"And while I'm on the subject, there's something else the movies have done for us--they created a legend about winging your man, shooting from the hip and all that bullshit. Well I'm not your shooting instructor but it all ties in with self-defense. You guys have been here long enough to know how hard it is to hit a still target, let alone a moving one. Those of you who make your twenty years will miss that goddamn paper man every time you come up here for your monthly pistol qualification. And he's only a paper man. He don't shoot back. The light's good and the adrenaline hasn't turned your arm into a licorice stick like it does in combat. And yet when you blow some asshole up and were lucky to even hit him you'll hear a member of the coroner's jury say, 'Why didn't you shoot to wound him? Did you have to kill him? Why didn't you shoot the gun out of his hand!'"
Randolph's face was crimson and two wide sweat streams ran down either side of his neck. When he was in uniform he wore three service stripes on his sleeve indicating at least fifteen years with the Department. Yet Serge could hardly believe he was more than thirty. He hadn't a gray hair and his physique was flawless.
"What I want you guys to take from my class is this: it's a bitch to subdue a man with a gun or a stick or a sap, let alone with your hands. Just keep yourself in half-assed condition and you'll _out-endure__ him. Take the bastard any way you can. If you can use these two or three holds I teach you, then use them. If you can't, hit him with a brick or anything else. Just subdue your man and you'll be in one piece the day your twentieth anniversary rolls around and you sign those retirement papers. That's why I run your asses off."
Chapter 2
STRESS
"I DON'T KNOW WHY I'm so nervous," said Gus Plebesly. "We've been told about the stress interview. It's just to shake us up."
"Relax, Gus," said Wilson, who leaned against the wall, smoking, careful not to drop ashes on the khaki cadet uniform.
Gus admired the luster of Wilson's black shoes. Wilson had been a marine. He knew how to spit-shine shoes, and he could drill troops and call cadence. He was Gus's squad leader and had many of the qualities which Gus believed men could only gain in military service. Gus wished he were a veteran and had been places, then perhaps he would have confidence. He should have. He was the number one man in his class in physical training, but at this moment he wasn't sure he would be able to speak during the stress interview. He had waited in dread so many times in high school when he had to give an oral report. In college he had once consumed almost a half pint of gin diluted with soda pop before he could give a three-minute speech in a public speaking class. And he had gotten away with it. He wished he could do it now. But these men were police officers. Professionals. They would detect the alcohol in his eyes, speech, or gait. He couldn't fool them with so cheap a trick.
"You sure look nervous," said Wilson, offering Gus a cigarette from the pack he kept in his sock, GI fashion.
"Thanks a lot, Wilson," Gus mumbled, refusing the cigarette.
"Look, these guys are just going to try to psyche you," said Wilson. "I talked to a guy who graduated in April. They just pick on you in these stress interviews. You know, about your P. T. or your shooting, or maybe your academic standing. But hell, Plebesly, you're okay in everything and tops in P. T. What can they say?"
"I don't know. Nothing, I guess."
"Take me," said Wilson. "My shooting is so shitty I might as well throw my gun at the goddamn target. They'll probably rip me apart. Tell me how they're going to wash me out if I don't come to the pistol range during the lunch hour and practice extra. That kind of bullshit. But I'm not worried. You realize how bad they need cops in this town? And in the next five, six years it's going to get lots worse. All those guys that came on right after the war will have their twenty years. I tell you we'll all be captains before we finish our tours with the Department."
Gus studied Wilson, a short man, even a hair shorter than Gus. He must have stretched to meet the minimum five feet eight inches, Gus thought, but husky, big biceps and a fighter's shoulders, with a broken nose. He had wrestled Wilson in the self-defense classes and had found Wilson surprisingly easy to take down and control. Wilson was much stronger, but Gus was more agile and could persevere.
Gus understood what Officer Randolph had told them, and he believed that if he could outlast his opponents he needn't be afraid. He was surprised at how well it had worked so far in training. But what would a man like Wilson, an ex-fighter, do to him in a real fight? Gus had never hit a man, not with a fist, not with anything. What would happen to his splendid endurance when a man like Wilson buried a heavy fist in his stomach or crashed one to his jaw? He had been a varsity sprinter in high school, but had always avoided contact sports. He had never been an aggressive person. What in the hell had made him think he could be a policeman? Sure the pay was pretty good, what with the security and pension. He could never hope to do as well in the bank. He had hated that dreary low paying job and had almost laughed when the operations officer had assured him that in five more years he could expect to make what he, the operations officer, was making, which was less than a starting Los Angeles policeman. And so he had come this far. Eight weeks and they hadn't found him out yet. But they might at this stress interview.
"Only one thing worries me," said Wilson. "Know what that is?"
"What?" asked Gus, wiping his wet palms on the legs of the khaki uniform.
"Skeletons. I hear they sometimes rattle the bones in the stress interview. You know how they say the background investigation of all cadets goes on for weeks after we enter the academy."
"Yes?"
"Well, I hear they sometimes use the stress interview to tell a guy he's been washed out. You know, like, 'The background investigator discovered you were once a member of the Nazi Bund of Milwaukee. You're washed out, kid.' That kind of bullshit."
"I guess I don't have to worry about my background," Gus smiled feebly. "I've lived in Azusa my whole life."
"Come on, Plebesly, don't tell me there isn't something you've done. Every guy in this class has something in his background. Some little thing that he wouldn't want the Department to find out. I saw the faces that day when the instructor said, 'Mosley, report to the lieutenant.' And Mosley never came back to class. And then Ratcliffe left the same way. They found out something about them and they were washed out. Just like that, they disappeared. You ever read _Nineteen Eighty-Four__?"
"No, but I know about it," said Gus.
"It's the same principle here. They know none of us has told them everything. We all got a secret. Maybe they can stress it out of us. But just keep cool, and don't tell them anything. You'll be okay."
Gus's heart sank when the door to the captain's office opened and Cadet Roy Fehler strode out, tall, straight, and as confident as always. Gus envied him his assurance and hardly heard Fehler say, "Next man."
Then Wilson was shoving him toward the door and he looked at his reflection in the mirror on the cigarette machine and the milky blue eyes were his, but he hardly recognized the thin white face. The sparse sandy hair seemed familiar but the narrow white lips were not his, and he was through the door and facing the three inquisitors who looked at him from behind a conference table. He recognized Lieutenant Hartley and Sergeant Jacobs. He knew the third man must be the commander, Captain Smithson, who had addressed them the first day in the academy.
"Sit down, Plebesly," said unsmiling Lieutenant Hartley.
The three men whispered for a moment and reviewed a sheaf of papers before them. The lieutenant, a florid bald man with plum-colored lips, suddenly grinned broadly and said, "Well, so far you're doing fine here at the academy, Plebesly. You might work on your shooting a bit, but in the classroom you're excellent and on the P. T. field you're tops."
Gus became aware that the captain and Sergeant Jacobs were also smiling, but he suspected trickery when the captain said, "What shall we talk about? Would you like to tell us about yourself?"
"Yes sir," said Gus, trying to adjust to the une
xpected friendliness.
"Well, go ahead then, Plebesly," said Sergeant Jacobs with an amused look. "Tell us all about yourself. We're listening."
"Tell us about your college training," said Captain Smithson after several silent seconds. "Your personnel folder says you attended junior college for two years. Were you an athlete?"
"No sir," croaked Gus. "I mean I tried out for track. I didn't have time, though."
"I'll bet you were a sprinter," smiled the lieutenant.
"Yes sir, and I tried hurdles," said Gus, trying to smile back. "I had to work and carry fifteen units, sir. I had to quit track."
"What was your major?" asked Captain Smithson.
"Business administration," said Gus, wishing he had added "sir," and thinking that a veteran like Wilson would never fail to throw a sir into every sentence, but he was not accustomed to this quasi-military situation.
"What kind of work did you do before coming on the Department?" asked Captain Smithson, leafing through the folder. "Post Office, wasn't it?"
"No sir. Bank. I worked at a bank. Four years. Ever since high school."
"What made you want to be a policeman?" asked the captain, touching the gaunt tanned cheek with a pencil.
"The pay and the security," Gus answered, and then quickly, "and it's a good career, a profession. And I like it so far."
"Policemen don't make very good pay," said Sergeant Jacobs.
"It's the most I ever made, sir," said Gus, deciding to be truthful. "I never made anywhere near four eighty-nine a month before, sir. And I have two children and one on the way."
"You're only twenty-two years old," Sergeant Jacobs whistled. "What a family you're making."
"We were married right after high school."
"Do you intend to finish college?" asked Lieutenant Hartley.
"Oh, yes sir," said Gus. "I'm going to switch my major to police science, sir."
"Business administration is a good field of study," said Captain Smithson. "If you like it, stay with it. The Department can find good use for business administration majors."
"Yes sir," said Gus.
"That's all, Plebesly," said Captain Smithson. "Keep working on your shooting. It could be better. And send in the next cadet, please."
Chapter
THE SCHOLAR
ROY FEHLER HAD TO ADMIT it pleased him when he overheard two of his classmates mention his name in a whispered conversation during a smoking break after class. He heard the cadet mutter "intellectual," reverently, he thought, just after he recorded the highest score in the report writing class conducted by Officer Willis. He found the academic portion of recruit training unchallenging and if it weren't for some difficulties on the pistol range and his lack of endurance on the P. T. field, he would probably be the top cadet in his class and win the Smith & Wesson always awarded to the top cadet at graduation. It would be a tragedy, he thought, if someone like Plebesly won the revolver merely because he could run faster or shoot better than Roy.
He was anxious for Sergeant Harris to come in the classroom for their three hours of criminal law. It was the most stimulating part of recruit training even though Harris was only an adequate teacher. Roy had bought a copy of Fricke's _California Criminal Law__, and had read it twice in the past two weeks. He had challenged Harris on several points of law and believed that Harris had become more alert of late for fear of being embarrassed by a knowledgeable recruit. The classroom quieted abruptly.
Sergeant Harris strode to the front of the class, spread his notes on the lectern and lit the first of the several cigarettes he would smoke during his lecture. He had a face like porous concrete, but Roy thought he wore his uniform well. The tailored blue wool seemed particularly attractive on tall slim men, and Roy wondered how he would look when he had the blue uniform and black Sam Browne.
"We're going to continue with search and seizure of evidence," said Harris, scratching the bald spot at the crown of his rust-colored hair.
"By the way, Fehler," said Sergeant Harris, "you were right yesterday about the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice being sufficient to prove the corpus delicti. But it isn't enough to convict."
"No, of course not," said Roy, nodding his thanks to Harris for the acknowledgment. He wasn't sure whether Harris appreciated the significance of a few well-placed brain-teasing questions. It was the student who brought a class to life. He had learned this from Professor Raymond who had encouraged him to specialize in criminology when he was drifting aimlessly in the social sciences unable to find a specialty which really interested him. And it was Professor Raymond who begged him not to drop out of college, because he had added so much to the three classes he had taken from the kindly round little man with the burning brown eyes. But he was tired of college; even the independent study with Professor Raymond had begun to bore him. It had come to him suddenly one sleepless night when the presence of Dorothy and her pregnancy was oppressing him that he ought to leave college and join the police department for a year, two years, until he learned something of crime and criminals that might not be available to the criminologist.
The next day he applied at City Hall wondering if he should phone his father or wait until he was actually sworn in, as he would be in about three months, if he passed all the tests and survived the character investigation which he knew would pose no problem. His father was terribly disappointed and his older brother Carl had reminded him that his education had already cost the family business in excess of nine thousand dollars, especially since he could not wait until he finished college to marry, and that in any event, a criminologist would be of little use to a restaurant supply business. Roy had told Carl that he would pay back every cent, and he certainly intended to, but it was difficult living on the policeman's beginning salary which was not the advertised four hundred and eighty-nine dollars a month--not when they deducted for your pension, Police Relief, the Police Protective League, the Police Credit Union which loaned the money for the uniforms, income tax, and the medical plan. But he vowed he'd pay Carl and his father every cent. And he'd finish college and be a criminologist eventually, never making the money his brother Carl would make, but being infinitely happier.
"Yesterday we talked about the famous cases like Cahan, Rochin, and others," said Sergeant Harris. "And we talked about _Mapp v. Ohio__ which any rookie would know was illegal search and seizure, and I mentioned how it sometimes seems to policemen that the court is lying in wait for bad cases like _Mapp v. Ohio__ so they can restrict police power a little more. Now that you're policemen, or almost policemen, you're going to become very interested in the decisions handed down by the courts in the area of search and seizure. You're going to be upset, confused, and generally pissed off most of the time, and you're going to hear locker room bitching about the fact that most landmark decisions are five to four, and how can a working cop be expected to make a sudden decision in the heat of combat and then be second-guessed by the Vestal Virgins of the Potomac, and all that other crap. But in my opinion, that kind of talk is self-defeating. We're only concerned with the U. S. and California supreme courts and a couple of appellate courts. So don't worry about some of these freakish decisions that an individual judge hands down. Even if it's your case and it's one you wanted to win. Chances are the defendant will be busted again before long and we'll get another crack at him. And the judge's decision ends right there on the bench. It's not going to have a goddamn thing to do with the next case you try.
"Now I know I got you guys pretty confused yesterday with the problems of search incident to a lawful arrest. We know we can search when?" Sergeant Harris waved a burning cigarette vaguely toward the rear of the room.
Roy didn't bother to turn toward the voice which answered, "When you have a search warrant, or when you have consent, or incident to a lawful arrest." The voice Roy knew belonged to Samuel Isenberg, the only other cadet whom Roy felt might challenge him scholastically.
"Right," said Sergeant Harris, blowing a cloud of smoke t
hrough his nose. "Half you people will never get a search warrant in your entire careers. Most of the two hundred thousand arrests we make in a year are made on the basis of reasonable cause to believe a felony has been committed, or because a crime has been committed in the officer's presence. You're going to stumble onto crimes and criminals and bang! You've got to move, not take six hours to get a search warrant. It's for that reason that we're not going to talk about this kind of search. I've saved the other kind of search until today because to me it's the most challenging--that's search incident to a lawful arrest. If the court ever takes this kind of search away from us we'll be nearly out of business."
Isenberg raised his hand, and Sergeant Harris nodded while taking an incredible puff on the cigarette. What was a fairly good-sized butt was now scorching his fingers. He snuffed it out as Isenberg said, "Would you repeat, sir, about the search of the premises ninety-five feet from the defendant's house?"
"I was afraid of that." Harris smiled, shrugged, and lit another cigarette. "I shouldn't bring up those cases. I did what I criticize other officers for doing, bitching about controversial cases and prophesying doom. Okay, I just said that it hasn't yet been defined what _under the defendant's control__ means in terms of search of the premises incident to the arrest. The court has deemed in its infinite wisdom that an arrest ninety-five feet away from the house did not give officers the right to go into the house and search under the theory of the defendant having control of the premises. Also, I mentioned that in another case a person sixty feet away was deemed to have control of a car in question. And then I mentioned a third case in which officers arrested some bookmakers in their car a half block away and the court held the search of the car and premises was reasonable.
the New Centurions (1971) Page 2
