On the phone, with the juvie’s program, I hear 7David2 on the radio.

He’s heading to the Breakers.

I finish the phone call: Hit the MDT, clear my stop, and pull up the unit status.

7David1 and 7David2 are on an Unwanted at the coin-op.

I grab the mike.

7David4.

“7David4.”

7David4. En route to Breakers’ call, I ‘ll take paper.

The call is a few blocks away. I’m there in a minute.

On scene, I pull up to 7David2.

“It’s a nothin’,”  he says. ”The guy’s gone.

They only want him trespassed if we find him.”

It’s clear to the north.

“I’ll check south.”

I walk up to 7David1. She’s talking to the laundromat manager.

The Scrapper was drinking while washing his clothes. They asked him to leave. He became angry, swore up a storm, and left.

I know him. I’ll find him.

I’ll trespass him and write a report saying so.

“Thank you.”

7David1 is a new officer. She’s new to the South-side, just back from maternity leave.

7David1 asks, “You want cover?”

Have you met The Scrapper?

“No.”

He’s a good person to know. I’ll introduce you.

“Sure.”

Follow me.

The Scrapper lives in a small, old, RV.

I lead 7David1 to the parking spot I saw the Scrapper’s rig the night before.

It’s not there.

I drive to his favorite spot.

It’s empty.

I clear 7David1, only to find the vehicle a minute later.

7David4.

“7David4.”

7David4. Out with my my subject’s vehicle. 15th and Maul.

The RV is parked south on the Avenue. The side door’s open to the cabin.

I exit the prowler, walk towards the door.

I know he has a dog, a pit.

I stop ten feet from the door. I want space. I use the wall of the rig as concealment. I don’t want the dog to see me.

Scrapper. You in there?

He replies, “RD is that you?”

Yup.

He says, “I’ll be out in a minute……. NO!”

The dog bounds down, hits the street strip, and lunges, all jaws and teeth.

I jump back, aim the heel of my right boot at it’s face. It’s not a kick. It’s a shield. I hope it’ll bite the sole.

It bites. I can feel heat. I can feel wet. I can feel the teeth crush against my ankle bone.

Bouncing, balancing back, on my left foot,
my hand on my holster, I think,

‘How am I going to shoot this thing without hitting my foot?’

I need to bend down, and drive the gun into the beast’s side.

And then, the Scrapper’s there, diving down, pulling the pit from my foot. He wraps himself around the dog.

I can’t shoot without hitting the man.

The Scrapper succeeds, throws the dog into the RV, and shuts the door.

I grab the pack set mike from my lapel.

7David4. I need code one medical. I’ve been bit by a pit bull.

I’m angry. I’m filled with adrenaline. I count to ten.

He says, “I’m so sorry.”

You realize I could have shot your dog.

I can feel the sharp pain. The adrenaline is stronger.

“I know. It’s in your rights. I’m so sorry.”

Look. I’m here because you did wrong.

The Scrapper erupts, “But they never told me I couldn’t be there?”

Does that give you the right to call the manager a “fucking cunt?”

“You should have heard what they said to me!”

It doesn’t matter. You’re 86′d. It’s their place. They make the rules.

“Where am I suppose to do my laundry?”

There are other laundromats. There’s one in the South Village. Go there!

I’m loosing my temper. I want to hit the guy. I take a breath, and see 7David1 has arrived.

She interupts. She says, “Did you get bit by a dog?”

Yes.

The Scrapper says, “Yes. I’m really sorry.”

7David2 arrives.

I walk over to him.

Can you deal with the Scrapper, I’m too angry.

7David2 says, “Sure. Sergeant wants you on Tac 2.”

Thanks.

I turn the pack set over to the tactical net.

Hey sarge, I’m over.

She says, “Did you get just bit by a dog?”

Yep. A pit bull.

“Are you okay?”

Don’t know, I haven’t looked at the wound, yet.

“Is medical en route?”

Yes.

“Is the dog secure?”

Yes. It’s in the RV.

“Call animal control.”

Copy.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I call for Animal Control, then put my foot on the prowler’s ram bar, and look at my leg. Dog slobber soaks the first twelve inches of my pant leg. There’s a couple of punctures in the fabric. I examine the boot. There’s a five inch arcing scratch digging deeply into the leather of the boot leading to a penny-sided puncture. I unlace the Danner, pull, it off. I spot a dime sized puncture above ankle bone, on the inside, on the right foot. Pin head sized particles of flesh and fat crown the wound.

Fire looks at it.

Their EMT says, “Go to the hospital.”

I nod.

7David2 takes control of scene.

7David1 transports me to the ER.

At the hospital, the LT. is waiting for me.

The X-rays show there’s no break, but there’s a sprain.

I’m off on disability until at least the 12th.

Without the boot, I would have needed surgery.

Republished from Raindog Blue with permission, from the post “Wednesday: Part Two: It’s All in the Boot.” Please visit that blog for more great law enforcement content. ~Xiphos

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Welcome to The Badge and Gun blog. Probably the two most recognizeable pieces of equipment that US cops have is the badge and gun. Whether you are a detective, a street cop, a vice cop, street crimes unit, SWAT -you will have a badge and gun. The pencil pushers have them too, even if the gun is rubber.

I’m a street cop. I push a radiator at work and answer 911 calls, backup fellow cops, and look for something exciting to get into. I work in a city with a busy call load and I’ve gotten to work a variety of different cases. I’ll write about the interesting ones as they happen.

I want to give a clear picture of what life as a cop can be like. I’ll share the street, as well as the office.

Thanks go to OfficerResource.com for letting me use this space for my writing.  This site really is “by cops, for cops.”

Sometimes when I’m on a call people will ask, “What’s your name?”

I tell them, “Officer Groves.”

Then they ask, “No, what’s your first name?”

“Officer.”

But my readers can call me Officer Logan. That’s more personal.

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OfficerResource.com member RSA provides this article about a recent presentation by the owner of Hi-Point Firearms. There’s more discussion on this topic in the forums. -Xiphos

I am currently a Crime Scene Detective and a Firearms/Ballistics Examiner. I am a member of the New Jersey Forensics Firearms Examiner Associations and soon to be a member of the Association of Firearm and Tool Mark Examiners (AFTE).

Recently, the New Jersey Forensics Firearms Examiner Associations invited the owner of Hi-Point Firearms Tom Deeb to one of our meetings and give a presentation on how his weapons are made. This guy is definitely a guy you want on the Law Enforcement side. He basically told us that he manufactures his weapons so that it makes Law Enforcement Firearms/Tool Mark examiner like myself easier to make identifications on fired cartridge casings and bullets. Hi-Point is the only manufacturer that makes very unique rifling marks in the barrel of the weapon.

Tom Deeb is not one of the those corporate executives who is never seen by the employees, he’s actually on the floor working with them and is always thinking of a new designs. He brought his most recent design, a 9mm Carbine rifle. Basically a 9 mm pistol model turned into a rifle with almost all the same parts, except for the length of the barrel. He has also added few other things that make it a rifle including a grip-mounted magazine release. He will be coming out with a .45 Caliber Carbine sometime this summer.

Tom Deeb called his guns “Cadillac of shit guns.” He acknowledges that, as he calls them, “yahoos”  buy his guns mainly because they are cheap. That’s why he makes his breech face marks and rifling marks very distinct so that law enforcement can easily identify and match them.

If you guys ever get an opportunity, try to get him to come to your local lab and give a presentation. He’s very law enforcement friendly.

Tom aka RSA

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I hate dealing with our Equipment Department. It is run by a bunch of civilian bean counters who have no interest in making my job easier. They set up very stupid rules about equipment issues and act like they pay for those items out of their own pockets. It often seems like I am equipped to do my job in spite of them instead of because of them.

I used to be on our departments riot squad. It is a part time unit that calls people up when major incidents happen. We got issued all kinds of body armor, packs, and a kevlar helmet. I was part of this unit for several years and wore that helmet to many protests. I got it customized just how I liked it and put in a expensive padding system that made it much less painful to wear. I eventually went to Narcotic as my main assignment. One of the items I am issued in this unit is a kevlar helmet.

When I go for my initial equipment issues for narcs, I tell them I don’t need a helmet since I already have one from the riot squad. No problem there. I end up quitting the riot squad a year or so later and get told I have to turn in my gear. I take down everything except the helmet.

The desk jockey behind the counter insists that I turn in my helmet. When I tell him that I need it for narcotics he says he can give me one for narcs but I have to turn in the riot one. Now these are two identical helmets we are talking about. The only difference is the one I currently have fits my head perfectly and has been repainted to cover up all the dings. There are no serial numbers on these things and it should have been a simple matter of moving a checkmark from one box to another.

I asked why he couldn’t just consider my current helmet to be my authorized narcotics helmet? They all just sat in the same pile. For whatever reason, the supply guy was not budging and said we need to do an exchange. It was ridiculous. I finally told him that I wasn’t turning it in and I left steaming. Of course they complained to my boss as soon as I left and my boss told me to go back and take care of it. I tried to explain my position but he didn’t want to deal with it and said I needed to go back. Goddamn it.

Fine. I went back and there was a different person at the counter. I placed my helmet on the ground beneath the counter and told the guy that I needed to check out a helmet for narcotics. He checked my roster and saw I am authorized one so he gave it to me. I placed this one on the ground. I then announced that I needed to turn in my helmet from the riot squad. I reached back down gave the guy the same helmet he had just given me 5 seconds ago. He said thanks and I picked my old helmet off the ground and went back to work.

A simple matter that should have taken a few minutes had turned into a day long ordeal and gotten my livid. Damn supply clerks.

Posted with permission from The Johnny Law Chronicles from the post “Bureaucratic Headaches.” Please visit that blog for more law enforcement blog content. ###

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In the time between issuing the excessive speeding ticket and our the first court date, the Street Racing Hot Line worked out the wrinkles in their new system and figured out how to deal with Mr Corvette Driver.  As a result, Mr. CD had his licence revoked for a number of weeks and he found himself wallowing in the ranks of prohibited drivers.

On our first court date Mr. CD was more than thirty minutes late for his appearance.  This did not go over well with the Justice of the Peace, who sternly asked for an explanation as to his tardiness.  Mr. CD showed great humility and gave the court his apologies, saying he had missed one of the three public transit buses required to get him from his home to the court house.

The JP gave this some thought before accepting Mr. CD’s apology, and then sent him to registrar to set another date with the warning to NOT be late for his second court appearance.

When Mr. CD sputtered and asked why his case couldn’t be heard then, the JP said there were other cases to be heard whose defendants had been on time.

I love a judge with a good, healthy sense of justice, don’t you?

Our second court date came around a few weeks later.  With only a few moments to spare before the courtroom opened, I still had not seen Mr. CD when scanning the numerous faces waiting in the corridor.  Sprinkled in among defendants were other police officers and bylaw officers.  I recognized one motorcycle officer and went over to say hello.  We ended up talking about the reasons we were in court this day, and shortly after realized we both had previous dealings with Mr. CD.

I was frustrated the defendant was not yet at the courthouse; I suggested perhaps Mr. CD had missed his bus and it was the following reactionary comment from my motorcycle colleague that can be described only as divine intervention.

“What are you talking about?  Mr. CD’s already here.  I saw his car parked outside,” he said.

The next few moments were a flurry of Q & A, and by the end of it we had determined the following:

• Mr. CD’s driver’s licence had been revoked and he was currently a prohibited driver
• Driving while prohibited is an arrestable offence
• While none of the police officers present at court could put Mr. CD behind the wheel, Mr. CD’s bright blue Corvette was parked out front of the court house
• A check of the licence plate on the Corvette confirmed Mr. CD as the registered owner
• the probability of Mr. CD being the one to have driven the Corvette to the courthouse was high
• my motorcycle colleague was going to sit in on the trial and watch, as he knew Mr. CD could get up to some serious shenanigans when in court.

As I took my place in the court gallery beside the motorcycle officer I looked around.  The one person I was searching for was absent, but just as proceedings were about to begin Mr. CD snuck in the door and took his seat.

The Justice of the Peace went around the room, everyone stated their names, and cases were called to the bench.  All the guilty pleas were heard first, fines and adjusted payment schedules were doled out, and time ticked down to when we would take the stand.

Finally, we were called.

The two of us stepped forward and proceedings began with my taking the witness stand and explaining the facts as they occurred in the original street racing post.  Mr. CD then had the chance to cross examine me, which he did.  That’s when it got weird.

Between questions on how long I had been a police officer and inquiries if I had ever been permitted to give expert testimony on my ability to give a visual estimation of a vehicle’s speed, Mr. CD introduced his argument that there was no way, in the 1.5 blocks we had travelled on the date of the alleged infraction, that a Crown Victoria weighing in at xxx pounds could have reached a velocity of xxx kilometers an hour, even if travelling at a high rate of speed down a hill with a 5% grade.  And yes, that’s really how he talked.

After much deliberation of the calibration of my police vehicle’s speedometer, of my years experience as a driver, and of the sheer ridiculous thought that Mr. CD had been street racing on the day in question, the JP finally instructed Mr. CD to get to the point.

Mr. CD held his tablet of notes up with a flourish and he paced back and forth as he started his cross examination.  Several of his questions prompted a terse response from the bench with direction to keep the questions on subject, and when such a demand is made after the JP pushes his glasses to the end of his nose so he can better visually penetrate the person he is looking at, you had better heed the warning

Eventually, Mr. CD took the witness stand and gave his version of events.  He denied almost everything, saying he had been driving at the speed limit, admitting only to exchanging words with the motorcycle riders; he said they simply commented on his nice car.  He even went so far as to say his beloved blue Corvette was in storage as he was abiding by the driving prohibition he had been issued.

It was at this point my motorcycle officer colleague quietly slipped out of the courtroom. I’m the only one who noticed.

At the end of the traffic trial, the Justice of the Peace found Mr. CD guilty of the excessive speeding infraction, stating the validity of the officer’s evidence weighed heavily on his decision.  Mr. CD did not have his fine reduced, but he was given an extra few months to pay it down.  Mr. CD gathered his papers together, stuffed them in his briefcase and stormed out of the courtroom.

I gave the customary bow to the JP and pushed out of the courtroom door only to find my motorcycle officer friend waiting outside.  He saw me and quickly pulled me into a nearby doorway.

“We have his car under surveillance.  If he drives, we’ll have him,” he said in a conspirator’s whisper.

We turned our radios to the channel the traffic officers were using and listened to them give updates as Mr. CD was followed covertly out of the courthouse.

“He’s walking down the sidewalk.  He’s out on the street walking towards the driver’s door of the Corvette.”

A two second pause.

“Shit! A patrol car turned down the street – he stepped away from the car and back to the sidewalk!”

Another pause, this time a little longer.

“He’s back at the Corvette.  He’s opening the door and he’s in the driver’s seat.  Ignition.  We have ignition!” the excited voice exclaimed, “He’s northbound on Hornby!”

Moments later, with a news TV crew in tow, one of the motorcycle officers stopped the Corvette, handcuffed Mr. CD, and arrested him for driving while prohibited.

God knows where the TV news crew came from, but the entire incident made the 6 o’clock news that night.

Their story was a thing of beauty.

Karma – the force generated by a person’s actions to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person’s next existence

Posted with permission by the Behind the Blue Line from the post “The Street Racer – Our Days in Court.” Please visit that blog for more law enforcement content. ###

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Before continuing with the saga of The Street Racer, it’s important that everyone understands what happens when a driver attends traffic court in order to dispute a ticket issued to them by an officer.  Several sites outline the process in detail – The Provincial Court of British Columbia, The Canadian Bar Association, Courts of BC, and a Vancouver Sun article gives a fly on the wall perspective.

Here is a Cole’s Notes version of what takes place in traffic court – keep in mind this is an extremely basic explanation:

• When you dispute a ticket you are given a date and time to attend traffic court
• When your day in court arrives, go to your designated courtroom – do not be late. Do not wear a hat, or if you do, make sure to take it off when you walk in to the court room.  Be respectful.  Know what you are going to say.
• You will be asked by the Judicial Justice of the Peace (the ‘judge’) if you are going to plead guilty or not guilty.  Many people stall at this point, as they want to plead guilty but simply have an issue with paying the fine.  If this is the case, say you want to plead guilty with an explanation
• If you plead guilty, or guilty with an explanation, the Justice of the Peace will discuss the infraction and fine with you to come to an agreement over payment/time to pay etc.
• If you plead not guilty, then both you and the officer who issued the ticket will get to tell your own sides of the story.  There are usually no lawyers involved, unless the disputant is raising a legal issue (see links above).  You will have the opportunity to question/cross examine the officer, and vice versa
• The Justice of the Peace then makes their decision and hands down their judgement

So there you go -  a little bit of background to set the stage.

Posted with permission by the Behind the Blue Line from the post “Street Racer – Part 2 -Traffic Court Explained.” Please visit that blog for more law enforcement content. ###

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Several years ago while working in a plainclothes general patrol capacity, my partner and I came up behind three motorcycles and one bright blue Corvette lined up at a red light. It was obvious the motorcycles were not with the Corvette as the riders were checking out the sports car with some admiration.

The driver of the Corvette noticed them noticing so he inched his car forward to come alongside the nearest rider. The driver’s side window came down, an arm extended out of the opening, words were exchanged, and the helmeted head of the nearest rider jerked up in the gesture, “What, you wanna go?”

Apparently the Corvette driver did – the light changed to green and all four of them were off, their tires spitting up debris from the roadway to pepper the front of our car.

Our province had just introduced a zero tolerance policy on street racing, and by golly, we had ourselves a street race unfolding right in front of us.

We went after them and so intent were they on their race that not one of them noticed the dark grey, unmarked Crown Victoria bearing down on them.

We clocked them at 100kms/hr, downhill, through a road construction zone (it was after the work day so no work crews were around) and they were still accelerating towards the next red light when we hit the lights and siren. They had to be stopped before they killed someone.

The motorcycles immediately slowed and started to pull to the side. The Corvette, on the other hand, made a hard left hand turn down a side street and sped out of sight. We chose to stay with the motorcycles and radioed in the licence plate and direction of travel on the Corvette. As several other police units were already headed to the area the Corvette was stopped a couple of blocks away by a responding cruiser.

By the end of it, after a call to the 24 hour police-only line designated for street racing incidents, the three bike riders were each issued with a driving prohibition (if I recall, each was for 30 days) and got to watch as their motorcycles were slung onto tow truck and impounded. To give the riders credit, they were polite, cooperative and apologized for their actions. I almost felt sorry for them, but not quite. I’ve seen what happens when street races go awry, and it’s devastating when innocent people are killed and maimed. We handed them their prohibitions and sent them away in a taxi.

The Corvette driver was an entirely different story.

He was arrogant, rude and tried to speak in the volumes of legal-eeze that showed he was a frequent flier in traffic court. He first refused to hand me his drivers licence, but acceded when he saw there was no point, then he called me sweetheart, and then he said he’d sue me for a ‘wrongful police stop’ and have my job. In other words, he was annoying. I mean, really annoying. But, as I say to others, don’t let it get personal and just do your job. So we did. With gritted teeth.

Here was the kicker, though – the Corvette driver held an out of province drivers licence, and at that time, with street racing legislation still in the infant stages, there was no recommendation on what to do in a situation like the one we faced. A missed loophole stated the street racing legislation was effective only for drivers holding a BC licence.

We ended up issuing the man a ticket and fine for excessive speeding. That’s all we had the power to do at the time, and somehow it just didn’t sit right. We had already dealt with the motorcycle riders, and I thought either all of them should get the same prohibition, or none of them. Keep it fair, right? The people at the street-racing line let us know they would look into it and would liase with the man’s home province to try and figure out what to do.

We had to let the Corvette driver proceed. He grinned his smarmy grin, gave us a ta-ta wave with his ticket, buckled up and started his engine.

“I’ll see you ladies in court,” he said, and blew us a kiss as he drove away.

Coming up next in Part 2, read how the traffic court dates unfold and what happens after.

Posted with permission by the Behind the Blue Line from the post “Street Racer – Part 1 – His Get Away.” Please visit that blog for more law enforcement content. ###

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Here’s a recap of some of the current activity in the discussion forums.

In The News:

Sheriff’s Teenage Daughter Terrorizes Agency

Camden Cop’s Disabled Son’s Braces Removed by TSA

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General Topics

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The other night I was standing outside one of our problem clubs when I hear yelling. I looked over at the door and saw a doorman shoving a guy backwards out of the club. The guy tripped while going backwards and fell on his back onto the concrete. The doorman got tangled up with him and fell on top of him.

You could hear the head of the guy on the bottom hit the concrete. It sounded like a coconut was dropped. He went out like a light. One of the employees ran up and told me that the unconscious guy was being a drunk ass in the club and refused to leave. When the employees tried to make him leave, he punched one in the face. That was when the doorman decided to throw him out.

Friends of the unconscious guy came running up to me and started yelling that the doorman had thrown the guy on the ground and then slammed his head against the concrete for no reason whatsoever. I was surrounded by three people all yelling this story at the same time. They were very convincing that their poor friend was just randomly knocked out by the doorman “for no reason”. Too bad for them that I saw the whole thing and saw that the dude tripped and pulled the doorman on top of him. As soon as they hit the ground, the employee got up and put his hands up so there was no unnecessary aggression on his part.

I told the friends that they need to stop lying and that I saw what had happened. This shut them up for a little while.

Other officers had been dealing with the unconscious guy and had started an ambulance for him. He was totally out and had hit his head very hard so it was possible he had a serious injury. One of his buddies kept trying to wake him up and I told him to back away and wait for the medics. This guy kept telling me that he was going to carry him to his car and just take him home. I told him that wasn’t going to happen.

Me: Your buddy may be seriously hurt. He isn’t going anywhere except to a hospital.

Friend: Dude! This is ridiculous. I can take him home. He isn’t hurt and is just fine.

Me: Are you serious? He is completely unconscious. He may have a serious head injury.

Friend: He’s fine!

Me: How do you know that? Are you a doctor with a crystal ball in your pocket telling you he is okay?

Friend: It’s his birthday!

Me: Oh so on your birthday you gain magical powers that let you withstand blunt trauma? Get the hell out of here before I take you to jail.

Of course EMS took the guy and last I heard he was getting all kinds of x-rays taken. I just can’t believe that some “friend” was trying to keep him from getting treatment. Sometimes I really hate drunks.

Posted with permission from The Johnny Law Chronicles from the post “With Friends Like This.” Please visit that blog for more law enforcement blog content. ###

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This is a post by one of OfficerResource.com’s forum members, SPD. -Xiphos

Well, I’m an idiot. This is no surprise to anyone who knows me – especially me. But I just wish sometimes stupid didn’t hurt.

About 2 weeks ago, I was sent to an “urban outdoorsman” sleeping behind a church. At first, I drove right by him and didn’t see him. I double back, and he’s up on a concrete platform in between two large AC units and associated ducts. Two other cops check out with me to help. Well, the guy is crazy – as is normal for many of this sort.

I make the initial contact, and he immediatly twists off. He’s screaming, ranting, flailing his arms all about. You know – just saying hello. The female officers who’s there tries to talk him down. He won’t come off the platform. I really just want to send him on his way, but no . . . . . it can’t just be simple.

He won’t give me his ID so I can check warrants. He won’t get down. He won’t tell me his name. He won’t stop screaming all his crazy. We try for awhile, and nothing. We come down to that we’re gonna have to go get him off there. Guess who gets the duty?

I reach for him, and he starts punching at me wildly, then turns around and runs for it. But he’s blocked in on 3 sides by the AC units and building. Only way out is through me or over an AC unit into the waiting arms of another officer. But now he’s tried to hit me. I tell him to get down, and he turns and wants to fight. I get up on the platform, and OC him. Nada. May as well have been water.

Only room up there for me and him, so I grab some crazy guy clothes and do the crazy-guy toss off the platform (really no room to struggle with and cuff him in that narrow space). I toss him down onto the ground, and the other two are positioned to keep him from running. BG lands poorly (apparently not a gymanst), and is proned.

Here I see an opportunity to jump down off the platform onto him and get him bagged up. I don’t want to crash down on the little fella and crush him, so I jump off intending to straddle him, then mount him and cuff him.

Bad move. I jump off (it’s maybe 2 feet down) with my legs spread apart. While in the air, he quickly flips onto his back, and I see it coming. His left foot comes straight up. I know I’m getting ready to have my balls fight it out with his foot. And he’s wearing boots – my balls are not. It is in these brief moments that you take stock of your life. My thoughts flashed to my children – and how I probably wouldn’t be able to make anymore of them after this.

Well, sure enough, I land giblets-first right on his foot. I’m pretty sure one of my boys hits me in the back of the throat. I still land on him, but more of in a heap than the controlled ninja-mounting technique I was hoping for. I think I made the sort of noise you’d expect from a cat if you were stepping on it hard. He flails about some more, but now the other two there pig-pile him. They have it obviously, so I roll out and go over a few feet and cry (not really). After the cuffing and breif period of explanation of why that was rude, the other two ask me if I’m OK. They thought I hurt my knee jumping down. I said in a slightly elevated voice that it wasn’t my knee. They figure out from my posture what the problem was – and now it’s spectacularly funny. To them.

I’m able to stand, but not upright. My friend bonks my right on top of the head. He said he was trying to knock them back down. Our crazy friend gets put in the back of my car – it’s the closest. I wobble over and haul him in, with the female following me because BG’s still worked up into a tizzy.

I get to the jail and still have a little problem standing all the way up. The female (while we’re putting up our pistols before going into the jail) looks at me and says with a huge grin, “Quit being a pussy.” I always liked her.

Well our crazy guy calms down and goes into the cell without much further ado. I write a throw-down report for the entertainment of the supervisor and me. On the suspect block under employment, I put “Walnut Cracker”, on aliases “Captain Crunch”. On the injury block I put that photos were attached. It was rejected oddly enough.

I know stupid hurts. But sometimes I wish it would hurt someone else.

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