For those of you who are not familiar with my entire
history, I offer the following preface to the subject story. I worked my way
through Business School (my second college career) in the employ of an iconic
regional department store chain shagging shoplifters. Now back in the day, shagging was not a
reference to sex as popularized by the Austin Powers franchise; it simply met apprehending. As a security agent for this mercantile
enterprise, I spent eight hours a day, five days a week with my attention riveted
to nefarious elements of society seeking to gain possession of goods outside of
the prescribed method of exchanging cash for stuff.
As referenced above, this was my second tour through the
hallowed halls of higher education and as such, I was bit older than my
academic peers. I also had some small
amount of law enforcement experience which added to my value. Many of my coworkers were aspiring to police
careers; I was on a trajectory in the opposite direction. I was here because the threshold was low and
for retail, the pay was decent. While
most entry level retail workers can expect to earn minimum wage, we in security
were on average compensated at about twice that rate.
There were two reasons; the need to exercise good judgment
when making an arrest, and more importantly, the potential for violence. It is
the latter of these that I’m sure the Director of Security was thinking when I
was hired. I was young, big, fit and
suitably aggressive when switched on. That my surprise some of you who have known
me only for a few years. As accounting
and business rarely require the application of physical force to resolve
issues, I have learned to keep my Incredible Hulk persona locked away in a dark
and rarely visited place. Not so the case during the time of my life herein
described.
I believe it was my third year working for the department
store and my first at San Diego State University. As a third year accounting
major in one of the most impacted academic regimens, my registration priority
necessitated I take night classes. I was
fortunate that the store’s Director of Security did everything he could to
accommodate my scheduling needs (thank you D.F.) and assigned me for this
particular school year to the Downtown San Diego store located at Fifth and Broadway.
Typically, agents were assigned to different stores on a daily basis and new
schedules were posted each week. They might start their shift at store opening
and end at five o’clock or start midday and go home when the store closed. But the Downtown store, due to the nature of
inner city shopping traffic patterns, opened at nine in the morning and closed
at five that evening.
The Downtown store was unique in other ways as well. It was
in an eight story building but only five floors were used for public retail
activity. The others had been abandoned
to storage use. The square footage of each floor was relatively small. The
first floor was connected to the second by the first escalator installed in San
Diego. All other floors, basement to eight, were connected by manually operated
elevators necessitating the retention of professional elevator (now there’s an
oxymoron for you, Tink) operators.
Because Downtown was so unique, the agent assigned there was
so fulltime, for a year. Because this
unusual schedule fit hand in glove with my class load for the year, I was the
lucky man for the 1979-80 school year.
One shiny winters’ day I was joined by a colleague who was
scheduled to testify at the trial of a shoplifter he had arrested at some past
date. We will refer to him as Agent Bozo. Because of the Downtown store’s
proximity to the courthouse, it was customary that an agent appearing in court
would begin their daily shift therein, walk to the courthouse at the
appropriate time and once released travel to another store to finish their
shift.
As Bozo and I were surveying the morning store patrons,
paying particular attention to the female trade, we noticed what appeared to be
a downtown rustic (that’s code for homeless or indigent person) enter the store
via the Broadway door. He was a white
male, approximately sixty years old, sported long white hair with a full beard
and was less than sanitary by the standards of polite society. He proceeded quickly, as with a sense of
purpose, directly to the stairs leading to the basement where the Men’s attire
department was housed. As the stairs
were hidden behind the escalator it seemed obvious to us he was more than
passingly familiar with our layout. His demeanor caused our antennae to rise.
In a brief tactical communication comprised of eye direction
and head nods (yes kids, just like on TV) it was determined that I would follow
the suspect’s path while Bozo would retreat to the top of the secondary
basement stairs that led to a door opening directly to the street. It just so happened that our miscreant had
left a bicycle parked at that location.
When I achieved the bottom of the back stairs, the subject
of my pursuit was not to be seen. I
crossed the floor and headed up the alternate stairs as that was the most likely
route for escape. When I reached the
door, there was our perpetrator in the clutches of agent Bozo wearing a brand
new, fleece lined, Levis band, denim jacket not worn on the way in. Our spidey
sense had proved accurate.
I opened the main floor door so Bozo could escort our quarry
inside the store. Once inside, my
partner produced his hand cuffs and advised his prisoner that he was under
arrest and should place his hands behind his back to facilitate the application
of mechanical restraints. As most prisoners do at this point in the proceedings,
ours made a reflexive move to jerk himself free of the clutches of Bozo. Bozo responded by shoving our boy forward,
slamming him into a sales desk and in a raised voice repeated his command. This commotion now alerted the staff and
customer population that some bit of action was unfolding that might be more
dramatic than say, those panty hose they were preparing to purchase.
Based on my experience and observation of the present
brouhaha, I believed that the rate of elevating violence was caused more than
somewhat by Agent Bozo’s over aggressive approach to restraining what I
recognized as a little old man. But I
felt expediency was the best tactic so I joined in the fracas by applying a
control technique known as the carotid restraint to our prisoner. It is, if applied properly, the fastest way
to subdue a resisting subject while minimizing the potential for injury to all
concerned. (You might be asking at this
point why I felt it necessary to throw my hand in against this unfortunate
urchin. When you find your partner is engaged in a fight, no matter how
lopsided, you throw your hand in. If you
don’t, you are saddled with a reputation that might prove disastrous for your
own safety in some future confrontation.) This particular tactic often causes
the receiving subject to emit a vocal gurgle and hoarsely claim, “You’re
choking me!” (You’re not really, it just looks that way.) From somewhere out of sight I could hear an
excited juvenile voice retort, “Mommy, those men are killing Santa Claus!”
After a few seconds of the previously described restraint
tactic, our boy calmed right down and Bozo was able to complete his application
of the handcuffs. We escorted Santa upstairs to my office. Bozo looked at his watch and announced that
it was time for him to head to the courthouse.
I was left to deal with the agitated merry old elf and write the
report. The responding San Diego Police
Officer (store policy was to arrest and prosecute all shoplifters) thought the
written description of events was quite amusing. As per standard operating
procedure, I took a Polaroid photograph of the jacket and returned the garment
to the Men’s Department to be placed in inventory.
Some months later, when the memory of the event was awash in
a sea of apprehensions, Bozo and I received subpoenas to testify in the
criminal case against Santa Claus for petty theft. This was unusual as most of our arrestees
would plead guilty. Our cases were
pretty open and shut. I saw him/her/them
approach the merchandise; he/she/they picked up the blouse/necklace/jacket; I
followed them to the door where he/she/they they exited the store without
attempting the pay for the merchandise in his/her/there possession. Veni, vidi,
vici!
At the appointed date and time, Bozo and I presented
ourselves to the court as per the subpoena.
On this occasion, Bozo recommended we bring a jacket to court to present
as evidence. I followed his direction,
retrieved a jacket from the Men’s Department and brought it with me.
As is customary, as one witness testifies, the other is
directed to wait outside the courtroom so as to ensure there is no collusion
between the witnesses. On this occasion,
Bozo testified first as I waited. When
Bozo had been thoroughly examined and cross-examined, I was called into court
to give my testimony. Under direct
examination by the Deputy City Attorney, I relayed my version of the events as
described in the preceding narrative. The attorney from the Public Defender’s
office (defense counsel) then began his cross-examination. He asked me one question, “Is this jacket the
jacket described in your testimony as the article allegedly stolen by the
defendant on or about the date and time indicated in your testimony?”
I looked at the jacket.
I noticed that thereon attached was a cardboard marketing panel used to
describe to potential purchasers the features designed into this excellent
sartorial offering. I looked at the
Polaroid photograph attached to my copy of the arrest report. No such panel was evident. I thought
carefully about my answer. “Yes”, I
averred.
The defense attorney dismissed me. The prosecutor rested his case. The counsel for the defendant then opened by
calling Santa Claus to testify on his own behalf. While he mounted the witness box and was
sworn in: “…and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” I was beginning to wonder if anyone else had
noticed the inconsistency between the photograph and the jacket we had
presented as evidence. “I do!”
The defense opened with some preliminary basics then began
his inquisitory, “Mr. Claus, could you relate to us your recollection of the
events of the date and time indicated?”
I began a search of my mental rolodex trying to remember the penalty for
perjury, and wondering if they would let me complete my current school semester
before reporting for incarceration. Santa Claus turned to the judge (he had
selected, as was his right, a trial by judge in lieu of jury), “Well sir,” he
stroked his beard, “I went into the store and I stole that jacket.”
Edmund Gwenn couldn’t have played it better.
***
This week’s punch line: “Slow Pygmies!”
