Posts Tagged ‘crown vic’

My Hero

July 5, 2012

Police Officer Green of the Mission police department.

Good Guys one.

Bad Guys zero.

Today I went for a ride in the back of a squad car.  I did not know how uncomfortable the back seats are.  I always had this idea that they were cushy, maybe a little saggy where the springs broke, dented in.  Sort of like what you imagine the back of an old Crown Vic would feel like.  I think I was having TJ Hooker re-run flashbacks.

The back seat was not a cushion at all but one large slab of hard sterile, black, molded plastic.

Just hard plastic, absolutely no cushion, and they buckle into not with seat belts, oh, no, but harness restraints.  It was like suddenly being a child in a very secured, and scary, safety seat.

I promise, I was a good girl, I did not have to be restrained.

But if you had heard me screaming in rage, in blind fury, and in vast frustration behind the closed-door of the dressing room at work, you might have thought that I needed to be restrained.

The leg room in the back of the squad car is also not leg room.  How does any one over six-foot even manage to get comfy?

I suppose comfort was not at the top of the list when they designed the back seat.  See hard plastic seat note above.

I had a sudden insight as to all the movies that I have seen where the perpetrator is tossed into the back of a squad car and their knees are all scrunched up, they were being true to the economy leg room.  Economy is being nice, there really was nowhere to put my legs.

The other thing to notice about being in a squad car is that there is a strip of plastic across the side window at eye level.  So, if you happened to be being filmed, the camera would have a dark strip across where your eyes should be.

This is good for the paparazzi not getting a clean shot of your mug as you are hustled off to the clink.

It is also good for staying hidden behind so that when you do a slow roll up on the perp, listen to me!  You, can’t be identified either.

This was why I was in the back of the squad car, to identify the criminal.

I had already been identified as the victim.

My Iphone was stolen at work.

Motherfucker.

I was alone today, it being a holiday and all, and I had a couple (shit you not, double dip bike design) come in to do his and hers bicycles.

As I was undoing the bikes from the locks up front I noticed a man walking rapidly into the store.  I was nervous, not particularly thinking I was about to get ripped off, but more like the store was wide open and I was not available to help a customer purchase a leg strap.

I got the couple off together on their test rides and I hurried into the store to help the man who had gone in.

There was no one there.

The shop was silent.

The shop was empty and the music was not playing.

Why did the music stop playing?  I wasn’t playing Pandora, which always seems to interrupt itself piously with the, “we pay for every song line, are you still listening,” then turns itself off.

No, I had my Iphone connected to the MAC book and, wait, where’s my Iphone?

FUCK YOU!

NO!

I dashed back outside and looked frantically around.  Then I ran over to Paxton Gate Curiosities for Kids and asked the two girls there if they had seen anything.  And one of them had!  She dashed out and looked around.  But the guy was gone.

When she came back in we called the cops.

Futile.

What is the point?

Why even bother, your phone is gone.

But, I did.  I am still not sure why I did.  But the same thing had happened recently to a co-worker and I felt obligated to report it, plus, I was going to need paperwork to make a claim on the phone.

So, I called.

The couple come back from their test rides, the mechanic comes over from across the street and I explain that the police are on their way to take a report, my phone has been stolen.

The couple is sweet as pie, I insist that I can do their bike designs, but I am so bummed out and distracted, even though I am trying to put a positive spin on the entire incident.  The couple pat my arm and say, “we’re hungry, we’re going to go get tacos and come back.”

Fuck, great, and now I lost a sale too.

Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

The police showed in less than five minutes.

I walked them through exactly what had happened.

As I am talking about what happens the police radio crackles, the cop looks at me, says, hang on and asked me for a physical description.

Despite seeing the man from behind, I got a good description of him.  He had a distinctive hair style and I remembered it.

“Are you willing to try to identify him, we are holding a suspect at 22nd and Guerrero?”

Hell yes I am.

I am escorted in the squad car.  I get to know the officers.  Officer Green has a six-year-old daughter and he’s trying to fix her bike tire and do I have any suggestions.

You know what?  I did.  I love it.

I got into the experience of riding in the cop car, almost enjoying the flagrant violation of traffic laws, ok, totally enjoying it, when we pull up across the way on Guerrero.

“That him?” asks the second officer.

Fuck.

I can’t tell.  Yes, same body build, height, looks like the same clothes, but I never got a good look at the man’s face and as I stare with my x-ray vision, I realize in my heart, I can’t say yes.

“I don’t know,” I replied dejectedly.

All the while every pore in my body is screaming, “shake him down, shake him down, damn it!”

We drive back to the shop.  The police report to the other officers on duty, I can’t make a positive id.

But the girl at Paxton Gate can.

She is totally gung-ho to do it too.  I thought I was being an imposition to even ask, and she jumped at the chance.

Apparently they have been suffering from a rash of recent thefts too–one of the girls had her phone lifted last week.

And she did.

She positively id’d the guy.

HOLY CROW.

I did not know this.  I was busy screaming in rage in the dressing room.  I was mad at the man who stole my phone and I was mad at me for not paying better attention and at the bottom of it I was just plain scared to be out that kind of money.

But I heard customers coming in and I wiped my face and I breathed and I went back the fuck to work.

I pulled up an invoice and as I was about to write a staff e-mail detailing what happened a police officer walked in carrying a white Iphone.

“Is that my phone?”  I said, leaping up from behind the desk.

“Are you the girl who had her phone stolen?”

“Yes, is that my phone?  I can tell you right now what the screen saver is,  a photo of me with the little girl I used to nanny.”

He waved his finger over it and there was my smiling face and an incoming text message right on the front from Tanya.  “Oh, my God, that’s my phone,” I grabbed it and hugged the cop.

I hugged a cop.

Never saw that one coming.

“Hang on, now, I may need to keep it as evidence until the report has been filed,” the cop said taking it back.

Dude.

REALLY?

Then Officer Green came in, big smile, “your phone?”

Oh yeah.  I told him how to identify it, I told him about the nanny picture, how astounding I had gotten to actually have a conversation with him about his own little girl, something softens in his face when he sees the photo of me and my charge.

He took a picture of me holding the phone, took a picture of the phone, then scrolled to my camera roll, an Instagram photo of me smiling, has me hold the phone by my face, I smile, the store smiles, the whole world smiles, and snaps a photo.

He gave me the phone.

“We won’t be needing to keep this,” he said.

I am doing internal back flips, “you bring your daughters bike in and I will personally fix it.”

All the cops high-five me, I almost hugged them all again.

Twenty minutes later the couple come back!  We all do a jig and I sell two bikes!

Good Guys

A Trillion.

Bad Guys.

Zero.


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