Riding Shotgun with Metro

Road blockiStockPhoto/GregC

“Let me get this straight,” my wife says. “If somebody shoots you, I don’t see a dime?”

“Yeah, that’s basically it. It’s not like they give you a choice.”

I can’t tell if she’s amused or annoyed. Probably both. We’re talking about the “Waiver and Release of Claims and Indemnity” I had signed to go on a Metro ride-along with my son-in-law, Officer Sean Miller.

Signing that form was, in fact, the second scariest part of the entire experience. The first scariest part was waiting in the office of the Metro public information officer while she ran my background check. Officer Barbara Morgan is a pleasant woman with a winning smile, but she also carries a gun. And during the 15 minutes she left me cooling my heels, I imagined her uncovering all manner of unknown skeletons. By the time she came back, I was ready to assume the position.

I must have checked out clean, because we scheduled my ride-along for the night of Saturday, Jan. 24. Sean works the Downtown Las Vegas graveyard shift. I had doubts about my ability to stay awake, but figured coffee and adrenalin would keep me focused.

I also had doubts about my judgment. I’ve never been the type to slap a “Support Your Local Police” bumper sticker on my vehicle. To me, cops have always been a necessary annoyance: never there when you need them, always there when you don’t.

Without knowing it, Sean has changed my attitude. He’s a stand-up guy. Although still technically a rookie, he spent a decade moving up through the ranks in Las Vegas hotel security. At 34, he’s older than most first-year officers, which helps him keep a level head. And because he’s finally working his dream job, he’s grateful for the opportunity.

On the designated night, I meet Sean at the Downtown Area Command on Bonanza. He escorts me into a large cinder block briefing room. With its long gray tables, bulletin boards plastered with mug shots, and harsh fluorescent lighting, it looks like the set of every cop movie you’ve ever seen. Within minutes, the room begins filling with officers, many of whom look no older than Eagle Scouts. The briefing, conducted by three sergeants, begins promptly at 10.

One of the sergeants recounts info about a botched robbery at Planet Hollywood, as well as a carjacker who became a tasty snack for a K9 corps German shepherd. “He got his just desserts,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking about the suspect or the pooch.

After learning that the shift will be short-handed due to sickness and vacation time, we head for Sean’s vehicle, a Crown Vic. He conducts an equipment check, logs in to the onboard computer, and we hit the streets at 10:30 p.m. It’s only my second time in a police car – and the first time in the front seat.

As Sean turns out of the parking lot, he says, “Three rules. If you see me running or pulling my gun, stay in the car. Don’t get between me and a suspect. And if we do a car stop, go to the passenger side.” I nod. These are rules I’ll have no trouble following.

Road blockiStockPhoto/ftwitty

It doesn’t take long to see our first bit of action. At Boulder Highway and St. Louis, we drive past a Saturn sedan with no plates. Sean flips a quick U-turn and pulls the vehicle over. As I approach from the passenger side, it hits me that any encounter can end in sudden violence. The driver, a beefy man with wild, gray-flecked hair and tattoo-covered arms, knows the drill. Keeping his hands in plain sight, he answers each question with unfailing politeness. His equally shopworn female passenger is mouthier. In a whiskey-soaked voice, she says, “No plates? Really? Someone must have stolen them.”

“The thing about this job is that everyone lies,” Sean tells me later.

When Sean returns to his car and runs the driver’s info, the man comes up as a seven-time felon, but he has no outstanding warrants. “In a situation like this, I have a lot of discretion,” Sean says. “He’s got a good attitude. That’s always a deciding factor.”

Sean writes multiple citations, tells the man to be careful, and sends him on his way. “Chances are he won’t take care of the citations and he’ll go to warrant,” he says. “Then we can arrest him next time. The purpose of these stops isn’t just about writing tickets. It’s about planting a seed for the future.”

At Pecos and Charleston, we’re called in as backup for a DUI. The suspect is a heavyset Hispanic male with a befuddled expression and five empty Bud Light bottles littering the floor of his Buick. He isn’t capable of passing even the simplest field sobriety tests. The whole scene would be comical if not for the prospect of obliterating your entire family. Within minutes, he and his car are taken to separate impound facilities.

Next, Dispatch sends us to the Stratosphere on a 417, police code for a domestic disturbance. “A nightly occurrence,” Sean says. Entering through a side door, we find a young California couple detained in the drab security area, sitting in separate offices. Sean questions the woman first. She’s drunk and incoherent. Her boyfriend makes more sense. In a subdued tone, he explains that the girl had plunked herself down in the middle of the hallway and started screaming, prompting him to yank her to her feet and carry her back to their room.

The security tape confirms his story. And yet, by picking her up, he has crossed a legal line. That’s when I learn the harsh truth about Nevada law: In domestic disputes, when there’s evidence of battery, there’s a good chance somebody’s getting arrested. In this instance, it’s the man. He’ll spend 12 hours in City Jail, and we’re taking him there.

City Jail is a big gray box of a building surrounded by barbed wire. I’ve been in animal shelters that were more pleasant. We drive through the electronic security gate and enter the intake room where a dozen or more suspects of all colors, shapes and sizes wait to be processed — including our Hispanic drunk driver from earlier in the evening. He looks up and gives me a sheepish grin.

By the time we’re out of there, it’s after 2 a.m. Within minutes, we’re called to set a perimeter to help catch a suspected car thief. For the first time that night we run “code,” police parlance for lights and siren. We set up shop in the parking lot of a quickie loan place at Charleston and 15th. A slender young Hispanic male has been spotted in the area attempting to steal a Hyundai. Cops are sealing off the neighborhood and bringing in the K9 unit. Our job is to wait and see if anyone gets flushed out.

Soon we see a man matching the description walking through the 7-Eleven parking lot across the street. Sean flips on his lights and intercepts him, instructing me to stay in the car. Gladly.

“Where’ve you been tonight?” he asks the suspect.

“Drinking. At the Beauty Bar.”

“Can you prove it?”

The man shows his hand, bearing a stamp of the establishment. A few more questions and Sean lets him go. By then, we receive word that the actual suspect has been cornered and captured. We never see the man but we, too, are free to go.

The rest of the evening is more of the same. An elderly Filipino man driving the wrong way down a one-way street. A report of shots fired in a gang-infested area that turns out to be a false alarm. Another domestic disturbance, this time at a single-family residence.

Before I know it, the sun is rising and it’s almost quitting time. A routine night in Downtown Las Vegas. No dead bodies, no shootings. Just nonstop activity that makes 10 hours seem like 10 minutes.

I leave with a newfound respect for law enforcement and a few lessons learned. Mainly this: The people we’ve encountered got into trouble because they made stupid decisions. Every problem could have been avoided just by not doing something – driving without plates, dragging a drunken girlfriend down a hotel hallway, getting behind the wheel while hammered on cheap beer. It’s that simple.

And here’s another lesson: If you do get stopped, just answer the questions and don’t give the cops a hard time. That small act of self-control can make the difference between a little inconvenience and spending the night in an overcrowded cell.


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Comments

10 responses on “Riding Shotgun with Metro

  1. Very nice ebb and flow on this article — Thanks for all of the insight, and for staying awake on the graveyard shift. Megan went on a ride-along with a patrol officer from the Bolden Command for swing-shift last month.

    Mark

  2. I’m just glad the background check worked for you. How’d you pull that off? Just kidding. Great article. As always. Thanks for helping keep our city safe and well documented.

  3. Brian, I’m a big fan of your novels.

    On my own (civilized hour/daytime) ridealong with a man I mentally calculated could be my grandson, I discovered a great pizza joint. But our first call was a domestic mom/daughter dispute, and the woman thought I was from Social Services and had come to take away her kids.

    Any citizen can go to any Metro command and request to do a ride-along. I highly recommend it.

  4. Good article, Brian. Sorry you didn’t get the 110 mph chase, that’s always a fun experience. Only question, when are you going to do it again?

  5. Your writing is excellent as always, Mr Rouff.
    For a long time I wanted to be a bike cop on the Las Vegas Strip, but found out that my eyesight wasn’t good enough to be on the force. Reading this reminded me of that dream. Thanks. =)

  6. We believe you, the first time you were just holding it for a friend…

    BTW who has the freshest doughnuts in Vegas?

    he he I’m just messing with you. Good article man.

  7. Master Donuts on DI.
    Also, Friendly’s in Henderson.

    And you’re right, I was just holding for a friend.

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