to work the assignment.

Another week passed by, and the day was upon us. Arriving at District 2 at 0500 hours in the pitch black of an overnight downpour, I lugged my riot gear bag, my suitcase and garment bag containing my recently detailed and tailored dress blue uniform. I stowed them in the cargo hold of one of the five large shuttle vans that awaited us then ducked indoors to stand around with the other sleepy-heads. After the Powers That Be determined all was a go, we filed into our vans and started our nine hour journey to D.C.

My bus partner and future roommate for the adventure was Officer Dan—not the Officer Dan of the recent basketball pole fame, but the Officer Dan whom I’ve mentioned earlier in past stories earning his fame as running fast and falling even quicker. We left each other to his own devices, but as the morning wore on, the riders on my particular van woke up, and its occupants became quite lively. A group of forty cops stuck together in a confined space for several hours lends itself to some hilarity. From the inside jokes, to the pranks and the bodily functions, heard and smelled from across the aisles, the time spent on the road soon seemed to go very quickly.

The vans eventually pulled up in front of an opulent high-rise hotel on the outskirts of downtown where we were to stay the next several nights, courtesy of the Federal Government. We collected our belongings and stood dumbstruck in the lobby. A huge planter graced the ground floor as the levels rose on three sides, each floor with a view that wrapped around the large expanse of the atrium below. It sure beat staying in some military barracks or a Motel 6 somewhere.

We were required to attend a briefing in one of the large conference halls of the hotel at 2000 hours. Several other police departments who sent personnel were also staying at the same hotel. They also attended the meeting which was hosted by a Washington D.C. Police Department Representative. We received materials and viewed a PowerPoint presentation detailing, among other things, the protest parade route. The most interesting thing about the slides we viewed was learning the tactics and make-up of the highly organized protesters we were likely to encounter. From other cities’ experiences, we found out there is an entire group of individuals who make it their calling to promote civil unrest by joining protests and stirring up as much trouble as possible. These people don’t even subscribe to the point of view of whatever protest in which they happen to be participating. There are people in the crowds, many of them defense attorneys, who wear bright neon ball caps, and they make it a point to be visible to the protesters and be on hand at any potential police action. They instruct any protester involved with the police to make it as difficult as possible within the law for the police to do their jobs, and they wait with notepads to write down everything they see for threatened future litigations.

That did not scare me. I’ve been the recipient of the “I’m calling my lawyer” speech many times, and so far, I have only been named in one lawsuit. What had me on my toes during our briefing was the descriptions of the devious ways some of the violent protesters have attempted to cause harm to law enforcement at protests and rallies in the past. From altering their attire to include noxious substances or hidden barbs or razors, to actual floats containing concealed miscellaneous projectiles, including staffs and spears. These floats were called “Trojan Horses” and were nothing more than crude wood and cardboard structures hand-pulled or carried by several marchers. Nevertheless, our group left the briefing pretty psyched and prepared for what lay ahead.

A lesson I quickly learned was that one did not travel this far from home on this type of outing without sampling the city’s nightlife. It did not matter that we would be expected to be up and ready to be on post by 0630 hours the next morning. Several in our group had been in this area of D.C. before and had recommendations for a good club or bar within walking distance to visit for a few drinks. Officer Dan and I followed the small crowd we happened to be with and ended up in a bar that played really loud music—but served awesome hamburgers! The surrounding tables were populated by groups of other officers from other departments across the states, and pitchers were bought for each other promoting good will amongst the brotherhood. I had a few more beers than I care to admit and stayed out a lot longer than I wish I would have, but no one wants to be the first or the only one to leave a “party.” I saw an opportunity, and actually Officer Dan and I managed to leave at the same time with a few others.

I struggled to remember the way back to the hotel, tired from the late hour and the alcohol and all the time cramped up on the bus. I am told this later, as I vaguely recall it myself, but apparently Officer Dan was feeling much the same way as me, and at a familiar intersection now close to our hotel, he started to cross the street in the crosswalk. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back just as a car whisked by so close it practically rattled the change in his pockets. He later credited me with saving his life that night, but at the time, the whole episode passed by without a word. We stayed intent on reaching our goal of comfortable beds with whatever amount of sleep we could muster before our alarms would go off.

We really pressed it the following morning, getting up at the last possible moment. I dressed in my long sleeve uniform sans the black tie and strapped the canvas gas mask bag to my leg opposite my gun-side. I placed my riot helmet on and checked the chinstrap and face shield. We were not to carry individual radios for this assignment, but the other mandatory equipment included our handcuffs, sidearm, pepper spray and crowd control/impact weapon. Following the negative publicity the Rodney King incident provoked, our department steered away from the recognizable, yet highly effective, PR-24. The 24 inch plastic composite baton with the ribbed side handle set six inches back from the end was replaced with the ASP. Also 24 inches in length, it is a hollow, metal tube, collapsible to about six inches. More portable, yet less versatile, it tried to eliminate the poor perception the PR-24 gave the Law Enforcement community. My academy class was one of the last ones to be issued the PR-24 (we were certified with the ASP at a later date), and we were still authorized to use it in potential riot or civil unrest situations. It was definitely my tool of choice for this weekend.

As dawn broke, we boarded several shuttle vans and headed out under local police escort. I tried to catch a glimpse of any familiar landmarks as I squirmed in my seat, the extra equipment making for a tight fit. A short time later we arrived at a nondescript intersection downtown. Banks and financial offices were prevalent in this relatively clean area of town. No other traffic was on the road, nor were there any pedestrians about at this hour. The streets had been gated several blocks away. Within our new environment for the duration was a black shuttle bus as a staging and resting area. It was parked behind large concrete slabs that had been previously laid out in the street conveying the message that no one or no thing was coming any farther down that street. Closer to the actual intersection were interlocking bicycle racks and large orange construction barrels. These provided a user-friendly and potentially moveable barricade right along the parade route. Their presence made it clear that no one should be walking beyond their lines.

The thirty of us officers were combined with fifteen deputies from our corresponding County Sheriff’s Office, and we were split into three platoons. The assignment was easy-going at first. One platoon took a post for thirty minutes several feet back from the front line in a loosely spread formation, just to maintain a police presence within our assigned area. The second platoon was on standby for thirty minutes, instructed to be near the staging vehicle or within the block. The third platoon had a thirty minute break and would be able to walk freely about, interact with other officers at other staging areas, or even see the sights.

Our group was stationed just a few blocks from one of The Smithsonian Museum buildings and about a ten minute walk from the White House itself. The morning progressed, and businesses opened as usual. The sun was up, and it was becoming a beautiful day. My early times on the front line passed without incident. Occasionally, the clueless tourist or businessman would come our way and inquire what was going on. We had a relaxed air about us and willingly engaged the public. Officer Ken even “made friends” with a lady who had mental issues, and the two spoke for quite sometime, much to the dismay of Officer Ken who was silently looking to anyone who could give him an “out” in this situation and free him from the otherworldly topics rambling from the woman’s lips.

Once our thirty minute shift was up, the Lieutenants and Sergeants led us in a “changing of the guard,” trying to portray some sense of organization and military feel to our presence, setting the tone for what to expect closer to “show time.” Once relieved off the front line, we had thirty minutes to ourselves. I knew I couldn’t see all of D.C. in that time, but I was determined to take advantage of our proximity to the White House. After several rotations through each post, Officer Dan and I ventured away from the staging area and set out for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It had been about fifteen years since I last visited Washington, D.C., and seeing the familiar columned structure behind the black wrought iron fence beyond the expansive front lawn filled me once again with a sense of awe. There were many other police officers around mixed among the sightseers, taking in the sights and probably feeling the same way I was. Thinking of our purpose for coming to the nation’s capitol, it felt really good to be there in some other capacity besides tourist—if only for a minute. Officer Dan and I quickly, yet discreetly, pulled out our disposable cameras and started snapping pictures. I just had to get one of me “guarding” the President’s home.

We soon trekked back to the staging area where other officers took advantage of any spare space to catch a quick nap, get a hurried bite to eat, or connect with others back home. A D.C. Police Representative made his way to the various posts and staging areas in a golf cart, carrying bagels, doughnuts, fruit and bottled water. We were definitely being well looked after. I grabbed a doughnut and stuffed it in my mouth, allowing myself to be photographed by a fellow officer and thereby solidifying the familiar stereotype for posterity. With a smile, I made my way away from the chatter and busy noise to check in with the family as I had the next thirty minutes to just relax. I learned that the downpour yesterday morning back home did more than soak and inconvenience a few dozen officers boarding a bus as my wife told me our finished basement flooded with about three to four inches of water. There was nothing I could do from several hundred miles away; although, she also let me know she handled herself quite well with a Wet-Vac and the ensuing clean up. I tried not to think about what waited for me back home in that regard as my platoon was getting ready to relieve the other one on the line. I spoke to my kids, telling them I picked up a few neat souvenirs for them from the gift shop. I soon had to say good-bye to my family and got ready to get into formation.

As the day progressed, the streets became more and more congested. We were briefed on when the parade would be starting, but we still saw quite a few people milling about, protesting one issue or another throughout the afternoon. During the half dozen or so rotations, each platoon had plenty of elbow room when stationed on the front line. Prior to the parade, we were there primarily for effect. When the Lieutenant told us in paramilitary “SWAT-speak” that the time had arrived, two of our three platoons joined together, now shoulder to shoulder, on our front line with all barricades behind us. I was “lucky” to be one of the officers initially stationed on post. The remaining platoon stood by some twenty yards back behind the concrete barricades as relief officers.

I wouldn’t need any relief. I was sure of it. I was keyed up and ready to go. I could hear the steady thrum of makeshift drums off in the distance as the parade got underway from sights unseen and made its way toward us. I was aware of several smells funneling past the buildings through the city blocks and to our ready group of officers, which, when looking left or right, seemed to stretch on indefinitely with the numerous members of the other invited departments. Something was burning in the distance, and the scent of the mild wood smoke drifted by. Even the protesters had a particular smell my heightened senses were picking up. Dirty wool, hemp, and— dare I say it?—marijuana. The people passed within mere feet of us, angrily chanting their messages of hate, mistrust, and sometimes downright anarchy. Several shouted anti-police slogans as they snapped individual pictures of officers on the line. Many thrust poster board signs on wooden sticks high above their heads. As we were told to, I kept an eye on these individuals, ready for one of them to get out of hand and use his sign as a weapon. I also watched any of the floats or papier-mâché effigies for signs they may be ready to be used in the manner of the Trojan Horse we learned about in the briefing.

I have disagreements as much as the next guy over what Uncle Sam is doing with our money or our resources, but I just couldn’t fathom some of the people who marched past me that day. Were they just conscientious objectors? Self-important show-offs? Or stone cold mentals? Who could go through their lives acting with such organized hate at something—be it a person (George W. Bush sure got a lot of grief) or an organization? A fleeting thought flashed through my mind as I held my PR baton across my waist in front of me, if only to bean someone atop the head and knock some sense into him. The thought lingered, but any desire to randomly carry out the act soon passed. And, I’ve been referencing the masculine as I make my observations, referring to “him” or “he,” but I need to say, there were quite the number of females as well who jumped on the Hate Train and showed their true colors during this event.

As the chants and drums from the various groups blended together, I lost track of time as a continual cascade of marchers passed us by. Tensing me even further was some action that happened half a block away to my left. Several individuals in the crowd became disorderly and crossed an imaginary threshold that had been predetermined in all officers’ mindsets. It was time to remove them from their environment. Several undercover D.C. officers had dressed down like protesters and mingled throughout the parade, occasionally checking in behind the lines at our post and others. They had been watching a small number of guys for a while now and alerted an extraction team it needed to act. A group of six officers in dark blue tactical suits with black knee and elbow pads and black visored helmets marched two by three double-time from behind the frontline. A line officer moved left, one moved right, quickly forming an opening that was just as swiftly sealed as the team made its way into the moving mass of people. Like attacking white blood cells facing a troublesome germ reeking havoc through the bloodstream, the officers effectively surrounded the most disorderly of the men. The two officers at the rear of the line handled the apprehension, quickly flex-cuffing the individual as the other four officers watched in all directions for more trouble. Once the plastic ties were about the detained man’s wrists, the group backed up as quickly and efficiently as it had infiltrated, and the parade continued without incident, the majority of the other little red blood cells unaware of any problems in their little part of the circulatory system. Out of sight, out of mind is the popular mantra. Once this troublemaker was removed from the parade route, he was quickly whisked those twenty yards back, behind the concrete slabs into an awaiting van, which then transported him to a central processing facility away from the action.

It was about this time that I realized the make-up of my line had changed. There were no longer the same officers standing beside or near me who had been with me these untold minutes. Sure enough, it was my turn as well to get tapped on the shoulder, which was the signal to fall out of formation and accept my relief. It wasn’t until I marched double-time back to the staging area that I had realized how weak my legs had become and how close I had possibly been to locking my knees and passing out on the frontline. I was a bit disappointed I had been pulled from the action but relieved that the supervisors were looking out for their guys and getting them rotated before anything bad happened. Now I could stand, resting my forearms tentatively atop the concrete slabs, and watch my fellow officers for any signs of needing relief—and take out my camera to snap a few pictures of the protesters! It didn’t have the same effect as a camera right up in one’s face, but it still made me feel good. I stayed on the back line until the parade was over then was rotated back in as we stood by in a more relaxed formation, maintaining traffic control until the local P.D.’s cleared the area and deemed it appropriate to open back up certain streets.

By the time were dismissed from our post, it was close to eleven o’clock that night. We boarded the vans in the cool night air that had been getting progressively colder as the darkness wore on and fewer and fewer people were about. We sat in the vans, literally exhausted despite the lack of actual strenuous physical activity and awaited word from our supervisors. All the while, the gears in my head turned as I tried to figure out how much money I was going to make today. It was about a sixteen hour work day—all on overtime pay! Plus the travel time out and back home—eighteen hours! Plus, we got to do this all over again tomorrow! Cha-ching!

And, alas. As we sat there waiting, not moving for what seemed the longest time, for someone to tell us something, anything, we received the final bit of bad news amidst this otherwise fun, exciting, and eye-opening opportunity. The Lieutenant boarded the van and told us the law enforcement response to the protests was being majorly scaled back for day two of the summit. Our services would no longer be required tomorrow, as those in charge over-estimated the protestors’ presence this first day. It certainly was better to error on the side of caution. I just hoped the decision to let half the departments go wouldn’t bite them in the behind tomorrow. I didn’t have time to feel bitter as I continued to think of the extra 32 hours of overtime on my upcoming paycheck. The personal thank you from D.C. Police Chief Ramsey as he boarded our van that evening also helped. We traveled solemnly back to our hotel, looking out the van windows for signs of any familiar famous landmarks illuminated in the darkness. The next morning we woke early and eventually made our way home to our small Midwestern town, with the satisfaction of a job well done and the feeling one gets from being involved in a once in a lifetime experience.

Or so I thought. A few years later, I had the opportunity to once again return to Washington, D.C. with a group of my fellow officers as we were invited to participate in parade security for the Inauguration of President Bush upon his re-election in January 2005. The tale of that adventure to come at a later date. Stay tuned!