A Police Story, by Whitney Farmer – Un Pop Culture

May 19, 2010 Whitney Farmer 13 Comments

On Friday, a 7-year-old girl was killed in Detroit by police who were searching for the murderer of a 17-year-old boy. The waves of grief that are pouring across that city are deepened by what may end up as an attempt at official denials, unless reported videotape from a ride-along reality show can provide irrefutable evidence of what happened.

We have domestic war zones. Earlier this month in Detroit, five cops were shot — one fatally — in a single event. At USC Medical Center in downtown L.A., medical teams are trained before deployment to the hot zones of Afghanistan and Iraq by working the E.R. over a weekend. The trauma wounds they encounter most closely emulate what would be seen in the battlefield. But as in the Civil War when the combatants were not strangers to each other, this war is fought within the same family of citizens.

Cops aren’t like firefighters who we are able to tag as heroes without skipping a beat. We are grateful to them, but we are always aware that they have a gun. And they know that there is a hesitancy when we connect with them. For the good ones, sometimes it must be like standing outside and looking in a window watching a party where they weren’t invited. But they still go towards danger when others run away. There have been many times at the club when we called dispatch because of a crisis: an unknown woman was found unconscious on the pier…a young man with a congenital bone problem collapsed in agony under the weight of his own body…seizures…heart attacks…diabetic reactions…Each time, I would look up from the victim and see cops and know that help had arrived. There were dangerous times when I know that the cops kept us from harm, or worse. Fairly often, they come into the landing in the main venue that overlooks the concerts. It is part of their job to verify that we are operating safely and to establish a visual presence, but I also know that they have stepped in for just a moment because they want to hear the music. It makes me grateful that we can give them whatever moments like this that we can.

A couple of weeks ago, there was a bad situation during a show. A man molested one of our servers, shoving his hand up her skirt. Our magnificent security guards gladly removed him from the venue when she reported it. Soon after, I was called above ground because of a complication: The guy was a cop, and he said he was going to make us pay for what we did. When I met him, he wouldn’t give me his name or his badge number, but he calmly threatened to retaliate while never denying that he had assaulted my server. I looked into his smug eyes and remembered all the times that I had looked up in the middle of a crisis and had been grateful to see the kind, wise, and brave eyes of the cops we have come to know. Cops choose what they do almost always because they want to help people. They get a paycheck for putting their lives in danger to protect others, and they buy groceries and clothes for their kids. I realized that this guy was putting all of these complicated heroes at risk by pulling their livelihoods and reputations into his pile of mess. So then I got mad. I told him that — since he wasn’t interested in talking with me – perhaps he would like to speak with his colleagues instead. Then I called the cops on the cop.

It was glorious. Nine black-and-whites. Layers of authority including Internal Affairs paying attention to what could have been an ordinary grope with an Unhappy Ending. They were pissed, but they were pros enough not to talk about it. What they did was make certain that a thorough investigation was launched with reams of corresponding paperwork that would protect us from retaliation. If anything happens to anyone, there will be one place to look. That is a better deterrent than a bullet-proof vest.

The next day, I asked the server who had been molested how she was feeling. The officers had spent a great deal of time with her the night before, encouraging her that she was doing the right thing as she pressed charges and helping her understand that she was doing the best thing to keep herself and everyone safer. They encouraged her that she was being brave and smart. When I asked her how she was doing the next day, what she said was pure and healthy: She felt angry, not frightened. I have cops to thank for that right perspective.

It’s easy to do the good thing when everyone praises you. The true test of character is when you are faced with doing the good thing when you aren’t applauded, aren’t trusted, or are even hated. This is the life of a cop. They must have supernatural help and gifts to be able to keep doing what they do without becoming either corrupted or uncaring. Over time, maybe one wrong choice twists a good one into the type of creature that did what he did at the club. Cops are complicated superheroes. Like the most compelling comic book characters, they incite fear, respect, love, and even pity. This weekend, I hope that I look up during a show and see them standing on the landing while the band plays. For just a moment, I want them to join us before they have to go back out into the night.

Whitney runs a rock music club in L.A. and fantasizes about getting enough sleep.