You're Not Dead Until I say You're Dead!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

I wish I could say the next two days went as smoothly as the first, but they didn’t. I struggled with two of the scenarios, and completely failed one of them. In the one I failed, I was driving a patrol car and came upon a vehicle pulled to the side of the road, with its hood up, and a man standing with his head buried in the engine. I pulled over behind the vehicle, activated my emergency lights, and called dispatch with my location.

I approached the man, asking if I could help. He straightened up and began shooting at me with a cap gun. It sounded real and scarred the shit out of me. I stumbled back trying to remove my gun from my holster as the man continued firing. I probably took six bullets directly to the chest, when I turned to the instructor and said the fatal words, “I’m dead.”

All hell broke lose. Sgt. Dickens was standing to the side of my vehicle, and he blew a gasket.

“You are not dead, you never stop fighting. You’re a fucking loser Cadet Ivy, and I should kick your ass out of the academy right now.”

I stood frozen. I wanted to bury my head in the dirt and cry. Sgt. Dickens told me to get the fuck out of his site and I left. What a disaster. I didn’t fail the remedial but the mental damage was done. It wasn’t until I found out that three quarters of the class failed that specific practical, that I felt somewhat better. I’m surprised Sgt. Dickens had a voice left; apparently he yelled at all of us and threatened to kick everyone out.

I also missed a small gun while searching a suspect. The gun was on a chain around her neck, in her cleavage. I managed to grab the gun as she was pulling it out to shoot me, but I was pissed off at myself. I had performed a bad search on a female suspect of all things. After that incident, my searches were extremely thorough and I found two additional guns during the following scenarios. One was literally underneath a suspect’s penis. I found it, removed it and then washed my hands when the scenario was finished. I did find some satisfaction in shaking everyone’s hand before I was able to wash.

My last scenario on Friday was with simulated weapons (SIMs). A small group of us were waiting outside the driver’s track building and we were able to pick partners. Rocco was in the group so we partnered up. We then geared up with head, chest and groin protection. I could barely breathe in my face mask. We were also handed SIMs guns with rubber bullets. These guns fire and launch a rubber bullet and leave a colored chalk mark on what they shoot. We were also told it would be painful if we took a hit.

When it was our turn, we walked to the front of the building, and were told to enter the abandoned building to search for a trespassing vagrant. Rocco and I began the search. The building was dark and we used our flashlights. We had our guns drawn, looking and listening, although all I could hear was my loud, too fast breathing. We searched room by room. There was a small closet and Rocco opened the door as I peered inside. My gun came up and I began shouting commands. There was a man standing inside, next to a water heater. He had his weaponless hands, visibly crossed, in front of him. He put his hands up and complied as we talked him out of the closet. The scenario was over and so were the practical tests.

Rocco and I went back to the classroom and it took about an hour for everyone else to finish up. We were all telling each other what we had passed and failed. Every one of us made mistakes. We were all upset over the pop gun incident and no one felt as if they’d aced it. Donna had not returned and I didn’t find out how she did until we were released, she came in and sat down right before our scolding started.

Sgt. Dickens came into the room after we were all assembled. He was pissed off and stated there were forty three guns missed in searches. He asked everyone that missed a gun to stand up. Everyone stood. Some missed more than one. We were given forty three hill runs to be completed the following Monday.

The judges reviewed their scenarios, and the good job I did on the domestic violence tests was pointed out. Cadets having problems were to work with me if they felt they needed help. I could tell this pissed off Sgt. Dickens. I glimpsed his way as I was being praised and he never acknowledged me at all. Other cadets were praised for different scenarios and we would have been proud of ourselves if it wasn’t for the angry look on Sgt. Dickens’ face.

Donna and another cadet were called to the Sergeant’s office when we were given permission to leave for the weekend. I waited for Donna before taking off. She was crying when she entered the room.

She told me she shot the unarmed man in the closet with her SIMs gun. She was one of two cadets who fired. Sgt. Dickens told them they both needed to think long and hard over the weekend about being police officers. I consoled her and said Sgt. Dickens was an ass. We both packed our laundry and took off for our homes.

Donna called me that weekend and told me she was not returning. She was sorry to leave me alone, but she could not take it any more. Her mind was set.

My son also announced he had taken a job in Phoenix and would be moving out in two weeks. He barely spoke to me and refused to ask about the academy. I love him dearly but his attitude hurt. I didn’t know if he would ever see me as my own person and not just his mother. My daughters were both proud of me. Letty, my oldest had announced her wedding date a few weeks earlier. She already had an apartment of her own. Cassie, the youngest, was doing well in her first semester of college. She had left for Tucson when I left for the academy.

With Roger moving out, my house would finally have just my husband and me under the roof. In some ways this was a blessing but it was sad as well. My husband would be alone during my last six weeks at the academy. I worried about him. He said he would survive but was counting the days until my graduation. Now that I was at the academy, he never seemed to doubt I would succeed.

Driving back to the academy that Sunday was hard, and I had a heavy heart. My friend would not be there waiting for me. I cried for her and myself. I realized becoming a police officer was about inner strength and heart. I made the drive slowly not wanting to face my empty dorm room.            

Hell Week Begins!

** This is the continuing story of my adventures at the police academy after suffering a mid-life crisis in my forties. It's best to start at the beginning with the first post.

Our midterm was long and grueling. It took half the day. We all attended the previous evening’s study session and I had a review at my breakfast table that morning. For the first time two other tables were pushed closer and about half our class participated.

Everyone passed. Cadet Rodriguez actually did very well and was twenty-second in the class. I was ninth and not very happy. Our academic rankings were posted on the wall and I wanted more than anything to be in the top five. I guess I should have been satisfied with it being the only academy testing where I wasn’t in last place, but I wasn’t.

Tuesday was POPAT and our schedules showed no morning inspection, but we were to be at the training field at 0800. We double timed it over and our testing began.

Police Officers Physical Agility Test (POPAT), I’ll break the test down for you. It begins with running a ninety-nine yard obstacle course. You next move on to the six-foot fences, followed by the body drag and then when you’re good and tired you get to run four-hundred meters.

We had POPAT testing until lunch. The results would be available that evening. I didn’t know if I’d made it or not.

The rest of the day was spent on defensive tactics to help prepare us for the practical tests beginning the next day. We were made to stand with our arms at our sides, with an attacker twenty feet away holding a large rubber knife. As soon as the attacker starts running towards us, we draw our guns and fire (this is done by making the bang bang sound). We were all stabbed. Twenty-two feet is considered the safety zone for a suspect with a knife. Even when you know he’s going to be coming at you it’s almost impossible to pull your gun and fire at the twenty foot range. Twenty-two feet is not easy either but we all managed to do it. There is no room for error.

Speaking of being stabbed, I did not say “killed” for a reason. For the past eight weeks it was drilled into our psyche we would never die. No matter what happened we were to continue fighting. This mind set is what will save your life. People have died from non-life threatening gun shot wounds simply because they knew they’d been shot. The only acceptation to this rule had been our fight for our guns and the death letters written to family.

That evening we gathered in front of our dorms when we heard the results for POPAT were in. Cadet Clark made the announcement that all but one of us had passed. My heart sank.

“Cadet Chavez, can I speak with you in my room? All the rest of you did a good job, and scores will be posted tomorrow in our classroom.”

I’d passed. I couldn’t believe it. This was the one thing I’d been most worried about. If I was injured and could not complete the final POPAT this score would stand and I would graduate. I passed on my first try.

I waited for Rocco and we cried together. He missed the magic score by twenty-four points. He told me he needed to lose more weight and he was determined to pass. He wouldn’t be given the chance until a week before graduation. If he didn’t pass in week seventeen he would go home. It was heartbreaking. I told him we would work at POPAT every night and I was not graduating without him. We’d made that deal the first week at the academy.

Non-academy personnel began arriving that evening for the practical tests beginning th following morning. Some would be staying in empty dorm rooms. They were all police officers volunteering their time to help us train. They were nice and relaxed. It was strange after weeks of being treated like cadets. One told me I didn’t need to call him sir. It was impossible.  I said, “Thank you sir,” at Starbucks on my weekend splurge. I hoped if I made it through the academy, I would be given the opportunity to come back and help other cadets.

Wednesday morning it began. We were divided into different groups and placed in separate waiting areas. My first test was behind our classroom. I was given a police radio and dispatched to an unidentified man standing on our parade deck. I was told a neighbor called him in because she could see him out her front window and he was making her nervous.

I approached. The man had a large boom box in his hand. I identified myself and asked what he was doing in the area. The man simply stared at me. I asked him for some identification. He lay the boom box down and placed his hand in his pocket. I could see a bulge in the pocket and I asked him to keep his hands where I could see them.

He finally spoke, “Then how you spect me to give you identification?” (He even had the lingo)

I asked if I could pat him down for my safety and explained I just needed to feel the outside of his pockets for a weapon. He complied and I asked him to turn around, keeping his hands where I could see them and spread his legs apart. I stepped forward and performed the pat down. My hands were shaking. He had a large wallet in his front pocket and I asked if his identification was inside. He told me it was. I stepped back and asked him to retrieve his wallet. He gave me his identification and I told him a neighbor called because he was making her nervous.

He then told me he lived down the block and a friend was picking him up here, on the street corner. The scenario was ended. The two judges came forward and told me I did a good job. I was told I should have noticed the bulge in the pocket earlier but I passed and they liked the way I spoke to my suspect. This was meant to be a non-violent confrontation but it would have turned aggressive if my demeanor warranted change.

           

I was next sent to our dorm room meeting area. There was a television, couches and small kitchenette with a microwave and toaster oven. We didn’t enter this area often because the college kids used it to hang out. Several of my fellow cadets were present and we watched a movie (we were too nervous to really pay attention) while waiting for our names to be called. We were not allowed to talk about any scenarios we’d finished so none of us would know what to expect.

There were two scenarios taking place at this station. I was only able to complete the first before lunch. It was a man with a baseball bat threatening to kill his ex-wife, while he was pounding on her apartment door (an empty dorm room).

I drew my gun upon seeing the bat, and had to talk my suspect down from there. I made an arrest and placed him in handcuffs.

After the completion of the scenario I was asked why I drew my weapon. I explained my suspect had a bat and it was a deadly instrument. I was asked if I would have fired if he came towards me with the bat. I said yes and was given a pass on my second scenario.

It was time for lunch. I was excited but several cadets were upset and said they failed their morning practical tests. I couldn’t ask which ones they’d taken, but it made me more nervous about what might be ahead of me. I thought both my scenarios had been rather easy.   

After lunch, there was another domestic violence scenario at the dorm rooms. I passed it with flying colors. I’d finished the day and did not need to perform any remedial training. It had been a good day for me but too many cadets had failed scenarios and I knew I probably would not be as lucky on the second day.

I Died Because I Let The Bad Guy Take My Gun!

**This is the ongoing story of becoming a police officer in my forties and then becoming The Bad Luck Detective. It’s best to start with the first post.

Week six began. We sported our new polo shirts, and it was nice to breath without a tie around our necks. We could hear Class 96 being yelled at by their Sergeant, but Sgt. Dickens lowered his voice and pretended we were human. Inspection went smoothly and we were only given twenty pushups. We were not assigned a single hill run. We realized Class 96 would be spending a lot of time on the hill and our Sergeant wanted us to appear superior. It wouldn’t last, but that week we suffered very few punishments.

It was Monday morning and we sat down for our weekly test. Nine cadets did not pass. We lost two cadets the following day on retake. Cadet Rodriguez barely scrapped through. Out of the original thirty-five we had twenty-nine cadets remaining.

I was lucky the academics came easy for me. The physical and defensive tactics training did not. I had never been last at anything in my life. During my childhood, I was athletic and competitive. At the academy, I felt like a loser.

Wednesday morning we were marched to our rooms before class for a surprise room inspection. We were made to stand at attention outside our dorm rooms, with the door open. We could not enter the room before inspection began. When I opened our door I realized our radio was blaring. Donna began having a panic attack because she’d left it on. I looked around and couldn’t see our Sergeant or any class advisors. I ran inside the room and shut the radio off. As I came back out, Stg. Dickens rounded the corner and saw me. The yelling began. He asked what I was doing in the room and I told him the radio was left on. He asked if I understood the rules of dorm inspection. I told him I did and he then gave me ten personal hill runs and a ten page memo to write on following rules.

I was glad Donna had not spoken up. It would have landed us both in hot water. She had left the radio on, but I disobeyed orders and went into the room. Donna joined me for the hill runs that afternoon, and helped to correct my memo that night. She also shined my shoes because I was not able to lead the study group. It was wonderful to have such a good friend. We held each other up and kept each other going.

Thursday morning at defensive tactics we fought for our guns. We were each paired up with someone of similar body size. The only person available for me was Donna. We had one “blue gun” between us, and first one person got a grip on the gun and then the other, until our four hands were holding the gun on the ground. A whistle was blown and the fight began. The winner was the person able to take control of the gun, getting it away from the other person.

The other cadets formed a circle around the fighters and kept them on the mat. The only rule was there were no rules, anything went. The fights were brutal. Against all odds I beat Donna. After everyone was finished, we were divided into two groups, one group of winners and one of losers. The losers were given their punishment. They had to write a letter telling their family why they died at work that day. The letter had to be turned in the following morning to our squad leaders. We were told they would actually be mailed to family members.

Later that afternoon, we noticed some unusual activity in the hallway, outside our classroom door. The leader from squad six and our class leader, Cadet Clark, were called to Sgt. Dickens’ office. About twenty minutes later Cadet Clark came back into the room and collected squad leader six’s classroom materials. We never saw the squad leader again and a new one was chosen for squad six. The rumor would later circulate that the unfortunate cadet was caught lying on his police application, and when his background was closely examined, the lie came out. He would never again be eligible to apply as a police officer in the state of Arizona. We were now down to twenty-eight cadets.

That evening Donna typed her letter. This was psychological torture for her. Donna had a six year old daughter at home and addressed the letter to her. She cried for hours and I had a hard time getting her out of her funk. The letters were never sent to family members, but it was a hard lesson whether you won or lost.

Friday was uneventful and I headed home to spend time with my husband. He was lonely without me, and I managed to pull myself out of a pain induced coma, and take a day trip with him on Saturday. I cleaned my house on Sunday morning and then headed back to the academy at noon for some much needed study time. It was now the beginning of week seven, and the first, of a two week driving course. Our classroom time was cut in half and we headed to the driving track.

Before the training I thought I was a good driver, but I learned an entirely new way of approaching driving situations at the academy. I never considered the difficulties of driving, turning the stirring wheel, and holding a microphone in your hand, while trying to speak into it, without getting everything twisted up. The training was very intensive, like everything else at the academy, but it was fun as well.

The phrase “stopping on a dime” had to have been invented by cops. We learned to stop, swerve and make “J” turns, while being shot at with paintball guns. Our windows had to be down so we could actually be hit if we didn’t do what we were shown. It was fun, exciting and for some cadets painful.

Driving made the two weeks speed by (pun intended), but it didn’t stop our anxiety over the approaching ninth week. We were facing our three hundred question midterm test, and also our first practical tests; where we would be put in pretend scenarios with play actors. This was all “do or die” testing. If we didn’t pass the midterm we would be sent home. If we didn’t pass the practical tests we would be sent home. Oh yeah, we also had our first official POPAT agility test. We would be given two times to pass POPAT, the first was week nine, and then a final time one week before graduation.

I stayed at the academy that weekend, practiced POPAT, studied, and applied ice packs. The stress continued to build.