by Norm Stamper
In pursuit of more and better anti–gun violence education, we developed in Seattle a program called “Options, Choices and Consequences.” Cofounded by Dr. Roy G. Farrell, president of the Washington chapter of Physicians for Social Responsibility, we aimed the curriculum at kids but were confident it would capture the imagination of teachers and parents as well. We called it our “cops and docs” program: police officers, prosecutors, and ER doctors and nurses teaming up in the classroom at all middle schools in the city.
The cops’ message? If you’re packing, we’re tracking. It doesn’t matter that you took the gun to school for protection, or that you were “just keeping it for a friend.” Zero tolerance was the message. And we enforced it.
A deputy prosecutor followed the cop into class and told the kids, “If the police arrest you we’re going to charge you, aggressively prosecute you, and seek the stiffest sentence possible.”
When an innocent sixteen-year-old Melissa Fernandez was struck by a bullet meant for a rival gang member outside Ballard High School, her death resulted in the arrest of every kid in the drive-by vehicle. The driver and two of the three passengers claimed that since they didn’t do the shooting they ought not to be charged. Well, they were charged, and convicted, along with the shooter. All were sentenced to major jail or prison time. That sent an icy message to Seattle’s banger community, as did my statement to the press and to my own detectives: “If there is a drive-by shooting in this city, there will not be a retaliatory drive-by.”
Reporters and cops were incredulous: Given the pride and avenging compulsion of young people, how could this expectation possibly be met? My response: “We’re smarter than the bangers, we’re more organized, we have more resources. We’re adults. We’re going to ‘adopt’ every gun-toting, gangbanging kid in town, inform him of the new PD policy, and let him know the consequences of his actions.” There were no retaliatory drive-by shootings on my watch. In fact gang-related shootings virtually disappeared from the radar screen.
But it was the “docs” who really captured the attention of the students: they explained to them what bullets do to bodies. Then showed them. The classroom exhibits—adult diapers, catheters, and the like—disabused the kids of their feelings of immortality, of invincibility. Recognizing the importance of vanity (and feelings of insecurity) in the lives of teenagers, they showed pictures of kids who’d taken one to the face. Or the spinal column.
Three years into the program, graduates of Options, Choices and Consequences were surveyed. The students were:
•90 percent more likely to report a fellow student who carried a weapon to school
•91 percent more aware of the serious medical consequences of weapons violence
•94 percent more likely to believe that firearms are a poor way to resolve conflicts
Ninety-three percent said they would recommend the program to fellow eighth graders.
Clearly, the kids were impressed. But would they act on their feelings and change their behavior? Would they snitch off a fellow student who brought a gun to school?
In the year following the introduction of the program, reporting of school weapons declined, statewide, by thirty percent. In the Seattle school district, reporting went up, ninety percent. There was also a significant reduction in gun violence and school gun incidents during the first three years of the program—however, longitudinal studies, currently underway, are necessary to establish the link between OCC and these heartening reductions.
When Americans get a deeper understanding of the scope, nature, and financial and emotional costs of gun violence, I believe they’ll agitate and mobilize for change. Just as they did against the tobacco industry which, despite continuing to spend a hundred thousand dollars a day on Congressional lobbying, has taken some mighty hits in the past three decades.
I can be “for gun control,” but if I don’t vote what good is my opinion? If I don’t help honorable lawmakers like Tom Foley stand up to the NRA, what good is my opinion? If I don’t tell my elected representatives I’ll not vote for them unless they support gun control, what good is my opinion? If I don’t write letters to the editor and to my congressional delegation, what good is my opinion? If I don’t join Washington Ceasefire, or the Center to Prevent Handgun Violence, or the Coalition to Stop Gun Violence, or the Million Mom March, or the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence (now united with MMM), what good is my opinion?
Nicholas D. Kristof, in his New York Times column of November 13, 2004 (“Lock and Load”), wrote, “Nothing kills Democratic candidates’ prospects more than guns. If it weren’t for guns, President-elect Kerry might now be conferring with incoming Senate Majority Leader Daschle.” Maybe. But I couldn’t disagree more with his assertion that “. . . nationally, gun control is dead.” Citing the grisly statistics of gun murders, gun accidents, and gun suicides, Kristof argues that a “public health approach to try to make [guns] much safer” is the way to go. (That is what we did in Seattle with “Options,” and in our work with Harborview Medical Center to promote gun safety, particularly through lockboxes.) But given the public’s strong, albeit “latent,” support for reasonable gun control laws, it’s premature to declare the movement dead.
It’s long overdue: a persistent, durable grassroots campaign to counter the power and influence of the NRA. The legislative agenda of such a campaign?
•Reinstitute, immediately, a total ban on assault weapons and high-capacity magazines.
•Outlaw, or continue to outlaw, armor-piercing bullets, “plastic” guns that can defeat airport screening devices, and any other weapon or ammunition designed to kill people.
•Close the “gun show” loophole in the Brady Bill.*
•Require that all firearms be registered.
•License every gun owner—contingent upon his or her satisfying the requirements of a certified gun safety course.
We should continue—as politicians and the NRA regularly remind us—to aggressively enforce existing gun laws. We should continue the fight in the courts to hold gun manufacturers liable for the production of “unsafe” firearms. And we should push for the development of what Kristof calls a “smart gun,” which can be fired only by a person authorized to possess it.
Read what an al Qaeda training manual directs its inductees to do: In countries like the United States it’s perfectly legal for members of the public to own certain types of firearms. If you live in such a country obtain an assault rifle legally, preferably an AK-47 or variations.
* The Brady Bill was named for James Brady, President Reagan’s press secretary, who was permanently disabled when shot in an attempted assassination of the president by John Hinckley, Jr., on March 30, 1981. The bill called for a five-day waiting period before a weapon may be purchased, during which time a background check is made on the purchaser. President Clinton, speaking to Tom Brokaw on NBC on April 12, 2000, claimed that the Brady Bill was responsible for a “thirty-five percent drop in gun crime and a thirty-one-year low in the homicide rate, and [it has] kept a half a million people—felons, fugitives, stalkers—from getting handguns.” The loophole? The five-day waiting period does not apply to those who purchase firearms at a gun show.
CHAPTER 7
MEN
WE WERE AT THIRTIETH and National in San Diego. “Units 16, 16-South, and 21 at 700 Thirty-fifth 415-Family. Psycho with a knife. Code 2.” I was behind the wheel. My senior officer, Patrolman Frank Pernicano, was sitting in for “Andy Taggert” who was off nursing a sore everything, the result of one those “freak accidents” you read about (this particular one is described in chapter 12). I acknowledged the call and whipped the creaking modified * up to a respectable speed. Not as fast as Taggert would have gone but fast enough.
Code 2 to the brass meant get there quick but safe. It did not mean lights and siren—that’s Code 3, a dispatch reserved for 11-99s (“officer needs help”) and blood runs. The powers that be apparently found lights and sirens distasteful. To veteran cops i
t was more of that same old stuff: no shotguns, no dogs, no blue uniforms, no semiautos—no Code 3s, the brass trying their best to make us inconspicuous. Already at six weeks on the job I was developing a healthy case of cynicism about those gray suits in the corner pocket.
But to the cops, Code 2 meant haul ass. The night before, at Taggert’s insistence, I’d gone balls to the wall—on a teenaged sailor in possession of a bottle of whiskey.
By the time I hit Wabash Boulevard, visions of a knife-wielding, family-threatening maniac spurring me on, the car was steaming, its alternator whining above the sound of the engine.
Turning onto Wabash I nearly lost it. I recovered just in time, and prayed Pernicano hadn’t noticed. But it had scared the hell out of me. To compensate, I did the logical male thing: I slammed the pedal to the metal. Nearing the intersection of Ocean View, I panicked: there was no way I was going to make that right turn. I jammed on the brakes, which responded by locking up on me. Two seconds later Pernicano and I sat in stunned silence as the engine sputtered and died in the middle of the intersection. I hadn’t rolled us, but we’d done a complete 360.
I reached for the ignition key. Pernicano grabbed my wrist. “Wh . . . who . . . who you been working with kid?” I told him. He nodded. “Th . . . thought so. Well, you . . . you’re working with Pe . . . Pe . . . Per . . . Pernicano now. So knock that shit off!”
“Yes, sir.” He released my arm. I turned the key and the engine caught. We left Wabash and Ocean View, smelling of burnt rubber and rusty radiator water. I drove like a sane person the rest of the way there.
“Whatcha got?” said Pernicano as we walked up to the small stucco duplex.
“Well, it’s a real 415,” said one of the four cops standing on the porch. “See for yourself.” He stood aside and let Pernicano take a look through the louvered windows, which ran the length of the front door. I took a peek myself. Inside was a petite black woman in a blood-drenched yellow robe, her face beaten to mush. She was hopping around, her wrists and ankles bound with belts. She spluttered blood as she screamed at some unseen person not to hurt her kids.
I was about to back away from the window when the unseen person walked into the living room. He was six-three, shirtless, his chiseled arms the size of my thighs. He was drunk. And had in his right hand a ten-inch kitchen knife. He screamed at the woman to get the fuck out of his life, and at us to get the fuck off his porch.
Pernicano nudged me aside, had another look. He turned to the other cops. “What the hell are you guys waiting for?”
“For the sarge,” said the spokesman of the group, a cop with more time on than Pernicano. “He’s en route, to authorize entry.”
What? I shouted inside my head. You silly fuck! Can’t you see what’s going on in there? Was this what the corner pocket wanted? Marshal Dillon would have been all over this guy. Sure, Matt was a just a TV lawman. And he never seemed to raise his voice—I guess you could even call him “PR conscious,” a term much venerated by SDPD brass. But my childhood hero would never let a man hit a lady. And he would always get his man.
“We’re not waiting for any sergeant,” said Pernicano. “You two guys? Take the south side.” He turned to me. “Partner? See that window on the north? He’s not likely to come out that way but if he does, you stop him.” Oh yeah, I’ll stop him. You bet I’ll stop him, partner. “The rest of us will kick the door.” He gave us thirty seconds to get into position.
I hustled through a gate and crept up to the window. It was to a bathroom. It had no curtains or blinds. A light was on but I couldn’t see much—the bottom of the window was just above eye level. I stepped back a couple of paces and saw that there were two doors, one off the hall, the other leading back toward the kitchen which appeared to be just off the living room. As I scoped out the window itself, a crank-out job off its runner, the suspect walked into the bathroom. I could see his massive shoulders. I could see the knife. Which to my eyes now looked like a two-foot machete. I stood on tiptoe, drew my gun and jammed it through the window (where the guy could have wrenched it away with ease). Let’s see. What would Taggert do now?
“Drop it, motherfucker!” I yelled, mustering all the command presence I could. The guy looked right through me and walked casually out the other door. I reholstered, blushing in the dark.
I pushed the window flush against the outside wall, grabbed the sill, and rappelled myself up and into the bathroom. (Maybe there was something to that six-foot wall you had to scale if you wanted to become a cop.) I slinked through the bathroom and glanced down the hall. The woman had retreated to the far end of it, trailing blood. Two or three wide-eyed children cowered behind her. All of our eyes met, a meeting that told me I was in the right place at the right time for the right reason. I stepped out into the hallway and spotted the suspect. What I didn’t see—what I had fully expected to see—was a sea of tan uniforms. I glanced at the door—the unkicked, unshattered door—and wondered what the hell was going on behind it.
That’s when I saw the hands of a cop, working to remove a louver from the window next to the door. I could picture the guy, the same cop who’d called for the supervisor, gently lifting each louvered pane, placing it gingerly on the porch so as not to break it. Doing his level best to be “PR conscious.” When he’d cleared enough slats he would stick his arm through and unlock the door from the inside; that must be the new plan. But where did that leave me?
Two good things happened next. First, the suspect put the knife on the kitchen table—why, I didn’t question. And, second, Pernicano’s size 12 smashed through the front door just after his voice bellowed, “Jesus Christ, man! What are you doing?”
That ocean of tan finally gushed into the room. The suspect turned and started for the back of his apartment. Which was when he noticed me—standing between him and his family. His nostrils flared. His eyes bulged. He charged.
Now, I knew my limits. There was absolutely no way I could take this guy. But with five other cops on the scene and my adrenaline screaming, Let’s get the fucker! I was up for it. As he charged I charged. A split second before the collision I stepped to his right, swung my right arm at his throat and snared him, stopping him dead in his tracks. It was just like on the mats in the gym, just as I’d practiced (half-speed) on Dottie. I lifted him onto my back, my right arm wrapped tightly around his neck, my left hand gripping my right wrist. I squeezed for all I was worth. My only purpose in life was to put this asshole out.
I’d applied it properly, I knew—the standard police sleeper hold, the carotid restraint, the choke-out—but the sonofabitch wasn’t going under. Then I saw why.
Sticking out of the V of my bicep and forearm was a hand, trapped. I took stock. My hands were all present and accounted for. The ensnared hand was white, the suspect black—that ruled him out. It had to belong to one of the other cops, but I wasn’t about to let go and figure it out.
I should have known it was Pernicano’s. My senior officer had jumped on at the precise moment the suspect and I collided, and found himself in a one-armed fight.
The battle lasted two or three minutes, maybe four. Which, take my word, is a long, long fight. And during which I refused to let the man out of my grasp. When it was over, our suspect hooked up and marinating in the back seat of a police car, we surveyed the damage: half the furniture was broken, every knickknack knocked from the walls, the panel-ray heater destroyed. Black clip-on ties, including mine, littered the floor. A couple of tan shirts and trousers got torn. Pernicano’s silver watchband got stretched and twisted out of shape. And there was a bloody nose or two. But the wife-beater/child-beater was on his way to jail where he belonged. The good guys had won.
Pernicano took me aside, for an ass-chewing I was certain. It was my first choke-out attempt and I’d failed. “You drive for shit, Stamper. But that was a hell of a job you did in there. I’d be proud to ride with you anytime.” I flushed with embarrassment, and pride. I loved this job. I was a cop.
The patrol
sergeant had pulled up as we were dragging the suspect out to the car. He divided up the investigating and reporting chores. A nice person, the sarge. But he seemed pretty much like the rest of the senior officers at the scene. I wondered, did those stripes on his sleeve make him any smarter? Why should we have to wait for him in order to do our jobs? If I ever made sergeant . . . Not that I wanted to. But if I ever became a supervisor I would make sure my cops understood: They’d better not raise their hands to get permission to do what they’d been hired to do.
The sergeant assigned me to talk to the kids. There were six of them, all under the age of ten. Five, all but the baby, spent their nights crammed into one of the apartment’s two bedrooms. I’d heard the children sobbing, whimpering, wailing in the background during the fight, had heard their shouts of Mommy-Daddy-Mommy-Daddy-Mommy-Daddy. But in the heat of battle their cries hadn’t really registered. Now I took a good look at them. What I saw had the look and feel of familiarity
“Turn that goddamn thing off. Now!” He was in the dining room, playing pinochle with Mom and Aunt LaVella and Uncle Don. Another Saturday night episode of Gunsmoke had come to an end, but the mournful music was still playing. I couldn’t turn it off, I hadn’t said good-bye to Marshal Dillon, Miss Kitty, Chester, Doc.
He roared again. I got up off the floor, walked over to the set, punched the knob and watched as the white dot on the screen got smaller and smaller. I wouldn’t budge until it had disappeared. That was the deal. “And stop jabbing at that goddamn thing. You’ll break it.”
It was brand-new, our black-and-white TV. Dad had finally won big at the track so Mom finally got her wish. Overnight, our fishing-cabin furnishings had been replaced by a houseful of blond veneer and turquoise plastic from Bay Furniture on National Avenue. “Winning big” being a relative term, they’d bought the furniture on time, just a few easy payments. I hated the stuff, every last stick of it.