This week is National Police Appreciation Week, a time to honor the hundreds of decent cops doing great work in the city, instead of dwelling on the few trigger-happy, force-heavy, arguably racist ones who have dominated the last year’s worth of headlines (because being good at your job is never breaking news). These are the stories of the cops we have loved.
The Cop Who Saved My Ass
A lot of cops aren’t great to homeless people like me—either they hassle us or they ignore us. But last summer, one cop probably saved me from getting my ass kicked. I was panhandling on the downtown waterfront and had made about $20. It was in a baseball cap in front of me, but my legs were around it so nobody could snatch it (and also because my right knee is pretty messed up). I saw these thug-looking kids, three of them, eyeing the money. The sun was setting, and they kept getting closer and closer. I wanted to get up but I was afraid to—I knew these kids were going to mess with me if I moved. Then this bike cop rolled up. I don’t know if he was watching or what, but he pulled between me and the guys. Then the cop helped me stand up. He asked where I was going and if he could walk with me. So I said, “Sure.” He walked with me to get a burger, and we talked about the weather and seagulls and guns. The kids didn’t follow us. It was a really good thing that cop did, a really kind gesture. I don’t know his name, but I’ll always appreciate it. JERRY
The Cops Outside the Club
I promote shows at the Crocodile in Belltown, where there’s a significant amount of open-air drug dealing and violence. We have two beat cops—one’s a little guy and the other’s this massive dude, like 300 pounds or a robust 280. I think he used to be a Husky football player. They’re always walking around, talking to people on the street, joking with business owners. About a year and a half ago, we saw a drug deal go bad outside of the Crocodile. And as we watched, these two beat cops went tearing after the dealer, chasing him down the middle of Second Avenue, right through traffic, on foot. Not only was it a hoot to watch, they caught the guy.
When we have good cops on the beat, Belltown is safer. These guys make a huge difference in the neighborhood. Huge. KERRI HARROP
The Cop Who Saw Me Drinking
It was a fine evening in May of 2002—that spring was a warm one, if such a thing is imaginable. A companion and I strolled down East Pine Street, enjoying a cold beer in a cavalier manner less than half a block from the Capitol Hill precinct police station. The voice of the law interrupted the strolling. It came from within a police cruiser, stopped at the light a mere stone’s throw away. The officer issued a surprising directive: to chug the beer. I complied to the best of my immediate ability, then moved toward a nearby recycling bin. “Don’t wimp out on me!” the officer commanded. I followed orders, then disposed of my container properly while exchanging pleasantries with the officer. His parting words (and his only warning): “Remember—throwing away beer is a crime.” If we cannot do away with Seattle Municipal Code 12A.24.025, it is a delight to find an officer who recognizes the inanity of disallowing responsible adults to responsibly consume alcohol in public on a beautiful May evening—and one who is willing to disregard the law in favor of a greater universal moral code. BETHANY JEAN CLEMENT
The Cop in My Rearview Mirror
I’m driving west on Highway 16 in Tacoma, middle lane, music up, arm halfway out the window, passing the giant red Target target on a sunny afternoon. I notice a cop behind me, so I check my speed: a little fast. I slow down—he drives closer. I start to feel that familiar feeling I get at the border or the DMV, that I am guilty of something I have not done. I tense up. I turn down the music but not too much. I’m not turning it all the way off! I haven’t done anything wrong! Or have I? The police car pulls into the left lane and sidles up next to me. I don’t look over at first, but he stays there, stalking me. I am terrified. I get up the gumption to look over, and he is looking at me. Defeated, I switch off the music. I’m grimly ready for whatever punishment is coming my way when I hear, like the principal’s voice on a loudspeaker, the flat, serious words “PLEASE. TURN OFF YOUR BLINKER.” JEN GRAVES
The Cop Who Caught the Guy
Two years ago, my house on south Beacon Hill was robbed of everything of value.
The first responding officer was straight-up with us: These things don’t often get solved. He gave us the contact info for the community patrol officer and sat with us a bit, talking about the next steps in the case.
The next day while cleaning up, I discovered some broken glass under the bed, with blood, so I called the nonemergency line and within an hour, another officer arrived. He apologized for being late—something that blew my mind—and told my wife and me he had come from a robbery just like ours down the street. He thought they had a lead.
A few days later, a detective knocked on my door with some follow-up questions about the robbery. He also had the kid who robbed my place in the fucking van right in front of my house. We ended up getting back some of our CDs and DVDs. I’ve never had good experiences with cops, but these guys were really professional—they stayed in touch afterward and let us know how things were coming. And really, that’s the best you can ask for when you’ve been robbed, cops who are sensitive enough to make your shitty experience slightly better. BRIAN McGUIGAN
The Cop at the Party
It was New Year’s Eve, and the theme of the party was Mexico. I bought 25 bags of different kinds of tortilla chips and poured them into round green tub and called it Chip Mountain. Hours into the party and unbeknownst to me, an inebriated friend dumped Chip Mountain out my sixth-floor window. I live at the intersection of two major arterials, and considering the holiday, the streets were covered in cops, including two of them standing a few feet from where the dozen-or-so-bags’ worth of chips landed. When the cops looked up at the source of the avalanche of chips, they saw something even more distressing coming out of the windows of my apartment: fireworks. For a brief, beautiful, unforgettable moment, the party was awash in bright-white cop lights beaming up from the street, and then, like thunder, came that God-is-speaking-to-you megaphone voice. I stepped out into the hallway to greet them—a talkative lesbian (I’m guessing) and a shy short guy (both very pleasant). They asked if I knew that guests were dumping things out my window and shooting explosives at pedestrians. I said I didn’t. I was not lying. The amazing thing is they believed me. We had a sincere conversation about public safety, I assured them I would speak to my guests about refraining from six-story projectiles and blowing up passersby, they said they understood that celebrations could get a little too celebratory on nights like tonight, and turned on their heels and left. CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE
The Cop in New York City
I was in the back of his squad car, crying. Not far away, my then boyfriend was in the back of an ambulance, bleeding, on his way to the emergency room.
“It’s okay,” the cop told me. “We’re going to find the guy.”
We had been walking together down Sixth Avenue south of Chelsea when some guy—young, menacing, mad about something—walked past us and, without saying a word, punched my boyfriend in the back of the head as hard he could.
Maybe it was a gay-bashing. Maybe it was something else. It was hard to tell. The guy just kept on walking.
We needed help. The guy had been wearing a ring that gouged the back of my boyfriend’s head, and now there was blood everywhere. All over my boyfriend’s neck, his shirt, my hands. It was terrifying.
I held it together long enough to get my boyfriend into an ambulance. But once I was in the back of the cop car looking for the guy who attacked my boyfriend, I lost it.
I felt embarrassed. I was blubbering about something that was probably, in the scheme of what he’d seen, relatively minor. Also: I was blubbering—like, really blubbering—and the cop was a big, beefy, commutes-in-from-Long-Island type.
He was a total pro, though. He helped me calm down enough to describe the guy’s clothes, height, and—this is the part I remembered most clearly, because it was so ridiculous—the guy’s row of gold-capped teeth. The cop got on the radio, and pretty soon, as promised, they got him. We drove over to a brick apartment building wall the guy was being held against, and the cop got out of the squad car and stood next to me, protective-like.
“That him?” the cop asked.
“Yes, officer,” I said. “Thank you so much.” ELI SANDERS
The Cop Who Didn’t Shoot Me
“Shit!” I yelled as the flashing lights appeared in my rearview mirror, just days after getting my driver’s license. Had I run a red light? Was I speeding? Maybe. I was too nervous to be sure. So I pulled to the curb and anxiously waited for the officer to approach.
And waited.
After what seemed like minutes, I rolled down the window and stuck my head out to see what was happening. It was then that the officer, crouching behind the door of his patrol car, swung his revolver toward me, screaming: “Freeze… drop your guns!”
Oh. That.
It was 1980. Dressed as Arab terrorists for a skit in a high school show, we’d made a last-minute burger run—in character—my comrades-in-fake-arms shooting their cap guns and starter pistols out the windows as I white-knuckled my way through traffic. Stupid fucking teenagers.
“But they’re only toys…” my friend Philip half-giggled, oblivious to the danger, as he extended a particularly ludicrous prop out his window, a flimsy plastic caricature of a tommy gun held together with a piece of silver duct tape. “Drop ’em!” the officer repeated threateningly, swinging his very real weapon in Philip’s direction. We carefully complied, slowing sliding our ridiculous arsenal of toys and cardboard cutouts onto the pavement, as the absurd reality of the situation slowly dawned on the officer.
Holstering his gun with an audible sigh, you could see a mixture of relief and embarrassment cross the officer’s face as he muttered something into his microphone. The excited radio chatter suddenly ceased. There was a long pause, followed by a disappointed “Oh.”
Nowadays, such an incident would likely end in suicide-by-cop. If we had been shot, the cop would have been excused. But thanks to the composure and common sense of the officer, we all walked away with nothing but a stern warning and a story to tell. GOLDY
The Cop Who Is All About Being Nice
If someone calls 911 for a nonemergency—say, a neighbor’s outdoor cigar smoking is drifting over the fence and polluting their life—chances are the complaint will be forwarded to Seattle police sergeant Paul Gracy. An affable 31-year-veteran of the Seattle Police Department (SPD), he runs the West Precinct Community Police Team.
“We are the friendly face of SPD,” intones Gracy in his West Precinct office on Eighth Avenue and Virginia Street.
A typical day for his team? Driving cold-weather vans around to hand out food and socks, and give free rides to shelters. Or visiting with school children. Or calling the Seattle Department of Transportation on behalf of a neighbor to report bad lighting or a crumbling sidewalk. Or linking mentally ill people up with the appropriate services. “It doesn’t matter which population we’re dealing with, it takes multiple contacts to build trust,” Gracy explains. “But every positive encounter helps build our good reputation.”
This sort of function—building a good rapport with residents—is exactly what SPD needs more of to combat the public’s negative associations with less-friendly cops. “A lot of interactions people have stem from public fights, robberies, being pulled over, generally the bad stuff,” he says. “It’d be nice if everyone liked us. But when you arrest people, a certain level of dislike comes with the territory, so the most honorable thing we can do is be as nice as humanly possible in the face of anything that’s thrown our way. It’s a simple thing—being nice. But it reminds people we’re here to help, not just police.” CIENNA MADRID
Am I the only one totally offended by an article by and about a bunch of white people telling stories of things cops let them get away with?
I know in an era of jaywalk-slap or mexican-piss there are in fact good cops out there, but coming from a class who haven’t [yet] fallen victim to SPD brutality, it rings completely hollow to me.
man fuck the popo. A few bad cops? More like a few good ones literally like 3 on duty at any one time in all king county, maybe. The rest are SHADY. I saw a cop pull a dude off the 4th stair of an apartment complex for not extinguishing his cigarette in 4 seconds. The man was like 45+ and hit his head and got locked in some fuckin’ cop hold.
@58 – since you don’t know the races of any of the people writing here (and I don’t know your race, as you’re just a name on a website) I feel perfectly comfortable telling you to go fuck yourself. As a brown person in America, who works with incarcerated, pre-release, and probationary brown people, and is engaged to an immigrant brown person, I have never been harmed, and on the contrary, been assisted, by the police forces in this country. Will I ever have a bad experience? Maybe. Anything’s possible. But for you to sit there and shit on people who can relay positive things that other human beings have done for them? You sir, or madam, are being an ass.
So again, go fuck yourself. And when I say that, I’m saying that to you, personally. Not your race, religion, creed, gender or others who share your occupation. I’m saying to you, personally, go fuck yourself, a courtesy you are arrogant enough not to extend to the vast majority of decent cops out there.
@59 – same goes double for you.
@60 well, put it this way: I’m black, I’ve never been given a break by the cops. I was charged (and convicted) of reckless driving for driving 65 mph on the freeway (when the limit was 55) and received a 1-year suspension of my drivers license. I was detained for jaywalking once. It’s offensive to me for anyone – ESPECIALLY members of the white, middle-and-upper class, educated class to flaunt all the shit they’ve been allowed to get away with given they already enjoy several privileges they already enjoy. They might as well be the rich kids at the camp across the lake.
Okay Fetish. Every other day, The Stranger agrees with you. If this were a publication that constantly does this, I’d agree with you. However, it’s important to point out that police are people too. No one is saying you’re not entitled to your views, or that they’re not correct, but don’t shit all over me because I have one good thing to say about one cop. I’ll join you in your protest against police abuses every single time, but I also have the right to say ‘thanks’ to someone who protected me or helped me out.
I’ve got two, from Seattle:
The first is ancient, from the late 80’s. I had a job in Pioneer Square which sometimes let me out late at night. One night ran especially late, and I was on the street looking for a bus at about 2:30am. Unbeknownst to me, Metro had just switched the northbound night-owl buses one street over (with no signage – thanks guys!) – so there I am, a female-type person, standing at a defunct bus stop in Pioneer Square in the middle of the night. Of course I immediately began to get cruised by all manner of icky male-type persons in their cars. Not having the money for a cab ride to the U-District, and having missed the last night-owl bus, I began to seriously freak out. After fending off the 6th or 7th cruising male (and bordering on panic), I finally managed to flag down a patrol car. The officer was an older guy, alone in the car, and he listened sympathetically to my tale of woe, but sadly explained that he was not allowed to leave his current patrol area, and there just really wasn’t anything he could do for me. I freaked out some more. The cop thought for a bit …. then said “Come on, get in. I’ve got a daughter about your age and I sure wouldn’t want her stranded out here at this time of night, either.” He Proceeded To Drive Me All The Way Home, to my front door in the U-District, and we had a nice chat along the way. He told me how many years he’d been on the force (over 20), told me that he’d taken a bullet once in the line of duty, and that, if any of his superiors found out how he’d broken the rules to help me that night, they ought to cut him some slack for that reason alone. His name has long since slipped my mind, but his kindness and willingness to help a citizen in distress never will.
This is a long post, so I’ll tell the second story in a few minutes.
Second story, December 23rd, 1995:
I was living temporarily with a friend who lived on a very busy street in Greenwood. I’d rented a place in another part of the city, but was delayed moving in by a month, so needed a place to stay for myself and my two beautiful Akitas. Long story somewhat shorter, I was at work that night when the friend called to tell me that both dogs had accidentally gotten out and were running loose through the neighborhood. By the time I got there, one of my dogs was already dead, hit by a car in front of the house. The other dog was safely inside, but two cars had stopped outside the house: the one driven by the teenage girl who had hit and killed my dog, and the one driven by her father, who had been following right behind her.
The father insisted on calling the cops, because he wanted me prosecuted for the dogs being off-leash, and to hold me accountable for the damage done to the vehicle. The responding officer was a very professional, petite female, and she was going back and forth between me, devastated and sobbing inside the house, and the people outside.
After about the third trip she began to get suspicious, told me to hang on, she’d be right back. Few minutes later she comes back in and says “Yeah, they were trying to scam you. I took a flashlight and looked closely at this ‘damage’ they were claiming, and saw rust in the dented metal. Your dog did not cause that, they were trying to get you to pay for damage that was already done to the vehicle.” She was visibly a little angry and I think she’d given that dad some stern words. As I’m standing there wiping my eyes and thanking her, she suddenly hugs me – this tiny policewoman hugging me so tight, I can feel her bullet-proof vest through her uniform. Her professionalism and compassion that night really helped to make a horrible situation somewhat less so, and I’ll never forget her righteous anger at that asshole scheming father.
These are my two stories I trot out whenever I hear somebody whining about ‘bad cops’ in Seattle – yeah, there are some bad cops, but hopefully they are found out and dealt with, and guess what: there are a HELL OF A LOT MORE OF THE GOOD ONES. And I thank them for the dangerous and important work they do every day.
I remember back in ’99, a buddy and myself decided to go on a skateboarding road trip. We ended up in Aberdeen the first night because my aunt and uncle had just moved down to Oregon but invited us to stay the night at their place before the renters moved in. We decided to park anywhere downtown and see if we could find some street spots to skate. We only got about an hour of riding around (and finding nothing) before a patrol car pulled up. First thought was that we were going to get harassed and tickets for skateboarding. The officer rolls down the window and says “What are you guys doing down here? This isn’t really a safe area for you guys to be at this time of the night.” (It was almost midnight) He then tells us to jump in the back and proceeded to take us to the brand new skate park that just opened that day. He let us skate it for about fifteen or twenty minutes before saying that we needed to come back when the sun was up. He took us right back to where I parked my car and said have a great time tomorrow. We went back the next day and ripped the park all day and it didn’t even rain.
That officer was beyond awesome and I’ll never forget that night.
I like the Seattle cop who opened the door for me at the Space needle.
I confess!!! I have fantasized of being jailed and being told to perform oral on any hot cop through the bars. Okay, I said it!!! I could tell you more details but i won’t here.
@19:You tell ’em,ACAB! (“All Coppers Are Bastards” indeed!).Yeah,man;this is The Stranger;not Z Net!
Fuck the polICE:I don’t need ’em!Members of my movement police ourselves;we’re grown;don’t need to be watched by anybody who is good (but all you evil motherfuckers best watch your sorry asses !!!. . .for real . . . )
That’s impoLICE!And to all you pig lovers:Remember Lord Acton’s famous quote?
Well there are lots of members of different movements that WONT police themselves, 5th columnist. We need police reform, not an anarchist utopia. Never. Gonna. Happen.
All cops are fucking scum and should be shot
This next record is dedicated to some personal friends of mine, the LAPD.
For every cop that has ever taken advantage of somebody, beat ’em down or
hurt ’em, because they got long hair, listen to the wrong kinda music,
wrong color, whatever they thought was the reason to do it. For every one
of those fuckin’ police, I’d like to take a pig out here in this parkin’
lot and shoot ’em in their mothafuckin’ face.
COP KILLER!
Yeah!
I got my black shirt on
I got my black gloves on
I got my ski mask on
This shit’s been too long
I got my twelve guage sawed off
I got my headlights turned off
I’m ’bout to bust some shots off
I’m ’bout to dust some cops off
I’m a…
COP KILLER, better you than me
COP KILLER, fuck police brutality!
COP KILLER, I know your family’s grievin’ … FUCK ‘EM!
COP KILLER, but tonight we get even
I got my brain on hype
Tonight’ll be your night
I got this long-assed knife
and your neck looks just right
My adrenaline’s pumpin’
I got my stereo bumpin’
I’m ’bout to kill me somethin’
A pig stopped me for nuthin’!
COP KILLER, it’s better you than me
COP KILLER, fuck police brutality!
COP KILLER, I know your family’s grievin’ … FUCK ‘EM!
COP KILLER, but tonight we get even
DIE, DIE, DIE, PIG, DIE!
FUCK THE POLICE!
COP KILLER, it’s better you than me
COP KILLER, fuck police brutality!
COP KILLER, I know your family’s grievin’ … FUCK ‘EM!
COP KILLER, but tonight we get even
FUCK THE POLICE!
FUCK THE POLICE, for Daryl Gates
FUCK THE POLICE, for Rodney King
FUCK THE POLICE, for my dead homies
FUCK THE POLICE, for your freedom
FUCK THE POLICE, don’t be a pussy
FUCK THE POLICE, have some mothafuckin’ courage
FUCK THE POLICE, sing along!
COP KILLER!
I’m a muthafuckin’ COP KILLER!
COP KILLER!
A few years ago, a friend of mine had a drug-induced psychotic episode. By day 2 or 3, several of his friends were freaked out enough that we decided to take him to the hospital. We brought him to the ER, from which he tried to bolt, almost running straight into a very busy street. He hardly said a coherent word to any of us. The hospital refused to admit him and after making several phone calls, we learned our only option was to call the police and see if they would get him involuntarily committed– yuck. When the police came, they were amazingly professional and empathic; they actually managed to get through the psychotic fog and get my friend to go into the hospital voluntarily. Later, the doctor came out to thank us for making sure he was admitted because he was in such bad shape. Those cops were amazing. I wish I had gotten their names so I could have written the department a letter praising them.
Two years ago I was at work when the man who had raped me showed up. When I was first attacked no one believed me, so I never reported it. After my reaction upon seeing him again people believed me. So after work they took me out to calm my nerves. I had a few too many drinks and against better judgment drove home. I was pulled over and arrested for DUI, as I sat in the back of the police car I was overwhelmed and just let loose with my story of rape and why I had been drinking. I was embarrassed about being in that situation and angry that I was the one in handcuffs while the man who raped me was walking around like nothing had happened. I had a long story, and we sat there on the side of the road for a good half hour. He listened to everything I had to say. He even included it in the report. The next day he called me at home and offered his support and told me everything was going to be okay. Then he helped me in court to get counseling for my rape, something that I had never been able to do on my own. Even though I made a horrible choice to drink and drive and I very thankful for the outcome.
Driving across America. Ran out of gas on some lonely, long stretch of secondary highway while looking for a campground for which we’d seen a sign. Friend and I crashed out in the car. Cop woke us up, put us in his car. Left us in it, with my friend in the front seat with a rifle on the rack and keys in the ignition. Found the secret key to the closed gas station, filled up a can. Back at our car he said “follow me”. Led us to the campground and used his spotlight to help us find a nice site. Thanks man!
Most cop stories are of the bullying/nannying variety, but I suppose that that might be because most cops are undereducated bullying assholes.
Let’s not forget the entire crew at Seattle Center. Those are some busy cops. They deal with homeless people in a way that’s rare for any human. They know them all by name, know which to keep an eye on, and have always been great when a production, such as a festival, needs to invade their space.
Think of all the idiots that flock to events at Seattle Center. Our brothers with badges over there handle those crowds with respect and an attitude far better than mine by the time we ever opened gates for a festival.
They do a damn fine job of keeping everyone at Seattle Center happy and are rarely thanked. Thanks boys and girls.
Not to bring attention to one of the black eyes for police in the recent past, but Everett PD Officer Steve Klocker deserves everyone’s thanks, despite the poor outcome of the case, for having the incredible guts to stand up for Niles Meservey and human decency in general by telling the truth about what he really saw when his partner Troy Meade decided to put seven slugs in a drunk man’s back. Probably ruined his career and definitely alienated him from almost all of his fellow officers (potentially even put himself in danger), but by refusing to lie to protect Meade’s interests, he showed the heart of a lion and proved to me that despite my deep cynicism, there are cops out there who will do the right thing even when they have nothing to gain and everything to lose from it. Officer Klocker, you are a true patriot.
Big ups to the cop who pulled into the alley behind the Paramount one night where I was skateboarding and DIDN’T kick me out. He was just stopping by to make sure my friends and I weren’t some dumb teenagers from the suburbs who were gonna get robbed at Westlake! Thanks for looking out.
Officer George Davison from SPD.
In 2001 my boyfriend kicked down my door and brutally beat the shit out out me. SPD responded in less than 5 minutes and quite possibly saved my life. Officer Davison followed the ambulance I was in to Harborview and stayed with me for hours until I was discharge and my sister could pick me up.
Six officers and one Detective testified in court against my ex and helped put him away. Detective Tye Holland gave me a huge hug outside the courtroom before I went on the witness stand. When the trial was over I hand delivered them all thank you cards. I was a blue haired tattooed little 19 year old who had had nothing but bad experiences with police in the past and these men changed my outlook on police forever. I will always be grateful for their kindness
Big ups to ACAB,Ice T,Tom X,and fuckkyou!!!As for Caralain?Wake up!(Unless your greedy;in that case stay asleep;you’ll be easier to exterminate!).Big ups to all my fellow members of the Worldwide Underground!Coppigs gotta die ASAP!The Status Quo has got be obliterated.AmericKa blows.
Big ups to fetish and red below!Hey!Caralain!If an anarchist utopia (redundant,eh?!) happens,then you won’t be around to observe it with that demeanor of yours!
One night after being ousted from a bar for being super-belligerently drunk, I attempted to enter my (own) apartment through the closed front window. With my hand. Well, after trying to ram my way through the front door (which isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies). After cutting up my hand pretty badly, and only busting through one pane of glass, I called the cops on myself, though why I did it I really don’t remember.
Instead of running me off to the drunk tank, the kind-hearted officers called a friend they found in my cell phone, drove me to his house, and placed my dumb ass in his possession for the night.
When I playfully goosed off the line on a green light, Officer Hershey of the Bellevue PD pulled me over with 3 friends (2 were slightly inebriated) in my car, including a guy I really liked. Put me in the back of his cruiser. Asked if I’d been drinking. Yes, I had, but only 2 beers because the like-guy didn’t drink. He pulled like-guy into the cruiser with us and lectured me about drinking and driving and told like-guy I was a good girl and he should take better care of me.
Embarrassed? You bet. Lesson learned? Absolutely!
Deputy Robert Lurry is an absolute guardian angel in disguise!
He saved my family, and I am truly grateful.
I still owe the man scones…