Broken Badges: Cases from Police Internal Affairs Files

by Lou Reiter

  “Carmen, your people will have the authority to offer a deal if one of the cops wants to flip on his buddies. It’s a long shot, but who knows?”

  Investigations of public employees, specifically police officers, commonly involve two distinct investigations. If potential criminal allegations are investigated, the cop has the same rights as any citizen would have. Under the Fifth Amendment, cops can’t be compelled to answer questions that might be incriminating. Cops also can’t be disciplined for exercising that right.

  But, when the investigation is administrative in nature, even though the same set of facts are used, the cop can be compelled to answer questions that are “directly, narrowly and specifically” related to that cop’s performance or ability to perform. This is what is known as the Garrity Admonishment. If the cop still refuses, or lies, the cop can be fired.

  The high powered meeting ended with an exchange of contact numbers and e-mail addresses. Rachel, her boss, and Clyde started the long drive back to Colorado.

  *****

  It had been one day since the Colorado group returned. Rachel was following up on several issues she promised the DA she would tackle, but still had her usual caseload to handle.

  Chief Clyde was finally able to convince the feds that impounding Taylor’s Porsche was a mistaken seizure and the car needed to be returned. Clyde drove Taylor to the impound lot to make sure it happened. The Porsche had been sitting in the lot for over a week and dust and dew did a real number on the bright yellow paint. Taylor wasn’t sure, but he assumed members of the task force had taken the liberty of trying out the 911 during the time the lot was home to the classic sports car.

  “I know you’re probably ready to leave Juanita Springs, Taylor, but can I buy you a late breakfast? By the way, the town’s taken care of your motel bill.”

  “Thanks, Clyde. I imagine we’ll hit the Waffle House?”

  “Not much else in the Springs, Taylor.”

  Gladys was working the Waffle House counter again. Taylor wondered if she ever took time off.

  She gave them a smile as she looked out the front window. “See you’re not driving Clyde’s old pickup. Some fancy car you got there, Taylor.”

  Her comments caused the same two old-timers at the counter to turn and take a quick look.

  “You taking off, huh, Mr. LAPD man?” one of the geezers said with a crooked grin. Taylor nodded. “I hears you helped our chief with that shooting. Bunch of dirty cops, huh? Looked like they was dirty bikers. Maybe no difference. Was nice talking with you though.”

  Taylor shook hands all around and patted each on the back.

  Taylor got a phone text from Rachel asking him to stop by the DA’s office before he took off. No problem, Gunnison was on his way out of town toward Santa Fe. Chief Clyde asked if he should follow. Rachel texted back that he probably should as she had new information from Utah to share.

  Rachel put aside her stack of files as Taylor and Clyde entered. “Taking off, huh? I just had to get one last look at you, Taylor.” Taylor smiled and sat down. Rachel wasn’t wearing her usual CSI look. She had well-worn Jeans over tooled red boots, red plaid shirt peeking out of her black leather vest.

  “Got a call this morning from Carmen Staples, the head of the Utah AG Criminal Division. Quick and surprising turn of events. Seems when the chief at Rolling Hills told his captain what was happening, you know, the cop who got shot by Beaver, the captain up and retired on the spot. Said anything else about the case would have to go through his attorney.”

  “Well, Clyde, that might be the end of his civil lawsuit against you and Skippy. Good news, huh?” Clyde nodded his head and beamed.

  “And the best part happened over at Spring Valley! One of Carmen’s criminal investigators paid a visit with Sal Domingo. Clyde, remember he’s the one from the Narcotic Task Force that gave all the good info to Taylor’s contact in California?

  “They came in unannounced, met with the chief who called in the guy we’ve gotten to know as Big Mouth. Sal cleared a table and laid out the enlarged photograph of him hanging outside the Cliffhanger Bar with the bag under his arm. While Big Mouth was mulling over his portrait, Sal apparently told him his snitch, Sylvia, was going to testify that Big Mouth forced her to go down on him or he would shut down her whoring activity.

  “The criminal investigator then told Big Mouth that state investigators had sealed his bank accounts and were getting ready to execute a search warrant on his bank records. I hear Big Mouth blurted out that they “wouldn’t find it there.”

  “Big Mouth, aka dumb ass, was shooting his mouth off and hadn’t lawyered up or brought his union rep along. With this stunning admission, they pounced on him and floated the idea that the AG might make him a deal. Big Mouth was first in line to get a deal, but if he didn’t take it, one of the others probably would. When Big Mouth heard his buddy, the Rolling Hills captain, had hastily retired, the guy began to live up to his moniker. Pretty much laid out everything, except what happened to the two sterile Outlaws. Still missing and no clues.”

  “Sounds like the state of Utah and your boss have more work to do now, Rachel.”

  The trio spent another half hour talking about the future of the case. When Taylor got up to leave, Rachel came around her desk and gave both men a hug. She finished Taylor’s hug with a pat on his butt.

  “No sexual harassment there, Taylor. Just saying goodbye to somebody I liked playing the game with.” She smiled and returned to her stack of files.

  “Taylor, I think she’s got a little hankering for you, if you know what I mean,” Clyde teased when they were out in the parking lot.

  “I do, Clyde, and I hope you’re right. Say, you thought about our conversation about the ethics of your operation?” Taylor asked. “Not that I’m not grateful to you for getting my lady friend’s Porsche back for me.”

  Clyde looked down, sighed, and said, “I know what I’m doing isn’t professional, but it’s the only way I can keep my department going. Those fuckers at City Hall won’t increase the millage rate for property taxes, we don’t got much retail revenue, and I got to give these guys a job. What else I can I do, Taylor?”

  “You got your pride and professional reputation, Clyde. You’re turning your cops into thieves. Everybody knows that, Clyde. There’s gonna be some hurt coming down on all of you one of these days. Go out doing the right thing, boss.”

  Taylor watched Clyde in his rearview mirror as he left the parking lot. This was a difficult stunt to pull in the Porsche! Fortunately it lasted only as long as it took Taylor to turn onto the road heading for Highway 50 and home to Santa Fe.

  *****

  Taylor’s cell phone rang with the ring tone indicating an unknown number. He noticed the area code was 303—Colorado.

  “Taylor? Rachel here.”

  Taylor felt a flush race to his face. “Hey, wonderful to hear your melodic voice again. What’s up?”

  “Felt like coming down to Santa Fe. Your offer still open? Your lady friend mind?”

  “Of course my offer stands. My lady friend is on a cruise with one of her other man friends. I find those cruises rather boring. Just so you know, I’m still in a one bedroom place.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Okay, when you going to get here? I’ll see if something special is going on to keep us busy.”

  “I doubt we’ll need anything to keep us busy, Taylor. You hear about Juanita Springs?”

  “No, they got more problems?”

  “Not anymore! Gone! The whole police department! Chief Adams, or Clyde, decided police work had passed him by and it was time for him to retire. I give him credit for coming to that decision. Skippy realized the shooting had really affected him more than he was initially willing to admit. Seeing a shrink was good for him.

  “Your buddy Beaver, the cop who jammed you up in the first place, beat up his live-in girlfriend. I made sure my boss wouldn’t take anything other than a plea deal that would stick as a convictio
n. So Beaver can’t possess guns anymore. Can’t be a cop! Lost his cert with the state. My boss convinced the city fathers to abolish the PD and contract with the Sheriff’s office for policing. Working pretty well with a couple exceptions. Locals are now getting more traffic tickets. The Mountain Drug Task Force seizure stats are way down. Boo hoo!”

  “Really glad you called, Rachel. I’ve thought about you a lot. Can’t wait for your visit! Remember, stay the speed limit coming through those small towns on Highway 50. For you, more than your ride might be taken.”

  They laughed together and disconnected.

  CHAPTER 3:

  MISS EMMA MAE

  Complainant:Emma Mae Jones

  Allegation: Deadly force and illegal search

  Agency: Sierra Vista, Texas Police Department

  Accused Employee: Officer Pedro Fuentes

  Emma Mae Jones was a fixture in a rundown neighborhood of Sierra Vista. She was born in the house at 740 Adams Street, and was planted in that place since the day she entered the world. Emma Mae traveled through the lives of two husbands, raised four children, counted somewhere around twelve grandchildren, and thought she had six great grandchildren. Two children escaped her wing before they finished high school and she lost track of them.

  Emma Mae’s house was constantly in need of repair. Traditional workmen were difficult to find, being the house was located on Adams Street. Blacks calling Sierra Vista home had always lived in this particular neighborhood; it was located south of the railroad tracks. The presence of lower class families and blacks inhabiting cities south of the tracks was more than stereotypical, especially in Sierra Vista. At one time, Emma Mae’s neighborhood was alive with energy and movement. Stores and juke joints lined the streets. On weekends, music, dancing, laughing, and drinking never ended. Everybody knew everybody in the ‘hood and families looked out for each other.

  Time brought change, and change had not been good or welcome in Emma Mae’s neighborhood. Most stores were now boarded with mismatched planks crisscrossing shattered windows. People lucky enough to own cars traveled to the Wal-Mart on the new highway bisecting the neighborhood. Police closed the juke joints with night raids, arrests, and incessant harassment.

  Emma Mae saw it all, every day. Sitting on her front porch, her cataract clouded eyes sadly watched her beloved neighborhood disintegrate. Ninety years had passed since she was a girl.

  But one thing hadn’t changed. Everyone still living on Adams Street knew Ms. Emma Mae. They trusted this formidable lady with the tight grey curls that capped her head like a bonnet. She was the neighborhood mother to all.

  “Ms. Emma Mae?” one of three young teenage girls called. “How you doing today? You gots everyone in order?” The girl with uneven corn rows giggled and turned to the two girls by her side.

  The three were typical of the budding young girls of Adams Street. Their halter-tops were too small for their uppers and skirts were too short to cover bulging thighs. They would be like their mommas soon—pregnant with the first of several children from unknown sperm donors. The girls would be sucked into the ritual of poverty, lost in the vortex of hopelessness.

  “I’m good, the good Lord has kept me on this fine earth for another day! You young’uns behave yourselves! Those studs around here are only looking for one thing, and it ain’t fatherhood.”

  The three laughed and waved goodbye as they hustled down Adams Street to find their adventure du jour.

  “Mr. Porter? You bring me anything?” Emma Mae begged as the mailman stepped on her porch. “I’m expecting my Uncle Sam to help me out this time of the month.” The big woman laughed and her body shook, sending her rocking chair into waves of perpetual motion.

  “Seems he has, Ms. Emma Mae. Lookey here! Seems like this is probably your check. How come you don’t just have it put in your bank account like most people?”

  “No bank account, Mr. Porter. No sense putting it in any account when it goes out so fast. But, you know, I’m not ungrateful. I ‘preciate everything my Uncle do for me. At least someone still seems to care.”

  “Ms. Emma Mae, I care, you’re the bright spot on my route,” the scrawny man in blue insisted as he commandeered the upper step of her porch. “You ever worry living here all by yourself?”

  “No, sure don’t. Everybody knows me and looks out for me. Why, every day they must be 30, or maybe 40, folks who stop by and talk. Some come right up here on my porch and set a spell like you do’s every day. No, I feel blessed.”

  The mailman resumed his route as a ’78 Cadillac Sedan DeVille slowly pulled up to the curb in front of Emma Mae’s house. The flashy road hog sported a white Landau top and was painted a deep custom purple. The interior was enveloped in white leather with splashes of dark polished wood breaking the snowscape. The car hugged the ground so tightly that it seemed impossible the small wheels capped with blindingly ornate chrome rims could support its weight. A sound system hidden in the trunk caused Emma Mae’s heart to flutter spasmodically when the ceaseless rap hit mega bass notes.

  Reggie stretched out of the front passenger seat. His hair was littered in corn rolls. Large tennis shoes boated his feet, without laces to act as bow lines. His basketball shorts fell under his knees and the waist hung so low that his colorful boxer shorts screamed for attention. A large gold-filled pendant mimicking a dollar sign drooped from his neck and contrasted effectively with the sleeveless Mavs’ shirt.

  “Knock that shit off,” he screamed to the driver as he strolled up the steps to Emma Mae’s porch. The rap stopped mid rant. “Ms. Emma Mae, how’s you feeling today?”

  “Reginald,” she always called the boy by his given name, “I’m here and I’m blessed. You boys not getting into trouble, is you?”

  “Nothing more than usual. I can’t stay long today, got business up in the city. But I wanted to make sure you’s okay.” Reggie clasped her hands and she felt paper being forced into her palm. “This might be helpful. You know me and my crew is always looking out for you. We don’t let nobody gets in your face.”

  “Reginald, I ‘preciate you and your boys,” Emma Mae assured him as she looked at three one hundred dollar bills filling her hand. “I sure don’t want to know how you came by this here. But it helps, it do.”

  “Well, got’s to go, Ms. Emma Mae. Don’t know what’s going on, but we been noticing cops on Adams Street lately. They’s narcs. Don’t know why they’s here. I don’t let nobody deal on this street. Don’t want anything spillin’ onto you!”

  “You knows that Mr. Johnson stays with me at night. He protects me.”

  The old lady secreted the bills in the pocket of her worn apron. The sun was nearly directly overhead and beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead. The underarms of her house dress were beginning to puddle with expanding wetness.

  Emma Mae was slowly pulling herself out of her porch rocker when the white Schwann truck slowed and finally stopped in front of her house. The jauntily capped driver eased out of the truck and slowly mounted the porch with a small package clutched in his hand.

  “Ms. Emma Mae, I forgot this package of pork chops from one of my customer’s orders and just can’t remember where I was supposed to leave it. Thought you might like it.” The driver smiled as he handed the wrapped package to her.

  “Robert, I knows that ain’t the truth. I just hope you don’t get in trouble with the boss man for dropping meat by every now and agains.”

  “If he knew you, he would make sure I did just this,” the Schwann deliveryman said as he begged forgiveness for his short visit. “Got to run. People waiting dinner on my goods. God bless you, Emma Mae.”

  Today was just like any other day for Emma Mae Jones. One after another, people came to visit with her. Young and old. Men, boys, women, girls, and little children. Mostly black, but some whites marched in the parade. As the sun fell, Emma Mae figured it was about time for her soaps to start and went inside to the coolness of her parlor. Like every day, Emma Mae Jones would eat din
ner around five o’clock and be in bed or settled in her tattered brown Lazy Boy, asleep by nine.

  *****

  Pedro Fuentes, called Pepy by his choice, had been a cop with Sierra Vista for five years. He didn’t start in this position. When he was only 20, he enrolled in a community college criminal justice program. A teacher thought he would make a good police officer and suggested he look at joining the Regional Basic Police Academy, which was part of the school curriculum.

  Most states offer a range of police academies for prospective recruits to attend. Just a few states, Indiana and New Hampshire for example, have one police academy run exclusively by the state. Even in those states, larger police and state police departments can establish training academies if they choose. However, most states relegate police training to community colleges or voc tech schools, although all are coordinated by a state regulatory group.

  In Texas, the state run academy is known as TCLOSE. This entity determines hiring standards, training for basic and specialized courses, and is the ultimate licensing body. In general, cops don’t like the word licensing, so they call it “certification” or “decertification” if a cop screws up badly.

  Pedro Fuentes found he could enter the Texas police academy without being officially hired by a city department. He had to pay his way, but courses weren’t that expensive. Certification consisted of a basic 12-week program, generic in content. When trainees sponsored by a police agency graduated, they become affiliated with the agency and received additional training for a specific position. All recruits were still required to pass the Field Training Program, or FTO. During this training, a senior officer looked over the shoulders of the new guys and eventually sanctioned recruits, acknowledging they were ready to become part of a force.