TPD Blog

Things change...

It's been more than a year ago since I was asked to contribute to "Street Stories."  At the time, I was one of the few, if not the first, officer to share my personal experiences patrolling the streets and have them posted on the department's web site.

At first, I didn't know what to think or what to expect.  Salty veteran officers were quick to scorn, others were even quicker to chastise my "overly dramatic" writing, and practically everyone just plain poked fun.  Well, sure, I could have written things in modest, conservative, and plain boring "cop speak": e.g., "Arrived at location. Arrested suspect. Went home" *not much good reading material there*

After a few posts, I wondered what the heck I had gotten myself into*However, a few simple things changed my perception and made it all worthwhile: citizens began to respond and reply to my posts.  Sure, some shared sympathy, while others were sharp with criticism.  It's all good.  It's the fact that a "dialogue" was happening that made it all worthwhile and mattered most.

As for now, I transferred to a "desk job" helping out with some critical technology improvement projects and other projects for the department (a fancy way of saying "paperwork").

Unfortunately, there's not much "street" and even fewer "stories" to share.  Unless of course, you care to know about how many faxes I sent (with the paper right side up), the number of forms I've completed in triplicate (keeping the "canary" (yellow) copy for record-keeping purposes), or the crazy action-packed paper-jam struggles that occurred at the copy machine.  It ain't the stuff worth the time to write nor read.

I am humbled and honored to have contributed to "Street Stories."  And I hope that in someway, you've enjoyed reading about some of my thoughts and experiences.  Until next time, be well.

Officer Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

When Bogus Becomes Real…

After a long night, I was heading back to the division to turn in some parking tickets. While driving along, I heard a call dispatched about "a body in a ditch" just down the road from where I was. We had a few bogus calls like this the night before. But in each case, it turned out to be a prank: somebody put a manikin on the side of the road and covered it with ketchup.

I figured it was probably just another prank, and I could easily take the call, check it out, and drop of my tickets in 5 minutes or less. I couldn't have been more gravely wrong…

I pulled up in my warm car, braced for the cold, and walked to the embankment to where another officer was standing. We approached the lifeless figure in the muddy, icy ditch. It was what we had hoped not to find: the lifeless body of woman who seemed to have succumbed to the exposure of one of our most blisteringly cold nights this winter. We stood there for a moment, thinking about the stroke of fate's hand before us. It was shivering cold, despite our layers of jackets, uniform, and gear. The harsh "smoke" from our breath swirled around our heads. The morning twilight seemed to cast a hush of silence.

How could a person-a human being-end up like this? So close to us, yet so tragically far away. Why should anyone have their final moments in mud and ice? Images of the peril from the Russian front of World War II, when the lives of tens of thousands were lost to frostbite, came to mind. How can anyone who was a friend, sibling, mother, or daughter to someone, stray from us this way?

"I was just waiting for the bus and there's person down there!" the frigid air and my cold thoughts cracked from the panicked voice of the person who made the despairing discovery. Strange how a late bus helped bring some dignity to her as the freezing, restless waiting bus rider paced around to stay warm and happened to look her way.

As I put up the crime scene tape, in my thoughts, I promised her that later that night, I would check under a few more bridges and drive down a few more alleys to keep other from harm's way…as if I could make it up to her.

Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

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A Recipe For Crime

There are times when a bit of jabber can ease a situation. Sure, sometimes just showing up in a police uniform and saying "hello" can incite anger, but sometimes, changing the subject and talking about the weather can calm even the most crazed and enraged.

The other night, a fellow squad mate AC, got a call about a man running around in traffic at 3 in the morning. AC finds the guy-and finds that he's more than a bit drunk. After a routine check, AC finds out the guy has warrants. So for the guy's own safety and sake, AC rightfully decides to take him to jail for the night.

While coaxing him into handcuffs, the guy just starts talking and talking and talking about nothing, and arguing this and that. It's all the standards lines: "I ain't got warrants…I paid those…that ain't me…you had no reason to stop me…etc…"

So to change the subject, I interject and say, "hey man, let's stop arguing…besides, we should be talking more about what to bring to the BBQ on Sunday." Everybody digs food. Food makes you feel good. And if you're like me, BBQ is a favorite topic of discussion. In fact, I moved out West in part because there was only one (lame New England) BBQ joint in my old neighborhood. Now that I think about it, I think there were only two in the whole darn state. Sad.

Anyway, I tell the guy, "I'll tell you what, you bring the steaks, and I'll bring the ribs." A huge smile widens across the guy's face.

We start joking about who needs to bring the potato salad when I look over my shoulder. The good Corporal Ford is standing behind me with a look of shock and surprise. He tells me, "No, no, no…don't tell him that!" "Don't let him bring the steak!"

My first thought was, "OK, he can bring the potato salad." But then I realized that the BBQ was hypothetical and brining a warranted person to jail was real business.

"Should I let him bring the ribs instead?" I asked the Corporal.
"Yes!" he enthusiastically insists.

"Can he bring macaroni salad too?" I ask.
Corporal Ford laughingly replies, "Sure, just don't let him bring the steaks…his warrant is for stealing a steak from Wal-Mart!"

All the mouthwatering tastes of BBQ were replaced with shoe-leather as I realized just how far I stuck my foot in my mouth.

"Did you steal a steak?" I puzzlingly inquired.
"Mmm hmmm…was fixin' to cook it up real good too," the guy salivating-ly recalled.

And with a more authoritative tone, I explain "Yeah…you're not bringing the steak. Leave steak alone. We're keeping steak off the menu and off you're criminal record. No more steak, man. Just cook chicken…"

Yeah, I know, telling someone "chicken instead of steak" doesn't say much for authoritative admonishment.

Officer Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Please listen....the latest Street Stories Podcast

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2008/01/08/rain-street-stories-16/

Know Thyself

Getting old can be tough, if not tragic considering all the ailments that await us as we reach the august of our lifetimes. Alzheimer's and dementia seem to me one of the worst of kinds suffering, or at least it's tough to be in good body and spirit, with a troubled mind.

I took a call the other night that left me baffled. An elderly woman, let's call her Jenny, reported that her husband Hank, had been missing. When I showed up Jenny was standing next to an elderly gentleman who said, "Yup, he's missing, we haven't seen Hank since yesterday."

Jenny said that Hank was last seen at a neighbor's house, so I went there to check. The neighbor said that Hank is sitting right there, outside his house. She pointed right at the gentleman I just spoke to, and said, “There he is.” Hmmm…

So, I went back over to talk to Jenny and the gentleman that was with her. Jenny insisted that she hadn't seen Hank since yesterday. The elder fella said the same.

I asked both of them for identification for the report, and that's when things started to make sense...or not. Jenny didn't recognize that the elderly man standing next to her was indeed her husband Hank. Hank didn't know he was Hank because he too was suffering from dementia.

Seems the two of them didn’t recognize each other, or at least, weren’t in their typical state of minds.

I tried for almost thirty minutes to convince Hank that he was Hank and to soothe Jenny’s fears that Hank was missing. No luck. And quite frankly, I didn’t know what to do. I was at a loss, and admittedly, I was certainly confused myself. I was starting to doubt my own self and wondering if all of this was some surreal dream, practical joke, or what?!

Fortunately, their daughter drove up the driveway. Instantly, Jenny greets her daughter and Hanks does the same. It was as if nothing had ever happened. The daughter thanked me for “finding” her father.

“He…uh…he…wasn’t…, I mumbled.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” she said.

“Uh, sorry…you’re welcome ma’am,” I said a bit loudly, instead of trying to explain. I walked to my police car, closed the door and wondered to myself what the heck just happened.

Everything that I knew and recognized seemed odd and out of place… I was lost, drifting around in my own reflective thoughts about my self, my own life, and where I was at the moment.

I thought about how we struggle finding ourselves as teenagers. How we wonder about defining ourselves in our twenties. Try convincing ourselves of our identities in our thirties. Comfort ourselves about what we could have done different in our forties. Briefly enjoy life in our fifties—while trying not to worry about growing old. Give in as our bodies and minds slow their pace in our sixties. And hope for ‘just another day’ as we bide the rest of our time.

A pitiful perspective, sure…but one with an unfortunate bit of reality to it. At the least, it reminded me of the joy, the splendor, and the utter necessity of living for the moment—every moment, every day—and being thankful for it.

The past weeks have left pasts of Tulsa in turmoil and plenty of people with their lives turned upside down (and shaken out). I’ve seen more cars flipped, houses crushed, and things stolen or damaged in two weeks than in almost two years put together.

But saliently, I’m again reminded of how important it is to know yourself, to live for the moment, and be thankful for it—without doling too much time to what you have not and what you have lost.

Easier said than done, but at the least, I’ve got something of promise for a New Year resolution.

Afterword
I’ve hoped that you have enjoyed reading some of my stories and thoughts throughout the year. I’m grateful that I was given the opportunity to share some musings, chuckles, fears, and frustrations with you and contribute to the Tulsa Police weblog.

I hope that you have a safe, truly wonderful and warm holiday season. And if I may, on behalf of my brother and sister officers, I wish you the best of luck and dreams for the New Year.

Officer Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Search Warrants (or Faith, Love & Trust Revisited)

Serving a search warrant can be exhilarating or downright disappointing. It's great when you put in hours of surveillance, make a dozen arrests, serve a search warrant on a place, and strike the mother-lode of dope, guns, and people who need to stay in a penitentiary. Other times, it can be near heart-breaking: putting in the same hours, effort, and diligence only to yield an empty apartment with nothing more than felonious dust mites.

But there is something of a coincidence with search warrants. That is, when you typically observe criminal activity someplace, there's likely to be a "Scarface"-sized mound of blow (cocaine), a griddle pan worth of crack, and enough meth to make half of Tulsa's teeth grind for weeks. There's also likely enough people with guns inside you'd think the gun show had been rescheduled. And there's also typically enough people parading around in and out of the place with their crack pipe held high like they were leading the parade with a band leader's baton. You're practically waiting for the Snoopy balloon to come out any second, like it was a Thanksgiving Day parade.

But all that changes the second you type up a search warrant, go before a judge, and have a signed, search warrant in hand. It's truly one of those superstitiously, coincidentally weird kind of things. Like when you want something to happen, you think about the opposite, to "outsmart" whatever unknown-but all seeing-being is defining your luck for you.

Anyway, the other night I was preparing to serve a search warrant on a place that needed to be shut down. Way too many crack junkies, dopers, smokers, and idiots with guns were coming in and out of the place. The drug dealers inside were way too comfortable with their operation, and way too brazen. I had arrested them before, trafficking crack cocaine. I had arrested them before for carrying guns. And I had seen so many hand-to-hand drug transactions in the doorway; it was like the patrons were waiting in line to get to Theater 12 on the left to see some blockbuster Hollywood movie.

But now that I have a search warrant-guess what happens? The couple involved in dealing drugs had spent months together in a seemingly blissful relationship. I'm sure they've spent months together, faithfully knowing that they'd be getting high and smoking crack each time they awake in each other's stoned-out arms. Undoubtedly, their love was confirmed each time they counted their drug money together and made promises of bigger plasma TVs, whiter new sneakers, and shinier car rims for each other. And they trustfully became more secure in their relationship each time they passed the crack pipe, knowing that the one wouldn't take a huge hit and leave none for the other: faith, love and trust, indeed.

And as the ink from the judge's signature on the search warrant dried, it must have happened…with a search warrant in my pocket, and much-needed help from a slew of top-notch special investigations detectives, we stormed the door. We soon discover that the couple's bliss tragically came to an end. They got stoned (probably on some psychedelic concoction) and had a hole-in-the-wall, window-smashing, "I-hate-you-get-out," domestic brawl. They left. And left all that faith, love, and trust shattered behind them. They'd been together for years, but tonight, just 15 minutes before we serve the search warrant, they've gotta have a fight and call it quits. Figures…

(Next time, I'm going to repeatedly say aloud, "I don't have a search warrant…I do NOT have a search warrant," just so I can hopefully psyche out whichever Demi-God of Fortune and Coincidence may be listening.)

Officer Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Flooded

The other night, a deluge hit Tulsa. Down-pouring heavy rains quickly flooded the streets, overflowed creeks and storm drains, as if monsoon season had just begun. Roads were quickly impassable and dozens of officers were posted at places where the rainwater was hazardously deep.

It wouldn't have been so bad: blocking off an intersection, helping a few people out of their cars, and then getting dry. However, two critical events coincided: 1) the clouds above seemed to have dumped as much water as physically possible in the shortest amount of time; 2) bars and clubs were closing their doors for the morning 2 AM curfew. Yup, we had a wonderful mixture of overflowing streets-and "overflowing" drivers.

I was standing in the middle of a busy, four-lane road. It was a road, but looked more like a lake. I was wearing a bright green fluorescent safety vest-as green and fluorescent as an early 80s Madonna concert. I was also waving a flashlight bright enough to double as an airport runway light. And I was standing next to a police car with enough lights flashing to give any shopping mall Christmas tree envy. You couldn't miss me-or so I thought.

There was about 3-feet of rushing water with three or four cars nearly floating in the middle. You'd figure most people would realize that maybe "something" was going on. You'd figure that most folks might be at least, somewhat curious, and maybe even slow down a bit to poke around and see what was happening. Not so for the several drunk-drivers that passed me by.

Among other things, you can tell a drunk driver by the way they look at you, but also how they don't look at you. When people drive drunk, they get "tunnel-vision." That is, they tend to narrowly focus on what's directly in front of them. Like the steering wheel and the blurry weird stuff in front of their windshield. And if you're standing beside them as they drive by, you can tell instantly that they're drunk just how they sorta stare ahead and don't notice any other darn thing around them (like police cars or police officers).

Normally, if you're working an accident or directing traffic, when a drunk driver whizzes by, there's not much you can do, except for maybe getting on the radio and letting other officers know about the car. Sometimes, when we're not busy with other calls, we might even be able to stop them. But for the most part, they whiz by.

But tonight was different. I knew that if anyone passed me by, they'd be stopping, without a doubt. One way or another, the overflowing creek rushing across the road would stop them.

When It’s Time…

There isn’t much humor or fun to this post. So if you don’t want your day to turn melancholy or downright morbid, read something else…

I’m sure most of us at one point or another think about our death, how it will happen, when it will happen, what it will feel like, etc. I’ve never fixated on the subject, but sure, the thought does cross my mind. My own mortality comes a bit more into focus sometimes, after certain calls and leaving certain crime scenes.

Cops probably see more gruesome tragedies more regularly than most folks. And admittedly, we sometimes deal with them in seemingly odd, off-beat, or insensitive ways. But in some ways joking about a "good shooting" or a "good stabbing" helps to disassociate bad things in your head so you can leave the scene and then go help Mrs. Jones deal with her neighbor’s barking dog on the next call without losing your sanity.

But sometimes, the reality of tragedy can unexpectedly grab onto you a bit. The other night, two people ran out of gas on the highway and were killed in traffic. The call started on the police radio as a request to assist a motorist, but suddenly changed to a collision involving a pedestrian…then another.

I purposefully went out of my way to avoid the scene. Admittedly, crime scenes can be fascinating, but I wasn’t in the mood for tragedy. So, I went rolling around a few areas checking on things waiting to take calls while half the division was tied up with the accident and closing down the highways. I purposefully couldn’t have been farther away from the scene. Yet coincidentally, the wayward chaplain finds me in a parking lot. He was misinformed about the location of the accident, and miles away, so I escorted him to the scene.

While there, I was told to go find a grieving relative of one of the victim’s who was trying to get to the scene through a field. We found him. Coincidentally, I met this guy the night before when he approached me about a trespasser near his business. Another weird coincidence.

After getting family members with the chaplain, my good friend SMITTY asked me to help sketch a diagram of the evidence on the roadway. SMITTY had the daunting task of handling the investigation and report, which includes diagrams and measurements and all sorts of other formulations. He had his hands more than full, so of course I helped him out.

Truth be told, a lot went through my mind as I documented each of the twenty-two items—but none of my thoughts had anything to do with diagrams and evidence; more with tragedy.

Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. People shouldn’t tragically lose their lives on the highway. Unfortunate survivors involved in the accident and eye-witnesses shouldn’t have to suffer the agony of remembering moments they’ll probably never forget. And families shouldn’t be left to grieve.

Unfortunately, it’s part of life—and at times, despairingly so. And sometimes, things like this leave you thinking about what really matters…

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

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RECOVERY - Street Stories

Last night was good night for many reasons. I was rolling around looking for trouble and found some: about a dozen people hanging around in a parking lot; two of whom I recently arrested for guns and dope. And as the adage goes, "where there’s one, there’s sure to be another" (OK, maybe this is more of a fisherman’s prayer than a declaration of ancient wisdom).

So, I stop, get out of the car and check to see what’s going on. It doesn’t take long for more and more people to saunter around. Next thing I know, we’ve got about fifteen people lined up to be identified and checked for weapons. Amazingly, there were none. Yup, no guns and nobody had warrants—amazing. But redeemably, there was a bag of powder cocaine underneath a car where most of them were standing.

Well, if you didn’t see who threw it down, wait to see who picks it up. So, I told my fellow officers JOHNSON and HALE, "Don’t look down, don’t even look at the car, don’t even look in that direction. Play dead and look east over your shoulder to Mecca and pay homage. In fact, close your eyes and stumble blind to your police car! Let’s get outta here!" I didn’t want the gang to think we spotted the coke under the car. So we hopped in our cars pronto. HALE went one way, JOHNSON and I went another so we could ditch our cars, hide out, and wait and see who comes to get the coke.

It didn’t take long. Just as JOHNSON and I were getting into our hiding spot, we noticed a car pull up nearby. JOHNSON says, "Get closer…check and see if it’s still there." As I’m crawling like a crab on the ground trying to keep my duty belt and gear from rattling and scraping the asphalt, I notice a guy walk over to the car. He bends down, looks straight at me from under the car…and then picks up the bag of coke.

At this point, I’m about 20 feet behind him. My legs somehow instinctively threw my body up and headed full steam toward the suspect. I was inspired to share the moment and bellow of one of my favorite quotations, "STOP, TULSA POLICE!"

The suspect panics. He jumps almost two feet in the air. He runs one way, then another. He takes a few strides and tosses the coke in the air. JOHNSON who was running behind me must have caught the bag like a center-fielder going in for a short fly ball near the infield. I chase the suspect toward an apartment door as he tries to run inside.

Then it hits me…that strange sensation where everything slows down. I remember tackling the suspect, falling through the cracked, open door, and landing on the floor. We landed in the middle of the living room surrounded by pot smoking thugs. I looked up to see more eyes and people than I could count. I grabbed my radio with one hand while holding the suspect with the other. "Edward 134…Get me some backers!" Luckily, our police dispatchers took care of the rest. In a slow-motion stupor, I could hear sirens wailing from all directions getting closer and closer. Sometimes, there is no greater feeling than knowing your uniformed brothers and sisters are on their way.

Plenty of help arrived, and we got everyone secured pretty quickly. While securing a person who was sitting on the couch, Officer TEDRICK (who arrived at the scene so fast he seemed to have parachuted from the sky), spots a handgun on the couch. Not really a surprise considering those in attendance at this evening’s soirée, but surprisingly, it was a stolen Tulsa Police pistol. We had just recovered one of our own guns that was stolen from an officer who had been burglarized. It’s great to take a gun off the street, but even better when you get back one of your own.

Hours later, while sorting through paperwork, I carefully packaged the gun for the fingerprint lab. I began thinking about what if this was my gun, stolen from my own home. Aside from feeling ashamed, I’d be worried sick. I’d feel terrible knowing that somehow my own gun was out on the street in the hands of the wrong people. I got a sinking feeling knowing that it could have been my gun that was stolen, and could easily have been used to shoot or kill someone. Sure, this was another gun off the street, but suddenly, it seemed like a whole lot more…

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Getting a Leg Up…

I was traipsing around an apartment complex looking for dope dealers and smokers. It didn’t take very long to find ‘em. And while walking around, I encountered a younger dude that I recognized. I knew him from somewhere on the side of town I worked last year. He gave me his (fake) name, but it didn’t sound right. And I recognized the other person he was with too. Anyway, he was "clean." And while I wasn’t completely satisfied with his story, I knew I’d remember his (real) name sooner or later. So I left him alone for now. Besides, a large group of a dozen or so "citizens" started to congregate nearby.

While stalking my prey, I got on the radio and asked for a backer (another officer to assist). A good sergeant who looks after me, knew what I was up to, and got me the right amount of back-up that I really needed. I had been standing around out of sight (or so I thought) for a good ten minutes watching the group. They mingled around, passed beers and bottles and other things back and forth. I was sitting down behind a car, up against a wall thinking nobody could see me. Well, nobody except for the person in the upstairs apartment who opened the window, looked down at me, and made the "whoop, whoop" sound that everybody unmistakably knows, and can only mean one thing: the cops are here; the "po-po" are out; 5-0.

Everybody scattered and disappeared into doors, cars, and cracks in mere seconds. The crickets seemed suddenly deafening. Instead of a dozen people to investigate, it was me, two cats, and a page from last month’s People magazine drifting in the parking lot.

Anyway, a bunch of other officers arrived. We hung out and waited for people to come back around. Unknowingly, two other officers stopped and interviewed the dude I had just stopped. When I left, I told the dude to get in his car and leave. Well, he didn’t heed my advice…

Two officers who came to help ran into the same dude. They took more time to figure out who he was and discovered he had a warrant. Since he also gave Officer ROSE a bogus name, ROSE—in a totally ordinary manner—asks the dude, "hey, you know it’s a crime to lie to the police?"

Well, it seems ROSE should get a side job at the Olympics because after he said that, the dude took off running like he was goin’ for the gold. ROSE and his partner instantly chased after him. Meanwhile, I was walking across a nearby parking lot back to my car since nothing was going on (or so I thought). But that changes as soon as I turned the corner.

I heard some kind of yelling. I saw the dude running across the parking lot. ROSE was chasing him. FOOT PURSUIT!!!

I saw the dude run toward a flight of stairs—and in a single leap—jump over them. The dude cleared about 15 feet in a single bound. But he hit the ground hard. Real hard. I thought he wasn’t going to get up after jumping that far and falling on his face, but he did.

I ran after him as he tried to duck into a dark alley. ROSE was on his heels and we both met up at the alley. "He’s right there!" I yelled. ROSE lit up the bushes with his flashlight and just under a bush we found our suspect.

But something wasn’t right. After I handcuffed him, I leaned him over to the right, but his left foot was still facing left (instead of right, like it normally should). Then I noticed that his knee bone was about where his mid-thigh should be. Yup, his leg was broken, and broke pretty bad.

As ROSE was telling me what happened, I recognized the dude—and his real name. ROSE also figured out that he had a felony warrant, which explains why he ran.

However, he didn’t get very far—and broke his leg (leg cast not included) on the hurdle after his 50-yard dash. Not much of an Olympic performance. And any dreams of being a track star about as broken as his fibula, but he did "take home" a nice life-long reminder of why you shouldn’t run from the po-lice.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella