A Bad Good-Bye

For 33-year veteran Miami Police Sgt. Marilin Garcia, goodbye was anything but routine (transmitted over the air as a "Retirement radio call")

“This place was an amazing department to work for until the back stabbing and personal attacks started from my immediate supervisors and the First,” Garcia said over the police radio. “And if you don’t know who the First is, the First of nothing. To the chief and the First of nothing, you guys are in denial. You think you’re doing an amazing job, but in reality, you have destroyed this police department and the morale, except for your circle, which is definitely took care of.”

Garcia then refers to the prior police chief, Art Acevedo.

“I thought that Acevedo was bad, but at least one thing's for sure, I knew where he was coming from. To the First, you have a nasty attitude. So do yourself a favor and take some interpersonal skill classes so you know how to treat people right. And finally, to my immediate supervisor, Maj. Garrido. You are a liar, a snake in the grass, a cancer to this department. The hardest thing of being a female in this department was being surrounded by many males knowing that I was more of a man than you.”

Haven't many police officers, either retiring or resigning for (fill in the reason) been tempted to do this? Even at excellent departments, the frustrations and tensions inherent in policing can pit good people against good people, "Them" against "Us." Or, just me. Not every good-bye is a reluctant, tearful one. Sometimes, rancor takes over.

I'll bet Sergeant Garcia felt a lot better to get this off of her conscience. There were probably back splaps, "You go, girl" texts and at least the first round of post-ceremony drinks didn't come out of her pocket. But...

June, 1986. I had announced to my organization that I was leaving, taking my career in a different direction. I had been accepted at Syracuse University's College of Law and would enter the Class of '89 that August. Upon successful graduation, and passing the bar exam, I would enter practice as an attorney.

Many of my work friends encouraged me to vent my spleen at my department, the command staff and the state of policing there. I had street cred, they argued. Many of their grievances would finally be aired, and perhaps even addressed. In a sense, I owed it to them. I had nothing to lose, and they had everything to gain. 

I presented my sergeant with a "Short Form Resignation" my dad had given me - Mickey Mouse flipping off the reader, as a joke. For a number of reasons, I declined the invitation of my peers to do anything else. 

Fast forward to June, 1991. Life has intervened - I am divorced, we have sold our house in Liverpool (NY). I have made plans to return to Colorado, to be close to my kids. I have not worked nearly long enough as a lawyer to qualify for a Colorado waiver to admission (I had to take their bar exam). I need a job. So, I call a friend employed at the police department I had left five years before and wonder, in passing of course, if they are hiring.

They were, and I was rehired. On the day I reentered police work - Labor Day, 1991, my former sergeant presented me with the resignation letter I'd given her. And, we had a good laugh.Twenty-eight (largely successful) years later, I retired for good.

I wouldn't want to tell Sergeant Garcia, or anyone for that matter, what they should say on their way out of the law enforcement door. All I know is that in 1991 when I needed a job, needed a boost to my self-esteem and needed to feel at home, I reaped the good fortune I had unknowingly sown five years before.

Looking Without Seeing

“An average human looks without seeing, listens without hearing, touches without feeling, eats without tasting, moves without physical awareness, inhales without awareness of odour or fragrance, and talks without thinking.”

Leonardo Da Vinci

So, now we've seen the video, of Memphis PD officers making a mess of trying to take Tyre Nichols into custody, with Mr. Nichols dying in the aftermath. The criminal allegations against the (former) officers will make their way through the system, with each officer entitled to their day in court, with the requirement that the prosecution prove each and every element of the crimes alleged beyond a reasonable doubt. Mobs, and videos, are not how justice is done. Deliberation and a sober treatment of the evidence will determine the fate of the officers.

Even a temperate view of the body cam evidence leads one to ask one question. It is a question that has been ignored in the service of political agendas and self-aggrandizement. It has been swept aside by hustlers and con men and women. That is - what happens to a police department when small groups of officers forget that everyone has a right to be treated with respect, to be treated lawfully even when, especially when, they are the subject of attention from the police?

Nearly three years ago, I wrote a book I believe asks, and in a material way answers that question. It transcends all of the -isms that have, so far, only delayed the examination of what really constitutes misconduct, the kind that seriously erodes a community's trust in their law enforcement officers. It was about the promise good officers make, and hold themselves to.

Read it, don't read it... Steal it. I don't care. A Guardian's Promise talks directly to those who have watched the Memphis video, and want to know what will make a difference.

Another life, lost. Isn't it time we set aside politics and talk about what is really going on?

A Gun in Hand, A Gun in Play

 "You always handle a gun like your life and the life of anybody around you depends on how safe and careful you are, 'cause it does.”

Bill Wallace

A news article published a few days ago featured comments by actor Mickey Rourke concerning the criminal charges brought against Alec Baldwin. Mr. Baldwin, it is alleged, is criminally responsible for the tragic shooting death of Halyna Hutchins based on his handling of a firearm on a movie set.

Mr. Rourke's comments were based on the premise that "most actors" aren't adept with firearms, that they rely on an armorer to hand them a gun that is properly configured. Of course Mr. Baldwin has the right to rely on the expert advice of the professional gun person. Of course being told the revolver was a "cold gun," apparently a Hollywood term for a firearm that is not loaded with live, projectile-firing ammunition, absolves Mr. Baldwin of personal responsibility. Those are the arguments Mr. Rourke advances.

After an admittedly cursory look at the annotations available for New Mexico's involuntary manslaughter statute, the "reasonable reliance on an armorer" defense seems something of a stretch. The case will turn on whether Mr. Baldwin was himself criminally negligent in handling the revolver.

This is where we leave the fairway, bounce over the rough and end up in the weeds (I'm not a golfer, but I think that works as a metaphor). Negligence is, briefly, a duty of care toward someone, a breach of that duty, damages recognized by the law and a causal link between the defendant's action and the injury that resulted. Okay so far?

It's not hard to say that a person with a real gun in their hand owes a duty of care to anyone within range of the weapon. It is especially easy to note that duty toward anyone at whom the gun is pointed, right? Since the bullet struck Ms. Hutchins... The legal concept is res ipsa loquitur - the thing itself speaks.

Damages - the poor woman, innocent of any wrongdoing whatsoever, died of the bullet wound she sustained. It's a shocking and tragic outcome.

Causation - Mr. Baldwin states that he was manipulating the hammer, but did not pull the trigger. Since this particular revolver is a "single action" weapon, manually pulling the hammer back is required with each shot. Hence the Wild West fanning, the cocking the hammer with the thumb, etc. A weapons expert (or several) will examine the handgun and testify whether the gun could misfire. 

The whole case depends on how a judge or jury answers the breach of duty question. Here, Mr. Baldwin faces a serious uphill battle, and where Mr. Rourke might have his (only) point. Because the concept of reasonableness enters the conversation, here, this becomes the question - was it reasonable for Mr. Baldwin to rely on the expertise of the armorer, pronouncing the gun "cold" and therefore generally incapable of producing the death of another?

Every police recruit we trained at the range should answer a resounding "No." The first rule of firearms safety is to treat every gun as though it is always loaded. The one caveat to this rule is that if someone has personally checked, personally verified that the weapon contains no live rounds, it can be deemed safe for certain purposes. Even then, if it is necessary to press the trigger (Glock pistols require that the trigger be pulled for disassembly) it is never permissible to point it at anything other than an object that won't die if, somehow, a mistake has been made.

For a police officer, it is inexcusable not to check the status of a weapon someone hands them. It happens, and tragedies occur, but it's still inexcusable.

Can the same be said of Mr. Baldwin? The question of criminal culpability rests on how the state of New Mexico views the industry standard (is it sufficiently safe to grant it deference), and whether Mr. Baldwin's reliance on accepted industry practice (and the degree to which the industry practice was adhered to) was reasonable by law.

Several articles are available concerning the industry standards when real firearms are present. Those standards have changed over the years after a number of other unfortunate, tragic accidents on set. In some cases, the "handguns" are solid material, typically some kind of rubber, and the sight and sound effects are added later. In others, they are replicas that appear to function like the real thing, but do not accept ammunition of any kind.

So, let's sum up, before we disappear down the rabbit hole. This case probably turns on whether New Mexico law provides for a defense similar to the one Mickey Rourke articulated - it was reasonable under the law (and therefore not negligent or reckless) to accept the word of the production's armorer that the gun in hand was not a gun in play, and that Mr. Baldwin had no duty of care to ensure it was unloaded, and always pointed in a safe direction.

Under the facts as they are known, how would you - called to be a juror - vote?

I'm pretty sure I'd have suggested Mr. Baldwin, and anyone else handed a firearm claimed to be "cold," say "Show me" if they felt ill equipped to verify the weapon's status themselves. And, that may be the position of the state of New Mexico.

Let's Go, Eagles

 "Why is a puck called a puck? Because dirty little bastard was taken."

New Jersey Devils goalie Martin Brodeur.

Four years old, at her first hockey game. A bucket of mini-donuts, a new Colorado Eagles jersey and a premium seat in the third row. A big "We're number one" finger to wave. Mom, Grandma and Grandpa at her side. 

"Let's go, Eagles."

Where else is the invitation to clap your hands, stomp your feet and yell at the top of your lungs encouraged, rather than hushed? Where else but right along the glass can the speed, complexity and physicality of hockey not just be appreciated but witnessed virtually first hand. An intimate setting, in an intimately small minor-league venue watching highly-skilled athletes compete for their shot at the National Hockey League. A family event where the vendor gave the first-game fan a free strawberry smoothie.

"Let's go, Eagles."

I would have bet real money we would be on the way home before the game concluded. Instead, we were still cheering with the crowd - the Eagles winning on a classically deft goal late in the third period - as we filed out of the building into the cold Northern Colorado winter air.

"Whose house? Our house!"

The dreams that blossom from this field are not just for athletic glory.

Windfall Profits

Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.

Mark Twain

I get an email every quarter - "Royalty payment notification." A few days later, there is a deposit from Amazon (can you imagine...a deposit from Amazon) in our checking account. It is the fruit of considerable labor.

If I was employed to write, and my employer paid me the hourly rate I generate to get a book into publication, I'd be turning them in to the Feds. Here, you might be anticipating a sentence describing how I write for the love of the art, that it expresses the stories that I carry in my heart and blah, blah, blah. Not only did my accountant warn me against professing a non-monetary goal, but it has the added benefit of being only half the story.

It's nice to get paid for my writing. Granted, it isn't much and it barely pays for the power my laptop consumes every year. But...

In the last ninety days, only two of my seven works (six novels and a short story) didn't get some kind of traffic. My first novel, Out of Ideas, generated almost as much as my latest, The Fort in the Harbor. Someone sat down over a weekend and read A More Perfect Union. Heart of the Matter, a book I still treasure because a dear friend edited it and another friend is on the cover, got some attention.

I like to think that these books give the reader their money's worth. I hope they like the characters. I hope that by reading one, they go back for more. I hope they tell their friends. I hope they leave a lavish and effusively positive review.

And I hope they don't mind that I'll spend their money (which, to quote a line from The West Wing, is now my money) on Mexican food and margaritas.

An Interesting Choice

 The real trouble with reality is there is no theme music.

Anonymous

We'll get right to it.

Yesterday, the Supreme Court released the findings, or preliminary findings...a rough draft, anyway, of the eight month investigation into the leak of Justice Alito's draft opinion in the Dobbs case. Although there was a degree of fanfare in the announcement, there was (apparently) no mood music.

This is not intended to be a rehash of Dobbs. Zero minds will change merely based on my opinion, so I express none. Read it, and think for yourself.

This is about the profound breach of protocol that occurred in the premature leak of Justice Alito's draft opinion. Someone who knows a lot more about the Court than I can discuss the details of how and to whom draft opinions are circulated, but suffice to say they are not treated like the presidential launch codes for our nuclear weapons.

Too soon?

According to the news release, several things were concluded...conclusively. First, the system wasn't hacked, which in Washington, DC must come as something of a surprise, if not a relief. Second, because "working from home" is the new normal, it was hard to say authoritatively how the draft got from someone who was allowed to have it to a Politico writer (who wasn't supposed to have it - hell, they weren't supposed to know it existed) who would release it to the world. Finally, we come to what we're here for.

According to the news release, the culprit could not be identified "by preponderance of evidence." To those of us who have given over most of our adult lives to "The Bizz," those carefully-chosen words are as meaningful for what they don't say, as for what they do. What they say to me is they know who did it, they just can't prove it.

I don't want to turn this into an introductory class in criminal procedure. You would get bored, leave and never come back. I guess I'd have gotten the click out of it...

Anyway, there is a sort of continuum of standards of proofs, a sliding scale of persuasion that we indulge because it sounds formal and complicated. In reality, it is formal, complicated, and imprecise as well. It tells us when we are enough, to steal a phrase from Cool Runnings. To wit:

Lawyers and judges simply hate the "mere hunch." Whenever an opinion serves up those two words together, one can be assured whoever had the temerity to offer that minuscule amount of evidence is going to lose. Cops love hunches, often stake their lives on them. That's a different blog.

Suspicion, especially if it is reasonable, permits someone to be briefly detained and questioned. How briefly depends. Whether they have to answer the questions depends. It doesn't take much to articulate suspicion - a rookie police officer has been taught how to explain it. 

Probable cause... Now we're talkin'. The difference between suspicion and probable is basically the difference between maybe and likely. This gives an officer the legal authority to arrest, and take the person to the Graybar Motel. A person can be jailed for an extended period based solely on probable cause. Oh... When you read that someone was arrested and jailed "on suspicion of" in the Denver Post, one word. NO!

"Preponderance of evidence" is a very carefully chosen phrase. This is the legal standard to hold someone liable in civil court. Civil court is where people are sued for money and stuff. It's usually articulated as "51%" or more likely than not. Not the high-octane standard of beyond a reasonable doubt required in criminal court. It's why OJ was acquitted in criminal court ("If the glove don't fit, you must acquit") but ended up having to sell his Heisman Trophy to pay for the wrongful deaths of Ron Goldman and Nicole Brown Simpson after a civil trial.

So, let's sum up. The Supreme Court says that proof sufficient to satisfy the preponderance of the evidence threshold doesn't exist. They are silent as to whether probable cause exists. That's on purpose. 

They know. 

Long Time Gone

 It's getting to the point where I'm no fun anymore.

Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, Crosby, Stills and Nash (1969)

Noting the passing of singer, songwriter and sailor David Crosby.

I suppose anything is arguable, especially music tastes. In an effort to be, well, generous... Sixties music was pretty good. Take a stroll onto any platform - a streaming service, or YouTube, eg - and some of the great songs of the Sixties are being covered by musicians whose parents were children when the hits were made. Try it.

Many of the very best of the era were written and sung by a fractious collection of musical vagabonds. David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash, known by their stage name Crosby, Stills and Nash (later, Crosby, Stills Nash, and Young when Neil Young came aboard), turned out an eclectic brand of music that was part protest, part ballad and all tightly constructed. Memorable songs with heft, variety and a strong social conscience that continues to resonate into the 21st Century.

David Crosby was instantly recognizable, with round face, a bushy mustache and the cherubic smile of someone who knew a secret he was dying to share. He often appeared in a plaid shirt, sleeves halfway rolled up. He was an accomplished songwriter, although he would later comment that his relationship with Joni Mitchell soured because, after he'd struggled all day to write a song, she would sit down and write three in ten minutes that were superior to his.

CSN didn't stay together for long, disintegrating only a handful of years after they'd started. Oh, there were reunions and recording sessions. The musicians went their separate ways, saw individual success. David took his sailboat Mayan all over the world. And, of course, no matter how far away he went, his lifestyle caught him.

There was alcohol and drugs, guns and jail. A liver transplant. Gigs missed. A final long illness. And David Crosby was gone.

And all that remains is the music, that wonderful music. Melodic, harmonic, engaged. Still being sung by a new generation who understand why it's important to "speak out against the madness."

Speak your mind, if you dare.

As Through a Glass

I remember the North and Southampton Reformed Church as a cold and staid place.  Adults spoke in sometimes hushed, sometimes strident tones while my brother and I fidgeted. Much of what was said was gibberish, anyway, grownup talk.

There was one day, though, that stuck in my mind then, and sticks there now. In 1963 the minister read Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr's Letter From a Birmingham Jail to the congregation, in its entirety. 

It was obvious even to an eight-year-old that this man, the one who was held in jail, felt an anger that our minister shared. The people around me were members of a straight-laced old Dutch Reformed protestant sect (this church was originally organized in 1710) and the words of this man moved them to rapt silence. I was under the impression that this letter was in fact what the minister held in his hand. I wondered why the author of those words had been put in a jail cell.

Why would a person have to sleep in their car when motel rooms are available? Why did mobs lynch people? Why would a father have to answer a question from his daughter that spoke of race hatred? To an eight-year-old boy of Irish, English and Dutch descent growing up in a Philadelphia suburb, there were only questions. Nearly sixty years later, some of the answers remain elusive.

Today we celebrate the life of a great man who encouraged us to ask those compelling questions of ourselves, and reminded us that freedom in America belongs to everyone.

 

Okay, Boomer

 There are no right or wrong ways to face Life. Everyone has to do what they believe they have to do at a particular moment and keep going. Eventually, you will figure out why what happened to you was part of your own myth unfolding. 

 AVIS Viswanathan

Yeah, I'm a Boomer.

Born just before the halfway point in the 50s. Black and white console TV, three channels (pre-UHF). Tin foil on the rabbit ears. Soupy Sales, Captain Kangaroo... Cap guns and free-range childhoods. I even remember how our roads in Pennsylvania were "treated" after a snowfall - a guy with a shovel, standing in the bed of a town dump truck, tossing coal cinders over the tailgate. Try that today and the town's risk management office would have a coronary. 

Boomer.

So much of what passes for insightful commentary is lost on me. It's not unusual for something to raise holy hell on social media...go viral, I hear it's called...and I have to consult with my "contemporary culture norms" experts - our daughters - to understand why voices are raised. Or, at least, why people are writing Twitter comments in all caps.

Take today, for instance. Al "Do you believe in Miracles" Michaels and Tony Dungy are under fire for, as near as I can figure, understating the call of a game winning field goal in the Jacksonville Jaguar-LA Charger football game. Okay, granted it was an unusual game. LA had led at one time 27-nil.

Sorry, World Cup hangover. Twenty-seven to nothing. Jacksonville's quarterback had thrown almost as many passes to LA players in the first half as to guys on his own team. Things looked grim. When I switched over to the Avalanche game (ultimately a much-needed 7-0 victory) I figured LA was going to play out the second half with intelligence and maturity and that would be that.

In fact, Jacksonville had other ideas. They clawed their way back, did what had to be done and, with a handful of seconds left on the clock, lined up for a field goal attempt. If it is good, Jacksonville wins. Miss, and LA advances, Jacksonville heads for the beach and the golf course. Nothing is guaranteed, they still have to kick the ball, etc. The teams line up, and...

Apparently, even as the snap to the holder was imminent, Al Michaels was in the middle of an anecdote. The play cut him off mid-sentence, and the broadcast crew watched silently as the ball sailed perilously close to one of the uprights. Their response to the successful field goal was to observe a penalty flag on the field. Then, the comment "They called it against the defense." They?

But, let me axe ya. If you are a football fan, a team has come back from twenty-seven points down and they are lining up to kick the winning field goal on the last play of the game, do you need anybody to tell you it's a critical, exciting, anxious moment? Do you really need to be told by some guy behind a microphone you are watching something special? Does his level of excitement make the moment, or are you able to decide for yourself?

If the answer is Al Michaels decides for you... You might not be a Boomer.

Grand Old Flag

It doesn’t matter when or where, it matters not the danger,
We race as though to help a friend when called on by a stranger.
And maybe just remind the few, if ill of us they speak,
that we are all that stands between the monsters and the weak.

Michael Marks

Last week, in response to a citizen complaint, the Los Angeles Police Department removed all "Thin Blue Line" flags, plaques and other memorabilia from public display in their buildings. Their chief, in what might be best described as the worst of all word salads, inferred that the images represented many of the awful -isms that are easy to fling haphazardly but much more difficult to actually establish in the present.

The shame isn't that LAPD removed a symbol of pride and devotion from their buildings. It isn't even that the complaints were taken seriously - it is in the nature of fools and bureaucrats to overreact dramatically every time someone voices a criticism. The problem is the cavalier dismissal of one of the foundational concepts of police leadership.

Police officers are accountable for their own errors and omissions, but are never condemned for the errors of others, or the shortcomings of other ages.

It seems simple, doesn't it? Hundreds of thousands of men and women put on a police, deputy sheriff's or state trooper's uniform and go to work every day in America. Countless more federal officers guard our borders, police our federal installations. Each arrives to an uncertain future, wondering if today is the day their community cashes their blank check - "Up to and including my life."

Of those thousands, a handful are unworthy. They are incompetent, self-serving or criminals themselves. They follow a different set of rules. What is notable is the degree to which their transgressions make them newsworthy, how they stand out from the near unanimity of officers who see duty as a calling.

Yesterday, the agency from which I retired chased a suspect who'd attempted, or accomplished, several violent crimes. That suspect, in the process of attempting to escape, rammed several police cars. What was the result? An arrest where there were no reported injuries among any of the participants. A violent person off the streets, the community safe.

That isn't unusual, for that department or departments around the country. Men and women proudly and capably delivering law enforcement services. So, why not fly their flag, celebrate their courage and commitment? Because a citizen complained?

The notion may eventually seep into the minds of office holders like the LAPD chief that the reason it's so hard to recruit good people into law enforcement positions, and to keep consistently high performers, is that when push comes to shove command staff will not support them. Politics, perceptions and the lexicon of the era overcome the solid, steady work of thousands who serve selflessly. It makes me wonder...

Isn't that the LAPD chief's flag, too? When did the chief stop being a cop, and start being a politician?

The Accountability Paradox

 Someone's got to go to prison, Ben.

FBI Special Agent in Charge Peter Sadusky (Harvey Keitel), National Treasure

Two days ago, a Denver grand jury indicted a Denver Police officer who was involved in a shooting in downtown Denver in July 2022. The incident involved three DPD officers, one guy with a gun and a lot of innocent bystanders. According to press accounts, the officers were trying to arrest the suspect subsequent to an altercation. In the process, the suspect acted in a way that produced a reasonable fear in the officer's mind that the suspect was going to use deadly force against them. All three officers fired, and the suspect was hit.

Seems fairly straightforward, right? It happens nearly every day in the US - cops attempt to arrest bad guy, bad guy produces some kind of weapon, cops defend themselves. What else do we need to know?

Except, in the Denver case, one of the officers' rounds missed the suspect and struck bystanders who are clearly visible. Bystanders who were doing nothing more sinister than being in downtown Denver in the wee hours, in an area that caters to wee hour socializing.

The body camera "footage" is revealing...in a manner of speaking. From the point of view of the officer, the suspect is looking at the other officers, not him. Clearly visible in the background are many, many individuals, a crowd packed so tightly that bullets fired in their direction cannot help but strike someone. Or, several someones. That's what happens. Several rounds go past the suspect and into the crowd, injuring several people, some seriously. By the grace of God no one was killed.

No one, the officer most assuredly, wished for that outcome. Injuring innocent people is the one nightmare every officer prays they never wake up to face in reality. Certainly, during his training (DPD's Academy and in-service training are excellent) he was taught one of the most basic rules of firearms safety - Be sure of your target and beyond. Based solely on the video evidence, one might reasonably conclude that the officer acted improperly by shooting at someone when a crowd of people are in close proximity.

While watching the video multiple times, I'm sitting in my home office, a cup of hot coffee beside me. One of my dogs is playing with a chew toy nearby. Music is playing from my iTunes app. I've had breakfast. More importantly, I know what I'm going to see. I know what happened, what became of the suspect and the other officers. What I'm witnessing took place months ago. I have no role to play, no immediate decision to make that might result in the deaths of my friends, or the deaths of innocent others. There is no shock, no fear, no focus.

No one is arguing that the officer shot the bystanders intentionally. The other officers have been exonerated of wrongdoing. The grand jury's felony indictment is based on the culpable mental state of "recklessness."

CRS 18-1-501 (8) “Recklessly”. A person acts recklessly when he consciously disregards a substantial and unjustifiable risk that a result will occur or that a circumstance exists.

 Is that what happened? Did this officer consciously disregard a risk?

 

This is where my former lawyer side feels the obligation to point out a couple of things. First, a grand jury indictment is not a finding of guilt, only an opinion that probable cause exists. One must know a bit about how a grand jury operates, but suffice to say that a competent prosecutor presenting evidence to a grand jury has something of an advantage.

Over the course of the proceedings, the officer will have every opportunity to defend himself from the charges. He will be able to present expert testimony about what he reasonably perceived in the moment, not just what the camera captured to be calmly analyzed at others' leisure. A jury may, at some point, sit in a room and ask themselves if sending a young man to prison under the facts presented to them is just.

Held accountable? Is prison really what the average American thinks of when they ask that police officers who make mistakes be "held accountable?" Are there alternative disciplinary schemes to address official actions that fall short of what we expect of our police officers? Is this officer being held accountable for his actions, or being held out as a representative of a misguided idea that it will deter misconduct by others in the future? Or, is he the victim of an attempt to punish the allegedly unaddressed wrongs of the past?

Police misconduct is real, and should be appropriately addressed. I wrote a book about it (A Guardian's Promise). Holding individual officers accountable for their actions that violate the law, departmental policies and procedures - that is a valid expectation of the citizens who are ultimately the source of the moral authority to govern.

Police officers are human beings. If a slice of citizens demand action, and government acquiesces, in some misbegotten notion that society can attain perfection by punishing cops disproportionately for what may essentially be human failings, it won't be long before no one wants to take the risk of being a police officer.

And, to be clear. You are talking about men and women who willingly risk their lives for others. They understand being killed or injured is as close as the next call. They just don't want to spend the rest of their lives in prison for doing what they thought was necessary, and proper in the brief moment they had to decide.

Not At My Best

 The secret of ugliness consists not in irregularity, but in being uninteresting.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Retirement, year four.

I admit I've lost my edge. It takes me longer to design plot points that I consider compelling enough to include in a manuscript. Blogging is harder, framing the theme takes much more effort. And, I keep asking the wrong questions when a dilemma presents itself.

Last night, happily ensconced in a day of football viewing (and the Rose Parade we watched on the big screen) I tucked into the Bills game. My mom was a dedicated fan of the Buffalo football team, often purchasing this article of clothing, that "Dammit Doll" to distribute to the grandkids. There'd been a number of great games during the day (Tulane's improbable victory the highlight) so why not keep it going - watch some NFL before turning on the Avs and texting with my daughter.

In a thoroughly innocuous moment, involving an entirely ordinary tackle, Buffalo safety Damar Hamlin made a play, rose from the pile and then collapsed. While that happens from time to time - we used to call it "getting your bell rung" but now understand how serious concussions really are - but this was different. His teammates looked distraught, the commentators hushed. Something wasn't right.

We found out later that camera angles available to the broadcast crew (thankfully not to us) showed that first responders were administering CPR to Mr. Hamlin. Seconds grew to minutes. An AED was used to shock his heart back to a useful rhythm. Clearly, the young man's life hung in the balance, his future in the hands of people trained to keep a level head and administer care in the critical first moments of a medical emergency. An ambulance arrived, the game forgotten.

I thought about the kind of people who volunteer for EMT and paramedic duty, the ones I watched work over the course of my career. Each one talented, dedicated, committed to giving every effort to saving every patient.

I thought about the player's parents, who were at the game that night. I can't imagine what they went through, having seen their son get up a thousand times from the very same kind of tackle. Were they thankful they were there?

I thought about the teammates, the ones who share a bond few others know. Their teammate fought for his life and they were powerless to help. Men who are used to pitching in, giving everything on behalf of the team and a teammate. Watching and knowing that their friend might die on their field of dreams.

I thought of the commentators, shocked into silence yet forced to fill minutes on the air reviewing the few facts on hand. More than once they seemed close to tears, at a loss for words. One said, in so many words, that she was done trying to fill the time just so the network would have something to broadcast.

It was only after I visited Twitter for the latest information that it occurred to me I've lost my inquisitive edge. It turns out others - many others - were thinking about something else. They wondered when Mr. Hamlin had gotten his last COVID vaccine because, you know, that's what is important to them. I found those questions - uninteresting.

I pray for Mr. Hamlin, his friends and his family. I'm thankful he got immediate and excellent care from professionals trained in emergency medicine. I'm heartened that ESPN did not see fit to show the world what it looks like to do CPR on a young man on a football field. I thank everyone who stood vigil outside the University of Cincinnati Medical Center, set aside their rivalries and showed why we all have far more in common as human beings.

And I'm proud to have once been a first responder. Of all the skills on display on that football field last night, theirs were the most important. 

Nudge, not Noodge

 "If you don't like something, change it. If you can't change it, change your attitude." —​ Maya Angelou

New Year's morning.

We were on the way up to Fort Collins, to skate with our daughter and granddaughter, when Pat introduced me to the notion of a "New Year's nudge." Not specifically resolution, per se. Nothing is resolved (that is, decided upon for the better), but there is a shift, a change in mindset. A direction. What would I nudge myself toward this year?

It seemed an excellent question. But, at heart, I am often a noodge, someone for whom the incidental suddenly becomes compelling, the minute blown all out of proportion. An arcane bit of legal trivia recruits far too many brain cells, some current event leads to a rant. So, it's altogether fitting and proper that I meddle with the nudge principle, and decide I will nudge myself away.

Away from repeated visits to news sites, on the theory that there might be something new. Away from opinion vendors, for whom extremism is a virtue, brevity a vice and repetition a credo. Away from the things that prevent me from reading books, listening to music, and writing - oh, glorious writing. Away from the driveway and onto the road, be it two wheels, four, or eight.

If this be escapism, let it begin, here. Escape from things I cannot change, attitudes that are toxic. Escape from burdens that are not mine to bear, loads I am not consigned. 

Nudged away to be free.