Five-oh: the Best, Worst and Weirdest

In which the author describes a variety of interactions with the police….

     Way back in the 70’s when I was living in Brooklyn I asked a cop for advice on what to do about what is now known as “domestic violence.”  His reply: “Well, how bad is you beat?”  Since then there has been all sorts of “sensitivity training.”  But there were many things that occurred that made it difficult for me to trust those whose job it is to protect us.

     A couple of times in the 80’s I called the police to report vandalism at the rather shabby but much loved rental house we lived in on W.Pulaski Rd.  Both times their first question was, “So, whaddaya on welfare here?”  Cops are far from one per centers and should know that even folks who work full time cannot always afford to live in swell joints.  I was not on welfare but refused to divulge this information out of solidarity for those who were.  Should anyone be treated differently because of having a lower income?

     In 1982 someone broke into that house and assaulted me at 4am.  When the police arrived they were very angry.  With me.  It seemed I had not gotten the license plate number of the person who assaulted me even though my glasses were broken and I am close to legally blind without them. I did not expect caring, concern or sympathy, that is not their job, (except on TV), but was stunned that I was being berated over failure in my detective work.

     I tried to keep an open mind since I heard a mind functions better that way but the Lloyd Harbor police severely tried my patience in the late 80’s when I attempted to get to Target Rock bird sanctuary.  I knew that the private police force there is very strict about speeders, which I applaud, and was driving at 35 mph when I was stopped.  “Am I speeding officer?” I asked, knowing I wasn’t.  He did not answer but kept looking at my car, its stickers and plates.  He circled the VW station wagon three times and finally came up with an offense.  It seemed I had an “improperly secured rear license plate.”  Why yes indeed, it was attached with a thick piece of rusted wire. He asked for my license and registration and as I unbuckled my seat belt to get them from the glove compartment he said, “Also, no seat belt.”  To say the situation slid downhill from there would be a vast understatement.  I was rather hot tempered in those days and was very nearly hand-cuffed.  Later in traffic court in Lloyd Harbor I noticed that my fellow criminals were two dozen Salvadoran landscapers.  After showing “before and after” pictures of my license plate attachment I was let go with no fine. A victory for justice!

     This century an incident occurred when I left the home of a West Indian patient in the Station.   The elderly lady had declined to let me help her out of bed into her wheelchair.  “ Get me grandson,” she insisted.  “Neville” came up from his basement room looking like someone the Giants could have used on defense this season and expertly lifted her into the chair and put her blankets on, just the way she liked it.  As I drove away I noticed the police following me and eventually they stopped me on 11th St.  “I thought your inspection sticker was expired, but it’s not.  Hey, did you notice if Neville was in that house you were just at?”

       What a dilemma.  HIPPA regulations prevent me from divulging anything I learn in a professional capacity so what should I do?  I told him I had to call my supervisor.  This officer went berserk, screaming “I am the police; you don’t need to call your supervisor.”  I handed the phone to him, and he was advised by my supervisor that it would be illegal for me to say anything about what I saw in the house. Upon hearing this he hurled the phone back in my car and shouted, “Thanks a lot; you did a really good job today.”

     I felt terrible about it; it seemed whatever I chose to do in that situation would be wrong. A couple of days later I read in the paper that Neville had been arrested for shooting off a gun in a bar, proving the dichotomy of Man’s nature, and the Tao.  That is, we’re not all good or bad, but each person has both good and evil qualities.  

     For some reason things started improving between the SCPD and me except for one incident with my last (and final) landlord which I will go into more detail about in a later blog.  For example, a neighbor fell off a ladder and was on the verge of refusing medical attention, as is often the case with head injuries.  The officer who showed up was very concerned and competent.  At one point my son’s mastiff came over to survey the scene and we were instructed to send him home.  “I just like to reduce the variables in a potentially precarious event,” was his rather alliterative explanation.

      Another time my friend had food poisoning and was rapidly dehydrating in a most unpleasant fashion.  And speaking of fashion, she was refusing to go to the ER without the exact chic outfit.  As I ran about the house panicking to find the clothes in the 90 plus heat I felt myself getting dizzy.  Officer Crowley showed up and took control of the situation, essentially rescuing us both.  It is not easy dealing with hysterical women without being condescending but he did it.  I wrote to his commanding officer to make sure he was recognized for his expertise. Bravery comes in many forms!

      The police are better educated these days and now I make sure to thank an officer personally at every parade, demonstration or music festival I may attend.   They have an incredibly hard job to do, and in my opinion, are doing it a lot better than they used to.