by Rosa Brooks
“Just introduce yourselves to the roll call sergeant,” our instructors told us, “and ask to be partnered with an officer who likes to work.” (Apparently not all officers “liked to work.” Instead of patrolling the alleyways and streets, alert for crime, they sought out quiet places to park and chat, or just watch movies on their phones; when calls came in, they pretended their radios didn’t work properly, or pretended to be too far away to respond promptly, hoping the dispatcher would decide to assign the call to someone else.) But if we could find good partners—partners who didn’t mind riding with a rookie and were willing to seek out challenging situations, let us take the lead, and offer helpful feedback—we would soon learn the ropes.
With no sergeants or field training officers charged with guiding us, however, it would be entirely up to us to make sure we gained enough experience to pass both a district certification ride and a separate reserve corps certification review process. There was no hard and fast rule about what counted as “enough” experience, but we were told to aim for at least eight to fifteen arrests, ten traffic tickets (technically, Notices of Infraction), ten to fifteen offense reports, fifteen or more incident reports, and three or more traffic crash reports. We would need to document all this in our field training binders, which should include printed copies of reports and tickets, as well as copies of all our patrol shift run sheets and copies of at least twenty-five completed PD-348 forms, documenting patrol hours and signed by the career officers with whom we partnered, our de facto training officers. Since we would not be in designated training cars, there would be no gradual introduction to progressively more complex scenes. We would, with our career officer partners, just go to whatever calls happened to come over the radio.
But, I wondered, how did you figure out who the roll call sergeant was for a given shift? Could you just wander into the sergeants’ room, or was that forbidden in MPD’s hierarchical universe? Was there assigned seating in the roll call room? Where did you put your patrol bag? What did you do if you got close to 480 hours but hadn’t made enough arrests?
None of it sounded easy.
PART THREE
The Street
Sweetheart
Unlawful entry; threats: On scene officers were met by Victim who stated that Suspect climbed through the window of her apartment and while inside Suspect asked Victim for a cigarette to which Victim replied no. Suspect then stated “Bitch you hot and I’m a kill you.’’
—MPD Joint Strategic and Tactical Analysis Command Center, Daily Report
October 2016. It’s a cool fall afternoon, a week and a half after our police academy graduation, and I’m in the women’s locker room in Washington, DC’s Seventh District police station, already feeling defeated.
Specifically, I’m in a bathroom stall, trying to heed one of the few relatively benign bits of advice dispensed at the academy by Officer Kowalski: “Listen up, boys and girls! Always go pee-pee before you start a ten-hour patrol shift.” This dictum was delivered with a contemptuously curled lip, but it seemed like solid counsel.
Now, with twenty minutes to go before the beginning of my first patrol shift, I’m finding Kowalski’s advice tricky to implement. Having successfully jammed, tucked, strapped, buttoned, zipped, Velcroed, and snapped myself into my brand-new class B blue uniform before heading to the station, I find myself unable to reverse the process in the tight confines of the bathroom stall. I can’t undo the button on my pants without removing my heavy leather duty belt, because the duty belt completely covers the lighter under-belt that’s woven through the belt loops of my uniform trousers. But I can’t remove the duty belt and its cargo of lethal equipment—gun, baton, pepper spray—without first removing the four belt keepers that tether it to the underbelt.
A belt keeper is a small strip of nylon or leather with snaps or Velcro on each end, designed to be slipped vertically beneath an underbelt, then folded over and fastened on top of the bulkier duty belt. In effect, belt keepers are external belt loops designed to secure an outer belt to an inner belt. For a police officer, having three or four firmly attached belt keepers is a very good thing if you happen to be breaking up a fight or running up five flights of stairs to respond to an urgent assault-in-progress call, since the duty belt holds your radio, gun, handcuffs, flashlight, pepper spray, baton, tourniquet, and various other vital odds and ends. You really want it to stay on your waist and not go flying off as you run—or, worse, fall down around your ankles, snaring your legs in a lasso of your own creation.
But if you happen to be a woman and you happen to need to pee, belt keepers are not your friends.
The trouble right now is this: I’ve located and removed belt keepers one, two, and three, but belt keeper number four is eluding me. I know it’s somewhere behind my back, but with my torso trussed up in a bulky ballistic vest, both my agility and my ability to see what’s around my waist are compromised. I fumble around in the tiny stall, groping blindly for the lost belt keeper. The stiff leather duty belt, almost but not quite freed from its underbelt, swings around wildly, and my holstered gun hits the toilet tank with a loud smack.
By now I’ve twisted my whole body around so I’m facing away from the stall door. I’m practically straddling the toilet, bracing my legs to try to keep my radio, which now dangles from its holder, from sliding away. (Kowalski: “That radio cost the department seventy-seven hundred dollars, so do not fucking drop it in the toilet.”)
Sweat is pooling under my armored vest as I wrestle, panting, with the duty belt. That’s when I hear the stall door (which I recall—too late—wouldn’t latch properly) swing open behind my back.
There’s a moment of stunned silence, then an appalled voice: “Oh, sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus!”
The stall door slams shut, and agitated footsteps rush away.
I lean my damp forehead against the cool cinderblock of the wall, and begin, helplessly, to giggle.
Finally I turn awkwardly and open the stall door again. There’s a young female officer at the opposite end of the locker room, unpacking her patrol bag and clearly working hard not to look at me.
“Sorry,” I call. “It’s just me. I’m stuck. I can’t find the last belt keeper and I’m all tangled up. Could you give me a hand?”
She stares up accusingly. “Girl! I seen you standing facing the wall in there, and I thought you was a man! You almost gave me a heart attack!”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat sheepishly. My giggles have triggered a fit of hiccups. “I’m female.” I hiccup. “I’m just kind of an idiot.”
Freed from my duty belt through the aid of my still-wary colleague, and freed from my hiccups through the old childhood trick of hanging my head upside down and drinking water from the opposite rim of a cup, I return to the stall, latching the door firmly this time. I hang my duty belt around my neck as instructed at the academy (putting it on the floor or hanging it on a coat hook is strictly forbidden, because you never know, someone could grab the belt from over or under the stall door, pull the pistol from its holster, then shoot you with your own gun, a fate no self-respecting officer would wish to contemplate).
Duty belt properly secured, sharp bits of metal equipment now cutting into my neck, I realize that I don’t actually need to pee. Reassembling myself, I carefully reattach the duty belt. One, two, three, four belt keepers, each snapped on tight.
I leave the stall’s questionable shelter and make my way to the sink.
With all my gear on, I’m thirty pounds heavier than in my underwear. On Law & Order and CSI, female cops look svelte and sexy in their uniforms. I look like the Michelin Man, only armed, and less graceful.
Here’s what I’m wearing:
Approved navy blue underwear and socks
Navy blue T-shirt
Level III body armor, secured over T-shirt with Velcro straps
Long-sleeved blue uniform shirt
with a Metropolitan Police Department collar pin on each collar point, department patch on the shoulder, a metal name tag displaying a small American flag and identifying me as “R. Brooks” over my right breast pocket, and my shiny silver-colored badge over my left pocket
Two pens with black ink, as per regulation, properly positioned in my left front shirt pocket
Police ID card in right front shirt pocket (The card is needed to open the station’s magnetic door locks. Since the sensors are at waist height, opening doors requires shimmying down and waggling your chest at the sensor.)
Axon body-worn camera attached to shirtfront with magnetic holder
Small clip-on light attached to right shirt pocket flap (not department-issued, but this turns out to be one of my most useful purchases, as it enables me to write in my notebook at night without having to hold a flashlight in my hand, or between my teeth)
Navy blue cargo pants (New academy graduates are supposed to wear the more formal dress trousers until they finish field training, but I’m gambling that no one in the notoriously lax Seventh District will notice or care. I bought my own cargo pants from 5.11 Tactical, since the department-issued unisex pants don’t fit right.)
Garrison belt—this is the lighter-weight underbelt that goes beneath the duty belt
Duty belt, snugged up to the garrison belt with belt keepers. Per MPD General Order 110.11, my duty belt contains:
Two magazine pouches, each containing a Glock magazine loaded with seventeen rounds of 9-millimeter ammunition
Radio case and Motorola radio, with radio microphone cord running up behind my back and through my right epaulet, and the mic then clipped to my shirt lapel. Attached to the mic I have a Secret Service–style earpiece, so I can listen to the radio without broadcasting whatever’s on it to everyone around me.
Two pairs of Smith & Wesson handcuffs (One issued, one extra. “Handcuffs are always vanishing,” the academy instructors told us. “Carry extras.”)
A handcuff key
Oleoresin capsicum spray canister (cops call it OC spray; most people call it pepper spray)
ASP expandable friction-lock baton
Heavy-duty department-issued flashlight
Combat Action Tourniquet
Holster containing my department-issued Glock 17 pistol with a full magazine and one round in the chamber
Department-issued cell phone case, containing department-issued antiquated Samsung cell phone (which does not make calls because MPD did not purchase phone service for the phones it provides officers, but that must be carried anyway, because only the department-issued phone can be paired with the body-worn camera, per regulations, and the phone is needed to tag the body-worn camera videos)
Glove pouch containing nitrile gloves (not issued, but everyone has a glove pouch containing gloves for handling icky things or people soaked with blood, booze, rotting food, snot, urine, feces, or vomit)
Small pouch for personal items (Not issued; I added this myself to carry things like keys, cash, sunglasses, lip balm, disinfectant wipes, mints, tissues, etc. My male colleagues call it my “duty purse.”)
In a leg holster, I carry my Tactical Emergency Casualty Care kit, which contains a chest seal, a CPR mask, a nasopharyngeal tube, a compression bandage, gauze bandages, more disinfectant wipes, wound dressing containing a rapid blood-clotting agent, naloxone nasal spray for opioid overdoses, shears, duct tape, and more nitrile gloves. Also, some Band-Aids, which I added myself. (As issued, the TECC kit is great for catastrophic wounds, but not much use if you get a paper cut.)
In my back right pocket, I have a pair of black heavy-duty work gloves (for searches and handling broken glass and other sharp objects).
In my front left cargo pocket I carry my personal cell phone (since the department-issued phone can’t make calls, officers carry their personal phones as well).
In my front right pocket I carry my patrol notebook. (Per General Orders, patrol notebooks must be stored unaltered for a minimum of three years after use, since officers’ notes may be discoverable in court proceedings.)
In my left hip pocket I have a small multi-tool containing a knife, glass breaker, seat belt cutter, pliers, and screwdriver (because I like multi-tools, which make me feel like I’m prepared for all contingencies).
Black Magnum boots
Navy blue MPD baseball cap
Giving my uniform a final once-over, I stare unhappily at myself in the locker room mirror. All the mirrors in the Seventh District police station’s women’s locker room are warped like funhouse mirrors. Some make you look short and squat; others make you weirdly elongated. I prefer weirdly elongated, but the mirror closest to my assigned locker is of the short-and-squat variety. I try to improve things by putting on some lipstick, but this just makes me look like a short, squat cop wearing lipstick.
It’s time to leave the locker room. On my way out, I pass one of the elongating mirrors, which makes me feel a little better. I’m no longer a short, squat cop wearing lipstick; now I’m a tall, skinny cop wearing lipstick.
Taking a deep breath, I start down the hall. A burly guy with a bushy red beard ambles past, heading toward the men’s locker room. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder. “Your name tag’s about to fall off.”
Sweetheart?
But I look down and see that he’s right. One end of my name tag has somehow come loose, and it’s dangling down over my pocket. I return to the locker room, where I find that one of the small metal clutch-backs that are supposed to anchor the right-side pin on the name tag has vanished, probably now buried somewhere inside my bra, waiting to poke me uncomfortably at an inopportune moment. I open my locker and find another clutch-back, having discovered during the academy the wisdom of always stocking extras. I remove my body-worn camera, unbutton my uniform shirt, reattach the name tag, then reassemble myself one more time. My squat reflection gazes reproachfully at me from the mirror.
This time I make it all the way into the report-writing room and through the door that connects the report-writing room to the sergeants’ room. I approach the first person I see, a bearded black guy in his thirties. His name tag reads, “Fremont,” and he’s hunched over a keyboard, scowling at his fingers.
“Excuse me, sir, you know who’s got roll call for evenings?”
I’ve rehearsed this line. I’m hoping it will come out sounding casual, yet respectful. Confident, yet open. Blasé, yet enthusiastic.
Fremont looks up, fingers still on the keyboard, eyeing me. “That’s me.”
“Oh. Hi, sir. I’m Brooks. I’m new.”
“I see that.”
Faced with his laconic stare, I start to babble. “Sir, I’m a reserve officer, and I’m working tonight. I just graduated from the academy. So, ah, I just wanted to introduce myself, and ask you to put me in tonight wherever you could use an extra officer. Sir.”
Fremont doesn’t say anything.
I forge on. “Um, I guess, ideally, put me with someone who likes to work. And . . . who doesn’t mind having a partner who’s a complete idiot.”
His impassive face creases into a small grin. “I got you, Brooks. I’ll take care of you. Welcome to 7D. Let’s see . . .” He frowns at his monitor. “Tell you what, I’m gonna put you with Murphy. Roll call at 15:00 hours.”
“Yessir. Great. Thanks, Sarge.”
I turn to go. Not yet accustomed to walking around with all this gear, I forget how wide my duty belt makes me, and bang my radio into the side of a desk. Face hot, extra cuffs clanking, I make my way out the door.
The roll call room presents new challenges. I was told by one of the other reserve officers that newbies—uncertified officers fresh from the academy—are supposed to sit in the front row of tables, so that’s where I p
lunk myself down, but this puts me with my back to the other officers who are starting to wander in. I turn in my chair and introduce myself to the two officers behind me, both of whom just grunt in response. I spot a guy whose name tag says Murphy and introduce myself.
“Hey. I think you’re stuck with me tonight.”
He gives me a wan smile. “Cool.”
Murphy is white, medium height, balding, thirtyish. He looks tired. No one’s doing much talking in the roll call room. Mostly, officers fiddle with their phones, or just stare down at the table.
Uniforms at 7D aren’t very uniform, I notice. There are several men with their uniform shirts partly unbuttoned over undershirts, and a couple of women with dangling earrings (forbidden) and long false nails (also forbidden). Threadbare MPD ball caps are worn backward or pushed down over eyes. An obese middle-aged woman sprawls in a chair by the door to the sergeants’ room, eyes closed. She’s wearing stained cargo pants and a T-shirt; over the T-shirt, her uniform shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. (Later, I learn that she is a lieutenant, and widely loathed by the officers. She has lost her duty weapon three times, Murphy tells me. She is nearing retirement and despises everyone; she dedicates her remaining time at 7D to finding minute errors in reports and making people go back and start all over. I am skeptical about this—surely she can’t be as bad as people say—until the day she makes me redo a property form three times in a row because she doesn’t like the way I abbreviated the day of the week.)
