Psycho-Killer on the Loose. Mom Subdues Him with Martial Arts Skills.

It's a good thing I didn't have plans last Friday night or I would have missed all the excitement. Stuff started happening around 4 p.m. I had picked Ian up at school and we made an emergency frozen yogurt run. As we're driving home and about to cross the main intersection in town, a car with flashing lights flew through the red light, headed in the same direction we were going. That car was followed by three unmarked-yet-official-looking SUVs. None of them did the polite (a.k.a. safe) emergency vehicle thing where they actually pause at the red light, taking into consideration the driver on their cell phone who's not paying attention. Nope. These drivers were flying. Anyone in the way was a goner. I swear one of them was practically on two wheels taking the turn.

I said to Ian, "Something's going on." I've always been very observant. I told him that that was no run of the mill police activity. We wondered, was there a political figure in town that had to be quickly moved to a safe location? Was there something happening at the mall? Were we dealing with terrorists?

Upon arriving home, I took note of an increasing number of sirens coming in our general direction. Ian, always the joker, said, "They're coming to our street." I wasn't amused, but he wasn't joking. Sure enough, a couple local cop cars made their way around our circle. Rather than speeding through, however, they were clearly taking their time. They were driving slowly in search of a bad guy who got away after a federal drug bust at a nearby seedy motel went badly. We locked the doors and watched the action from the living room. All told, over the next hour or two, at least a dozen cops paid a visit to the neighborhood. I called Rob who was in Florida at spring training. Of course, there was nothing he could do to help from that distance, even though he had easy access to a baseball bat, his weapon of choice.

As word began to spread around the neighborhood via email, we learned that one of our neighbors was driving home, and more than a little surprised when she turned the corner to find one cop in the road with his gun drawn, another cop canvassing the area, and a third officer in her driveway. The third officer was kind enough to tell her that her children were safe. Which made her wonder, "Why wouldn't my children be safe? Why do you know about my children??" He explained the scenario and told her to stay inside and lock the doors.

Being the calm and in control individual that I am, I wasn't particularly worked up about this situation. With everything locked up, the authorities on the scene, and my 2nd degree black belt in Tang Soo Do, I figured we were completely safe. But then the sun set and the bad guy still hadn't been found, and there were helicopters overhead, and I had to take Abby to softball practice. And suddenly I was pretty freaked out. The fact that our shed door was partially open did not ease my anxiety.

I hustled both Ian and Abby into the minivan, which I had parked in the garage so they wouldn't have to come out and face the cold-blooded killer still on the loose in our backyard (this is how those urban legends are formed). No longer calm and under control, my heart beating furiously, I quickly backed out of the garage to put some distance between us and this madman. Unfortunately, I was quicker on the gas pedal than the garage door was on its track. Now I could not fully open or fully close the door, meaning I could not get the van out of the garage, and the door was open just enough to allow the psychopath to come in, wielding his chainsaw.

At this point, I call Rob. He has a baseball bat. In Florida. I manically explain the situation. He cannot help me. I figure out how to disconnect the power to the door so that I can manually open it with my brute strength. I get the van out. Now I cannot close the door. Ian helps me with his brute strength. Filled with anxiety, I back out of the driveway, taking a section of the lawn with me when I fail to keep the steering wheel straight. We leave the house,  knowing the garage door can be lifted and the fugitive from justice may be hiding in there when we get home. Rob texts me: "Don't go straight home after taking Abby to softball practice. Find a television somewhere and see what's going on before you head back." I don't listen.

By the time we return, all activity on the street has ceased. The helicopters are gone. My shed door is still ajar, but not widely enough to have allowed in what they tell us was a very big man. Still, three days later, Abby refuses to put the sleds away in the shed because that homicidal maniac could be hiding therein.

This whole situation was unnerving in how unnerved it made me feel. I always thought I'd be calm and cool in any dangerous situation. Figured worse comes to worst, I could put those eight years of martial arts to work and bust up the madman with a few swift kicks to the head. And if that didn't work, I could pull out the super cool and scary looking knife I was gifted with upon earning my 2nd degree belt. But alas, rather than allow my adrenaline to prepare me for a fight, I allowed my adrenaline to drive me into my garage door (which I later managed to fix with duct tape, by the way).

Naturally my dad's response to all this was to highly recommend a firearm safety training course (I would first need the firearm), but based on my sweaty palms, nervous stomach, and shaky legs, I'm pretty sure I'd be more likely to shoot myself in the foot, literally, than to scare off the bad guy.

Whom they still haven't found...

So This Police Officer Walks Up to My Minivan...

It was 3:41 p.m. on a particularly chilly Sunday in November. I was en route to Abby's second soccer game of the afternoon having just said goodbye to my parents who were returning home after a week without power. I was happy that life could return to normal for them, though part of me wished they could stay so I wouldn't be alone with my anxiety. Rob's work trip to Las Vegas came at an inopportune time. I really needed him here to help me mentally and emotionally prepare for the big day that loomed ahead. My first day at the new job.

Perhaps it was this anxiety that caused my error in judgement. More likely it was the result of 20+ years of careless driving. I failed to come to a complete stop at a stop sign on my way to the game.

I saw the cop after I passed through it. I had slowed down significantly. I could see there was no one coming from the other direction. Still, something told me he was watching for someone like me. Within moments he was behind me on Avondale Road with its infuriating 25 mile speed limit. I could barely go that slowly. I was holding pretty steady at 30 and he was keeping up so I figured he was okay with my speed. Turns out he was keeping up so he could more clearly read my license plate and pull me over. Which he did.

It had been a decade or more since I was last pulled over by the flashing lights. The ill feeling was nevertheless familiar. Made slightly worse by the realization that I hadn't brought my purse. Or my driver's license. The officer sat there behind me for what felt like hours and when he finally ambled up to the car he took the time to look into my two rows of back seats. Thank goodness I wasn't carrying my machine gun or my stash of narcotics on this particular Sunday. As he approached the window I fumbled in finding my unexpired registration card and lamely explained my missing license. He finally told me the reason for our little get-together: Neighbors on Martroy Lane had been complaining about drivers inadequately stopping at their corner. I should have mentioned how neighbors on my circle have been complaining about the drug dealer residing on our street.

The officer returned to his car and I sat there in the minivan of shame, certain everyone who passed knew it was me, the one with the "I Believe" window sticker. I started to cry, albeit too late in the process to do any good. He remained in his car for another seemingly hour-long stint before returning to very graciously present me with my traffic citation. He thoughtfully pointed out that I could pay the fine within 10 days or plead not guilty and go to court. Surely my word would trump his with the judge. And could you just see me telling my new employer I needed the afternoon off to deal with a small legal matter? On the citation he did indicate green as my car color instead of the correct silver, perhaps I had something to work with there? 

 

He left with me with a congenial "Have a nice day, Ma'am." I'm not sure which pissed me off more, the "Have a nice day" crap, or being referred to as "Ma'am." Clearly my youthful appearance escaped his notice. Maybe driving a mini-van automatically makes you a ma'am. 

The very best part of this experience, besides gathering delightful blog material, was the "bill" itself. I really appreciated how they break it out for you:

FINE: 25.00 (Not bad. Breath a sigh of relief)
E.M.S.: 10.00 (Well, let's just consider it a donation to our emergency personnel)
MCARE: 30.00 (WTF is the "Medical Care Availability and Reduction of Error Fund?")
COSTS:  36.00 (The above aren't "costs?" They're certainly costing me. I may have to protest. What other service provider gets away with a vague "costs" line on their invoice?)
J.C.P./A.T.J.: 10.00 (Judicial Computer Project/Access to Justice. Whatever.)

TOTAL DUE: 111.00

Glad I've been saving money by buying my new work clothes on eBay.

While it absolutely sucks getting a $111 ticket, I had it coming. Nearly a decade ago, while together on a business trip, my friend and former coworker Gale recommended I consider coming to a complete stop at stop signs. It took this long for my failure to heed her good advice to catch up with me.

Driving home from Abby's game afterward, I came to a complete stop at each sign. It was a different feeling, but one I'll try to get used to. Or perhaps I'll just avoid Martroy Lane and Avondale...

One of 233

For the past two weeks the Philadelphia news media have been providing constant coverage of one particular story, and for some reason, it's bothering me.

The story is about the murder of off-duty Philadelphia police officer Moses Walker Jr. As described on NBC10.com:

On August 18, Walker, a 22nd District police officer, was shot three times with a 40-caliber handgun while walking to a bus stop at 20th and Cecil B. Moore Avenue in North Philly after work. Walker was heading home in street clothes after his shift when police say Jones and McFarland approached him and announced a robbery. Police say Walker drew his weapon before he was shot three times.

After the murder, the media covered every element of the case, from the $118,000 reward money for help identifying the assailants, to police efforts to track down the shooter in Alabama.Ten days after the murder of this reportedly "gentle and kind" 19-year veteran of the force, the story is still headline news. (Both suspects are now in custody and the slain officer has been put to rest.)

Why is this bothering me? Because year-to-date (as of 8/27/12) there have been 233 homicides in Philadelphia. Thirty-one more than last year at this time. Offer Walker is one victim. How much do we hear about the other 232? Where is the six-figure reward for catching their killers?

Mayor Nutter at Officer Walker's Funeral

I understand that the police, city government, and the media want to send a strong message that if you kill a cop they will hunt you down and you'll pay for your crime, but in this case Walker wasn't on the job. He was one of us. Victim of a robbery gone bad. Basically, these two criminals picked the absolute wrong guy to attack and they're more likely to pay for their "mistake" than had they victimized some average Joe. In fact, yesterday, at the officer's funeral, Philadelphia Mayor Nutter let the killers know he was going to play God where the rest of their lives are concerned:

"I read the Good Book. The book tells me, 'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,' but while those two are in custody and here on this Earth, their butts are mine."

I mean no disrespect to Office Walker and I certainly don't mean to imply that this tragedy was not worthy of our attention. I simply think it's almost an insult to the hundreds of others who have also lost their lives on these city streets and whose names we never hear.

As a side note: If anything is deserving of extra attention in this case, it's the failure, once again, of the criminal justice system. The shooter, Rafael Jones, had an extensive criminal record including arrests on gun, robbery, and aggravated assault charges. He was out on probation without the required electronic monitoring ankle bracelet. His accomplice, Chancier McFarland, was being sought with an arrest warrant after two store robberies in February 2011. 

When the Bad Guys Move In

A friend of mine is living in a neighborhood that's "going to pot." Literally. Last week she learned that drug deals have been taking place in a house just around the corner. In fact, this past spring a SWAT team busted down the door, momentarily inconveniencing the entrepreneur(s) who spent no time in jail and apparently are now back in business.

You may think my friend must live in a rough neighborhood. On the contrary. She lives in a perfectly nice neighborhood in one of the best school districts in the Delaware Valley. The folks in this neighborhood are middle upper class and diverse in age and ethnicity. There are many families with young children. Some empty nesters. Several retired folks. They have block parties and a book club. And now they have a drug dealer.

Residents in this neighborhood have called the police to alert them to this renewed activity, but you have to wonder what will be done to get rid of the problem once and for all. Since the perps are white, they are less likely to go to jail than if they were minorities who have disproportionate numbers being imprisoned. Having the distinction of incarcerating its citizens at the highest rate of any nation, U.S. prisons are already bursting at their seams*. When looked at from afar it's fairly easy to say we need to reconsider whom we're imprisoning (based on the crime and the individual's history) and do a better job of addressing rates of recidivism. We might even say that a non-violent individual selling drugs out of their home (or their grandfather's home in this particular case) isn't someone we should spend taxpayer dollars on to put away for awhile. And if you want to be all compassionate and Christian-like about it, doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? But the key word in this paragraph is "afar." Tunes change when the criminal activity is taking place in your own backyard.

I imagine even the most liberal, criminal justice policy wonk wouldn't want a drug dealer living next door. It's amazing how your perspective shifts when an issue begins to affect you personally. I'm not sure what the answer is in this case:

• Sell your house and move out before the neighborhood gets a bad reputation
• Turn a blind eye and hope for the best
• Hound the police until something is done
• Take matters into your hands? (My dad would put up his deer hunting tree stand and sit up there with a BB gun.) 
• Ask the dealers if they're looking for a business partner or will offer you commission on customer referrals? 

What are your thoughts on the matter?

*My information comes from Ministry with Prisoners & Families: The Way Forward by Wilson Goode Sr. (yes, that Wilson Goode), Charles Lewis, and Harold Dean Trulear. Judson Press published their book earlier this year.