TPD Blog

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

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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

Luckily…

Every year, Tulsa police officers renew their assignments. That is, we "bid" for which side of town and which shift we work, and which days off we have. It’s based upon seniority. So, the longer you’ve been on the department, the more likely you can choose to work the day shift and have Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays off. If you’re fresh out of the academy, the more likely you’ll have little choice but to work the graveyard shift and call Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday your new "weekend."

For dozens of reasons (mostly personal), I chose to work graveyards in a different side of town. Yes, Tuesday is my new "Friday" and Thursday is my new "Sunday" of sorts. The last couple of weeks have been a period of adjustment. Getting familiar with a new "designator"—before I was Lincoln-three-thirty-two (L332), now, I’m Edward-one-thirty-four (E134). It’s the same game in a different ballpark. And it takes some time to learn new streets, alleys, "bad" neighborhoods and trouble spots, and putting names with new faces both on the street and in the squad room.

Perhaps the biggest change for me, is that my former squad mate (Ogre) and I, now work opposite sides of town. For a year, we were twins of sorts. On the street, we were known as "Big Ugly" (AKA "Big Hungry") and "Little Ugly" Sure, he’s a foot taller, a hundred pounds heavier, and eats 8-10 pounds of food (per meal) more than I do, but we were practically each other’s shadow and nearly inseparable. No, not out of weird attraction for each other, as a year of jokes from other officers can attest, but because we were both eager to learn as much as we could, chase the baddest, ugliest criminals we could find, and make as many arrests as we could. We tried to be as non-stop, gung-ho as we were capable. It cost us many late nights (and consequent spousal tirades), all sorts of ridicule and rumors from our fellow officers, and dozens of complaints from citizens and officers alike. But as long as we put the felons in jail and our sergeant was satisfied, we gladly paid the price.

After a year, we had developed our own intuitive way of doing things. If Ogre drove one way, I circled around the other. If his car slowed for a moment, I knew we were gonna roll up on someone. If he paused for a second, at a certain moment during a car stop, I knew I’d be searching a car. We had developed our own style and rhythm. Our own cop jazz. One of my training officers told me a long time ago, that everything in police work has a "rhythm" to it. Now, I know what he was talking about, not just theoretically, but practically speaking.

So after a year of hiding behind garbage dumpsters, sneaking up on criminals, and knowing I could absolutely and undoubtedly trust the other person in uniform next to me, I’m suddenly starting all over again by myself.

Nor-mull

Most of us try to rationalize things in a normal way. That makes good sense for normal situations, but doesn’t help much otherwise. Normal thinking will never make sense of abnormal things.

For example, the other night I was creeping around and spotted a car driving erratically through an intersection. I sped up to it and checked the license tag on the car. Stolen. The driver then sped across the intersection in the middle of traffic, trying to dodge me, I guess. But luckily, sometimes people heed the bright lights and blaring siren of a police car and stopped to let me chase after the car.

About a block away, the car pulls over to the left. I’m already anticipating the door-open, jump-and-run, bailout maneuver that most experienced criminals and car thieves have down pat. The door swings open…

I’m already out of my car and running toward the open door. Then everything seems to warp in time. The driver was sooooo stoned from smoking weed and lethargic, that he made "reverse" look like blistering fast-forward. He was completely dazed. He looked dazedly down at this pants pocket, as if he wanted to get something from it. But since it took him about a minute to stand up, I figured it would be tomorrow morning sometime by the time he did. So, I just watched from a safe distance as the driver stood there in a Cheech and Chong stupor attempting his "escape."

After a long 15 seconds, I was growing bored (watching grass grow is way more action-packed), so I grabbed the driver and slapped handcuffs on him. He slumped over from being so stoned, so I had to prop him up against the car. In his pocket, I found a loaded pistol with the serial numbers scratched off. He said he needed it ‘cuz he was "in it wit some Hoovers" (i.e., he had some discrepancies and divergences with associates of the Hoover Crips gang).

OK, the facts aren’t so weird or out of the ordinary: a stoned gang member with a gun in a stolen car. Not really a big deal. However, our super-fly-stoned-coupe-thievin’-gunslinger was only 13. Yup, he was one calendar from the discount bin older than 12. Perhaps even a bit more puzzling and perplexing, he had already been arrested for burglary, robbery, drugs, stealing cars, etc.

So, here’s the part where most "normal" folk try to make normal sense of this circumstances. Questions and proclamations such as "Where are the parents?" "How come he didn’t stay in jail before?" "We need tougher juvenile laws…" "What can we do to stop this?" typically mire such conversations.

But the truth of it is, seeking normal answers to normal questions about abnormal people and circumstances doesn’t work. Sometimes, things are just messed up because they’re just messed up. There’s no soul searching, ethical avenging, legislative lobbying, or "letters to the editor" that will make any substantial difference. The train has left the station, the ship has already set sail (and for the most part, has already sank). But an abundance of transportation/calamity metaphors ain’t gonna help either.

One can hope that he’ll get "reform" until he’s 18 (or longer) and that he’ll somehow miraculously get turned around. But that won’t happen. This is one of those instances and circumstances when you just give in or give up. It’s the talk of a jaded tongue, I know. Unfortunately, there’s not much else to say.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Latest Tulsa Police Podcast - Street Stories

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http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/08/16/custody-street-stories-14/

Slingshot

"Violent and combative…" that’s the way the dispatcher described the patient we needed to transport. It’s not a lot of fun to wrestle with people who unfortunately suffer from mental and behavioral problems, especially when they’re really battling things inside their own heads.

As we approach the hospital emergency room where the patient is restrained and shackled, we can hear him screaming and moaning. This isn’t going to be fun. Instead of an easy escort from one hospital to another, I was anticipating an uphill battle every inch of the way and a torturous ride of yelling and screaming.

We walked into the room and found "Malcolm." We’ve met with him before and the last time it was nothing but a fight. I had absolutely no desire to fight with him, so I decided to take another approach. It didn’t work last time but maybe it would this time.

Malcolm was sort of laying back, but laying up in the air, held down by restraints, but still lifting himself off the hospital gurney. He looked like he was screaming but not a sound was coming from his mouth.

"Malcolm, how are you doing?" I asked.

"I’ve been really really better," he replied. He fell back into the bed as he spoke.

"We’re going to take you to another hospital to get you some help, OK?"

Malcolm seemed somewhat relieved and suddenly calm as he said, "that would be good."

The nurse handed us Malcolm’s belongings to take along. There was a large, three-foot long branch with a bungee-cord around it. The branch was shaped like a Y.

"Hey Malcolm, what’s the tree branch for?" I inquired.

"That’s a slingshot…I use it to shoot down the bad things that are after me…"

I got a lump in my throat. There’s a seemingly normal, full-grown man lying in front of me. But he’s suffering in his own mind believing that "bad things" are after him and needs a "slingshot" to ward them off. In that moment, I felt almost ashamed to be in a right mind (relatively speaking, of course).

"Malcolm, we’re the police, we’ll help protect you from those bad things. We won’t let them get you."

"Oh, that’s good…that’s real real good," he said with a sigh of relief.

Malcolm started singing a hymn and then recited a sermon that he must have learned from a pastor at church. He was calm.

We made it out of the emergency room and out to the street without incident. But he became agitated when I started to put the "slingshot" into the trunk of my police car.

"Hey Malcolm, it’s OK, it’ll be right here."

"I need it, I need it, and I need to make a new one."

"Well, maybe after you get some help, we can make some new slingshots together," I said (and false promised knowing that we’d never have the chance).

Malcolm’s face was glowing, he was smiling ear to ear. "Oh that’s happy! That’s real happy! We can make all kinds of slingshots together!"

I don’t know if it was the innocence of his words, the sad notion that probably nobody offered to do anything with him, or just the feeling that he thought he had a friend. Maybe it was all of that and more. While I could pretend to perceive his delusions, I couldn’t even imagine his emotional pain. But I could feel his loneliness. And like a slingshot, it struck me hard.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Distinction in Chaos

Around 1:00 A.M. this morning, my partner and I get a call about a disturbance with a knife. Reportedly, a guy was running around an apartment complex stabbing people. My partner shows up first and makes an emergency request to hold all radio traffic (which means all officers stop using the radio in the meantime). As I approach the apartment, I look down below a steep embankment. There’s a broken window, shattered glass, doors forced open, people screaming, and blood everywhere I shine my flashlight. The stairs to the apartment were too far away, so the quickest way down was a grassy embankment. So, like sliding into home plate, I jumped and slid down the 20-foot slope.

As I ran into the apartment, blood was smeared everywhere: on the walls, all over the carpet, and dripping from the face of a guy sitting in a chair. Another woman was lying face down on the floor, with a knife right beside her head. A terrified teenager with a shocked look on his face sat on the couch. Beside him there was a woman with cuts and blood all over her feet holding an infant.

Suddenly, there was a commotion from the upstairs apartment just above. A bunch of officers run upstairs to find more victims and to hopefully catch the suspect. However, the suspect was sitting right in front of me.

Sometimes, especially amid chaos, things don’t appear as they seem. Victims seem like suspects; suspects seem like victims. After the woman with the bloody feet yelled a few times at the man bleeding from his head, I knew I found the suspect. Just as I was about to handcuff him, he lunged at a paramedic who just arrived to treat the victims. I tackled the suspect, grabbed his arms behind his back, and yelled, "Cuff him! Cuff him! I got his arms!" I just found out that I was the only officer in the room. I yelled into the radio for help. Luckily, I was able to pepper-spray the suspect and handcuff him, just as other officers ran into the room.

We started putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The suspect and his middle-aged mother came to the apartment where the suspect’s (common-law) wife lived. The wife told him to leave, but instead, he tried to push in the door. The wife then ran upstairs where the suspect followed her. The suspect kicked in the door of the upstairs apartment to get at her. The people upstairs also got slashed while trying to subdue the suspect, who had a knife or a machete, by hitting him over the head a few times. The people chased the suspect outside and the wife ran back downstairs into her apartment. But the suspect apparently jumped through the bedroom window (head first) to attack her. She locked herself in the bathroom, while the suspect tried to stab at her through the door and slashed her feet through the bottom of the door. That’s when my partner showed up, heard the threats and cries for help, and kicked in the door putting a stop to what could have been and even far worse attack.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

RELATED STORIES

http://www.tulsaworld.com/news/article.aspx?articleID=070803_1__Atlea26548

Latest Podcast: Emu Wrangle

Check out the latest podcast for your listening pleasure.

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/08/02/emu-wrangle-street-stories-12/

Let’s Play Custody!

Custody battles are typically ugly. And it seems that whatever feelings of love that initially brought people together, turn to hate once someone hires an attorney and schedules something in family court.

The legal wrangling, mediation hearings, and motions ad nauseam are enough to rip any sentiment of appreciation apart. But there’s an even worse side: when one parent alleges sexual misconduct against the other. And it happens more often than you think.

The other night, a call about a molestation had been holding for dispatch for hours (we truly don’t have enough officers on the streets). Besides, nobody volunteers for the molestation calls. So after a quick break after going from one call to the next, I told the dispatcher I’d take the molestation call. There’s good reason for trying to avoid molestation calls: if the allegations are true, you’re gonna carry some "emotional baggage" around with you like a sky cap at the airport. And if they’re not…well, let me explain…

A concerned mother called to report that her infant daughter had been molested by the child’s father (of course, mom and dad are in the middle of a custody battle. So after hearing mom describe in way too intimate detail what she thinks happened, I asked her a simple question: how’s this different from diaper rash? Asking this question must have prompted an abnormal growth of a second head from my neck because she looked at me as if I had two heads.

Mom quickly corrected me, "No, you see, it’s not that."

"OK, how do you know this is something criminal, and not something medical" I asked.

Mom replied, "Well, I don’t, but my attorney told me to…" Enough said.

I spent this next six hours waiting for paperwork, examination procedures, and following protocols. All the while I can’t help but think, how could anyone—for any reason—subject an infant to such an experience. Does the remark "do what’s best for the child(ren)" ever remind anyone during a custody case?

Oh, wait a minute, I forgot. Custody is the game of doing whatever it takes to make the other parent seem as despicable as possible, even if it means the equivalent of a pap smear for a 6 month-old. Heck, Parker Brothers should make a board game out of it: "Other parent alleges molestation…Go to Court. Do not pass "Go." Do not collect $200. Pay attorney $2000." We can all play Jeopardy, why not Custody! in the comfort of our own living rooms?

Seriously though, as a cop, if you handle a molestation case and the allegations are true, you’re probably scarred for life. If they’re unfounded, you’re gonna be frustrated and furious. Especially since it’s all fabrication, as it seems to have been in this case. The infant was perfectly fine, not even a diaper rash. Luckily, she is so young that she’ll have no recollection of the ordeal.

Silly me. Custody isn’t about the children. Sorry, whose turn is it to roll the dice?

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Car Trouble

"Chasing Dope": Cop parlance for going after drugs, drug dealers, and drug addicts. Some cops live for it, others loathe it. Admittedly, it’s unique milieu of persons, perspectives, and circumstances. And it’s one that I can appreciate if it means going after the "bigger fish in the pond" and making a difference in a neighborhood by getting rid of dope dealers and doers, albeit for just a weekend at a time.

The other night I was lucky enough to get a spot working a special assignment. It entailed taking a "no tolerance" position at a local club and cracking down on anything illegal. From parking tickets to felony arrests. So, I’m thinking, "what better way to spend a Saturday night!?"

I was partnered up with another officer and riding in her car (mine is at the garage again for repairs, don’t ask). We were discussing how people involved in certain drugs look or act a certain way—and at the same time, in no particular way at all. We were talking about how it doesn’t matter if someone’s skin is black, white, pink, green, or if they drive a Lincoln sittin’ on chrome 22s or a Volvo equipped with side-curtain airbags; dope dealers and addicts come in all shapes and sizes. At one point, we mentioned how it’s not just guys who wheel and deal dope, but more and more, it’s the ladies selling crack, coke, weed, and "disco biscuits" these days. Besides, street gangsta thugs typically get their girlfriends to hold their guns and stash (drugs), so the ladies are ever more and more suspect.

A Different Kind of Bad Guy

I just dealt with the toughest case I ever had. It was tough in many ways, but mostly emotionally and psychologically. I was called to the scene of a lewd molestation. A twenty-something year-old man was caught having sex with young girl in a public place. She’s so young, she’s not even a teenager. This alone is enough to warp the average mind, but even more grueling: they were very closely related.

I arrived at the scene. Fortunately for the prosecution, the whole act was caught on video surveillance. Unfortunately, I had to repeatedly watch the surveillance recording to get the facts and make the arrest. Sure, I’ve heard all the jokes before. And having lived in Hamburg, Germany for a few years, I was exposed to some of the "broader" notions of sexual activity than those of puritanical America. But absolutely nothing had prepared me for this: watching the crime on video one minute, and then talking to the victim about it the next. Stupefying.

On tape, it seems as if the two have done this a hundred times before. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem like this was the first time. As if they were married for a dozen years and it was all routine. But in the other sense of reality, there’s a pre-teen little girl sitting in front of me cuddling a teddy bear struggling with words to explain what happened. I feel a tenseness in the back of my head. An odd feeling I never felt before. An uneasy anxiousness, some kind of agitation telling me things aren’t right, as if I’m sensing some unknown danger. Fortunately, I don’t have to spend much time with the victim. My squad mate Dave has the regrettable task of staying with her for the next several hours while she gets professional care.

I spend the next seven unlucky hours guarding the suspect. I sat next to him, staring with a scowl on my face. I sat there in silence, but fleeting thoughts screamed in my head…"how could you do this?...how could you ruin such a young spirit?...how could you be so disgustingly selfish?..." Then, I began thinking what if someone like him did something like this to my (step-)daughter. She’s about the same age. The images of the videotape had been droning constantly in the back of my mind. But now, one minute, it’s the face of the victim. The other, it’s my own (step-)daughter. The din of the fluorescent lights above are the only thing keeping me sane.

Facades

Despite the facades, most cops really do care. Sure, at times we may seem stoic, arrogant, egomaniacal, brash, and like runner-ups in the "National Lack of Personality Contest." But no matter how hard we try to walk around like Marine drill sergeants all the time, there is part of every cop that cares. Cops are people. Cops have friends, families, pets and other things they care about (OK, for some it might just be fishing or a fern, but caring nonetheless). And undoubtedly, that sense of caring and concern is part of the work we do.

Sometimes, we may not get the chance to do all that we can, but we try. And I see it every day: my fellow men and women officers trying to console, advise, praise, or just genuinely help others. Sometimes, we give chances, cut breaks, and try to offer words of wisdom about right and wrong—especially to younger folks.

The rewards of helping a wayward youth choose a different path, stay out of trouble, and do the "right thing" are indescribable. It’s truly a great feeling to see someone you may have arrested in the past, get themselves together and begin succeeding in life, instead of succumbing to its pitfalls. It may not happen often, but when it does, you feel as if you’ve really accomplished something, albeit in part, big or small. And oftentimes, such things are the only "pat on the back" or acknowledgment you’ll ever get—the proud feeling inside knowing that you’ve somehow made a difference. It’s the quiet praise that keeps many cops going.

But nothing is more disappointing than trying to help a troubled youth—and failing. And nothing is more disappointing than trying to help someone whose life came to a tragic end.

A few weeks ago, I met "Heather" and her older sister. Sis was stoned, speeding, and just out of control. Heather was a little altered herself—and angry at the police and probably the world itself. She yelled, kicked, screamed, and struggled with us. Eventually she calmed down. Instead of arresting her, we called a relative to come take her home. While waiting for her ride home, I talked to her. I tried telling her that street life, drugs, and growing up "fast" isn’t the way to go.

I told her that young people who don’t make better choices end up in trouble, prison, addicted—or worse. I told her what I’ve told hundreds of kids, "If you don’t change your life, you’ll end up dead."

I saw her older sister a few weeks ago. I asked how Heather was doing. "Good, good," she said. "She’s back home and doing better." Cool, I thought. Maybe a change of place can help bring about change of mind. I was glad that Heather wasn’t hanging around in Tulsa and getting caught up in bad things with bad people.

Unfortunately, I saw Heather for the last time a few days ago. She was on the floor bleeding from a gunshot wound. She died later that day. Heather’s older sister called my partner just an hour after she passed.

I remember Heather. I remember being happy for a moment that maybe she got a chance to change her life. But now, having told her "if you don’t change, you’ll end up…"

I can only remember the arrogance of my own words.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

RELATED STORIES

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Cold Air Catches Crooks – Street Stories

We got a call about some burglary suspects trying to steal an air conditioning unit. A bunch of good citizens caught them in the act and called police. About four cars responded. As we arrived, we spotted a large air conditioning unit, about 5-feet square sitting in the middle of the street. Nearly a dozen people were running down an alley. They began yelling, "This way! Over here! They ran into the house!"

OK, so we stop, set up a perimeter, and started to get all the facts. Witnesses say that three suspects stole the air conditioning unit from a nearby house. When the suspects realized that people were chasing them, they just dropped the air conditioner and took off.

We started to track the suspects from the last place they were seen. We found some muddy footprints leading up to a backyard. Coincidentally, the backyard was full of dismantled air conditioning units and other appliances. This caper doesn’t require much brainpower to figure out. So we knocked on the door. A lady answered. After a few basic questions, we asked if anyone else was inside. She gave the caveat every cop loves to hear, the dead give-away for guilt. She said, "not that I know of."

Busted. She's lying. So we get a search waiver and take a look inside. We open the door to a small bedroom. In the beam of our flashlights, we found two suspects "asleep" on the floor and couch. Each was wearing a pair of muddy shoes, probably the ones that left the muddy footprints near the alley [again, this was a no-brainer].

But the real clincher in this case was silent and invisible. Inside the room, it was a chilly 50 degrees. The air conditioning unit in the window practically had icicles hanging from it and the windows were nearly frosted shut. But strangely, the two suspects were sweating and their sweaty backs and heads were steaming in the glare of our flashlights. Air conditioning is what they were after, but it's also what gave them up. There’s no way that anyone who had been in the room for a while would be hot and sweaty—unless they had been hauling a 200-pound air conditioner and being chased by citizens and the police.

Huh...nobody else was supposed to be in the house, both were wearing muddy shoes, and both were sweating while "sleeping" in a room that was cold enough to keep a polar bear happy. Well, the suspects did a good job trying to play "asleep," although nothing to merit an Academy Award. They played innocent pretty well as we handcuffed them and led them out of the house.

We caught the suspects and everything else in the investigation was going smooth; eyewitnesses identified the suspects, cohorts started confessing, and others wrote statements that they knew the suspects stole air conditioners, took out the copper parts, and sold them for drug money.

Everything was great, except for one thing. We couldn't find the owner of the house and air conditioner. We tried everything we could, but to no avail. So after sorting everything out, chasing the suspects down, and making arrests, we had to let them go. Believe me, this isn’t what I wanted to do, but I had no choice. No victim, no crime.

It was an aggravating ride to the police property warehouse, escorting the wrecker that recovered the air conditioning unit since it was too big to put in a van. Catching criminals--and then having to let them go--isn't how the game is supposed to be played. The only consolation I had was knowing that if we didn't catch 'em this time, we'd catch 'em again next time.

But I was wrong...

Skip to the next day...

I was working the next afternoon, writing a report, when I heard the dispatcher advise of a hit and run. The caller said that someone had run them off the road and they wanted to make a police report. There was something about the address that was very familiar. Too familiar...Wait a minute, it was the same address where we found the suspects the night before. I started heading that way, just to "say hello." On the way, I heard another call on the radio: someone said that they were missing an air conditioner and think they know who stole it. The caller lived two blocks away from the suspects. BINGO!

Our suspects from the night before were indeed the ones that wanted to report a hit and run. While we "investigated" their claim (which seemed tremendously bogus), we had two other officers meet with the person who owned the air conditioner just around the block. In a stroke of pure luck, we found our victim and had our suspects standing right in front of us! Imagine the suspect's surprise when instead of "going to where the accident happened," the suspect stood up and got handcuffed instead.

Delayed gratification can be pretty sweet sometimes.

Off. Jay Chiarito Mazarella

WITNESSES

Shots fired. A man on the ground bleeding. Another unfortunate shooting. I was clearing debris from the highway nearby when the call went out. Since I was close, I headed that way to see if I could help out.

I arrived just behind the ambulance. Tulsa Firefighters were already treating the victim on the ground. My good buddy Flip had handcuffed the suspect and was putting him in his police car. I grabbed on to the suspect while Flip opened the door.

Flip went back to help the officers first on the scene recover the gun, collect evidence, and secure the crime scene. I started asking onlookers if they had seen or heard anything.

While identifying witnesses, I noticed something different about this shooting. Since we already arrested the shooter, maybe there was a lesser sense of danger. Maybe since there were only a handful of onlookers (instead of the typical dozens), there was a lesser sense of chaos. Maybe as a rookie police officer, I had just become familiar with the flow of working a shooting scene. Whatever it was, something was different, and for the first time, I was profoundly struck by the obvious state of shock that most people had. Even the folks who just heard something seemed to be dazed as if they were standing in front of me, but nonetheless a thousand miles away.

As I was trying to get an eyewitness to write down her story, I couldn’t help but notice how her life had just changed. She was sweating. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak clearly. She forgot where she lived even though we were standing in front of her house. She was in emotional shock.

Of course, I’ve seen shocked witnesses before, but for the first time, I really began to feel what they go through. It was unnerving. I noticed my own pulse racing at times as I perceived her anxiety. As I glanced around the area and the crime scene, the effects of shooting were palpable. You could tell who had been there just by the dazed expression on their faces. It was a stark contrast to the seriousness, diligence, and concern on the faces of the firefighters, paramedics, responding officers, and police supervisors.

You could tell whose lives were never going to be the same anymore. They had witnessed something they’ll never forget. I’ve heard it a hundred times, but never truly felt it: witnesses of a deadly crime are also victims. Their lives are changed forever.

Off Jay Chiarito_mazzarella

In a subject-matter related, completely new Podcast, Jay speaks of yet another Shooting Scene. Please click on the following link:

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/06/26/shooting-scene-street-stories-9/

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Misplaced Warrant – Street Stories Podcast # 8

The latest Podcast: 

When your buddy, named Flip, asks you to help serve warrants together with a guy named Ogre, maybe you should have stayed home. If you didn’t… Prepare for some mishap!

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/06/07/misplaced-warrant-street-stories-8/

Politics, Metrics, Polemics & Other Things "-ics"

There’s been quite a lot of talk these days about "Effective Policing" and the even stranger concept of "Police Growth."

While I can somewhat understand the interim Chief’s polemics and metrics I don’t necessarily understand the abstraction and extrapolation. That is, should a five-year statistic about how police officers in a city 1,000 miles away managed to reduce their "response" to calls really, truly matter to taxpayers in Tulsa? I’m not so sure. At the least, it’s a bit ecdemic.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for vetting "operational inefficiencies" (especially in the context of guised, mandated change management). However, since we’re talking "utopian" here, let’s consider other metrics and ways to measure "effective policing"—that is, police work that is both reactive and proactive. And yes, like Councilor Westcott, I like consensus too. Like my fellow officers, I try to reach consensus on every call, but sometimes that’s not always possible.

So, with that in mind, I think we should also consider some other metrics in determining what effective policing is, and what an appropriate number of police officers for the City of Tulsa should be

As a cop, working on the street, it seems we need to also consider:

The number of barred windows in any given neighborhood

Let’s face it, nobody really feels safe until there no bars on the windows. In the areas I patrol, there are a lot of bars on a lot of windows, so either these Tulsans would agree that we have enough police officers, or they like the whole prison-bar aesthetic or are otherwise eccentric.

The number of officers per square mile

Some days, there are only four patrol officers who must cover nearly 25 square miles (74107). And it only takes one traffic accident, 911 hang up call, or intoxicated person to tie up 2 officers. So, if any 2 officers respond to a call, you’re now talking 2 officers for roughly 25 miles. I doubt many citizens feel safe and as an officer, I’m not too thrilled about getting out of my car to stop a pickup truck full of drunks at 2 in the morning knowing that the nearest backup officer is 15 miles away.

Shooting Scene – Divide and Conquer

There’s something about the scene of a shooting. It’s a strange feeling. A feeling partly fueled with adrenaline racing through your body and calculations, strategies, and tactics running through your brain. You never know who is friend or foe—miscalculations could cost your life or the lives of others. It’s strange how the scene comes into focus as you drive in. Things almost seem like slow-motion shots in the movies. You can see a victim on the ground bleeding. People huddled over the victim trying to help. Others frantically circle about not knowing what to do. And further in the background there’s typically a gathering of onlookers who have that dazed expression on their faces.

Things almost seem safe, sound, and secure while sitting in your patrol car. From the second it takes to put the car in park and open the door, it’s as if the world is almost serene and peaceful. That is, compared to the sensory deluge that occurs the moment you step out of the car.

People are yelling. The victim writhing and screaming in agony from gunshot wounds. Sirens wail in the background. The victim is still conscious and breathing—a good sign. Samaritans apply pressure to the wounds to help limit the blood loss. Dozens of people swarm around you blurting out what they saw. Sorting through all of it is like reading the sentences below at the same time:

He did it. He shot him. He shot him right here.

They were driving a blue truck.

The car they were driving was gold.

He just started shooting.

And when it hits your ears, it sounds like four different people trying to tell you all at once:

Heweretheydrivinghimblueshotgoldrighthere.

Divide and conquer.

Grab each of the witnesses one by one. Get their story. Get on the radio and let other officers know to limit the suspect’s escape. Keep an eye out for threats—for all you know, the shooter could still be around, or right next to you. Watch over the victim to make sure they don’t take a turn for the worse. Use the eyes in the back of your head to make sure that witnesses or any suspicious persons don’t wander off.

You find yourself saying, "OK, tell me again what you saw…what color was the car? Hey! Hey! Stay right over there, don’t go anywhere. Press harder to stop the bleeding. It was green? I told you not to move man! Hang in there, the ambulance is here"—all in one breath.

And the next thing you realize is that everything seems brighter. There’s a lot more red and blue lights around. More and more officers arrive and take care of the situation. Then and only then, can you exhale and remind yourself how lucky you are…you’re not the one in the ambulance.

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Related Links:

http://kotv.com/news/local/story/?id=128453

http://www.fox23.com/news/local/story.aspx?content_id=47F5A310-646A-4024-B281-1181395DD9C5&gsa=true

LEFT-IST LANE THINKING…

OK, admittedly, I'm going to rant a bit. And yes, I'm going to rant about driving…

So, I've lived in New York and Germany--home to some of the craziest and fastest drivers on the planet. And despite the rage of New Yorkers, and the +140 MPH Euro speed demons ("geschwindigkeitliebhabers"), they understand something fundamental to driving in modern societies: they know what the heck the left lane is for!

The left lane (in other parts of the world beyond Tulsa) is typically called the "passing" lane. To be completely clear and concrete, it's the lane you drive in to PASS another car. It's the one on the left if there are two lanes side by side in the same direction of travel. It's the ones that New Yorkers dare not enter unless they're committed to driving +25 MPH OVER the speed limit. And it's the lane you don't even dare enter on German highways unless your speedometer has numbers higher than 240 MHP--if not, stay out! [RAUS MEIN WEG!]

However, here in Tulsa, it seems the left lane is more of an all purpose-do-whatever-you-want-while-you're-driving-kinda-place. But truthfully, the left lane is for passing--or turning left. If you're not doing either, drive in the right lane--commonly known as the "driving lane."

To help avoid any confusion, bear in mind that the left lane is NOT for:

Driving slower than cars in the right lane

Keeping the center median company

Having more room to more easily make a RIGHT turn

Cruising along so you don't have to worry about hitting the curb you can't see (on the right)

Eating hamburgers--while supposedly "driving"

Reading the newspaper--while "driving"

Putting on mascara--while "driving"
[All three of which I have seen people do—all while "driving in the left lane"]

Letting everyone pass you on the right

Letting everyone pass you on the right--while you talk on your cell phone

Letting "Santa" on his bicycle pass you on the right (Claiming that you were "so offended" that you could only drive in the left lane is not an excuse or lawfully justifiable reason for driving in the left lane)

The left lane is also not for:

Showing other people that slow-moving horse trailers can fit in the left lane too!

Pulling over to the left because you think the police car behind is trying to stop you (ALWAYS pull over to the RIGHT!)

Slow-rollin' so you can lean to the right with your left hand on the wheel--and still see the center of the road

"So…if I pay the minimum balance this month, I can still buy…"--NO DAYDREAMING IN THE LEFT LANE!

Slowing down to freak out because Chandler broke up with Brittany to go out with Amber (OMG!!!)

Showing the police officer behind you that indeed, you can drive 10 MPH under the speed limit (which you only do when a police car is behind you)

Nope, the left lane is the passing lane--the PASS-ING lane. And if you're not passing, you'd better be turning LEFT. [INSERT NEW YORK ACCENT] Fuggeddaboutit if yous ain't!

OK, so If you think I'm making this whole "left-lane" stuff up, check out the Oklahoma Driver's Manual, which offers some good advice about that big ol' chunk of lane out there on the left [this is the book that you liked when you were eight years-old because it had cool pictures of traffic signs; and it's the book we all supposedly read as a teenager to pass our driving test].

For example, Page 32 of the Driver's Manual suggests: "Don't travel in the passing lane." Confusing in meaning, I know, but nonetheless breath-taking in its brevity.

On page 48, there's another gem of motoring inspiration: "If an officer signals you to stop while you're driving in the left lane, you must still pull over to the right shoulder, even if that means crossing several lanes of traffic. Also confusing, but to clarify, the upshot is: ALWAYS PULL OVER TO THE RIGHT!

And the grand-daddy of revolutionary vehicular doctrine is found on Page 52. Irrefutably, Page 52 has some pretty avant-garde notions such as "Drive in the extreme right lane except when passing another vehicle or to turn left" and the mutinously world-shattering assertion: "You should always drive to the right…except to pass."

I know, these are crazy, just plain crazy tenets of modern vehicular ideology. Marx, Engels, Hegel, Kant, et al. have nothing on this radical way of thinking, nonetheless driving...

But seriously though, jokes aside, drive on the right, pass on the left. The risk of road-rage, accidents, and worse things are far too great otherwise. Keep right, aye!

Off Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Related Information

www.dps.state.ok.us/dls/

http://www.dps.state.ok.us/dls/pub/ODM.pdf

A new Street Stories Podcast

Off. Jay has a new podcast for us. Listen here:

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/05/23/a-good-night-for-chasing-bad-guys-street-stories-7/

Officer Jay Posts a Completely New Podcast

Officer Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella has recorded a new Podcast for your listening pleasure. Please follow this link:

http://www.tpdpodcast.com/2007/05/15/left-lane-street-stories-6/

Keen Driving

You hear the call. Another officer on the radio says there’s been a shooting. You drop everything. Hit the lights and siren. Go!

While driving, your awareness and perception expand. All of your senses keen up. Watch traffic. Clear intersections. Anticipate the actions of other drivers—those who know to pull over to the right and those that just stop in the middle of the road.

But in an instant, tragedy can strike. I slowed down for a major intersection. The light turned green and traffic was clear. I accelerated.

THERE! On the right! A lady walking backwards into the middle of the street! She’s drunk and too busy waving goodbye from a night of partying to realize there’s a police car with lights, siren, screeching brakes, and squealing tires heading right at her.

Everything seems in slow motion. Time nearly stops. I can see her walking in the street. She gets brighter and brighter as my headlights get closer and closer. While the "second nature" of my driver training is controls the vehicle, my heart and mind prepare for the worst…@#*%!

This lady will die in front of me on the hood of my car. She will lose her life. And I will have to live the rest of mine with nightmares of her dead body crashing through my windshield.

For whatever reason, miracle, whatever, water on the street, misaligned front tires, who knows…my car slides slightly sideways just enough to pass her by inches.

I’m finally stopped. I look back in the rear-view mirror and see her walking across the street—oblivious. She’s totally unfazed. She didn’t even realize what just happened.

But she could have been strolling along whistling "Dixie" for all I cared. She was alive and after having my life flash before my own eyes, that’s about all I cared about.

I was angry that she was so drunk, smashed, slizzard, ship-wrecked, shellacked, shamrocked, schmaltzed, sauced, schnickered, splotched, spannered, stoked, buttered, bootle-struck, blasted, boxed up, bumfuzzled, bombed, Boris Yeltsin-ed, boiled, blootered, blotto’d, blithered, and blitzkrieged to even notice she walked out into the middle of the street.

But none of that mattered. I was tragically grateful she was alive.

Off Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Protect your local Nazis

Recently, a local church sponsored a sermon by a minister who was advocating the support of Israel. This apparently didn’t set well with the American National Socialist Workers Party, who sent four of their representatives to protest. Several co-workers and I were sent to monitor the event.

These four members wore nazi-style swastika armbands and at least one of them carried a sign which said, "What would Hitler do?" The motorists traveling by didn’t seem to care for these displays and some voiced their displeasure.

I thought the protest, and an impromptu counter-protest were not only evidence of our constitution at work, but good entertainment, so I called my wife and had her bring our 14-year-old daughter out to watch. My daughter particularly hates when I do things like that, but she’s grown used to it.

After the event was over and I returned home, she asked me what my role was at the scene. I asked her what she thought my role was. She said, "Making sure the Nazis didn’t attack anyone?" I said, "Yes, what else?" She said, "Making sure they didn’t go out in the street?" I said, "Yes, what else?" She thought for a few minutes and then her eyes got really big. She said, "You were protecting the Nazis??!!" It was obvious she thought her father was some sort of secret Nazi sympathizer.

After explaining that I was indeed not a Nazi sympathizer, I admitted that part of my duties as a police officer was to protect the protestors. I told her that as Americans, we have the right to speak out, or protest in public arenas (with very few exceptions), no matter what our views are. If we didn’t protect the protestors, and they were run off by an angry mob, then it would be the mob who decided what they got to say. So what good is our freedom of speech if someone else decides what we are allowed to say. What sort of rights to speech would we have if a mob could threaten you or physically remove you if they didn’t like what you had to say.

What did impress me, though, was that a woman passerby thought enough of the situation to return with her two children and signs of their own, protesting the protestors. And yes, my duties were to protect them also.

Sgt. Rick Bondy

"Routine" Angry Mob

We had a riot the other night. Literally. What started as a routine check on a person matching the description of a known murder suspect turned into chaos. Once the suspect’s friends and family knew the police were closing in on him, they tried to distract the police (to probably make it easier for the suspect to escape). In so doing, they agitated a few more people, who agitated even more…yeah, and so on, and so on, and so on. When I first heard my former sergeant say that rocks were being thrown and police cars were being damaged, I couldn’t get to the scene fast enough. Then there were reports of shots fired. Everything that was previously "routine" about that night changed in an instant. And in many ways, so did the consciousness of Tulsa.

Admittedly, it’s tough to articulate what runs through your mind as you standing beside your friends and fellow officers staring down an angry crowd of more than a hundred. They were so angry they even began fighting among themselves. But it was euphoric to watch the collective group stop dead in their tracks as a long line of dozens of police cars arrived lights flashing and sirens blaring. As police car after police car swarmed on the scene, you could hear the collective mind of mob stop and think to itself…"We better get the @#$* outta here…" And luckily, the crowd more or less dispersed without much incident.

I was then assigned by a supervisor to check on a group of people near a fence, who seemingly appeared to be trying to get back inside the complex and around the police perimeter. We checked on one group. And as I approached another, I could hear someone talking on a cell phone. It seemed they were telling someone (the suspect) what the police were doing and where they were. I caused some disruptions of my own to frustrate their plans. Luckily, the group included members of the suspect’s family. So we brought them to the Special Operations command post. They were enraged, furious, and even more angry that they met me outside the fence. But luckily, the negotiation team prevailed and ultimately persuaded the family to help make contact with the suspect. He ultimately surrendered to own up to his consequences.

Although a lot of things happened—rocks hurled, news reporters jostled, shots fired, a mob dispersed—there was a lot that didn’t happen. Every one there in a uniform knew it, but much wasn’t said about it: we were all glad to see each other. We were all glad to be on the same side looking after each other. And we were all glad that everyone went home safe that night. At the least, I certainly was…

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Related information

http://209.200.89.94/blog/readblog.cfm?blogid=155

http://www.tulsaworld.com/news/article.aspx?articleID=070416_1_A12_hPoli50405

http://www.tulsaworld.com/news/article.aspx?articleID=070415_1_A15_NGTON24808

http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/04/15/tulsa.standoff.ap/index.html

http://www.kotv.com/news/local/story/?id=125138

http://www.kotv.com/e-clips/?id=5661

Where to hide?

Any experienced police officer will tell you that if a bad guy is trying to hide from you, they will hide almost anywhere, whether it’s a good spot or not. A common place is under a pile of dirty clothes. Now many of you use what is commonly referred to as a "hamper" to store your dirty clothing. Others choose the "make a pile in the corner" method, or the "make a lot of piles everywhere" method. Bad guys will often hide underneath these piles of rank-smelling clothing in an effort to avoid arrest.

Other hiding places have their pros and cons. Standing in a closet behind your coats doesn’t smell as bad, but your legs can be seen. Hiding under a bed is reserved mostly for novices or children playing hide and seek. And there are other places to hide each with their own dangers.

Shortly after midnight we were called to the scene of a disturbance involving a car break-in. The resident said she knew who the suspect was and gave us his name. She said he only lived a few blocks over. With that information, we headed to his house.

At the house we knocked. A 40-something woman answered and confirmed that our suspect was inside. She also identified herself as his mother. We asked if we could talk to our suspect. She not so politely refused and went back in the house. Another dilemma.

We returned to our cars and did a little research. We discovered our suspect had misdemeanor warrants. But misdemeanor warrants can only be served at night if the person is out and about. Otherwise you have to wait until daylight. Daylight was a few hours away, so we posted an officer to watch the back and I went back to the front door to talk to Momma.

I explained to her why we were there and the fact that her ne’er-do-well son had broken into a car and had warrants for his arrest. Her not-so-polite attitude then changed. Not in a good way, however, as she started shrieking at me using language that would make sailors blush. "This is &$^&* Harassment….Get the (&^% off my property…My son’s not even here!"

Once in a great while lady justice removes her blindfold and tilts her scales in our direction, because as this lady melted my eardrums with her tirade, we all heard a loud crash coming from inside her house. Knowing exactly what had just happened, I calmly said to her, "You might want to check that because your son just fell through the ceiling."

Shortly after, the sun came up, we took the warrants to the house and knocked. Momma answered the door and let us in. Sitting on the couch, still covered in fiberglass insulation, was our suspect. In his attempt to hide from us, he had crawled into the attic, stepped off the wood rafters and crashed through the ceiling into the kitchen below. So instead of keeping her son out of police custody, her son got to go to jail and she got a giant hole in her kitchen ceiling.

Sgt. Rick Bondy

Shame-faced omelet

So the other day, I’m down at our Office of Integrity and Compliance (OIC) [think "Internal Affairs"]. It’s a place that no cop wants to frequent. In fact, if you get in the elevator at the main police station, press the button for the OIC floor, other cops certainly look at you funny, while not really looking at you at all trying to avoid any guilt by association.

As my investigation for two previous complaints is about to start, another OIC investigator walks in the room. He looks at me and says, "Oh hey, glad you’re here, hang on…"

Well, I’m not really happy to be there, and even less thrilled that an investigator recognizes me on sight. He returns with a paper in hand and says, "Good that you’re here, this way I don’t have to waste time serving you, here’s another complaint."

It was like getting scolded in the principal’s office and having your teacher walk in and give your test back with a big, red F-minus emblazoned across it. Oh well...I suppose that when cops arrest dope dealers, and dope doers, and other folks who are angry with the police, they’ll file complaints against you. And if they’ve got a defense lawyer itchin’ to deliver something that vaguely resembles "justice" to their otherwise incarcerated clients, getting complaints filed against arresting officers is good consolation (if not a good way to bilk more dinero for the law firm coffer).

There are some people who seem to think complaints "slow down" police officers and make them back off. Not a friggin’ chance. In fact, I’ve never been more inspired to make it my professional business to learn even more about criminal activities. I’ll be watching like a hawk. In fact, I’m taking up falconry (heck, I might even show up at the next Renaissance Fair).

So after being questioned at OIC, I start my shift. It’s a weird night, the kind where everybody seems a little off-kilter. I end up getting into a skirmish and have to use OC-Spray (similar to "mace") to subdue someone who just "ain’t going along with the program." I spray a blast or two into the face of the suspect, but my duty glove gets stuck in the cap of the OC-Spray. Well, when something goes wrong for us humans, we tend to look to figure out what it is. Well, as a dumb human, I take a look and nearly empty the rest of the OC can in my own face. [Lesson Learned: sometimes it’s not a good idea to look and see what’s wrong with something in your hand—especially if it’s a can of OC-spray pointed right at you].

So, if I had egg on my face from my OIC ordeal, the OC-Spray was definitely the Tabasco sauce for a shame-faced omelet. Okay, I guess "breakfast metaphors" and police work don’t really mix. Anyway, pass the salt and pepper...

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Park Shooting

So as the dispatcher requests, "Any units available to assist North Side with shooting," I’ve already turned the car around before my partner responds. The call went out at a local park, a place I patrolled last year. It’s a great spot where people can gather and enjoy the outdoors, but it’s also a spot for those who like to cause trouble. As we race to the scene, we hear the tally rising: four shooting victims, six victims, eight…In just a few minutes nine people are transported to hospitals all over town. And a hundred more or running from the scene in chaos. Cars are driving on the sidewalk, over curbs, and nearly in to each other as people flee.

As we arrive on the scene, K-9 patrol is tracking suspects. We’re watching the area on high alert. Every move is made with your gun in your hand, caution in your mind, and adrenaline all over. Officers with pistols, shotguns, and assault rifles swarm the area. The K-9 units are tracking on the ground, and alerting to certain areas in a few backyards. We’re looking high and low, checking every dark corner, and trying to find any scrap of evidence; weapons, clothing, footprints, fingerprints—any trace that will bring us closer to an arrest.

We’re chasing suspects in the middle of chaos. As the helicopter roars above, helpful neighbors approach us to say, "My dogs were barking just before you showed up," "I saw someone run through my neighbor’s yard," "I heard a strange noise inside the house." Every word could bring us closer, or throw us further off the trail.

After exhausting the search, a dozen victims are in the hospital. And there’s likely a few more who "didn’t see anything," "don’t know anything," but probably have a few wounds to hide.

It’s now a manhunt, and everyone on the squad from all over town is pitching in to help out. Officers are spread out at different hospitals trying to get witness statements, other officers maintain control of the crime scene, and others take as many calls as they can so detectives can further investigate. There’s a cacophony inside the car as you listen to three different channels on the police radio: "Possible suspect at this location…" "Frank 303, gimme the next call," "All officers at the hospitals, be advised…"

It’s a frustrating mess, made even more frustrating by every passing minute we don’t have suspects in handcuffs. Now we've got to sort out the aftermath and help the victims, their families, and the community recover...

Off. Jay Chiarito-Mazzarella

Related stories:
http://www.kotv.com/news/local/story/?id=122848

http://kotv.com/news/local/story/?id=122782

http://kotv.com/news/local/story/?id=122839

http://www.tulsaworld.com/news/article.aspx?articleID=070319_1_A13_pComm32016

Deafening Silence

It was a sad night. And truthfully, there’s not much more to say about it.

Sure, things started off OK. I caught up with the "word on the street," found out about a few new drug dens, and got a snitch to give up the goods on a security guard that’s on the take. I also learned that two suspects in a drive-by shooting to which I responded received 10-year prison sentences. Indeed, it was a good start, but only to a disheartening end.

The last two calls of the night left me profoundly sad and different. On the first call, I had to investigate a case of child abuse. It seems the father