GUN CONTROL: A NO-BRAINER

Several years ago the Illinois town of Morton Grove was in the news for a new ordinance their City Council passed. No guns in Morton Grove. None! A little later, in 1982, Kennesaw, Ga passed a gun law, too. Theirs read, if you live in this town you'll damn sure own a gun and know how to use it. This dichotomy of thinking intrigued me and I began to track the outcome. Over the years, I've kept it up, the last check yesterday.

Morton Grove's robbery rate tripled in a short time. Their crime rate increased. Police officials there told me they were going to have to hire more officers.

Over the years several other cities in Illinois thought, for some reason, their crime rate wasn't high enough so they passed similar laws. As of yesterday, all have been rescinded. Except Morton Grove, who, evidently, can't recognize a stupid idea when they puke one up.

Kennesaw, on the other hand, had crime reduced so much cops there told me they was worried there might be lay-offs. This shouldn't be surprising. If you were a criminal would you rather burgle a house that you knew was free of guns or one that you knew had at least one gun and someone who knew how to use it? Duh! Criminals are cowards. They'd rather rob an 80 year-old woman than a 60 year-old man. Unless he was in a wheelchair. Cowardly scumbags!

Yet this simple concept is lost on many who still blame the gun for crime problems. That's like blaming the fork when you're in a feeding frenzy and stab your hand instead of the taters. A gun is just a tool.

All folks need to do is look at New York, whose 1911 Sullivan Act is the oldest and toughest in the country. When I was a cop and visited there, I had to leave my gun outside the city. Yet, guns are as common as rude, smelly, taxi drivers in turbans.

Go figure.

YOU'RE A WHAT?

He looked like the perfect applicant. Physically fit, intelligent, and eager to be a cop. And, he'd just graduated from Florida State. But, nobody's perfect. The problem was his application. In the box where you checked off race, he'd marked American Indian. Which he obviously wasn't. I looked at the application again, then back at him and said, "Son, if you're an American Indian I'm Aunt Jemima."

Chucking at my remark--I said he was a smart lad--he said, "That's what I'm claiming and that's what counts." He went on. "I took a class in college on how to get a job and the EEOC rules are you are what you claim to be."

Doing the hiring at the SO, I was well aware of the EEOC, The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. It was a federal agency that told you how many folks you had to have of each race. We weren't under a mandate as yet as we tried as best we could, but it was a tough nut. There was just the three of us: Sarah Creamer, Dave Johnson, and me. We were trying to hire over 100 folks a year, doing all the polygraphs, background investigations, interviews, and scheduling. And we gave everyone one eligible a shot. But, it seemed the EEOC wanted us to hire people who were the right race, but otherwise unqualified. What the applicant had told us seemed to go against their intent. I told him that I was gonna make a call and I'd get back with him.

Called the office of the EEOC in Alexandria, Va. Had this conversation:

"Just had an applicant who is not an Indian but is claiming to be one for employment purposes," I said.

"Yes, and. . ."

"And is that legal?"

"Sure is. He can claim to be anything on the list. But it's only good for employment purposes. He can't claim he's an Indian and then go open up a casino. Different rules cover that."

I thanked her, hung up the phone and gave Dave Johnson, who was also keenly interested in this turn of events, a smile. "Why don't you go get Tonto," I said, "and give him a polygraph test. What he told us is the truth. And life is gonna be much easier around here."

So soon, after we'd made corrections to minor mistakes on new applications, we had guy's with names like Flynn Patrick O'Bradley who were mysteriously listed as an Eskimo. Or Denzil P. Fuddpucker claiming Pacific Islander heritage. Just for purposes of auditing, of course. And everyone was happy.

Ridiculous? Certainly. Nearly as asinine as the EEOC rules that prompted it. Your tax dollars at work.

RANDY

Randy was a tall, good-looking kid that, when I met him, should've been a senior in high school. Instead, he was in the City Jail. For something stupid, drunk and disorderly, something like that. Back then they put juveniles in jail for minor infractions if they were incorrigible, repeat offenders. That was Randy. Yet, he was one of the most likable kids I ever met. Smart, multi-talented, and with a smile that made you feel good.

When Randy was in jail, I would teach him how to develop and print evidence photos in our little darkroom. It was actually an unused stairwell in the jail we blocked off and painted black. Randy was a quick learner and was soon developing and printing better than his teacher.

During these work sessions we'd have long conversations, mostly about his situation. It seemed such a waste, the way his life was going. He said, candidly, that he knew exactly what his problem was. When he got carousing with his buddies, pretty soon they were drunk, then trouble would soon follow. He was hanging out with the wrong crowd.

"Well then," I asked, "why don't you hang with the right crowd?"

"You don't get it." he said, "Because of my reputation, no one decent wants to be around me," he said. "Or their parents won't let them near me."

Took me a while to swallow that one, but when I did it was like a punch in the gut. Advice, easy answers, aren't alway easy for the recipient. Or even possible. I do know he tried but it didn't work.

One night shortly after, I was called to the scene of a homicide. A young, enraged man had tried to crash through the jalousie windows of a house where his girlfriend lived. The father had shot him several times in the chest. I looked down at the face of Randy. He'd evidently been screaming with rage when the .357 slugs put him to rest. The rage I'd never seen before but had heard of and knew was in there.

When a child starts going bad, and travels so far, they come to a point where it's hard to turn around. You have to catch them early and make the necessary repairs. Sometimes a hitch in the military does it. Or a brush with the law. But the courts and juvenile system seldom work for hard case offenders.

LOU GIBBS

Today's political correctness has strangled common sense. There's nothing you can say that isn't taken as a insult by someone. You wonder how this insanity ever became so dominate, let alone even achieved a foothold. Then you remember some characters who, by their actions, planted, fertilized, and watered it. Such a character was Lou Gibbs.

Lou was the Chief of Corrections at the Collier County Jail. Loud and abrasive, I personally think he had a warped sense of humor rather than being a rabid bigot and misogynist. But, there he was and as far as Lou was concerned you could take him or leave him. Except, he was a Chief and had to be accommodated if you wanted to remain employed.

At the time, I was doing the hiring at the CCSO. Lou went through jail personnel like Tiger goes through mistresses. Once I took him two ladies who were applying to be his personal secretary. I told him both were excellent candidates and I'd like him to interview them and make a selection. Both were sitting outside his office, the door ajar. Lou thundered, "Bring 'em both in and bend 'em over the desk. Then I can pick one." I know they must have heard him.

Another time he called one of his rookie employees, an Oriental, to his office. "Go to the armory and get me a pair of left-handed handcuffs he said." This, of course, is an old joke pulled on novices. There is no such animal as left-handed cuffs.

Later, the Oriental jailer returned to Lou's office and admitted, sheepishly, that he couldn't locate the cuffs. Lou said to him, "Couldn't find 'em? You didn't have any damn trouble finding Pearl Harbor."

Lou finally quit and returned to Indiana. The next winter we received a photograph from him. Lou was lying naked in the snow, belly down. The caption read, How we measure the snow depth in Indiana.

That was Lou. He's long gone now. And, I have to admit I liked him. A lot.

PS Someone reminded me that I was gonna have a big political correctness problem cause Japs and such aren't called Orientals now. Supposed to be called Asians. . .at least for today.

CLOSET CRITTERS

Peril comes in many forms for cops. Sometimes with disastrous and lasting effects. One night, Chester Keene and Ray Loosey found this out when answering a seemingly innocent call.

A lady had some kind of critter in her house. She'd seen the alien scurry in off the patio and then lost view of it. It wasn't a snake, it was something furry. About the size of a cat. And she was scared. Our blue knights were dispatched.

Arriving on the scene, Chester tried to calm the complainant, assuring her that everything was in good hands. They'd search the house and dispatch the hirsute intruder posthaste.

In just a few minutes Loosey did indeed find the culprit when he opened a closet door. And he was shocked. So was the householder, who was standing behind him. So alarmed she shoved Loosey into the closet and slammed the door. And the critter, also upset, did what those of his species do. Being a skunk, he sprayed Loosey down.

Now I know all of you, at some time or other, have whiffed the product of a skunk's displeasure. Maybe just driving down the road the distinctive odor has swept into your vehicle. It's a slap in the nose not soon dispelled. That in mind, consider being actually sprayed. Or being close up to some poor soul that was. Unbearable.

While Chester and the lady teared and choked, Loosey ran to the car and started to get in. Chester stopped him, telling him that if he got that stink on the interior, the car would be ruined, it'd never come out. What to do?

Chester was always an ingenious cop with a grand sense of humor. So, Loosey was put on the top of the patrol car, and told to lie down and hold on to the light bar. A second car followed to ward off traffic in case Loosey lost his grip and tumbled to the asphalt. In this fashion, he was hauled to the rear of the PD where the hose used to wash cars was put to use in an attempt to fumigate our smelly savior.

The hosing down kinda worked but Loosey was still rank. He wanted to go home and shed the horrid smelling costume and get in a good bath. And this was the only reasonable thing to do. But, on arriving at his house, his wife had other ideas. She wouldn't let Loosey in.

Eventually, the situation worked itself out. Loosey was sanitized, although there were those who said he had a distinctive air about him for several days. And for some time after, Critter in the House calls were answered by cops in Hazmat gear.

Handy Hint: Should you or your dog gets zapped by a polecat, douse yourself with tomato juice. Seriously, it works.

Thanks for this true tale to Chester Keene, an old friend and associate, who I had the pleasure of working with at both the NPD and CCSO.

BE CAREFUL WHAT ADVICE YOU GIVE

Cops give out a lotta advice. Better slow down. Don't do that again. Go home and sober up. Stuff like that. Sometimes it's heeded, most times just for a while, or not at all. But, sometimes a joke is taken for advice with disastrous results.

We had a black business woman who owned a juke/restaurant, The Green Top Social Palace, in McDonald's Quarters. Her name was Lillie Williams, but all referred to her as Miz Lillie as she was a force to be reckoned with.

Miz Lillie had been having trouble with a drunken customer, who we'll call S. Jay. She asked him to leave and he wouldn't. So she called the PD.

On arriving, Miz Lillie said S. Jay had left the premises, but she knew he would come back and cause more trouble. She didn't know what to do.

Our officer, Rich David, said, joking, "Why don't you get out that pistol of yours and shoot him." Everyone knew that Lillie kept a hog-leg under the counter. The cop then closed out the incident and returned to patrol.

About thirty-minutes later Miz Lillie called the station. "S. Jay come back and I shot him." Officers hurried to the scene, one of them Mike Grimm. Mike said Lillie came up with that pistol and just started spraying lead. It was a miracle she hit the intended target. She shot her juke box, a pinball machine and scared the hell out of most of her customers. The ones who weren't hugging the floor were flying out of there like their asses were on fire. And, S. Jay had also been hit, a bullet in the leg.

When asked why she'd done it she said, "Cause Officer Rich tolds me to," she replied.

And I guess she was right.

PS The Green Top Social Palace had many names. It was also called the Green Top Social Club or Place. But, Miz Lillie, herself, said it was supposed to be the Green Top Social Palace but the sign painter misspelled it to Place.

Thanks to Dave Dampier and Mike Grimm

THEY ALWAYS DO

In the early 80's I worked a short time as a Deputy in Tennessee. After about two days on the job, I gathered all my family and gave them the following instructions. "If a cop up here asks you to do anything, do it. Anything." There was good reason for this advice. These were the meanest, wildest, critters I'd ever encountered in law enforcement. All had blackjacks and other instruments of misery--that were just a memory in LE elsewhere--and they loved to use them. Especially if you didn't do just what they said. And the courts would back them up.

Most cops are against this. That's not to say that someone who attacks a police officer isn't due a demonstration of real police violence. But just beating up folks cause you can is usually a cowardly act.

Of course, their clientele was often hillbillies, or Deliverance folks as I called them. Maybe the cops in my part of Tennessee had found from dealing with them what worked and what didn't. They were different.

We had one community that didn't even recognize the existence of law enforcement. They wouldn't talk to you, look at you, or assist a cop in any way. And they had their own justice system. We would regularly get calls from delivery folks, or mail carriers that a body was lying beside the street, a victim of hillbilly justice.

On evening we received a call from the state prison. They had released a hillbilly from our county who had promised, as soon as he got back home, to kill his uncle. The uncle had testified against him in court.

We took the threat seriously. If a hillbilly says he's gonna go home and get his gun and kill you, you better arm yourself. They don't make idle threats. So we called the uncle and warned him, then headed to his house, about 40 miles away.

On the way there, we saw a car pulled over to the side of the road. On inspection, our quarry was passed out inside. Along with three other drunkards. Seems he'd caught a ride with them, and just becoming a free man, had way too much fun with liquid stupid. We gathered them all up, and headed for the jail.

Mine was a big thug about the size of Hulk Hogan. His arms were so huge I had to use two sets of cuffs, extending the length, to cuff his arms behind his back.

On the way to the jail, he was strangely quiet. I usually tried to joke with or at least talk to folks, but he'd have none of it. It wasn't until we got to the jail, and I was locking him up, that he finally spoke. "I wanna thank you for not beatin' me with your blackjack," he said.

I was confused. "First off, I don't use a blackjack and second you didn't do anything to warrant an az whuppin'. Why'd you think I'd beat you."

He shrugged. "Cause they always do," he said.

And I have no doubt about it.