Raindogblue

In the Scrum

 

 

In the Alphabet District, off 2nd Street, three of us are trying to take Bubba into custody. A fourth has our backs against a gathering crowd. Bubba’s a big ‘un. 6’2”, 320. He beat a man with the heavy end of half a pool cue until his hands bent backwards. Bubba dropped the stick, but he’s not going to be arrested. Slowly, we peel fingers and bend his arms back. He rams his shoulder into me. I bounce off, but hold on. 

 

I growl, If you do that again, I’m going to punch ya. 

 

His eyes shift to me. 

 

 “You’re going to punch me. 

 

Dead eyed, I reply, Yes, I am. 

 

Bubba slows and slackens. 

 

A few seconds later, we have him in custody.  

 

 

 

 

Beggar's and 18th

 

I'm covering Carroll, on Beggar's and 18th. A drunk goth gal in a corset and safety pinned pants is raging. When I arrive, she's armed with a whiskey bottle, wielding it like a club. Seeing my prowler, she launches forward shrieking in a primal scream, "I hate you!" Her left hand finds the passenger side door and starts to swing the bottle to the window. 

I exit to enrage. The goth circles the front of the Ford to fight.

And then, I grab her. I pin her biceps to her sides and say,

You will not use force or I will force on you.

She's stunned and stands in place. I see the healed cut marks on her wrists.

I cock my head, look around her, and address Carroll,

Wanta grab her?

Carroll had been standing back, mouth open, staring, but she quickly closes. Grabbing the gal, she disarms the drunk, dropping the bottle so it shatters on the street.

As we go to cuff, the gal arches her head back set to head butt Carroll.

I intercede, grabbing the goth's neck and pressing down until she's in a squat and unable to move.

As we lead her, crying, to Carroll's car, a woman screams down from the fourth floor of a walk up, "You stupid bitch! That's what you get for fighting the police!"

 

 

 

Just That Lucky

 

I got peed on by the naked guy last night.

At least, I didn't get bit like Wapiti.

 

 

Magnet, Part II

 

Radio dispatches two cars to a drunk

fighting security at the Seawall

Music Festival. I attach to add

an extra set of hands. As I arrive,

the drunk mule kicks Gurkha.

 

In the locker room, after the shift,

the acting sergeant said to me, 

"When you put yourself on the call, 

I looked at Kenny and said, 

'Well, I better start heading that way."

 

 

 

 

Behind the Door.

He'd beat his girlfriend and the night manager who'd asked him to leave.

He's drunk on whiskey and bleeding on one side of the door.

C3K, Conquistador, and I are on the other side.

I have the key.

It's a DV, a mandatory pinch.

We've asked him to come out in calm tones.

He's holding the lock.

"If you cause any problems, we're going to taser your ass."

He's  had his warning.

C3K has the taser. I have an ASP. Conquistador is lethal cover.

I insert the key.

He fights it.

I'm stronger. 

Centimeter by centimeter, the lock turns.

The bolt retreats past the catch.

We push. 

He shoves back.

The door swings in an inch, two, a foot.

C3K ducks under me, slices the pie, clears the door with his taser and fires. The probes hit.  I hear the arc, see the spray of circular confetti.

He releases the door. It swings in.

C3K darts in. I follow.

The connection breaks as I round the door.

His fist hits my face, square on top of the right cheek.

I shove him back into the corner behind the door. I underhook his right arm with my left. 

There's no room. I can't extend the baton. 

I use it as a knife. I jab it up into his ribs, once,twice, turn  the baton and bring it down into his pec.

A blue sleeve reaches over my head, so I strike low, slamming the ASP against the thigh.

He punches me again. The blow lands on my left cheek.

Intent recedes into instinct.

I hit him in the face with my forearm and push his head back and away.

Conquistador grabs his head and launches him over his hip.

We all fall to the floor.

C3K and Conquistador pile high. Each goes for an arm.

I land on the legs.

He kicks. 

I  block with my arms.

I pin his left leg and deliver ASP strikes. 

There is a blue leg under  me,  so I switch legs. I extend the baton to it's full length and hammer down, ball of the baton hitting the back of his right calf.

"Give 'em your arms!"

I strike.

"Give 'em your arms!"

I strike, again.

"Give 'em your arms!"

Conquistador says, "I have his arm."

C3K says, "I have his arm."

I stop.

They cuff him.

We hold him down until I search him and medical units can strap him down and take him away.

Assholes and Arm Bars

 

Last night, the Wagon called for a car on Third in front of the Church of the Infinite Being.
When I arrived, the tall EMT points at the drunk.

"He wants to fight."

He's right.

The drunk's pacing. His shoulders are squared and tense. He's jutting out his, bearing his teeth.  His hands are clenched and ready to strike.

I stand, pause, and let him take me in.

He's too angry, but if he'd look he'd see he'll lose if he fights.

The drunk is younger, but I'm bigger.

His stance is from instinct and not training or ability.

I try to talk him down. I speak in a calm, clear manner.

You don't want to fight. You want to go to Detox. They'll take care of you.

"Fuck you! I ain't going anywhere!"

You don't want to fight. Go to Detox. They'll take care of you.

"Fuck you."

The Jedi Mind Trick does  not work.

He advances, recedes, and advances.

He's testing my resolve.  He's looking for an opening to strike.

I look him in the eye.

You're under arrest. Put your hands behind your back.

He rocks forward. His hand is clenched and poised.

I don't give him the chance.

I grab his right hand with my left, anchor his elbow with my right hand, and force his arm behind his back.

He struggles. With his left hand, he grabs my shirt.

The Wagon's EMTs move to help.

I don't want them to be hurt. 

I turn the custody hold into an arm bar. I press his shoulder down, raise the wrist high, and step forward at half speed.

I drive the drunk down. His forehead hits the sidewalk.

As I cuff him, he screams, "You're an asshole! You didn't have to do that to me."

 

 

A Moment of Violence

 

 

 

There is a moment:

A car prowler with an arm

full of stolen property.

 

He is defiant to my commands.

He advances, cocks his arm back.

I see the hammer in his hand.

 

Then, he is on the ground.

His arm is up in a bar,

his wrist is reversed.

My knee is in his back.

 

He's lost his breath.

The hammer is out of reach.

 

I call for cover,

but the fight is done. 

 

 

 

Clicking the Air

 

Amidst last night's scrum, as I struggled

with the suicidal subject, my mike clicked

on and off throughout the tussle letting all

on West's air hear the sounds of the scrape. 

 

One sergeant said he heard the transmission

and thought, "There's an ass kicking going on,"

and headed code to the call. 

 

Scrumming

 

Tonight, on the West Side, I scrummed

a suicidal for four minutes. Two without

help. My knees are sore, but they held.

 

 

Facts: Pursuits

For the department, for 2010:

61% of all pursuits are in East Precinct.

Half of all pursuits occur between 10 PM and 3 AM. 

42% of all pursuits start as attempted traffic stops. 

21% of all pursuits involve a stolen car. 

The average length of a pursuit is 1 minute,  40 seconds. 

The average length of a pursuit nationwide is 5.5 minutes.