Curbchek, page 9
He took his kid behind his patrol car and cuffed him, then started kicking the hell out of him. I could hear the kid crying, obviously getting hurt, so I cuffed my guy, put him in my car, and told him not to try to get out - no matter what. I then locked the car as Leeds started coming for him.
“Get that spic out of your car,” he barked. I said “No, it’s not gonna happen; he stays where he is.” Leeds started pounding on my car, pulling on the door handles and screaming at me to open it up.
I responded by saying, “That was pretty impressive how you kicked that little kid’s ass after you handcuffed him. I didn’t realize you were so afraid of Mexicans.”
Leeds whirled around, his attention on me now, and we shared a few quiet moments as other cars (not necessarily his followers) were rolling up on the scene. I was able to explain clearly that he shouldn’t do anything like that in front of me again. I said, “I’m not to be trusted if you and your redneck fuck friends are gonna fuck up little Mexican kids. Are there any questions? Make sure the word gets out, dickhead.” Then I left.
Leeds got his guy charged with resisting arrest. I took mine to his home and dropped him off, bearing new tales of some white cops that are crazy - but maybe not all of them.
I’d heard that he’d done that a lot, earning a reputation on the street for bullying Hispanics. He hated Mexicans, even if they were Nicaraguan, Cuban, Dominican, or Guatemalan - it didn’t fucking matter to him. The reality was, if too many witnesses were around, he’d just yell; if no witnesses were around, he’d slap them around, then take out the stick and beat on them.
Another night, Leeds was screaming on the radio for back up; his tendency toward beating Mexicans was coming back around to bite him in the ass.
He’d gone in on a bar check alone, which was unheard of. On top of that, it was a Hispanic bar where his reputation for racism had preceded him.
Now was the time for payback, and they were kicking the hell out of him. They’d locked the doors of the bar, and he was on the radio saying that the whole bar was against him and that he was fighting his way to the door. I was a little surprised at the lack of responses from officers saying that they were en route - including me; maybe I wasn’t the only one tired of his stupid shit.
When I did get there, he came flying out the door, his hair messed up and shirt torn; the dickweed had survived somehow, and he started trying to get back inside once he saw that other cars had finally rolled up...too bad the bar occupants had locked the door.
Leeds then put on the radio that he wanted officers to go to the back door to keep them all inside the bar. With their revenge taken, the bar patrons wisely knew they had to depart since they’d just went the rounds with a uniformed sergeant – and they all somehow made it out that back door. Leeds came around back, and he was pissed that we hadn’t “kept all those greasy fucking spics in the bar so I could kick every one of their asses.” I asked him how come the whole bar had decided to kick his ass? I knew why, but I just wanted to hear what he had to say.
He said that when he went in, some guy was staring at him. No one would speak English, so he just knew they were planning something. He walked up to a guy staring at him and asked what his problem was. The guy said, “No hablo ingles,” then Leeds called him a spic and flipped the cowboy hat off his head (seriously, this was the stupid kind of shit he did). The guy got pissed off, and the fight was on with the whole bar.
Leeds was a high maintenance sergeant; he needed constant and immediate attention.
Another night, he was again screaming for back up on the radio, again surrounded by Mexicans - this time in cars and trucks. He demanded that every single unit drop what they were doing and come to his aid, so we hauled ass, what with it sounding like real danger. Instead of finding him circled by gang bangers in some kind of combat formation, though, we found this: he’d pulled over a CB radio fan, part of a club of CB’rs. Mostly misfits and bored white guys, they drove around all night and talked on their CBs to each other, playing a game they called “skunk.” Basically, it’s Hide N’ Seek in the city with cars, trucks, and CB radios: you describe where you are, and the rest of the group tries to find you.
Leeds had pulled over the Mexican-looking lead car that was hiding from the rest, then slowly, one-by-one, the other vehicles in the game had showed up at the scene with their engines idling and headlights on until about a dozen of them had Leeds surrounded and terrified. We laughed - and hard - before getting around to explaining it to him. He then said, “Fuck you” and drove off. Who could believe that Leeds, a sergeant, didn’t know about these guys?
I actually reported a lot of Leeds’ little tics to prosecutors, then left it in their hands; I told them I couldn’t be expected to testify, then work on the street with Leeds and his minions. They said it was all kept confidential and that they’d go after him – but they never did.
A few days later, Leeds confronted me all by himself - and threatened to beat the shit out of me; he said he knew that I’d been to the prosecutors. He said that the “muscle stuff” with the Mexicans was to prove a point, to take a stand, and that if I didn’t understand that then maybe I shouldn’t be a cop.
Bullshit. I told him he was out of control and had lost his perspective, which made it harder for the rest of us to do our jobs. He disagreed and threatened again to beat hell out of me. I told him to bring it but that we both knew he was wrong. It was pretty heated. Ultimately, he called me a pussy and stormed off, saying I should take a closer look at where I was headed.
What I learned from that little episode was that I couldn’t trust the prosecutors. I was starting to feel really alone.
At one point a year or so later, Leeds actually stood up in front of briefing and apologized to the whole shift for the way he’d been acting the past few years, saying, “For a time, I lost my mind.” He said he was better now and that he hoped we could all move on and work together.
This was a rare moment - but it only lasted for about a day; after that, Leeds found his mind again, so it didn’t make that much of a difference in his behavior. It was most likely just a moment of supposed leadership, something the brass could check off.
I never taught at the police academy; I didn’t think I’d be one of the guys they’d want the new recruits to meet. I was damaged and edgy, really fucked up, and I don’t think they’d want the new people to see what the potential was in this job for totally messing with your head.
Leeds, however, would teach at the police academy. Years later, when I was finally out of law enforcement, a young co-worker who was trying to get into police work excitedly began telling me about his academy classes when he found out I was an ex-cop. He told me about one instructor whom I immediately recognized as Leeds. When I told him I knew Leeds, he began talking about the cases that Leeds would talk about, cases he handled both on patrol and as a detective, and how he learned over the years to talk to people to earn their trust. I couldn’t believe it; the bitch was recounting my cases as his cases. I guess night-sticking Mexicans didn’t make it into the curriculum.
I never did take the sergeant’s exam. I saw what they could become. There was something about getting anointed as an uber-cop and put in charge of others; maybe the extra spotlight, I don’t know. They start jostling for position to take the next step up, the next step away from being a real cop: making lieutenant.
Almost always, guys like Leeds got promoted to lieutenant. Don’t even worry about it: placed in charge of an entire shift of officers - four, five, and six squads, plus sergeants - evaluating everyone’s performance...I didn’t want to be associated with those guys.
Chapter 20
Not Knowing Your Place Means Life or Death
One night, four seasoned gangbangers were patrolling the main boulevard that marked the unofficial edge of wealthy suburbia. They were calm, looking for innocents to fuck with. They were also too far above the part of town where gang members could walk at 2 a.m. without suspicion.
They’d hooted, luridly hissed, and made sexual remarks at a group of girls coming out of a convenience store. The girls then ran to their boyfriends and reported what had happened, and the boyfriends immediately went driving off in search of the bangers. When they approached them, the gangbangers were still walking confidently along the boulevard.
Whatever the overconfident college boys said, it wasn’t enough to intimidate the high school aged bangers, who startled them with their reaction: veterans of many gang fights, they spread out laterally as if they’d drilled for it, then approached in step - still calm - across the boulevard toward the college guys. The largest of the four pulled out a knife; they were all gangbangers and young teens, but they were still gangsters, already veterans of the street, living up to an unwritten code. It was the four suburban boyfriends in their early 20s who fled, piling back into their Volkswagen. The large banger with the knife approached the driver’s side window and flashed his knife inside, sinking it deep into the driver’s chest. The Volkswagen pulled forward, slowly at first, then lurched and bucked as the dying driver lost his life.
No one could remember a murder above the upscale foothill boulevard; “Probably never” was the general consensus. Suddenly, though, the clean-living and wealthy were set upon by no doubt drug-addicted gang bangers who’d forgotten their place.
The incident got a lot of attention, and as Lead Detective, Skidmark had actually hustled his worthless ass and picked up three of the four assailants fairly quickly.
A couple months had passed, and Lt. Leeds was in his office, yelling at Skidmark. Both sworn enemies of mine, they were talking anxiously about Skidmark’s idea for nabbing the fourth guy, the big guy who had the knife.
Leeds, Skidmark, and I had clashed regularly back when we were all in patrol. Leeds had since been promoted from a sergeant to the lieutenant’s spot and assigned to the Major Crimes Unit, which solved murders, and Skidmark was now one of his lead detectives. I had been in the gang unit for a while, but even though this was a gang-involved crime, Major Crimes claimed it.
Skidmark’s idea was actually a good one. It was logical, it made sense, and it was painfully obvious: given the unit’s expertise and regular dealings with these guys, he suggested coordinating with one of the gang detectives - in particular, he suggested me.
The gang unit had been a joke when it first formed up, not acting much differently than any other patrol squad. A few of us, though, had transformed it with a different approach: instead of trying to beat hell out of every gangbanger we identified, we built a database, organized the names by groups, and got to know them by developing intelligence files. We were exploring new ground by utilizing the tendency of rival gangs to quietly rat each other out to police when motivated and given the opportunity. No one was supposed to talk to us, but they all did, and we’d collected thousands of names.
Skidmark told Leeds that he’d talked to everyone he knew, asking them all for help. He’d also interrogated the hell out of every gangster in the city, but he couldn’t find the last guy involved in the murder, the one who was the actual killer and had the most to lose. He’d gone deep.
I’d just dropped by the detective division to talk to the few people I still got along with and was just leaving as I passed Leeds’ door and caught wind of what the two of them were talking about.
“You know I don’t want to ask him for help, but if we’re gonna get this last guy, we have to try.”
“I don’t fucking like this; you know what I think of that guy,” Leeds growled. “He’s not a team player. He’s not...well, you know how he is. You of all people know. He’s not one of us; not one of us at all. If you get any information from him, you keep it quiet. We can solve our own cases. This is bullshit. He won’t find him anyway, and if he does you don’t tell anyone he helped you. Do you understand me?”
He was yelling at that point, telling Skidmark to go ahead with his idea.
Leaning against the wall a few feet down the hall from Leeds’ office, I was smiling when Skidmark came out; when he saw me, his shoulders dropped. With all that I’d just heard, I couldn’t help thinking of that line from an old zombie horror movie. I forget the name, but the zombies were prone to chanting in unison, “One of us...one of us...”
Skidmark called me at home that night. He said he knew I’d overheard the conversation in Leeds’ office, and he needed my help. He then told me what he knew about the fourth man, specifically which gang he belonged to and the guy’s nickname, “Joker.”
“Do you know him?” he asked.
“Of course, I fucking know him,” I said. Don’t insult me; I’ve already reached my limit with you.
Then he asked me to give him information on my informants. I laughed. There was no way that was going to happen.
It didn’t immediately occur to me that I might have to explain the whole concept of confidentiality to Skidmark; nevertheless, I said I had an understanding with my informants and that I never disclosed who gave me information - no matter what. A gangster’s own homeboys would beat his ass if they knew he even looked at a police officer - so if the rival gang got wind of him providing intelligence, he was dead. I made it clear that no one - not Skidmark, Leeds, the Chief - no one would ever get that information, ever.
After a long pause, he said, “OK.”
I told him if he wanted my help, I’d ask around, and if I got any information on Joker I’d call him. For his part, he had to guarantee that no matter what time of day or night I called, he would come; if he couldn’t make that promise, then I wouldn’t help him. He agreed.
He then said that he could pay my informants if they produced. I told him they all worked for free, but if he wanted to give me money to pass along I’d do it after the fact. He wasn’t comfortable with this, but he agreed. He wanted control; too fucking bad.
I called an informant that I knew would know about Joker’s gang and asked where he’d been and if he was still in the city. The guy asked why I wanted to know. He hadn’t heard, so I filled him in on the details of the murder - quick to add that the police department’s finest couldn’t locate Joker anywhere and “needed the help of two fucked up, wannabe thugs like us to get this dude.” I knew he’d like that. He laughed, and we exchanged insults on which of us really was the wannabe.
I knew he’d ask around and see what he could find out. He loved this shit, acting like an undercover cop; he was thrilled by the chance to make a difference in his town and outperform some of the more abusive cops when it came to hunting down bad guys. He didn’t like Leeds or Skidmark, and he knew Joker had fucked up. I told him to call anytime, day or night (our standard practice). He knew I’d never give him up; when I asked for a favor, it was always big.
Two days later, at 10:30 p.m., I got the call. Joker was at an apartment building in the inner city just a block up from Main Street, one of those apartments clustered for partying and affordable housing for parolees, gangbangers, and shitbags of the night. I got the address and called Skidmark.
He was reluctant. It was late, and he was tired.
I unloaded. “Look, motherfucker, if you want this dude, he’s there now. I’m on my way, and this isn’t even my fucking case. Get off your fucking ass and get in here, or I’ll arrest him myself and let Leeds know you had a shot and didn’t take it.”
After hearing that, Skidmark said he was on his way.
When he arrived, we coordinated deployment. He wanted the front, and I was supposed to go around to the back. In typical Skidmark standard operating procedure, he was trying to bully his way in the front door with a patrol unit behind him. We were working without warrants, and he needed to apply some finesse – but he didn’t have any.
I was in the back, listening to his bullshit game and thinking to myself that some people will never learn. Suddenly, the back door opened - and there was Joker. He stepped out of the apartment and slowly walked down the stairs, all stealth and silent. Hidden in the shadows with my gun pointed at his head, I spoke up.
“’Sup, Joker.”
He turned to me and said, “’Sup Pacman.” Another one of my nicknames.
“Not a thing,” I said. “Just out to get some air.”
“Ya, it’s nice out tonight.”
“So, what’s it gonna be? You tired of running? We gonna fight, or do we do this like men?”
“Ya, I’m tired of running.”
I had him turn around, then I cuffed him. No disrespect; it was over. I told him, “Skidmark is up front, and you gave him a run for his money. In the end, the motherfucker had to come to me to find you, so you keep your head up. You didn’t go down like a bitch, alright?”
“Thanks, man,” he said.
We went to the front of the apartment where Skidmark was still trying to bully his way in, and I handed Joker over to him. He said thanks to me, then immediately started in on Joker about what a piece of shit he was.
I went home and called my informant. He had a perfect record for finds and information, and I gave him the play-by-play on what had happened. I also mentioned that he might get some money this time and asked if he was interested. He said that he was, so I passed a couple hundred bucks along to him.
For some time after that, I thought I might have to testify. To make matters worse, Leeds and Skidmark wouldn’t even look at me if we passed in the hallway.
Joker’s family hired a lawyer who played the media like a flute, promising to bring Joker’s twisted background out at trial. He was underprivileged, unemployed, and even likely had brain damage from early drug use and unhealthy gang influences...Christ, he was only 17. When the family ran out of money, the attorney just pled him in. Didn’t even bring any of that stupid shit up at sentencing; just pled him in. Just the lawyer’s standard “I’ll submit it, Your Honor” when the judge asked if the defense had any statement to assist the court.
The fact that I was the officer who found and arrested Joker for murder was never made public.
