Cops and Kids

Cops and Kids - A Very Special Friendship

Sample Chapter

Just Because

A child named Robbie once asked me, “Trooper Jim, how many bad guys have you shot?” His innocent face looked over at me from the passenger seat with genuine curiosity about something he thought must happen with regularity in the world of cops and robbers.

“I never have shot anybody, Robbie,” I answered. His face was almost blank—as if that answer was not among the possibilities.

“How’s come?” He continued.

“Because no bad guys ever tried to shoot me.”

“Can I push you siren?” Satisfied, apparently, his big brown eyes and mind shifted instantly to what looked like a gazillion buttons in my patrol car where the siren control switches were. He reached down and gently pushed the siren button, letting loose a short “WOOOP” of the electronic noisemaker. Robbie’s eyes shot back at me and his smile was instant and huge—ear-to-ear, as the other kids in the second grade class jumped. Their start became dozens of laughing faces.

“How fast can you go? Can you go a hundred?”

“Yep. Even faster.”

“A thousand?” his eyes wide in amazement!

“Well, maybe not a thousand.”

“Is that real gold?” he reached over and touched my badge.

“Naw. Just regular metal with gold on top.”

“Hey…my dad has this!” He looked and reached up and tried to take my dash-mounted camcorder off its bracket. We have movies of Disneyland! Did you ever go to Disneyland?”

“I sure have. Did you have fun there?

His face nodded but he said nothing as he continued to reach out and touch every gadget and gismo he could see in my patrol car, seemingly forgetting he had asked me.

What’s this?” he said as he reached and grabbed my public address microphone.

“Push that button and say something into here,” I said, tapping the voice screen on the mic. He looked up at his classmates.

“HEY, CASEY! CASEY! CAASEEEY!” Apparently, his buddy “Casey,” heard him, as I saw another little boy come running over from the fire truck, also on display at the event. The other kids giggled and held their ears, like before.

Casey got there and stuck his head in the door with my passenger and together, he and Robbie took turns giving 100 watt “shout-outs” to there friends and even some teachers! After a few minutes, I had to reach over and forcefully remove the PA mic from the pair for fear of a “disturbing the peace” complaint being called in to the local police!

Several minutes later, Robbie and Casey became more interested in the ambulance parked next to my black and white and moved on. High fives were exchanged between us all and away they went, but not before Robbie stopped, thought deeply for a moment and quietly said, “Watch out for bad guys, okay?”

“I will, pal. Thanks!” Then they ran off, to the world of the EMT and soon they apparently discovered that an ambulance, has twice as many buttons, horns and flashing lights than a police car. Sirens were blasted, air horns honked and strobe lights to rival any disco were flashing all over the place!

As the event tapered down, I saw one, very shy little boy walking back into the doors of the school. He stopped short and looked over at me. I waived him over and here he came—running full speed. “Can I do your siren, too?”

And he did. He smiled, his friends laughed and his day was complete.

Mine was too. Just because.

JJJ

God Whispers

Is the reason we do this cop thing the glory and fame? I think not. There is no glory in a drunk puking on your shoes. No esteem from the victims at blood-soaked crime scenes, and no fame forty-five miles away from the nearest reporter or television camera out on some cold, lonely, two-lane road at four in the morning. As you measure and photo everything that applies, there is no audience, applause or cheers, other than some mangy coyote just beyond the flood of your headlamps, watching you curiously but not brave enough to venture closer. He could care less if your investigation is thorough and professional, and won’t ever tell if you cut corners to get home out of the cold, driving wind a few minutes sooner.

Is it the great pay and perks? Hardly. The prestige and standing? You would be amazed. Take us out of uniform and no one knows us. Those of you who have met me know I am tall -- 6’10”. Yet, still, occasionally when some one does recognize my name or me, as I produce ID and a credit card to write a check, they’ll say something like, “Gee, I didn’t recognize you out of uniform!” I must look like every other 6’10” customer they see!

I suppose the flashy car and snappy wool uniform is neat to younger men and women on the job, but as you get mellow and worldly with age you come to envy the people you see everyday who get to work in comfy, cool cotton jeans, no tie and hey -- get this -- short or long sleeves any time they choose! They don’t have to bother constantly polishing their shoes, gun belt, brass or gold attachments, buckles, badges and bars. They can quietly slip into a coffee shop during a storm, and not have a line leading up to their table ten deep, with less than happy travelers asking why the road is closed, when it will open, and just how the weather is in Kansas City and what will it be like tomorrow in Denver.

None of the romantic myths of police work come true, as you quietly but quickly remove a bloody uniform and place it in a plastic bag before your children see it. The background music doesn’t play when you shower for thirty minutes at the end of watch, until the water has run ice cold trying to wash away the filth and pain you’ve seen all day. Still, something keeps you going.

Recently, after I had just cleared from what was probably my 100th fatal traffic crash investigation near Point of Rocks, I accelerated away, set the cruise control, and thought about the reports I would be writing all day. I had been contemplating early retirement and it had been these kinds of frustrating cases where some preventable thing had again killed someone on my highway -- which made me question why I still did this job.

Cruising at 60 MPH in the right lane, I watched in my mirror as a brand new mini-van slowly crept up to pass me. As the apprehensive driver eased by, both he and his wife stared straight ahead and seemed afraid to look over at me. Just then, three of the brightest little faces I had ever seen strained against their seat belts and looked over at me from the back seat. Smiling big smiles, they outwardly and intensely waved and waved and waved, as if terribly worried I would not see them. I was down, but I smiled and waved back at the kids, which of course brought out even bigger grins and giggles. I had made their day, and God had whispered a reminder.

I heard Him.

JJJ

A Monster or a Hero

Many years ago while assigned in Cheyenne, I was working nights and had enjoyed an uneventful evening. It was mid August and a balmy evening, just after dinnertime. The dusk air was streaked with red and yellow dust with a beauty often seen in the western evening horizons of Wyoming and Montana. I had been patrolling northbound through the rolling plains and was content in just patrolling my highway, diggin’ the scenery and keeping a watchful eye on my motorists.

My dispatcher broke through the clouds of my bliss with an ominous report. Apparently, a couple of hours prior, a man and his wife had a physical altercation at home in Casper and the drunken husband had taken their three children; ages seven, four and two. All boys.

As he tried to leave, his desperate wife, also drunk, clung to his leg and he dragged her this way out the front door and onto the driveway, finally kicking her head several times to break her grip. She was left there on the driveway in a bloody heap with a skull fracture, but somehow, found the strength to crawl back into the house and call 911. Before she passed out, she told the Casper 911 operator her husband had told her she would never see her kids again. And, he was headed south—to Cheyenne. Straight for me.

Sure enough, not twenty minutes later, I found the beat up pick up truck my dispatcher had described. The man and a passel of little heads sitting next to him on the bench seat were slowly driving south.

After following for a few miles and seeing the truck drift all over the road, I called in the stop and pulled the truck over. I quickly noticed the man smelled like a brewery when I approached his window and indeed, after a few sobriety tests, it was clear he was hammered. I placed him under arrest.

“See kids? See what cops do to people? He’s taking me away from you! This pig is taking your daddy away forever,” cried the drunken, wife-beating felon, as I had to take him by the arm and lead him and his kids to my car.

I had called the Department of Family Services and soon they came to the scene to take custody of the children. But not before 30 minutes of their father’s inebriated insults and slurred profanities directed toward me and the ongoing screaming, crying and pleading of his children who simply could not understand all that was happening.

Their daddy was in handcuffs and I was the guy who did it. They hated me. I was a monster. They had no idea that I might have just saved their lives. His driving was so bad, had he been allowed to drive on undetected, I had no doubt he would have crashed. And not a soul in the truck had a seat belt on. Matter of fact, none of them had on a shirt or shoes.

With my actions that night, that man was on his way to prison for beating his wife and more importantly, nobody died at his drunken hands. And while they were not happy with me, I saw to it that these little boys did indeed, see their mommy again.

While hard to appreciate by kids caught up in the drama and sadness of such things as domestic disputes or physical abuse, a good cop walks away from these moments with a smiling heart and the knowledge that he did a little bit of good for his world and his people. Especially it’s little people.

JJJ

Love, Edward

One day many moons ago I was giving a presentation to a group of kindergartners. I sat on the floor with them and we talked of bad guys and si-REEN cars! Many wanted to know if I ever shot anyone and if I had ever been shot. As we all sat in a half circle on the floor, my eyes kept coming back to one little boy in the back row. He was very quiet, yet intensely staring at something on my shirt. I couldn't help worrying if I had dribbled some coffee on the spot he was fixed on, or if some other goober was besmirching my clean and snappy uniform.

With children this young, teachers will tell you "questions" tend to become "stories" and presenters can quickly lose control of everything. They will be deluged with, "One time there was this guy…." stories, fresh from the vivid imaginations of their open and curious five-year-old minds. As a veteran of losing such control, my schoolteacher bride has since taught me well, but there is one situation that comes up for which a ready answer does not exist.

"I have time for one more question," I said, looking directly at the quiet, young man, hoping to solve the mystery of my shirt. Without a word, this young man stood up, walked around the group until he stood next to me. Then, with an innocent hand he simply reached out and touched the telltale slight bulge in my shirt, where my ballistic vest pushed out my shirt.

"What's that?" He asked, sitting back down right next to me. The name on his shirt said, "Edward."

"Well…” I thought hard how to answer Edward, but in the end I just did what I always end up doing with children. I simply told the truth. "That, is a bullet-proof vest. Police officers wear them in case a bad guy tries to hurt us. It catches the bullets we can't duck."

"What if he shoots you in the head?" His blunt, straightforward retort and direct eye contact completely disarmed me. He wanted an answer, and he wanted it right now. The classroom fell silent.

"Well…” I stammered for an answer the kids could understand, but again, as I sat there surrounded by these bright and supportive little people, I simply and quietly, explained the reality.

"Well Edward, police officers are very special and brave people. They know when they choose this life they will make a very special promise to protect all of you no matter what. They will run into a house of fire and will jump into a raging river to save your life, because to a police officer, your life is more important and precious than their own. If you are in trouble and need their help, police officers will stop everything they are doing and run as fast as they can to fight for you. And, if they have to, to die for you. And so, Edward, I would probably get to go to Heaven, because God loves police officers who protect little boys and girls."

Three days later, in my mail, I received a package of nine, hand made crayon colored thank you cards, the words obviously dictated to and written by their teacher. One of them said, "Thank you for protecting us. And for wearing your bulletproof vest. And watch out for bad guys."

It was signed, “Love, Edward."

JJJ