How appropriate that the traditional gift on a one year anniversary is one of paper.
Today marks one year with Behind the Blue Line, a concept first dreamed about and then brought to fruition.
Even though this blog is read online, the writing itself stems from a need to indulge in the written word, to let flow onto ‘paper’ the thoughts and experiences that shape a profession, and to prove without a doubt the officers of the Vancouver Police Department are good people.
The stories I’ve shared could be told a dozen times over with the names of other officers in the place of mine and perhaps with only a slight change to the circumstances. My stories are not unique, only the telling is.
Policing is a calling, not just a career. I really do hope I’ve made this clear.
I love my job. Most officers I know love their jobs. Even though we often feel under-appreciated and under attack from various levels of the citizenry, we do this job knowing the world is a better place because of it. We are aware of the silent majority who support us and every thankyou and kind word does not go unnoticed.
Indeed, they stay with us always.
This blog started out with tentative baby steps. I felt my way through media reports, current news topics and stories based on experiences from my days at work. I initially tried to blog every day but this proved to be too difficult with a very demanding full-time job. To compromise, I’ve settled into writing 2-3 times a week, which seems to suit most people just fine.
What became abundantly clear was readers (you) had little interest in news they could read/watch elsewhere. Instead, readers wanted the raw story of what happens to an officer behind the wheel of a police car, what happens when a citizen in need calls 911, and what happens behind the blue line that is policing.
From the time I’ve started this blog I’ve discovered there are those who think police officers should not write about their daily happenings, that to do so is sacrilege. I’ve received hate mail and rude comments.
But I’ve also learned there is a great need for people not exposed to the world of policing to be given a front row seat so they may better understand what it is we do and why we do it, because with understanding comes acceptance.
To balance the negative and positive I share what I can and there are topics I will simply not write about – undercover work, current projects, departmental politics or significant news events like the Dziekanski Taser incident. Other stories, ones that will not compromise the safety of my fellow officers, are the ones I can share.
Of those stories told over the last year, the following have garnered the most attention:
Hopefully, the end result of a year’s work is that the curtain has been pulled back, just a little, to allow you a glimpse into what life as a police officer is like.
Thank you to the Vancouver Police Department for their support, to Rob at iContext.com for taking care of the technical and design aspects of the blog and being there for every question I’ve had, and to the Vancouver Sun for choosing to run with some of the topics covered here and for giving me the opportunity of joining their writing team.
My biggest thanks go to you, the reader, for without your continued support and interest this blog would have fallen. Your emails and comments are a measure officers can judge themselves against in hopes of never falling short.
And most of all, thank you for your acceptance of police officers everywhere.
“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”
– Martin Luther King, Jr.
In the time between issuing the excessive speeding ticket and our the first court date, the Street Racing Hot Line worked out the wrinkles in their new system and figured out how to deal with Mr Corvette Driver. As a result, Mr. CD had his licence revoked for a number of weeks and he found himself wallowing in the ranks of prohibited drivers.
On our first court date Mr. CD was more than thirty minutes late for his appearance. This did not go over well with the Justice of the Peace, who sternly asked for an explanation as to his tardiness. Mr. CD showed great humility and gave the court his apologies, saying he had missed one of the three public transit buses required to get him from his home to the court house.
The JP gave this some thought before accepting Mr. CD’s apology, and then sent him to registrar to set another date with the warning to NOT be late for his second court appearance.
When Mr. CD sputtered and asked why his case couldn’t be heard then, the JP said there were other cases to be heard whose defendants had been on time.
I love a judge with a good, healthy sense of justice, don’t you?
Our second court date came around a few weeks later. With only a few moments to spare before the courtroom opened, I still had not seen Mr. CD when scanning the numerous faces waiting in the corridor. Sprinkled in among defendants were other police officers and bylaw officers. I recognized one motorcycle officer and went over to say hello. We ended up talking about the reasons we were in court this day, and shortly after realized we both had previous dealings with Mr. CD.
I was frustrated the defendant was not yet at the courthouse; I suggested perhaps Mr. CD had missed his bus and it was the following reactionary comment from my motorcycle colleague that can be described only as divine intervention.
“What are you talking about? Mr. CD’s already here. I saw his car parked outside,” he said.
The next few moments were a flurry of Q & A, and by the end of it we had determined the following:
- Mr. CD’s driver’s licence had been revoked and he was currently a prohibited driver
- Driving while prohibited is an arrestable offence
- While none of the police officers present at court could put Mr. CD behind the wheel, Mr. CD’s bright blue Corvette was parked out front of the court house
- A check of the licence plate on the Corvette confirmed Mr. CD as the registered owner
- the probability of Mr. CD being the one to have driven the Corvette to the courthouse was high
- my motorcycle colleague was going to sit in on the trial and watch, as he knew Mr. CD could get up to some serious shenanigans when in court.
As I took my place in the court gallery beside the motorcycle officer I looked around. The one person I was searching for was absent, but just as proceedings were about to begin Mr. CD snuck in the door and took his seat.
The Justice of the Peace went around the room, everyone stated their names, and cases were called to the bench. All the guilty pleas were heard first, fines and adjusted payment schedules were doled out, and time ticked down to when we would take the stand.
Finally, we were called.
The two of us stepped forward and proceedings began with my taking the witness stand and explaining the facts as they occurred in the original street racing post. Mr. CD then had the chance to cross examine me, which he did. That’s when it got weird.
Between questions on how long I had been a police officer and inquiries if I had ever been permitted to give expert testimony on my ability to give a visual estimation of a vehicle’s speed, Mr. CD introduced his argument that there was no way, in the 1.5 blocks we had travelled on the date of the alleged infraction, that a Crown Victoria weighing in at xxx pounds could have reached a velocity of xxx kilometers an hour, even if travelling at a high rate of speed down a hill with a 5% grade. And yes, that’s really how he talked.
After much deliberation of the calibration of my police vehicle’s speedometer, of my years experience as a driver, and of the sheer ridiculous thought that Mr. CD had been street racing on the day in question, the JP finally instructed Mr. CD to get to the point.
Mr. CD held his tablet of notes up with a flourish and he paced back and forth as he started his cross examination. Several of his questions prompted a terse response from the bench with direction to keep the questions on subject, and when such a demand is made after the JP pushes his glasses to the end of his nose so he can better visually penetrate the person he is looking at, you had better heed the warning
Eventually, Mr. CD took the witness stand and gave his version of events. He denied almost everything, saying he had been driving at the speed limit, admitting only to exchanging words with the motorcycle riders; he said they simply commented on his nice car. He even went so far as to say his beloved blue Corvette was in storage as he was abiding by the driving prohibition he had been issued.
It was at this point my motorcycle officer colleague quietly slipped out of the courtroom. I’m the only one who noticed.
At the end of the traffic trial, the Justice of the Peace found Mr. CD guilty of the excessive speeding infraction, stating the validity of the officer’s evidence weighed heavily on his decision. Mr. CD did not have his fine reduced, but he was given an extra few months to pay it down. Mr. CD gathered his papers together, stuffed them in his briefcase and stormed out of the courtroom.
I gave the customary bow to the JP and pushed out of the courtroom door only to find my motorcycle officer friend waiting outside. He saw me and quickly pulled me into a nearby doorway.
“We have his car under surveillance. If he drives, we’ll have him,” he said in a conspirator’s whisper.
We turned our radios to the channel the traffic officers were using and listened to them give updates as Mr. CD was followed covertly out of the courthouse.
“He’s walking down the sidewalk. He’s out on the street walking towards the driver’s door of the Corvette.”
A two second pause.
“Shit! A patrol car turned down the street – he stepped away from the car and back to the sidewalk!”
Another pause, this time a little longer.
“He’s back at the Corvette. He’s opening the door and he’s in the driver’s seat. Ignition. We have ignition!” the excited voice exclaimed, “He’s northbound on Hornby!”
Moments later, with a news TV crew in tow, one of the motorcycle officers stopped the Corvette, handcuffed Mr. CD, and arrested him for driving while prohibited.
God knows where the TV news crew came from, but the entire incident made the 6 o’clock news that night.
Their story was a thing of beauty.
Karma – the force generated by a person’s actions to perpetuate transmigration and in its ethical consequences to determine the nature of the person’s next existence
Before continuing with the saga of The Street Racer, it’s important that everyone understands what happens when a driver attends traffic court in order to dispute a ticket issued to them by an officer. Several sites outline the process in detail – The Provincial Court of British Columbia, The Canadian Bar Association, Courts of BC, and a Vancouver Sun article gives a fly on the wall perspective.
Here is a Cole’s Notes version of what takes place in traffic court – keep in mind this is an extremely basic explanation:
- When you dispute a ticket you are given a date and time to attend traffic court
- When your day in court arrives, go to your designated courtroom – do not be late. Do not wear a hat, or if you do, make sure to take it off when you walk in to the court room. Be respectful. Know what you are going to say.
- You will be asked by the Judicial Justice of the Peace (the ‘judge’) if you are going to plead guilty or not guilty. Many people stall at this point, as they want to plead guilty but simply have an issue with paying the fine. If this is the case, say you want to plead guilty with an explanation
- If you plead guilty, or guilty with an explanation, the Justice of the Peace will discuss the infraction and fine with you to come to an agreement over payment/time to pay etc.
- If you plead not guilty, then both you and the officer who issued the ticket will get to tell your own sides of the story. There are usually no lawyers involved, unless the disputant is raising a legal issue (see links above). You will have the opportunity to question/cross examine the officer, and vice versa
- The Justice of the Peace then makes their decision and hands down their judgement
So there you go - a little bit of background to set the stage.
Several years ago while working in a plainclothes general patrol capacity, my partner and I came up behind three motorcycles and one bright blue Corvette lined up at a red light. It was obvious the motorcycles were not with the Corvette as the riders were checking out the sports car with some admiration.
The driver of the Corvette noticed them noticing so he inched his car forward to come alongside the nearest rider. The driver’s side window came down, an arm extended out of the opening, words were exchanged, and the helmeted head of the nearest rider jerked up in the gesture, “What, you wanna go?”
Apparently the Corvette driver did – the light changed to green and all four of them were off, their tires spitting up debris from the roadway to pepper the front of our car.
Our province had just introduced a zero tolerance policy on street racing, and by golly, we had ourselves a street race unfolding right in front of us.
We went after them and so intent were they on their race that not one of them noticed the dark grey, unmarked Crown Victoria bearing down on them.
We clocked them at 100kms/hr, downhill, through a road construction zone (it was after the work day so no work crews were around) and they were still accelerating towards the next red light when we hit the lights and siren. They had to be stopped before they killed someone.
The motorcycles immediately slowed and started to pull to the side. The Corvette, on the other hand, made a hard left hand turn down a side street and sped out of sight. We chose to stay with the motorcycles and radioed in the licence plate and direction of travel on the Corvette. As several other police units were already headed to the area the Corvette was stopped a couple of blocks away by a responding cruiser.
By the end of it, after a call to the 24 hour police-only line designated for street racing incidents, the three bike riders were each issued with a driving prohibition (if I recall, each was for 30 days) and got to watch as their motorcycles were slung onto tow truck and impounded. To give the riders credit, they were polite, cooperative and apologized for their actions. I almost felt sorry for them, but not quite. I’ve seen what happens when street races go awry, and it’s devastating when innocent people are killed and maimed. We handed them their prohibitions and sent them away in a taxi.
The Corvette driver was an entirely different story.
He was arrogant, rude and tried to speak in the volumes of legal-eeze that showed he was a frequent flier in traffic court. He first refused to hand me his drivers licence, but acceded when he saw there was no point, then he called me sweetheart, and then he said he’d sue me for a ‘wrongful police stop’ and have my job. In other words, he was annoying. I mean, really annoying. But, as I say to others, don’t let it get personal and just do your job. So we did. With gritted teeth.
Here was the kicker, though – the Corvette driver held an out of province drivers licence, and at that time, with street racing legislation still in the infant stages, there was no recommendation on what to do in a situation like the one we faced. A missed loophole stated the street racing legislation was effective only for drivers holding a BC licence.
We ended up issuing the man a ticket and fine for excessive speeding. That’s all we had the power to do at the time, and somehow it just didn’t sit right. We had already dealt with the motorcycle riders, and I thought either all of them should get the same prohibition, or none of them. Keep it fair, right? The people at the street-racing line let us know they would look into it and would liase with the man’s home province to try and figure out what to do.
We had to let the Corvette driver proceed. He grinned his smarmy grin, gave us a ta-ta wave with his ticket, buckled up and started his engine.
“I’ll see you ladies in court,” he said, and blew us a kiss as he drove away.
Coming up next in Part 2, read how the traffic court dates unfold and what happens after.
Today I joined the team of writers over in the Driving Section of The Vancouver Sun newspaper, where the Friday edition will include various traffic related posts from Behind the Blue Line.
Many thanks to editor Keith Morgan for the wonderful opportunity, and to the rest of the team for being so welcoming.
Now I’m off to negotiate my way through the stop sign near my home in an effort to get some errands done…wish me luck.
Thanks for reading!
Sandra
Domestic violence is a crime as old as humanity itself and while victimization does not discriminate between the sexes, women are the ones who fall more often.
I’ve spoken to them, held ice against their swollen faces and broken bodies. I’ve seen the tears, the frustration, the fear and the love they still have for those who hurt them.
It always impresses me when they find the strength and resolve to finally leave their abusers. Some say it should be an easy task, to leave a partner who hits and humiliates, but the lives of these women are intricate webs from which they often have trouble extricating themselves.
The following story takes a little from each of the abused women I’ve met over the years.
It is about their fight to survive.
************
Like a horrible insect crouched low on her bedside table, the alarm clock pealed its call. An awful sound. A loud sound. An unacceptable sound. Her hand tried to slap down on the off button but the clock danced just out of her reach.
“Turn that damn thing off,” Bret’s voice grumbled from across the vast emptiness of their bed.
Fingers fumbling, her arm partially wrapped in the blanket held fast by Bret’s hip, she again reached out for the clock. She was fully awake and feared her husband would soon be as well.
“Why the fuck is that thing on? Turn it off!” Louder now.
A final lunge freed her arm allowing her finger to press the sleep button. Her body relaxed, sweating lightly under the covers as she monitored the hulk beside her. Bret’s breathing steadied out, became deeper. Moments crept by.
To have and to hold.
Bret issued a low snore and snuffled into his pillow. His shoulders softened but still she could not trust he was asleep.
For better or for worse.
The time she fell asleep reading her book and left the bedside lamp on. She awoke with Bret’s face inches from hers and there had only been time to register his blank gaze before his closed fist came rushing in, closing her left eye like an anvil strike. She did not go to work for a week.
For richer.
The darkness of early morning was a cloak. It hid her hunger, a shameful need to be wanted. Having tried and failed to banish the emptiness, it came back to Bret. Always Bret. Like the time he punched her hard in the gut and their new pregnancy was lost in a spill of blood.
For poorer.
Still, in the dark, she waited. His hand, laying on the coverlet like a pale fish in the moonlight, could grab and crush. It could grip until the pain was unbearable, only letting go when the breaking point must surely have been reached. Purple finger marks left shadows above her elbow. She did not wear sleeveless blouses anymore.
In sickness and in health.
Apprehension made it hard to breathe. The pulse in her throat beat a staccato against her skin. A taxi would now be waiting down the block, exhaust coiling up into the air. Money, saved up and hidden over months and years, was in a small bag stashed by the front door. She would throw away her wedding band. To leave it here would be suicide.
To love and to cherish.
She held her breath. Listened. Bret was asleep. As if to convince, a low bed-fart sounded from his lumbering shape and he did not move. He did not feel her loveless stare. Her feet slid out from the covers and touched the floor. She waited.
Sensing no awareness she rose, being careful to distribute her weight evenly so as not to rock the bed, and then padded noiselessly to the hallway (he’s not really asleep, he’s watching you, letting you think you can get away) where she pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. From the doorway her eyes kept time of the slow rise and fall of Bret’s shoulder.
Until death do us part.
Runners clasped in her hand, the flight down the stairs was a silent blur. Her ears were pricked for the smallest of sounds. Finally, pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, she looked around at the home she had shared with Bret (been captive in). Nothing here but pain and humiliation. She ran a hand through her hair and then crossed to the front door. Slipping on her shoes, she bent to get her bag hidden in a plant. The bag was so pitifully small, holding only paper bills and her driver’s license.
She straightened, took a breath. Her sweaty palm gripped the knob on the front door and turned it. Cool night air rushed in the widening gap, awakening something that had been asleep inside of her. A longing finally realized.
From behind, a sudden sound cut through the stillness. The alarm clock signaled again from the bedroom, seeming much too loud. Her eyes cut back to the stairs. From that direction came a low growl, words unheard, and then a thud as Bret’s feet hit the floor of their room. He would be here in seconds, looking for his stray possession. The night air continued through the open door, brushing her turned cheek, a lover’s touch if there ever was one.
Looking away from the stairs and the sound of Bret’s rapidly descending footsteps, she faced her fear and stepped outside.
This 200th post is a controversial one.
Last week’s coverage on the lethal injection execution of the Washington Area sniper John Allen Muhammad featured an interview by Larry King with Bob Meyers, whose brother Dean was shot and killed by Mohammad in 2002. Meyers witnessed Mohammad’s execution, and while one might expect someone in Meyers’ position to have an ‘eye for an eye’ mentality, he voiced a different opinion saying the entire situation filled him with sadness.
Another witness, Nelson Rivera, whose wife Lori Ann Lewis was among the shooting victims, said he was glad to watch Mohammad die, as it meant Mohammad could not hurt anyone else.
Another woman interviewed outside of the prison on the night of the execution voiced her opinion that perhaps the condemned killer should have been kept alive and locked away so society could study him and better understand what makes killers like him tick.
____________
Canada does not support the death penalty, having abolished it in 1976, so any conversation and debates Canadians have on the topic are just that – conversations and debates. We do not put people to death as punishment for their crimes, and I do not see that changing at any time in the near future.
But it still makes me think – should we keep the Dalmers and the Bundy’s alive in order that we may study them under the microscope like a sample in a petri-dish?
I’m not sure it can be done. Look at Canada’s Clifford Olsen. He is serving a life sentence for the early 1980’s murders of two children and eleven youths.
What have we learned from him?
Police humour is humour at it’s best, and we are some of the most ingenious pranksters around. It helps keeps stress down, and as everyone should know, you always feels better after you’ve had a laugh. Even if the laughter is at yourself.
Also, tonight is a friend’s first night out on patrol by himself down in Florida after having recently graduated as a police officer, so this post is for him – keep an eye on your back , Evan! Don’t let your car keys out of your sight, keep tabs on your duty bag, and really make sure the sides of other officer’s mouths aren’t twitching in an effort to hold in the giggles if they ask you to do something suspicious.
So, without further ado, a few practical jokes from recent years:
- A police recruit arrived at a ’call’ with her field trainer. She parked outside of a house they were to attend, at the top of a hill, and she and her FTO went inside. When they came out a half later, their police cruiser was no where in sight. They both ran out to the street and were about to radio in that their car was gone when the FTO saw the cruiser, at the bottom of the hill, buried to the door frames in someones hedge. Without coming over the radio, they sprinted down the hill. By this time, the rookie was in full panic mode and told her FTO she was SURE she had placed the car in park. As they crawled around the car, trying to see how much damage had been sustained to the car and to the hedge, the rest of their squad crept up on them and yelled, “Surprise!” and held up the cruiser’s spare set of keys, which they had obtained earlier in the night from the rookies FTO. They had driven her car down the hill and gently placed it in the hedge without so much as a scratch. Talk about a Kodak moment!
- Another officer was getting a tour of the old city morgue when a ‘body’ on a gurney suddenly sat up as the officer walked past. Of course, the officer’s partner was right behind him to ensure he didn’t put a couple of rounds into the ‘corpse’.
- An officer with several years experience parked his car by the station and went in to write up a report. About twenty minutes later there was a broadcast over the radio of a police vehicle getting broken into so he went outside to see if he could help. When he got outside he realized his cruiser was the one that had been ‘hit’ - the window was broken and all of his things were gone. Of course, everything was safely tucked into the trunk of his car, and the broken window had simply been rolled down and glass from another incident sprinkled on the ground by the door.
There are many, many more, but I do not want to be accused of giving away all of our trade secrets.
Does anyone else have any practical jokes they feel like sharing? I’m sure Evan would appreciate it!
As I said in the post Honest Scrap, I really do think I’m a decent driver.
Not for the fact that I’ve been driving for along time, but for the fact much of that driving is done at high speed, through heavy traffic, with lights flashing and siren blasting, around those who do not know what it is to yield to an emergency vehicle, and all the while processing information about the emergency call I have been dispatched to.
All without losing my cool and causing or being involved in an accident, and with arriving at my destination being able to deal with whatever situation the 911 call center has seen fit to throw my way.
For all the ‘crazy’ driving at work, I’m relatively serene on my days off when behind the wheel.
I obey the ‘yield to car on right’ at four way stops, I merge well, I slow down to 30 kms/hr in school zones, and I wave a ‘thankyou’ when another driver goes out of their way to make driving a more pleasant experience.
But there is one intersection only a few blocks away from our home. An intersection my family goes through every single day, most days more than once, and one that severely threatens the serenity of my off-duty driving.
The east/west street has the right of way. The north/south street has stop signs where it intersects the east/west street, meaning everyone approaching the intersection while driving north or south has to stop. The southbound drivers have got this figured out, likely because the area on that side of the intersection is home to only twenty houses.
The northbound drivers, as far as I’m concerned, need a swift kick in the butt.
Without exception, almost all northbound drivers do not stop until they are well into the intersection and signalling their westbound turn. It is so bad that now, when approaching the intersection on the east/west right-of-way, I slow to crawl and creep through to avoid a collision. With clock work regularity, I have to make an abrupt stop to allow a peson through who has not stopped for their stop sign.
It’s infuriating.
Citizens in the area have complained to City planning (I don’t live in Vancouver, so don’t go giving them a hard time), have asked for stepped-up police enforcement, and have requested that the intersection be turned into a four-way-stop. While we have seen a few cruisers monitoring the intersection on an intermitent basis, residents have been told a four-way-stop is not practical as our intersection is too close to another intersection.
But I digress…
Road safety is paramount. Stop at your stop signs. Yield to on-coming traffic. Be courteous as it will likely make someone’s day – probably your own.
Today, my friends raised a toast to the men and women who have made sacrifices for our country.
Those who would stand between Canada and war.
Two of our work mates have recently served overseas. One has just returned. One is still on tour. What they have experienced is something I cannot even grasp.
Some people say the police are heroes, but I beg to differ.
Lest we forget….there are no heroes other than those who would lay down their lives for their country.
