Friday, September 6, 2013

Badge? I Don't Need No Stinkin' Badge!



Yesterday’s police patrol ride-along resulted in the usual calls and standard stops: a non-injury car accident, a domestic argument, and a custody dispute.

Oh, and my little night-time raid with the city’s black-hooded vice squad and heavily-armed SWAT team.

I WENT ON A RAID WITH THE FREAKING SWAT TEAM.

People, I cannot make this stuff up.

As I sort out what kind of details I am legally able to provide, let me just offer this quick synopsis of my crime-fighting experience:

I momentarily pondered, during our domestic dispute call at a home with a couple engraged and belligerent drunks, if I’d have to duck for cover behind the attending police officer, who unfortunately was the only one wearing a bullet-proof vest.

My heart was warmed by the adoration of all the children who smiled and waved as we drove past. My faith in youngsters—and more so in the parents raising them—was jarred by the officer’s storytelling of waving to a sixish-year-old who promptly flipped her off. A sense of respect and appreciation must be earned, but apparently it is also learned.

I was sadly disappointed to find that frequent donut shop stops are a total fallacy.

I discovered my stereotype of a SWAT team—toned and tremendously appealing men attired in black cargo pants and form-fitting black T-shirts, covered by those dangerously intriguing armored vests—is fully spot-on.

I learned there are two types of house raids: “Knock” and “No-Knock,” depending on the perceived level of danger. My own raid experience, as a shaky civilian, was best classified as a “Knee-Knock.”

More than my own safety, however, I was concerned about the dog in the house we were raiding, which the SWAT team was prepared, if necessary, to shoot. Fortunately, after the door was beat in and the SWAT team rushed inside, not a single shot was fired—not even at the dog.

Afterward, I swooned and told the SWAT guys they were my heroes.

By the round of eye-rolls, it appeared they weren’t impressed by my adulation. Strangely, my new buddies didn’t invite me to the debriefing session.

But, what mattered most was that everyone—including the dog and me—survived.

The perp was apprehended.

Justice was served.

On my way home, to top off my successful evening of crime-fighting, I made a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.


Are you ready to sign up for your own police ride-along? Do I get any kudos for not peeing my pants? Is it just me, or are SWAT guys damn hot?

10 comments:

  1. Kudos to you Sherry! When you were five you would cry when your dad and I left the house to go somewhere without you. Now, with no bullet proof vest you are in the midst of a drug bust and are mostly worried about the dog. Your mom

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    1. Well, I was probably crying when I was five because we didn't HAVE a dog.

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  2. I'm not ready for a ride-along, you definitely get kudos, and no, it's not just you.

    No doughnuts is a small price to pay for toned and tremendously appealing men attired in black cargo pants and form-fitting black T-shirts, covered by those dangerously intriguing armored vests. Maybe.

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    1. I kept thinking you should be along for the ride with us. Would be great material for "Pigeon."

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  3. I can't wait to hear what's in the details you can't yet share. I am not, in any way, ready for a ride along, so here's to you, Sherry. My ex-sister in law was/is a motorcycle cop in Phoenix and I can promise you that the last place I'd want to find myself is at a domestic dispute call. She was more afraid of those than any chase down the freeway.

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    1. Seriously--I was thinking the same thing. Nothing like an intense family fight, especially when it's fueled by lots of alcohol...

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  4. Why "ride along" when you can do it for me? (Same goes for the Brazilian and all the other indignities you've chronicled...)

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    1. "Indignities"? So, are you saying I should leave the Brazilian off my resume'?

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  5. I forgot everything you wrote after I heard DONUTS! Ah, now I think I have to go to DD for lunch today. They do have a drive-thru now.

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