by Bill Larkin
“Yeah, I am with PSC right now. Going over to Field Ops soon.”
That meant Professional Services Command. I didn’t like hearing that, since there was one Commander Motkin who was second in command there.
He continued, “Listen, I heard about the IA complaint and you being on Harbor Patrol. My advice is that you play it cool. A complaint involving a commander’s son is tough all around.”
“All I can do is tell them what happened. Again.”
“Yeah, well, if it were me, I would think about how to frame it. Thing is, if the case against the kid don’t make, then Motkin would be in high spirits. Maybe in the mood to help my career. Get what I’m sayin’?”
The implication was that if I were to lie and somehow screw up the DA’s case, it would give me a friend high up at OCSD. Organizational politics in action. And Willis was carrying the torch.
I shook Willis’ hand. “See you, Willis.”
He frowned, “Good luck in there.” He turned away and started walking.
“Fucknuts,” I said, just loud enough that I knew he heard it.
He didn’t acknowledge me and he strolled confidently down the hallway.
I went to the vending machine and grabbed the Diet Coke, as I thought about the incident from months ago that was causing me newfound misery. I’d been working patrol in Dana Point on the AM shift, driving north on PCH. A giant brown turd on wheels, complete with dents and black exhaust, passed me, going southbound. I swung a U, ran the plate to confirm an expired registration and that it wasn’t stolen, and made a traffic stop.
As I walked up on the driver’s side, I lit up two boys with my flashlight. The driver was a mess. Early 20s, rail thin, nervous, while trying to appear overconfident. His body odor was rancid. An obvious tweaker. The passenger, dressed in jeans and a RVCA t-shirt, looked more like a typical high school kid.
In the center console, by the shifter, I noticed a lighter and a ballpoint pen stem without the ink. Ballpoint pen inserts are used to smoke heroin, meth, oxy, and other drugs.
The driver said, “This about the registration? I told my stupid ass girl to pay it.”
“Looks like she didn’t. You have your license and registration?” I carefully watched him as he fished them out of a faded Velcro wallet.
“Bring those and step out of the car for me. Any weapons on either of you, or anywhere in the car?”
“Shit, nothing like that,” replied the driver. The passenger just shook his head.
As the driver stepped out, I could see a rectangle of folded tin foil on the floor mat of the beater. That was a sure sign they were smoking something.
I called for an additional unit and searched the driver. Just as I sat him on the curb behind the car, the passenger door opened. In a flash, I noticed the passenger’s hand move low by the underside of the door. Then he raised his hand and pushed the door open. I drew my pistol and pointed it at him.
“Do not move. I didn’t tell you to get out of the car.”
“Okay, okay, man.”
“Hands up and out the window.”
He complied. “I’m cool. No gun.”
I directed him out of the car and had him walk backwards to me. From a place where I could see both suspects, I searched the passenger. Then I set him on the curb at a non-conversational distance from the driver. I didn’t want them to collaborate on a story. The second unit rolled up and I explained the situation to the female deputy who worked my same shift.
While she watched the suspects, I retrieved the foil, pen stem, and lighter. I spent a few minutes looking through the rest of the car. Nothing illegal and no drugs. I went around to the passenger side and used my flashlight to illuminate the underside of the car where the passenger’s hand had been. I found two green pills on the street and picked them up. On one side, they said “OC” and on the other “80.”
Known as “Oxy” or “80s,” they were oxycodone tablets. Oxy is an opioid based painkiller for the treatment of moderate to severe pain. Or a fast downward trip, whichever you need. Just remove the outer coating, then crush into a fine powder and rail it in your nostrils. Or take a small nugget and smoke it on tin foil. Snorting through the pen stem causes fast absorption.
The catch is that when a user smokes some “80,” the body releases dopamine, with euphoria and extreme happiness being the result. In the beginning, a user gets good rush of dopamine. Over time, however, the body’s chemistry adjusts, and higher doses of oxycodone are needed to feel the same result. At some point, it jacks up the system entirely and can permanently reduce a person’s dopamine production.
I walked up to the passenger. “You have a prescription for these pills you dropped, right?”
He spoke up. “Those aren’t mine.”
I could almost believe it, since he didn’t show the signs of meth and oxy use like the driver did. The passenger was probably a casual user, buying from the driver, and for some reason they were driving the turd on PCH.
I took the passenger by the arm and led him about twenty feet away from the driver.
“How do you two know each other?”
His eyes danced briefly. “We just met at a party. Making a beer run, is all. I don’t even know his name.”
To be legal and official, I had to Mirandize him before questioning, so I handcuffed him and led him back to his spot on the curb to unravel his bullshit story.
“What gives, man? Those pills are not mine.”
I took the driver the same distance away. His deodorant had been overtaken a couple days ago.
“I’m going to search your car. I know I’m not going to find any soap, but anything you need to tell me about now? I don’t want any surprises.”
“You can’t search it. There ain’t no reason,” he stammered.
“I found drug paraphernalia and two OCs, so that gives me probable cause.”
“This is fucked up. Give me a fix it ticket for the reg, but this ain’t a free-for-all. I’ve had a long day.”
“Where do you keep the oxy?”
He sighed. “Hey, I haven’t used that stuff in like a year. Clean as a whistle.”
“How do you know the other guy?”
“Him? He’s just a hitchhiker. Don’t know him at all.”
I sat him back down and ran a driver’s license check and warrant check on each. The driver had a $1,500 warrant for a traffic violation. When I ran the passenger, his last name clicked. Motkin, the same as Commander Motkin of the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Now, I’m not a detective, but that could be a connection.
I asked him loudly, “Are you related to Commander Motkin?”
He looked up at me and smirked a little. “Yeah. He’s my dad.”
The driver’s head snapped and he looked over and the kid. “No shit?”
I asked Motkin,. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I didn’t do anything,” the kid replied.
The tweaker suppressed a smile.
I called for a supervisor and searched the car more thoroughly, including the trunk. I popped a side panel in the trunk and found a wad of dirty cash, seven more oxy tablets, and a few grams of meth. With the other deputy watching, I counted $735, which was more than the car was worth.
The sergeant was fine with everything, so I arrested both. Back at the station, we held a powwow with the nervous watch commander, who finally agreed that the arrest couldn’t be avoided. I booked Curtis Motkin for possession at the Intake and Release Center at the Men’s Jail in Santa Ana, but he was bailed out immediately, before even entering the population. The driver was booked for possession with intent to sell. However, there was nobody to bail him out.
Within a couple days, the driver’s public defender filed a formal complaint that there had been $3,000 in cash in the trunk and I had pocketed most of it. The Motkin kid had a good attorney, who threatened to file a false arrest lawsuit since I had never seen the two oxy tablets in his possession. He also added in some excessive intimidation langua
ge for drawing my pistol on an unarmed teenager.
Normally, a complaint for stealing cash like this would not go too far, especially since the other deputy was with me and I had called a supervisor to the scene. But this wasn’t a normal traffic stop.
Both were held to answer and had trial dates set. However, the Motkin kid and his attorney were doing their best to knock down the case and cause me grief at the same time.
I was back on the chair and almost finished with the Diet Coke when the door opened. A stodgy Internal Affairs investigator, with a crew cut, short-sleeve dress shirt, and a tie courtesy of Target, motioned me in. The room had no windows. Just a table with the polygraph machine on it. There was another door to another room, but it was closed.
The operator behind the polygraph machine eyed me carefully, but did not stand or offer to shake hands. Just a slight nod. He was an older guy, probably retired police, with a sour face and a haircut from 1986, but gray all over.
I sat in the chair across from the machine.
“I am Investigator Selman and this is Don Graves, a certified polygraph examiner. You understand that your rep cannot be here? He ain’t coming down is he?”
“Do you see him?” I replied sharply.
“Now, now, let’s be civil.”
“Civil would be starting on time. I can go to lunch and come back when it is more convenient for you.”
Selman smiled and glanced at Graves.
Graves stood up and began attaching the apparatus. A blood pressure cuff went on my right arm, which rested on the edge of the table. Graves explained the process as he worked. “This monitors your blood pressure.”
No kidding. Then came a wire connected around my chest.
“And your heart rate.”
The last item was a finger clamp that covered about an inch of the tip of my left middle finger.
“That senses perspiration levels very effectively.” Graves had a practiced demeanor of cool indifference.
I raised my middle finger and carefully lowered the other fingers while he examined the connection.
Selman smirked ever so slightly and decided it was time to recap the situation. “Deputy Schmidt, you’re here as part of an internal investigation of a traffic stop that occurred in Dana Point this past February twentieth. The arrestees were Curtis Motkin, age nineteen, and Jason Milleu, age twenty-four. Are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes.”
Selman read canned words from a sheet of paper. The test began with a series of control questions designed to gauge my normal physiology. I answered yes or no questions about my name, address, rank, and other basic pieces of information.
Then came his first curve ball. A small one, but he was fishing for a response he could categorize as deceptive. And keep an intimidation factor going.
“On the night of February twentieth, when you were working Dana Point patrol, did you have in your possession any oxycodone tablets?”
“Of course not.”
“Limit your answers to yes or no only. Did you? Perhaps some that had not been documented or booked into evidence?”
“No,” I replied flatly.
“Did you have any drug paraphernalia in your possession at the time of the traffic stop on Coast Highway?”
“No.”
“According to your report, you observed Curtis Motkin’s hand below the door, in a manner consistent with dropping something. Did you actually see him drop any pills?”
“No.”
And so it went with some more baiting questions.
“When you found the money and counted it, was there three thousand there?”
“Again, no.”
“Oh yeah, sorry. Both you and Deputy Moreno counted the money and it was seven hundred thirty-five?”
“Yes”
“You counted it twice?”
“Yes.”
“And called for a supervisor?”
“Yes.”
“So, after Sergeant Nichols responded and confirmed the count, you transported it to the station and booked it?”
“Of course.”
“I need you to answer yes or no.”
“Okay.”
I answered a dozen more questions related to the packaging, booking procedure, and whether or not Moreno could have accidentally lost any of the cash. Then the catch-all.
“Did you take any cash from the trunk that night?”
“No,” I replied evenly.
“Do you know who has the missing money?”
“There is no missing money.”
Selman sighed, then asked, “Have you lied when answering any of these questions?”
“Don’t you already know that?”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“A smartass would have said something about your tie. Did you get it at a garage sale or pay five bucks for it on sale at Goodwill? No, I have not lied to you.”
Selman stood up. “Listen, I can recommend you do this all over again. You might get transferred to the Intake Release Center, searching arrestees all day.”
“I don’t really care. The answer is no, I did not take any money, not only because I wouldn’t, but because that asshole has never had three grand in his life. As for Motkin dropping the eighties on the pavement, he did it for sure. And a jury will see it that way. Sorry, but that’s the cold hard truth. And I was just doing my job.” I began taking off the instruments.
“You’re not done here.” Selman balked.
“What else do you wanna know? How many times I got laid last month?”
“Jesus.” Selman looked over at Graves, who shrugged.
Graves said, “We have enough. We’ll be in touch.”
That meant that the test was negative or inconclusive. If they’d had something, they would have gotten the rep involved. Or, maybe even brought in an IA sergeant.
“You all have a wonderful day,” I said, as I shut the door behind me. On my way to the stairs, I passed the series of academy class pictures. They were all there, even the old black and white ones. I paused at my class, and stepped back to view it.
It carved a visual link to the past like a switchblade. To the time when I’d entered the system with a shaved head and big ideas. At the academy, young Deputy Sheriff Trainees go through the days saying “Sir” after every sentence and are taught to obey superiors and fit into the system. A reason for everything and everything for a reason.
Unlike police departments where you hit the street after the academy, the Orange County Sheriff’s Department puts you in the jail system so you can acclimate to how the bad guys think and act. But loyalty is sometimes proven by turning a blind eye to laziness, incompetence, or heavy-handed deputies who couldn’t cut it on patrol and were making careers in the jails.
Most deputies realize that the stuff they teach you in the academy about integrity, service, and honor fades—replaced by a certain paycheck and proving yourself by going home after every shift. There is a balance to everything and some individuals rise above the subjugation of the system, but there is an attitude taken to patrol that reflects that whole jail experience. At times it helps; at times it hurts. The thing is—you have to know your audience.
The picture showed three rows of Sheriff’s Department cadets dressed in formal uniforms, with hats and all. How young I looked, with the crew cut and confident green eyes. Yet, it was only five years ago. Two of my classmates had been fired. A few had transferred to other departments to hit the streets earlier. One had quit and become a tech millionaire, then became broke. And Debbie Kraft. She had been killed in the line of duty two years ago, in a traffic accident, while working a special detail and responding to a call. Debbie was smiling at the camera. I felt a slight shudder as I looked at her.
I had an urge to travel back in time and change things. For Debbie. For myself. But life never works that way.
Mind and spirit together make up that which separates us from the rest of the animal world, that which enables a man to know the truth
and that which enables him to die for the truth.
Edith Hamilton (1867-1963)
Chapter 4
I was walking toward the parking structure and felt my stomach grumble. While I was thinking about where to go for an early lunch, my phone rang. It was my watch commander, Sergeant Fergus.
“Schmitty. Newport Beach PD wants to talk to you.”
“Why, Sarge?”
“Their detective is taking statements from everybody about last night. He’s at the scene and wants to do a walk through for the Tremayne death investigation. He wants you there in the next hour.”
“Yeah?” I had given my name to the Newport Beach sergeant the night before. I immediately wondered if Newport PD was going to ask me about dating the dead man’s wife in a previous life. No, they wouldn’t know that history. Besides, it was irrelevant.
“The detective’s name is Van Ness. Sounds like he has his head up his ass, so be careful.”
“OT on this? It’s technically a day off for me.”
“For you, Schmitty? Sure.” He clicked off.
Since I was close to the Orange County Coroner’s office, I decided to pay a quick visit. I strolled down 4th Street past the Central Jail and entered the coroner’s building. I chatted with the receptionist and identified myself. She sent me down a hall to the office of Nandan Patel.
I knew him a little bit from a Laguna Hills double homicide case, where I had been the responding officer. He had been the responding coroner’s investigator. Both of us ended up in court for the DA, who got a conviction of a 26-year-old scumbag who killed a couple over a car loan of $2,000.
Patel’s office had open glass and I could see him typing away slowly on a computer. On his open door, it said Nandan Patel, Deputy Coroner. Underneath was a placard that said: Our Day Starts When Your Day Ends. I knew the slogan was taken from LAPD’s Scientific Investigation Division.
Nandan Patel was short, with uncombed hair and large frame glasses. He glanced over at me and it took him a moment to recognize me. “Schmitty, what are you doing here?”
“Hey Nandan. I’m on Harbor now and caught the burning boat last night. Is your pathologist doing the autopsy today?”