Read Online Hollywood Station by Joseph Wambaugh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
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institutionalized culture in which some police officers feel that they have the tacit approval of their leadership . . . to brutalize and even kill African American boys and men.' End quote. This baseless and crudely racist slander is apparently okay with our new Latino mayor, who appointed him claiming to want harmony in the racial cauldron where the police must do their job."
Andi looked again at the blank stares as she prepared for her parting shot and said, "Finally, all of the layers of oversight, based on the crimes of a few cops-costing millions annually, encouraged by cynical politicians and biased reporting and fueled by political correctness gone mad-have at last answered the ancient question posed by the Roman poet Juvenal in the first century A. D. He too was worried about law enforcement abuse, for he asked, `But who would guard the guards themselves?' At the Los Angeles Police Department, more than nine thousand officers have learned the answer: Everybody."
With that, Andi turned to glance at Anglund, who was looking at papers in his lap as though he hadn't heard a word. She said to the class, "Any questions?"
Nobody answered for a long moment, and then one of the East Asians, a petite young woman about the age of Andi's son, said, "Are you a cop or something?"
"I am a cop, yes," Andi said. "With the LAPD, and have been since I was your age. Any other questions?"
Students were looking from the wall clock to the professor and back to Andi. Finally, Anglund said, "Thank you, Ms. McCrea. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your diligence and attention. And now that the spring quarter is so close to officially concluding, why don't you all just get the hell out of here."
That brought smiles and chuckles and some applause for the professor. Andi was about to leave, when Anglund said, "A moment, Ms. McCrea?"
He waited until the other students were gone, then stood, hands in the pockets of his cords, cotton shirt so wrinkled that Andi thought he should either send it out or get his wife an ironing board. His gray hair was wispy, and his pink scalp showed through, flaked with dandruff. He was a man of seventy if he was a day.
Anglund said, "Why did you keep your other life from us until the end?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I only like to don the bat suit when night falls on Gotham City."
"How long have you been attending classes here?"
"Off and on, eight years," she said.
"Have you kept your occupation a secret from everybody in all that time?"
"Yep," she said. "I'm just a little secret keeper."
"First of all, Ms. McCrea . . . is it Officer McCrea?"
"Detective," she said.
"First of all, your paper contained opinions and assertions that you may or may not be able to back up and not a few biases of your own, but I don't think you're a racist cop."
"Well, thank you for that. That's mighty white of you, if that's an acceptable phrase." Thinking, There goes the Dean's List. She'd be lucky to get a C-plus out of him now.
Anglund smiled and said, "Sorry. That was very condescending of me."
"I bored them to death," Andi said.
"The fact is, they don't really give a damn about civil liberties or police malfeasance or law enforcement in general," Anglund said. "More than half of today's university students cannot even understand the positions put forth in newspaper editorials. They care about iPods and cell phones and celluloid fantasy. The majority of this generation of students don't read anything outside of class but magazines and an occasional graphic novel, and barely contemplate anything more serious than video downloading. So, yes, I think you failed to provoke them as you'd obviously intended to do."
"I guess my son isn't so different after all, then," she said, seeing her first C-plus morphing into a C-minus.
"Is he a college student?"
"A soldier," she said. "Insisted on joining because two of his friends did."
Anglund studied her for a few seconds and said, "Iraq?"
"Afghanistan."
Anglund
Andi looked again at the blank stares as she prepared for her parting shot and said, "Finally, all of the layers of oversight, based on the crimes of a few cops-costing millions annually, encouraged by cynical politicians and biased reporting and fueled by political correctness gone mad-have at last answered the ancient question posed by the Roman poet Juvenal in the first century A. D. He too was worried about law enforcement abuse, for he asked, `But who would guard the guards themselves?' At the Los Angeles Police Department, more than nine thousand officers have learned the answer: Everybody."
With that, Andi turned to glance at Anglund, who was looking at papers in his lap as though he hadn't heard a word. She said to the class, "Any questions?"
Nobody answered for a long moment, and then one of the East Asians, a petite young woman about the age of Andi's son, said, "Are you a cop or something?"
"I am a cop, yes," Andi said. "With the LAPD, and have been since I was your age. Any other questions?"
Students were looking from the wall clock to the professor and back to Andi. Finally, Anglund said, "Thank you, Ms. McCrea. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your diligence and attention. And now that the spring quarter is so close to officially concluding, why don't you all just get the hell out of here."
That brought smiles and chuckles and some applause for the professor. Andi was about to leave, when Anglund said, "A moment, Ms. McCrea?"
He waited until the other students were gone, then stood, hands in the pockets of his cords, cotton shirt so wrinkled that Andi thought he should either send it out or get his wife an ironing board. His gray hair was wispy, and his pink scalp showed through, flaked with dandruff. He was a man of seventy if he was a day.
Anglund said, "Why did you keep your other life from us until the end?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I only like to don the bat suit when night falls on Gotham City."
"How long have you been attending classes here?"
"Off and on, eight years," she said.
"Have you kept your occupation a secret from everybody in all that time?"
"Yep," she said. "I'm just a little secret keeper."
"First of all, Ms. McCrea . . . is it Officer McCrea?"
"Detective," she said.
"First of all, your paper contained opinions and assertions that you may or may not be able to back up and not a few biases of your own, but I don't think you're a racist cop."
"Well, thank you for that. That's mighty white of you, if that's an acceptable phrase." Thinking, There goes the Dean's List. She'd be lucky to get a C-plus out of him now.
Anglund smiled and said, "Sorry. That was very condescending of me."
"I bored them to death," Andi said.
"The fact is, they don't really give a damn about civil liberties or police malfeasance or law enforcement in general," Anglund said. "More than half of today's university students cannot even understand the positions put forth in newspaper editorials. They care about iPods and cell phones and celluloid fantasy. The majority of this generation of students don't read anything outside of class but magazines and an occasional graphic novel, and barely contemplate anything more serious than video downloading. So, yes, I think you failed to provoke them as you'd obviously intended to do."
"I guess my son isn't so different after all, then," she said, seeing her first C-plus morphing into a C-minus.
"Is he a college student?"
"A soldier," she said. "Insisted on joining because two of his friends did."
Anglund studied her for a few seconds and said, "Iraq?"
"Afghanistan."
Anglund
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