White Death (7 page)

Washington, D.C., July 1969

“Pull to the right, stop the car, turn off the ignition, and put your hands on the top of the steering wheel,” said the imperious voice through the loudspeaker mounted in the grill of the cruiser. Mike Jansen had pulled over a drunk driver at 2:30 a.m., no doubt trying to find his house after the bar closed. The case required a pile of paperwork and at least two court appearances. Mike would be in court most of the morning, try to get some sleep later, and begin the next shift.

D.C. did not permit the results of breathalyzers as evidence, so the drunks had to urinate in a bottle back at the station. This was not always easy. I was doing paperwork on a stolen car and prohibited weapon in the basement when I heard Mike having trouble with his lockup. I listened to the following conversation between them.

“How ’bout filling this bottle for me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, you really
are
drunk.”

“I ain’t drunk.”

“Doin’ some tastin’ but not drunk, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well the only way to
prove
you ain’t drunk is to piss in this bottle.”

The drunk eyed the bottle with suspicion. “So, this will prove I’m not drunk.”

“That’s right. Just fill it about halfway.”

“But I gotta piss bad.”

“Fill it halfway, and I’ll take you to a bathroom.”

“Okay.”

With the drunk feeling relieved, Mike used the desk next to me to start filling out forms.

“What do you have?” he asked.

“Operating a stolen car and possession of a prohibited weapon,” I replied. “This knife is seriously ugly. Watch this.” I held the nine-inch knife in front of him and pressed the button. The blade shot out of the shaft with such force that I almost dropped it.

“Holy shit! I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“The kid here is seventeen with a juvy record as long as your arm. Says it will pierce a two-by-four board, and I believe him. All you need to do is hold it against the ribs near the heart, press the button, and walk away. I called Homicide to see if they have any unsolved cases fitting this M.O.”

We worked in silence for a while, with the usual questions for the lockups. I finished before Mike and turned to go.

“I’ll see you in court in the morning. Just another night in paradise.”

We locked eyes and smiled.

Unambiguous Language

Fate sent me to the 6200 Club twice on the same evening. Preacher and I had the power shift –6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. The 6200 Club was the secondary lesbian bar in the precinct, and a hangout for lowlifes of all species. I enjoyed working with Preacher; he never got rattled and was supremely skilled at breaking up what criminologists call, “the degenerating cycle of violence.” It’s sort of a game in which each side understands the rules and decides how much to up the ante until violence is inevitable or one effectively surrenders and tries to walk away, which is not always possible. Without realizing it, many cops play this game during confrontations, almost guaranteeing a
violent outcome.

Preacher would break the rules by saying or doing things that didn’t fit the pattern expected to unfold. The most famous story about him involved a group of Renegade outlaw bikers partying in a house, shooting out streetlights, and raising hell generally. Preacher’s appearance also fitted his personality. He was partially bald, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, always seemed slightly pale, and was a little thin and soft spoken. A photo adorned the bulletin board of him and Brinson standing next to each other with Brinson’s huge hand resting on his shoulder. In contrast to Brinson’s grim face, Preacher was smiling. Brinson towered over Preacher with a tattoo visible on one of his bulging biceps. One photo summarized their different styles.

Two cars were dispatched to the disturbance. Preacher walked to the other car and told them he wanted to try to quiet them down alone first. All warned him that these were thugs, outlaw bikers, most of whom had to “roll their bones” (kill an enemy biker) to become “patched in” to the gang. He listened, told everybody not to worry, took off his cap (against the rules), and knocked on the door. When a pair of bikers opened it, he asked if he could come in.

“Hey, the fucking police want to join the party.” Then, the door closed. In a few minutes, the music was turned down. The door opened briefly with Preacher pointing to a shot-out street light and laying his hand gently on the shoulder of one of the bikers. The officers waited anxiously outside. Finally, he emerged, returned to his seat, and said, “We’re 10-8 (back in service), party quieted.”

Later, of course, other officers interrogated him as to what happened in the house. Preacher initially told them, “I want to chat with you boys, but the music is too loud, so please turn it down a little.” They offered him a marijuana cigarette and a beer. He thanked them, put the joint in his shirt pocket and set the beer next to him. Guns and drugs lay in plain sight all over the living
room – which he pointedly ignored. With the stereo down, he reminded them of “how our mothers raised us to be polite and not to destroy others’ property.”

“It’s okay to party,” he said, “but try to be respectful of your neighbors. They may be upset by too much noise.” Preacher looked for someone who might be the boss and said, “Let me show you something outside.”

He anticipated the “fuck-you” response, gently grabbed him by the outer ear like a wayward child, and led him to the door, lecturing him on foul language and good behavior along the way. This was greeted by shrieks of laughter from the other bikers. Pointing to the shot-out streetlight, he said, “The taxpayers—and that’s all of us—must pay four-hundred dollars to replace it.” When they turned to come back in, Preacher said that most stared at him, speechless. So, he wrapped it up with an agreement from them to quiet down. He thanked them for their time and hospitality, and left. One of them yelled, “Goodbye, Preacher,” and that’s how he got his nickname.

Pressed by one of the more hardline cops about ignoring all of the crimes committed or in plain sight, Preacher raised his voice a little. “Do you think we’re going to change those people? Probably none of the crimes would have resulted in jail time, and if they did, jail for them is just part of their life. Also, they were well-armed. How do we justify the bloodshed, probably on both sides? They are who they are. Our job is to contain their depredations. The dispatcher sent me to quiet the party, which I did. Perhaps some of them actually listened to me.” There were no further questions.

Later, Preacher and I were eating at the 6200 Club. Unlike at the Zombies, the food was edible. We carried a radio in with us, hoping to stretch the time to eat. Cops eat too fast; it is a matter of survival. Two-man units can’t go out of service for food. If there were a real emergency and nobody answered, then we
would take the run and leave. So far, we had been lucky.

For 7:00 p.m., the place was mostly empty. I noticed Big Carol with two of her girls in a back booth but paid no attention. I was hungry. About halfway through my meal, Preacher says, “I have a better view of your friend. You might want to take a look.”

“Shit, Preacher. I thought you couldn’t see with those glasses. Let me wolf down a few more bites, and I’ll talk to her.”

I walked slowly back to her table, watched the flurry of activity, greeted Carol, and told the two girls to hit the road.

“Empty your pockets, Carol, and I mean everything.”

“Jake, I got four years of backup time for CDW
⁶
and selling. I can’t go back inside, too many enemies there. If you bust me, you know they’ll revoke parole.”

We sat staring at each other. Slowly, Carol emptied her pockets: Dexedrine tabs; “buck action” heroin caps; a small bag of white powder, and about two-hundred dollars, in mostly tens and twenties.

“How much are you dealing?”

“Not much. Just a little to my girls.”

“Are you packing? If you are, I’ll bust you.”

“No, no. I quit carrying.”

“Let’s go to the men’s room to continue this conversation. Now.”

As the door closed, exasperation filled my voice. “Goddammit, Carol, you’ve really put me in a bind. Didn’t you see me and Preacher?”

“Yeah, but I needed the money, and I didn’t think…”

“You sure as hell didn’t think,” I shouted. She was right about a parole revocation and time back in the slammer. Street people know the going rates in the court-and-correctional system better than most lawyers. If I busted someone like Big Carol, then it would cause ill will between the police and the patrons of these already tough bars. The lesbians would consider the bust as a hummer
⁷
or worse as a double-cross in light of my special
relationship with Big Carol. I began to wonder why I left the food.

“Okay, Carol, I got a deal for you on a take-it-or-leave-it basis. If I flush this crap down the toilet where it belongs, then I want two things in return. One, no more selling here or in the Zombies. Go to Bobbie’s house or whatever. Two, you owe me a big one, payable on demand – anything, anytime, anywhere.”

Sweat poured off Carol’s face.

“Thanks. Part two could be really rough, but I’ll take it. Deal.”

“I want to keep the cocaine because it’s related to another issue. I’ll say it came from a CI who can’t be compromised. It won’t come back to you.”

As I watched the last buck action cap disappear beneath the swirling water, I mulled over the reality that life on the streets requires a scorecard. Experienced officers understand the targets of police attention as law violators can sometimes negotiate their position with direct assistance or information on more serious crime. Trading down, as it’s known, doesn’t appear in police General Orders. At most it’s an entry in a pocket notebook.

“How come you didn’t bust her?” asked Preacher as we went back into service, easing into the evening traffic.

“I’m learning from you,” I replied.

The night seemed to pass slowly. Tomorrow, I intended to call Detective Lieutenant John Roberts about the cocaine. Tonight, it would stay in my locker, a serious rule violation. We wrote a few traffic tickets and separated a married couple who wanted to kill each other, just the bread and butter of routine police work.

At 1:00 a.m., I thought, “Just an hour to go.”

“Scouts 63 and 64, a robbery shooting, 6200 Georgia Avenue, outside the Club. Look out for a black male, medium brown skin, twenties, about six feet, short afro, wearing a long suede coat. Last seen running west on Rittenhouse. Code one. Homicide responding, 0110.”

“63 responding.”

“64 also responding.”

We were in 64 and close; it was a detailed lookout.

“Preacher, I’ve got a hunch. He could run north on Twelfth Street, with lots of houses on both sides. On the other hand, he could duck up into the cemetery next to the Methodist church. I think he’s going to the cemetery – no cars, no lights. I’d like to hike up there. Do you want to stay with me or check out Twelfth Street?”

“Let’s maximize coverage,” he replied. “Get out here; I’ll light up Twelfth Street. Be careful, Homicide is responding.”

“You, too.”

I turned around my cap, so the cap plate would not reflect light, and climbed up to the cemetery. The clear skies and full moon provided good light. I recognized him, walking slowly among the tombstones. The description was dead on. I circled behind and toward him. Then, I stepped on a dry stick. He half-turned toward the sound, and began to run.

“Halt, police. You’re under
arrest!”

He responded by turning to fire two rounds at me. I heard the bullets whiz past me; one sounded like it hit a tombstone. Now, we were running at full speed through the cemetery. I screamed,
“Halt, police or I’ll shoot”
one more time with no effect.

It was my turn to use deadly force. To shoot a man in the back. I was furious at this killer for making me do this. I qualified Expert every year; I wouldn’t miss. Without thinking, I screamed as I took aim,
“Hold it, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your ass away!”

He stopped and tossed down his gun. Out of breath, I raced up to him and knocked him down to the dirt, face up. Astraddle his chest, I grabbed his ears and began to pound his head on the clay, constantly cursing him as I gasped for air and pounded some more.

“Stop,” he said.

I stopped, and we stared at each other panting. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somebody probably found my empty cruiser
with the car door open.

“Did you hear me the first and second time I said ‘Stop’?’”

“Yeah.”

“And the last time?”

“Oh, man. You stopped with all that ‘Halt police’ shit and said you’d blow my motherfucking ass away. I knowed you meant it.”

“You bet your life on how I told you to stop?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

I hadn’t even searched him for other weapons. I rolled him over cuffed him and pulled out a second gun. The cemetery was filling with cops, so I yelled my position saying everything was under control.

Preacher was the first to find me. He had put out a 10-33
⁸
after hearing gunfire. Sergeant Townsen walked up and began to upbraid me.

“Goddammit, Stone! Why didn’t you just plant the mother-fucker? Preacher here reports two shots fired, and they weren’t by you, correct?”

“Correct.”

“I’m going to write you up for exposing yourself to hostile fire and not returning fire to protect yourself.”

Lieutenant Dominik had been listening and walked toward us. “You okay, Jake?”

“Yeah. A little rattled, but okay.”

“Back off, Joe. Don’t write him up for anything.”

“But he…”

“Do you see this white shirt with gold bars?”

“Yes, sir,” was the subdued reply.

Lieutenant Dominik gently pushed me away from the crowd. “Tell me what exactly happened.”

“It was a lesson in communication. During the chase, I told him twice to stop. After he shot at me, I drew a bead on his back. The light was good. I couldn’t have missed, but it was so hard to shoot a man in the back. I was putting pressure on the trigger,
maybe two pounds or more, and then I just screamed at him,
‘Hold it, motherfucker, or I’ll blow your ass away!’
He stopped and tossed down the gun. I beat his head on the ground a few times, and he told me he had heard me the first time, but the last time he said, ‘I knowed you meant it’.”