Police Stories: Making One Bit of Difference by Steve Dixon
In Police Stories: Making One Bit of Difference, retired sergeant Steve Dixon gives you a street level view of the realities of a police career. It is not what you might expect. America's police officers have long been portrayed as fearless crime fighters who race into danger to protect and serve our citizens. That description does fit many of our police officers. But as you will see, there are many more officers who will not put themselves at risk for your safety or even the safety of another officer. And you will see that the supervisors and leaders in some law enforcement agencies actually treat their worst officers better than some of their best officers.
But the book is about making a difference, and Steve will show you that one officer can still have an impact in his/her community despite poor leadership and apathetic teammates. The book is a call-to-action for police officers and their leaders, in the hope that we can find more than just a few officers who really want to make "one bit of difference" in their communities.
The E-Book is now available on Amazon.com and on the Barnes and Noble site Pubit. My email is sgtstevedixon@yahoo.com if you would like to send me a message. God bless you.
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Excerpts from the Book:
Here are some of the comments I have received from other cops who have read my book.
I just wanted to say hi and thank you for a job well done. I really enjoyed reading your book. It is really refreshing to finally read something that is accurate in regards to police work. Every day we read in the newspaper or watch on the evening news some story on how a cop “over-reacted” to a situation or “abused his or her authority” Finally, there is now a book that describes what it’s really like to be a street cop. I hope every reporter from the S.J. Mercury News reads this book. You’ve captured all the feelings and emotions we all feel working the street; the camaraderie with our partners, the humor (and the need for it), the adrenalin, and the fear.
Thank you a million for the book. I didn’t know you were working on this project. Im very excited for you. You may recall we talked about all of this every day at work. To this day, Im so disappointed at the way SJPD turned out. I was so proud to be there. I'm still very proud, I have SJPD stuff on my walls in my office. But it could’ve been so much better, like the old days.
I want to congratulate you on a great career and for everything you did for our community. I read your book cover to cover and while some portions are viewed locally as controversial, I found it right on point in many ways. I too began my career as a military police officer (Air Police) and then moved on to the Sheriff's Office. I can remember all of my felony arrests and they were many as I was very proud of the work that many of my fellow deputies/officers and I did. We had some slugs for sure but as least half of us were good street cops.
I just finished reading your book on my Kindle. It was excellent. I found myself laughing out loud to some of your stories. The cowards and slugs on my team went by the 45 Minute Rule. If they even answered up on the radio after being alert toned several times, they would not leave their hiding place for 45 minutes hoping that suspect/s or the problem would be gone by the time they got there. When we got the GPS on our cars, I would track the units that were filling with me and would find them not responding or driving the other way. I would not put out a code 4 until I was maybe 30 minutes into the call and then cowards would come up on the air, still on their hand packs.
I do specifically remember being your back-up on the 260Z stake-out and car stop. You did a truly remarkable job of hitting the issues that bothered me so much, and hit those issues right on the head – with a sledgehammer. Your book stirred all kinds of memories and emotions inside of me while I read it – some of which had faded a great deal over the past 20 years. It also made me wish I had kept a record of some kind of my experiences (which I did not).
I do remember a few – like chasing those armed robbers on foot who robbed the Kentucky Fried Chicken around the corner from the PD while I was getting in my car to go on duty. I will never forget Rich Rodriguez approaching me afterward and complimenting me on going over the fence blind in pursuit of one of the suspects (who had a pistol in his hand). I was relatively new at the time and didn’t think much about it – I just assumed that’s what all cops did.
And one of my “proud” moments when, while working the unmarked, I asked if I could “look around” for a guy who lived in Santa Clara and was wanted for multiple counts of child molestation/child pornography who had reportedly fled the State. I was told by my Sergeant that I was wasting my time. But at about 5:00 a.m. on a Friday morning the guy showed up at his house to grab some clothes (I had been watching his house since about 2:30 a.m. because it was a slow night). I called for back-up as he entered his house, but before back-up arrived he had come back out, got into his car, and I was following him. We ended up doing a felony car stop to bust him (and guess what, the first back up to arrive was from San Jose PD).
In my opinion that book should be mandatory reading in all police academies.
"Im gonna try and get every officer I know to read this book inclluding the good ones and the bad. The good officers so they don't stop fighting the good fight, and the bad officers, so maybe after reading about themselves they will change for the better! I can't get over this book because its exactly how I felt about some officers after I hit the streets. I foolishly thought we all became the police because of dreams of helping people, and putting away the bad guys.
Here's a story from my army basic training that didn't make it into my book. The "Senior Drill" as we called him was one mean bastard. Just before we started basic training, I can remember some barracks lawyer at Ft. Dix telling us not to worry about the Drill Sergeants because they could yell at us all they wanted, but they couldn’t hit us. That was very comforting news to all of us, because as a group our drill sergeants were quite intimidating. One day we were marching back from the firing range; the whole company, all four platoons. About half way back to the barracks the Senior Drill Sergeant stopped the whole formation, and had us all stand at attention while he chewed us out for being a bunch of “sorry asses.” He went on at length about how displeased he was with our marching.
As he chewed us out, I suddenly saw a private from our company walking on the far side of the road with his head down. He was carrying all of his gear and was clearly having trouble keeping up with the rest of the company formation. He had caught up to us as the Senior Drill was chewing our butts.
The Senior Drill Sergeant suddenly spotted the private on the far side of the street walking with his head down. He called out “Hey, young man!” but apparently the private didn’t hear him. He probably still had his ear plugs in from shooting at the range. Uh- oh. The Senior Drill Sergeant then raised his voice and said “Young man, I’m taking to you!” but the private kept walking.
We all knew that young man was in serious trouble.The Senior Drill Sergeant forgot all about us and marched across the street directly at that young private. As he approached the young man he once again yelled at the private but the private still didn't respond. The "Senior Drill" walked right up to the young man and slugged him right on the side of the helmet. The private fell to the dirt road and his equipment went flying. As the Senior Drill Sergeant encouraged him to recover his equipment and rejoin the company, you could hear a whisper in the ranks, “I thought they couldn’t hit you!” “I thought they couldn’t hit you!” Well whether they could or couldn’t, it was clear that if you provoked them they would, and I do recall that the rest of the march back to the barracks was in a nice tight formation. Lesson learned.
Here is a short exerpt from my book:
“Santa Clara 506, the suspect is getting out of the car with the gun in his hand! I need code 3 fills!” Again I heard the alert tone and the dispatcher asking for code 3 fills, but I was concentrating on my armed suspect and didn’t hear if anyone answered her.
“Driver, drop that gun and turn around!” I had already made up my mind that I would have to shoot this guy if he pointed the gun in my direction, and I was aiming for his torso. But if I could get him to turn around, there were better odds that he wouldn’t point his gun at me, and I wouldn’t have to shoot him.
It’s strange sometimes what you notice in the middle of a crisis, but at that point I noticed that I couldn’t hear any sirens coming. I had been to many major crimes, and I had always heard sirens coming from a long distance away, but suddenly I noticed that I couldn’t hear any sirens. I had been at the call now for at least two minutes, and it had taken me about three minutes to get there, so I had expected to hear some sirens coming by now. But all I heard was silence; and my own heavy breathing.
That was a terrible feeling. I started thinking that no one was coming to back me up. I couldn’t think about that because I had to concentrate on the suspect, but for just a moment I thought that I was going to have to handle this call all by myself. The suspect weighed well over three hundred pounds, and was clearly drunk or high with a gun in his hand, so this was not a case I wanted to handle alone.
Since the suspect was out of his car and wouldn’t turn away from me, I yelled into the radio, “Santa Clara, 506, code 20!” Code 20 means “officer needs help-emergency!” That means that every available officer in your city is to respond to assist you. Once again she hit the alert tone and I heard her say “code 20” at my location.
Ok, I have to get this off my chest. This incident happened while I was at DLIWC (Language School). I was in the German class; eight months of rigorous language training. The instructors generally only spoke German in the classroom, which was an interesting way to learn. One of my favorite expressions was, “Es tut mir furchbar leid das Ich so spat komme, aber Ich hatte eine reifenpanne im schnee.”I used that one day when I showed up late for class; it means ‘I am very sorry that I was late, but I had a flat tire in the snow.’ The instructors never let me get away with that especially since it never snowed in Monterey, California. One of our instructors was a Lieutenant under Rommel in WWII, and had taken part in the invasion of France. He was a very interesting guy to talk to.
There was a guy in my class named Bill that was well-liked by everybody. He was about my size and he got really red in the face when I picked on him so I always picked on him. Some of the fellows in that class started arm wrestling on the breaks. I didn’t do it much, because I knew that it wasn’t so much arm strength but wrist action that decided the outcome of most of those matches.
One day I was picking on Bill like I always did and he suddenly challenged me to an arm wrestling match right then and there. What to do, what to do? I knew I wasn’t any good at arm wrestling, and that nerd could put me in my place if he beat me or if I chickened out.So I did the only thing a smartass like me could do, I accepted!
But I said that in the interest of fairness, I was going to give him some time to get in shape before the match. I think I gave him a month. Of course, I was just stalling for time. Every day for that month, he was telling me he was going to beat me and on and on. I, on the other hand, took every available opportunity to give him a chance to back down. I told him that he would look like a fool when I beat him and his classmates would lose respect for him and so forth.
The day of the match finally arrived. It was set for noon during the lunch break. Just before the match, I gave Bill another chance to back down. I told him that I was clearly much stronger than he was and reminded him that he was going to look silly. He wouldn't back down.
It seemed that everyone from the entire school was there. Of course they are all there hoping to see me lose, since I was such a smartass. Bill and I sat down and put our wrists together and the soldier that was going to be the referee grabbed both of our wrists. He said that when he said “go” he would let go of our wrists and the match was on. I was already making excuses in my mind in case Bill beat me because I really am not a good arm wrestler.
The moment came. I heard “go” and our wrists were released and Bam! I curled my wrist inwards and slammed his hand to the table. It was over! I stood up victorious and noticed that Bill was beet red. The whole room cheered me on as I raised my arms in triumph. Let me be clear on this; I have no idea how I beat him. I am not good at arm wrestling and he should have clobbered me. But I think that the weeks and weeks of me needling him about how silly he was going to look, got to him. And there he was sitting there beet red, looking silly.
Of course he immediately demanded a rematch. I told him that I would never, ever, do that again to another human being. I made a point of apologizing for the embarrassment I had caused him by my superior strength, and added that he had been so badly outmatched, I never should have accepted his challenge in the first place. I put that poor guy through hell. And for the rest of our time there at the language school, I never gave him a rematch. I still don’t know how I beat him. He should have clobbered me. I really stink at arm wrestling. What's the German word for "lucky?"
Another exerpt:
The call came in as “unknown circumstances.” Dispatch reported a hysterical female on the phone saying something about a shooting at a residence, on the west side of Santa Clara. I was at the police station booking some evidence on another case, and ran out to my car and hit the gas. I drove code 3 all the way, waiting for any update on the radio.
But no update came—the poor girl was too hysterical to give any more information. I drove up and parked just short of the residence. The other officer got there at the same time I did. The sixteen-year-old girl ran out of the house screaming as we both drew our guns and pointed them towards the house. We couldn’t make anything out of what she was screaming, so the two of us approached the house with guns drawn, while the terrified girl ran to a neighbor’s house.
We did a methodical search of the house from front to back; living room, kitchen, spare bedroom, daughter’s bedroom. The tension that an officer feels for a slow methodical search under these conditions is tremendous. You don’t even realize that your pulse is racing and your breathing is very shallow. Stress hormones have flooded into your body and have taken over your central nervous system. I was looking for any movement or anything out of the ordinary; straining to hear even the faintest sound.
It is one of the scariest things an officer will ever do. All we knew was the girl had said something about a shooting, and we could see for ourselves that she was terrified by what she had seen in this house. But I was with a good officer. He used good tactics and didn’t just go charging into danger. There was only one more room to search, so whatever was going on, was going on in there.
© 2010, Steve Dixon. All Rights Reserved.