Editor’s note:
Alison True
The assembly looked anything but official. There were no uniforms. Most of us in the room could never have been pegged as cops. We wore shorts, jeans, T-shirts, beards, dreadlocks–whatever we needed to fit the part. To ordinary citizens we looked like gangbangers, street trash, or just other citizens. But we were careful not to look like anyone in particular, and we wore nothing that would identify us with any gang–we didn’t want to be mistaken for rivals.
I still felt that way my first day on the job, as a beat cop in the gang-ridden 14th District–despite the first piece of advice I was given. John Lyons, who would be my field training officer for the next 60 days, was a classic “kick ass now, take names later” kind of cop. “Juan,” he said, “be aggressive. And don’t worry about OPS.”
Other cops loved Lyons, a 25-year veteran, because he didn’t take shit from anyone. He was a cop’s cop–hardworking and diligent and aggressive. Hundreds of cops had learned from him, and many had adopted his mentality.
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The kid’s face was a blur as Lyons yanked his hair side to side the way a rottweiler shakes a toy. The blood kept pouring from the cut on his forehead.
The kid was what Lyons called an urban pioneer. “These kids,” he’d informed me on the way to the call, “are friggin’ slackers. Who the fuck do they think they are? They come to live in the shit, they deserve to be treated like shit. Their parents are loaded, so they can afford to be art fucks. Escaping responsibility, if you ask me. They remind me of those friggin’ longhaired hippies. I was at the convention in ’68. I know how to handle these spineless twats.”
