Читать книгу An LA Cop - John Bowermaster - Страница 10

The Streets of Los Angeles

Ed and Paul where in their fifth year on the department working Wilshire division. Paul, graduating from the academy a couple of months behind Ed. Mike graduated a year later. They met each other in Wilshire Division.

A couple of years passed, working a variety of assignments: patrol, the desk, and jail. They realized working the streets was a class in psychology. The difference was in college, it was an hour in a classroom. For them, it was every day all day, sometimes in a hostile environment with somebody trying to kill them or somebody else. Ed felt the dangerous call was a shooting in progress or a man with a gun call.

He realized that wasn’t true. He found the dangerous calls were the unknown trouble and family disputes. People in those calls were at their emotional limit.

When officers approached those calls, they never knew if their presence at the scene would be the straw that broke the camel’s back, causing the person to snap and kill the other person or take someone hostage, escalating the situation into a barricaded suspect with a hostage.

Handling hundreds of radio calls and traffic stops a month, officers learned how to read people, things the academy couldn’t teach them. They worked with different partners, developing relationships and learning how other officers handled situations. Being assigned to patrol with regular partners, Ed, Paul, and Mike developed a trust and an understanding of how each other worked.

They also saw how some officers handled situations on the street. The officers stopped a suspect driving a vehicle with no license plates. Ed asked the driver, “Where are the plates for this vehicle?”

The driver explained he bought the car and hasn’t been able to get to the Department of Motor Vehicles to register it yet.

The driver showed the officers a citation he received earlier that day from a day watch officer that had stopped him for the same violation. The officers issued the suspect a citation for no plates and sent him on his way.

Ed copied the vehicle’s Vin number on the dashboard and ran it with control. “7-X-96, your vehicle is a Rampart stolen. 7-X-96, roger, suspect in custody.”

Mike handcuffed the suspect. “I guess checking the Vin number would have made them late for EOW. They gave him a ticket and cut him loose.”

Ed Bowes was 6'2", 180 pounds. He grew up in the small desert town of Twenty-Nine Palms, California. Most notably known for the home of the largest marine base in the United States, over nine hundred square miles of desert. Before the base was built in 1952, General Patton used part of that California desert to train his men to fight General Rommel in the North African desert during WWII.

Ed Bowes dated his high school girlfriend. When he graduated, Ed moved to Los Angeles and started working for an insulation company until he was drafted. He came home on weekends to see his parents and his girlfriend. The long-distance relationship with his girlfriend continued when he went to Vietnam.

After returning to the firebase from patrol one afternoon, Sergeant Waters was standing by one of the bunkers, handing out mail from the chopper’s mail drop. Waters stood there with a hand full of mail, calling out the names of men in First Platoon, handing them their mail as they passed him. Walker, Leak, Martin, Bowes.

Ed Bowes took his mail, a letter from his girlfriend, Mary. Ed started to read his letter. There it was, a Dear John letter! He’d heard about these letters from other guys in his unit. He saw them in war movies on TV.

This letter was his. She explained their long-distance relationship was too difficult for her. She met a marine home on leave. She fell in love with him. Ed didn’t reply to the letter; he figured he had more immediate concerns, like staying alive in a country that was trying to kill him.

He just stuffed the letter in his duffel bag, where it eventually was lost with time. Ed learned later from Richard, his high school friend, that Mary was pregnant with the marine’s baby. He was sent to Vietnam. She never heard from him again.

Ed was quiet and particular about trusting people. Vietnam taught him about trust. He learned you don’t know how a person will handle themselves in a stressful situation until their lives are on the line!

Ed experienced what trusting a person was about. The LAPD also presented the life-threatening danger of being killed. Not by an enemy from a foreign country during a war. But citizens in his own country that had no respect for anyone that got in their way and tried to stop them from committing their crimes. They would kill without hesitation.

Now he was not in a war zone. He was in the states, witnessing the same brutality. Ed concluded, it didn’t matter if you were in a war zone or on the streets of Los Angeles, some people just revert to their basic animal instinct when dealing with other people.

The question of right or wrong didn’t enter the equation when a person killed another.

Paul used psychology he learned on the streets in a unique way when he was confronted by an unruly suspect. He gave the person a choice of how they would ride in the police car while being transported to jail.

They could sit up in the back seat enjoying the scenery to the station, or ride facedown hog-tied in the back seat. But they were going to jail. It was their choice how!

Paul worked with a new probationer his first night on the streets. Paul made a traffic stop on a vehicle that ran a red light. The vehicle pulled to the curb. Before Paul reached the driver’s side of the vehicle, the driver jumped out of his car, confronting Paul face to face, demanding to know why they stopped him.

The driver was on the tall side of 6'5" and pushing 260 pounds. “Why did you stop me? I didn’t do a damn thing wrong!” Paul explained that he ran the red light.

He requested his driver’s license. He advised the man he would issue him a citation.

The driver said, “You’re not getting my fucking driver’s license, and I’m not signing any fucking ticket!”

Paul explained if he didn’t sign the citation, he’d have no choice except to arrest him.

Driver said, “You’re not getting my driver’s license. You assholes aren’t big enough to take me to jail!”

Without another word, Paul kicked the suspect in the middle of his groin, bringing him to his knees. The suspect fell to the asphalt on both knees, trying to catch his breath, in pain and confused about how fast he went from threatening two police officers to being on his hands and knees in the street.

Paul moved behind him, pulling one hand around to his back, forcing the man facedown on the street. The probationer didn’t have time to react as he stood there trying to grasp the situation in front of him. Paul placed his knee in the middle of the suspect’s back, cuffing one hand. Grabbing his second hand, Paul secured it with the open cuff. Paul felt an object with his knee in the suspect’s rear waistband under his shirt.

He recovered a 9 mm semiautomatic from his waistband. Looking up at his probationer he said, “When you’re finished daydreaming, why don’t you help me get this asshole in the back seat of the car!”

Before moving the suspect, Paul asked, “Are you going to sit in the back seat, or do I have to hog tie your bitch ass?”

Still out of breath, the suspect responded, “I’ll go.”

Paul said, “I know you’re going, asshole! My question was, are you going sitting up or hog-tied facedown?”

The driver said, “I’ll sit up.”

“That’s what I like to hear, an asshole with an attitude adjustment! Remember, you try anything cute in the car and you get hog-tied!” The suspect didn’t respond. The probationer asked Paul later if that was the way they handled all traffic violators who refused to sign their tickets.

Paul said, “Only the ones as big as that son of a bitch who tells me he’s going to kick my ass!”

The following night, Paul and Ed responded to a screaming woman call. A combative suspect beat his girlfriend so bad he fractured both cheekbones, causing her eyes to swell shut. He kicked her while she lay unconscious on the living room floor. The neighbors in the adjacent apartment heard the screaming for help and called the police.

As the officers approached the apartment outside, they saw the suspect through the front window, kicking the unconscious woman on the floor. The officers kicked the locked front door open. The suspect would not stop without a fight. He turned his attention to the officers.

“I’m not done killing this bitch yet, and you’re not going to stop me.” After a brief struggle, Paul got his arm around the suspect’s neck, choking him unconscious as the suspect went limp in Paul’s arm. He sat the suspect on the ground maintaining his choke hold on the suspect.

A few seconds later, the suspect regained consciousness. Oblivious to what happened, Paul rolled the suspect onto his stomach while Ed cuffed him.

After the suspect regained complete consciousness, he tried to continue his fight with the officers. Kicking at both officers while lying on the carpet. Paul reached into his leg pocket, where he always carried several nylon ties for just such an occasion.

Paul pulled the ties out of his pocket, while Ed kneeled on top of the suspect’s legs with his knees holding them down. Paul tied his feet together then tied his feet to his handcuffs behind his back.

Ed checked the victim’s pulse; she was still alive. Paul used the victim’s phone to call for an RA unit.

He saw a phone bill lying on the table next to the phone with the name “Lataisha Jackson” on the bill. Paul copied the name in his notebook for the report. Paul wanted to verify the victim’s identify. “Hey, pal, what’s Latisha’s last name?”

“Fuck you! Get the hell off that phone. I didn’t give you pigs permission to use that phone! Take these cuffs off me, and I’ll carve the bitch’s name in your forehead!”

Paul said, “You know what, buddy, in all this excitement, I forgot to find out your name. Let’s see your wallet.”

He walked over to the suspect, kneeled down, and placed one knee on the back of the suspect’s upper leg while pulling his wallet out.

The suspect screamed, “Get the fuck off my leg. You’re hurting me!”

“Did you give the same consideration to Latisha’s pain when you were kicking the shit out of her!”

“Fuck you—take these cuffs off me, and I’ll kick both your asses.” Paul removed the suspect’s driver’s license from his wallet. Stuffing the wallet back into his rear pocket. Paul read his name aloud. “William Leroy Jefferson. What kind of pussy ass name is Willie for a man?”

“My name is William, not Willie!”

“Well, you sure fight like a Willie!”

“Take these cuffs off me. I’ll show you how I fight!”

“I know how you fight, Willie! Have you forgotten? We’re the ones that put the cuffs on you! Remember? Right after I chocked your pussy ass unconscious. While you were laying there all limp and shit, taking a dirt nap on the carpet! Remember, Willie? You were going to kick our asses when we came into the apartment, remember? You saw how that worked out for you, Willie! Don’t worry, you’ll get another chance to kick my ass when I take you into booking!”

After the RA unit transported the victim to the emergency room. The officers grabbed Willie by his arms and carried him to their vehicle, still resisting and attempting to twist and pull his arms loose from the officer’s grip.

They laid William facedown on the ground then wrestled him onto the back seat of their unit.

Ed pulled their car up to the side entrance of the station; the nearest entrance to the holding cells was through the lobby.

Paul jumped out of the passenger’s seat telling Ed, “I’ll drag Willie out of the car and wait for you here. Go park the car.” Paul opened the rear passenger door, grabbing the suspect by his arms, pulling him from the car.

While the suspect lay on the ground, he tried to bite Paul on the leg. Ed joined Paul and the suspect by the door. They carried Willie up three steps, laying him down again. Ed unlocked the side door. They grabbed the combative suspect’s arms, carrying him through the lobby to the holding cell.

People were sitting in the lobby, waiting to talk to the desk officers. Several people watched the officers carrying the suspect through the lobby. Paul noticed the people watching as they carried him through the lobby.

Paul told them, “Don’t mind us—he didn’t want to sign his traffic citation, so we’re taking him to jail!” After laying him on the floor in the holding cell, Paul cut the nylon strap that kept his feet tied to his hands.

They left him cuffed with his feet tied together, locking the cell door. From his office window, the watch commander watched the officers carry the suspect through the lobby. He followed the officers into the holding cell area. “What’s this guy’s story?”

Ed said, “He’s the suspect from the screaming woman call in the jungle.”

“He tried to beat his girlfriend to death in her apartment.”

WC said, “How’s the victim?”

“We think she’s circling the drain. Her face is torn up bad. He was kicking the shit out of her while she lay unconscious on the floor. We had to kick the front door open to stop him. I don’t know how much internal damage Willie did to her.”

The suspect responded, “Fuck you! I told you my name is William, not Willie! Get these fucking cuffs off me and I’ll kick both your asses right now!”

Ed said, “Shut up, Willie.”

“The way Willie was putting the boots on her, she’s probably circling the drain getting ready to go lights out! Once we got into the apartment, he turned his aggression on us, taking both of us on.”

Ed looked down at Willie. “Boy, that was a mistake, huh, Willie?”

The watch commander advised the officers to check the hospital on the victim’s condition, in case it turns into a homicide. “No problem, Sergeant.” Paul and Ed entered the report room. Paul told Ed he wanted to check with the hospital to see if she’s going tits up! “He was beating her like a piñata.”

A few minutes later, Paul hung up the phone and briefed Ed. “It sounds like she’s circling the drain! She has a concussion, and she’s nonresponsive. She has fractured cheekbones. Fractured skull, a collapsed lung. She has multiple fractured ribs and internal bleeding. Right now, they say she’s in critical condition. They’re still not sure what other injuries she has. They’re running more tests. You mean the doctors have taken out their beads and rattles. Lit incense and their chanting over the patient? Yeah, that’s what they’re doing. I’ll list her in the report as maybe, for circling the drain! I’ll finish my pencil magic on Willie, and we’ll book him for attempted murder. With him being so vocal about wanting to finish killing her when we showed up to spoil his party! I’ll throw in an assault on the police too! Did he break your skin when he tried to bite you?”

“Nah.”

“Good, otherwise, we’d need to get him a tetanus shot. He has no idea how dangerous it is biting a sick bastard like you! He could catch a foul disease! You need to burn your shirt? Look at the crud on it from Willie’s neck when you gave him that dirt nap!”

Paul looked at his sleeve. “Shit, it looks like that asshole hasn’t washed his neck for six months! He drooled all over my pant leg when he tried to bite me! I got to check for a clean uniform in my locker.”

Ed said, “Yeah, it’s not even the end of the month yet, and you already have to change uniforms!”

Paul stuck his middle finger up, telling Ed, “Look here, I think I’ve got a boo-boo on my finger from carrying Willie to jail! You want to kiss it and make it better!”

Ed flipped Paul the bird as Paul headed to the locker room to change. After changing into a fresh uniform, Paul came back to the report room. “Let’s book Willie. I hear a sugar-glazed doughnut calling my name!”

At EOW, after changing into his civvies, Ed came out of the locker room. Paul was sitting at one of the detective’s desk with his construction boots up on the corner of the desk. Wearing his yellow hard hat and jeans. His long-sleeved plaid shirt was open, displaying his white undershirt.

His undershirt was pulled up, exposing his hairy belly. He was picking lint out of his navel.

Ed looked at him. “What the hell are you doing? Checking for lint balls, when you look sharp you feel sharp!” Ed shook his head. “You’re a sick son of a bitch!” Sometimes Ed cringed, waiting for the hammer to drop with Paul’s next comment in public!

Mike and Ed were handling a jumper call a week earlier at 8:20 a.m. Paul responded to their call on Wilshire Boulevard. Employees were arriving at the office building. A crowd of spectators were gathering at the scene out front.

The victim jumped from the top of the six-story office building landing on the sidewalk. When the body impacted the concrete, the victim’s head exploded like a watermelon. Blood and brain matter splattering across the sidewalk into the street.

When Paul arrived at the scene, Mike and Ed were standing by the victim waiting for a day watch unit to arrive and take over. Paul walked over to the body, noticing the Timex watch on the victim’s wrist he knelt down and picked up the watch. Checking if it stopped working on impact with the sidewalk, giving them the time of death.

Paul found the watch was still running. Paul looked up at Ed telling him in his John Cameron Swayze impersonation. “Look here! Falling six stories and the watch is still ticking!”

During a traffic stop of a DUI in the jungle one night, Paul walked up to the driver’s door, a belligerent drunk sitting behind the steering wheel, looking at Paul yelling through his open window.

“Why did you stop me? I know you stopped me cause I’m black.”

Paul asked, “How many beers you had tonight, pal? Are you on some kind of narcotic? Are you taking any medications? Step out of the car.” The odor of stale beer emitted from the drunk as he stood swaying back and forth trying to maintain his balance by holding onto the side of his car.

The driver responded with an expected, “No, I ain’t had nothing.” Paul instructed the drunk.

“Pal, look up and down the street, in both directions.” Just then a car passed. Paul pointing at the car. “Look at that car passing right now. Tell me, how many white faces you see in that car?”

After what seemed an endless amount of time enduring the stench of stale beer on the drunk, trying to maintain his balance. He broke his silence. “There aren’t no crackers out here nowhere!”

Paul said, “That’s my point!”

“The reason we stopped you is that you’ve had way too much sauce tonight. You’re an accident looking for a place to happen! You’re under arrest for driving under the influence!”

The drunk slurred, “You haven’t given me my test yet. I want my test! Okay, I’ll give you a test. Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

“I don’t know—who the hell’s Grant! You failed your test! Put your hands behind your back!” After cuffing the drunk, Paul informed the suspect. “Now I’ll tell you the real reason we arrested you. If I made one more arrest tonight. I make my quota and I win a brand-new craftsman tool box with a screwdriver set. Isn’t that great!”

“This is bullshit. I knew this was a roust! I didn’t get a fair test or nothing!” When X-96 arrived at the station, the drunk was sound asleep in the back seat.

Ed and Mike responded to a traffic accident between a semitruck and a motorcycle. Paul received the call. The semitruck and trailer, traveling westbound, approached an intersection with a green light. The biker and his companion were traveling southbound, approaching the same intersection against a red light.

The passenger was holding onto the biker’s jacket with his fingers in the chromed metal belt rings on each side of his jacket. By the time, the biker realized he was running a red light. It was too late.

When the biker entered the intersection, the semi’s trailer was already in the middle of the intersection. The biker leaned forward, trying to duck underneath the edge of the trailer. The passenger couldn’t bend forward enough to clear the edge of the trailer. It hit him in the middle of his chest, ripping him off the back of the bike.

The biker wedged himself with his motorcycle underneath the trailer’s tire rack. The trailer continued westbound down the street. The passenger landed on the asphalt, sliding on his back southbound underneath the trailer.

As the trailer passed over the passenger, the right rear tandem wheels of the trailer ran over his head and upper body. The trailer dragged the biker and his motorcycle wreckage another hundred feet down the street entangled in the trailer’s tire rack before the truck driver realized what happened and stopped his rig.

Ed and Mike walked over to Paul, standing by the dead passenger in the street. Paul smiled as they walked toward him.

Ed, looking at the accident scene told Paul, “This is some shit you got here!”

Paul said, “I think he’s dead.” Paul pointed toward the semitruck. “The truck dragged the driver to death under the trailer.”

The passenger’s body was lying face up on the asphalt with both his arms extended out from his side. His fingers were still clutching the two metal belt rings he ripped from the driver’s leather jacket when the trailer tore him off the bike. It crushed his head and upper body. A bloody pool of brain matter, hair, broken bones, and internal organs covered the street.

Ed asked, “Paul, are you sure he’s dead? Have you checked his pulse? Maybe he only needs CPR!”

“Well, if he does, he sure the hell isn’t getting it from me! It looks like you’ve got this bucket of worms under control. We’re taking off. When you guys clear, get a hold of us. We’ll hook up and get something to eat!”

Paul and Bill, working 7-A-91, responded to a racing motorcycle call near the oil fields in the Baldwin hills area. The biker had just bought his new Triumph motorcycle earlier that day. He was racing around the streets at 3:00 a.m. near a residential area, causing several residents to call the police complaining about the excessive noise of the racing motorcycle. A-91arrived westbound on Stocker toward Fairfax, looking for the motorcycle where he was last reported.

Paul heard a motorcycle somewhere in the distance to his rear. From the sound of the motor, it was traveling at high speed coming toward them. Paul saw a single headlight approaching them in his rearview mirror.

“He’s traveling at a good clip. This guy has to see our police car sitting here! He’ll slow down or try to turn around to get away.” The biker flew past the officers, doing over 90 mph.

The rider wasn’t wearing a helmet or leather jacket.

The biker hit his brakes, slowing down for the next intersection, attempting to make a left turn southbound onto Fairfax Avenue, leaving the officers in his dust. They were watching the bike as he approached the intersection. Paul looked at Bill, telling him, “Tell control we’re in pursuit.”

Excitedly, Bill pointed, “Look, look, he’s not going to make it!” Paul looked back in time to see the motorcycle skid sideways in the loose gravel while the rider was trying to break for the left turn.

The Baldwin hills area off Stocker had oil trucks traveling in and out of the oil fields, tracking dirt and gravel onto the streets. The motorcycle hit the loose gravel, causing him to slide toward the curb.

There was an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter of the oil field on the southwest corner. Setting back ten feet from the street. The officers learned the damage to the fence occurred earlier that day. One of the oil truck drivers maneuvering on the property caused the damage when he backed into the fence bending the fence poles over facing the street.

The poles were bent almost parallel to the ground, about three feet high. When the motorcycle hit the curb, the biker flew airborne over the motorcycle’s handlebars. The bike tumbled toward a different area in the field.

“My God, Paul, did you see that?”

“Yeah, that bike bounced right over that fence!”

“No, I meant the driver. No, I was watching the bike to see if it was going to cause an explosion. Where’s the rider?”

Bill was staring at the rider. “I don’t believe it! Look at that!” Paul pulled their unit up to the scene; the bike came to rest without exploding in the oil field. Bill grabbed the radio, advising Control they were code-6 at Fairfax and Stocker on a traffic accident, requesting tow and an RA unit for a fatality.

The biker flew off the motorcycle straight toward one of the two-inch metal fence poles that was bent over facing the street. The biker’s face hit the end of the pole right between his eyes, impaling him. The fence pole traveled through the victim’s head, his neck, and exited out his chest.

His body compressed the chain links fence, forcing it toward the base of the pole. By the time they exited their car and got to the victim, the compressed fence had recoiled.

Pushing the victim’s body back off the pole, tossing him on the ground like a rag doll.

They stood there amazed at what happened. Taking a page from Ed’s play book, Paul told Bill to check his pulse, telling him the post could have missed the vital organs. “He could still be alive! I’m the senior man in this car, if he needs CPR, you’re doing it!” Bill stared at Paul without comment.

Paul walked over to check the motorcycle, making sure there were no pending fires. Paul checked the motorcycle’s speedometer. It showed forty-nine miles on the meter! He returned to Bill and the victim. Bill was staring at the victim’s body, Paul told Bill he changed his mind. “Using his SWAG method, I’ve determined the guy is probably dead!”

“What the hell are you talking about? What’s the SWAG method?”

“It’s the method I used when I was a framer to figure things out! I use a Scientific Wild Ass Guess! With my investigative experience and the SWAG method, I’ve determined he’s dead! What do you think?”

Bill stared at Paul, shaking his head. “Ed’s right, he’s always telling me you’re a sick son of a bitch! You are a sick son of a bitch!”

Sometimes Mike would overreact in situations that occurred. One night, Mike was the driver on X-96 with Ed. They were in pursuit of a stolen vehicle eastbound on Jefferson Bl refusing to pull over. The suspects punched the accelerator, leaving the officers behind by several car lengths.

Ed picked up the microphone, advising control they were in pursuit of a stolen ’68 silver Chevy Camaro. Mike was following the suspect in the number one lane nearest the center line. Mike approached another vehicle in the right number two lane also traveling the same direction in front of them.

As Mike approached the vehicle to pass, the driver panicked, making a left turn in front of the police car. Ed said, “Go right, Mike, go right—he’s turning left in front of us!” Mike froze in the situation.

Hitting his brakes, he turned left toward the car that was turning left in front of them. His braking allowed their unit to slow enough to clear the rear bumper of the other car as it passed in front of them. They were heading toward the curb on the north side of Jefferson. Crossing over both westbound lanes, their vehicle hit the curb. Both front tires blew out.

Their vehicle continued onto the sidewalk, striking a utility pole with the hood of their unit. The impact drove the engine block back into the driver’s compartment. The shotgun bracket mounted on the floor in front of their bench seat sheared off its mount from the impact.

Ed was holding the radio’s microphone just before impact. He keyed the microphone. “X-96 needs help on Jefferson.”

When the first unit arrived at their location, they found Mike lying on the sidewalk beside the driver’s door, conscious but unable to hold a conversation. Ed was walking around in the street, dragging the shotgun by its barrel.

Responding officers told the men when the RA unit arrived and asked the officers if they knew their names, ages, and what day it was. Neither man knew the answers. The RA unit transported the officers to the hospital. Both men had minor concussions from the impact. 6-A-51 took the GTA suspect into custody at Crenshaw, blocked in traffic.

Three weeks passed. Mike was driving with Ed on X-96. Following another stolen vehicle leaving the Jungle with two suspects in the car. Mike activated the unit’s red lights. The driver of the vehicle stopped in the middle of the street on Santa Barbara without pulling to the curb.

Paul and Bill, working A-91, responded as a backup for X-96 on the traffic stop. Paul turned off his lights and pulled up behind X-96. Ed told Mike, “I didn’t see their reverse lights flash on when they stopped. He didn’t put the car in park. Be careful.” Mike pulled up, stopping behind the suspect’s vehicle. Ed jumped out of the passenger side with his gun drawn.

The suspect’s vehicle sped off down the street. Mike, without hesitation, threw the car in drive and took off in pursuit of the suspects, leaving Ed’s passenger door wide open, with Ed standing in the middle of the street. Ed turned, looking back at Paul, who watched in disbelief as Mike drove away without him. Paul pulled his vehicle forward, stopping for Ed to jump in their back seat.

Paul looked at Ed in his rearview mirror. “What the hell was he thinking?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” A-91 followed X-96 in pursuit of the suspects for a couple of blocks. The street was blocked by additional units responding from the opposite direction, coming toward Mike, causing the suspects to stop their vehicle and surrender. The officers removed the suspects from the stolen vehicle, checked for weapons, and cuffed and placed them into the back seats of X-96 and A-91’s units.

Ed turned to Mike. “You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking back there? Why your sorry ass drove off leaving me standing in the middle of the goddamn street in the Jungle?”

Mike stood there, looking scolded. “I’m sorry, Ed. I had my head up my ass. I had tunnel vision. All I could see was those assholes getting away. I’m sorry!”

Ed said, “From now on, with your track record behind the wheel, I’m driving. If you ever drive again and pull this shit, I’ll shoot you myself!”