by Cliff Yates
Contents
Title Page
Introduction
My Dad Was a Cop
High School
Monroe Community College
Hired Full Time
Family of Blue Bloods
Friends Reunited
Conesus Drive In
Crazy was going to shoot me
Driving too fast to get shot
The Amazing Dave Fasano
Bleeding House
Hells Angels Meetiing
My Ankle Broke
Stolen Car
Car Deer Accidents
Store Robbery
It's Snowing and Cold
The City is Calling
Big Decision
Swearing In
The Academy
Jail Assignment
Lynwood Station
Carver Park Massacre
Off Training
San Diego License Plates
First Trainee
Carver Park Massacre 2
Ham Park
The Bumper Jack
My glasses flew off
New Trainee
Robbery Suspect Shooting
Assault with a dog
Steve Blair
Lynwood Vikings
Walnut Station
San Dimas Station
Temple Station
West Hollywood Station
Universal
Sergeants Exam
Mens Central Jail
Patrol Sergeant
Personnel Division
Men's Central Jail 2
Last Assignment
From the Author
DEPUTY
35 Years as a Deputy Sheriff
From Upstate NY to LA
A memoir
by Cliff Yates
Copyright © 2019
All rights reserved.
This is a memoir. All stories are to the best of my recollection. Some names, details, and locations have been changed to protect the innocent, and me from being sued and or beat up. Some real people and names were left in, because they are just great people. The names of many great people were left out, just to protect their privacy. The names of all mean or bad people were left out or changed.
MY DAD WAS A COP
From as long back as I can remember, I have memories of my dad getting ready to leave the house for his police job. I used to watch the ritual of him shaving, polishing his gear and donning his uniform before kissing Mom and me goodbye and heading out the door, usually at night.
I was about fifteen years old, fast asleep in our Village of Caledonia, New York home when the silence of the early morning hours was broken by the crackle of the police radio in the hallway. Loud voices and screaming sirens filled the house. My dad was Chief of Police in our little town, so we had a police radio in the hall so my dad could hear it from any room in the house. I was a night owl and always had trouble going to sleep at night, so I liked listening to the radio calls as I eventually went to sleep.
One night, Dad came running down the hall already dressed. "Cliffy get dressed; it's a high-speed chase, and you're going with me." Moments later we were in that big Ford LTD police cruiser, and that police package engine was roaring as we screamed out of the driveway onto Park Place. Dad was the Chief, so he always had a marked unit in the driveway. Dad hit the siren, and the rotating red lights lit up the night and flashed across the trees that lined our street. As we approached State Street Route 5, my dad yelled, "There they are!" as three to four Livingston County Sheriff cars and the Village of Avon Police car zoomed past just off the bumper of a grey station wagon. As our right turn screeched on to Route 5, the sight of the five police cars with their rotating police lights in front of us was quite the scene. It was a warm summer night at about 3 am, and the pursuing officers had their windows down because I could hear the rushing wind as they broadcasted their current pursuit location. "It's a stolen car," my dad said as he jumped on the accelerator after negotiating the left turn at the town monument. My dad got on the radio, "300 is in the pursuit.” 300 was my dad’s call sign indicating the Chief of Police. We must have been going close to 100 mph, and we were not gaining on the chase cars in front of us.
The chase was continuing on Route 5 about to leave the Village of Caledonia when in a flurry of activity, it was over. I couldn't believe how fast we went from being in the chase to seeing the stolen car in the ditch, hearing yelling and breaking glass, and the driver getting dragged out of the driver's window. It was over. After the station wagon went into the ditch, the deputies ran up and broke out the window with their flashlights and dragged the driver out, handcuffing him. There wasn't another car or person on the street—just this police scene of lights, sirens, crackling radio, squealing tires, and the breaking of glass. "Your first high-speed chase of a stolen car," my dad said as we drove from the scene back to our house and back to bed. But not to sleep. Who could sleep after that? Being in a high-speed chase I imagine is like heroin; it's addicting, and you want more.
This was Livingston County, made up of small villages with varying populations from two to five thousand. My dad was Chief of Police for the Village of Caledonia with a population of about three to four thousand. He had two full-time police officers and several part-time officers. The department had two marked police cars, and one was my dad's car that he parked in our driveway every night because he was on call twenty-four seven. On weekend nights, the full-time officers would use both cars. Like most of the village police departments, they would go out of service at about midnight during the week, and around three am on the weekends. After that, the County Sheriff would handle the calls for the village departments.
My police life is going to take on some stark contrast, and I want you to get the perspective difference when I go from policing rural upstate New York, to south-central Los Angeles. But hang on—I'm still in high school. I haven't even decided to be a cop yet.
This is my story, but since this chapter is about my dad being a cop, I would be remiss in not mentioning that my dad was a super cop. Some of the things he did as a street officer and Chief of Police are just amazing. His reputation was far and wide. And he was always loved by the officers that worked with and for him. He always backed his officers 100%.
My dad has some amazing accomplishments as a police officer. Just a few days after joining the Caledonia Police department he had a part-time officer not in uniform riding with him. It was late at night when they stopped a local resident for speeding. The guy pulled over in front of his house. My dad was writing the ticket while the part-time officer was keeping an eye on the lone driver. My dad looked up from writing the ticket to see the driver holding a gun to the head of the part-time officer. My dad got out of the car, and when the driver wouldn't drop the gun, my dad shot him in the arm, causing him to drop it. The guy picked up the gun and said, "Ok Yates, you want it. Now your gonna get it!" as he raised the gun and pointed it at my dad. My dad then shot the guy in the stomach several times. He dropped the gun and staggered backward before collapsing in the front yard of his house. The guy lived.
My dad’s first police job was as a deputy with the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department. The department which would be my first police job too. Even while working a metropolitan area like Los Angeles, locating a rolling stolen vehicle was a good arrest. My dad, stopped three stolen cars in one night while working for Livingston County. He stopped a group of mafia guys driving through Livingston County with a trunk full of loaded dice (weighted so the same number would come up when rolled).
My dad was a super cop.
HIGH SCHOOL
I WAS AN extremely skinny kid in high school. I was bullied and pushed around because of my weight. Some might think that is why I went into police work, to get r
evenge because I was bullied, but that was not the case. Because I was so skinny and picked on, I began weight training and bodybuilding. And I was always attracted to entertainment and standup comedy. I memorized comedy acts I saw on tv and would do them for everyone in my class. I would do them for the football team and basketball team. Because of my comedy, I was accepted by all the groups. I had athlete friends, drug kid friends, popular and outcast kid friends.
I really wanted to play sports and be on the teams with my buddies. I tried to play football. I played two years of junior varsity, or should I say I went to the practices and got the shit beat out of me. I was just too small to play football. I had a basketball rim and backboard over our garage. I would practice shooting baskets for hours on end. I would set up lights on a step ladder so I could shoot at night. I would shovel snow from the driveway and shoot all winter. I was an extremely good shot. When I tried out for the team, I guess my lack of ball-handling and defense skills kept me from making the team. I was really devastated and depressed about it.
The coach liked me, and I guess because of my comedy reputation, he asked me if I wanted to announce the home games. I was excited about this. I had a thing for microphones as it was. I had a couple of tape recorders and was always fascinated with talking into a microphone. So every Friday home game, the bleachers would be full, and between the bleachers they had a microphone and microphone stand just for me to announce the games. That was one of the times I enjoyed high school. I was a real smart ass when the opposing team would be called for traveling, and I was on the mic saying, “he's walking everybody, caught in the act." Some nights the opposing team threatened to kill me.
One night stands out like a nightmare. I was walking into the school before that night's game, and my glasses fell. One of the lenses shattered when they hit the sidewalk. I wore my glasses to announce the game with one lens in and one gone. I could see clearly out of one eye, and the other was blurry. I don't know how I called that game. I wanted to play sports so bad and couldn't, and in my mind they didn't want me. I was really down about that. But when they asked me to announce the games that boosted my spirits. I felt wanted. I felt chosen.
I tried out for two school plays, and I was chosen for both. I was chosen, and they wanted me. I was already loving being on stage and performing. Although I went on to do standup for a band after graduating high school, I had no model of how to pursue that career. The closest city was Rochester, and I don't even know if they had a comedy club back in the early seventies.
My dad was the Chief of Police, and my uncle was a police officer for the Village of Geneseo. Day after day in my house, it was police talk. It was great fun to watch family and officers around the kitchen table laughing and telling stories. Some stories would be retold many times over, but the laughter and fun never stopped. And there were always new stories of arrests and incidents that had just happened. All I saw was that everybody loved their job. They loved talking about it and always had something different to talk about. So this was the model that was drawing me in. And my parents made it very clear as I approached graduation that I had a limited amount of time before I would have to leave the nest; there would be no failure to launch.
In my senior year, I took a criminal justice course that was taught at a trade school in Mt. Morris NY about fifteen miles from the high school. Once a week a bus would take us to the trade school. The course was taught by the Mt. Morris Chief of Police, Chuck Dipasquale. He had a big impact on me. I always remembered one day in class for the rest of my career. We were sitting in the police car for some type of police orientation. I was sitting in the driver's seat when I was put in a headlock. I remember it being severe. I remember choking for air and starting to panic. Just when it seemed I was going to pass out, I was released, and saw that my attacker was Chief Dipasquale. He very seriously said to me, "Don't ever let anyone sneak up on you like that, always be aware of your surroundings, or you will get yourself killed." For the next thirty-five years, I would always remember that when I sat in a police car. Chief Dipasquale was another supercop, just like dad.
It was during this trade school that I became good friends with Jim Chiverton. Jim introduced himself to me by saying, "Your father worked with my father at the Sheriff's Dept." My dad had worked with Jim's dad at the Livingston County Sheriff's Department years before my dad went to the Caledonia P.D. My dad said they were great friends, and Jim and I became great friends. After high school, we didn't keep in touch but would reunite some years later.
MONROE COMMUNITY COLLEGE
AFTER HIGH SCHOOL I went to Monroe Community College in Henrietta just outside of Rochester NY. I enrolled in the Criminal Justice program. This was 1975, and MCC would gain some infamy as the college that Kenneth Bianchi attended in 1970. He later became known as one of the L.A. Hillside Stranglers. While going to the college, I worked part time as a security guard at Rochester General Hospital. My dad also helped me become a part time deputy Sheriff for the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department, where he started his police career. While working as a volunteer I was able to attend a part time academy which was going to give our class full police officer certification by the New York State Bureau of Municipal Police.
Just short of two classes to complete my associates degree, I stopped going to MCC and focused on my uniformed ride alongs with the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department headquartered in Geneseo NY. After a year of riding with several training deputies and having received my training certification, I was cleared to work by myself. I was still just twenty years old. This was quite thrilling. I had put in a lot of hours riding the night shift with other deputies. The only way to get hired by the Sheriff’s Department was to be known by the Sheriff. At the time it was not a civil service job. The Sheriff decides who to hire. So the command staff and Sheriff have to like you, or you will not get hired. So volunteering as a part timer is equivalent to interning for a corporation.
HIRED FULL TIME
I WANT TO reiterate the size of the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department when I joined. About fifty total deputies made up of all divisions: road, jail, desk, civil and detective. There were twenty five road deputies (the deputies who worked strictly patrol). The jail had a maximum capacity of about fifty inmates. The jail population was about thirty when I started. The county was about 500 square miles and the population was about 60,000. On the midnight shift, we would normally have three patrol deputies working three different areas and a field sergeant. On the nights that we were shorthanded and had only two deputies, we would split the county in two with each deputy being responsible for half the county. The county is about 30 miles long and 20 miles wide. It would not be unusual to have a response time of thirty minutes to a call. And most calls, regardless of the type, would be handled by one deputy with no back up.
My first traffic stop working a one person car turned into a felony arrest. My first stop yielded me an arrest for Driving While Intoxicated (DWI) as opposed to Driving Under The Influence (DUI) in California. In New York at the time, your second arrest for DWI within five years of a previous conviction was a Felony. Unlike California where they use the preliminary hearing system to determine if a case should go to trial, N.Y uses the grand jury.
Still working part time, I was volunteering on a midnight shift. I made a traffic stop which resulted in an arrest for possession of marijuana. This was 1978 in upstate NY, so possession of any amount of marijuana was a felony. While I was at the station, I heard the sergeant yell to someone on the desk, “Call the Sheriff and let him know Yates made a drug arrest.” The Sheriff had made a policy to be notified any time, day or night, whenever a deputy made a drug arrest. I thought to myself, The Sheriff is going to be losing sleep because I’m going to be hustling to make drug arrests. I was trying to get hired full time, and you have to make sure the Sheriff knows who you are. He knew who I was, but I wanted him to know I was out there on the night shift working and bringing people to the jail.
The s
ame month I turned 21, August of 1978, I was offered a full time position with the Livingston County Sheriff’s Department. Straight to patrol division. I worked with training officers, something like a week on each shift, and then I was sent out on my own on the midnight shift. I had already been putting in two to three shifts a week as a volunteer part time deputy, and now I was going to be getting paid. This was a very exciting time in my life. Now I was going to be paid for something I enjoyed doing for free.
First night working full time by myself on the midnight shift. I remember I had just pulled out of the Sheriff’s Office driveway at 4 Court Street in Geneseo when I got my first call.
“111 MVA (motor vehicle accident) Route 63 just west of 36 car into a pole.”
Lights and siren, I drove like a maniac and was first on the scene before fire and the ambulance arrived. It was a 1970’s Volkswagen bug, and it was really smashed up against a telephone pole. It looked like the taillights were about two feet from the telephone pole. I came to learn that most late night traffic accidents on rural roads have that strange mix of sights and smells. There’s an eerie quiet mixed with the sound of the police car engine and rotating emergency lights and the broken glass grinding under your feet as you approach the scene. The rotating lights bounce off the trees and shattered glass is strewn all over the roadway. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber mixes with the smells of the season. The summer smells could be freshly cut grass, wheat or corn. The winter smells could be fresh snow or dirty slush with salt and sand from the snow plows. Sometimes there is alcohol mixed in with it all.
