It was all about going 10-8 (in service) for the first time on the Fourth of July. That’s what I was thinking back in 1985. I had just finished my time in the USAF—security police, graduated from the police academy in Orange County, Calif., and was really excited to start my first “real” shift in law enforcement.
On that Fourth of July in 1985, I stood in front of a mirror, just staring at myself in my new police uniform. I’d worn it for months at the academy, but this was different. My gun was actually loaded for the first time outside of the range, and my badge said, “Officer,” not “Recruit,” “Cadet,” or anything less than a sworn police officer. I was the first cop in my family, and it was a proud moment.
After roll call, my field training officer (FTO) wanted to inspect my weapon. I hesitated, thinking, Should I unload it before handing it to him, or not? I knew the right thing to do was unload it, but he seemed impatient, so I wanted to comply immediately. After a brief pause, I handed it to him loaded—butt first.
After ejecting the magazine and clearing the round from the chamber, he commenced chewing me out for handing him a loaded weapon. What a set up, I thought. Obviously I guessed wrong. But I didn’t blame him; I knew better. Then, when he reloaded and returned it, he said, “I just wanted to make sure you were carrying live ammunition.”
It was day watch on the Fourth of July, so I knew we’d be dealing with a lot of “firework” related calls during the shift. However, our first call was an injury collision. Everyone from the Traffic Bureau was scheduled to report for duty later in the day—pre-planning for the 4th of July nighttime activity. So, we found ourselves rolling to the traffic accident.
My FTO didn’t say anything, but I could tell he wasn’t happy about being dispatched to a 901-T, traffic collision, in the absence of our Traffic Bureau. While most cops seeking action hated working day shift at my department, one benefit was that traffic officers were always there to handle injury accidents. But not on this day!
Upon arrival, I got my first lesson in controlling a chaotic scene. There were vehicle parts scattered everywhere, along with the injured; it looked like a small explosion had occurred.
We blocked off lanes of traffic, set up cone patterns, and began to investigate the crash while paramedics tended to the injured. I retrieved the driver’s license of one of the motorists. Keep in mind this was 1985. Before 2000, the state didn’t indicate the century on the date of birth, just the two-digit year. When I saw the birthday on the CDL (California Driver’s License), I thought I misread it. The year said ‘95. My first thought was that it had to be a typo. Then I realized the gravely injured driver was old…very old. Suddenly it hit me: 1895, not 1995. It wasn’t a typo after all. The critically injured driver was 90 years old and not at fault in the collision.
After coaching me through the injury collision report, which took about two hours between other calls for service, I tried to make small talk by asking my FTO about his family. “Look,” he said, “if you’re still here a year from now, I’ll fill you in. But for the time being, focus on becoming a police officer, not Phil (Donahue),” who was the precursor to Oprah, Dr. Phil (McGraw), and other TV talk show hosts. Bam! He shut me down big time!
Soon after my second humbling admonition of the day, we heard another officer request a rolling “10-28/29 check” on a vehicle. Before MDTs became commonplace, we asked dispatchers to check for wants/warrants related to the license plate of suspicious vehicles. Saying “rolling” was unwritten code, which meant, “hurry.”
“Clear for 10-35?” came the reply from the dispatcher using code, which means “confidential information.” Every officer listening to the radio knew what this meant. It was a “rollin’ stolen.” The dispatcher was verifying that the requesting officer didn’t have a bad guy within earshot before giving him the news.
Our partner officer continued to follow the stolen vehicle before a few more marked units teamed up with him to make a felony car stop. Within minutes, we joined him and one additional unit to initiate the take down. Emergency lights were activated, and our police units fanned out behind the stolen vehicle, which quickly yielded. We assumed barricaded positions behind our respective car doors, weapons drawn, and began to issue orders to the vehicle occupants. As the driver exited the car with arms raised, he began to “chip” at the initiating officer.
I looked over my gun sight, and the realization that my weapon was loaded with live ammunition became surreal. My conscious awareness kicked into overdrive. This isn’t the police academy, and if I pull the trigger, my gun will go BANG, I thought.
Suddenly, everyone heard the initiating officer say something he’d live to regret for decades to come. “Go ahead punk, make my day,” he said to the driver who was disrespectfully chipping away. Naturally, many of you recognize the famous line from Dirty Harry (Callahan), played by Clint Eastwood, in the 1983 movie, Sudden Impact. The officer actually snickered and buried his head in brief embarrassment before eventually taking several suspects safely into custody.
“I can’t believe I said that,” the seven-year-veteran officer told peers once the scene was secure. “What was I thinking?”
Later, my FTO privately told me, “I’ll kill you if you ever say something that stupid.” While I don’t recall my response, I learned to avoid movie tag lines when dealing with the criminal element.
Finally, the day came to an end. It was a time that I will always remember—going 10-8 for the first time on the Fourth of July.
And what came of my FTO? He developed into a professional mentor and lifelong friend!
For all those going 10-8 this year, be safe out there!
