Ball Game in Street

When I got my start in Probation, there was a lot of training. One part was radio codes. When we went on dispatch to tell them what we were doing, in the name of efficiency we would announce a code.  It was just numbers instead of words.  There was one for transport to jail, one for shots fired, even one for lunch break.  It got very particular.  On my very first arrest, I had to call out the code for it.  My trainer was listening and so was my partner John, The Green Mile … along with the entire Probation Department and any law enforcement agency.  Under the pressure, instead of calling “Attempted Arrest,” I called “Ball Game in Street.”  Why there was a code for ball game in street, I don’t know.  I knew something was off by the look on John’s face and the echoing laughter of him and every other officer in the department.  That one still haunts me.

Anyway we were on our way to arrest Z.  Z was a young adult struggling with a methamphetamine addiction.  Z was a very likable kid.  For the most part he wasn’t dangerous or angry, and he had a great sense of humor.  He lived with his dad in a second floor apartment, above an auto repair shop in a busy part of town.  Z’s dad knew we were coming and let us in.  However, by the time we were inside, Z was out the window, jumping into a  nearby dumpster and off running.  The Green Mile and I decided the dumpster jump and chase was not gonna happen that night.  A few days later, Z was arrested in the same place by the more experienced warrant team.  I don’t think they called the incident as a ball game in street.

For the next few years, Z was passed from one officer to another.  All of the officers really liked Z, because he had a tendency to run, making it fun for all.  One afternoon, a fellow officer announced, “Z has a warrant and dad says he’s home, anyone want to go?”  I blasted out of my office chair and ran to the car.  It was a slow afternoon and I could use a fun chase or at least see how Z was doing. Like I said, he was a good kid.

We loaded in our low profile Chevy Suburban; all white with tinted windows.  Omar was driving, Martin in the front seat, and me in the back.  Omar knew the area very well and was one of the smartest officers I knew.  Martin was a huge former division one college football player who could run.

Z was living at a different location now, a small house bordering a canyon.  We arrived at the house, searched, and Z was no where to be found.  Omar contacted the dad who said he was there moments before we arrived.  He’s gotta be around here somewhere.

We ran into his girlfriend, stoned and wandering the sidewalk nearby.  Of course, she denied seeing him.

We decided to give up and try another day.  We loaded into the Suburban disappointed.  As we backed out, Omar looked in the rearview mirror, “There he is!”

Z was at the 7-11 across the street, walking out of the store, happily crunching on a bag of Doritos.  He looked up at us, recognized the car and bolted in the alley behind him.  Martin shot out of the front seat chasing him, “Lets go!”  He yelled over his shoulder at me.  Because I was in the backseat, where the transport to jail passengers sit, the door did not open from the inside.

“Come on man, go get him!” Yelled Omar.

“I can’t, the door is locked!”

I had to roll down the window and let myself out from the outdoor handle, then I was off, already far behind.  Now, I’d like to tell you I ran swiftly like an olympic athlete and caught up to everyone in a flash, but I looked more like a drunk old man stumbling out of a bar.  It was the heavy boots and all the weight from the vest and gun, I swear.

As I ran down the alley, I could still see Z way ahead running, tossing items into bushes and over fences as he ran.  Behind him was Martin, running top speed, with the items on his belt coming loose and dropping as he ran.  First his baton, then his flashlight. I was a few paces behind, doing my best to keep all my items intact.  Through the chaos, I could hear Omar on the radio while he drove the car around the block to meet us on the other side. He called for “Emergency Traffic,” which means no other officers can call anything out, we had the channel, and we were the only ones on the radio until clear…. and everyone was listening.  Again.

I saw Z take a sharp right out of sight into a yard, then Martin a second later, then I finally caught up.  When I rounded the corner, we were in a court yard with three small houses.  Between the houses was a spiderweb of clotheslines.  Shirts, pants, and socks hanging everywhere.

“Where did he go?” I asked a winded, sweaty Martin.  He gave me a shrug.

A woman exited one of the houses in the middle of the web.   She didn’t say anything, but made eye contact with us and then looked back in her house.  Z must be in there.

On the radio, Omar was yelling for an update.

“We got him, hold on,” I said casually as we entered the home.

“Got him? Where?”

The house was a small studio.  Martin was searching like a bloodhound.

“We are in a house, but I don’t know where,” I said. This was dumb and dangerous, I’m supposed to know where we were.  Everyone was listening … Ball game in street.

“Well damn, look at some mail or something.”  Omar said, doing his best to not to sound patronizing.

What a great idea.  I found some mail and announced our location, Omar was en route.  I heard Martin yell out. Z was tucked in the closet, half covered under a pile of laundry (a surprisingly common hiding place). Z surrendered without incident.  He was sweating bullets, but had a smile on his face.

“You guys got lucky, you never would have found me,” Z said with confident smirk, “And so slow, I should have kept running.”

“That be some bullshit, I had you,” said Martin.

Omar pulled the car around and we loaded Z in to take him to jail. We stopped by the 7-11 and got him another bag of Doritos to enjoy on the way and gave him a minute to say goodbye to his girlfriend.  We all got a good laugh together about the chase, the tossed items, and our speed.  It’s strange, four people at different ages, with very different backgrounds bonding and laughing like we were old friends, joking about a game we played together.  Maybe even a ball game …. in the street. I should have called it out.

It was hard to book Z into jail.  He was a good kid, a hall of fame probationer.  Last I heard his family got him into a drug and alcohol program in Tijuana.  Not sure if he ever made it out.