Posted: January 1, 2012 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories, Tales From the Street |
Thanks to everyone who read the blog and spread the word in 2011. The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog that I thought might interest some of you. Best wished to all for a healthy and prosperous 2012.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Syndey Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 34,000 times in 2011. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 13 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
Click here to see the complete report.
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Posted: December 23, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Tales From the Street |
Christmas morning in Chicago never really dawned. The dark orangey skies reflecting the sodium vapor lights remained a dark gray when the timers finally killed the street lamps. The thick clouds allowed the temperature to sneak above freezing for the first time in two weeks and the heavy snow cover actually started steaming a bit adding to the overall dullness of the day. By 10 AM the dawn finally gave up and the day settled into the dreariness of a dark, cloudy winter day.
The marked twelfth District squad and the unmarked detective car pulled to the curb in front of the Mercy Home for Boys and Girls. The century old building appeared to loom ominously in the background. There was no call that brought them here this morning, rather Christmas Mass to be held in the small second floor chapel, officiated by the Police Chaplain.
The four men gingerly exited their vehicles and cursed silently as they attempted to navigate the high piles of soot black snow that lined the streets. The homicide detectives and uniform patrolmen nodded to one another in a silent, grim greeting of sorts. The detective in the black trench coat cursed aloud when he slipped and fell against the salt laden squad, leaving a white swath of salt on the side of his coat. The detective in the rumpled Colombo trench coat laughed and in a distinctive, slow, hoarse voice said, “See, you gotta have a tan coat da’ the winter.”
“Yeah, aren’t you the Beau Brummel of the police world,” his partner replied.
They climbed the stairs to the room where the ambiance was a bit warmer. The place of worship seated forty without breaking out folding chairs. It was a simple chapel, with small stained glass windows at the front and rear. There were no Christmas decorations but the edge of the altar bore a blue and white checkered band matching that of the police hats. The ceiling held a battery of black box Fresnel stage lights, barn doors and scrims, belying the fact that one of the chapel’s primary uses was for videotaping the Mass for shut-ins. However, on the second and fourth Sunday of each month and each Christmas and Easter the Chicago Police Chaplain held the “Police Mass.”
The priest, in street clothes, moved easily among the gathering group, exchanging greetings and an occasional emotional hug. Retirees, spouses, and off-duty police with pistols at their waist mingled and exchanged Christmas greetings. This morning there were a bit more on-duty officers than normal; the district officers in full street uniform, tactical officers in jeans with their black safety vests festooned with star, name tag, radio and extra magazines of ammunition and of course the two detectives who sat at the very rear of the chapel. For many of the on-duty officers it would be their only chance to attend a religious service for Christmas.
The priest disappeared into a make-shift sanctuary at the front of the chapel and emerged moments later in his robes. He stood in front of the altar.
“Good morning,” he said quietly.
The congregation was busy chattering amongst one another.
“Good morning,” said the priest a bit louder than before. No reaction.
“Role call!” shouted the priest, in his best Watch Commander voice. The group laughed and took their seats. As they did so, the Chaplain beamed. These were his people… this was his flock. He had married them, baptized their children, ridden the streets with them, and prayed with them in emergency rooms across the city as one of them lay wounded or dying. His chest almost visibly puffed with pride as he surveyed the room.
“Let’s take a moment to quiet our souls before we proceed.”
The two uniform officers keyed their radio briefly.
“Twelve-twelve, hold us down for lunch at the Mercy Home.”
“Ten four twelve-twelve, you’re down for lunch.” That would give them some thirty minutes without a radio assignment. The tactical officers and the detectives were on a bit looser leash, generally not subject to assignments from the dispatcher but they kept their radios on and on low volume.
“Before we dare go on, let us call to mind our sins and ask forgiveness,” said the priest.
The chapel was totally quiet until the radios broke the silence.
“Twelve-sixteen, cars in twelve and cars on city-wide, we have a man with a gun at 2323 West Lexington, no further information.” That was about a mile and a half from the tiny chapel.
From the very back of the chapel came the unmistakably growly drawl of the detective.
“Guess what he got for Christmas?”
The Mass continued and almost as if on cue, at the next momentary silence the radios in the room burst to life again.
“Attention cars in twelve and on city-wide, we now have shots fired on Lexington.”
“They must be opening the rest of the presents.” Same voice… from the rear of the chapel.
The tactical officers got up quietly and exited the side door, the rapid pace of their boots echoed on the stairway.
“Attention cars in twelve and on city-wide, one more time, we now have a man shot at that Lexington address, that’s 2323 West Lexington.”
The uniformed officers exited the south chapel door, the detectives exited the opposite side door.
“Twelve-twelve, cancel that lunch, we’ll take in Lexington”
From the opposite hallway, “Yeah dispatch, this is homicide 7403, tell our office we’re heading for that Lexington scene.”
The priest paused for a long moment. Less than five minutes into the service, the radios, along with their officers, had left the building, the sirens now fading into the distance.
The Chaplain resumed, “Let’s take a moment and pray for our people on the street this Christmas morning…”
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Posted: December 16, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories |
I love computers. My first, in 1980, was a Sinclair Z80, an invention by a guy named Clive Sinclair. By today’s standards, “primitive” would be a gross understatement. In 1982 came the Radio Shack TRS80 Model II, the Model I having been something less than a success. From that point forward things just became crazy and keeping up with technology separated many from their hard earned money. These were “command line” machines with nothing more on the screen than the “C-prompt” and a blinking cursor.
C:\ _
Learning the DOS commands was like learning another language, but the satisfaction was immense as we coaxed these mysterious boxes into doing our bidding. In the late 1980′s Windows began to gain some acceptance and slowly the terms “click,” “drag,” and “drop” became commonplace. People no longer learned the language of the command line. It’s there, buried in the sub menus of your flashy color Windows screen. Those of us who know where it is can still mystify our friends, but today it is generally only used for advanced configuration problems or in cases of dire emergency.
On occasion when family or friends buy a new computer, they will call me and ask if I can help them set it up.
“Only if I can open the boxes.” is my reply. They are quizzical, but they comply.
Once at their home or office, we open the boxes and carefully free the units from their cardboard and styrofoam constraints. There is nothing like the smell of freshly unwrapped electronics!
Together we place them in a classical layout, tower, monitor, mouse, keyboard—each is appropriately connected via its corresponding cable and after a careful check and double check we turn the power on. The hard drive clicks and whirs and in a moment the monitor bursts forth with the welcome screen.
Configuration and software installation is next and this is what makes the machine your own personal tool. When it’s done and you open your browser, voila, you are connected to far flung places.
They thank me and I say, “No, thank you. Letting me help you set up your computer is like your best friend asking you over to help you set up his new electric train.” The look on their face tells me they don’t understand… they just don’t understand.
• • •
I was seven when World War II came to an end. One of the things that had disappeared from the toy scene during the war years was electric trains, but I was too young to even know that such a marvel had existed. It was Christmas 1946 and Lionel had just resumed production of their classic electric train sets but they were scarce. My uncle however, was store manager for a Woolworths and he sequestered two; one for his son and one for me. What a Christmas that was!
On Christmas Day my cousin and I peeled back the lid on my carton.
We opened the individual boxes inside, and carefully freed the units from their cardboard and corrugated wrapping. You could smell the fresh enamel on the engine and freight cars. There is no similar smell today—it must have been the lead based paint.
Together we placed the pieces in the classical layout, transformer, simple oval track, steam engine, coal car and sundry freight cars. Two wires are run from the transformer to the special connector on the three rail track. The engine, coal car and freight cars are carefully set on the track and coupled together. The exact order of the freight cars and the shape of the oval is what made your train your own personal layout.
Then, after a careful check and double check, a cautious turn of the transformer control started the train rolling and voila!
You pucker your lips slightly, “Woooo… woo,” and your imagination transports you to far flung places.
In following years as electric trains became more plentiful, it became established custom: you only invited your very best friend to help you unpack your new Lionel or American Flyer train set.
• • •
“Electric trains. Lionel!” I repeat in exasperation as we pack up the empty computer cartons
“Lionelle? You mean lioness.”
“Forget it.” I say politely. They will never understand the connection. Pity.
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Posted: December 2, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories |
- Introduction: As I contemplated writing this I realized it would be a story without an ending. I hate stories like that… I was never good at filling in the blanks. But in this case there was no choice. It’s a true story and as is my custom, I mentally reviewed any details that might need a bit of research to keep things as accurate as the frailties of the human mind will allow. During those activities, it came to pass that the end of story was written before the actual story, possibly in testimony to powers that we do not fully understand. However, as with any tale, it’s best to read it here from beginning to end.
It started when I was a youngster and it was more than 60 years before it resolved.
Our family lived on Chicago’s west side and the Lake Street Rapid Transit was the preferred transportation downtown. At first it just caught the corner of my eye for some unknown reason. A dirty, dusty nondescript building on the north side of Lake Street next to the elevated structure. The Declan Mould Company. It was not unlike many other buildings along the route of this rusting framework loosely referred to as “the el.” I didn’t make a point of it, but when I was at a window seat on the correct side of the train, my eye would be drawn to it as if by some silent force. It was decidedly unpleasant, but I didn’t know why. It continued each time I had occasion to ride past… if anything the attraction intensified and the sense of foreboding deepened over the years.
Even in the 1940’s the building was old. It was a bleak, utilitarian structure bereft of any styling save perhaps for a rotting wooden sign edged with rounded trim that proclaimed “Declan Mould Company” in dark gray on gray. In later years the sign would be replaced with one that Americanized the company name; “Declan Mold Company.” As near as I could establish, they manufactured heavy cardboard type forms for casting concrete. Why would a 10 year old be drawn to such a place?
Then in my college years, I took a part time job with what was now called the Chicago Transit Authority. I found myself on the el almost daily, many times on the Lake Street route. I changed my seating habit now and purposely positioned myself on the side of the car that would afford me a glimpse of the Declan Mould Company. Each time I passed I would experience a visceral gnawing, deep in my inner self, inexplicable and of unknown origins. Why did I seek out the window seat with the best view? Why does the moth seek out the flame and flirt with it until the slightest shift in breeze results in its fiery demise?
The entire building had a grayish pall. Concrete dust I assumed. On the west side was a parking lot with a few randomly parked trucks. Although I could not see it from the train, I knew there was a loading dock. Incandescent bulbs coated with thick gray dust dot the ceiling of the dock, adding to the ghostly ambiance, making the scene macabre and surreal. There were colorless metal doors that led to a warehouse and offices. How could I envision a place that I had never been?
Then suddenly my world changed. I graduated college and took a job in New York City and the Declan Mould Company faded from memory. From a thousand, miles away that worrisome place could do me no harm and thoughts of it no longer disturbed my sense of well-being.
Years passed and in a career quirk of fate I found myself at the Chicago Police Academy as a recruit. Near the end of our classroom exercises we were assigned to training districts for one week, prior to our actual graduation. My assignment was the Fillmore District. The Declan Mold Company, now sporting the new sign, was in the Fillmore District. A chill went down my spine at that gruesome thought but I could not explain it with any sense of reason. There was no verbal explanation. Even now, as I write, words fail me as I contemplate the anxious, frightening countenance visited upon me each time I passed the building. Discussing it with anyone was out of the question. Where would I start? What words would I use?
Field training week is filled with unspeakable stress and tension for all police recruits, but each time my Field Training Officer cruised by the Declan Mold Company I shuddered. It was the first time I had seen it from street level and the site filled me with dread. I knew that this was the week that I would die and I knew exactly where it would happen. When I was allowed to drive, I avoided Lake Street at all costs. My training officer didn’t seem to notice.
Training week ended and I reported back to the academy in one piece. Had I cheated fate? Or was this just not the time?
At the conclusion of recruit training I was assigned to the East Chicago Avenue District. Rush Street, Old Town and the Cabrini Housing Projects. I would work the Martin Luther King Riots and the ’68 Democratic National Convention there, about as close to outright urban warfare as any police officer could experience. But it was all miles from the Declan Mold Company. It was highly unlikely that my duties would ever take me there. Once again, the thoughts faded.
Then a promotion… Area Four Homicide. Area 4 included the Fillmore District. The Declan Mold Company roller coaster of emotions started its long climb again. I needed a defense mechanism. Up to this point in life I hadn’t much pondered the concept of destiny or fate. If there was such a thing, I decided, it could not be altered by mere mortals. What would be, would be. I had no choice but to accept my destiny and try to push it from my mind.
Eleven years passed on the street in Area Four. On rare occasion I would drive by the building, but the acceptance mode lessened the tension. Whatever, I would just have to live with it, or more likely, die with it. In some strange way, I was okay with that.
A couple of promotions found me safely ensconced in an administrative office setting. Had I cheated destiny? Maybe not. As I approached the final month of employment prior to retirement, I was suddenly transferred back to street duties in the Austin District. The Austin District boundary was just two blocks from the Declan Mold Company.
Unaware of my intent to retire, my new commander allowed me to reschedule some vacation time before reporting for duty. By combining that with some shifts in my day off schedule, I was left with the two final days of my police career to work the streets in Austin.
So this is how it would end.
I could envision the human interest obituary; “Career officer killed one day before retirement.” I felt saddened, but strangely not frightened. Acceptance of one’s fate can be a powerful coping mechanism.
My final retirement papers reached the Commanders’ desk. He called me at home sounding more than a bit irritated.
“Hell, you only have two days left… and you probably don’t remember shit about working district patrol. Why don’t you just take comp time and come in and pick up your papers on your last day?”
Not being one to challenge authority, I did as I was told. My final day of work I retrieved my signed retirement papers from the district and drove downtown to headquarters, prudently avoiding Lake Street and the Declan Mold Company. I walked away from the police department alive and intact.
Still, as the years passed, the Declan Mold Company lurked in the lurid shadows of my mind. The issue, whatever it was, had not been settled. To finish this story, I needed to see that building one more time. What was this compelling, recurring moth/flame thing? Would my trip there be a final act of foolishness? My own fiery demise as the flame finally consumes the moth?
* * *
I drive northbound on Cicero and turn east under the elevated structure. What will I do when I get there? Should I once and for all leave my car and walk onto that ghostly loading dock that exists so clearly in some dark recess of my brain? I am certain that that would provide resolution, but at what cost? I approach slowly… again the moth to the flame. I pull to the curb across from the address. The building is gone! …replaced by a clean modern structure, housing a parts warehouse of some sort. I am confused for a moment. This place was my irrefutable and tragic destiny, but it is gone. I stare almost in disbelief. Slowly the realization begins to sink in… this place… this ominous place of suffering and death was not my destiny… it was my history.
Who was I?
What happened to me there?
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Posted: November 18, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories |
It was near the end of my first year in New York City, Columbus Day to be exact. I was working as an electrical engineer for TelePrompTer Corporation. It had been a difficult year for me. I was homesick for Chicago and there were very few other people my age at the company. To make things worse, my college friend, New York roommate and office partner had been transferred to our facility in southern New Jersey. With him gone, I was officially on my own.
Harvey stuck his head into my office. He was about my age, a native Brooklynite of Jewish heritage. I knew him just well enough to know that he was the epitome of a Jewish kid from Brooklyn in every favorable connotation that can be associated with that background. He had an unbounded enthusiasm for life, a gregarious personality and he spoke perfect Brooklynese.
“Hey! Da pres-den’s drivin’ by a block from heya. Les take a oily lunch an’ git a look at ‘em.”
I smiled inside every time I heard him speak.
“Yeah, let’s go!” I told him. It would be a change of pace, something different, maybe even something to write home about.
It was a hot day and the small crowd that had gathered to watch President Kennedy was on the far side of street, in the shade. Harvey and I stood on the sunny side of the street for a moment, contemplating what to do. Suddenly the motorcade approached slowly from the right and there he was: The President of the United States, John F. Kennedy, sitting high on the back seat of a convertible, waving to the crowd… on the shady side of the street.
Harvey perceived that we were being ignored and suddenly his spontaneous Brooklyn nature kicked in. He stretched his six foot frame to about six-four, standing on the very tips of his toes. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Hey JACKeee-bay-BEEE!” he shouted at the top of his voice in perfect Brooklynese.
I wanted to die. I wanted to slither, but there was no place to slither to.
But in an instant the President of the United States turned, laughed aloud and waved at the two of us with a broad grin.
“Yeah!” exclaimed Harvey.
We walked back to the office, Harvey chattering all the way, as if we were returning from a State Dinner. A quiet, conservative engineer from the Midwest and an impetuous kid from Brooklyn; we made a very unlikely pair and so we became good friends.
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Posted: November 11, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Tales From the Street |
Being a cop brings you to the scene of fires from time to time, mostly for traffic control which can be supremely boring at best, or cold and wet at worst. Worse even than that however, are those rare instances when you arrive at the scene of a fire before the fire department. If it is an occupied residential building, it is incumbent upon you to initiate some sort of rescue attempt until the pros arrive.
Now I’ve never pretended to understand the science of firefighting anymore than firefighters understand the mechanics of running into a building where there have been gunshots fired. Fires are probably more complicated than men with guns. Police officers and firefighters are different animals with different training and comfort levels in the scenarios where they have chosen to make their livelihood. Many police officers, to be sure, have received accolades and official lifesaving awards for rescuing people from burning buildings. Me? While I have succeeded in rescuing perhaps as many as two dozen people from burning buildings during my career, I have received nothing but reprimands—both written and oral—as well as causing myself great discomfort and scaring myself half to death. I hate fires.
It was March 29th, 1968, a brisk early spring day. My partner Tony and I were working days in the 18th District. When we climbed into our beat car at 8:30 AM, it was sunny with a temperature just easing out of the forties. The sun warmed the car rapidly so we hung our jackets on the hooks in the rear seat. Because we anticipated wearing our jackets whenever we left the car, we turned the cuffs on our fresh long sleeve shirts under one time. If the day wasn’t too messy, the cuffs would remain clean and we could get one more day of wear before laundering the shirt.
We took a few radio assignments, dutifully donning and buttoning our jackets each time we left the vehicle.
At about noon, the chatter on our radio picked up as the 1st District began to mobilize traffic control beat cars and foot posts for a department store fire on State Street. Wieboldt’s and Montgomery Ward reported fires, very quickly followed by Carson’s. Three simultaneous fires within a two block area quickly became a major incident as fire equipment sped into the loop from all directions. But outside of seeing fire equipment stream south through our district en route to the loop, units from our district were not affected. That is until the dispatcher paged our car.
“1822, take the fire at 636 North State—fire is not on the scene.” That was bothersome. Normally the phraseology would have been “…fire is en route.”
Tony caught the subtle alteration in semantics and looked at me, “Of course they’re not en route—they’re all downtown!” We knew our Fire Department was amog the finest in the country but common sense told us at this moment in time we would be on our own at whatever we found on State Street.
We were only a few blocks away and in moments we were at the fire. A street level restaurant was burning but the waiters, cooks and customers were standing on the sidewalk. An adjacent stairway led to apartments on the second and third floors immediately above the storefront. We parked the squad several doors away to avoid obstructing the fire equipment and we dashed from the car. As we approached the stairs, panicked people coming down called to us.
“There’s still people up there!”
Tony and I ran up the stairs and began pounding on doors. There was smoke in the stairwell, but things were tolerable. We led several people down to the safety of the sidewalk.
“Mr. Lee! Mr. Lee! He’s till up there. Third floor rear, he works nights… he must be sleeping.”
Tony and I headed up the stairs for the second time and on the third floor we pounded on the rear apartment door and screamed the best we could in the ever increasing smoke. Mr. Lee finally opened the door, a small Asian man, still sleepy eyed. In seconds we had him safely out on the sidewalk in front of the burning building.
And then we did something incredibly stupid.
A hysterical woman approached us.
“My puppies, my puppies!” she screamed. “They’re on the third floor front, in a box in the living room.”
“What kind of box? Exactly where is it?”
“It’s just a cardboard box on the floor in the living room.” Tony and I headed to the stairwell for our third trip.
“And my parakeet!” she yelled as we disappeared into the smoke.
As we passed the second floor landing we could hear snapping and popping from the front apartment. The smoke was rapidly becoming extremely uncomfortable. No fire units were yet on the scene. In the third floor apartment we quickly located the tiny puppies and the parakeet. We headed downstairs, Tony carrying the box of puppies and me following with the bird. Somehow, even then, I realized the image of a cop fleeing a burning building with a birdcage was not exactly heroic. I should have grabbed the puppies.
When we reached the second floor landing things were not good. Smoke and heat were streaming up towards us and the crackling sound was even louder than before. The only comfort was the sound of the first fire unit finally arriving out on the street. As we headed down the last flight of stairs, a portion of the stairwell wall broke away, tumbling into the restaurant which was now a raging inferno. We had no choice but to make a dash for it. Two seconds later we were on the street turning the parakeet and puppies over to a woman who was now sobbing uncontrollably.
The only good thing about our third trip out of the building was that there was no media present to snap a picture of the dramatic bird cage rescue. The news types were all downtown covering the trio of department store arsons that ultimately caused over twenty million dollars in damage.
As we coughed and blew the black soot out of our noses I glanced across the street and saw our District Commander standing quietly in civilian clothes. I gave a quick report to the Battalion Chief, telling him I thought we had everyone out of the building, A hose was in position but not yet charged and a ladder company was moving their unit into position in front of the building and firefighters were preparing to climb up to the roof. We could feel the intense heat from the middle of the street. Tony and I walked to the far curb to catch our breath, calm down and watch from a safe distance. Our Commander had left the scene.
Several minutes later our field sergeant approached us.
“Hey guys, go into the station and report to the Watch Commander.” He would want a written report no doubt, to give him background to initiate a department life saving award.
Once in the Watch Commander’s office we immediately noticed the pink form-sets on his desk. SPAR forms. Summary Punishment Action Reports.
“The Commander wants you two disciplined.”
“For what?” we asked incredulously.
“Your sleeves were rolled up.”
“Oh for chrissake,” I said. “Let us talk to him. We just rescued a whole shitload of people from a burning building.”
“Were your sleeves rolled up?”
“Well, turned under once,” I said looking down at my sleeves now smudged with soot.
“Then you better not talk to him… he saw you and he is really pissed. Just sign the SPAR for a written reprimand and it’s over with. Don’t make it any worse by challenging him.”
“Probably saw me with the goddam parakeet,” I muttered
“What?”
“Never mind.”
It was our first formal department discipline. Did I mention how much I hate fires?
• • •
Several years later and a promotion to detective found me working out of Maxwell Street Homicide. Homicide detectives don’t get assigned to traffic control at fires but there were occasions where we found it necessary to visit fire buildings after the fact to investigate deaths by arson. I found that far preferable to actually being inside burning buildings.
It was a cold February night around 2 AM as Mike and I headed back to the Maxwell Street Headquarters to catch up on some typing. As we were northbound on Morgan, approaching our office from the south, we saw flames in the first floor apartment just three doors south of our building.
“7407 emergency,” we paged the City-Wide Two dispatcher.
“All units standby, 7407 go with your emergency.”
“Yeah, squad, we have a residential three story building fire at 1341 South Morgan, looks to be occupied, fire’s not on the scene—we’re going in.”
We jumped from our unmarked squad without waiting for a response.
As Yogi Berra would say, “It was déjà vu all over again.”
We dashed up the five or six steps to the vestibule door which was locked. We each carried an expired credit card in our front pocket but Mike was first with his. He jimmied the latch in about 10 seconds, 10 precious seconds. Once inside the hallway we felt the door to the first floor front apartment. Hot! We hesitated just long enough to hear a distant siren, probably from the fire station at 1123 West Roosevelt. Leave this door for the pros, we thought as we started pounding on the other doors, gradually working our way up the stairs to the third floor.
Sleepy people started appearing. The smoke this time was worse and only intensified as we reached the top floor. As soon as we satisfied ourselves of a response from each apartment, we turned to head back down the stairs into the ominous heat and black billowing smoke roiling up from the first floor. Things had deteriorated rapidly and now Mike and I had serious doubts about our ability to get ourselves out of the building safely. What to do? Well… if you’re paying attention, the Lord sends angels in many forms.
“Office!” screamed a heavyset black lady. “Ya’ all come through here,” she said as she motioned to her third floor apartment. “We be goin’ out the back way!”
Well… that’s probably covered at the Fire Academy in Basic Firefighting 101; you do not have to exit the same way you came in, but I never had that course at the Police Academy.
As we went through her apartment, the air became cooler and less smoky and when we got to the back porch, the crisp, cold air was positively refreshing. We made our way, coughing heavily, down and to the front of the building as the Fire Department was charging their first line.
“Are you guys the coppers who went in?” yelled a fireman.
We nodded, still coughing, unable to speak.
“Lieu! The cops are accounted for!” he called over his shoulder.
The Fire Lieutenant was heading into the building as we walked over to the Battalion Chief who was being briefed by another fireman.
“Hey,” my voice was surprisingly raspy and I spoke between coughs. “We didn’t get into the first floor front.”
“We’re in there now,” said the Chief. “Damned space heaters!”
Our car was blocked by fire equipment so Mike and I walked around the corner and up the long flight of stairs to our office on the second floor. At the top of the stairs was the men’s room. We stopped and splashed our sooty faces with cold water and blew an unbelievable amount of black out our noses before we headed back to the homicide office.
“You guys are in deep shit now,” announced our cantankerous and paranoid midnight sergeant.
“How’s that?” we asked with genuine surprise.
“I don’t know what you’re up to, but the First Deputy’s Office just called and asked for the name and star numbers of the detectives on 7407. I’m tellin’ ya, whatever ya done, you’re both in shit now. I gave them your name and star numbers… and I’m not covering for you!”
“Sarge, we just got a dozen people out of a burning building down the block. Downtown will probably be expecting a report from you nominating us for a lifesaving award.”
“That’s all bullshit. I’m not covering for you no matter what you did!” he sputtered. He was turning beet red and we thought he might stroke out so we found typewriters as far from his office as we could and started typing up some old cases.
The incident would rate a line or two on the 24 hour report for the department brass, but without any further input from our supervisors it would die there. Our sergeant would spend the rest of the early morning hours locked in his world of paranoia muttering about the trouble we were facing.
Did I mention to you? I hate fires.
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Posted: October 14, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Tales From the Street |
Being a cop brings you into daily contact with all sorts of individuals, from bums to bank presidents. A very few will become lifelong friends, most will be but a fleeting contact resulting from an accident or crime, and some will become regulars in your police life. Stella Jefferson was most definitely of the latter category.
Stella was a prostitute, a street whore, who worked the fringes of the Rush Street neighborhood. If a trick couldn’t connect with a high priced girl on Rush Street, or if he couldn’t afford the going price, Stella offered bargain rates and she worked the main streets westbound from the nightclub area. Division Street from LaSalle to Clark was where she could be found most evenings.
She was not an attractive woman by any stretch of the imagination. Tall, thin, kind of gangly in appearance, she just barely had a shape to her. She was living proof of Micky Gilley’s country song: “The Girls all Get Prettier at Closing Time.” But Stella was a hard working girl who seldom took a night off and she provided an honest service at a reasonable price. To my knowledge, she never acquired any consumer complaints… well maybe just once, but I’ll get to that later.
Cops don’t bring home many stories because of the nature of their work, but I talked often of Stella and some of her friends. Many evenings, they were the only honest people I came into in an entire tour of duty. Especially Stella. I talked of her frequently at the dinner table, perhaps too frequently —we had no children at the time. One night my wife stopped me short, set down her fork, looked across the table and said, “Don’t bring her home to dinner.” Well, while that never actually occurred to me, she would have made for an interesting evening of conversation.
I first arrested Stella as a recruit, riding with my Field Training Officer. Looking back on it, most likely he thought it would be an easy arrest and a good learning experience for me. He was correct on all counts. The police played a smoke and mirrors game with prostitutes back in the olden days. There was a city ordinance prohibiting “known prostitutes” from loitering on the street, 192-6 if I recall correctly. The beat officers would make an arrest, book the prostitute and house her for the night. In the morning the charge would be dismissed in court and the best part was the arresting officer was not required to appear. The next night she would be back on the street and more often than not the charade would be repeated. At the end of the month, the department could report on the hundreds of arrests that had been made, all without undo strain on manpower and overtime.
We spotted Stella working Division Street near Clark and motioned her over to the squad.
“Get in Stella,” said my partner motioning to the back seat.
“Oh office! I hardly made any money tonight!”
“Get in Stella!”
Reluctantly Stella opened the door to the squad and climbed into the back seat.
“You know the drill,” said my partner as he handed her a clipboard with an Arrest Report.
“Do you have a pen?” grumbled Stella. Much to my amazement she began to fill in her own Arrest Report complete with her Identification Record (IR) number and the first four digits of the seven digit sequential Central Booking Number. By the time we got to the station, the paperwork was done, except for the last three digits of the CB number—no Case Report was required in the early days.
“Now you can’t do this with every whore,” warned my partner. “Stella is okay, but if you don’t know the broad, call a wagon for transport.”
Imagine my surprise when a day later I got a copy of her arrest record. It was 12 pages long. Stella was the most prolific whore in the city!
Once I began to work with a regular partner, we refined the process even further. On the midnight shift, we would arrest Stella by appointment. It gave her a chance to make some money and after the bars had closed we would meet her at a pre-arranged time and place and she would just hop into the squad without any fuss. If we happened to get a late assignment and missed our appointment time with Stella, the following night she would greet us with a litany of how long she waited before she went home.
A new captain was assigned to our watch from an administrative unit at headquarters. Stella’s fame had spread far and wide and at roll call he asked the first unit to arrest Stella to bring her to his office so he could meet her. Of course we made it our business to bring Stella in that night and introduce her to the Captain.
“I hear you are the queen of prostitutes,” said the Captain.
“I ain’t no prostitute!” exclaimed Stella stretching her lanky body to its full height.
“Y-y-you’re n-n-not?” stammered the Captain. “Then what are you?”
“I’se a sportin’ woman!” she said proudly.
Quiet conversation with Stella revealed that she had a teen daughter for whom she had established a college fund. She claimed to own an apartment building and we believed her. Although uneducated, she worked hard long hours, did not drink or use drugs and obviously had a keen sense that gave her a talent for getting along with her customers and the police. In short, she was every bit the successful business woman in her own unique way.
Customer complaints from the “johns” or “tricks” were few and far between, unless they were robbed in some secluded place, and even then they would seldom admit to the police that they had been patronizing a prostitute. Most frequent consumer complaints came regularly from sailors from Great Lakes Naval Training Center in town for a week-end of R & R. It took the form of the girl failing to perform one or more of the agreed upon acts for which they had already paid. They would haul the prostitute out into the street and flag down a passing squad and proceed to explain the contractual terms and the lack of performance thereof.
We would put the young man on the hood of the squad for a search, tell him he was under arrest for patronizing a prostitute and even cuff him for effect. Once the wailing—and sometimes tears— subsided we allowed ourselves to be talked into releasing all parties concerned and sending them off in different directions.
Late one night we received an assignment of a battery victim, now at the Henrotin Hospital. As my partner and I walked into the waiting room we saw Stella sitting along the far wall.
“I demands to have my pussy examined!” she shouted as she leapt from her chair.
“What?” we asked incredulously.
“That man says I have razor blades in my pussy!” she said motioning to the ER examining rooms. “I do not! And I wants to be examined.”
“Sit down Stella and let us figure out what’s going on here,” we said as we headed into the Emergency Room proper. Doctor Whitney greeted us with an exasperated expression on his face.
“This young man,” he said motioning to a curtained cubicle, “had an incomplete circumcision as a baby. Tonight, was his first time and when he forced it, he tore a small portion of the foreskin. It’s bleeding pretty good and he’s probably going to need a urology followup—maybe even corrective surgery. But it’s nothing she did. So unless you’re going to arrest him for patronizing a prostitute, you’ve got nothing to report. And get her out of my hospital—I am not going to look into that whore’s ‘pussy!’”
Doctor Whitney was usually not short with us, but we recognized his frustration with the overall situation so we stifled the puns and punch lines that we were dying to use. Stella was a bit of a problem, but she was savvy enough to finally accept the medical explanation for the debacle and we eventually talked her out of the ER and gave her a ride to the subway with orders to take the rest of the night off and go home. She had left no doubt that she valued her reputation.
It was one of the last times I saw Stella. I was promoted to detective and transferred to another area. My partner told me that Stella remained active for a few more years but looked to be in declining health, possibly suffering from any number of sexually transmitted diseases. She eventually disappeared from the street. I felt sorry for her and her daughter. Stella was an honest working woman, a victim perhaps, of her hazardous occupation.
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Posted: September 28, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories |
- Author’s Note: I wrote this piece in June 2009, the morning after the shooting of Chicago Police Officer Alejandro “Alex” Valadez. It appeared on another blog at that time. I learned late this evening that the killer of Officer Valadez has been convicted of First Degree Murder for this incident. I republish the story here in memory of Officer Valadez, as a tribute to his family and a solemn salute to all Police Families in Chicago and across our great country.
June 2009, Chicago
I woke to the news that a 007th District police officer had been shot in the head… extremely critical condition. No name, pending family notification.
My own son, who on occasion takes his undercover narcotics squad into 007 was day off last night. In fact we had dinner with him, his wife and their twins.
But Danny… Danny works in 007. The Chill went up my spine, “Please God, don’t let it be Danny!”
Danny was a grammar school and high school buddy of my son… they both grew up wanting to be the police. But Danny had several issues, any one of which would preclude him from joining the force. We would talk. “One thing at a time.” I would tell him. He would make one hurdle and then we would talk some more. One by one he tackled every obstacle, and over a matter of years of self-perseverance and determination, he beat them all. On the night before his graduation from the Police Academy, I cut short weeklong meetings on the east coast and flew home to be there. He gave me a bear hug that I swear broke several ribs and brought a tear to my eye. They assigned him to 007, certainly one of the most dangerous districts in the city. I got The Chill then too… “You’re responsible for him,” I told myself in an absurd moment of self importance, “Please God keep him safe.”
We saw Danny and his wife Terri a couple of weeks ago… we babysat for our son and his wife. Danny and Terri picked them up for a night out, a class reunion as I recall.
“Please God, don’t let it be Danny!”
I could feel my pulse pick up as I rapidly scanned the news on the computer screen for clues.
Unmarked car… last I heard Danny was working a marked car.
Plain clothes… last I heard Danny was working uniform.
Three years on the job… I was sure that Danny had five or six.
Age 27… Danny was our son’s age, 35.
“Thank you God!”
I sat there staring dumbly at the screen cradling my coffee cup. I took an occasional sip to quiet the not too irrational fears that had momentarily inhabited this retired cop’s body. How many times did some variation of this scene play out across Chicago this morning as the Police Family awoke to the news? For all but one family The Chill faded and the adrenaline washed slowly out of their system.
For all but one family…
Rest in Peace Alejandro “Alex” Valadez, may God be with your family in the coming days… and with Police Families everywhere who will have to endure The Chill all too many times in the coming years.
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Posted: September 23, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Family Stories |
I am several years into retirement and it’s a Tuesday, late November, 6:30 PM. A cold mist is falling, driven by a light southwest wind. I’m eastbound on Morse Avenue, approaching the T-intersection and stop sign at Central. It can be a long time before traffic breaks enough to pull out, but tonight there are no cars approaching from either direction.
I make an easy left turn to head north and immediately the scene before me does not compute. I slow instinctively. Immediately to my right is a van at the curb, lights and hazard lights on, engine running but no driver. A bundle of clothing lies in the curb lane about 25 yards ahead of the driverless van. In the center lane just past the clothing is a tennis shoe and another 25 yards north I see a beige late model mid-size sedan not moving, straddling the center line. In less than a second my brain finishes the first process of the scene. The bundle of clothing is in fact a body. The cop still left in me kicks in. I pull my car to the curb lane and pull into a protective position about ten feet short of the crumpled mass and hit my four-ways.
The body is now fully illuminated by my headlights. The unnatural, grotesque position lacks human form and belies a death pose. I look into her face and there is no doubt. A ghostly pallor, empty, unfocused eyes half open, expressionless face lying in a pool of blood that is no longer spreading. The heart has stopped pumping. That old feeling from years ago comes back… a slight quickening of the pulse and a small twist in my stomach. It’s been a long time since I looked into the face of death on the street. There’s nothing to be done for her.
I look further north and just ahead of the beige sedan is another body. A man lies on his side and as I kneel next to him he seems almost to be asleep. He’s motionless except for shallow breathing. There is no sign of blood.
“Don’t move him!” cries a voice from the west curb. “I’m a nurse, just leave him until help gets here.”
I look over to the curb and see a thirtyish woman squatting next to two more dazed persons sitting on the curb. Driver and passenger from the sedan I learn later.
“I’m a police officer.” I lie. It’s an easy lie because for the moment I am.
There’s a man next to me now talking to 911 telling them about this terrible scene in Niles. Wrong! There’s always been jurisdictional confusion along this stretch of street that borders the suburbs of Skokie and Lincolnwood and the City of Chicago. At this point the street centerline is the border between Chicago and Skokie, but from the skid marks starting on the east side of the street, the scene belongs to Skokie. It is more than two blocks to the Niles border.
I dial 911 on my cell and the signal hits a Chicago tower.
“Chicago Emergency, Roberts,” is the immediate answer. Five years ago I would have known Roberts personally, but tonight he’s just an anonymous call taker at the other end of the line.
“Connect me with Skokie Emergency!” The tone of my voice does not leave room for additional conversation but—if Chicago call taker Roberts is doing his job—he will monitor the conversation and dispatch Chicago first responders as backup. In just a few seconds Skokie answers.
“Skokie Police, Sergeant Rosen.” Mike Rosen and I are members of a law enforcement professional association and good friends. What is he doing answering 911 calls?
“Mike, this is Jim Padar. You’ve got a traffic accident with multiple injuries on Central just north of Morse!”
“Shit! Jim, are you sure it’s the Skokie side? We’re getting swamped with calls and we’re on the way, but I was hoping it would be Chicago’s”
“No such luck Mike and one more thing… it’s a fatal.”
“Double shit!”
I stand there for a moment looking for the second vehicle involved in the surrounding death and destruction. Why weren’t they wearing their seatbelts? Where is the other car? There are a growing number of spectators, but still no emergency vehicles on the scene.
“Officer!” shouts the nurse. “Could you check on my kids? They’re in the van back by Morse Avenue.”
I walk slowly back through the scene, around the car with front end damage and caved windshield and it starts to dawn on me. The windshield is caved inward towards the passenger compartment. This is a car versus pedestrian accident. I pass the solitary white gym shoe and see her again, brightly illuminated in my headlights. I stop for moment and turn off my headlights and leave the four-ways blinking. Standing on the curb a man with a small white dog on a leash stares, as if transfixed by death. The dog is sniffing curiously at the edge of the pool of blood and seems to me about ready to take a taste.
“Hey!” I yell. The man is startled and looks across the body at me. “Your dog!” He looks down and quickly pulls the leash back.
Just behind my car is the driverless van and inside are two children. A 12 year old in the front seat and a toddler in a rear car seat. They are both crying hysterically. I tap on the window and show her my star.
“Mom told me to keep the doors locked! She’s helping the people!” screams the older girl.
“That’s right. You keep the door locked. But there’s something I need you to do.” She stares at me for a moment. “I want you to turn around and talk to your sister. Don’t look out the front any more. Your sister needs you to talk to her.”She releases the seat belt and slowly turns, kneeling on the seat now facing to the rear and little sister stops crying almost immediately.
Back at Morse is a traffic nightmare. Northbound lanes have been stopped for some time and other northbound traffic starts pulling over into the southbound lanes to pass them, up to Morse where they can’t go any further. All four lanes are now filled with northbound traffic at a standstill. A siren and a blast horn sounds from much farther south. Most likely Chicago’s Fire Engine Company from Lehigh Avenue, but they’re never going to get through. I start to motion traffic westbound onto Morse. The first few cars look at my blue flannel shirt and khaki cargo pants and hesitate for a moment. Who the hell am I? A young man in a Pontiac Grand Am rolls down his window.
“I want to go north to Touhy.” he complains.
“There are bodies all over the road up there,” I say waving towards the north. He pales before my eyes and turns west on Morse. Hesitantly the first few cars behind him turn west on Morse and the following cars turn without hesitation flooding our quiet confusing neighborhood of curving streets with hundreds of cars. The Chicago Engine Company gets through followed by Chicago Police Beat car 1621. Roberts, the Chicago call taker, has done his job correctly. Other suburban emergency vehicles are arriving from the north. Lincolnwood and Skokie most likely. I would estimate response time to be about 10 minutes, but in actuality it was probably much shorter.
I walk back to the nurse and as I pass the front of my car I see Chicago firemen covering the fatal victim with a tarp. The nurse has been relieved by EMS personnel and she’s telling a Skokie police officer what she saw.
“I was driving right behind her. We were just driving along and they started to cross the street. They were shielding their faces from the rain. They never looked. They just walked into the street. It was wet, she tried to stop but…” she looked helplessly at the carnage around her.
I interrupt her, “Your kids are okay but I think they really need you as soon as you can break away from here.”
“Thank you, oh thank you so much!”
I start to walk back to my car contemplating how I’m going to extricate my vehicle from the mess at Morse when a young Skokie police officer starts addressing me, several decibels louder than he needs to. The look in his eyes tells me this gruesome scene has him rattled.
“What are you doing here? Get out of here! You have no business here!” Yellow crime scene tape has miraculously appeared from light pole to light pole and I am definitely on the wrong side.
Simultaneously I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to see Sergeant Mike Rosen.
“Jim! Thanks for the call. We didn’t know what we had.” The Skokie patrolman glances at his sergeant and retreats back into the shadows.
“You’re welcome Mike. I just wanted to stay around long enough to make sure you guys didn’t try to push the bodies to the Chicago side.”
Mikes laughs, a hearty laugh… “Don’t think we haven’t done that.”
“I know Mike!” More laughter. Cops macabre humor. It’s the same all over.
Back at Morse the Skokie patrolman is all Mr. Manners now.
“Sorry sir, I’ll move my squad and help you get out of here.”
“Thanks… and officer…” he looks back at me expectantly.”You don’t need to apologize for doing your job.”
I reach my shopping destination about 20 minutes late, nose into a parking place and turn off the engine. How many people’s lives have changed in the past half hour? Those children in the van will never forget this fateful evening. The man and woman pedestrians; husband and wife? She is deceased. Will he recover? The driver and passenger in the striking vehicle; they will relive this moment far too many times in the coming months. How quickly our lives can change. The headlights on my car turn themselves off having grown impatient with me to exit the vehicle. I bow my head for a moment and pray for them all.
It had been many years since I had looked into the face of a violent street death. As a homicide detective I had more than my share of handling and examining deceased persons. Long ago I decided that whatever we are while alive stops being represented by our bodies at the moment of death. At death, what was our physical being is no longer relevant. From that instant forward the human body ceases to embody our spirit, our essence, our soul. A French theologian named Pierre Teilhard de Chardin perhaps said it best:
“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience.
We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”
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Posted: September 9, 2011 | Author: jimpadar | Filed under: Tales From the Street |
A whimsical look at growing up—with apologies to all my former field supervisors.
When you’re a little boy, you can’t wait to grow up. To be a big guy. To be an “adult.”
Then at some point, maybe in your late teens, or early twenties, when you’re living life and just having a great time, maybe getting into a little trouble here and there, you stop and look around. Perhaps being an adult isn’t the greatest thing. A lot of “fun” things are not necessarily “adult” things. You begin to think, “If I really grow up, will life be fun any more?”
Maybe—just maybe—that’s why I loved being a street cop in Chicago. The city essentially gave me a car with a full tank of gas, a revolver and 12 extra bullets, and told me to go out and look for trouble. Dispatchers even gave me hints on where to look, over the radio. And the city paid me! Let’s see… I was 28 when I came on the force and I worked the street for fourteen years. Patrol and homicide. That means I didn’t even have to think about growing up until I was 42. It was great!
Then I made Sergeant. Suddenly I was responsible for other people. Pity… it was downhill from there.
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