Let’s Get It On! (9 page)

Among the buildings at the police academy at Elysian Park, you could find the outdoor shooting ranges, classrooms, and even a cafeteria. This is where I and seventy-two other cadets reported for training Monday through Friday at 5:00 a.m. dressed in our navy-blue sweats, with our last names plastered in bold white lettering across our chests and backs so our instructors could tell us apart.

As a class, we all quickly figured out who excelled at what. I’d handled a gun before, so the firearms training wasn’t a problem. My dad had allowed me to hold a gun, in his presence of course, from the age of ten on. He always told me if I wanted to pick one up, all I needed to do was ask him. Still, I’d sometimes sneak behind his back for the thrill of ogling one on my own. In fact, the bigger the gun, the more I liked it.

A part of our tactics training took place in the DEFT simulator, which stands for “development and evaluation of firearms training.” In 1985, the DEFT simulator in Los Angeles was cutting-edge technology. Inside, you shot wax bullets at a large aluminum screen on the wall while a film projector ran different vignettes for you to react to. It was as lifelike as it could get, with real actors playing out the parts. The scenario itself lasted about a minute, but it took about twenty for the instructors to get the results, then reload the program for the next cadet. You were evaluated based on when you drew your firearm, where you landed your shots, your verbal commands, and taking cover.

In my six months at the academy, we were put through just two scenarios in the DEFT simulator. I got in a little trouble with one of them, which had me standing in line at a bank waiting for a teller when an armed robber suddenly pushed his way to the window and demanded money. There were civilians everywhere, so accuracy was key. I unloaded six rounds into the robber. Later models of the simulator would compensate for gunshot wounds and a target would fall when you hit him, but this guy just kept going, so I kept shooting and reloading, firing a total of eighteen rounds into his head. I got reamed by my instructors for that.

We also practiced at the standard outdoor firing range and Hogan’s Alley, where we’d have to shoot on the move against targets popping up or coming at us. We were taught tactics, the universal guidelines for dealing with specific scenarios in police work, such as the proper technique for stopping cars or pedestrians and how to react in high-pressure situations. We also took classes on applicable law and learned the definitions of robberies, burglaries, and domestic violence. We studied traffic law and how to fill out reports, took a required eighty hours of Spanish, and watched lesson videos with instructors acting out family disputes or robberies. I got caught at my cubicle falling asleep to the recordings more times than I’d like to admit.

What I really excelled at were the self-defense classes, which included wrestling and other types of one-on-one combat. When a student was what we called HUA (because he had his head up his ass) and the instructors wanted to give him a hard time, I was the one they paired him up with.

I could also handle a squad car and was good at physical training, or PT, except for the running. Unfortunately, running was a big part of the program.

PT was broken down into two different regimens. Two or three days a week, we’d complete our fieldwork, which consisted of sit-ups, push-ups, burpees, and other basic calisthenics, along with running around the track. On alternate days, we’d jog the hills, which is where I ran into trouble.

A cadet with asthma couldn’t graduate from the academy, so I hid my inhaler in my jockstrap. Every time my lungs would clinch up, I’d take out the inhaler and sneak a deep breath. I was pretty good at that but got caught during one excruciatingly hot August day when temperatures soared to 118 degrees.

I made the run for the most part, but when we came back and stood at attention, my instructor noticed me leaning like the Tower of Pisa. After they pulled me out of the lineup and dumped me in the pool to cool me off, the inhaler bobbed to the surface and gave me away.

“What’s this?” the instructor asked, snatching it from the water.

“It’s an asthma reliever.” I gasped, trying not to show my discomfort.

The officer in charge of PT reported me that day and asked to have me dismissed.

However, my drill instructor, Jerry Stokes, happened to be a fair man. A few days later, as I awaited my fate, he pulled me out of class. “Mr. McCarthy,” he said in his slow drawl, stressing each consonant, “are we straight with everything?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Then don’t worry about what’s going on,” he said. “Some people are saying you’re not the best runner around here, and I think that’s true. But I watched you wrestle yesterday and, son, you don’t need to be a good runner.”

Luckily, Sgt. Stokes took the time to evaluate my overall progress at the academy and reported it back to the higher-ups. I was cleared to continue.

I’d say my fondest memories of the academy were meeting and training with the other cadets, forging long-lasting relationships with some. On the second day at the academy, we were told to run from one fence of Dodger Stadium to the other, up the hill and back. A classmate named Joe Johnson threw up on a parked car at the finish line. We both laughed, and I knew right then I was going to like the guy. I ended up working with Joe for the bulk of my career.

One benefit of the endless running was that I got in better shape and lost more weight. I’d had to diet to start at the academy because I wasn’t at the designated height and weight ratio. The doctor said I wasn’t fat, but I still had to drop 20 pounds to make the requirements. Once I hit the academy hills, I went from 250 to 225.

As part of our training, we accompanied officers on calls. I saw my first real crime scene during my second ride-along, when two officers were called to the scene of a shooting at Tam’s restaurant in a seedy downtown neighborhood in Southwest Division.

An employee’s head was canoed down the middle with a shotgun blast, and blood splatter and brain pieces covered every possible surrounding surface. I looked at the scene and thought,
Whoa, the real world’s not that pretty. Hollywood gets it pretty right.
The motive? A customer had ordered fries at the counter and hadn’t gotten them the way he’d wanted.

Rather than scaring me away, the scene made me want to continue my training. At the end of six months, fifty-five of the original seventy-two cadets graduated. Of those, Southwest chose five, and I was one of them.

My police graduation ceremony (January 1986)

Just as I graduated, Elaine was rushed to the hospital with what we thought was a case of appendicitis. It turned out she was pregnant.

I remember exactly what went through my head.
Holy shit, oh my God, I’m not ready for this.
We’d always wanted to wait five years, but you know how it is. One thing happens after another, and suddenly your life is taking off without you.

As a police officer, I was resigned to the fact that I’d never be rich. It was a decent living, though, and about six months later, Elaine and I were able to buy our first home for our growing family. Our single-story, two-bedroom house was in Covina, about twenty-five miles from the academy.

I felt prepared for what lay ahead. Looking back, I had no idea what was coming.

Under badge #10238, I entered my probation period at Southwest. In California, the standard training for police officers is called Peace Officer Standards and Training (POST). All probationary officers, or P1s, have to get a basic certificate to be considered full-fledged officers. I’d be on probation for the next year, paired with a training officer, or P3, and put to work on the streets. That training officer would become my partner until I was assigned to another when I switched watches, or shifts.

Every day I was out in the police car on patrol answering calls. In Southwest, we had five calls holding most of the time. As soon as we cleared one listing, another one would take its place. It was busy but fun.

Some of the calls would amount to nothing. We might get a burglary call and report to the building only to discover the alarm had been set off by the wind. Then there were very serious calls, for rape or child abuse, for example. Some calls I’d never forget, no matter how hard I tried. Some people are capable of the unthinkable at any given moment, hurting their friends, wives, husbands, even their own children. You never know when someone is going to snap.

Thankfully, not all of my calls were tragic. Some were quite comical, in fact. On one occasion, we were called to a domestic dispute. An old couple who had been together about forty years thought it was time to part ways.

My training officer listened to each side’s complaints, then calmly slipped his badge off his chest and placed it in his open, outstretched hand. Remember, his job was to keep the peace—no more, no less. As serious as a minister on Sunday, he said, “You both really don’t want to be together anymore. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, sir, I’m tired of her. She’s just a nasty woman,” the old man said.

“He’s a son of a bitch,” his wife said.

“Well, all right,” my partner said. “Put your hands on my badge. By the powers vested in me by the state of California and the city of Los Angeles, you are hereby divorced from one another.”

The couple looked at my partner.

“So I’m not married to her anymore?” the old man asked.

“Nope, not anymore,” the officer said. “You feel better?”

“Goddamn right I do. I’m a free man.”

As my partner and I left the house, I saw the old man beam.

“Did they really believe that?” I asked.

“Hell, yes, they believed it,” my partner said, “and they’re gonna be making love tomorrow anyway, so it really doesn’t matter.”

Some calls defied logic. Sometimes survival trumped everything else.

On Thanksgiving, we were sent to a family dispute and arrived to survey the father sitting at the dinner table with a fork stuck in his hand and his son shot dead in the chair across from him. It turned out the son had been mad at his father for taking the piece of turkey he wanted, and this was the end result.

Because of what we saw as officers every day, we all had to gain a sense of humor about things. Otherwise, the scenes would drive us crazy. I don’t want to say we became desensitized. There were sobering images we’d never get over seeing again and again, but we made light of things to get through the days.

I learned how to be an officer when I started working patrol in the divisions. At first, I struggled to fit in with the realities of being on the force. The LAPD wasn’t quite what I’d imagined, and I have to admit I was disappointed after my first month. I’d grown up around my dad and his fellow officers within the Metropolitan Division of SWAT, a unique breed. They were honorable brothers who worked together and backed each other up.

The first training officer I worked with outside the academy had been at a desk job in the communications department fourteen years before he’d been bumped back to patrol. Most officers didn’t like the communications department because it was so boring, but this guy liked sitting at his desk and not having to do anything. He was scared to death to work in Southwest Division. On our first burglary call, I had to enter the building myself because he was too frightened. When he got to know me a little better, I became his protection.

As a child I’d watched my dad and his coworkers and listened intently to all their stories. I’d seen their gratification when they’d put away somebody who was a threat to the rest of society. In the beginning, that was missing for me. But in my third month of probation, I was moved to the morning watch, 11:30 p.m. to 7:45 a.m, and my view of police work completely changed. Leonard Mora, Nick Savala, Ron Barker, Tommy McMullen, and Carlos Velasquez hit the street and made a difference.

By now, I’d noticed there seemed to be three types of officers.

The first type were ticket writers or radio followers, who always picked up the little calls because they wouldn’t require much from them. They did police work with people who would never be a problem. These officers would even write their mothers tickets. They chicken-shitted their way through their jobs.

The second type were middle-of-the-roaders, who pulled status quo and did just enough to handle their areas. However, they didn’t go looking for what wasn’t right in front of them.