The Christmas Failure

      On Christmas Eve, 2003, I was the evening shift patrol supervisor on the north end of the parish. While my chain of command and every other non-essential entity were enjoying the night with their families, my shift and I ensured that civilization did not go extinct. By nightfall, which came early, my deputies alternately went home to have dinner with their families. I couldn’t go home because I lived on the south end of the parish, twenty miles away. The rest of the evening dragged painfully slow while I drove the perimeter of my area.

At 8 pm, I reached the Arkansas state line and turned around. I came south on US 71 through little towns named from women or old families: Ida, Myra, Hosston, Gilliam, Belcher, and Dixie. The Highway was bare, and I was eager to be with my family. I arrived to civilization quicker than I expected, so I drove back north and pulled over on Highway 1 in TV Hills. Back before they leveled the hills and widened the road, Highway 1 had two lanes with improved shoulders, and you could pull over on a hill and catch speeders before they knew you were there, but nothing was moving that night.
I stopped at my office to read a report, but I couldn’t focus. I started over, but it didn’t work, so I cleared my desk, cleaned out a drawer, used compressed air to clean my computer, separated my pens from my pencils, and emptied the trash can. I got back in my car and went south, stopping just north of the city limits, and parked on the side of North Market to remind everyone coming into the parish that we weren’t putting up with any nonsense.

10 pm was too early to go home, so I drove slow. I almost reached the Cross Lake Bridge when the radio blared for the first time in hours, and it wasn’t the dispatcher wishing the evening shift Merry Christmas. Instead, it was an emergency.

“Dispatch to all units...a caller reports a man lying in the middle of Lowery Road with a gunshot wound to his head. Fire District One is in route.”

I shook my head and flipped on my lights and siren. A few minutes later and the call belonged to midnight shift, but now it was ours.

If you live any further west of Lowery Road in Caddo Parish, you’re in Texas. By the time I arrived, one of my deputies was setting up an LZ for the medical helicopter, and another was interviewing the people who found the man in the road. Yellow tape held back a dozen onlookers. Women were crying. A small group was praying. People were scared. Fire trucks blocked the road, the way firemen like to do, and under their spotlights lay a man in the road, slightly north of center. My deputy told me the man was talking to firemen when he arrived. 
      Before I was promoted two months earlier, I was a detective. When detectives arrive at the scene of a violent crime, they worry about killers running loose and putting people in danger. Detectives know the clock is ticking, and the crime scene holds crucial information. That night we were responsible for getting all the information we could. There were beer cans and a Mr Thrifty cup with ice sitting conspicuously in the road. Maybe they were evidence, maybe they were trash, but we collected them. The other evidence was on a back board with an oxygen tube going to his nose and a disposable blanket covering him from the waist down. The firemen told us he had been shot three times, but the wounds weren’t obvious. Despite the cold, he was shirtless. I watched his chest to see if he was breathing, but it didn’t move. Maybe he was already gone.
      The medics were nearby, but no one was excited. They were waiting for the helicopter, and seconds later, I heard it in the distance. Lowery Road was covered by tall trees on both sides, so the helicopter had to land a mile away and the nurses driven to the scene by ambulance. From there, they would load the victim, take him to the helicopter, and send him to LSU Medical Center. I still had a couple of minutes, and if the victim could talk, he might be able to tell us what happened. He was perfectly still, and his eyes were closed. I crouched down beside him. 

      “Hey my man...who did this to you?”
      He came to life, opened his eyes, and moved them up and down until they landed on me. Moving only his lips, he gave me a name, and then closed his eyes, seemingly breathing his last. I wrote the name down but didn’t give up. I spoke again, he answered and then closed his eyes. We repeated the exchange three or four times until I knew about the car that brought him to the scene, the two men involved, and the neighborhood where he lived.
      The nurses from the helicopter arrived and ushered me away. They put him on a gurney, loaded him into an ambulance and took him to the helicopter. Minutes later it was in the air stirring up dust, blowing off hats, and dropping the temperature 20 degrees. When it was out of sight, I jumped in my car and drove to Shreveport. When I got to the neighborhood, I stopped two people on foot and asked if they knew the victim or suspects, but they didn’t. I looked for the car the victim described, but I couldn’t find it.
      It was after midnight when I got home. The kids were asleep. I was supposed to help wrap and put presents under the tree, but I fell asleep. Colleen didn’t wake me. 
      The kids woke us at dawn. We opened presents and had breakfast. To accommodate my schedule, we had an early dinner with my parents and brother’s family. At 2 pm, I left the lights, presents, and family behind to return to the dark world of car crashes, thieves, burglars, wife beaters, fleeing felons, and murderers. I called dispatch and asked for an update on the case from the night before. The detectives were talking to two men at the office. They were the men the victim named the night before. Things looked promising, but the man who had been shot died at 2 am. His name was Curtis Ewing. Fifteen hours earlier I was talking to him, and I assumed he would be alright. The case was now a homicide.
      The night before, I knew the clock was ticking, but I didn’t realize a man’s life was at stake. When he left the scene, he had only two hours to live. He needed to know the wages of sin is death, and it is appointed unto man once to die. He needed to know Christ alone was his only hope, but I didn’t tell him. As far as I know, I was the last person to communicated with him, but I was so caught up in temporal things, I didn’t tell him about Jesus on Christmas Eve. Why didn’t I tell him that God is holy, and in his holiness he created mankind to please himself, but man sinned, and now everyone born of man wants to please himself rather than God? Why didn’t I tell him that God himself became a man, Jesus, lived a perfect life while resisting the same temptations we experience, and gave himself to be crucified so he could die in the place of all who repent of their sin and trust in him?
      I repented and promised to do better if God ever gave me another opportunity.

      Six years later, I was on my way to the office when a man was thrown off his motorcycle in a curve after hitting an eight point buck on South Lakeshore Drive. The crash left him in the middle of the road and sent his motorcycle flying into a fence a hundred yards away. I heard the call on the radio and was the second deputy to arrive. A man with a white beard wearing a helmet and leather jacket was laying across the double yellow line. He was still breathing, but it was the labored breathing of a man in distress. Traffic was passing us, so I ran to the west end and asked a motorist to block the road until a deputy arrived. When I got back to the man in the road, I expected him to be dead, but he was still breathing. 

        I was afraid to move him, so I got on my hands and knees beside him and talked to him. I told him about the God-man who lived a perfect life and gave himself on the cross to pay for our sins. I urged him to repent and trust in Christ. There is more I should have said, and my details were far from perfect, but I encouraged him and gave him the only hope I knew. Ten minutes later the medics arrived. The man never responded, but he was breathing when they took him to the hospital.

        Four hours later, I called the hospital, and the nurse told me the man died. His name was Dr William Steen. During the Vietnam War, Dr Steen was a flight surgeon for the Army. He received the Silver Star, Air Medal, the Bronze Tar, and two Purple Hearts. In 1997, Dt Steen did laser surgery on my eyes.  He was a hero and a genius. The news of his death shook me. I wanted him to live. Those who knew him well say he was a Christian man. Perhaps the last words he heard before he died gave him peace.

https://www.leagle.com/decision/inlaco20100811303

https://www.ktbs.com/news/dr-william-steen-killed-in-motorcycle-accident/article_614eaa7b-d447-5d2e-a9f9-bdaa0d9d7fc9.html

Heroes

I grew up a mile and a half from Graceland in a subdivision next to I-55 and what is now Federal Express Headquarters. Our house was new in 1968, and our neighborhood was a perfect place to grow up. School was a short walk or ride down the street. I learned to ride my bike by coasting down the hill in front of my house. After that, I sported a green Spyder bike with sissy bars, a banana seat, and a 3 speed stick shift until I graduated to a Free Spirit ten speed when I was twelve. There was baseball in summer, football in fall and winter, and basketball anytime you wanted to walk outside to the driveway. We had a playground, a swimming pool, tree houses, friends and pretty girls. 

People in our neighborhood valued order and appearance. Fathers got angry when vehicles sped down the street. Neighbors waved at each other. Mothers made sure their kids had rain boots in the rain, jackets in the fall, and snacks whenever they were hungry. It was a place where families lived, brothers and sisters went to the same schools, and families went to church on Sundays.

Every spring, my dad dug up the wild onions in the yard, spread fertilizer, and moved the sprinkler around to water grass and concrete alike. The neighbors did like wise. By June, the Bermuda was deep and green, making mowing a constant necessity and a viable job opportunity. Mowing lawns was my primary source of income. I pushed my mower through the neighborhood from yard to yard.

On my way home from mowing, I often saw Victor mowing his parent’s yard. Their house was across the street and five houses down from mine. Their yard was the most beautiful one in the neighborhood. Across the front were azaleas and irises, and the sidewalks and driveway had a two inch edge around it. Vic mowed the yard at a perfect 45 degree angle. It looked look like a golf course. Vic was in his 20s, and despite the weather, always wore bell bottoms and a button down shirt with the tail untucked. On his feet were sandals, the kind with tire treads as soles. He had a beard, wore tear drop glasses, and had a distinct way of walking with a long stride, dipping up and down like a piston. I saw him every week in his yard, but he never spoke or even looked up. According to neighborhood lore, he fought in Vietnam and came home shell shocked. The older boys said he was a war hero.

In Tennessee in the 70s, you couldn’t get a driver’s license until you were 16 years old, but you could get a motorcycle license when you were 14. It was a great opportunity, but my dad hated motorcycles, I talked to him one day and told him I could throw a paper route if I had a motorcycle. I never thought he would do it, but I stumbled on the one thing he respected: hard work. He went to the bank and withdrew four hundred dollars to buy me a Honda 125 Enduro. A week later, I passed my driving test and filled out an application to throw a paper route for The Commercial Appeal.

On June 1st, I got up at 2 am to pick up my papers at the Stop and Go at Boeingshire and Shelby Drive. When I got there, I found the route manager, Mr. Wilson (not his real name), inside the store impressing the night shift clerk. He had a crew cut and military bearing. He liked me because I was young and showed up early. He was destined for big things. 

I went outside when the van arrived with the papers. I had three bundles, but Wilson told me to unload the van while he and the driver talked baseball. Rather than help unload the van, the other route drivers got their bundles and started folding their papers. When I got the last bundle out of the van, the driver walked up and asked what I was doing. Two-thirds of the papers went to other drop off locations, but no one told me, so I unloaded the whole van. Without apology, Wilson made me reload the van. By the time I finished, all the route drivers were gone to throw their papers. I wiped sweat from my forehead and started folding my papers, 156 of them.

I was in front of the store sitting on a stack of pallets. The van driver left, and Wilson was inside, behind the counter with the clerk. I finished filling my first bag of papers when I heard laughing in the distance. A man with a beard and distinct walk came around the corner from the bar. He was wearing sandals, bell bottoms, and a button down shirt. It was Victor.

I didn’t think Vic knew who I was, but he called me by name. It was the first time he ever spoke to me. He was funny and engaging, and when he got closer, I found out why: he was drunk. When the bar closed, they ushered their patrons out. Victor was on foot due to a recent DWI. I was all alone in front of a convenience store at three in the morning. It was good to see a familiar face. Victor and I became friends that morning. 

Vic told jokes and acted out stories while I folded papers. For a few minutes, I was no longer a paper boy with a route ahead of me, I was a spectator with a front row seat at the comedy club. My sides hurt from laughing. He told a joke about a priest and a lawyer and said a word that started with S and rhymed with pit. A shadow flew past me and became a barrage of punches that knocked Victor to the ground. It was Wilson. He yelled, “Somebody call the police! This man is using foul language in the presence of women and children!”

I was well beyond childhood, and the only woman around was inside the store out of hearing. The offending word was the same word I heard everyday at school and in the neighborhood, and besides that, Wilson said it several times earlier when he was trying to impress the clerk.

Victor lay on the ground, bleeding from his mouth. 

“Vic...you alright?”

He stared blankly at the fluorescent light above me.

Wilson stepped between us and backed me away to protect me from further danger. Minutes later, a police car pulled up, and a cop jumped out. He handcuffed Vic, jerked him up by his shoulders, and put him in his back seat. “Damn drunk!”

I threw my paper route wondering how a seemingly reasonable man could attack a defenseless man and think he was a hero. Wilson was clean cut and talked big, but he had never been through what Vic had gone through. Victor was a real hero, scarred by the things he experienced in battle. He needed help not violence.

From that day on, I waited until 4:30 to pick up my papers, so I wouldn’t see Wilson. A month later, he took a job elsewhere. Forty five years later, he remains the epitome of cowardice.

A week after the attack, I saw Victor mowing his yard. He wore the same bell bottoms and button down shirt, and he had the remains of a black eye. 

“Hey Vic!” I waved.

He never looked up.

The Crash

I was in a pleasant dream when I first heard the call, but it didn’t wake me up. Life was good. I was content, but the second time it put me on my feet.

          “Dad!”

           It was my boy, Levi, and it was urgent. I rushed to the door and looked down the hall. The lights were on, and he was there. Regardless of how bad it could be, I knew he was alright, and I was grateful.

“There’s been a wreck. There’s a girl at our front door.”

I ran down the hall and found a girl by the stairs at the front door weeping, barefooted, and bloody. I was in my boxers.

“What happened baby?”

“She’s not moving...she’s not moving.”

“Who?”

“My grandmother...”

“It’s gonna be alright.”

My shorts and t-shirt were on a chair in the kitchen, waiting for a workout which wasn’t going to happen. I threw them on along with the only shoes I could find, black dress shoes. Janine (not her real name) was still standing by the door, shivering. She wore an oversized sweatshirt with the end of the sleeves covering her hands, and her hands covered her face. I yelled down the hall for Colleen to call 911, but she was already on the phone with Caddo Parish Dispatch. It was 5:50 am.

I had been awake less than a minute when I burst through the front door. The road in front of my house is busy during commuting hours but rural the rest of the time. Accidents are rare, but not unusual. In the 32 years I’ve lived here, I’ve seen half a dozen bad wrecks, all of them single vehicle. Normally when there’s a wreck, traffic slows and sometimes stops, but on this morning, traffic was heavy and flew past unhindered. Something was wrong. Maybe the crash was down the road, and the girl walked up to my driveway. I walked past the carport lights so I could see better, but there was nothing but darkness. I shined my flashlight down the driveway. The beam landed on a giant box on the left side near the road. It was a vehicle. It was far enough away from the road that no one saw it.

I ran to the SUV. It was sitting at a 45 degree angle between the ditch and the driveway. It was steaming and the roof was crimped from rolling over. Somehow, it landed on its wheels. You never want to see the effects of a crash like that, but I couldn’t leave it for someone else to clean up. I expected to find her grandmother in the driver’s seat, but there was no sign of anyone in the front or back. Cars sped by, oblivious to the emergency. The speed limit is 45 but 60 feels better, especially at that time of day. I ran to the other side of the SUV and found a woman in the ditch on her back beside the culvert, six feet from the road. She was unconscious but breathing, but it was the labored, heavy breathing of distress. I spoke to her, believing she could hear me. I didn’t want to scare her, but I wanted her to know she was not alone.

I heard the sound of footsteps running down the driveway. It was my boy, and that’s when the tears hit.

I stood up and waved my arms.

“Don’t come over here buddy.” I collected myself.

“Shine your light on the road and keep traffic off us.”

We want to protect our children from traumatic events even though we know we can’t. At 21, he was a grown man who had seen worse things as a teenager, but I tried. Lord knows I tried.

When I turned back to her, I was all business. It seemed disrespectful to disturb her, but I had to. She was down in the ditch and needed to be on flat ground for CPR. She was my age and badly broken, but she was still breathing. She couldn’t respond, so I told her what I was doing.

“I’m here and I’m gonna help you. I’ve got to slide you up a little.”

I straddled her body, put my arms under her arm pits and pulled her up while asking God to have mercy on her. I told her the firemen were on the way, and she would be alright, and I told her about the most important thing in life. “Call on Jesus. He’s your only hope.”

I told her Bible verses I memorized as a child that had nothing to do with the fact that she was on death’s door, but they came to my mind. Right now I can think of dozens of things I should have said, but my thoughts were distracted while I did compressions on her chest and watched cars go by a couple of feet away from us. Levi was at the driveway, and the cars slowed down. Some stopped. I was in the the ditch, eye level with the road. I saw legs approaching in the headlight beams. It was a woman and a man. They stopped at the fog line. I was glad to have help. The woman spoke first.

“What happened?”

Behind me was an SUV covered with mud and grass, missing its windshield with the roof caved in.

“There’s been a wreck.” One-two-three. One-two-three.

This time the man spoke, “I think a deputy lives here.”

“That’s me.” One-two-three. One-two-three.

I didn’t look up. I should have had the presence of mind to pass out orders: move your car down to the next driveway and turn on your flashers; hey you...park your car at the top of the hill and stop the southbound traffic; keep it clear right here for the fire trucks, but I didn’t, and the people drove away, leaving us alone again.

“Call out to Jesus.” One-two-three.

“Hang in there...the firemen are coming.” One-two-three.

“Repent and believe in Jesus.” One-two-three.

“You’re doing great, keep breathing.” One-two-three. One-two-three.

It was ten minutes before the fire truck pulled up beside us. Dustin Pilcher hopped out, told me I was doing good, and to keep going. He put a big red bag beside me and told the others to bring the board. Her body was on a flat spot, but her legs were in the ditch. I was standing over her with one foot in the ditch and one on top of the culvert. Dustin and I pulled her all the way out of the ditch, and then he relieved me.

She was still breathing when I ran to the house and found Colleen with her arms around Janine. A fireman was putting bandages on her feet. She was a fifth grader at Walnut Hill School. She gave me her great grandmother’s phone number, and I called her. The woman in the ditch was her daughter. I told her it was dire, but Janine was alright.

At the road, the firemen were putting the woman in the ambulance, and the Sheriff’s Office was there, getting names, taking measurements, and writing an accident report. The road was completely shut down. The wrecker was on the way. The mangled vehicle, useless now, was clearly visible in the morning light and a sure sign of tragedy. Glass was everywhere, and tools, and car parts. Levi and I walked down the road following the SUVs path in the ditch. There is a slight curve in the road, unnoticeable unless you look hard, and the SUV straightened the curve and drove off the road. In the ditch, a crater of mud and water remained where the top of the SUV had momentarily buried itself, only to roll through and land upright. Tracks in the grass revealed where it left the road between my neighbor’s driveway and mine. The woman had been thrown out of the truck through the windshield when it rolled. She was taking Janine to her mother’s house before work, and her mother would take her to school later. Janine was asleep on the back seat without a seat belt. Something happened along the way, a distraction, an animal in the road, or sleepiness; we’ll never know for sure, but the little truck went off the road to the right. The woman tried to recover, but she overcorrected, and the truck tripped over itself in the ditch. When it stopped, it was facing the wrong way, and Janine was jarred awake. She crawled out through a window to find her grandmother lying in the ditch.

The crash woke Levi up that morning, but he didn’t know what it was. He had fifteen minutes left to sleep but couldn’t, so he let the dog out. She barked hystericalIy at the road. When he looked outside, he saw Janine at the end of the driveway by the road, crying. She was walking through broken glass barefooted. He went and got her and brought her inside. If he wouldn’t have found her that something worse could have happened.

Janine’s great grandparents and aunt and uncle arrived just after the ambulance left. Her great grandmother broke down in tears. Janine was pleased to see them, but Colleen didn’t want to let her go. If she had it her way, Janine would be with us still.

The family rushed to the hospital. Levi and I went inside to clean up. When we came back out, the wrecker was loading up the SUV, and the firemen were back. They stopped to tell us the woman didn’t make it. We expected it, but it hurt all the same. We raked up a pile of glass, plastic, and car parts. Levi set the mailbox back in its hole. The wrecker loaded the SUV and took it away. The firemen and deputies left. Traffic returned to normal, and Levi and I went to work.

Unless you were there that morning, you would never know that a woman fought for her life in the ditch in front of my house during the early morning hours while her granddaughter mourned for her and wondered why the tragedy happened. It was a brief reminder that life is fragile and circumstances can change in seconds without warning, but it’s also a reminder that life is precious and God is merciful.

ENVY

            Thursday, August 11, 2005, was a hot, humid day just like every other day of summer in Shreveport, Louisiana. After 17 years in law enforcement, I was in charge of the White Collar Crime Task Force which was a combined effort of the Caddo Parish Sheriff’s Office and the Shreveport Police Department. White collar crimes, better known now as financial crimes, have become a busy part of police forces across the country. Few departments had financial crimes divisions until just a few years ago, but the rise of computers, digital banking, Nigerian scams, and dependence on credit cards has ushered in a new type of criminal. It’s the same old theft done in different ways, and it promises lucrative gains for those who are skilled and a slap on the wrist for those who aren’t. Due to the overwhelming number of financial crimes in Shreveport and Caddo Parish, the detectives in the task force stayed busy catching criminals and staying on top of the latest trends.

            That Thursday afternoon, I was reviewing reports when I received a phone call from an excited woman who lived in Shreveport. She said her 21 year old niece and her niece’ s boyfriend were visiting from Arkansas, and they used two stolen checks to buy chicken from Kentucky Fried Chicken on Mansfield Road. She assumed her niece brought the checks with her from Arkansas. She called me from work, but her niece and boyfriend were at her home with her children, and she was afraid they might involve her kids in something illegal or dangerous.

            I told her it would be a hard case to pursue since, at least at that moment, there was no victim. It would take weeks for the checks written to KFC to be routed to the bank, and when the bank discovered the checks were no good, they would send them back to KFC. KFC would treat the checks like hot checks and make an attempt to collect. Once they found out they couldn’t collect, they would send the checks to the Hot Check Division in the District Attorney’s Office. The DA would use the strong arm of the law to make their own attempt to collect, and when it didn’t work, they would send the checks to us as a criminal case. The process would take months, and even then the case would probably never be looked at because the checks were written for less than $40 each. Unless there were a large number of stolen checks from the same account, the case would not be assigned to a detective. Forgery is a felony, but back then, a theft under $300 was a misdemeanor. Sometimes cases fell through the cracks because the cost of investigating them outweighed the loss. 

            Instead of brushing her off, I told her I would check into it and call her back. I called KFC, but they had no idea what I was talking about. As I suspected, their past deposits (which included checks) had already been taken to the bank, and they had not been notified about any stolen checks.

            Before I could call the woman back, she called me. This time there was panic in her voice. She didn't have new information; she just wanted me to know she was afraid. She said her niece and her boyfriend were on drugs, and she thought they were taking advantage of her and manipulating her kids. She asked me for help. Her call had already gone through dispatch, the patrol desk, and property crimes before she got me. I was her last resort.

            It was an hour before quitting time. Ryan Smith was her niece, and the boyfriend’s name was George. I told her I would go by her house. When I got up to leave, Detectives Alan Davison and Chris Knighton told me they would meet me there.

            Alan Davidson was my long time friend. His brother Richard and I played football together in high school. In the mid ‘80s, Richard joined the Shreveport Police Department. In 1987, Richard answered a burglary in progress call at Kon Tiki Restaurant on Youree Drive. Richard and another officer went inside the restaurant searching for a burglar with a gun. Richard found him in the restroom, and the man shot and killed him that day. He was 24 years old.

            Chris Knighton was a White Collar Detective and a college student majoring in Accounting. A year later, he graduated and passed his CPA test. With his experience and credentials, federal agents recruited him to be an investigator for the Federal Attorney in the Justice Department.

            I found the woman’s house in the neighborhood behind Southwood High School. I parked down the street and walked to the house. Ryan Smith and George were driving a white four door Kia Rio which was backed up to the house which seemed suspicious. When Alan and Chris arrived, I approached the house from the garage side to get the Rio’s plate number. I called it out to Chris, and he called it in to Dispatch. Moments later the car returned stolen.

            Chris and Alan watched the back of the house while I went to the front door. It was open behind a storm door with vertical bars in front of glass. Due to the glare from the afternoon sun, I could see shadows of people inside, but I couldn’t tell what they were doing. It was a position all police officers despise. I stayed in front a brick column between the door and window and rang the door bell. A shadow approached the door and opened it. It was the woman I spoke to on the phone, Joan (not her real name). She invited me inside, and Alan came with me. Knowing her niece and boyfriend were in the house somewhere, I loudly asked Joan who owned the white Rio in her driveway. She called Ryan Smith and her boyfriend, Raul Jeorge “George” Castro from the living room. They were wearing matching black T-shirts with “NOT QUILTY” in red and white letters across the front. Alan told them, “Looks like you knew we were coming,” and took them outside.

            Joan was glad to see us. I told her George’s Kia Rio was stolen, and her face turned red. “I knew something was wrong…I knew it.” Her 12 and 17 year old sons were with her, but her 15 year old daughter was at a friend’s house. The boys told me Ryan and George wrote stolen checks to Kentucky Fried Chicken and the Dollar General store. They said the checks belonged to a woman from Keithville, a suburb of Shreveport.

            I spoke to Joan’s daughter on the telephone. She told me she was with George and Ryan in the parking lot of a grocery store a few days earlier when George reached through the open window of a Jeep Cherokee and stole a black bag. The bag had an ID and airline tickets inside of it.

            I joined Alan and Chris outside. Ryan was an attractive and charismatic red head. She spoke for George as if she was his interpreter, explaining to him everything we said, but she did it in English instead of Spanish. Later we found out George didn’t know Spanish at all.

            We asked about the Rio. Ryan said it belonged to a friend in Arkansas who let them borrow it.

I called the car owner on the phone. He knew Ryan and George and felt sorry for them because they were homeless, so he invited them stay in his home. They accepted his invitation and thanked him for his hospitality by stealing his car in the middle of the night. Without the car, he had no way to get to work.

            Ryan pretended to be surprised when she found out the car was stolen. She said they borrowed the car so she could visit her favorite aunt, but the bolo for the stolen car told a different story: “VEHICLE POSSIBLY HEADED TO TEXAS FOR A LARGE NARCOTICS PICK UP DRIVEN BY RYAN MARIE SMITH.”

            I handcuffed George behind his back. Ryan called him baby and hugged him. We read them their rights. Ryan promised not to give us any trouble, but Alan handcuffed her anyway.

            We inventoried the Rio and found two pistols. They were modern versions of black powder pistols. One of them was a single shot .44; the other a .44 revolver. Like the car, both pistols were stolen. What started as charity to help a woman in distress was turning out to be a respectable case.

                We took them to our office. On the way, Alan called me, “You’re not going to believe this...you know those checks Ryan and George used at KFC? Guess what … they were taken in an armed robbery of a Keithville woman at Wal-Mart on Mansfield Road. SPD took the report two days ago.”

In trying to track down two stolen checks, we stumbled on an armed robbery. When we arrived at the office, Caddo Parish and Shreveport Police detectives were waiting in line to interview our prisoners. They would have to wait.

            We led them through separate doors and put them in separate rooms. Alan and I interviewed Ryan Smith first. The first thing a detective wants in an interview is an alibi, and to get it, you have to develop rapport. Ryan wanted us to know she was in love with George which we understood to mean she would to do anything for him. They drove to Shreveport from Arkansas in a car their friend loaned them. She could not imagine why he said they stole his car. She came to visit her family which included her mother, but she stayed with her aunt. Though she had been in Shreveport for five days, she had yet to see her mom. Instead, she hung out at her aunt’s house and spent the days running around with her cousins. Her story was vague, and her time line of their stay in Shreveport was different than the one her aunt gave us. Besides that, why would a 21 and 24 year old want to hang out with three kids?

            Alan and I left Ryan alone in the interview room. Ten minutes later, we returned for an interrogation. An interview is for gathering information. An interrogation is for confronting the suspect about their involvement in a crime. For the first time, Ryan was quiet. We explained how we knew she and George were armed robbers. She dropped her head and started crying. As she moved from denial to acceptance, she started talking again, and this time, she told us the truth, or at least most of it.

            Two days earlier, she, George, and her cousins (age 12 and 17) went for a drive. The oldest cousin drove the Rio. Ryan was in the front seat beside him, George was behind her, and her 12 year old cousin was next to him. A thunderstorm hit about the time they pulled into Wal-Mart on Mansfield Road. They drove around the parking lot through sheets of rain and saw a woman hurrying to her car. George told her cousin to stop while he jumped out of the car with the .44 revolver in his hand. Ryan swore the gun wasn’t loaded, and George never pointed it at anyone. Instead, he showed the woman the pistol, and she handed him her purse. He ran to the car, jumped in with the purse, and sped away.

            They left Wal-Mart and drove south on Colquitt Road to Keithville. George took the checks and credit cards and tossed the purse under the trees across from Grawood Baptist Church. They continued west on Colquitt and turned around in the parking lot at Flashback Casino. The Casino had been robbed by a Hispanic male a week earlier, but Ryan said she and George were together the entire time they were in town, so he couldn’t have robbed anything without her knowing about it.

            She claimed her cousin drove the car during the robbery, but we didn’t believe her. We pressed, and she acknowledged knowing beforehand George was going to rob someone that evening, but she denied driving.

            The couple used the checks from the robbery at Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Dollar General Store. Ryan said they threw the credit cards away in the dumpster behind Sonic on Linwood along with the airplane tickets they took from the suv in the grocery store parking lot.

            Chris and I interviewed George. Like Alan, Chris was good at talking to people, but George was difficult. He rarely responded to Chris’ questions, and when he did, his answers were brief. After thirty minutes we had no more no more information than when we started. We took a break, and Alan went in to talk to him.

            Fifteen minutes later, I checked the monitor in the interview room and saw Ryan sitting in George’s lap, hugging and kissing him. Wondering what happened, I rushed in the room, startled the young lovers and found Alan sitting in the corner. He said everything was fine.

             Normally it is best to keep offenders separated, but Ryan already confessed, and we were getting nowhere with George, so Alan brought her in. The pressure from his amorous girlfriend proved irresistible. He broke down and confessed to the armed robbery at Wal-Mart, but he denied any other other robberies.

            We had them. The other detectives spoke to Ryan and George about their cases, but they didn’t get anywhere. George had alibis.

            I picked up Ryan’s 17 year old cousin and brought him to the office. In the eyes of the law, he was an adult, but he looked like he was in middle school. He admitted he was with Ryan and George during the robbery at Walmart, but he said Ryan was driving. He did not know they were planning to do a robbery. Ryan and George used him and his brother as cover. Who would expect a young couple with two kids in the back seat to be robbers? We took the 17 year old to Keithville, and he showed us where they threw the purse out. 

            We arrested Ryan and George for armed robbery. They had potential. Both were able bodied and intelligent. If they pursued jobs instead of crime, they could have had a good life together.

            In May 2006, Ryan Smith and Jeorge Castro came up for trial. Both pled not guilty initially, but George changed his plea to guilty. He was sentenced to 18 years.

            Ryan chose trial by jury. Whatever deal the DA offered wasn’t good enough for her. Her trial took place on May 24, 2006. Her defender was Bill Nader, a fair and likable local attorney. The Prosecuters were Lea Hall and Damon Kervin.

            The trial lasted only one day. Chris and Alan went on the stand before me. We were under the “rule” which meant we could not go into the courtroom unless called or talk about the case with anyone except the attorneys. The defense’s strategy was simple: the man who committed the robbery at Wal-Mart had already been convicted of the crime. Little Ryan was only along for the ride.

            Lea had me tell my story in court. The defense cross examined me and had me tell the jury Ryan said her cousin was driving during the robbery. For emphasis, he asked me if she admitted to driving the car during the robbery. I said no.
            The defense called for the recording of the interview Alan and I did with Ryan on the night of her arrest. The bailiff brought out a television on a library cart, placed it before the jury, and started the DVD. It was the only time I ever saw a suspect interview played for a jury. In the video, Ryan did not look like the innocent girl who showed up for trial. Instead, she was talkative and fidgety. She admitted to being there and knowing what was going to happen. Though she denied driving the car the evening of the robbery, the defense called her cousins to the stand. They told the jury she was driving the car during the robbery, and she worked with George. It left them wondering why Ryan would blame her young cousin for being involved in the robbery.

            The jury deliberated for two and a half hours before returning to the court room with a guilty verdict. Ryan Smith was sentenced to twelve years at hard labor. Afterwards, she found a new attorney, Percy Jones. Jones appealed her case all the way to the State Supreme Court, and Lea Hall had to try it all over again, but he won the second time as well. A short time later, Percy Jones was disbarred for conduct unbecoming a defense attorney.

            The worth of the car, guns, and items in the purse Ryan and George stole was less than half a year’s salary, but it cost them years of their lives. They had a promising future together, but they allowed envy to alter their lives forever.

Serve and Protect

“Is that all you have to do? I need to have your job!”

           

She quickly walked past while dropping her verbal payload. It was sarcastic, condescending, and void of scrutiny. I smiled, not because it was funny but out of obligation.

I could have said, “Where were you when I was picking up the pieces of a car wreck that killed three women and a baby? or where were you when I was waiting on the fire department to bring a ladder to cut down a man hanging by his neck in an oak tree? or where were you when I listened to the confessions of murderers, robbers, rapists, and thieves?” but I didn’t. I knew what to expect when I pinned on the badge 25 years ago, and I, like many others, took the motto “To Serve and Protect” to be more than a cliché. Some of us really believe we are called by God to do mankind's difficult chores.

           

Historically, lawmen in the United States have been pretty good at protecting. They are eager to respond to danger, right wrongs, stop violence, and risk personal safety for the sake of others. Unique among public servants, they proactively seek to stop danger, abuse, and violence before it occurs. They search for unsafe motorists, drunk drivers, suspicious persons wandering in the night, and thieves who wish to steal your possessions. Of course police sometimes make disastrous decisions, overreact, or stretch the limits of their authority, but protecting people and their property remains the most important duty of government. Without protection, civilization cannot exist; however, protection alone can be indiscriminate, brutal, and out of balance. Law enforcement protection must be more than brute force to be effective, and the thing that tempers it for maximum affect is service.

Many people think service is simply seeking justice for victims, and that is partially true, but an attitude of service changes the way we protect law violators as well as victims. It reminds police officers that humanity is vulnerable and fragile. It helps protect police officers from themselves. It keeps protection objective rather than subjective, and it reminds cops that they represent something bigger than themselves. Protection and service are two sides of the same coin. To be done correctly, protection cannot be separated from service. So, what does law enforcement service look like?

1)      It is non-judgmental. This is hard because law enforcement requires discretion and judgment. Cops must make a determination on many things like if a crime actually took place, how serious was it, who did it and where are they, and is there probable cause for arrest. These are daily chores for cops, and to make matters more difficult, experience teaches them that people are deceptive on various levels. Cops must make judgments, but they must not be judgmental. They must refrain from applying moral standards on victims, witnesses, and even suspects.

2)      It listens for the purpose of understanding. This is the art of empathy. Empathy invokes sensitivity in the hearer and causes him to vicariously feel the experiences, thoughts, and feelings of the person he is listening to. Empathy has been described as walking in another person’s shoes or looking deep into a person’s soul. True service includes listening and understanding with empathy.

3)      It brings reason to people at the most difficult moments of their lives. Most people cops come into contact with are distracted from reality due to a number of factors including drugs, alcohol, anger, depression, anguish, envy, greed, mental illness, etc. Serving people means changing their perspective by reminding them of what is true, important, and best. Changing perspectives takes time and care.

4)      It doesn’t take things personally. Wise cops recognize verbal attacks as merely attacks on what they represent which is the authority of the state under God. Police officers do not subjectively enforce laws of their own making; they enforce the objective laws of the state, country, and ultimately God. An attitude of service saves cops hours of misery by giving them the ability to deflect the verbal smut thrown at them by distracted people. In this country, self-expression is deemed a right, and cops cannot justify use of force to protect themselves from words. Service teaches cops to compartmentalize insults, criticism, and hatred. Service understands that it doesn’t matter what a person says as long as they obey the law.    

The service of properly responding to people is law enforcement’s greatest asset in protecting the public and results in people feeling truly protected. It also helps cops respond properly to unsolicited insinuations they are lazy and could be replaced by self-righteous busybodies.

My service to the woman who made the accusation was refusing to be offended by her. My protection was hiding her from the horrors of my occupation which are very real.