Stories I'd Tell in Bars

by Jen Lancaster

  The officers say the best thing anyone can do for his or her teen is to buy them a flip phone.

  Maybe it’s not so bad to be an analog girl in a digital world.

  FLETCH’S LAST WORD:

  It’s 2017, a serial killer would never actually place a voice call to a landline to find out if you’re home alone. They might text, or just check your social media to see where you checked in, but ain’t nobody got time to talk to your about-to-be-hacked-into-tiny-pieces ass on the phone.

  Fifteen

  Ride Along

  “Communication is so much better when people are vulnerable.”

  - A. J. McLean

  “That’s what you’re wearing?”

  Glancing down at myself, I reply, “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

  Fletch cuts me this exact same variety of side-eye every time I eat something off the kitchen floor [listen, it’s called the “five second rule” for a reason] or whenever I scrape the fender on the side of the garage.

  He tells me, “Number one, with your black and white stripes and red sneakers, you look like The Hamburglar, and number two, there’s a chicken on your shirt.”

  “And?”

  “And?” he says. “There is no and. You’re about to go on your first police ride-along in a chicken shirt. Don’t you think you’re getting a little bit Jen Lancaster Show! here?”

  Fletch says sometimes when I’m in a situation where I feel uncomfortable, I lapse into doing bits, turning on the charm extra-high. I become a caricature of myself. He says this is why I can’t see; I’m too busy performing for the optometrist to accurately read the eye chart.

  [He may or may not be right, yet I will never admit this.]

  I tick my counterpoints off on my fingertips. “Number one, this is my favorite shirt, number two, I’m pretty sure it’s a rooster, and number three, how mad will people be when they see me in the front seat? Criminals will be all, ‘Got a DUI from Officer Rooster Shirt.’ Boom! Don’t drink and drive, son.”

  He exhales heavily. “I literally cannot argue with that logic.”

  “Right?”

  Besides, my outfit’s cute and comfy, which is key if I’m going to be cooped up in a squad car for the next six to eight hours. He’s only giving me crap because he’s jealous I’m doing my ride-along first. He even offered to switch days with me because I have the opera tomorrow night. He kept saying, “I don’t want you to be too tired.”

  Right.

  Like the rest of our Citizens Police Academy group, Fletch needed to check his calendar before selecting a slot, so I grabbed the first open night on the sign-up sheet. My friend took the class last year and her ride-along sounded so fun that I was dying to do mine. She live-tweeted every dispatch call. Her night was filled with teens playing mailbox baseball and drunk college students. Nothing dangerous happened on her shift, so I wasn’t at all worried about mine.

  Until now.

  Last week, Officer Young Tom Cruise [pseudonym, obvi] showed a terrifying YouTube video comprised entirely of dashboard camera footage. I watched in horror as one cop after another was shot or struck during routine traffic stops.

  Now, do the officers here handle plenty of calls from homeowners asking them to remove stray waterfowl from their basements? Yes. [Totally true, BTW.] But what Officer Cruise stressed is that his job isn’t all life and duck; sometimes it’s life and death. Real shit goes down here. Stands to reason real shit could go down while I’m riding along tonight.

  That’s why I decided to have McDonalds for dinner. I don’t want my last meal to be a freaking kale salad.

  I want my ride-along officer to be charmed by my wit and good humor (and to doubly ensure my safety) so I stop at Dunkin’s to pick up treats before reporting for my shift. FYI, the cool kids on the force don’t call them donuts – instead, they’re “power rings.”

  I’m paired with Officer This Evening’s Driver [pseudonym, clearly] and I try not to look surprised that he’s so youthful. While I’m generally okay with my own age, I struggle to accept that professional/important/successful people are now noticeably younger than me. A few years ago, during minor surgery, I had to keep my smart mouth shut, lest I inquire if the anesthesiologist’s mommy knew she was out by herself. Following the rule of Never Insult the Person Who Literally Holds Your Stupid Life in His/Her Hands, I refrain from calling him Officer Baby Face aloud.

  Also? He’s thirty. When did I get so old? I haven’t even finished paying off my student loans!

  Anyway, Officer Driver gives me a tour of the squad car, a Ford Explorer. Even though we’re mid-shift, he shows me the standard vehicle check everyone does before beginning patrol. He demonstrates the lights and sirens and walks me though through the myriad of useful items he keeps in the back of the car, from tourniquets to what’s called a “less-lethal” shotgun, as it fires beanbags.

  Beanbags!

  Frankly, the notion of a beanbag gun is adorable. I envision giant, colorful chairs inflating the moment they leave the barrel, then flying through the ether, knocking their targets down onto a nice, squashy surface.

  I… may or may not express this thought out loud.

  Officer Driver assures me that being hit with a beanbag round is far less festive than it sounds and I am already concerned he’s not charmed by my wit or good humor. [Is it the rooster shirt?]

  There’s a Toughbook attached to the dashboard and that’s the car’s nerve center. The computer is incredibly sophisticated, linking to every system and database law enforcement could need. For example, if Driver types in a name or birthdate, each incident and attribute associated with that name/date/plate (including physical descriptions, i.e. gang tattoos) populates. So, if he pulls someone over for, say, speeding, he can see if they’re a Vice Lord or habitual scofflaw or total first-timer.

  The LFPD maintains no “quota,” so officers aren’t obligated to issue tickets. Most offenses garner a warning instead. Driver tells me the golden rule of traffic stops is that everyone is treated the same and measured by the same standards, period. He’s adamant about this and it’s a sentiment expressed in class again and again.

  Driver explains that the fines are expensive and he doesn’t want to burden someone if his or her speed isn’t egregious. He says a lot of times, especially at night, people are passing through town quickly to get to their second jobs, or their third, and why make their day more stressful if he doesn’t have to?

  [I might not be charming him, but, guess what? He’s charmed me.]

  The system includes a separate chat feature so that everyone on shift can communicate without their conversations being broadcast over the radio. Because anyone with a scanner app could listen in – including criminals – this feature seems not just convenient, but potentially life-saving.

  The car is equipped with cameras and microphones to capture everything that goes down during stops or whenever there’s a suspect in the vehicle. During the last class, Officer Cruise also showed us a dashboard video of a takedown on US 41. The driver was an escaped felon and his family members had warned area law enforcement that the man was armed, dangerous, and planning to go out shooting. He’d bragged about taking cops down with him.

  Yikes.

  On the video, we witnessed Cruise yelling to the other officers to cut their sirens before he approaches the vehicle. He explained that he wanted the audio to clearly capture every warning he issued to the escaped felon, who he then apprehended without incident or injury.

  “Does all this surveillance bother you?” I ask Driver. “Kind of Big Brother, right?”

  He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Absolutely not. The cameras are for our protection; they keep everyone honest.”

  Huh.

  Earlier, I’d joked to Fletch that I’d hoped to be given a Taser. No dice, but it’s for the best as I suspect I’d be all, “Hey, what does this button do? Zzzt, zzzt, zzzt!” I don’t get a vest that says WRITER on it like Nathan Fillion wears on Castle, either. The plus sid
e is that the bulletproof plates would have covered up my rooster.

  As I settle into my seat, I realize the bar that’s been pressing into my left arm isn’t a bar at all – it’s an AR-15 assault rifle. The gun is locked securely in place. I can’t decide if this makes me more or less anxious. Then Driver shows me how to use the radio in case something big goes down and he’s in a pinch or my life is in danger.

  Definitely more anxious, then.

  We exit the Public Safety Building parking lot and head over to the northeast corner of the city, which includes the lakefront and the college, but is mainly residential. [This is the super-fancy part of town, where I do not live.]

  Patrolling this beat is up-close-and-personal real estate porn. I forget that I’m not on a house tour when we pass the majestic 20,000-square foot Schweppe estate and then the Armour mansion [as in Armour hot dogs, the dogs kids love to bite], both practically palaces. We see director John Hughes’ former home and Bears quarterback Jay Cutler’s place. Lake Forest was founded as a summer residence for Chicago tycoons, once housing business icons like the McCormicks and the Swifts. We cruise by architectural gems designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, Howard Van Doren Shaw, and David Adler. Stunning.

  Driver explains that officers in other beats will assist if we require backup, and vice-versa, but this is where we patrol when no one needs us. Outstanding, because there are a few more chateaux I’d like to see on Mayflower Road.

  As it’s Friday night of Spring Break, the streets are particularly quiet. The parents with school-aged kids are on vacations and the snowbirds have not yet returned to town.

  I say, “I was so surprised to hear that there are never more than four patrol cars on the road at any time.”

  “How many did you think there’d be?”

  “I don’t know; just… significantly more? Are there ever instances you’re all tied up at the same time?”

  He tells me, “Once in a great while, if something major happens. Like last week, everyone was directing traffic at the logging truck roll-over on 41.”

  I ask, “What happens if there’s another crime while you’re all busy?”

  “Well, dispatch prioritizes each call. If needed, we get backup from units in Highland Park or North Chicago or Lake Bluff.”

  “If I were a criminal, I’d stage a diversion so everyone was occupied and then I’d cruise in and commit my heist or whatever. You know these places have amazing shit inside, like, Picassos and stuff. I’d do it during shift-change, too, when coverage is extra sparse.”

  Driver gives me Fletch-style side eye. Not charmed. Not digging the Jen Lancaster Show!

  “I’m not a criminal,” I add, trying to win him back. “That’s just what I’d do if I were.”

  We drive around quietly for a while, windows open so we can hear what’s happening outside. His eyes are peeled for anything unusual while I gawp at porticos and turrets and gabled roofs, quietly applauding everyone for their outdoor lighting game. The only downside is I’m freezing; I should have opted for a sweater instead.

  Circuit complete, we head west, passing the Jewel grocery store, where an old car idles in a parking space next to the train tracks. Driver mentions this is a trouble zone; they get a lot of calls about shoplifters at the store.

  “People swipe roasts and stuff?” I ask. Given the price of beef lately, I can’t blame them. With all the grass-fed, pasture-raised, organic meats I’ve bought for Whole30, my non-existent kids couldn’t go to college now if they wanted to.

  “No, mostly they take razors, Rogaine, and baby formula.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re black market items. Thieves resell them to little bodegas or swap meets for ten cents on the dollar.”

  Huh.

  Before I can comment further, Officer Driver spots a car he recognizes, which belongs to an alleged high school-aged dealer he’s been dying to catch with weight on him. I say, “We have TWO Starbucks AND a high school dealer in this sleepy little burg? Why, Lake Forest, you have arrived!”

  Why am I making him audience-participate in the Jen Lancaster Show? The man gets shot at for a living. No one should be subjected to this, but I can’t seem to keep my stupid yap shut. Clearly, I know there are drugs in this town. One of the undercover officers told us that a few concerned parents here have stocked up on Narcan because it stops the effects of an opioid overdose, with the added benefit of keeping This Unpleasantness off the police blotter and out of the news.

  I tell myself to dial it back. I don’t have to perform, I just need to fucking be, okay?

  Just be.

  Driver confirms that I’m buckled up and then we haul ass to catch up with the dude. We’re off and we are going fast. So fast. We’re going all-caps, italicized-so-the-slant-makes-it-looks-like-forward-motion FAST.

  You know, I’m learning a lot about myself in this experience. For example, unlike (Old) Tom Cruise, I can confirm that I do not have the need, the need for speed. In fact, you could even say I’m afraid of speed. I look around for something to grip but the only purchase is the rifle, and that seems like yet another faux pas.

  My mouth is dry and I’m having trouble drawing breath. I’m no longer chilly, the sweat’s pouring off me in rivulets. I surreptitiously pray and stomp on my invisible passenger break.

  My desire to be liked supersedes my fear, so I’m just going to pretend to not be having four hundred consecutive heart-attacks right now and I shan’t call any additional attention to myself. I feel that shrieking in terror would extinguish what few embers of charm I might still emanate.

  Once we catch up to the driver, we slow down and proceed to tail him. We all observe the speed limit. The kid’s lights are functional and his plates are current, so we have no reason to pull him over. “Wait, I think the suspect just crossed over the center line,” I say, in my most-helpful-Officer-Lancaster voice. “Is that considered probable cause?”

  “Technically, yeah, but an attorney would get that stop thrown out in a minute,” Driver replies.

  We have a whole conversation about “good arrests” versus “bad arrests.” In instances like this, the point is less to apprehend ASAP and more to establish a rock-solid case when putting a suspect in custody. Driver wants a bust that sticks; he’s not a fan of the kid as he’s allegedly selling the hard stuff to his classmates, not just dime bags of weed. In fact, marijuana is so close to becoming legal in this state, possession’s a wrist-slap, whereas fentanyl or cocaine is a class-A felony.

  I drop a few more points on the ol’ charm-ometer when I exclaim, “Blow’s in style again? The ‘80s are back, baby!”

  Stuff a sock in it, self. God.

  Anyway, if Driver were to make an arrest, the goal isn’t to ruin the kid’s life. Instead, the hope is to give him a deal so they can go up the chain to figure out suppliers. There’s always a bigger fish. Officers are anxious to halt the flow of drugs into our town, as they’re ruining the lives of some of our best and brightest.

  The State of Illinois has what’s called a “Way Out” program for addicts. If you’re apprehended and you offer up the drugs before they’re found (or if you just come into a police station) and ask for a “way out,” you won’t face criminal prosecution for possession. Instead, you’ll be whisked to the hospital for detox and then into treatment. Even if you can’t pay for the rehab, you won’t be turned away.

  Well done, Illinois. Well done.

  The kid heads home so we drive away. I feel like Batman as I glower at his vehicle and whisper to myself, “Soon.” We then drive down to check out the park on the lakefront. I point out the cars with steamy windows here and there and I ask if we’re going on a raid.

  “No,” he tells me. “The park’s still open until eleven o’clock. They’re allowed to be here. Occasionally, we’ll check to make sure everyone in the car’s consenting, but otherwise, we leave them alone. Again, we’re not here to ruin anyone’s night.”

  This is so weird to me. Between the media’s nar
rative and what I experienced growing up, it’s odd to witness the “service” aspect of police work. Even though I never did anything wrong in high school [read: was a total fucking nerd], I was afraid of cops. They perpetually harassed kids when I was growing up in Huntington, delighting in ruining people’s nights. The police were even worse in West Lafayette during college. They were always arresting students for walking home drunk from the bars. Walking! What were we supposed to do instead?

  Teleport?

  Drink responsibly?

  I was even wary of law enforcement in Chicago. We used to live on a block where the police would never respond to 911 calls – not for acts of prostitution or knife fights or attempted burglaries, even though there would be a dozen officers shopping at the Target a block away all damn day long. After we moved, we’d heard rumors that a crime family controlled our street and that the police were on their payroll, which is why they never came.

  I have no idea if this was ever true, but I hope it isn’t.

  Anyway, in class, we’ve been discussing how law enforcement has changed. Being a warrior for the citizens used to be the trend, but now it’s shifted to guardians of. The LAPD under Daryl Gates is a good (and by good, I mean horrible) example of warrior for. The police were para-military and they routinely violated civil rights (i.e. stop-and-frisk) in the name of being warriors for the community.

  I feel like N.W.A. was not wrong, you know?

  I have the impression that warriors for allows personal prejudices to cloud or influence judgment, which is why we still see terrible injustices and that’s a goddamned travesty. There are far too many social media hashtags out there related to questionable moves by the warriors for.

  The warrior mindset is the antithesis of being a guardian, which is all about establishing cooperation and trust with citizens. Being a warrior means officers look at everyone as a potential enemy combatant when so often, that’s not the case. We discussed a quote by Lt. Chad Goeden of the Alaska Training Academy who asked, “If we’re ‘warriors,’ who are we at war with?”