Why such Assholes?

So, they want to know why police are so mean. Why they're such assholes. Why they're, basically the boogeyman.

Far be it from me to say that cops aren't assholes. Cops can be pretty mean. Cops can even "overreact". But I also know something else. I know why. I sat down with a number of officers, and we melded this story, based upon facts and circumstances surrounding a number of cases. This story is not intended to be historical fact. This is intended to explain a mindset. Specifics have been modified or removed to protect the sources and subjects.

Here's why police are such assholes:

I don't know about you, but everyone is a dick at 3 AM after their third naked guy of the night, and things don't get better from there. There is a certain dark side to the job that changes the people who have to deal with it. If you have a loved one who works in police, EMS, Fire or any job where their day to day life is stepping into everyone else's worst-day-ever, you've probably already picked up on some of the darker stories. If the officer is lucky, he'll share them with his incredibly understanding and supportive spouse. If he's smart, he'll share them with a counselor or trusted friend. More likely he'll keep them inside, in the dark, where they can hurt him in oh so many ways. 

This is a difficult story, and I heavily suggest having adorable animals nearby. Possibly a unicorn. But there was a girl, and her father hurt her. Her mother took her to the hospital, and tried to lie about what happened. The doctor, being a professional, was suspicious and called the police. A uniformed officer took an initial statement and contacted a detective whose division was focused on sexual abuse of minors.

I don't know how those detectives function. I only ever did initial statements and tangential work on these cases, as in this story, and that led to my rapid discovery that you cannot, in fact, drink to forget. Now I can't drink without remembering. Needless to say, they don't hang out in public with other cops much, and they definitely don't joke about work. But back to the story.

This detective did his work, talked to the little girl and the mother and nurses and decided to call out my unit's Lt. The Lt called my sergeant, who brought me along since I was the "safety" guy. My only role was to observe, make sure the detective got a valid warrant, and basically get details that would get us a safe arrest. And it went just like that, my bosses got briefed by the detective, and then that little girl asked from her hospital bed if she was going to be okay.

I need to point out that lying to people is part of policing. I've told folks with active warrants that they weren't under arrest, that I was a special escort for a meeting with an elected judge, and that they only had to wear handcuffs because it is department policy. It's far easier to lie someone into cuffs and jail than it is to fight them or chase them, no matter how funny some chases get. But that little girl was the only one I felt bad lying to. I told her she'd be just fine. You can find a psychology expert to validate this, but it's my understanding that that much trauma that early in a child's life is a life altering event. "Okay" is extremely relative in those cases.

As far as I know, she asked everyone who went in and out of that room the same question. But right then, in there, a little bit of my soul died answering her. I really don't know how people who work in child abuse do it.

We briefed my team, my only part in this was pointing out that since mom drove the girl to the hospital the dad, our suspect, probably knew we were coming. This means that dynamic entry was our best choice. I won't deny that I was angry, but the decision to enter "hard" was still valid, given the information.

So we went in. Our designated knocker broke down the door, I entered with the other 18 officers and I found our guy sitting on the corner of his bed. Slacks, button down shirt mostly unbuttoned. He looked like any other guy back from work. There was literally nothing to distinguish him from any other guy on the street. No way to look at him and see a monster who put a little girl in the hospital.

This is why academies stress that there's no such thing as a routine stop. The officer might stop a guy for a bad taillight. The guy might think he's being stopped because the officer somehow knows he just strangled his wife and drowned the cat. That's why Ferguson police released the video of Mike Brown stealing cigarettes. It wasn't to speak to the frame of mind of Wilson, but to the frame of mind of Brown. One guy thought he was witnessing jaywalking. The other may have thought a robbery was catching up to him.

It's very important to remain professional, especially when working with hyped up men carrying rifles. And the thing that most people don't understand is that it can be so incredibly hard to remain professional in the face of some things. Having an outlet for rage is a must. Some work out obsessively. Some play video games. Everyone has a different outlet, some healthier than others. I tried to put mine into my work. My team knows when I'm upset because the door usually leaves the hinges when I'm cross. And I was very upset with this father. I still had that cold clarity that training and adrenaline give you, but when I found the dad, and restrained him on the ground, I wanted to kill him. Because I saw that little girl, and I had seen what horrific trauma does to people as they grow up. I knew that shooting this man was the right thing to do. I still feel that way sometimes. That's easily the scariest thing I've ever encountered in my life, that certainty. Obviously, I didn't shoot the guy. I was, and hope I still am, a professional at the end of the day. But I also actively avoided following up on that case. Because I'm still scared that I will find out something to make me regret not pulling that trigger. That's a line that can't be uncrossed. I don't know that every, or even many, other officers deal with similar things, but I'm certain that more do than let on. Because those stories aren't funny, and they're not something you talk about with people, and expect to get a laugh.

After this is said and done, you have to put it away. There are six more hours left in your shift. There will be more arrests, more citizen interactions, and none of them can be made to bear the brunt of the horror you have to witness because they likely know nothing of it, and it certainly isn't their fault. You have to be a professional, and be courteous, and a counselor, and a hundred other things over the course of your shift that have nothing to do with a little girl in a hospital bed with an uncertain future. It's a rare person that can dissociate themselves from the reality that they have to tread in all day, and not be an asshole at least part of the time.

The weirdest part is, they'll be back tomorrow. They'll do this all again. It's hard to belong in other people's pain, and yet we have an entire profession of emergency responders who will accept that burden, wander into human misery and do what they can, every time. And some will be assholes. Many, in fact. Though I don't wonder why anymore. 

Our Lady of Fast Food Lubricant

This is a rather unfortunate story. A couple driving along the border between a city and its suburb get into an argument over something the young lady saw on the young man's cellular phone.

On a side note, it's somewhat staggering how many relationships die as a result of Facebook and text messages. Granted, if your significant other is spying on your wall and sneaking your cell phone to check its messages, your relationship was probably in trouble anyway. 

Back to the story. This couple got into an argument while driving home and the lady became so upset that she began beating her husband while he was driving. This turned out exactly as you expect, though to a less dramatic degree, and the couple was pulled over by suburban police for driving erratically. When the police realized that the driver wasn't drunk and why he was driving like he was they called for the urban police department for two reasons: 

1.) Police are lazy

2.) Domestic violence cases are a pain in the ass and nobody wants to deal with that. 

So the urban po po show up. They observe two suburb police cars in the parking lot of a fried chicken establishment. The vehicle they pulled over was a Volkswagen Beetle. The new version with the cramped "we're in a rocket capsule going to the moon" cabin. The young man driving this vehicle stood 6'5" and weighed in at a healthy 370 lbs. Naturally the first question was "How did you fit in there?". And just as naturally this was answered with a healthy "Fuck you.". He relates his story and the urban police move on to the lady. This young lady stands about 5'10" and a good 320 lbs. And again, the first question was "How on Earth did you both fit in there? And get your arms up to hit him?" This was met with the exact response you'd expect. "Fuck you.". She relates her story, which mirrors the one above, and is placed under arrest for domestic abuse. 

At this point we need to examine a bit of history. The most commonly envisioned police cruiser is a family sized Ford Crown Victoria, first put into use by various police departments somewhere around 1950. Other common vehicles are Intrepids (which look to me like little flying saucers), Chevy Impalas, and perhaps currently the most widely in use, the Dodge Charger. All of these vehicles are four door sedans, but they are not all built to the same technical specifications. Anyone who's seen a Charger driving down the highway will notice that it's quite a bit larger than an Impala or Intrepid. I can't say I've seen one drive next to a Crown Vic, though I'd bet the Ford would give a good run in the cabin space dept. 

The vehicle that was going to be transporting our young lady was going to be a 2005 Chevy Impala. Without a cage this probably wouldn't be terribly hard if you shoved the passenger seat all the way forward. With a cage there is about 2 feet of clearance to get into the car. The prisoner first tried to enter the car the traditional way, one leg at a time just like pants. This did not work. Then she tried backing in. I know all of you just had that beep you hear when trucks back up playing in your heads and you should know you're horrible people. But that's basically what it was like. It also didn't work. Eventually it was decided that the best way to try and force this fit was to have her enter head first, on her side, and worm in like.... well... a worm. It was the best fit, but she still got stuck. 

In every job there is always that guy who's a complete asshole. Whether he's the guy who jacks your lunch from the break room fridge, or the guy who lets the coffee pot boil tar dregs instead of making a fresh pot when he takes the last cup, it's unavoidable that one day you will work with this person. I suspect that there's some kind of hiring quota every HR department must fill. Or perhaps it's the offices themselves that are haunted by the spirit of soul sucking asshole and some poor chump must be the vessel through which it is channeled. Either way, this guy was there and had some helpful advice as to how to make this prisoner fit in a car. And it wasn't to call for a larger car. Officer Ass runs into the fried chicken establishment (Yay Chekhov's Gun) and returns with whatever cheap fast food industrial equivalent of Crisco they have and proceeds to.... lubricate is the right word.... the inside of the patrol vehicle. Though incredibly pissed off, the prisoner fits, with the assistance of two people pushing and one pulling from either side of the vehicle. 

You should know that cages typically have some kind of grill through which officers can speak with prisoners in the back seat. Most of the cage is steel and plexiglass, but the grill can be iron, plastic, whatever so long as air and sound passes through it. In this case I will only say that trying to drive while fat, squeezed through the grill like Satan's Jello or Play Doh, jiggles in the corner of your eye every time you hit a small bump. 

If you ever spray down a cooking pan with Crisco or Pam or whatever and let it sit you discover that it loses some of it's slippery properties, even on Teflon. It's a minimum 20 minute drive to jail. After trying to explain to an incredulous jail staff that their help is needed to unwedge the prisoner from a vehicle it took a whopping 6 people to get her out. 

Crisco, Teflon, Pam and other proper nouns are owned by their respective owners. 

The Tough Guy

Domestic Violence is a problem, or rather has been a problem, affecting a tremendous number of people within our nation ever since someone realized two people can inhabit one room. Not to slight other nations, or insinuate that no such problem exists abroad, but I have no numbers to back up any opinion I might form about domestic abuse overseas. I do know that here in the US a disproportionate number of arrestees awaiting arraignment are in jail for family violence assault. I also know that the vast majority of these arrests will never make it to court as the victim will decline to pursue charges. However, there is one story I'd like to share as a lesson on how not to build "cred" in prison. Everyone gets hauled into jail with hands behind their backs and metal bracelets on. A select few are rolled in strapped to a dentist chair on wheels, possibly with a mesh "spit bag" over their heads for being a bit... enthusiastic.

Our gentleman was brought in walking, with his hands behind his back and a fresh golf ball on his forehead. Despite what TV and movies will tell you, it is wholly unnecessary and extremely unwise to start any fights, or stab anyone, or whatever else you see on Oz, in order to demonstrate that you're "nobody's bitch". But with the egg on his head, our AP should have been able to convey that he's so bad he had to be knocked out to get dragged in.

In actuality, he was under arrest for assaulting his wife. Specifically, he grabbed her arms and pinned them to her body, thus preventing her from fighting back. Then, with both appendages thus occupied and utterly unaware of the very concept of the term "kick" tries to headbutt her into submission. The human skull, as we all know, is constructed of some pretty thick bone and serves to protect our brains from impact and trauma.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skull

The human face, while also pretty hard in some places (try punching someone in the mouth and enjoy the stitches) contains considerably more holes, soft points, and soft organs than the top of your head. So, as our arrestee smashed his face into the top of his wife's head over and over he did cause her pain. He also knocked himself out. She walked away with a headache and a slam dunk divorce case while he was checked for a concussion and taken to jail where he either had to explain to a judge that he beat his wife so viciously that he knocked himself out, or that he beat her so ineptly that he suffered the most damage. Best case scenario, he goes to the mental hospital for evaluation due to self harm.