I was a training officer at Mansfield PD for five years,
training 19 officers during that time, two of which would go on to become Chief
of Police. Another officer and I had been sent to Northwestern University’s Traffic
School to attend a Field Training Program Development course, a week-long class
that would enable us to set up a certified Field Training Program for new
officers. When we got back, John and I set up the course outlines, developed
the Daily Evaluation Report forms and the program was adopted by the
department.
Out of the nineteen rookies that were assigned to me over that 5-year span, three
didn’t make it through their training. I’d told each of them that not making it
didn’t mean they weren’t good people, but sometimes candidates just weren’t cut
out to be cops, and that was nothing to be ashamed of
.
‘Jack’ was one of those people.
This young man had some personal issues that worked against
him: he didn’t deal well with stress or irate people, he’d get ‘tunnel vision’,
not being aware of what was happening around him other than what was straight
ahead and he had a more than a slight issue with verbal correction after making
glaring mistakes, mistakes that could get him or another person hurt or killed.
Case in point: one night during his training we’d reached
the point where I was letting him drive while I handled the cruiser radio
traffic. Jack has the steering wheel in a white-knuckle death-grip, nervous as
hell, staring intently at the road ahead.
We’re westbound on East Third Street, approaching the
intersection of North Foster; we have a stop sign, cross traffic on North
Foster doesn’t. It’s a residential area which has nearby factories and
businesses. As we get closer, I see an older Chevy Camaro approaching from our
right, on my side of the cruiser, and Jack isn’t braking at all. He blows right
through the stop sign to the sound of screeching tires and a blaring horn, the
Camaro stopping two feet from my door. The driver of the Chevy throws up his
hands in a ‘what gives?’ gesture. Jack just sat there in the middle of the
intersection, my blood pressure going through the roof. I got out, walked to
the other car and apologized, explaining that I had a rookie driving.
Finally, I got back in the car and told Jack to pull over
and stop. I got out and took a little stroll on the sidewalk to calm myself;
the guy had been staring so intently, had been so nervous, that he hadn’t even
seen the stop sign and almost caused an accident.
Reentering the cruiser, I told Jack to take us to the
station, instructing him to wait in the Hutchison classroom. I pulled out the
Ohio Revised Code, our Standard Operating Procedures and Rules and Regulations
books and made him read aloud each section pertaining to operation of a patrol
vehicle. After he finished each section I asked him if he understood it, which
pissed him off
.
Too bad. Some things you have to learn the hard way.
I drove the rest of the shift.
We had a call one night from Little Jean’s Place, a bar on
North Main Street; Jack was driving and I told him he was going to handle the
call start to finish, without any help from me. He said he was ready.
The bar owner, Jean, had called because a man was passed out
drunk in the small, narrow vestibule entering the bar, an area between the door
from the street leading to the door into the bar proper. No one could get past
him unless they stepped over the man.
Jean met us on the sidewalk. “He came in off the street,
laid down and just passed out. I tried to get him to leave but he won’t budge.”
Jack didn’t say a word.
I looked at him. “Well, what are you gonna do?”
“Uhh, wake him up?”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll be a good start.”
Jack pulled the door open; I stood in the doorway watching,
my foot keeping the door propped open; maybe the cold outside air would help
rouse the guy. I recognized him as one of our frequent-flier winos, a nasty,
stinking drunk who could get surly.
Jack bent down, gently prodding the man with his bare hand.
“Sir…sir, you need to wake up…”
From my vantage point I saw what could be a potential issue
for Jack. The man was wearing a ratty jacket that covered…barely…his butt. I
could also see that his beltless pants were already halfway down his backside,
meaning that, when he stood up, his pants could drop to the floor. The wino
wasn’t wearing underwear and Jack wasn’t wearing gloves.
Jack continued. “Sir, you have to get up and move, please.”
No response.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I intervened, kicking his feet.
“HEY, BUDDY! YOU GOTTA GET UP AND MOVE OR YOU’RE GOING TO JAIL.”
The word ‘jail’ brought him around, grunts and profanity
spewing forth as he unsteadily got to his feet. The man stank of cheap wine.
“What do you do now, Jack?”
Uncertainty in his voice, Jack replied “Arrest him?”
“Good choice. The man’s impeding this woman’s business.”
Jack suddenly gained his authoritative voice. “Alright,
buddy, outside and put your hands on the wall”, he said as he tried to guide
the drunk outside.
The man didn’t budge, leaning against one of the narrow
walls. I grabbed him by the collar and helped him get outside, where I had the
man put his hands against the brickwork. I stepped back and told Jack, “Go to
it.”
I watched as Jack started patting the man down after telling
him he was under arrest for public intoxication; I also watched as the guy’s
pants slid a little further down his butt cheeks. It was like watching a train
wreck…you know what’s going to happen but you can’t look away.
Jack finished frisking the man’s upper torso. His hands went
to where the arrestee’s rear pants pockets should
have been, without looking….
…and put his ungloved hands directly on the nasty drunk’s
bare backside.
“AAARRRGGGHHHHH!!” Jack yanked his hands back as if he’d
just grabbed a hot pot off the stove. I busted out laughing, Jack’s face
bearing a look of horror.
“YOU KNEW THAT WAS GONNA HAPPEN! YOU KNEW!! WHY DIDN’T YOU
SAY ANYTHING??!!”
After collecting myself, I said, “Jack, you just learned a
very valuable lesson: ALWAYS look before you put your hands anywhere on
someone’s person. What if he’d had an uncapped syringe in that pocket?”
Hurt, he replied “That’s not funny, man. You knew I was
gonna put my hands on his bare ass, and you let
me do it!”
Like I said earlier, sometimes a man has to learn a lesson
the hard way.
