Into the Breach

"In peace there's nothing so becomes a man. As modest stillness and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the action of the tiger." Henry V, William Shakespeare (1599).

I have to admit, even after so many years of "pushing a radiator" around Lakewood or, more pleasantly, riding a bike on duty, I have fallen into the trap of driving to work in the morning happily ensconced in Condition White.

Most of the time, headed south on Kipling St., I'm immersed in an audio book - at the moment a charming reading of Michener's excellent Caribbean - mind wandering. Recently, an officer admitted to following me one morning. He'd remarked, "Do you know the speed limit on Kipling?

From memory. But, when the reader speaks of the ocean breezes blowing across lovely Barbados... I long to be plopped down in the sand, love of my life at my side, sipping something cold and refreshing, warming my soul in the sunshine.

It was in this semi-aware state that I rolled up to the red light at Kipling and Alameda on a recent morning. It's perpetually busy, and not just because of the number of cars present. There are double left turn lanes, right turn lanes, and the timing of the lights changes as the day goes by. One cannot venture into the intersection uncommanded - every movement is controlled. Then I saw...

A cyclist. They (here English is unartful, but I'm pressing ahead) were dressed in several iterations of visibility, scarf covering their face to ward off the cold. A light perched atop their blaze-yellow helmet shone brightly. A brighter bulb flashed rhythmically mid-handlebar. Reflective tape, striking hi-vis coat, orange ankle straps. Their gloves contained bands of 3M material. Visibility-R-them.

This person had chosen, for their foray across one of the busiest intersections in Colorado, a left turn lane from Eastbound Alameda to Northbound Kipling. There are bike paths available, ped crossing lights and places on raised gore points to wait safely, out of traffic. But, no.

To be clear, nothing this person was doing offended traffic law. We teach this very maneuver in Bike Patrol class on an equally busy street - which generally scares the crap out of the new riders. The proximity to traffic, the feeling of vulnerability... If one need not do this, don't.

The rider I was watching looked all ways in the intersection and promptly made their left against a red light. Against a red light! They then darted across three lanes of traffic and sped urgently down the bike path.

The tapestry of human nature is one of the great appeals to awareness. Human beings are rarely ordinary, if one is susceptible to embracing their nuances.

I returned to Michener's story, having just seen something stranger than fiction.

Don't Know Much About History

What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare (1597)

Here I am, sitting in the shadow of a good friend's retirement, anticipating my own. We joked repeatedly - look at his retirement countdown calendar, add 365 and there you had it.

The scholar in me rebels at going into such a life-changing moment without consulting the experts. Pat and I attended classes, did the workshop and met with our longtime financial advisor. I spoke to someone who knows about cop retirements. Everything I read, wrote or heard was valuable, but this little gem beat all.

"Don't spend a lot of time arguing with people you don't know about police work on Facebook."

I don't know if wiser words were ever spoken, so let me tell you a story.

Several days ago, on a police site focused on supporting law enforcement officers of all stripes, someone asked an entirely reasonable question. Paraphrased - why do most police departments call their officers "officer" but the [my department] calls them "agent?"

That is an entirely reasonable question, one I am often asked by LEOs from other jurisdictions, and by citizens. The answer is easy...sort of. Let's take a step back in time.

Law enforcement in the middle 60s was something of a shit show. Good work was being done by honorable men (and a smattering of women) but scandals plagued departments coast to coast. Graft was endemic, training was uneven and, in some places, cops were the focus of criminal investigations. In Denver, for example, this nugget was popular: "If you find a burglar in your house just get his badge number. We'll get him at briefing the next day." An excellent book, Burglars in Blue, was written on the subject by an ex-cop who went to prison.

In 1965 President Johnson commissioned an examination of the police, with the study published in 1967. Among the findings and recommendations - have several levels of officer, with each succeeding level reflecting greater education and experience.

In 1969 a group of citizens living in Jefferson County, CO decided to "incorporate," that is they decided to create a new city. The successful vote had the collateral effect (or, to an extent the intended effect) of causing a new police department to form.

It was someone's idea - the first generation cops would know this - to pattern this ground-floor organization after the 1967 recommendations. Fair enough, huh?

One suggestion was to allow experienced officers to move from department to department without the need to start at the bottom - to "lateral," so to speak. It is a term that survives to this day and has found a formal process in POST rules.

Another was standardized state requirements - Colorado's (and everywhere else's) Peace Officer Standards and Training office is the result. God help us all.

The Commission envisioned that police officers would have high school educations or perhaps some college credits. They would undertake basic police investigations - the sort of bread and butter things street cops have done for almost two hundred years. The more sophisticated the investigation, the more likely it would need someone with more training, a higher level of education. That position? Agent. A department would have both, paying the agents more.

Of course, in typical [my town] fashion it was felt someone with a higher level of education could pick up the mundane stuff in their spare time and so, except for one group in the 80s, we never adopted the "officers and agents" structure. Legend has it that the mundane stuff was occasionally put off in those early days, but oh well. When I got there a bachelor's degree was required of everyone applying for the agent position, there was no officer rank and the department was structured along fairly traditional lines.

That outline persists to this day. One might argue that a degree is no guarantee a person is suited for a law enforcement career. Conversely, it's said that the lack of a degree doesn't preclude someone from being an exceptional cop. Trust me, both are irrefutable. Nevertheless, our way has worked for us so far.

Oh, yeah... The blazers. Following the Commission's original notions, the initial uniform issue was a blue blazer, gray slacks and a light blue shirt. The gun belt was worn under the blazer. Women wore skirts at first, but that's for another day. Eventually, it became obvious that the outfit caused more problems than it solved. Now agents wear a traditional blue uniform that is evolving right along with everyone else's.

Several of the commenters on Facebook made fun of the blazers, the title agent and the presumption that having a degree in - I don't know - underwater basket weaving made you something special. Or, that we were paid twenty-five grand a year more. I took a pay cut to come over from my original department, so I'm not sure where they got their information. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. 

I'm very proud of my organization and the people I work with. They are committed to service, dedicated to professionalism and among the bravest people I have ever met. When one of our folks took a job with the FBI (and became - wait for it - an agent) he interacted with a number of agencies on the East Coast. His assessment? "[Our shop] does it right."

So, now you know. 

       

A Spot of Bother

SHERWEN: I don't like to feel that I'm commentating to the cycling fans because there's 50,000 to 100,000. I like to be commentating to your mom. I like to be commentating to a little old lady down the street who says, wow.
Mourning the passing of cycle racing commentator Paul Sherwen.

Most Bikecopblog readers are aware of how important cycling has been to the author. I know, right? BIKEcopblog. A cross-country ride over my Bikecentennial summer of '76. Rides with memories to last a lifetime. Bike patrol - night, day. Good weather, snow. Teaching, learning... In the company of forever friends.

Then, there is racing. Never having raced has not cooled my interest in the men and women who can make the bike fly.

I followed a man through much of Oregon, Idaho and Wyoming during that 1976 bike odyssey. He called himself "Pro Padre," but his real name was Glenn. He rode like the wind, a back wheel I could hold for only so long. In the hour-long runs between refreshments (mostly junk food) he would run out to a hundred yards ahead, me red-lined the whole time. Together we braved driving rain, hail, obnoxious (but very flirtatious) teenagers and too-many-beers-to-run-into-the-organizer intoxication. He made burritos we washed down with fable Coors beer and bought a duck call in a hardware store outside of Eugene.

We were camped in the shadows of the Teton Mountains, drinking beer and sitting by a campfire. Several road-weary riders asked to share our fire, and our site. We all got to talking. One of the visitors said "No shit!" and looked at me. "Do you know who this guy is?"

Me: "Glenn."

Him: "He's Glenn Griffin."

Me: "And?"

Him: "He was road racing champion of California!"

I didn't spend a lot more time with Glenn. Eventually he pressed ahead on a day I struggled. But, in the meantime he regaled me with tales of racing bikes, of training and striving and riding the dog-eat-dog pelotons in California.

I moved to Colorado, and followed racing here. The Red Zinger, Coors Classic. What was supposed to be a Quiznos race, except that Lance screwed it up by being a douche.

I watched the Tour de France on TV, helping my wife understand and then appreciate the subtleties of professional team bike racing. My partner in crime - an Englishman who'd grown up in Africa. Paul Sherwen.

He had a knack. Every rider was awesome, fabulous. They suffered doing a job of work. A struggling rider pedaled squares, and was in a spot of bother. His broadcast partner Phil Liggett has a bit of Frank Gifford in him - "It's first and ten at the forty... Or, is it first and forty on the ten?" Paul would seamlessly point out "That's actually [fill in a rider's name] when Phil had totally botched it, and we'd all forgive Phil.

They played off each other the way best friends do, two men watching the best cycling in the world next to someone who knows them better, perhaps, than their own family. Decades crammed into cars, commentary booths in small town Belgium and the billion watt "City of Light" as Le Tour heads down the Champs.

Paul taught us well, two avid fans sitting in our basement hanging on his every word. During the 2012 London Games Columbia's Rigoberto Uran led Kazak Alexandr Vinokurov to the line at the end of the road race, the usual game of cat and mouse evolving, a question of who would flinch under tremendous pressure. Who would jump first. Rigo looked left.

My wife leapt to her feet. "He's looking over the wrong shoulder!!"

Vino darted right, went full gas and won the gold.

How did she know that? Because, for years, we'd learned from Paul Sherwen. We were the couple he was broadcasting to, the ones he wanted to reach from so far away.

God bless you, sir. Ride like the wind.  

"What They Do is...America"

5. George Bush plays for Denver Bear

July 12, 1984

George Bush was the sitting vice president when he donned a Denver Bears uniform and entered the old-timers Game at the start of the fourth, playing first base. When his time to bat came up, the second baseman allowed Bush's lazy pop fly to bounce harmlessly to the ground. Given another chance, he smacked a legit single off Warren Spahn. Also appearing in the game were Ernie Banks, Brooks Robinson, Billy Martin, Bob Feller and a fellow named Joe DiMaggio.

"Top Non-Bronco Sporting Events at Mile High Stadium" The Denver Post.

.

Mourning the passing of former president and Naval Aviator George Herbert Walker Bush.

The pros this morning - some toiling into the wee hours - will write hundreds of thousands of words about "41." Certainly, for a man who lived into his nineties, was married for nearly seventy-five years and was shot down (at age 20) flying a TBM Avenger during World War II only to become President of the United States some decades later, there is a lot to tell.

I remember him as a man who served admirably in the background of Ronald Reagan's breathtaking aura. Elected to his own presidency in 1988, he faced first the upheaval attendant to a political theatrical performance known as the "Iran-Contra Affair" and the understandable (and unfair) comparison to his old boss. 

In late 1990 an obscure dictator with delusions of...just delusions works fine...invaded oil rich Kuwait on a pretext as thin as a human hair. "This will not stand" President Bush noted. Not the most eloquent, nor impassioned speaker, he nevertheless backed up his assertion with a coalition of military might that swept aside Iraq's most powerful brigades with overwhelming force so shocking that dispirited Iraqi troops surrendered to the first available coalition unit...or to members of the press. Or, a drone.

America held its collective breath as the first instantly-broadcast war unfolded. The war fighters got most of the attention, commandeered most of the press conferences and in short order negotiated the succession of hostilities. George Bush was sometimes criticized for not "finishing" the war - invading and conquering Iraq when her routed troops were being handily slaughtered by the thousands as they fled Kuwait in every stolen vehicle they could start. The experience America would later have with President Bush's son at the helm has cast that decision in a kinder, gentler light.

George HW Bush also presided over...well, he was anyway there as a horrified witness to...the collapse of the "Savings and Loan" industry. America ponied up a cool half trillion to keep the shock waves from devastating the economy. Among the institutions that toppled was an S&L in Denver controlled in part by son Neil. By and by, a president who had been wildly popular months before was challenged in reelection by a quirky Texas billionaire and defeated by a faux country boy from Arkansas - with whom he eventually became fast friends.

George Bush and his gracefully outspoken wife Barbara retired to their private interests, staying involved in politics where it seemed most appropriate and staying silent otherwise. His sons George and Jeb were successful governors. George W - well, history has a funny way of smoothing out the rough edges of a presidency. Time will tell. 41's public political statements were often bipartisan - he bristled at the treatment afforded Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor, saying she deserved a fair hearing based not on wild accusations, but on facts. No fan of Donald Trump, he let it be known he'd voted for Trump's opponent.

In 2009 George HW Bush, then in his early eighties, had occasion to walk the flight deck of a Nimitz-class carrier named for him. His public pronouncements - of pride in the men and women serving aboard - did not include what his private thoughts were, about what he had done so many years before from just such a vessel. Such was the focus of an honorable man.

In the aftermath of the liberation of Kuwait by coalition forces, political writer PJ O'Rourke encountered a man on the streets of Kuwait City. In tears, overcome by emotion, the man grabbed O'Rourke and said - "You write that we would like to thank every man in the allied force. Until one hundred years we cannot thank them. What they do is...is..." - words failed him - is America." 

George Herbert Walker Bush served his country with distinction. In so many ways, his was a life that is America.

Trying to Be Social

“Fantasy is hardly an escape from reality. It's a way of understanding it.”
― Lloyd Alexander

I'm a small business owner. Nothing emphasizes that point more acutely than passing Thanksgiving, when it becomes obvious I've spent too little time marketing my wares.

Part of that effort is to have a presence on social media. Facebook, Twitter... I have a blog, a web site and books to sell on Amazon. If you want, you can get them on your Kindle, or have them printed. Bring it by the Academy and I'll sign it. The print copy.

Of course, that means I have to write. I have to have opinions and express them. The books don't sell themselves, suddenly pop into a reader's presence and insist on being read. So, from time to time you are offered the opportunity to read other things I've written. 

My web site, for example.

Writing about law enforcement, and law enforcers, has given me an opportunity to make sense of our profession not only for you, but for me. It's given me the chance to create people not out of thin air, but out of the experiences of others. Karen isn't who she is because I invented her. The women with whom I've served helped make her real.

Go onto social media and type something to the effect of "Guns should not just be banned, they should be confiscated." See what happens. A More Perfect Union examines that pitched battle between conflicting principles from a police officer's perspective.

How about a good woman with an abusive husband? How might she juggle the end of one relationship, the beginning of another and do justice to a murder investigation that won't go away? Out of Ideas.

Your friend is dead. Everything about his end suggests suicide - in law enforcement today that's a rational assumption with far too many tragic examples. It gnaws at you. Before you know it you find yourself fighting for your own life. You'd have discovered The Heart of the Matter.

Finally - a mom, a wife... A police supervisor awash in the downside of the digital revolution. My first novel, my first main character. A Miracle of Zeros and Ones.

Every one is a product not just of my own experiences in law enforcement, but of hundreds of men and women who have done their best to serve. If you want to know what real cops think, not just when the body cam is on but when they are being themselves... 

They fit nicely in a Christmas stocking.

The Constitution Says What?! UPDATED

"The illegal we do immediately. The unconstitutional takes a little longer."

— Henry Kissinger

The Constitution has had a busy week. Irony was in the air, thick as mosquitoes on a warm Syracuse evening. People who thought they'd packed the Court, finally to get the "conservative majority" they craved, the outcomes they'd worked so hard to anticipate... Let's start from the easiest part.

The headline was inferential. President Trump had "signaled" he might use an executive order to rescind so-called "birthright citizenship." First - how, exactly, does the Twitterrer-in-Chief signal? Usually, he comes right out and says what is on his mind. Unfiltered. For whatever it's worth. President Trump is learned the art of notion floating an idea? I'll be damned.

Of course, there was an immediate hue and cry. Dude, the...you know...Constitution!

Well, you know, the 14th Amendment. It says, rather clearly:

Section 1. All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the State wherein they reside.

If I've read it once in cases, I've read it a hundred and forty-seven times. "In matters of constitutional interpretation, we begin with the text itself." Begin?

It is a mistake to think that the Supreme Court... Hang on, let's do something quick, before the actual substance stuff. The Supremes - sometimes referred to awkwardly as SCOTUS, which doesn't take any less time to type, really - deal in "cases and controversies." Some States (and this is their option) allow advisory opinions on laws that haven't really become a thing, yet. "Hey, [State's Highest Court], what do you think of the law we might pass?"

The US Constitution requires that an actual lawsuit actually be in play. Sometimes, as in Plessy (separate but equal) and Griswold (contraception), court cases are ginned up to cause a case to be brought. The "Scopes Monkey Trial" started when a teacher was arrested in a prearranged agreement between him and the local government so that a case could go forward - a real case and controversy existed.

So, the Supreme Court can do no more than chuckle over their muffins during morning get togethers about President Trump's hint. That is, until the mild-looking guy from Hawaii, or the bearded imbecile from... Washington or Oregon - one of those states where they let weird dudes in black hoodies direct traffic - when one of them issues an injunction, there is much high dudgeon on both sides and the President ultimately gets his way. Okay, maybe it was California.

What does "subject to the jurisdiction thereof" mean? Not a clue. I've read a few essays by people who think they know, but... Let's think about this.

Emma and Noah, a young couple from Thistletown, Ontario, pop across the border to see their beloved Maple Leafs play Buffalo's Sabres. She is eight months pregnant, but due in thirty days. Both are Canadian citizens. Of course, if they commit a crime, or make a wrong turn in violation of New York traffic laws they'll see how quickly they become "subject to the jurisdiction thereof" by some Buffalo cop looking for something to do.

Toronto Goalie Nikita Zaitsev gives up a late, soft goal. The crowd goes nuts. Emma detects an unquenchable flow of... You get the idea. Several hours later Carly Yvonne is born at Buffalo General, a happy and healthy six pound... American?

I've been a lawyer. Isn't there something that tells me whether the world has welcomed a new American, or a Canadian who will soon be back in Ontario learning how to say "eh?" after every third sentence?

No?

We're soon going to find out. And, maybe it's time we did.

UPDATED: Andrew McCarthy has a very interesting take on "Subject to the jurisdiction" and an originalist view of the 14th Amendment. He ends it with an entirely reasonable policy statement. 

In Defense of a Thing

Josh Limon (Bradley Whitford): "He spends his days yelling at the squirrels for eating the bird seed."
Leo McGarry (John Spencer): "You know, they make a thing now..."
The West Wing, "Noel," (2000).

With everything going on... Maybe, a little snippet into the kinds of informative interactions that occur at our house.

We were getting ready to go to - work for her, the dentist for me for a cleaning. Today I found out one of my fillings has broken, and needs to be replaced. Needles, mouth pried open for half an hour and that heavy feeling. Plus, worrying about chewing a hole in my numb cheek. The office manager erroneously made the follow-up appointment in a few weeks for my wife, not me. 

What better way to avoid the dentist? I thought I'd just keep it to myself until the phone call. "Patricia, I'm calling to confirm your appointment tomorrow to have the filling replaced."

Surprise.

I digress. I asked on my way out what is an operative and essential question, one that gets asked most mornings - "Can I take (leftover) for lunch?"

We are busy people. We love to cook. We subscribe to Sun Basket, who send us three meals a week. Some of the ingredients (not all) are pre-sliced and diced, all are pre-measured. It usually takes between 20 minutes and an hour to make. They are generally fabulous, generally straightforward and there are almost always leftovers.

So - busy people, microwaveable... Edible at the desk while typing out missives to colleagues, reading emails from "The Boss" and watching BigJet TV.

Me: "Can I take the curry stew for lunch today?"
Her: "Yeah, go ahead. I have a thing at noon."

I have a writing instructor who doesn't like the insertion of thing into any kind of writing. Lazy, she says. Lacks description, or details. It doesn't really say anything?

Oh, yeah? Oh, yeah?!

Actually, it is especially descriptive. When Leo says "They make a thing," has anyone who spends $20 a week on bird seed only to have it eaten in its entirely by squirrels... There is a saying, that there is no more motivated a problem solver than a hungry squirrel.

Everyone who has tried to outwit a hungry squirrel knows what I'm talking about. Most of us have tried several "things," always with the same result. The squirrel defeats it, somehow and sits there, munching.

But, in our mind's eye we can see the gizmos.

That's the essence of good writing. No less an authority on story telling than singer/songwriter John Prine said it best - tell the listener enough to stir their imagination. Let them fill in the rest.

A long-time and dear friend always referred to any sort of malady, virus or ill ease as "The Otch." In fact, it is derived from the Italian/American word agita, which is an upset stomach, heartburn or indigestion.

Leo: "Donna's going to take you to the hospital to have your hand looked at."
Josh (hand wrapped in a bandage): "It's fine."
Leo: "It could be infected, you could have a thing..."

You know?

The Key Ingredient

Please welcome my friend Andrew to Bikecopblog. He is a friend, a gifted and talented man and until this week the proud owner of a Toyota SUV. He wrote this as a comment to my post about the Malibu I sold a few years ago. It is way too good to keep there. Whether writing in defense of freedom, or about the departure of a trusted companion, Andrew's thoughts are always worth entertaining.  

https://www.facebook.com/dittoheadadt/videos/10216977426965388/

My beloved 2000 4RUNNER joined a new family on Thursday. Suffice to say, the 20-yr-old buyer is a wonderful young man who considered himself blessed to have found my pal. When he realized it's a standard, he was ecstatic. That made it easier - not easy - to bid my truck adieu.

Later that day I needed to drive my wife's 2014 car on an errand. Apparently there's a rule somewhere that techy keys need to get bigger every year. My 2000 key was simple, black, flat; never needed a battery replaced; never needed to be replaced by a $500 duplicate.

So whenever I drove my wife's big-key car, I would pull out my keychain that would make a custodian envious, find my familiar 4RUNNER key, and then my fingers would just automatically find the *other* key, by default.

That afternoon, I stood in the garage for around 10 seconds fumbling with my keychain, trying to find my wife's key. It was right there, in plain view all the time, but my mind's eye didn't see it, because my fingers were still trying to find the 4RUNNER key that had departed with the its new owner.

I chuckled to myself when I realized what I was doing, it being the first time I realized that that's always been how I would find the *other* key on my keychain. And my heart ached a little bit with that realization, that my 4RUNNER had become, a long time ago and in no small way, a part of me.

My kids were 11 and 9 when I got it. They're 29 and 27 now. It was a part of me, it was a part of them. It was a part of us. Hockey, soccer, baseball, basketball, skiing, skating, camping, and more...perhaps most importantly, driving them to school every morning until they could drive themselves. She served us well. Here's hoping she continues her good work.

Down At O'Rourke's

"Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going." Tennessee Williams.

I had a few moments on hand the other day and surfed the net for the latest news. Among the big headlines was a story about a race for a senate seat in Texas, how money is pouring in from everywhere, like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday. The incumbent is a faithful party member, the upstart challenger - O'Rourke - has something of an acceptably checkered past and a curious nickname.

It was a place from many years ago, accessible only in my mind's eye. Even the omniscient Internet cannot recall O'Rourke's Mexican Cantina, in the Denver suburb Glendale. That makes me wonder if I recall it correctly.

I don't remember how I discovered it, or who discovered it for me. It was a modest joint, dining room of ten or fifteen tables and booths on one side and a bar on the other.

Growing up in Western New York, good Mexican food... I pause here to give notice to those grammar Nazis who have read this far. It seems awkward, almost an ism of some kind, to refer to cuisine by a one word label. In my arcane literary world one does not go out for "Chinese" or "Tibetan." One orders Chinese food - usually an Americanized version of it, anyway. There was this editor with whom I worked who insisted, and because he had my publisher's ear I relented. But, when I called up my buddy Harvey I said "Let's go to O'Rourke's for Mexican food" and he was never confused. I digress.

 The food was excellent, the margaritas flowed freely. Having a Western NY palate for Mexican food, that is having eaten a time or two at Taco Bell, the vivid spices and searing sauces took some getting used to.

One of my fondest memories of the place was when friend Howie and my brother Dave ventured out to my apartment for a ski trip. They had, as only those two larger-than-life personalities could, gotten upgraded to first class on the flight out to Denver. They emerged from the jetway in high humor, mildly soused, which was a mere preview of things to come. Among other events, my brother somehow hit a trash can on the slopes at Winter Park. All of that is for another day.

We went to O'Rourke's for Mexican food. Dave devoured his smothered burrito, all the while sweating profusely from his own "Back East" reaction to the hot, peppery sauces. He drank his water in one gulp. His margarita in the next. Then my water, my marg...

Harvey and I stopped in one night, only to have our dinner interrupted by a strolling brass quartet playing something very loudly. "Finnegan's Wake," it was explained over the raucous celebration - patrons singing and clapping to the music. There was even a casket containing a mannequin dressed for the occasion.

That's how I remember it all, anyway. For all I know it was actually called O"Flynn's, or Saint Patty's. It closed only a few years after I used to haunt the place. A shame.

The memories are still alive, though they - like me - have faded.  

Back In The Day

"I had twenty years in this outfit, when your idea of a good time was sittin' in front of the TV tube, watchin' Bugs Bunny and gnawing on your fudgsicle." LAPD Capt. Jack Braddock (Warren Oates), Blue Thunder (1983).

It was one of those articles. They appear routinely in professional journals and periodicals, often authored by a "lieutenant or above." Generally, the point of the essay is to announce a heretofore undiscovered wisdom, one that will turn law enforcement on its proverbial ear. The pearl is usually lukewarm, meant either to add a line...or two...to one's resume. Or, to confer bragging rights at the latest command staff meeting. "Hey, did you read my article in True Blue magazine?"

Today's missive involved the evolution of law officers (especially involving their training) from mere warriors to men and women adept at interacting with their community. Officers must now be both, the author opined, or they weren't much good to his organization. "This isn't the 80s," he offered.

Well, pardon me all to hell.

Generally speaking, this is where the blog usually devolves into...to put it blandly...a profane rant. But, I'm a mature adult now.

"What the F-word. F-word in gerund form. F-word, again, is wrong with you?' Tim Grimes (Nick Mohammed), The Martian (2015).

Eighties cops were what, Sparky?

We did the job just like it's done now. The best we could, served the community with pride and buried our brothers and sisters in frightening numbers. Only, at that time America was still reeling from 60s civil rights protests, riots, anti-war marches and scandals in many of the big cities. More than a few of our citizens didn't really know what to make of us, didn't know how far they could trust us. We tried hard - incredibly hard - to build bridges, mend fences and deserve the respect we tried to mirror to the people with whom we interacted. We demanded a lot of our profession, and each other. It worked.

Law enforcement in 2018 is the most professional it has ever been. In many ways it has the 1980s to thank for that. So, have a little respect for your elders, sonny.

We got you here. 

Prescribing Extroversion

"I have never liked working. To me a job is an invasion of privacy." Danny McGoorty

Choosing the opening quotation - sometimes funny, sometimes serious - is often fairly easy. A pithy quote (or great movie line) is what has started many a post. This time it is the idea of turning in my badge... But, not my guns. Let's not get too crazy.

We are two-thirds of the way through our first retirement planning class at the University of Denver. The assigned reading and exercises are designed for people who are "Third Age." That's us - Fiftyish to Seventy-ish. We are right in the middle. Ish.

Me, I'm in the final stages of my police career. By final stages I mean after thirty-nine years (minus five years off for bad behavior...law school and a law practice) of police service the end is in sight. A clean break presents itself next year, one I willingly accept.

A floodgate of clichés presents. I will not accept the invitation.

So, I've embarked on a learning journey. I'm a scholar. I have a doctoral degree. I've been a college professor. It's in the brochure somewhere that I'm supposed to look into shit. So, there.

The aforementioned class is one part of my "journey." Other formal classes may follow. But, I began with a visit to a shrink. Before anyone takes offense, she self-describes as one. "I'm a shrink," with which she often prefaces an illuminating and amusing observation. Her husband is a retired cop. I thought it would be a useful place to start.

One of the-- Hang on a sec. Okay, here's where my lawyer side comes out. Telling the following story in no way waives any HIPPA provision. There. I said it.

Among the discussions we had was how to keep from becoming socially isolated. She said that cops generally use work as their social arena. We've spent the better part of our lives relying on the people around us and we just gravitate to them at work. Etc. So, maintain your circle of friends.

Me - I'm an introvert. I only have about five friends.
Her - Well, make it a point to call them once in a while, meet for some activity.
Me - Like, call them out of the blue?
Her - Sure.
Me - That's a...thing?! I mean... People do that?

Apparently. So, this is fair warning.

If I call you without apparent provocation, don't be startled. I haven't really become an extrovert. I'm just doing what the doctor ordered.

Not My Call

Ken Mattingly (Gary Sinise): Let me go talk to Deke. I'm sure we can work something out.
Jim Lovell (Tom Hanks): This was my call.
Mattingly: (after a long pause) Must have been a tough one.
Apollo 13 (1995)

I don't remember having a harder time writing.

I intended this post to be about the search for neutral principles in the law. Stilted prose has led me to delete hundreds of words that were as painful to read as they were to type.

What is happening in Washington is disgusting. It doesn't matter what side one is on.

Set aside, for this blog anyway, the inherent frailties of our system. "Go for a business any idiot can run," investment guru Peter Lynch said. "Eventually, an idiot will be running it." Our government was created and administered by human beings, with all of their flaws. Nothing is perfect.

I've spent the better part of my life - certainly almost all of my adult life - in the business of judging the answers to "What happened?" I've been trained in the art of benign skepticism - listen respectfully, question automatically. Thousands of people have told me their stories. Here's what I've learned:

I don't know someone is credible just by looking at them as they talk. Some of the most incredible lies I've heard were told by an entirely straight face. Whatever other people think they see - it's a mystery to me.

Movie lines are the closest thing to wisdom in our modern age. Try this one out - "Archeology is the search for fact, not truth." Dr. Henry Jones, Jr. (Harrison Ford). In any investigation, the truth is elusive when the facts are contradictory, or scarce.

Reaching a conclusion and then searching for evidence in support is a very human thing to do and is almost always disastrous. The late, great Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia called it "Looking over the heads of the crowd in search of a friend." It is no better than a guess.

The Rockies are in the post-season, so I'll root for them. Once they are eliminated (odds are sooner rather than later) I'll pick someone else. Just 'cause. Having an emotional stake in an outcome makes the game richer. I recently pulled for the Trinbago (Trinidad and Tobago) Knight Riders in the Caribbean Premier League T20 cricket championship because... I don't remember. But, I was delighted when they won by eight wickets, whatever that means.

I don't know who is telling the truth - Dr. Ford or Judge Kavanaugh. It isn't up to me to decide. Both are impressive, accomplished adults worthy of respect. Any combination of true/false/mistaken is plausible when one is discussing recollections drawn from teenage years, even traumatic ones. The experiences of other individuals is not instructive, let alone dispositive.

I don't decide things I don't have to decide. The Constitution gives the President the power of appointment, with the advice and consent of the Senate. It doesn't say anything about also getting the approval of a sixty-something police sergeant sipping a margarita on his back porch.

I checked.

So, I can say - I've happily arrested perpetrators of sexual violence. I've taken, initially anyway, every allegation of sexual violence at face value. I've treated every person making the claim with respect. When it came time to decide on a course of action, I did so in good faith.

When it wasn't my call... I didn't make one.

The Right Hands on the Controls

I've tried A, I've tried B. Tell me what else I can try! The Right Stuff, Tom Wolfe (1979)


Trigger warning - if you are a white knuckle flier, this blog is not for you.

Not everyone has the temperament or training to respond correctly in an emergency situation. Certainly history books are full of hair-raising moments that ended with "Well, shit" followed by a very loud noise.

Two situations I learned of this week described the better of outcomes, the steely-eyed pilot seizing victory from the jaws of bent aluminum. The captains of the respective planes could not have been more different, or more alike.



Seventeen year-old Maggie Taraska departed the Beverly Regional Airport on a training flight. She was alone in the airplane, a student pilot. The airplane took off normally... Okay, it took off but left the right main landing gear behind. At the airport. On the runway. One can hear in her voice (video attached) that she is initially rattled. Well, who wouldn't be?

Aviate, navigate, communicate. Pilots are trained to fly the airplane, come what may. Sounds simple, until... Well, the landing gear falls off and you are alone at the controls of a sick plane. With a little help from her friends she gets the plane down, walks away and says later "You've got to have confidence in yourself to be a pilot."

On the other side of the world, in 2008, a Qantas A-330 airliner with 315 people aboard experiences an "uncommanded maneuver." In non-pilot English (being a non-pilot myself I usually need translation software) that means the airplane did something the pilots did not ask it to do. A nearly negative one G dive ensued, injuring 119 people, eleven of them seriously. The pilots regained control, only to have the airplane repeat the maneuver.

The captain later reported "There wasn't anything in our flight manuals that told us what to do." So, he and his crew improvised solutions, ignored the bleating and screaming of their fault detection software and flew the airplane. Unsure if the bizarre behavior of their aircraft would repeat itself too close to the ground to recover, the captain ordered an unusual maneuver he'd learned as a fighter pilot.

"Well," the Captain observed dryly to his cockpit crew mates as they wrestled with the beast. "I picked a bad day to stop sniffing glue."



Google the line if you don't recognize it.

Two cool customers. Two safe landings. 

Long, Painful Years Ago

Some old wounds never truly heal, and bleed again at the slightest word.

George R.R. Martin

Sitting at my desk in the early 2010s - unusual enough, I should have been out on the bike - the police officer assigned to our reception area called. He had a question.

"A woman just walked in to make a report of a sexual assault. It happened some time in the 1980s. What do you want me to do?"

It happens. Not often, and for a variety of reasons. At the point someone comes to the station to report that they have been the victim of a crime, our role is an easy one.

We take the report. We accept, in good faith, that the reporting person is giving us their truth. We take it down just the way he or she tells it. Judging their motives, their credibility - not our job...yet. They have a story to tell. We listen.

But, someone is saying as they read this, there is no chance this case will be prosecuted successfully. The statute of limitations. The... Everything!

We train our officers (who we call "agents") to be empathetic, but we are human beings. The reputation of law enforcement, that the first question we will ask is "What were you wearing," is not without some merit. But, that's not how our people are supposed to act.

At some point, though, there will be the gentle, almost apologetic discussion of reality with the person who has shown the bravery required to tell a stranger in uniform about the worst day in their lives. The case will be assigned to a detective. If the person he/she named as their assailant can be reached we will consider sitting down with them. If that person refuses to meet with us, or denies it happened...

Experts on human recollection, especially of traumatic events, teach that this is a tricky business. We are taught the limitations of perception and memory in the police academy. Experience also tells us that truth is elusive where facts are hard to come by.

At the end of the day the criminal justice system does not have many answers for someone who reports a crime thirty years after it happened. There are services we can provide - counseling, for example, from people trained in the trauma field. Sometimes, the mere fact of the report is enough for the victim.

Not all of these reports are genuine, or truthful. My first encounter with the arrest of an alleged sexual assault suspect turned out to be a "contract dispute." Some lonely businessman from Kansas (I think - this was 1980) encountered a young lady at a bar. They agreed on a price for her serves and repaired to his hotel room. At some point, there was a difference of recollection and he paid her what had been originally agreed to. She left, returning with a "friend" who also happened to be a cop.

But, at the beginning of the investigation, we began with the premise that she was telling us the truth. It's what everyone deserves.

The determination of credibility, of veracity, is left for later. Other facts are collected, other viewpoints considered. Sometimes, the truth is regrettably elusive to the unbiased mind. In the end, the best we can sometimes do is take their report, treat them with respect and wish them well.

Because they are human beings.