As I walked on the grounds of Mount Saint Agnes Seminary, preparing myself mentally for our first day of orientation, I was only apprehensive about the next sixteen weeks. My goal was only focused on graduation and not becoming a good police officer. However, I could never have imagined the experiences and events that would change my future.
The police academy curriculum was structured, primarily, to be paramilitary in design. Fortunately, for me, it was not as academically difficult or as physically challenging as I feared. Fear of the unknown can destroy people and set them up to fail. I was determined to succeed and not look beyond the end of each week.
The academy focused on developing teamwork and challenging each new recruit to build self-discipline. That was an area that was lacking in my life up to that point.
Initially our days were structured with basic academic studies: Constitutional Law, Criminal Law, Criminal Investigation Procedures, Motor Vehicle Law, Report Writing, Patrol Procedures and Processing Criminal Evidence. However, we were also challenged with self-defense training and physical agility exercises.
Eventually, most of us realized we were going to make it through the academy when we were issued our service revolvers and went into firearms training. Now we were beginning to feel like real police and looked forward to our field assignments.
Finally, the moment came to make our wish list of assignments after graduation. By that time, Douglas had left the academy. Rich, Will and I lived near Southern District and that was our first choice.
When the assignments were posted, most of our class got their choice of districts. Rich and Will were assigned to Southern District. As for me, fate took me in another direction. I was assigned to Western District.
No one volunteered for Western District. It was considered the worst district in the police department. “The Wild West” had a bad reputation. Most police officers were transferred to Western because of discipline problems in other districts. Why was I going to Western?
The one piece of equipment that every good police officer needs is a reliable nightstick. Several of us were getting custom-made sticks that were dependable in certain situations. Not regulation, but dependable.
In preparation for my new assignment, I ordered a unique nightstick that was lined with a lead rod from end to end. The handle was specifically tapered to come to a point. Good for cracking ribs if needed. The wood was solid oak.
Psychologically I was preparing for war. True, the academy prepares you academically, mentally and physically. The focus is on teamwork and self-discipline. However, in many uncertain and unexpected situations, life is determined by how you survive, especially when you are alone. I needed to depend on this lesson in life a couple years later in drug groups and organized crime associations.
Graduation Day finally arrived. December 28, 1973 was a day filled with mixed emotions. Most of our class made it. We came a long way, as a team, in only four swift months. Although we came from different backgrounds, on this day we stood in proud formation, as one unit, and raised our right hands in allegiance to “Protect and Serve the citizens of Baltimore City.” It was the last time most of us would see each other again.
My wife, my children and my parents were proud of me that day. I can still see the old faded Polaroid of my father standing next to me after graduation. I was the image of a new and idealistic police officer standing straight, proud and tall in my dress blue uniform ready to face the challenges on the streets of Western. But that pride faded in five fast years after losing my family and making the decision to resign from another police department or face disciplinary action.
What you learn in the academy is academic. It is all about going by the book. However, when you struggle within yourself as to what is morally right, what is wrong, what is ethical, what is legal and what is justified, you question yourself in situations. The further you walk after you have crossed the line, the easier it becomes to justify your actions.
In a society where the group in control arbitrarily makes the rules, life is, at times, determined by what you need to do to survive. You adjust. You accept. You adapt. You conform. You learn to survive. If you cannot, then you risk paying a greater price.
I remembered the three main characters in The New Centurions as I stood straight and tall in formation. One joined the military immediately after graduation from high school and found the police department as a place to face his hidden and past demons. The second recruit was from a solid middle-class suburban family who just barely passed the physical requirements for the police department and the academy and faced his fears of not measuring up to the role of a police officer. And the third character joined the police department because he was bored with his life and family.
As I thought about my life, at that moment, I smiled. I realized that I retained certain characteristics of all three of those new recruits as I raised my right hand to protect and defend. Protect what? Defend who? The citizens of Baltimore City or myself?
Chapter 3: WELCOME TO WESTERN
Driving through Pigtown, I glanced at the blocks of row homes that I passed on my way to Western District that first day. Although I was born and lived most of my life in Baltimore, I never spent a lot of time in the city. Now I saw the city in a new light and I paid attention to what I was looking at.
Pigtown was in the Southwestern District and it reflected the image of Baltimore City, especially South Baltimore. I grew up in Brooklyn Park. The only connection between my community and the area of South Baltimore and Pigtown was our Baltimore City zip code.
As I studied the row houses, I thought about my home. My wife and I bought a nice row home after a couple years of living in an apartment. Our house was different from the homes I looked at as I drove through the streets. We had a small front and back yard and a garage. The homes I passed only had small stoops for a porch, characteristic of the uniqueness of Baltimore City. The front yards were their sidewalks.
It was a typical cold winter day with very little movement in the streets except for the traffic going to work. The cold January weather kept a lot of life off the streets. No one sat on the stoops in January. That activity would begin in the springtime when the city came back to life. For now, the area appeared very quiet.
The residents of Southwest Baltimore were primarily white. However, the majority of people who lived within the boundaries of Western District were black. I did not know it at the time but Western would force me to confront myself in several ways – my belief in myself, my fear of physical limitations as a police officer, my uncertainty of courage in certain situations and my racial prejudice. I would learn a lot about myself in the short time I would be assigned to Western. I would learn how to adapt, adjust and survive.
Suddenly I felt that I crossed the imaginary borderline between Southwest and Western District. Then I knew as I neared the district building and I felt a sense of uneasiness inside of me. My nervous anxiety and fears were beginning to take control of my thoughts again. I did not know what to expect when I got there. I heard stories in the academy about The Wild West. And yet, in a strange way, I held a sense of pride because I was assigned to a district that no one wanted to go voluntarily.
What would my supervisor be like? Would the other police officers in my unit accept me? Would I have to prove myself? Could I prove myself? I did not know to whom or what I would be assigned. My orders only were to report to Western District.
Finally, there it was. I did not have to check the physical address of 1034 North Mount Street to find the police station. Western District looked like an outpost of the French Foreign Legion.
Unsure of what waited inside, I approached the front door. I thought how new I must look to the other police officers walking around the parking lot. I was the image of a rookie and that was a very uncomfortable feeling. My uniform was new and clean. My shoes, hat bill and holster were all polished and shinning. My new lead lined nightstick did not have a nick or mark on it. There was a lot of activity, a lot of police officers walking around me, but no one seemed, or appeared, to notice me.
I walked through the front door and