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.