Some days you just never forget They say there are days in your life you never forget. The day you graduate High School and College. The day you get married and the day your first born arrives in this world. For me, while I remember all of those days, the day I recall with the upmost clarity is the day I got shot. Now that day is forever etched in my memory, and I have a long ass scare on the inside of my thigh to prove it. My shift started like any other. Boring roll call. Write more tickets. Make more stops. Make more felony arrests. Here are today’s BOLOS. Yada. Yada. And while I occasionally looked over BOLO print outs (yes, they actually printed them on paper back in the day) for some odd reason, I choose this day to read ALL of them. Seems someone was hitting all the construction sites stealing dozers and the like, loading them onto 18-wheelers, and just acting like they were transferring equipment on any other day. It wasn’t unusual to see equipment being delivered to job sites in the middle of the night, so it was the perfect crime. No sooner than I hit the streets, dispatch started dropping all the calls the evening shift either didn’t get to, or just didn’t feel like taking. Nevertheless, the first four hours of the night were nothing but report after report after report. Around 3am it started to slow down, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since noon the day before. I was starving. I called my buddy that worked the district next to mine, and we picked a nearby Whataburger to meet up. Since it was just up the highway, I jumped on the next entrance and headed north. The minute I entered the freeway, I immediately noticed a large tractor trailer to my left. As he slowly passed me, low and behold there was a CAT bulldozer sitting all pretty on that trailer. Now when you’re hungry sometimes you just overlook the obvious because you know full well that if you don’t eat when it’s slow or when there is WORDS BY AN ANONYMOUS AUTHOR an opportunity, you most likely won’t. But shit, for whatever reason I choose to read those damn BOLOs it seemed only natural to at least stop and talk to this guy and run the VIN. So, I dropped in behind him and lit him up. I went out on traffic, and he immediately pulled over. Hmmm. Well if it’s stolen, surely he’d run. Right? Easy peasy. I’ll be at Whataburger eating a Breakfast on a Bun before you know it. Now I was like the state troopers. I always approached large trucks on the passenger side. As I walked past the trailer the dozer looked brand spanking new, and I thought well this isn’t coming from a construction site. This most likely is just an overnight delivery. Never assume anything they say, teach you to never let down your guard. Uh Huh. If I wasn’t so damn hungry, I’m sure I would have paid more attention. But I didn’t. Did I mention I was hungry? As I approached the truck, I had my pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I tapped on the door of the truck and stepped back so the driver could see and hopefully hear me. I noticed that his window was already down, and he motioned that he understood and had his hands in the air. I opened the door and stood on the top step so I could see inside and better communicate with the him. Now in hindsight I would probably never do that again, but I had stopped dozens of 18-wheelers in the past and never had a problem controlling the driver or a passenger for that matter. I asked the driver for his paperwork, the manifest, his license and insurance. I also ordered him to exit the truck on the passenger side and step down to ground. I watched his hands as he slid over to the passenger seat while he reached for a clipboard that was sitting in a section of the dash. I assume the guy was left handed because for a brief second his left hand dropped down beside the passenger seat. It was at that moment I dropped my flashlight from my left hand, pointed my gun towards him, and yelled let me see your hand. A split second later, I saw the gun come up and we both fired at almost the exact same moment. I fired twice, and he fired once. I was standing on the top step outside the passenger side of the truck when his round hit the lower side of my vest, struck my duty belt buckle, and then traveled down the inside of my thigh, striking the bottom step of the truck. I immediately fell backwards and landed on the edge of the concrete. I don’t know if it was adrenalin or just instinct, but I managed to pick myself up and run towards the back of the trailer. I had no idea if I had hit the guy or even where he was, but I knew I had to get to cover and get help. I’m pretty sure I screamed in the radio, “shots fired, shots fired, I’ve been hit.” I remember the dispatcher saying officer down, assist the officer. Then she asked for my location to confirm where I was. It seemed like an hour went by before the first unit arrived. I could hear sirens coming from all over as a state trooper ran over to me. By this time, I was behind my patrol car sitting in a large pool of blood. But the first thing I said was “go find that motherfucker and make sure I hit him.” Within seconds there were cops everywhere. I remember someone putting a tourniquet on my leg and asking where the hell the ambulance was. Whatever the response was, this big ass Trooper bent over me and looked me straight in the face and said, “fuck this brother you’re coming with me.” He picked me up and loaded me in the back of his car and drove me to the hospital which was only 3 miles away. I barely remember the ride, but I do remember being in the ER and all the ER docs calling for blood. I had lost so much blood that was I was fading in and out. The good news was the bullet had just grazed an artery in my leg and took all the flesh along with it. Had it been a fraction of an inch I would have bleed out right there on the highway. While they were working on me, I looked over to see what all the yelling was in the bay over from me, and it was the truck driver. My rounds had struck him in the hand and the shoulder, and they were wheeling him off to surgery. Afterwards, I remember someone telling me had I not shot his hand, he could have just as well fired another round and hit me square in the face. Either way God was surely looking out for me that night, because for all practical purposes I really shouldn’t be alive today. And if it wasn’t for those troopers who loaded me in their nasty ass back seat and drove me three miles to the hospital I wouldn’t be. The asshole truck driver got 45 years for attempted capital murder of a police officer, and the CAT bulldozer wasn’t stolen after all. It seems this asshole Continued on Next Page 22 The BLUES POLICE MAGAZINE The BLUES POLICE MAGAZINE 23
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