I've made some good friends in the Austin Police Department, thanks to my ride-alongs. Because they are patrol officers, they're usually at or near the lower rungs of their career ladder, which means that sooner or later they move up and on. Which is great for them, but sucks for me because I don't see them any more!
One of those friends is a sergeant, somewhat further along in his career, and he's one of the nicest human beings I know, and a fantastic cop. One of the best things about him is his intelligence and the way he works with his officers. He loves training them, getting them to think about why they do what they do. He and I talk about the law, about the best ways to apply it in the field, and one of his greatest achievements (from my perspective) has been to show his guys how to write a clear, concise offense report. Bless you for that.
Anyway, he's moving on to head a human trafficking group within APD. I've seen myself, even working in our juvenile division, that there are victims of human trafficking right here in Austin. This is noble work for a noble cop, and I know he'll do a great job there.
It's fitting that I post this video. It's less than 2 minutes long, and is fairly safe for work (no nudity, but there is scantily clad dancing).
It's shot in Amsterdam's Red Light District. A crowd gathers
to watch what appears to be a planned dance routine by the ladies
working in an establishment. There are hoots and hollers, and everyone's having fun until the end,
when the real message is made clear.
Good luck in your new job, Sarge, you're saving lives.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Monday, July 15, 2013
The Zimmerman Case - an opinion
I've been asked countless times in recent days to give my opinion about the George Zimmerman case. That can mean a couple of things, of course: my opinion on the incident, or on the trial. I have no desire to second-guess someone else's trial work, and don't plan to. And I hadn't really planned on saying anything about the incident, either, until I read the words of a friend, fellow author, and former cop.
His name is John Levitt and I asked (and received!) his permission to post here, in its entirety, his view of what happened and why. I thought it one of the most insightful things that I've read on the matter, and hope you find it interesting.
And for context, he was responding to this opinion:
These stand your ground and concealed carry laws seem to me like something that can give guys with chips on their shoulders a perceived opportunity to do what they've always fantasized about--getting away with killing someone they don't like.
John said:
But not this time, not when George Zimmerman is on the job. So you follow him. You're not particularly worried -- the cops (your backup) are on their way, and besides that, you're packing. That criminal better not give you any trouble if he knows what's good for him. George Zimmerman is nobody to mess with.
I don't think he thought it through. I don't think he thought at all. He just thought he was going to catch a burglar and be a hero.
Then, when he comes out of the darkness to confront Martin, things don't go according to his fantasy. The black "criminal" (Martin) doesn't meekly surrender, or try to run away. He sees Zimmerman as a threat and defends himself.
Suddenly Zimmerman is in a fight. A real fight, not like sparring in the dojo. He gets hit, and it hurts. He gets knocked to the ground. And at this point, he stops thinking at all, if ever he had been.
A dangerous black criminal that he confronted is kicking his ass. His life is in danger. Why does he think that? Because black criminals are violent and dangerous. It's him or them. So he pulls out his gun and shoots him.
What's more, he feels totally justified. In his little cop fantasy world, he simply did what he had to do.
And guess what? The cops buy it. Dangerous black kid, up to no good. That's a part of this story that gets overlooked, but that mindset is telling.
The whole thing is more sad, pitiful, and disgusting than evil.
His name is John Levitt and I asked (and received!) his permission to post here, in its entirety, his view of what happened and why. I thought it one of the most insightful things that I've read on the matter, and hope you find it interesting.
And for context, he was responding to this opinion:
These stand your ground and concealed carry laws seem to me like something that can give guys with chips on their shoulders a perceived opportunity to do what they've always fantasized about--getting away with killing someone they don't like.
John said:
I really don't think that's what Zimmerman was about. He was a wannabee cop, imo, and I've run into plenty of them in my time.
A police job can seem incredibly tempting for a certain type of person. It's not, like you might assume, about having the power to push people around. It's about being part of a special group, living a life most people don't get, doing a job most people can't. Like being an Army ranger. Or part of an elite sports team. It feels special
You cruise around in your patrol car on a late graveyard shift, watching out for your city, listening to radio chatter from people you know well, people you've worked with for years, people who have possibly saved your skin more than once and perhaps you've saved theirs as well. You belong.
It's an attractive prospect -- esp for someone who has been a "loser," an outsider for much of their lives. Never one of the cool kids.
So you try to join up -- but more often than not, you don't make the grade. Wannabees exude a certain desperation that makes departments shy away from them.
So you take criminal justice courses. You go to self defense classes. You get a job as security guard, or become a neighborhood watch person.
But just doing the job of neighborhood watch is not enough. You want to play cop. So you call in everything you can -- not just because you're being suspicious, but because that way you get to talk to dispatch, maybe even talk to the cops when they show up -- hey, guys, I'm one of you. You're part of the fraternity -- or so you imagine.
So when you see a "suspicious character" namely a young black male, you call the cops. But then you decide to go a little further, to play cop yourself. I mean, you're almost a cop yourself, anyway, right?
'These punks always get away.'
A police job can seem incredibly tempting for a certain type of person. It's not, like you might assume, about having the power to push people around. It's about being part of a special group, living a life most people don't get, doing a job most people can't. Like being an Army ranger. Or part of an elite sports team. It feels special
You cruise around in your patrol car on a late graveyard shift, watching out for your city, listening to radio chatter from people you know well, people you've worked with for years, people who have possibly saved your skin more than once and perhaps you've saved theirs as well. You belong.
It's an attractive prospect -- esp for someone who has been a "loser," an outsider for much of their lives. Never one of the cool kids.
So you try to join up -- but more often than not, you don't make the grade. Wannabees exude a certain desperation that makes departments shy away from them.
So you take criminal justice courses. You go to self defense classes. You get a job as security guard, or become a neighborhood watch person.
But just doing the job of neighborhood watch is not enough. You want to play cop. So you call in everything you can -- not just because you're being suspicious, but because that way you get to talk to dispatch, maybe even talk to the cops when they show up -- hey, guys, I'm one of you. You're part of the fraternity -- or so you imagine.
So when you see a "suspicious character" namely a young black male, you call the cops. But then you decide to go a little further, to play cop yourself. I mean, you're almost a cop yourself, anyway, right?
'These punks always get away.'
But not this time, not when George Zimmerman is on the job. So you follow him. You're not particularly worried -- the cops (your backup) are on their way, and besides that, you're packing. That criminal better not give you any trouble if he knows what's good for him. George Zimmerman is nobody to mess with.
I don't think he thought it through. I don't think he thought at all. He just thought he was going to catch a burglar and be a hero.
Then, when he comes out of the darkness to confront Martin, things don't go according to his fantasy. The black "criminal" (Martin) doesn't meekly surrender, or try to run away. He sees Zimmerman as a threat and defends himself.
Suddenly Zimmerman is in a fight. A real fight, not like sparring in the dojo. He gets hit, and it hurts. He gets knocked to the ground. And at this point, he stops thinking at all, if ever he had been.
A dangerous black criminal that he confronted is kicking his ass. His life is in danger. Why does he think that? Because black criminals are violent and dangerous. It's him or them. So he pulls out his gun and shoots him.
What's more, he feels totally justified. In his little cop fantasy world, he simply did what he had to do.
And guess what? The cops buy it. Dangerous black kid, up to no good. That's a part of this story that gets overlooked, but that mindset is telling.
The whole thing is more sad, pitiful, and disgusting than evil.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Excuse of the day
In juvenile court, we get some wonderful excuses from kids as to why they missed court or didn't meet with their probation officer. One of my recent favorites.:
"Well, see, it was raining, and I didn't have no umbrella or nothing."
And yes, I berated his probation officer for setting up drug counseling, psych counseling, and job training but forgetting the brolly.
"Well, see, it was raining, and I didn't have no umbrella or nothing."
And yes, I berated his probation officer for setting up drug counseling, psych counseling, and job training but forgetting the brolly.
Monday, July 8, 2013
A dearth of death - that's good right?
Please excuse my long absence, it's been due a combination of busy-ness, laziness, and lack of worthwhile stuff to write about. I'm still busy and lazy, but I realized that a lack of worthwhile stuff to write about has never stopped me in the past.
Now, where was I? Ah yes, a dearth of death... especially over the 4th of July, well, you'd think that's good every which way. Right?
Not so.
Picture a group of young people interested in law enforcement, wanting to be DAs and cops, or at least know what DAs and cops go through. It's a summer morning, the Friday after July 4, and a field trip awaits. They've been looking forward to it all week, in a trepidatious kind of way. Most people are taking the day off, of course, but this group heads into work early, making a detour for the Travis County building that contains, among other things, the Medical Examiner's office.
Yes, they signed up to watch an autopsy.
Now, I was invited. My thoughtful and kind office-mate asked me to come along. But a few things you need to know about me: I'm not good with copious amounts of real-time gore. Death makes me sad. I don't ever plan to cut up a body, so I don't need to learn how. I've seen plenty of dead bodies (read about this one? I was riding out with APD and stood feet from her as EMS workers tried to save her, then covered her with a sheet). So I declined.
A couple of juvie prosecutors went, though, three I think, as well as a handful of interns.
But there was no body.
It's a rare occurrence, apparently, but there were simply no customers for the ME's table that Friday. After all that screwing of their courage to the sticking-place, I gather there was some disappointed. Which was immediately tempered by (a) relief and (b) a twinge of guilt at feeling disappointed that no-one had just died.
The group, I am told, promised the ME they'd return for a future demonstration, and promptly went out to breakfast.
Now, where was I? Ah yes, a dearth of death... especially over the 4th of July, well, you'd think that's good every which way. Right?
Not so.
Picture a group of young people interested in law enforcement, wanting to be DAs and cops, or at least know what DAs and cops go through. It's a summer morning, the Friday after July 4, and a field trip awaits. They've been looking forward to it all week, in a trepidatious kind of way. Most people are taking the day off, of course, but this group heads into work early, making a detour for the Travis County building that contains, among other things, the Medical Examiner's office.
Yes, they signed up to watch an autopsy.
Now, I was invited. My thoughtful and kind office-mate asked me to come along. But a few things you need to know about me: I'm not good with copious amounts of real-time gore. Death makes me sad. I don't ever plan to cut up a body, so I don't need to learn how. I've seen plenty of dead bodies (read about this one? I was riding out with APD and stood feet from her as EMS workers tried to save her, then covered her with a sheet). So I declined.
A couple of juvie prosecutors went, though, three I think, as well as a handful of interns.
But there was no body.
It's a rare occurrence, apparently, but there were simply no customers for the ME's table that Friday. After all that screwing of their courage to the sticking-place, I gather there was some disappointed. Which was immediately tempered by (a) relief and (b) a twinge of guilt at feeling disappointed that no-one had just died.
The group, I am told, promised the ME they'd return for a future demonstration, and promptly went out to breakfast.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
A balloon, all alone.
On my ride out last week, the first call was a low priority, a request to deal with a balloon. Not a hot-air balloon, but a regular one. A popped one.
A resident had found it in a patch of scrub near his home. It wasn't the balloon itself that bothered him, more the powder spilling from it. Another unit got there before we did, a rookie, and this is the conversation that ensued between him and my officer, AJ:
AJ: What does it look like?
Charlie: Errr, a balloon.
AJ: No, fool, the powder. Is it black?
Charlie: No, it's white.
AJ: So if it's heroin, it's China White. Balloons and heroin go together, but it maybe cocaine. How close are you?
Charlie: Standing right over it. Why?
AJ: It could also be anthrax.
Charlie: Holy s*#@, really?
AJ: Nah, just messing with you.
Turns out it was none of those things. Just some flour some kid (probably) had put in a balloon to throw at one of his buddies. I guess you'd call it a false alarm, of sorts, but I did suggest AJ taste the stuff just to be sure. He declined, and we went on our way.
A resident had found it in a patch of scrub near his home. It wasn't the balloon itself that bothered him, more the powder spilling from it. Another unit got there before we did, a rookie, and this is the conversation that ensued between him and my officer, AJ:
AJ: What does it look like?
Charlie: Errr, a balloon.
AJ: No, fool, the powder. Is it black?
Charlie: No, it's white.
AJ: So if it's heroin, it's China White. Balloons and heroin go together, but it maybe cocaine. How close are you?
Charlie: Standing right over it. Why?
AJ: It could also be anthrax.
Charlie: Holy s*#@, really?
AJ: Nah, just messing with you.
Turns out it was none of those things. Just some flour some kid (probably) had put in a balloon to throw at one of his buddies. I guess you'd call it a false alarm, of sorts, but I did suggest AJ taste the stuff just to be sure. He declined, and we went on our way.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Happy Launch Day!
Today is a day I never dreamed I'd see, and I'm excited to announce the release of my second mystery novel, THE CRYPT THIEF.
It’s summer in Paris and two tourists have been murdered in Père Lachaise cemetery in front of Jim Morrison’s grave. The cemetery is locked down and put under surveillance, but the killer returns, flitting in and out like a ghost, and breaks into the crypt of a long-dead Moulin Rouge dancer. In a bizarre twist, he disappears under the cover of night with part of her skeleton.
One of the dead tourists is an American and the other is a woman linked to a suspected terrorist; so the US ambassador sends his best man and the embassy’s head of security—Hugo Marston—to help the French police with their investigation.
When the thief breaks into another crypt at a different cemetery, stealing bones from a second famed dancer, Hugo is stumped. How does this killer operate unseen? And why is he stealing the bones of once-famous can-can girls?
Hugo cracks the secrets of the graveyards but soon realizes that old bones aren’t all this killer wants. . . .
"The Hugo Marston series now belongs on every espionage fan’s watch list."
—Booklist
"Mark Pryor has created a perfect second book for Hugo Marston. It delivers everything we loved about The Bookseller without being a retread. The Crypt Thief is proof that both Hugo and Pryor should be around for some time."
—MysteryPeople
“Haunting imagery in Père La Chaise cemetery sets the stage for Pryor’s chilling sophomore entry, and the City of Light becomes a backdrop for Marston’s adventures. The clever antagonist leads him on a merry chase that will keep the reader entertained throughout."
—RT Book Reviews
"Two young lovers make the fatal mistake of sneaking into Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery the same night as a bone-stealing psychopath in Pryor’s propulsive second novel starring affable former FBI profiler Hugo Marston…. The engaging characters sweep readers into a suspenseful chase from Pigalle to the Pyrenées."
—Publishers Weekly
Pryor's second case for Marston (after The Bookseller) doesn't disappoint.
—Library Journal
Author Pryor uses this truly creepy scenario to create a nail-biter of a novel. It has enough bizarre twists to keep you reading into the night. The setting in the famous Paris cemetery gives the story just enough of a sense of the exotic to pull the reader in, and to anticipate something far different from a run of the mill mystery. “The Crypt Thief” leads us on the trail of a cold-blooded killer to a truly fiery conclusion.
—Suspense Magazine
The story...
It’s summer in Paris and two tourists have been murdered in Père Lachaise cemetery in front of Jim Morrison’s grave. The cemetery is locked down and put under surveillance, but the killer returns, flitting in and out like a ghost, and breaks into the crypt of a long-dead Moulin Rouge dancer. In a bizarre twist, he disappears under the cover of night with part of her skeleton.
One of the dead tourists is an American and the other is a woman linked to a suspected terrorist; so the US ambassador sends his best man and the embassy’s head of security—Hugo Marston—to help the French police with their investigation.
When the thief breaks into another crypt at a different cemetery, stealing bones from a second famed dancer, Hugo is stumped. How does this killer operate unseen? And why is he stealing the bones of once-famous can-can girls?
Hugo cracks the secrets of the graveyards but soon realizes that old bones aren’t all this killer wants. . . .
Praise for The Crypt Thief...
"The Hugo Marston series now belongs on every espionage fan’s watch list."
—Booklist
"Mark Pryor has created a perfect second book for Hugo Marston. It delivers everything we loved about The Bookseller without being a retread. The Crypt Thief is proof that both Hugo and Pryor should be around for some time."
—MysteryPeople
“Haunting imagery in Père La Chaise cemetery sets the stage for Pryor’s chilling sophomore entry, and the City of Light becomes a backdrop for Marston’s adventures. The clever antagonist leads him on a merry chase that will keep the reader entertained throughout."
—RT Book Reviews
"Two young lovers make the fatal mistake of sneaking into Paris’s Père Lachaise Cemetery the same night as a bone-stealing psychopath in Pryor’s propulsive second novel starring affable former FBI profiler Hugo Marston…. The engaging characters sweep readers into a suspenseful chase from Pigalle to the Pyrenées."
—Publishers Weekly
Pryor's second case for Marston (after The Bookseller) doesn't disappoint.
—Library Journal
Author Pryor uses this truly creepy scenario to create a nail-biter of a novel. It has enough bizarre twists to keep you reading into the night. The setting in the famous Paris cemetery gives the story just enough of a sense of the exotic to pull the reader in, and to anticipate something far different from a run of the mill mystery. “The Crypt Thief” leads us on the trail of a cold-blooded killer to a truly fiery conclusion.
—Suspense Magazine
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Charlie Sector, cold and quiet
It was quiet all night. A may evening when the cops in Charlie Sector and I should have been wearing short sleeves. Instead, the car's heater was on and the cold wind seemed to have swept people from the streets.
Even at 12th and Chicon, where the dealers and buyers meet for huddled sales conferences, where the girls looking for Johns hang off the sidewalk in the hope of business, even on this busiest of east Austin corners, all was quiet.
We set up in an alley and saw little more than trash cart-wheeling in front of us. One man, his head down, waved a gloved hand as he passed, perhaps mocking or perhaps in sympathy. We bided our time but finally moved to a stretch of MLK where Nick, my officer for the evening, promised we'd catch people blowing away the 35mph limit. But fifteen minutes with the laser-gun gave us nothing, even the traffic was slow and lumbering, not happy about being out in the cold.
Then, at 9pm, a hot shot call. A disturbance, violence, people at risk. Nick hit lights and sirens and I checked the map on his computer. We were on the wrong side of Charlie but what caught my attention was the mass of units heading to the call from every direction, electronic bugs swarming to only light in the dark, like nerds spotting a hot girl at a Star Trek convention.
The call was downgraded soon enough, so we peeled off hoping to find something somewhere else. The best we could manage was a trip to the A&E at St. Davids to get the name of a woman injured in a car crash. When we got there, she'd gone.
Nick apologized several times for the quiet night but it wasn't his fault. I told him that, said he'd done such a great job the criminals were scared to come out and play.
And, for the first time since I started riding out, I actually wondered, "Should we go get donuts?"
We didn't.
Even at 12th and Chicon, where the dealers and buyers meet for huddled sales conferences, where the girls looking for Johns hang off the sidewalk in the hope of business, even on this busiest of east Austin corners, all was quiet.
We set up in an alley and saw little more than trash cart-wheeling in front of us. One man, his head down, waved a gloved hand as he passed, perhaps mocking or perhaps in sympathy. We bided our time but finally moved to a stretch of MLK where Nick, my officer for the evening, promised we'd catch people blowing away the 35mph limit. But fifteen minutes with the laser-gun gave us nothing, even the traffic was slow and lumbering, not happy about being out in the cold.
Then, at 9pm, a hot shot call. A disturbance, violence, people at risk. Nick hit lights and sirens and I checked the map on his computer. We were on the wrong side of Charlie but what caught my attention was the mass of units heading to the call from every direction, electronic bugs swarming to only light in the dark, like nerds spotting a hot girl at a Star Trek convention.
The call was downgraded soon enough, so we peeled off hoping to find something somewhere else. The best we could manage was a trip to the A&E at St. Davids to get the name of a woman injured in a car crash. When we got there, she'd gone.
Nick apologized several times for the quiet night but it wasn't his fault. I told him that, said he'd done such a great job the criminals were scared to come out and play.
And, for the first time since I started riding out, I actually wondered, "Should we go get donuts?"
We didn't.
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