by Rosa Brooks
“Okay, let’s go. Interview stance!”
We moved to the interview stance.
“Combat stance!”
We rushed into our combat stances, shouting, “Back down!” Lowrey, next to me, got his feet mixed up and almost fell over.
“You’ve got to work on that left foot/right foot thing, Lowrey.”
Lowrey offered Flanagan a sheepish smile and untangled himself. I patted him on the shoulder.
This seemed like a silly game. In real life, I couldn’t imagine myself shouting “Back down!” at someone. Maybe “Stop!” or “Don’t move!” or even “Hey, cut that shit out!” But not “Back down!”
We repeated the exercise for the next few minutes, until Sergeant Flanagan declared himself provisionally satisfied with our combat stances and our command voices.
As spring turned to summer, Reserve Recruit Class 2016-01 progressed from relearning how to walk (“You are never, ever going to turn your back on a suspect! You need to move away from a suspect, you’re going to take a step sideways and back, never straight back, or you’ll lose your balance and fall on your ass!”) to learning to fight and use “control holds” and “pain compliance” measures. We practiced on punching bags, rubber dummies, and one another, learning kicks, palm strikes, and elbow strikes. We learned how to break someone’s finger grip and how to twist an arm back painfully to force a bad guy into compliance.
Chokeholds were forbidden by MPD. Too many people placed in a chokehold ended up dead. “Like Eric Garner, in New York. So no chokeholds. Prohibited, verboten,” said Flanagan.
Wentz, the former NYPD cop, broke in. “That’s idiotic. Properly used, chokeholds are perfectly safe. It’s just a training issue. People just don’t understand how to use them. Eric Garner didn’t die because he was put in a chokehold. He died because of positional asphyxia.”
Flanagan was unmoved. “Technically, yes. But what everybody and their cousin saw on TV was Eric Garner being choked. We’ll talk about positional asphyxia in a minute, but for now, just remember, no chokeholds. The policy is what the policy is.”
“Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six,” countered Wentz.
Flanagan was getting impatient. “Look, Wentz, you find yourself in an actual life-or-death situation and you have to grab someone around the neck to keep him from killing you? I’m not going to tell you not to do that. If it’s life or death, you do what you have to do. But the department’s policy is, no chokeholds. So here in MPD, we don’t use chokeholds just because someone’s a pain in the ass and resists cuffing. No chokeholds. Okay?”
We moved on to discuss positional asphyxia. Restraining a subject by putting your knee or foot on his back while he lay facedown was also prohibited by department policy, because being prone for an extended period, particularly with weight on the back, could kill someone, especially if the subject happened to have a weak heart or other medical issues.
“You’re struggling with a suspect, it’s a fight, you end up on top of him and his face is in the dirt? It happens.”
I thought about Mark and the fight at the school bus stop.
“But you don’t stay in that position,” Flanagan went on. “You get the guy under control and you get off him, fast, because the longer he’s facedown, the more risk there is.” (Four years later, George Floyd’s death became an infamous and tragic case in point).
Wentz looked like he was about to argue.
“It’s the same as chokeholds,” said Flanagan. “Policy says no. You need to understand that. But if it’s life or death? If you’re all alone, and you can’t get the cuffs onto his wrists, and the guy weighs three hundred pounds, and the second you shift your weight off his back he’s going to throttle you? Well, you have a right to go home at the end of the day.”
Wentz nodded, satisfied by this concession.
“Just be aware,” Flanagan added, “you’re still going to have to explain why you violated department policy.”
* * *
• • •
This tension was articulated over and over, in the academy and, later, out on the streets. Cops had two messages drilled into them.
On the one hand: You were in constant danger. Any situation, no matter how seemingly low risk, could turn deadly in an instant, and you had to always be ready to do whatever it took to protect yourself.
On the other hand: You had to abide by MPD policies, because if you deviated from them in a way that made the department look bad, you would be hung out to dry. The department would not give you the benefit of the doubt. You’d be suspended, fired, or prosecuted in a millisecond.
Even for us reserve recruits, this created a constant gnawing feeling of vulnerability. Soon, we’d be sent out to the streets, where, according to our instructors, we would find ourselves trapped between a hostile public, full of people eager to hurt or kill us, and a hostile departmental bureaucracy, eager to throw us to the wolves if required by PR considerations.
Every week or two throughout our six months at the academy, we were issued another piece of equipment. It came in dribs and drabs rather than all at once, and in no particular order. Equipment showed up when it showed up. We got our Sam Browne belts, and I finally had a use for the four brass-snapped belt keepers I had been ordered to acquire. We received leather magazine pouches and hard plastic holsters to attach to our duty belts, though we wouldn’t receive guns or ammunition until we finished firearms training. One day, radios appeared as well, and we signed forms acknowledging that we had just been handed something very expensive. (“These cost thousands of bucks to replace, and that will be paid from your own pocket if you’re the stupid fuck who leaves yours in the McDonald’s restroom.”) We were issued oleoresin capsicum (OC) spray, the stronger, law enforcement version of self-defense pepper spray, and received our ASP brand telescoping metal batons. We were fitted for ballistic vests, which we were ordered to wear at all times while in uniform.
As time passed, getting dressed for classes at the academy became increasingly challenging. MPD collar pins and name tags had to be positioned correctly, and the leather duty belt—the Sam Browne—was so heavy and stiff, it was difficult to fasten. It often took ten minutes or more to get everything properly attached. The snaps on my belt keepers generally either refused to snap closed or would close but then instantly pop open again. The radio had microphone wire that had to be threaded through a shoulder epaulette and then clipped to your shirt.
The whole getup was uncomfortable, from the poorly fitting uniform to the heavy belt, now weighed down by metal and plastic objects that poked unpleasantly into my thighs and waist. I soon found myself starting to walk with what I had always thought of as “cop swagger,” a rolling gait with legs set a little apart and arms akimbo. Cop swagger, it turned out, had nothing to do with attitude. It was involuntary; as our belts got loaded up with equipment, a normal walk became impossible. You couldn’t let your arms fall naturally at your sides; the holster, radio, and baton all got in the way. You had to keep your elbows raised and wider than usual.
The worst thing, for women, was the difficulty in getting out of the duty belt once it was on. I avoided drinking liquids before or during classes, because a full bladder meant wrestling everything off and then on again.
My classmates started showing up with non-issued items. By week six, Gregson, the red-faced health care CEO, looked like he was on a SWAT team: his belt was adorned with pouches for rubber gloves and an extra set of cuffs he had purchased himself, and he had added big Velcro patches that read “POLICE” to the back of his ballistic vest and to the side of his spanking-new black patrol bag. Wentz showed up with black leather gloves that had hard plastic knuckles and a Leatherman multi-tool attached to his belt. Woodson had a black rescue knife with a glass breaker and a seat belt cutter, and Ramos appeared with a clear plastic Secret Service–style earpiece for his radio and a clip-on infrared f
lashlight for his lapel. Soon, we all started acquiring these little extras. No one ever explained what you were supposed to buy, and it wasn’t written down anywhere. Recruits absorbed it through osmosis.
I began to develop opinions on surprising matters. Belt keepers: Leather or nylon? (Nylon.) Snaps or Velcro? (Velcro.) Boot blousers, yea or nay? (Yea.) Holster: Best worn as issued, or best to purchase extra spacers so the holster is angled slightly away from the hip? (For most women, best with extra spacers; otherwise, the curve of the hip angles the holster too far inward, and extracting the gun becomes awkward.)
I couldn’t suppress some enthusiasm for all the gear. When my children were babies, I always had the best-stocked diaper bag. I carried extra diapers, clothes, wipes, toys, snacks, bottles, medicine, picture books, paper, crayons, you name it. Now I had another opportunity to over-prepare.
I loaded up my patrol bag with everything I might need to survive a weeklong siege: protein bars and water bottles, insect repellent and disinfectant wipes, a multi-tool, a rescue knife, permanent markers in three colors, plastic baggies for evidence, a parachute cord bracelet in case I needed rope, a compass (I could not imagine many situations in DC that would require a compass, but it came free with the parachute cord bracelet, so I tucked it into my patrol bag in case I got lost in Rock Creek Park), a magnifying glass (if it was good enough for Sherlock Holmes, it was good enough for me), waterproof matches, a reflective vest for traffic control, a whistle (same), extra radio batteries, extra phone chargers, a small camping towel, sunglasses, a small clip-on flashlight, an MPD baseball cap, a wool MPD beanie, extra nitrile gloves, hand sanitizer, hand warmers, extra socks, a warm fleece, Band-Aids, first aid gear, an extra tourniquet, extra belt keepers, notebooks, pens, radio earpieces, nameplates, collar pins, and business cards. Also a clipboard, and a folder containing MPD forms, maps, a list of fines for various vehicular offenses, and a dozen other reference materials I never had time to consult during patrol shifts.
As long as I could keep my patrol bag with me at all times, I was prepared to survive in the woods, confront an active shooter, or dig myself out after an earthquake. In my heart, I knew I’d never need most of this stuff, but I liked having it.
Most of our gear was issued to us at the academy. Occasionally we were told to report to the department’s equipment and supply office to pick something up. This wasn’t too onerous, but the one thing we quickly learned to avoid at all costs was a trip to Muscatello’s.
Jimmie Muscatello’s Washington Uniform Center was the only private vendor contracted to provide uniforms to MPD and other DC city agencies, from Metrobus drivers to school security guards, and it was a small corner of purgatory. Muscatello’s always had a line, whether you arrived when they opened at eight a.m., or just before four p.m., when they closed. You couldn’t simply pick out the items you needed from racks or shelves; almost everything was hidden in inaccessible storerooms, and at any given time half the customers needed to be measured for clothing that would be tailored to fit. People hoping to buy a single T-shirt or baseball cap still had to wait in line behind those who needed to be measured for a whole new uniform. And the line at Muscatello’s was like that at a Cold War–era Soviet grocery. You’d stand in one place for a full hour, watching as various employees, all of whom seemed to be from India or Bangladesh, had leisurely chats with one another or fussed endlessly around a single customer, checking and rechecking his inseam while the other thirty people in the queue muttered and shifted mutinously from foot to foot.
It was like the Hunger Games: if you stuck it out long enough, the weaker contestants would break. Some would rush the counter in a vain effort to gain recognition. Once, I heard an irate Metrobus driver demand to speak to “Mr. Muscatello.” This tactic never succeeded, as Mr. Muscatello, had he ever existed, had long since moved to a retirement home or cemetery somewhere far away, and rushing the counter merely caused the staff to avoid eye contact or feign an inability to speak English. More often, the weak would simply give up and make for the exits, cursing about how they had just wasted their whole goddamn lunch break standing in line for nothing. If you were willing to remain standing for two or three full hours, you could usually count on outlasting everyone else in line, and eventually you would be having your inseam measured and remeasured by the staff, who rewarded your perseverance and survival with delighted smiles and enthusiastic approval of your sartorial choices. (“Yes, very fine, very dignified police lady; this midnight blue dress blazer most becoming for police lady, very slimming.”)
I usually entertained myself while waiting in line by reading old Yelp and Google reviews of Muscatello’s:
“THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST UNIFORM STORE EVER.”
“IT’S LIKE SLOW TORTURE.”
“CUSTOMER SERVICE IS THE TWILIGHT ZONE.”
“GARBAGE!”
“I HAVE VOWED TO LET AS MANY PEOPLE KNOW ABOUT THE HORRIBLE SERVICE I RECEIVED AS POSSIBLE. MUSCATELLO’S SUCKS.”
“LONG ASS LINES AND HIGH ASS PRICES. WELL ACTUALLY ALL MY EQUIPMENT IS FREE BUT THEM LONG ASS LINES ARE PAINFULLY ETCHED INTO MEMORY.”
“THEY ARE PERFECT IF YOU ARE TRYING TO KILL TIME.”
All in all, going to Muscatello’s wasn’t a rewarding experience, but going home wearing my uniform and all my gear was even worse. My younger daughter was inclined to goof around with the handcuffs and baton, which bothered me—these weren’t toys, and policing wasn’t a game, and I didn’t want her to ever imagine it was. But I didn’t want to burden her with the weight of my own ambivalence, so I let her run around handcuffing herself to various household objects.
My older daughter, fourteen at the time, declared my uniform ugly and found it as ridiculous and embarrassing as I had once found my mother’s satin Teamsters jacket.
“Other kids’ mothers take yoga classes if they want to have a hobby,” she complained. “Why do you have to go to police school?”
When I was a kid, my mother never took yoga classes, I reminded her. She wrote books and marched on picket lines.
“Well,” my daughter said, “Grandma’s weird too.”
Grandma, pressed into coming over to have dinner with the girls while I was out at “police school,” didn’t care to have picket lines and police training lumped together as indistinguishable forms of maternal madness. She kept up a running series of sour jokes: “Oh, don’t worry, officer, you don’t need to handcuff me to the sink; I promise I’ll stay and help with the dishes, though I was thinking of taking the kids out for ice cream after dinner. But I didn’t know how you’d feel about that, and I knew you might hit me with your baton if you didn’t like it.”
“I’m not going to hit anyone with anything,” I snapped, though right then, I was tempted.
10-33
Under the National Incident Management System (NIMS) many jurisdictions, including the Metropolitan Police Department, are transitioning to and using more “plain language” on the police radio in place of using ten signals for communications. The following are still being used throughout the Department and will be practiced here throughout your training:
10-1 Unable Copy
10-4 Acknowledgment used for a two-member unit
10-99 Acknowledgment used for a one-member unit
10-8 In-service (ready to handle a call for service)
10-7 Out-of-service
10-33 Officer in Trouble
—MPD Recruit Instructional Aid, “Use of Police Radios”
I didn’t like it that my mother looked at me like I was some kind of thug. I wasn’t a thug. In law school, I had represented indigent people; as a human rights researcher, I had championed victims of political repression, torture, and genocide. And as a rule, I didn’t hit people. I hadn’t hit anyone in anger since that episode with Mark the bully, thirty-five years earlier.
Nonetheless, in the academy gym, we continued to spend
hours learning how to hurt people under Sergeant Flanagan’s watchful eye. We learned elbow strikes and palm strikes and the best places to kick someone if you wanted them to fall to the ground. We practiced wrist locks and arm locks—“control holds” designed to cause just enough pain to “induce compliance” in combative subjects. We whacked one another with foam batons, and slammed punching bags and dummies with our expandable metal batons, learning the “weapons strike,” the “clearance strike,” and the “straight strike.” Baton strikes were to be delivered to the arms, torso, and legs, never to the head, neck, spine, sternum, or groin, but we were instructed to “strike as hard as possible as long as the threat continues.”
We practiced weapon-retention skills—we’d grab at the red training gun in someone else’s holster, and he’d have to try to grab the gun back.
We pointed our training guns at one another. “Bang, bang!” we shouted.
“You guys know what a 10-33 is?” Flanagan asked.
Most of us did not.
“It’s radio code for ‘Emergency, officer in trouble,’” Wentz informed us.
Flanagan nodded. “That’s right. It’s the radio code for an emergency. Someone pulls a gun on you, or starts beating you, or you’re surrounded by a big scary group of guys on PCP and they start moving closer and telling you they’re going to tear you limb from limb, you’re going to push that big orange emergency button on your radio and shout, ‘10-33, 10-33!’
“Pushing that orange button knocks everyone else off the air, so your transmission takes priority. When you say, ‘10-33,’ every officer in your district is going to drop whatever else they’re doing and go Code 1 to your location to bail your ass out. So, if your life or the life of another officer is in imminent danger, you get on that radio, hit that orange button, and say, ‘10-33.’ Got it?”
We got it.
“Okay, you’re going to say, ‘10-33,’ and then what are you going to say?”
