Once, in the sixties at a police seminar, I met two cops from Birmingham, Al and Bama, who were full of good humor and tall tales. A group of us were discussing how many cops rode in a police car in our particular cities. Cops, generally would prefer two, for safety and company. But most cities can't afford that so you go bare azz. The Birmingham boys were quick to point out that in their progressive city two per car was the norm. "That's because they have to be able to read and write," Al explained.
They also passed on a war story. During this time of great racial unrest, Birmingham, a hub of hatred, was experiencing a particularly large, ugly, and dangerous demonstration. The cops were so overwhelmed by the mob that a class of recruits, from the academy, was drafted into service on the lines. They were young folks, mostly, with no police experience.
At one barricade the crowd became violent and a large, mean, protester began shoving a recruit. The recruit, frightened and confused, pulled his service revolver and shot said disgruntled citizen. The mob immediately dispersed in terror and the cops cordoned off the shooting scene, until supervisors could arrive. The first was a Sergeant.
"And what kind of weapon did this thug have?" he asked the dazed recruit. "Gun, knife, brick?"
"Uhhh, I didn't see anything," the recruit stammered.
"Come on now," the Sergeant urged, "he must've had something."
"No. . .I. . ."
"I said think now," the Sergeant said, up close in the recruits face. Then, "You mull it over while I inspect the body."
The Sergeant moved to the face-down stiff, and half-rolled it over, probing underneath.
Then came the Lieutenant, same questions, same inspection. then the Captain, the Major, the Colonel, more and more, questioning and inspecting until the recruit was so dazed he couldn't remember just what he had seen.
Finally the coroner arrived and flipped over the body to inspect for bullet wounds. Under the corpse he found, three revolvers, a switch-blade knife, straight razor, and an ice pick.
Al and Bama swore this story was the truth. But, Birmingham in the sixties? George Wallace's home state? They had to be kidding. . .right?
They also passed on a war story. During this time of great racial unrest, Birmingham, a hub of hatred, was experiencing a particularly large, ugly, and dangerous demonstration. The cops were so overwhelmed by the mob that a class of recruits, from the academy, was drafted into service on the lines. They were young folks, mostly, with no police experience.
At one barricade the crowd became violent and a large, mean, protester began shoving a recruit. The recruit, frightened and confused, pulled his service revolver and shot said disgruntled citizen. The mob immediately dispersed in terror and the cops cordoned off the shooting scene, until supervisors could arrive. The first was a Sergeant.
"And what kind of weapon did this thug have?" he asked the dazed recruit. "Gun, knife, brick?"
"Uhhh, I didn't see anything," the recruit stammered.
"Come on now," the Sergeant urged, "he must've had something."
"No. . .I. . ."
"I said think now," the Sergeant said, up close in the recruits face. Then, "You mull it over while I inspect the body."
The Sergeant moved to the face-down stiff, and half-rolled it over, probing underneath.
Then came the Lieutenant, same questions, same inspection. then the Captain, the Major, the Colonel, more and more, questioning and inspecting until the recruit was so dazed he couldn't remember just what he had seen.
Finally the coroner arrived and flipped over the body to inspect for bullet wounds. Under the corpse he found, three revolvers, a switch-blade knife, straight razor, and an ice pick.
Al and Bama swore this story was the truth. But, Birmingham in the sixties? George Wallace's home state? They had to be kidding. . .right?
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