Typically, I try to avoid posting controversial work-related things on the most common forms of social media. Facebook and its ilk are already a huge time-suck and besides, I just like to use it to goof around, keep up with my friends and their kids, our sports activities, etc. I don’t like to get beat up over crap that I post. Life is just too short for that nonsense.

But if my friends will indulge me in a quite lengthy narrative, I will momentarily diverge from my typical online path, don my big-boy britches, and engage in a modest rant. Why? Because the internet is out of control. Everyone is an expert on everything. You know what I’m an expert on? Knowing what I know, and more importantly, what I don’t know. That’s it. I don’t pretend to be a well of knowledge on things outside of my lane. All that would accomplish is proving to the world that I’m an idiot. In the words of Abraham Lincoln or Mark Twain (depending on which internet “proof” you believe), “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.”

I say all that to say this: I’m tired of people beating up on the average, everyday street cop in the digital world. Are there good ones and bad ones? Sure there are. Are there good and bad plumbers, insurance agents, information technology guys, doctors, pizza makers, brokers, auto mechanics, and clergymen? Absolutely. But I’ll tell you this- the good ones far outnumber the bad ones in all of those cases. Yes, yes, I know; of all those groups, the police is the only one that has the authority to take away a person’s freedom on the spot. I get it; that’s a really big deal, and we should absolutely accept that responsibility with all the seriousness it deserves. But if you listen to the rhetoric in the national media these days, you’re led to believe that there’s a grand conspiracy afoot among the cops to keep minorities repressed, to imprison the population, to suck money from the taxpayers like leaches, and most atrociously, to intentionally kill people. Dear God.

I’m an Average Patrol Guy (APG). I became a cop simply because I wanted to be one of the good guys. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want to be a super hero. I harbor no foolish illusions of saving the world, or even a small part of it. All I can do is what I can do, and I know that usually doesn’t amount to a hill of beans. The rest is so far beyond my control that I have trouble wrapping my brain around it most of the time. While the conspiracy theorists and internet trolls would have you believe that my shift begins with a secret meeting in a darkened room, with evil plans laid out for suppressing the populace whispered in hushed tones, I’d like to flip on the light switch and try to relate what a shift in the life of the APG is really like. It’s fascinating stuff, trust me (insert sarcastic smirk here). So without further ado…

The alarm just went off this afternoon, but if feels like I just laid down after the shift last night. Probably because after it officially ended at 0700, I didn’t go home. I had to finish up some paperwork and then wait for the fleet shop to open so I could have my patrol car serviced. When I finally got home and ate a bite, showered, and crawled in bed, the sun penetrating the cracks in the window blinds was so bright I couldn’t get to sleep.

Now it’s time to do it again. Man I’m tired. And my head hurts from sleeping during the day. I wonder if I could call in sick? I could really use the rest. But that would make my shift short-handed. Smith is on vacation, and Jones isn’t coming in until midnight because he’s been in court all day and has to get a nap before work so he doesn’t fall asleep behind the wheel and run his patrol car up a tree trunk. Guess I’m going in.

I got to see my wife and kids for a few minutes before I left. They were settling in for the evening after doing homework and tip-toeing around the house, trying not to be kids and make a lot of noise so I could sleep. Childhood suppressed. I did manage to sit down at the table with them for a few minutes while I tried to eat dinner (breakfast?). But it was kinda hard to enjoy it. We were in two different mental places. They’re winding down, and I’m winding up. They’re telling me stuff, but I can’t focus on it because my brain is trying to get into work gear. Strange. I’m crazy about my kids, but I can’t get into what their saying. That’s probably the stuff that makes people say shit later in life like, “My Dad never paid attention to what I had to say.”

So now I’m in my car, heading to the precinct for shift change, trying to get my game face on, listening to the radio traffic and… aww damn. I forgot that I didn’t fuel up at the end of the shift this morning because of the paperwork and the vehicle service, and I was just too frikin’ tired and wanted to go to bed. Now I have to divert to the fuel station, which will put me late for shift change. Sarge is gonna be pissed, I’d better call him.

Yep, he was pissed. My fault though, I should have planned my time better. Anyway, I got there finally, got my zone assignment, a couple of subpoenas for court on my day off (great!), and a few extra patrol printouts. One says a lady wants us to keep an eye on her house because a “suspicious vehicle” has been down her street twice in the last week. Why is it suspicious? Because it has tinted windows and she’s never seen it before. Ok. Another one is in reference to cars speeding on their road. People drive fast? You don’t say.

I’m going to make a pass by those in a minute so they will see a car in the neighborhood, but first I need to find a spot to pull over and re-organize my gear. Last night my seat organizer was transformed into a floorboard abortion when I had to slam on the brakes to keep from eating up the south end of a north-bound Honda that stopped short, probably because the driver looked in the mirror and saw my patrol car and thought she would be carted off to the hoosegow for going through a yellow light. Newsflash: yellow means “proceed through the intersection with caution or prepare to stop,” whichever is more applicable. It does not mean, “HOLY CRAP I’D BETTER STAND ON THE BRAKES AND CHIRP TO A STOP OR THAT COP WILL ARREST ME!!!” Anyway, the end result was my stuff went everywhere, and since this car is my mobile office I really need to straighten it up.

I’ve just about got that mess unscrewed, but I can’t finish yet because dispatch just gave me a call. Apparently Suzie didn’t come home on time, and Mom is simply frantic. It’s 7:30 PM, after all. Everyone knows nothing good happens out there after 6:00. When I get there, Suzie just got dropped off by her boyfriend. They were hanging out after school without telling Mom where they were going, and she didn’t want to answer her phone because she knew Mom would tell her to come home. Capitol offense. Off with her head. “Radio, I’m 10-8.”

I kinda need to use the restroom, but I’ll stop in that church parking lot to finish my housekeeping chore real quick before… dang. Burglar alarm at 123 Industrial Street, the business of ABC Import Distributors… again. For the love of Mike, I wish they would call the alarm company and fix that thing. Must have got that call 12 times last month. Still have to check the windows and doors, and a key-holder never shows up to shut it off. Why bother, after all? The cops will show up, let them worry about it. But really, who cares if someone actually does break into the place- you’d have to climb down a sewer in Shanghai to find more Chinese crap. 10-8.

Alright, I’m going to stop in that parking lot and fix this mess of a car, dispatch be darned. Right about the time I finish that up, a mini-van pulls up. “Excuse me,” soccer Mom says, “can you tell me how to get to Southside Academy for the Children of Artsy-Fartsy People Who Feel Like the Name “Elementary School” Doesn’t Sound Sophisticated Enough?” Really? You’ve got a smart phone and a dashboard GPS, and you can’t find it? “Yes ma’am. About a mile and a half down this road, turn left on River Road, and it’s on the right.” “Yes ma’am, you’re welcome. Have a nice evening.”

Now I’m on my way to back up the officer in the zone next to me on a domestic. I was on my way to find a local gas station or someplace to take a restroom break. That second cup of coffee is kicking in, but it will have to wait for this call. The address sounds familiar; I’m pretty sure we went out there last week. Probably the same old story: they argued, he pushed her, she pushed him, and they’ll be back in love by the time we get there. But what do you know, I was wrong this time. He scuffed her up a little and split her lip. But she still loves him dearly. We know this because she kept hollering it through snot-filled tears, between the barrages of profanity laced insults she hurled at us as we put him in the back of the patrol car to be carted off to jail for domestic violence. 10-8. Now, to find that bathroom.

Just about the time I point the bumper toward the convenience store, I’m foiled once again by the radio. The rain just started, and even though the evening rush hour is done, the interstate always turns into a crash-em-up derby when it gets wet. This time it’s a 3 car wreck. Pretty minor, the roadway isn’t shut down or anything, but it still has traffic backed up for a couple of miles already- in both directions. People just gotta look. In the name of all things holy, just drive people! I finally work through the traffic, get all the pertinent details for the report, get a wrecker for the one car that isn’t able to leave under its own power, scratch out a good driving award to the genius responsible for the mess, and get the roadway cleared. 10-8. I really gotta pee.

Well, about the time Sarge hears me go in service, he goes over the radio to have me meet him in the parking lot next to the county bus shop for paperwork. Dangit. That coffee his having its way with my bladder, and he wants to talk about paperwork? Alright, at least that’s close to a gas station with a relatively clean restroom. When I pull up next to him, he hands me two reports with the infamous cover sheet attached by the records division for corrections to be made. I briefly lift the cover sheet to reveal the tell-tale red pen marks, meaning instead of just checking the boxes that I missed in my blurry eyed attempt to finish all my paperwork before the end of shift, I now have to rewrite the entire frikin’ face sheet. Great.

About the time I’m apologizing to Sarge for being rude and ducking out to go pee, dispatch gets our attention. It’s funny, after you work with the same group for a while, you instantly know what a certain tone and inflection in the individual voices mean. Something’s up. Sure enough, another officer had got out with a sketchy-looking guy walking down the side of the road. Nothing illegal about that, but out in the rain, after dark, on a sorta cool night with no shirt? Need to talk to that dude. Well, apparently something was up, because after the officer went round and round with the guy about what his real name and date of birth was, he decided to bolt off for parts unknown through the woods toward a nearby trailer park. That was just rude. Of course, our guy went after him and has now caught him in the trailer park. He’s okay, the guy is in custody, but they’re about a quarter mile from the patrol car and a crowd of less-than-savory folks have started exiting their aluminum homes to see what the fuss is all about. And some of them are not our friends. So Sarge and I gotta go. Now. Man, I gotta pee!

We get there right about the time two more of our units arrive. Between all of us, we manage to get aforementioned sketchy dude into a patrol car, quiet the unrest in the Shady Acres Mobile Home Community, and get the hell outta there. I’m sure there will be a complaint or two lodged tomorrow. Some of us weren’t very diplomatic after the natives discussed the possibility of maybe just bashing up a patrol car, because you know, sketchy dude “ain’t done nuthin’ wrong!” Never mind giving a false name and the outstanding warrant for probation violation. Oh yeah, and the reason he was walking around with no shirt on a cool night in the rain? He’d just got into a fight with his buddies at the trailer park after they’d all been drinking all day and they booted him out, but not before he assaulted one or two of them. But they didn’t want to press charges, “because, you know, he’s an awright dude, he’s just a little drunk.” 10-8.

By this time the situation with my bladder has become a dire one indeed. My duty belt has grown noticeably tighter, making sitting in the patrol car that much more uncomfortable. Tiny beads of sweat have begun to emerge on my upper lip. This is about to get serious. But alas, there is a nearby industrial park that is always darkly lit and sparsely occupied. I quickly point the car in that direction and find a lonely culd-de-sac with only one empty business warehouse. With an urgency that would parallel my arrival at a shots fired call, I bring the car to an abrupt halt next to the building, seatbelt already unfastened, leap from behind the wheel, rush to the edge of the darkened tree line, embark upon a struggle to unfasten the fly beneath my duty belt that probably resembles someone putting out their recently set ablaze pants, and at long last I am able to empty my mightily angry bladder. With that business concluded, I leisurely stroll back to my patrol car, basking in the glow of relief when I catch something out of the corner of my eye. I look up at the corner of the building to see an infrared surveillance camera, conveniently covering the area from the corner of the building where my vehicle is parked, all the way to the tree line where I just expelled from my body what will probably appear to the observer to be an astonishing amount of fluid. Great. That’ll be another complaint tomorrow.

By now, it’s getting a little late. About time for a few of the parties to get out of hand. Sure enough, it’s not long before dispatch sends a couple of cars to the marina out on the lake. You know, the big one where one can visit a nice cross-section of society simply by walking from one dock to the next. Poor red necks on one dock, lake rats with money on the next. Most of whom are drunk. Seems a few people from each camp have had a disagreement and someone got their noggin thumped. Place is like a floating trailer park. We manage to get there, sort out a mess that should have been featured on an episode of The Jerry Springer Show, and now I’m en route to booking with a young man who, judging by his tattoos, probably doodled all over his textbooks in school. While in transit, we have a lively conversation in which he calls me everything except a child of God, tells me he has to pee about a dozen times (you can hold it buddy, I sure as hell did), threatens that he will whip my ass if I’ll just pull over and take off that badge and gun, and that he’s gonna have my job (you actually want it?). By the time we get to jail, he’s passed out and snoring back there in the cage, and he’s pissed his pants. Super.

Now that I’ve got him booked in, accepted his apology for being so drunkenly unpleasant (funny how the sound of the jail door slamming closed sometimes changes a person’s demeanor), and awakened a few of the trustees to clean the back seat of my patrol car where Mr. Piss Pants messed it up, I’m finally back in service. I really need to find a quiet spot to pull over and knock out that wreck report from earlier, correct the two incident reports that Sarge gave me, write up a supplemental report for my involvement when the other officer took shirtless dude to jail, and get started on the report from the lakeside melee. But dang, I sure could use a bite to eat. It’s after midnight, but on night shift that’s lunchtime. I’d better try to eat while I’ve got the chance.

Waffle House. Again. Ugh. The restaurant selection is pretty limited this time of night. I like to pack my meals most of the time because, contrary to popular belief, some of us cops actually try to eat healthy and exercise regularly. But I didn’t have time to throw it together tonight, so I find myself once again at the local greasy spoon. A couple of my shift partners have joined me, so maybe we can get a few minutes to enjoy some conversation. Maybe not. Right about the time the waffle hit the table, the call came out for a drunk driver not too far away. And not the usual call, where a motorist spots someone they think is drunk because they saw the car weaving. This one is passed out behind the wheel, sitting in the middle of the road at a traffic light, so off we go. The waitress knows the drill, smiles and tells us to come back as soon as we can and she’ll get us a fresh waffle. Sweet gal, missing teeth notwithstanding.

Sure enough, the drunk is still there, motor running, foot on the brake, passed out and drooling on himself. This is always a tricky thing. We run the risk of startling the drunk if we just wake him up, possibly causing him to panic and take off. If we try to ease the door open and gently reach in to shut the car off and remove the key, the drunk might wake up and freak out because all of sudden there are people in his car, and in the ensuing chaos all kinds of bad things happen. Officers get punched, dragged down the road, bit on the arm, etc. We eventually wake this one without incident, get him out, offer him the standard tests (which he refuses because he’s been down this road before and knows exactly where this is all going), and one of my partners takes him to jail. I stay on scene, inventory the nasty vehicle, and wait for the tow truck. Before it arrives, I at least manage to knock out the face sheet corrections for the two reports that Sarge gave me earlier.

While we’re waiting for our partner to complete his jail run, we decide to do some business security checks in the area, and I still need to ride through the neighborhoods that wanted the extra patrols. I pass through a few closed businesses, spotlight the doors and windows, shine the locks, and all is well. On the extra patrols, I don’t find the mysterious car with the tinted windows, so I declare that crime of the century solved. In the other neighborhood, I’m the only car on the road and I made sure to obey the speed limit. Again, crime solved. 10-8.

Back at the Waffle House, we finally manage to get our meals and actually eat them. The waitress was very nice about recooking our order at no additional charge, so we gave her a good tip. Besides, she should be making double for having to put up with the foolishness that takes place at Waffle House in the middle of the night.

As we enter the deepest part of the night, the call volume has slowed considerably. We answer a few suspicious activity calls, check some more businesses, and I respond to a loud party complaint where the kids scattered like rats when they saw my car round the corner. No underage drinking and weed smoking going on in that house, I’m sure. I also pick up a theft report call. It makes perfect sense to me that someone would wait until 0330 to make a report of someone stealing the tools from the open bed of their truck, which they discovered missing the day before (???!!!).

Now, I’ve finally resolved that I will visit the all night gas station to procure a cup of their finest java, and then I will find myself a well-lit parking lot somewhere to get all this confounded paperwork finished. After an hour and a half, including two spells where I had to get out of the car and walk circles in the parking lot to stay awake, I think I’ve finally got caught up.

I had just enough time for one more round of business checks and another pass through the extra patrol neighborhoods before heading to the precinct to drop off my paperwork. As the sky is starting to get light in the east, I’m relieved to hear a few of the oncoming dayshift units sign on the radio.

I know I shouldn’t just yet, but as I hit the interstate and head north, I start to mentally disengage. I hear the radio chatter, but that’s for the other shift. Unless something bad happens right in front of me it might as well be happening in another time zone.

As I leave the interstate and get closer to home, I hit the two-lane and enter the final stretch. Foolishly, I’ve left the radar unit on and as I’m struggling to keep my eyelids from slamming shut, the radar hits a high note that nearly breaks the glass out of the car. 87 in a 50, on a two-lane with lots of curves and hidden driveways. Dang. Startled awake now, I see the nose of the oncoming car dip as the driver stabs the brake when he recognizes my car for what it is. I’m no traffic Nazi, but I can’t just drive by that one. I turn around on it, get him stopped, and semi-patiently listen to his story. He’s sober, not a bad guy, and I’m tired. I cut him a warning, sign off the radio, and a few minutes later I pull into my driveway. As I reach down to cut the ignition switch, I look at the gas gauge. Dangit. Forgot to fill up the tank again.

You might have noted that nowhere in the preceding course of events was there any mention of a conspiracy to oppress the masses, bilk the taxpayers, plot to kill unarmed black men, or a plan to circumvent that pesky little document called the Constitution of the United States of America. What I’ve written is an honest-to-God rendition of what it’s like for the overwhelming majority of us. Most of your APG’s really are just regular people (with regular bladders). Most days we go to work and do some pretty mundane things. Sure, there are a thousand little variations on the events, and sometimes it’s a little more or a little less exciting, but by and large that’s it. Most of us are out there, day in and day out, just doing our regular thing.

But once every blue moon, we find ourselves instantly thrust from what I’ve just described into a situation that evolves at a freakish speed, and it can be filled with extraordinary danger, stress, and almost crippling anxiety. Yet we still have to perform and make the right decisions. We can only hope that our training kicks in and takes over. Usually it does, and although things may get messy, they turn out okay. But sometimes something bad happens, and things don’t turn out okay. All of sudden we’re lost in a whirlwind. TV crews, newspaper articles, internet experts, they all know just how it happened and have all the answers. Last night all we wanted was to sit down for a moment and eat a waffle with our friends, and tonight we’re painted as part of a vast, racist conspiracy, hell bent on the destruction of all lesser people. But folks, I’m here to tell you- it just doesn’t exist. We’re just regular people that are sometimes called upon to do irregular things. And sometimes dammit, all we really want is to find a place to pee.

But our society has reached the point that events like this create a raging torrent that doesn’t care what’s in its path. Guilt, innocence, fact, fiction, truth, lies, something in between… it all gets swept downstream. And as for the APG, he might grab hold of a branch, but the river rages and continues to rise until he too slips beneath the surface and is swept away. Eventually someone has to close the flood gates. Or maybe I’ll just say to hell with it and find some higher ground.

Author’s note: I originally published this piece on Red State Rant, for a lack of a better place, while I was still a slick-sleeved patrolman. It struck a chord with some of the online blogs and got picked up and passed around a bit. Still hurts to remember this one. I did okay handling incidents involving most anything, but when it came to kids as victims I didn’t do so well.

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A couple of days ago I had the unfortunate task of taking part in a search for a 4 year old boy that went missing from his home. My role in the search was that of a minor player on the periphery of events, canvassing a nearby neighborhood.  Even though I’d been instructed to remain in service for other calls, I just couldn’t stay away.

Here is the story from our local paper, the Gainesville (Ga) Times.

While the newspaper story is factual and adequately relates the tragedy, for me it fails to convey the overwhelming feeling of desperation that continued to grow as the minutes ticked by. Radio channels were cleared, alerts were made by phone, media, and in person. Numerous agencies responded. Officers were called off of other duties and training to assist. Helicopters, fixed-wing planes, boats, and K9 trackers all raced to the scene. The sense of urgency was palpable.

But the telling moment came when a fellow deputy radioed that he had located the boy’s Cocker Spaniel on a boat dock. The dog had not left that dock until someone arrived. You can choose to believe it or not believe it, but I’m a dog man, and I’m telling you- dogs know. That little dog knew.

We continued the area search, but I had a terrible, sinking feeling. As quickly as the dive team could assemble, they entered the water at the dock, where they found the boy in 12 feet of water. EMT’s immediately began attempts to revive him, and a massive effort to block intersections through town resulted in a parting of traffic like that of the Red Sea, allowing the ambulance and its escort units to race to the waiting emergency room at unprecedented speed. But all efforts failed. He’d simply been in the water too long. Alex Taylor, dressed in his gray shorts, green t-shirt, and Thomas the Train sneakers was dead at 4 years old.

Folks, I’m not gonna lie, and I’m not ashamed of it. When that went out over the radio, I parked the patrol car behind a church and cried. I suddenly had an almost uncontrollable desire to rush to the daycare center where my own 2½ year old son was probably out on the playground enjoying the beautiful spring weather, just to make sure he was okay. I couldn’t imagine losing him that way. I’m sure what that family is going through is incomprehensible to someone who hasn’t experienced it. But there wasn’t much time for sorrow. Soon the radio crackled to life and I was back to work.

That night I went home and hugged my son like it might just be the last chance I ever had to do so. I told him that I love him, and we played on the floor together until bedtime. After he was safe in his bed asleep, I sat on the floor in the hallway outside of his room and wept shamelessly. God keep our children.

Author’s note: I wrote this piece for an internally published, quarterly newsletter for the Hall County (GA) Sheriff’s Office, a department of about 450 personnel. I was a Sergeant serving as the Public Information Officer at the time, so I was in charge of the rag and ended up being the primary writer. Getting cops to write much of anything other than an incident report was quite the chore.

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Standing in the Gap

“To expose oneself for the protection of something; to make defense against any assailing danger; to take the place of a fallen defender or supporter.”

Question: Do these words strike a chord with you? Should they? More directly, how seriously do you take your job? Taken at face value, that’s an easy question. But how serious do you really take it? Is it just a paycheck, a means to retirement, or a source of job security in a tough economy? Taken as a meaningful question, it’s not one to be answered lightly.

I think a great number of us probably entered this profession with a starry-eyed vision of greatness. And that’s okay; there’s no shame in thinking that we could make the world a better place by putting bad guys in jail. That’s why little boys (and girls) grow up playing cops and robbers, and we should all take pride in wanting to be the good guys.

But as the shine has worn off our badges, the reality is evident. We can’t save everyone– some don’t want to be saved. We won’t change a lot of neighborhoods– some don’t even want us around. The public won’t always hail us as heroes and praise our actions– sometimes they will hate us and condemn our actions. Then there’s the bad politics and disappointments in the justice system to drag us all down.

Does it wear on you? Do you sometimes wonder why you continue to do it? I don’t mind admitting that I sometimes grow weary of it. I think it comes with the territory, and that it’s merely human nature. But it’s what we do with that fatigue and those doubts that define us. How do we acknowledge all of these things and continue to carry out our sworn duties?

Any number of people will have their own individual answers. For me, I sleep soundly at night knowing that in a world that’s far from black and white, I don’t operate in the gray area. At the end of the day, I can say unequivocally that I’m on the right side of things. As I raise my two young sons and try my best to teach them right from wrong, I can look them squarely in the eyes and tell them that their Dad is one of the good guys. I never want the shame of knowing that they might question that.

Life is easy. Go get a job, earn a living, pay your bills, live honorably, and look out for you and yours. Nothing wrong with any of that. But for some of us, at some point, we decided that we would be the ones to stand in the gap. We knew that someone had to do the job, and we asked ourselves a very simple question: If not me, then who? And we stepped up.

Take pride in that, and never forget why we do what we do.