A Rip in the Fabric of Society

As a young man, I aspired to a life of public service and set my sights on a career in law enforcement.  My high school district offered seniors a vocational program in Police Science (thankfully, no math skills necessary) for which I eagerly signed up.  The daily curriculum included one hour of English, focusing on objective writing skills; one hour of Social Science, focusing on Law and Government; and two hours of Law Enforcement war stories provided by the program director, retired California Highway Patrol Sergeant George Dowdy.

Mr. Dowdy was brilliant at capturing our young, malleable minds with tales of his thirty plus year career riding motorcycles, chasing offenders, and negotiating pension benefits (as President of the California Highway Patrolman’s Association).  At least one day per week, or more depending on Mr. Dowdy’s level of enthusiasm for teaching, we would take a field trip to one of the county’s local Police Departments or other government operations facility.  Or, we would go to the local courthouse and sit in on criminal trials.  This was an academic breeze resulting in a straight-A performance for my senior year; boosting my full four-year GPA to a respectable 3.0.  Yeah, you math geniuses out there have already figured out that my first three years were pretty mediocre. Mr. Dowdy was so impressed he recommended me for the San Diego California Highway Patrolman’s Association Wives Club Academic Scholarship for college students aspiring to a career in law enforcement.  I was awarded the sum of $50.  Back in the day, a Highway Patrolman did not earn a huge salary. It was enough to pay for a couple of text books and I was grateful.

 Upon graduation from high school I enrolled in the Criminology program at Grossmont Community College. As most college students of my era, I had to work to pay for school, my car and any spending cash I needed.  I worked as a hamburger flipper, dishwasher, janitor and freight handler.  Then, in 1973, the County of San Diego announced it was conducting a test for the position of Sheriff’s Cadet.  This position was the golden fleece of every law enforcement career aspirant attending college.  The requirements were simple.  The applicants had to have reached the age of seventeen and one-half but could not have turned twenty before the day of appointment. They must be enrolled as a full-time college student. They must meet in every way, except for age, the requirements for the position of Deputy Sheriff. They must be able to type twenty-five words per minute. Thank God they never tested me for that skill.

 It was reported that 2,500 applicants sat for the written test with those passing moving on to the oral interview stage. As a result of my interview score, I was number thirty-three on the list and the personnel department anticipated hiring ten Cadets during the year.  My chances did not look good as experience showed by the time the selection process was complete, one out of three candidates were hired for each opening.  I was just outside the probability bubble. Fortunately, the County decided to extend the list a second year to avoid the cost of performing the entire testing procedure and in April of 1974 I was hired as the last San Diego County Sheriff’s Department Sheriff’s Cadet ever.

The position of Sheriff’s Cadet was a half-time (twenty hours per week, remember the school attendance requirement) billet.  Job responsibilities were mostly clerical.  The best civilian parallel would be that of a paid internship.  We wore the same uniform as the deputies, save for a small banner affixed to our badges reading “CADET” above the Deputy Sheriff title.  Have you ever looked closely at a peace officer’s badge? Yeah, neither has anybody else; except the drunk, “I want your badge number, othifer!” Oh yeah, we didn’t carry guns. The job paid four dollars per hour (not bad for part time college work in 1974… beat the hell out of the two seventy-five I was making handling freight for May Company). The uniforms were a bit expensive.  I believe the shirts were about twenty dollars for the short-sleeve and twenty-five dollars for the long-sleeve (regulations require you own two of each); the retailer provided the shoulder patches gratis and sewed them on.  The working uniform pants were wool and cost seventy-five dollars per pair! No, no; let me do the math for you.  I had to work three weeks just to pay for the clothes I needed to show up for work, and that didn’t include uniform belt, gun-belt and boots.  Thank God I was appointed in April and my parents were kind enough to buy me a uniform jacket for my birthday in August, before fall weather set in.  Yeah, the retailer included the shoulder patches for free. The importance of this minutia will become apparent as the story unfolds.

I was assigned to the Poway Team Policing office.  It was an experimental station; the deputies assigned there were required to live in the community.  This was unique, as most Sheriff’s Stations were responsible for covering several communities.  A typical patrol station (referred to in that era as a sub-station) required about sixty to one hundred sworn (peace officers) and non-sworn (clerical support) employees and was commanded by a Captain.  Our little Poway office was staffed by fourteen deputies, one clerk-typist and two Cadets.  It was commanded by a Sergeant. This staffing fostered a very informal atmosphere; an experience that bit me in the butt later in my career.

While the job of Cadet was by its nature rather mundane, we were young men wearing uniforms who routinely got to run errands driving real-live police cars. The best perk of the job was that we could, on our own time, ride with deputies on patrol if they were so inclined.  Since there were only two of us in the Poway office, the deputies rarely reached a saturation point where they refused to let us play when we asked. And no matter how much they harassed us for the sake of humor while in the office, they always extended professional respect to us in the field so as to uphold the image of the corps.

It was best to ride with a deputy that was chatty.  They were more fun and generally considered it their obligation to school us in the finer points of “on-the-street” police work. I avoided the taciturn guys as they could make an eight-hour shift seem like a day and a half.

I recall one occasion when I was riding with my favorite deputy in the office, we’ll name him Bob.  It was a Friday on the PM shift (2:00 PM to 10:00 PM); a good time to ride as there was no school on Saturday.  In a small suburban community all of the action is going to occur on the PM or “B” shift. That being the rule of thumb, I don’t believe we received one radio call the entire afternoon.  Some days were just like that.  We were driving up Pomerado Road northbound from Poway Road.  If you are familiar with this area today, forget what you know.  Poway was considerably more rural in those days.

We both noticed that ahead, on the other side of the road, was a seemingly attractive young woman, dressed in Daisy Dukes and a tank top, standing beside a Fiat parked on the shoulder (there were no curbs) waving us down; heartbeats quickened.

Bob crossed the opposite traffic lane and pulled to a stop about fifteen yards beyond the damsel in distress.  I figured that since he was married, it was my duty to protect him from temptation.  As the patrol car was slowing to a stop, I popped out of the passenger side and quick timed it back to the needy citizen.

Our initial assessment was accurate; she was attractive; about five-five, one-twenty, mid-back length, sun-highlighted straight brown hair, beach tan. I covered the fifteen years before Bob could get the unit (patrol car) in park and the engine shut off.

After a short exchange of pleasantries, I asked how we could be of assistance.  From her hip pocket (I still don’t know to this day how she had gotten it in there, someday I’ll have to take a class in physics) she produced a piece of paper and handed it to me.  It seems some overbearing, officious California Highway Patrolman had issued her an equipment violation notice (fix-it ticket; Highway Patrolmen have such little imagination) because age had fogged the plastic back window of her convertible making it impossible for a driver to use the rear-view mirror effectively, thus rendering operation of the vehicle unsafe.  She needed someone of authority to certify that she had corrected the problem by affixing a signature thereto so she could mail said notice to the court and avoid the fine. There were very few official acts that could be performed by a Cadet but this was one of them and I was bound to do my duty to keep the wheels of justice turning.

Just to ensure I acted in a manner consistent with the intent of the law, I thought it would be prudent to check the condition of the window in question.  I climbed, or rather fell, into the small roadster (top up, of course). Now I am a bit larger than the average male being six feet tall and weighing (around that time) in at two hundred fifteen pounds (weight training being a hobby of mine). As it was, I had my right foot in the car, my left foot outside the car and my right thigh jammed in between the steering wheel and the console. I took a quick peek at the mirror and learned that the Highway Patrolman had been on his game. Nothing but afternoon mood lighting could penetrate that opaque window.

As I started the process of extricating myself from the Italian torture chamber, my shoulders (remember, weight training) became jammed against the door opening support of the convertible top. The harder I pushed to get out the more my left foot, the one supporting my weight, started sliding from underneath me facilitated by the pea gravel of the road shoulder.  At the same time, the weight of my gun belt (no gun, but handcuffs and a baton ring… one must be prepared) was pulling my uniform pants down my hips. With one mighty effort to save myself from looking foolish, I spread my legs a bit wider to gain better balance and R-R-R-I-I-P; there went the seam in the crotch of my pants.

Placing embarrassment on the back burner, I retrieved the pen from my shirt pocket and made an ineligible scrawl on the line reserved for the officer noting that the proper corrective action had been taken.  They never verified these notices anyway.

I handed the notice back to the young lady and advised her to drive safely and have a nice day.  As I was walking back to the unit, Bob grabbed me by the triceps of my left arm (no small feat as he was about five-nine, one-fifty… remember, weight training) and brought me to a complete halt.  He looked me directly in the eye and said, “From now on, if we have any contact with attractive women, let me do the talking.  Understand, Cadet?”

Suitably admonished, I sulked back to the unit and we drove off.  After a couple of minutes, I shared with Bob that I had torn the crotch out of my uniform pants.  When he regained his composure, he offered a suggestion.  All of the deputies’ wives were meeting for a social gathering at his house that evening.  During our dinner break we could swing by his house and let the sergeant’s wife take a look at my pants as she was quite talented at doing alterations and clothing repair. Maybe she could save the pants.

He offered to drive back to the station so I could change. Unfortunately, my second pair was at the dry cleaners. There was only one alternative.  Later that night, at Bob’s house, I had to endure the ignominy of Mrs. Sergeant poking around my crotch, witnessed by the wives of all the deputies assigned to the Poway Team Policing station;  and there were no single men among the corps.  By Monday my experience was part of station lore.  The bright side; Mrs. Sergeant was able to repair my uniform pants for a mere five dollars.

Before end of shift Bob shared another piece of wisdom with his young charge.  When entering a sports car sit into the seat first, and then swing your legs in like a girl.  To this day, that little piece of advice has served me better than anything else I ever learned on the “B” shift.