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So
you go and it's all you expected it to be. You grab a 16-ounce red plastic
cup, fill it up with Bud Ice beer, walk over to a card game in progress
and take a shot of some unknown clear liquid, mingle outside with all the
smokers, fill up your red cup, talk to someone who says he/she has got the
same chemistry class as you, fill up the red cup, take another shot, bum a
cigarette while outside, fill up the cup one more time before the third
keg runs dry, grab that person you've never seen before from chemistry
class and begin busting a move on the make-shift dance floor in the living
room. And while you're at this all-time high beer buzz, the music cuts,
the lights flick on, and as you turn around to see what's going on, an
officer from the Gainesville Police Department is behind you asking to see
your identification, please….
Gawd! Don't you just hate the damn GPD? Why do they always have to
hassle the young students of UF and Santa Fe?
This has been the perception of most college students in Gainesville
for years, but to reveal that the "damn GPD" isn't just out
there to prevent underage drinkers from driving home after a party and
wrapping themselves around a telephone pole, meet Michael Schibuola, 24,
in charge of zone unit E-450 for the Gainesville Police Department.
"Echo 450" is part of a team that covers the southeast side of
town. This is considered the poorest and most crime-ridden area of
Gainesville. Poorly kept Section-8 housing apartments and abandoned houses
line up along littered streets where homeless dogs, cats and people roam.
Cars and homes are continuously broken into. Cases of domestic violence
are reported every night. Known drug dealers hang out only a couple of
blocks, sometimes less, from where grade-school children play. It's Mike's
job to prevent those crimes and keep the children safe from the drugs and
the people selling and using them. Just another "damn GPD"
right?
Mike has been with the GPD for a little over a year. However, he is not
like the typical officer who would be stereotyped as middle age, not so
physically fit with a wife and two kids at home. A strong jaw line,
piercing hazel eyes and GQ haircut give the impression that maybe a
profession on TV would be more suitable. . He keeps his body in shape by
lifting weights everyday and eating healthy. While in school at UF, he was
a member of a social Greek fraternity and received a degree in sociology
before graduating from the police academy at Santa Fe CC in 1997. His
schedule runs from Tuesday to Saturday and is part of the evening shift,
which begins at 4 p.m. for a team briefing and then 5 p.m. to 2 a.m. on
patrol. This gives him a chance to still enjoy a social life at places
like Fat Tuesday's, where he used to bartend, and the Purple Porpoise on
game days.
To show what the GPD does for the community of Gainesville on any
particular night besides hassling the college students, I rode along on
one of Mike's shifts. A Tuesday night to be exact, or what he likes to
call his "Monday," because it's been two days of rest since his
last shift. After exiting the department's building on SW Sixth Avenue at
5:15 p.m., we head straight to the white and blue police car marked
"450" and begin our journey to the eastside of town as the sun
begins to set.
As he said, Tuesday is the first day of his work week, so Mike starts
it off by cruising the perimeters of his zone, which include all streets
east of Main Street and south of Waldo Road to the city's limit. As he
drives west back into the city, the sun's rays get past his car's visor
and distract his vision. He pulls out a pair of wire-rimmed sunglasses
with silver reflective shades, snaps them open with the flick of his wrist
and smoothly places them on his face. Then he targets the most troublesome
spots, apartment complexes overrun and haunted by drug users and pushers,
and drives in and around them. A group of about 15 adolescent girls is
hanging out at a bike rack in one complex called Kennedy Homes. They
notice the evening police drive-by has a female passenger and begin
cooing, "looks like the po-po's got a girrrrllllllfriend." Some
smile and wave, others just stare with a look displacing the
preconditioned notion to disgust the white officer patrolling a black
neighborhood.
Mike notices the stares and waves back saying, "whether they're
black or white, most people don't like cops. However, it's mainly the ones
we have to deal with that really don't like us. The rest in this
neighborhood is glad I come by every night to check on them."
It is possible in areas like the Kennedy Homes, where young girls
gather to socialize before dinner, that a drug deal could be going on less
than a block away, so Mike says the easiest factor to look for is rental
cars. It's simple for a drug dealer to get around town in car borrowed
with cash and non-traceable if a sticky situation should arise. Even cars
that are the same year and model of the current rental stock are checked
out, because the license plate could have been switched. Stored above the
passenger side visor is a list of that day's stolen car report. Mike has
scanned it several times, and every car that looks like it "just
doesn't belong" is checked out to see if it matches one on the list.
Those are ways this officer anticipates an infraction with the law.
However, tonight's events all occur by being in the right place at the
right time.
It is 7 p.m. when the cop car emerges from a side street south of
Williston Road onto 441. At the corner are two black men and one white.
The three turn to notice and immediately part ways with the white male
walking south and the other two head alongside to the Hawthorne Road Bait
&Tackle. Mike calls the group's break up a little too suspicious and
recognizes one of those two men heading for the tackle shop as "this
guy named Sami." He pulls over to investigate.
Sami is short, dark skinned with shaky eyes. He is wearing a red
T-shirt and army green pants. When Mike pulls over and steps out of the
car, Sami immediately throws his hands up and begins mumbling he is O-K,
he did nothing, what can he do for the officer? Mike says that Sami is
slightly off mentally and has had a run in with him before so this
response to seeing cop is expected. Mike searches Sami and asks a few
questions, but Sami is off on his own tangent explaining his day's events
that lead him to that corner. Mike assures him everything is all right,
but to be careful whom he associates with and gets back into the car.
Maybe he went for the wrong person.
Heading back into the neighborhood, just about at the end of the street
within a tiny apartment community, Mike notices the white male walking
through. He waits for the man to come out past the fence surrounding the
community and pulls him over. The man is more like a boy of 19; tall and
skinny, blonde buzz-cut hair, wire-rimmed glasses and wearing a blue
Michael Jordan T-shirt, camouflage cargo shorts and Adidas look-a-like
flip-flops. The boy is soft spoken as he answers Mike's questions as to
why he was speaking with the two men earlier and why is he cutting through
the community. When asked to see his identification, please, he presents a
military ID, but as Mike calls it in to the switchboard to check for a
record, he notices the boy has given him two different names, one when
they met and one on the card. Mike looks the boy up and down and asks to
search him. "Shaking like a leaf," the boy agrees and places his
hands on the hood of the car. Mike doesn't find anything, but knows he is
on to something. He confronts the boy about the name change and is given
the reply that when asked his name, the boy said his mother's last name,
because that is who he is with now, but at the time of the ID, he was
living with his father on a military base and had to take that last name
for medical reasons. When asked if ever arrested, he replies yes, for
assault.
As Mike calls in both names to check for criminal and outstanding
records, another cop car pulls up with Officer Latsko in it. Also in her
early twenties, Latsko is short with a compact build and short dark brown
hair pulled tightly into a ponytail. Chewing on a piece of gum she begins
shooting off repetitive questions that anyone in a normal situation would
be offended by since she just showed up, but by the way the boy is shaking
it looks like he doesn't have room to be offended.
It is now 7:20 p.m. and the three stand around as the dusk turns to
night and the mosquitoes emerge from the woods. Mike has been notified
that the boy might have a warrant out for his arrest from another county,
but must wait for confirmation. He and Latsko give him plenty of
opportunities to turn himself in without asking about the possibility. The
boy just repeats his original answer and slowly burns up one cigarette
after another.
While they wait, Latsko notices a man walking down the middle of the
street drinking from a can in a paper bag. She believes it is beer and
asks to use Mike's binoculars to get a better look. Mike calls out for the
guy, who has turned around repeatedly to see what's going on as he walks
the other way, to come on over. As Latsko watches the man quickly pours
out the can and throws it into the woods. She yells at him, "You
better go pick that up." Her strong voice carries even farther as she
repeats herself. She then chuckles and repeats that he said "Yes
ma'am" as he headed for where the can landed.
At 7:36 the confirmation comes through; the boy has a warrant out for
his arrest from Brevard County for aggravated assault and criminal
mischief. Mike handcuffs and searches him one more time before seating him
in the back of the car. It isn't for the reason Mike had originally
thought it might be, but as in a line out of a book he says, "Well,
at least that's one more person off the streets that should be."
We speed along Williston and Waldo to arrive at the Alachua County
Sheriff's Office, Department of the Jail to book the suspect. The 1999
monthly average for new arrest bookings at this county's jailhouse is
1,074, which includes those brought in not only by the GPD, but the
Alachua County Sheriff and the area Florida Highway Patrol. So bringing in
one arrest a night is pretty good for one officer. Mike mentions that he
hopes to get more. The bookings room is an open, two-story high room with
stark white walls with turquoise accents. To enter the room, a cop and his
suspect must step past one set of glass mechanical sliding doors, then
wait after they close behind them for the next set to open and allow
entrance into the room. Makeshift jail cells outline the big empty waiting
room. In the center there are many places to sit as a person waits to get
his/her thumb printed, pictures taken, a look-over by a county physician
and then sent to change into the bright orange garb worn by inmates to
sleep the night away in. While the boy goes through this process, Mike
must wait for the confirmation number comes though via fax about the
warrant. When it does, he fills out the necessary paperwork, turns it in
and quickly heads back out to his car.
Back at the car, Mike open the trunk and takes out a white can of
spray. It is air freshener
"After every arrest I use this to disinfect my car," he says
as the spray saturates the blue vinyl of the backseat. "It's Lysol's
spring fresh and I never leave home without it. You never know how long
it's been since someone has showered."
As the night progresses Mike falls upon another arrest of an illegal
alien from Mexico driving a car without a license. A Spanish-speaking
officer informs Mike that he shouldn't take the boy and his friends, all
illegal migrant workers, in to jail because nothing will be done about it
by Immigration and it will be a waste of paperwork for him. Mike arrests
the driver for driving without a proper license and makes the other three
guys walk home in hopes that it will affect their boss' pocket for letting
them get into that situation.
A call is made about a domestic dispute. A chase consisting of three
units and a K-9 unit pursue after the suspect and lead to a dark wooded
lot and an abandoned house, but no suspect is found so the group must take
the loss.
"Usually if they're gone this long, they've gotten away," he
says. "Too bad we can't get the helicopter out here. It has infrared
and can detect body heat at night."
But after Mike settles back into his car after a long chase on foot and
careful examination of the house and lot, he gets another call that a
fight has been reported and the possible use of a weapon, a knife, is
present. Mike is the first to make it to the neighborhood, which just
happens to right across the street from where the boy was arrested
earlier. Three guys and a girl are roaming about in the parking lot waving
their hands and yelling. All talk to Mike at the same time. The other
party, a man, has left and the police need to get him, they yell. It is
obvious to Mike what has occurred; a drug deal gone bad. But, when he
hears that a suspect has been stopped at the Hawthorne Road Bait &
Tackle, Mike leaves the disgruntled people by telling them they need to go
back into their home and that he will take care of things.
Mike pulls into the parking lot to greet four other officers standing
and speaking with a suspect who has said yes, he was the other side of the
fight. When Mike is brought up on what the suspect has said, two officers
leave to return to their own zones. The suspect says that a verbal fight
broke out between him and one of the other men. He felt he was in danger
being the only one on his side, so he pulled hand-sized switch blade to
protect himself as he left. But, no, he didn't want to press charges, he
just wanted to go home.
"Where's that?" Mike asked "Where's your home?"
"Uh, over on, over there…" the man answered by swinging his
long arms in a full motion around behind him and across the street.
"Why don't you know where you live? What's your name?" Mike
quickly asked.
"Alton Lang," he mumbles. "It's over there. I can't
think of the street because I just moved there. I'm staying with
friends."
Mike keeps asking repetitive questions as to why Alton, who appears to
be in his late twenties, tall with a muscular build, wearing a Orlando
Magic basketball jersey, cream and tan colored shorts and an old pair of
white tennis shoes slipped on so his heals still showed. Alton just kept
repeating with deep breaths and listless eyes that he was innocent and
didn't want to press charges.
"If you're innocent, may I check your pockets?" Mike asked.
"I ain't got nuttin'. I'm innocent."
"Just on the outside," Mike said as Alton raised his arms
away from his pockets.
"Why don't you empty your pockets for me? What do you got?"
Alton stuck his hand in one pocket and pulled it out so all the white
could show, stuck his hand in the second pocket then quickly removed it as
is he had just remembered something, then went for the back pocket and
pulled on it until all the cloth showed. The other two cops were silent.
"How about you take out that crack pipe?" Mike asked in a
harsh tone. "Take it out of your pocket for me." Alton put his
hand back into the second pocket and brought out a clear tube about two
inches long, jagged at one edge, clotted with some tissue in the other and
burnt all inside. He also handed over a gold colored metal rod about three
inches long and a clear baggie about one square inch big. One of the
silent cops, Officer Denmark, stepped over and took the crack pipe and
it's accessories over to the hood of Mike's car to test it as Mike
continued asking questions.
"Who are you really? There is no record for an Alton Lang. Why are
you lying to me," Mike snapped. "Where did you buy your crack,
Alton? What's your real name, Alton?"
As Alton mumbled back response, Denmark took his own little metal rod
and scraped what was left of the pipe's and baggie's contents onto the
hood of the car; two little speckles of what looked like sand. He then
soaked each piece in its own puddle of white vinegar. Next he took his
second liquid dropper and let a touch of cobalt thyocynate fall upon the
puddles. Both puddles instantly turned blue, which specified that the
speckles of sand were indeed traces of crack cocaine.
When Denmark confirmed that Alton had been using crack and actually had
it on him, no matter how small a trace, Mike handcuffed Alton and began
reading the Miranda rights to him. An empty county school bus drove by as
Alton protested, saying they couldn't arrest him because he was working
undercover for one of the city's detectives and he could confirm his real
name since he had no identification on him. Since none of the officers
could see any other way of identifying him, Mike had to call up the
detective to meet at police headquarters. It was 12 a.m.
On the ride there it was evident that Alton Lang, or Gilliard as he was
now claiming himself to be was one of those "someones" who
hadn't showered in quite some time. A foul body odor stench permeated the
car. Mike realized that his Lysol was in the trunk, so putting down both
front seat windows and sporadically smelling the remnants of his cologne
were all he could do to keep the odor at bay. He also continued asking
Alton/Gilliard questions.
"How long you've been addicted to crack?"
"Two years," Alton replied.
"How do you pay for it?"
"What?" The wind rushing in was quite loud.
"So, what have you been breaking into to pay for the crack,"
Mike spoke at a louder decibel.
"Oh, I don't go that," Alton replied.
"Then how are you paying for it? You got a job?"
Alton mumbled "day labor" for a response. Even though he
didn't believe it, Mike let the subject go.
Once back at headquarters, Mike takes Alton and sets him in an
interrogation room. Alton notices a news ad with several
"wanted" pictures on it. He quickly points out one of the faces
and says he knows that person and can get them for the GPD. Mike replies
with a "whatever" and says the detective will be in shortly to
speak with him.
Outside the interrogation room is a TV set up displaying the actions of
Alton as he struggles to turn the ad over while handcuffed behind his
back. This is the GPD's form of the two-way mirror. The detective arrives
and looks at the screen confirming that yes, that is Gilliard, a man
arrested two weeks ago for possession of crack, but promised he'd stop and
help the cops as an informant if he could just stay out of jail. The
detective agreed under certain restrictions that included not getting high
and calling in every week. It appeared that Gilliard had done neither and
the detective had lost the reliability of using him for a character
witness if anything should ever be brought in by Gilliard; arrest him.
As the detective entered the room and told the same to Gilliard, who
mumbled protests and that he knew the picture in the ad, Mike pulled up
his criminal record. Several previous arrests showed for home and auto
theft
"He doesn't have a job, he steals from people to buy his
crack," Mike said. "I knew it. Sometimes, it's so obvious, it's
sad."
By the time Gilliard had been processed through the jail system if was
1:30 a.m. and time for Mike to call it a night. He had many time sheets
and reports from the beginning of the month to finish writing and the
Sargent was getting on his case about it. He had a good night; three
arrests. Statistically, that's great. Did I notice that all three men were
of different skin tones?
"See, the law is color-blind. We'll arrest anyone who does
wrong," he said with a sarcastic laugh.
When finally asked what makes him go out there to prevent crime five
nights a week with such energy, he replies "I have always wanted to
be a cop since I was a kid. I liked watching the police shows on TV.
That's all I really wanted to do for a career really, I never really
thought much of doing anything else." |
