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out who excelled at what. I’d handled a gun before, so the firearms training wasn’t a problem. My dad had allowed me to hold a gun, in his presence of course, from the age of ten on. He always told me if I wanted to pick one up, all I needed to do was ask him. Still, I’d sometimes sneak behind his back for the thrill of ogling one on my own. In fact, the bigger the gun, the more I liked it.
A part of our tactics training took place in the DEFT simulator, which stands for “development and evaluation of firearms training.” In 1985, the DEFT simulator in Los Angeles was cutting-edge technology. Inside, you shot wax bullets at a large aluminum screen on the wall while a film projector ran different vignettes for you to react to. It was as lifelike as it could get, with real actors playing out the parts. The scenario itself lasted about a minute, but it took about twenty for the instructors to get the results, then reload the program for the next cadet. You were evaluated based on when you drew your firearm, where you landed your shots, your verbal commands, and taking cover.
In my six months at the academy, we were put through just two scenarios in the DEFT simulator. I got in a little trouble with one of them, which had me standing in line at a bank waiting for a teller when an armed robber suddenly pushed his way to the window and demanded money. There were civilians everywhere, so accuracy was key. I unloaded six rounds into the robber. Later models of the simulator would compensate for gunshot wounds and a target would fall when you hit him, but this guy just kept going, so I kept shooting and reloading, firing a total of eighteen rounds into his head. I got reamed by my instructors for that.
We also practiced at the standard outdoor firing range and Hogan’s Alley, where we’d have to shoot on the move against targets popping up or coming at us. We were taught tactics, the universal guidelines for dealing with specific scenarios in police work, such as the proper technique for stopping cars or pedestrians and how to react in high-pressure situations. We also took classes on applicable law and learned the definitions of robberies, burglaries, and domestic violence. We studied traffic law and how to fill out reports, took a required eighty hours of Spanish, and watched lesson videos with instructors acting out family disputes or robberies. I got caught at my cubicle falling asleep to the recordings more times than I’d like to admit.
What I really excelled at were the self-defense classes, which included wrestling and other types of one-on-one combat. When a student was what we called HUA (because he had his head up his ass) and the instructors wanted to give him a hard time, I was the one they paired him up with.
I could also handle a squad car and was good at physical training, or PT, except for the running. Unfortunately, running was a big part of the program.
PT was broken down into two different regimens. Two or three days a week, we’d complete our fieldwork, which consisted of sit-ups, push-ups, burpees, and other basic calisthenics, along with running around the track. On alternate days, we’d jog the hills, which is where I ran into trouble.
A cadet with asthma couldn’t graduate from the academy, so I hid my inhaler in my jockstrap. Every time my lungs would clinch up, I’d take out the inhaler and sneak a deep breath. I was pretty good at that but got caught during one excruciatingly hot August day when temperatures soared to 118 degrees.
I made the run for the most part, but when we came back and stood at attention, my instructor noticed me leaning like the Tower of Pisa. After they pulled me out of the lineup and dumped me in the pool to cool me off, the inhaler bobbed to the surface and gave me away.
“What’s this?” the instructor asked, snatching it from the water.
“It’s an asthma reliever.” I gasped, trying not to show my discomfort.
The officer in charge of PT reported
A part of our tactics training took place in the DEFT simulator, which stands for “development and evaluation of firearms training.” In 1985, the DEFT simulator in Los Angeles was cutting-edge technology. Inside, you shot wax bullets at a large aluminum screen on the wall while a film projector ran different vignettes for you to react to. It was as lifelike as it could get, with real actors playing out the parts. The scenario itself lasted about a minute, but it took about twenty for the instructors to get the results, then reload the program for the next cadet. You were evaluated based on when you drew your firearm, where you landed your shots, your verbal commands, and taking cover.
In my six months at the academy, we were put through just two scenarios in the DEFT simulator. I got in a little trouble with one of them, which had me standing in line at a bank waiting for a teller when an armed robber suddenly pushed his way to the window and demanded money. There were civilians everywhere, so accuracy was key. I unloaded six rounds into the robber. Later models of the simulator would compensate for gunshot wounds and a target would fall when you hit him, but this guy just kept going, so I kept shooting and reloading, firing a total of eighteen rounds into his head. I got reamed by my instructors for that.
We also practiced at the standard outdoor firing range and Hogan’s Alley, where we’d have to shoot on the move against targets popping up or coming at us. We were taught tactics, the universal guidelines for dealing with specific scenarios in police work, such as the proper technique for stopping cars or pedestrians and how to react in high-pressure situations. We also took classes on applicable law and learned the definitions of robberies, burglaries, and domestic violence. We studied traffic law and how to fill out reports, took a required eighty hours of Spanish, and watched lesson videos with instructors acting out family disputes or robberies. I got caught at my cubicle falling asleep to the recordings more times than I’d like to admit.
What I really excelled at were the self-defense classes, which included wrestling and other types of one-on-one combat. When a student was what we called HUA (because he had his head up his ass) and the instructors wanted to give him a hard time, I was the one they paired him up with.
I could also handle a squad car and was good at physical training, or PT, except for the running. Unfortunately, running was a big part of the program.
PT was broken down into two different regimens. Two or three days a week, we’d complete our fieldwork, which consisted of sit-ups, push-ups, burpees, and other basic calisthenics, along with running around the track. On alternate days, we’d jog the hills, which is where I ran into trouble.
A cadet with asthma couldn’t graduate from the academy, so I hid my inhaler in my jockstrap. Every time my lungs would clinch up, I’d take out the inhaler and sneak a deep breath. I was pretty good at that but got caught during one excruciatingly hot August day when temperatures soared to 118 degrees.
I made the run for the most part, but when we came back and stood at attention, my instructor noticed me leaning like the Tower of Pisa. After they pulled me out of the lineup and dumped me in the pool to cool me off, the inhaler bobbed to the surface and gave me away.
“What’s this?” the instructor asked, snatching it from the water.
“It’s an asthma reliever.” I gasped, trying not to show my discomfort.
The officer in charge of PT reported
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