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me that day and asked to have me dismissed.
However, my drill instructor, Jerry Stokes, happened to be a fair man. A few days later, as I awaited my fate, he pulled me out of class. “Mr. McCarthy,” he said in his slow drawl, stressing each consonant, “are we straight with everything?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Then don’t worry about what’s going on,” he said. “Some people are saying you’re not the best runner around here, and I think that’s true. But I watched you wrestle yesterday and, son, you don’t need to be a good runner.”
Luckily, Sgt. Stokes took the time to evaluate my overall progress at the academy and reported it back to the higher-ups. I was cleared to continue.
I’d say my fondest memories of the academy were meeting and training with the other cadets, forging long-lasting relationships with some. On the second day at the academy, we were told to run from one fence of Dodger Stadium to the other, up the hill and back. A classmate named Joe Johnson threw up on a parked car at the finish line. We both laughed, and I knew right then I was going to like the guy. I ended up working with Joe for the bulk of my career.
One benefit of the endless running was that I got in better shape and lost more weight. I’d had to diet to start at the academy because I wasn’t at the designated height and weight ratio. The doctor said I wasn’t fat, but I still had to drop 20 pounds to make the requirements. Once I hit the academy hills, I went from 250 to 225.
As part of our training, we accompanied officers on calls. I saw my first real crime scene during my second ride-along, when two officers were called to the scene of a shooting at Tam’s restaurant in a seedy downtown neighborhood in Southwest Division.
An employee’s head was canoed down the middle with a shotgun blast, and blood splatter and brain pieces covered every possible surrounding surface. I looked at the scene and thought,
Whoa, the real world’s not that pretty. Hollywood gets it pretty right.
The motive? A customer had ordered fries at the counter and hadn’t gotten them the way he’d wanted.
Rather than scaring me away, the scene made me want to continue my training. At the end of six months, fifty-five of the original seventy-two cadets graduated. Of those, Southwest chose five, and I was one of them.
My police graduation ceremony (January 1986)
Just as I graduated, Elaine was rushed to the hospital with what we thought was a case of appendicitis. It turned out she was pregnant.
I remember exactly what went through my head.
Holy shit, oh my God, I’m not ready for this.
We’d always wanted to wait five years, but you know how it is. One thing happens after another, and suddenly your life is taking off without you.
As a police officer, I was resigned to the fact that I’d never be rich. It was a decent living, though, and about six months later, Elaine and I were able to buy our first home for our growing family. Our single-story, two-bedroom house was in Covina, about twenty-five miles from the academy.
I felt prepared for what lay ahead. Looking back, I had no idea what was coming.
Under badge #10238, I entered my probation period at Southwest. In California, the standard training for police officers is called Peace Officer Standards and Training (POST). All probationary officers, or P1s, have to get a basic certificate to be considered full-fledged officers. I’d be on probation for the next year, paired with a training officer, or P3, and put to work on the streets. That training officer would become my partner until I was assigned to another when I switched watches, or shifts.
Every day I was out in the police car on patrol answering calls. In Southwest, we had five calls holding most of the time. As soon as we cleared one listing, another one would take its place. It was busy but fun.
Some of the calls would amount to nothing. We might get a burglary call and report to the building only to
However, my drill instructor, Jerry Stokes, happened to be a fair man. A few days later, as I awaited my fate, he pulled me out of class. “Mr. McCarthy,” he said in his slow drawl, stressing each consonant, “are we straight with everything?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Then don’t worry about what’s going on,” he said. “Some people are saying you’re not the best runner around here, and I think that’s true. But I watched you wrestle yesterday and, son, you don’t need to be a good runner.”
Luckily, Sgt. Stokes took the time to evaluate my overall progress at the academy and reported it back to the higher-ups. I was cleared to continue.
I’d say my fondest memories of the academy were meeting and training with the other cadets, forging long-lasting relationships with some. On the second day at the academy, we were told to run from one fence of Dodger Stadium to the other, up the hill and back. A classmate named Joe Johnson threw up on a parked car at the finish line. We both laughed, and I knew right then I was going to like the guy. I ended up working with Joe for the bulk of my career.
One benefit of the endless running was that I got in better shape and lost more weight. I’d had to diet to start at the academy because I wasn’t at the designated height and weight ratio. The doctor said I wasn’t fat, but I still had to drop 20 pounds to make the requirements. Once I hit the academy hills, I went from 250 to 225.
As part of our training, we accompanied officers on calls. I saw my first real crime scene during my second ride-along, when two officers were called to the scene of a shooting at Tam’s restaurant in a seedy downtown neighborhood in Southwest Division.
An employee’s head was canoed down the middle with a shotgun blast, and blood splatter and brain pieces covered every possible surrounding surface. I looked at the scene and thought,
Whoa, the real world’s not that pretty. Hollywood gets it pretty right.
The motive? A customer had ordered fries at the counter and hadn’t gotten them the way he’d wanted.
Rather than scaring me away, the scene made me want to continue my training. At the end of six months, fifty-five of the original seventy-two cadets graduated. Of those, Southwest chose five, and I was one of them.
My police graduation ceremony (January 1986)
Just as I graduated, Elaine was rushed to the hospital with what we thought was a case of appendicitis. It turned out she was pregnant.
I remember exactly what went through my head.
Holy shit, oh my God, I’m not ready for this.
We’d always wanted to wait five years, but you know how it is. One thing happens after another, and suddenly your life is taking off without you.
As a police officer, I was resigned to the fact that I’d never be rich. It was a decent living, though, and about six months later, Elaine and I were able to buy our first home for our growing family. Our single-story, two-bedroom house was in Covina, about twenty-five miles from the academy.
I felt prepared for what lay ahead. Looking back, I had no idea what was coming.
Under badge #10238, I entered my probation period at Southwest. In California, the standard training for police officers is called Peace Officer Standards and Training (POST). All probationary officers, or P1s, have to get a basic certificate to be considered full-fledged officers. I’d be on probation for the next year, paired with a training officer, or P3, and put to work on the streets. That training officer would become my partner until I was assigned to another when I switched watches, or shifts.
Every day I was out in the police car on patrol answering calls. In Southwest, we had five calls holding most of the time. As soon as we cleared one listing, another one would take its place. It was busy but fun.
Some of the calls would amount to nothing. We might get a burglary call and report to the building only to
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