Guardrails

I’ve found there are two styles of supervising someone on probation.  Some officers are more laid back and allow errors to happen.  If the probationer doesn’t want to cooperate, he always has a choice.  He is an adult and can do what he wants.  If he doesn’t want to change, there are consequences and it’s the officer’s job to enforce those consequences.  That’s it. Another approach is to encourage change more proactively.  The “do this or go to jail” approach where there are less choices.  It’s a little more forced and controlled.  The probationer is still an adult, but has proven he cannot make sound decisions and needs more direction.  Both approaches have pros and cons and both can be dangerous.  John, The Green Mile, and I were more along the lines of the former.  We worked well that way, but we had a third who used the latter approach.

The state of California decided some offenders released from prison, who would otherwise be supervised by Parole, would now be supervised by local Probation Officers.  Instead of calling it Parole, it would be called “Post Release,” and instead of “Parolees,” offenders would be “Post Release Offenders,” or PROs.  This was a new unit and ideology in our department, and they were looking for volunteers.  Guess who put in for it?  It was great, we didn’t have to interview for the transfer, because no one else was dumb enough.  So The Green Mile and I started out with a group of more sophisticated offenders (PROs) fresh out of prison.  Our small unit of two was soon inflated by one more officer, Jackie.  Jackie was a seasoned, speciality officer who was working closely with motorcycle gangs before she made the jump over to us.  She had a more edgy, direct style.  It was different for John and I, coming from our old days at the Youthful Offender Program and the big brother approach.  Jackie provided a good balance for us.

The three of us were out one afternoon to check on one of Jackie’s PROs.  He was a known Blood and a had a lengthy history of violence.  We didn’t have the cool cars anymore, we were driving a broken down Ford Taurus, pushing 200k miles.  The house we were heading to was at the end of a cul-de-sac that looped around with guardrails along the side.  I was driving, John in the front and Jackie in the back.  We rolled up on the house slow and steady, as there were at least seven Bloods hanging on the front porch, no doubt meeting to discuss their most recent Bible study group.  They had so much red on you could see them from the moon.  Jackie immediately spotted her PRO, right in the middle. Before I could stop the car she was out, running toward them, yelling for her guy to stop.  He made a bee line into the house.

“Wait, Jackie!” Said John, but she was gone, running past the Bloods on the porch and right into the house.  John jumped out of his seat and was chasing after her; he couldn’t leave her alone.  “Let’s go!” he said.

The car still had not stopped moving when The Green Mile hopped out. I got out as fast as I could, bringing up the rear.

I ran onto the porch, passing the six remaining Bloods and into the house.  They were watching me like stoned teenagers, ”Whoah, man, that’s wild.”

By the time I caught up with everyone, John was looking back at me, rolling his eyes.  Jackie was heated, yelling about the chase, finger pointing inches from the PRO’s face. Jackie was much smaller than the PRO, standing on her tip toes just to get her finger close enough. He was backed up against the wall trying his best to get as much distance from her as he could.   She invited him to the office the next day to discuss things further.  He then looked at The Green Mile and I as if to ask if that was it.  I guess it was, Jackie turned and walked out.

While walking back to the car we calmly reminded Jackie of the danger she put herself and the rest of us in, running into a house loaded with Bloods.  Our conversation was cut short when we saw the car…

It was still running, sputtering in a circle, all three doors open, keys in the ignition, and still in drive.  It was moving slow enough for me to get back in, but not before it stumbled onto the curb, bumping the guardrail at the end of the cu-de-sac…  I guess I forgot to put it in park before I left. Or get the keys out. My bad.

I couldn’t hear them, but I’m pretty sure the Bloods were getting a good chuckle watching the car slowly circle around with no one inside.

When we look back on that day, no one remembers running into the house. Everyone remembers the car slowly moving in a circle like a broken down shopping cart.  White Chocolate had a little trouble with the transmission.  It was an old car.