After you've been an idiot 11:37 AM

I drove the police car back to the office, and rode the cramped gray urine-scented elevator up to the fifth floor. My heels clicked on the hard tile floor as I walked back to the office.

When I sat down, there was a hand-sketched cartoon on top of my desk. Me, in my little business suit. My car, up on blocks with no wheels. The caption: "But they're really nice kids."

Harsh.

The lieutenant called. "Come see me," he said.

I walked back to his office, lingering in the doorway.

"Come in and sit down." The words of doom.

He stood up, closed the door behind me. Then he sat back down, and tipped his chair back a bit, putting his foot up on a drawer. He folded his hands across his chest.

"So," he said, drawing the word out for at least 36 seconds, "Tell me what happened."

I explained the events of the past two hours.

He watched me intently as I talked, saying nothing. Then, he passed a sheet of paper across the desk to me.

"This is a letter of reprimand for failing to control your police-issued vehicle. Read it and sign it. It's going to go in your file."

I could feel the tears behind my eyelids, hot and bulging. My mouth filled with spit, my throat tensed up. Don't cry! Don't you dare cry! I told myself.

I signed the paper and passed it back.

His face softened. "We all fuck up," he told me. "The good thing is that you'll never fuck up like this again, will you?"

"No, sir."

"Well," he said. "Nobody died. It's still a good day."

Then, he smiled, and said, "Why don't you take the rest of the day off? Spend some time with your own kids, and your husband."

"Thanks, LT."

I drove home. I stood in my family room, staring at the fireplace. I imagined the office the next day, when the guys were dishing shit to me, full force, and laughing their asses off at my stupidity. I thought about Cecelia and Flaca sleeping on concrete bunks in the DT.

I can't go back there, I thought.

And then I cried.

The worst phone call of my life 12:14 PM

People always talk about having a heavy heart. But when your city-issued police car has just been stolen by gang members, your heart isn't just heavy, it's beating your stomach into a pulp. I felt sick, nauseated, full of dread.

I asked the principal to borrow his phone.

"Hey, Lt. A. Cecelia Martinez and Flaca Hernandez just stole my car."

"Where are you?"

"Sunrise Alternative School."

"Which way were they headed?"

"South on 14th East."

"You drive the blue Lumina, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, you sit tight. I'm going to send a couple of guys over to pick you up, and we'll get your car back. You and I will talk when you get back to the office."

I sat on a hard wooden chair in the principal's office like a misbehaving school girl, trying not to cry.

I wondered if I'd lose my job. At the least, I was pretty sure I was going to get written up.

What would the guys say, when they picked me up? They already thought I was ridiculously idealistic, and wasting my times with these kids--who were going to prison for sure.

The 20 minutes I waited for the detectives seemed like forever.

Finally, a sleek green Taurus pulled up in front of the building. I reluctantly abandoned my chair, walked outside, and climbed into the back seat of the car.

Detective Young, who was driving the car, turned and smiled a sarcastic smile at me. "Heard you got stranded, Archuleta," he said. His partner for the day, Detective Dan Rosenberg, shook his head at me: "I told you that you were going to get in trouble transporting those kids."

There wasn't much I could say. I leaned my head against the soft upholstery and looked out the window as we headed south on State Street.

"They've recovered your car," Detective Young told me. "And, they're holding the girls. You have to go identify them and pick up your car."

"That was fast," I said.

"Yeah, when police cars are stolen, we take that pretty seriously," Rosenberg said. "We had a description and they were going straight south away from the school. Easy to find."

In minutes, we'd pulled up behind a couple of marked police cars with their lights still flashing red and blue. They were sandwiching my Lumina. Two other Tauruses, that belonged to detectives from the gang unit, were parked nearby.

Cecelia and Flaca were leaned against my car, handcuffed. Detective Young walked me forward to where they were standing. "Are these the girls who stole your car?" he asked.

"Yes," I told him. The girls avoided looking me in the face, and kept their attention riveted on the ground.

"Do you have anything to say to Ms. A?" he asked the girls.

They said nothing.

He told the girls to get into the back of the patrol car. The patrol officer opened the door, and the girls slid across the hard plastic back seat. The officer closed the door, got into the driver's seat, and pulled away.

No Joy in the Ride 10:45 AM

Cecelia - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

I talked with Cecelia the following day by phone. I'd spoken to her probation officer, and could report the following:

Her probation officer had been notified while visiting the school that Cecelia had been suspended. The probation officer immediately notified the judge that Cecelia had violated her probation status. A bench warrant had been issued for her arrest, requiring her to appear before her juvenile court judge for violation of probation.

Cecelia sat in silence after I gave her the update, on the phone. I could hear her breathing, but not much else.

Finally, she said, slowly and meaningfully, "Daaaammmn. So, whuz gonna happen?"

I told her that if a police officer happened upon her (a not unlikely scenario), she would be arrested and taken to detention.

Or, she could take matters into her own hands, and turn herself in. By doing so, she could make the case to the judge that although she'd had difficulties at school, she was making a serious effort to own up to the consequences of her action and follow through.

She was unpersuaded by my logic. Voluntarily going to detention? Yeah, right.

"I dunno, Miss A. I don't think I want to go to DT. It sucks bad in there."

"One way or another, C, you're going to wind up in there, anyway."

"Yeah, but it could be months before I get caught."

"Months that you won't be in school, won't be getting an education, and will be sitting in your mom's house bored out of your mind, hiding from cops, worrying every time you go on the street, and living in constant paranoia, knowing that it's hanging out there, waiting for you, when you least expect it."

"Yeah. That's true."

"I'll go with you. I'll take you there. I'll call the judge, and I'll explain what happened."

"Really? You'd do that for me?" she asked me.

"You know I would," I told her.

"Would you do something else for me?" she asked.

"Maybe. What is it?"

"Would you help me get enrolled in another school before we go to DT, so I can tell the judge I did that, and I can start going to school as soon as I get out of DT?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'll do that," I told her.

"Would you do it tomorrow?" she asked.

"Okay, we'll do it tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 9:00, first thing in the morning. We'll go to your school, and then we'll go to DT and you can turn yourself in."

"Okay."

After I got off the phone, I went to the Lieutenant and cleared my plan. It sounded crazy to him, but if a gang member was going to peacefully respond to a warrant, well, that was okay with him.

"Just be careful," he told me.

The next morning, at 9 a.m. exactly, I pulled up in front of Cecelia's weathered green house. She was standing outside, waiting for me, but she wasn't alone. At her side was Flaca, dressed identically to Cecelia in a white t-shirt, oversized dickies, and g-nikes. Both girls had their hair slicked back into ponytails.

Cecelia climbed into the front of the car, and Flaca slid into the back seat.

"Flaca wants to go to Skyline, too, Miss A," Cecelia told me. "We both want to go to the same school."

"Doesn't Flaca already have a school she goes to?" I asked.

The girls informed me, in unison, that Flaca wasn't in school yet, and wasn't registered to attend anywhere.

"Well, okay. Is Flaca okay with going to DT, too?"

Flaca's eyes got very wide, and she sat up towards the front seat. "What? Why are we going to DT? I don't wanna go to DT!" she screeched.

I looked at Cecelia, who was suddenly slouching in her seat.

"C, didn't you tell her what the plan was?" I asked.

"No, MIss A. I didn't tell her that part."

"What part," Flaca said, belligerently. "What part didn't you tell me?"

"Cecelia has a warrrant for her arrest for probation violation, and she's going to DT after she registers for school."

"Sheeettt, Cee Cee, what are you thinking?" Flaca asked.

"I just have to get right with Judge V, and take care of my shit."

Flaca sat back, closed her eyes, and ignored us the rest of the way to Sunrise Alternative School. She was clearly pissed.

When I pulled into the school parking lot, Flaca refused to leave the car. She was so annoyed with Cecelia that she clearly didn't even want to register for school now. She sat, arms folded across her chest, and stated that she'd wait for us in the car.

I looked at my purse on the floor of the car. For a second, I thought, "Maybe I should take it inside." Then, I asked myself, "Will Flaca think that I don't trust her, or maybe that I think she'd steal from me?" I made a decision and left my purse lying there.

Cecelia and I went into the school, met the school secretary, and were ushered into the principal's office to discuss her enrollment at Sunrise. The principal's office was wide and bright, with a large plate glass window that faced the street, behind his back.

As the Principal explained the rules and policies at Sunrise to Cecelia, I listened, and looked out the window.

I watched as a light blue Chevy Lumina turned onto the street in front of the school. It looked familiar.

Cecelia recognized it right away. "Shit, Miss A...Flaca is stealing your car!"

Before I could even react, she jumped up, and ran out of the principal's office, and then the front doors of the school. I followed her, and as I exited the swinging exit doors, I watched as Cecelia jumped into my car with Flaca, and they drove away.

I'd left my keys in my purse.

The 5-Os 9:41 AM

When Lieutenant A. hired me to work for the gang unit, he essentially hired me away from a job training program that worked with teens and young adults from urban areas around the U.S, many with serious gang problems.

When I interviewed, he explained my role: "I expect you to work with 10 kids, knowing that 9 of the 10 will end up locked up or dead, and maybe only 1 will choose to turn his life around. But, you won't know for years which 1 of the 10 that single successful person will be, so I want you to work just as hard with 10 as you do that 1."

I already knew I loved teenagers, so that was entirely do-able. Apart from the success ratio, any job with high risk teens entails a certain degree of failure, so I felt I was prepared for that, and told him.

Then, Lieutenant A asked me what I knew about gangs.

"I feel like I'm good at working with gang members in a structured setting. I know or suspect that several of my kids in my program had gang ties, and gang dialect is always around, on the edges. For instance--


In a classroom exchange, a male student turned to his seatmate and started discussing OG's. I knew that there was something inappropriate about this phrase:

"Phillip, want to tell the rest of the class what you're talking about?"

"Sure, Miss A. We were talking about OGs."

"Feel free to explain to the class what an OG is."

With a smirk on his face, he looked at me and said, "You're an OG, Miss A. It stands for Old Gal."

--but it would be a mistake to say that I know much about gangs."

Lieutenant A. laughed, and said, "I'll make sure you know everything you need to know before you go out on the street. We're hiring you to work with kids, but we are also hiring you to train people in the community, write proposals and manuals, brief elected officials, and help set gang policy in the community. It's a big job, but I think you can do it. Learning about gangs is the easy part."

One of the first things he did (following the process of creating an extremely unattractive employee ID picture that made me look a lot like a ripe tomato thanks to an unfortunate red dress) was to send me for a week to a gang conference in California.

My introduction to my co-workers occurred at the departure gate in the airport as we boarded the plane to California. On that day, I met the crew of 15 officers who composed the metro gang unit and the data analyst.

One of my favorite officers in the crew would be Drew, who missed the flight because he checked in at the ticket counter with his loaded service revolver in his luggage. More on Drew, later.

We disembarked in sunny Anaheim, and I immediately surrounded by over 1,500 law enforcement officers from around (mostly) the western U.S. I should mention that in those days, gang cops were about 97% male, so there was no waiting in line for bathrooms at the conference. That was a plus.

We packed into a large, darkened hotel auditorium every day to listen to gang cops like Joe Guzman (a legend in the field of gangs) tell us about Crips, Bloods, Surenos, Nortenos, Folks, People, prison gangs, and outlaw motorcycle gangs. I remember scribbling furiously on my legal pad, as I learned (ostensibly) everthing I would need to know to differentiate between a Crip and a Surenos member on the street. I looked around in the darkness and saw others doing the same thing on the narrow conference tables, frantically trying to catch every word. We saw hundreds of slides of gang members and their handsigns, graffiti, tattoos, and clothing items. Slide after slide of latino gang members, asian gang members, black gang members, and skinheads. We heard stories about the evolution of the Mexican Mafia in the California prison system and watched graphic videos of gang shootings, stabbings, and robberies.

During the evenings, we kicked back around the pool at an open social hour with free liquor and beer for hours.

I'd never worked with cops, and felt ambivalent in their presence. I liked the Lieutenant, who was very married, and middle-aged, with curly brown hair and a cherubic face. I liked his soft-spokenness and his dry sense of humor.

But, my social services background hadn't prepared me to deal with an onslaught of such overwhelming maleness from thousands of cops. The testosterone was palpable: bulging muscles, deep voices, guns--I'd never seen so many guns in my damn life--and frat boy humor. The addition of alcohol exacerbated it all. Loud voices raised in loud laughter, mocking one another mercilessly, and incessant constant college kid pranks. It was--exhausting.

I would go back to the room at the end of the day feeling like what I really needed was a cold shower and an early bedtime--by myself--in the peace and quiet--with a good book.

By end of the week, it was as if these cops had opened up my head and tipped an entire "all you can eat" gang buffet into it. It was overwhelming, and I was sated to the point of nausea on gang know-how.

I now knew what the number 13 meant and that a spiderweb on the elbow could be a prison tattoo, and it gave me a sense of confidence that was totally out of line with the practical realities.

[fully understand that this post needs more work, and plan to do it.]