Beyond Hope? Michael S. East

Chapter 3 of Beyond Hope? was actually stolen from my first book, Burden of the Badge. The event which is the subject of this chapter was simply too important in the timeline of my cop career to be left out. Plus, since Burden of the Badge was written more in diary format, re-printing this chapter gave me a chance to expound a bit on the original version.

I believe every new cop thinks about the first time he will face someone in a life-and-death, shoot-don’t shoot situation. I assume every new cop visualizes the scenerio playing out the same way I did -with the bad guy falling in a hail of bullets and the cop is regailed as a hero for taking another bad guy off the mean streets. Real life, however, usually plays out far differently than what happens on the movie screen in our minds.

Like every streets cop in Saginaw, I had been in many dangerous situations prior to this evening, despite having less than 30 months on the job. Crime in the city of Saginaw moves quickly and there is little learning curve for newcomers. With less than 3 years as a cop I had already been chosen to be a Field Training Officer (FTO), a position I had no right holding with such little time on the job. But, for an extra $500 a month in wages, I gladly accepted the spot, inexperience be damned! There was a also such a shortage of FTOs at this time that many guys of my tenure held this position. I made a point of telling my new recruits that I was far from knowing everything . . . just so they knew where they stood in relation to their “trainer.”

The recruit I was training this night was, thank God, a mature, even-tempered guy named Dennis Bunch. Dennis, shortly after this event, moved on to work for the Lansing (MI) Police Department, where he is a successful K-9 officer. We still have lunch whenever I’m in Lansing, and we still re-live this evening from to time.

You get to know the gang houses pretty quickly in the streets and you know where to expect trouble. Having been at this particular house prior to this night for gang-related activity, my guard was up as we approached. I recall the moon reflecting brightly off the snow this night and when the kid came out of the back door of the house pointing a gun at me, I could see his face very clearly. Two things I remember distinctly about this event are that: A.) Time really does slow to a crawl - think of a scene from “The matrix” - during high-stress events and B.) Your training really does take over. I had my gun levelled on this kid without even knowing I had pulled it, but still time crawled and I could see every movement and hear every sound like I was rewinding a scene from a movie and playing it back, frame by frame.

I always felt that when this moment hit I would simply shoot . . . and shoot and shoot and shoot . . . until the “threat was neutralized” (academy talk for “the bad guy is dead.”). But this slowing of time gave me the opportunity to registered how confused this kid was, and how innocent he looked. I knew he was not going to pull the trigger, but yet not shooting him was quite a risk - one I am not sure I would take again.

After the kid threw the gun down and was taken into custody, my mind was racing as I kept questioning my reaction to the situation. Should I have shot? I was even more infuritated when I found out he had had nothing more than a pellet gun (I guess I should have been even more relieved to not have shot him, but that wasn’t the case).

I was fairly distraught the rest of the night as I second-guessed myself. Why hadn’t I shot this kid? Was it compassion? That could be a deadly thing for a cop. Was it confusion? Equally as deadly. Was it a racial issue? Saginaw is a hotbed for racial controversy and maybe the fact that the boy was black and I am white might have played into the equation and caused a delay in my trigger pull as I thought about the potential racial backlash. Whatever the answer, I had a very poor night’s sleep trying to come to grips with this event.

The biggest bright spot of this story came the next day when Jerry Schneider, the weekend duty detective, made the phone call I referenced in this chapter and showed me the understanding and compassion only 20+ years as a cop can bring. Jerry is a court officer at the Saginaw County Governmental Center, so I see him quite often. He is still a common sense guy who provides good advice. His words carried me later in the day when a shift supervisor and several other cops (who were nowhere near the scene and had nothing to do with the previous evening’s events) provided ample Monday morning quarterbacking of my encounter, criticizing me for not killing the teen and telling me how they “would have killed him in a heartbeat.”

As far as the kid with the gun, I have not recalled his name since the day of his pre-trial. I do not know if he still lives in Saginaw, or even if his is alive or dead, for that matter. All I know is that I did not kill him. For this I am thankful.

One of the things I often hear about cops is that they’re impersonal and hard to get to know. I’ve also often heard: “I hate cops; they’re a bunch of assholes!” Certainly, the above average rates of divorce, suicide and alcoholism within the police fraternity bears out that most cops live a life that borders on self-seclusion, where the only people they trust enough let into their inner circle are other cops. Sometimes cop’s spouses are not even given the trust given to other police officers. I firmly believe that this “Us-versus-Them” attitude is a defensive mindset which is almost necessary to a police officer’s survival. In a world where criticism of police actions and cop bashing seem to always be popular, how could one not expect cops to develope and nurture the mindset of looking after their own. At many levels in society it is natural for persons who are under seige to “circle the wagons,” surround themselves with allies and find support from others most like themselves. Cops are no different than anybody else in that regard.

Okay, back on track. When it came to the Chapter titled “Mick,” I really wanted to break down that Joe Cop-versus-Joe Citizen” mindset. I also wanted to do it within the early chapters of Beyond Hope? so I could open up the minds of the readers to the human side of law officers. The basic purpose of this chapter was to provide some insight into my childhood years so the reader could see me as the sum of my experiences and not just a cop with cop thoughts, cop attitudes, cop actions and cop paranoia (Yeah, I think cops, by nature, are a bit paranoid because we’re so overwhelmed with negative interactions day after day after day).

Taking a page from my friend, police author Randy Sutton (A Cop’s Life), I decided to open the door to the most intense years of my life. Sutton gutted himself emotionally within the pages of A Cop’s Life and that gave me the courage to do the same. The best I had to offer was my story of growing up in an abusive household where alcoholism and late night beatings were a way of life.

I would like to mention here that I am in no way trying to gain sympathy through this story. Quite the opposite. While I hated the things I endured during my youth, I have grown enough to understand that walking this road during my younger years has made the road I now travel that much less bumpy. Because I have personal experience with many of the things I see teens dealing with today in Saginaw, I can easily relate to them and the suffering they endure. And, I can also show them that life is not over simply because they are suffering now. The truth is quite the opposite. As detailed in “Mick,” I grew up in a very rough household and yet me and both of my brothers all went on to graduate college and prosper in our professional lives (Despite the overt negativity of Beyond Hope? I do consider my career to be a prosperous one). The success of her three sons, by the way, is a direct result of my mother and her will to survive and overcome the obstacles in her life.

“Mick” is intentionally the shortest chapter in Beyond Hope? Maybe my trip down that particular memory lane was painful enough that I only wanted to remember enough to get the point across. Maybe I just didn’t want the focus of the book to stray too far from its law enforcement theme. Maybe it was a combination of the two. Either way, just writing the few pages it took to complete “Mick” left me emotionally exhausted.

There were three main people whose permission I sought before publishing Beyond Hope? - Gregory and Linda King . . . and my mother. Clearly my mother had a stake in what I’d written. After she had finished the manuscript, she gave it her blessing, but not without some insight. “You know I guess I never realized exactly how much hurt I put you kids through when all this was going on,” she said over the phone in a heavy voice. “Mom, now that it’s over I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I’m a better person for the experience,” I told her. And as much as she might not buy that line, it is the truth. Do I have regrets about my childhood? Of course. However, I firmly believe I am a better person - and a better cop - for having experienced the past that paved the way for this present day.
We are all the sum of our life’s experiences and, for better or for worse, I think that’s all part of God’s plan.

I want to share one final story regarding this chapter. I referenced the character Mick (I was called Mick sometimes as a child) several times in Beyond Hope? but I did not identify myself as Mick until the next to last chapter. I thought this would be a good way to keep the reader guessing a bit, but while writing Beyond Hope? I wondered if I had disguised Mick’s identity well enough. A friend of mine, Cynthia Pape, who is also a teacher (Cynthia runs the Stone School Mentoring Program that I referenced in Beyond Hope?) offered to read my manuscript prior to Beyond Hope? going to print. Of course I accepted. Having a teacher review your work is a great way to get some quality (and free) editing. After Cynthia completed the manuscript, she caught me after a mentoring session one day and raved about the book, saying she absolutely loved it (Cynthia’s reviews of my work are always an ego boost, even though I suspect they are a tad exaggerated for my benefit). After complimenting me about the book for a moment, Cynthia asked: “I have one question, though - whatever happened to Mick?” I sat back and studied her for a moment to see if she was kidding. She was not. “He’s doing great,” I replied. “He became a cop and he likes to write.” The light bulb went on about 5 seconds later, followed by a wave of flush-faced embarassment. To this day, Cynthia gets red in the face when I re-tell that story. At least I know Mick’s identity was fairly well hidden.

My next entry will be about the chapter “A Second Chance,” which is the story of my encounter with the first person I had the legal right to kill.

Thanks for stopping by.

When I came up with the idea of writing Beyond Hope? I just started writing chapters in no particular order. “Just write. Worry about organization later,” is what a writer friend once told me. Oddly, “Knock, knock . . . ” was the second chapter in the original draft of Beyond Hope? The book actually started with parts of “Final Thoughts,” which is the last chapter in the book. After a close friend offered to read Beyond Hope? and offer some editing and insight, it was suggested that I talked about “The Fight” quite often in the beginning. I thought talking about “The Fight,” which is my view of a cop’s career and the struggle to maintain sanity and continue to do the right thing, would be a nice set-up to the book. My friend, however, thought that all the references to “The Fight” seemed choppy and clumsy because the reader had no yet learned what “The Fight” entailed. They were just two words that carried little meaning. After thinking this through, I agreed. Why not show people what “The Fight” really is before actually referencing it. So I decided to do things the traditional (boring?) way and start at the beginning. As it turns out, I think this is a much better set-up and helps give the entire book some structure in the form of a loose time line. Thank you, Lori, for the idea.

Having lived in a few different towns - Port Huron, Big Rapids, Mt. Pleasant, Ypsilanti, Bellevile - I was always excited about moving on to my next place of residence and my next job. It was with some trepidation, however, that I travelled to Saginaw on this cold, November day in 1993. Nobody I had talked to had a good thing to say about Saginaw. I was, however, at wit’s end in terms of trying to land a police job. I had tested and/or interviewed in departments in Ann Arbor, Taylor, Dearborn, Grand Rapids, Toledo, Ypsilanti, and a number of other places with little luck. The early ’90s were a bad time to be searching for police jobs. Most municipalities where I applied were posting a handful of jobs and getting hundreds, if not thousands, of applicants. To make matters worse, I was working a job where I was making a decent wage (about $35,000/year) with a company car, and a full benefits package. I needed to find employment with a police department which would sponsor my spot in a police academy. I was not certifiable at the time, which is to say I had not completed a law enforcement training academy, and would still have to attend one, to the tune of about $3,500. I wanted badly to become a police officer, but leaving a good paying job with a company car was one thing. Doing the same, and coughing up $3,500 without the promise of a job after completion of a police academy was a whole different animal.

I had been looking for work for a couple years and was on the late end of 28 when I made the drive North from Belleville to Saginaw in 1993. I had given myself until I turned 30 to make it as a cop. I had less than a year and half left on that deadline and the clock was ticking, especially considering the application process at most departments took anywhere from 6 - 12 months to complete.

When I pulled into the hotel parking lot on the corner of E. Holland and Outer Drive, it didn’t look too bad (it looks much worse today). I had traversed many rough areas in Detroit, Inkster, Ecorse and the like, as a District Loss Prevention Manager for the Arbor Drug Store chain where I employed at the time. But there was something more about the Saginaw area that I picked up on immediately - there was a sense of despair and hopelessness that hung heavy in the air. Maybe it was because of all the negative things I had heard about the town, maybe it was because of the gloomy weather that day, or maybe, just maybe, some cities have been beaten down so badly by fate that an outsider can literally feel the pain of its past and present. Maybe it can be read on the faces of the people in the cars and in the tone of the drive-thru girl at Arbys. Maybe it’s the apathetic way the hotel desk clerk hands you your room key without a smile or the courtesy of friendly small talk. I’m not sure why, but Saginaw that day seemed like the most unfriendly place I had ever visited.

My jog that afternoon was borderline surreal. I had never, until this day, seen poverty and despair so up-close and for so long as I did on my run through Buena Vista Township. Many cops have asked me since reading Beyond Hope? if I was nuts, going for a jog in the neighborhoods where I did. Knowing now what I did not know then, I would not repeat this route.

When I ran past the Buena Vista Township police officer whom I referenced in this chapter, he gave me the same look I would give today if I were he and I were looking at me. My good friend, Saginaw Township Police Officer Russ Uphold, worked in Buena Vista at this time and was able to narrow down for me, based on my physical description, who the officer was that passed me that day. I cannot recall the officer’s name right now, but Russ, at least, got a laugh out of Chapter #1 if only for those few lines.

The day quickly changed to night and I recall getting to sleep pretty quickly after the day’s travel and my eye-opening jog through Buena Vista Township. I was exhausted. When the pounding on my door came in the middle of the night, I was nothing short of panic-stricken. Today I might handle the whole event differently, given my experiences since that night. Today, I might open the door and confront the guys on the other side. Today, I am seldom without a gun, however, so it’s easy to talk the talk now. Back then, I was petrified that I was going to killed (or at least badly beaten) - just one anonymous death at some dumpy anonymous hotel. I thought about my mom for a fleeting moment. This was going to suck for her, burying one of her kids at such a young age. Those thoughts did not linger long, however, as the pounding stopped and I was able to make my way to the door and listen. Little did I know I was also filing away a great story for a book some 16 years down the road. When I heard the guys ramble off to look for the right room (and the right guy to beat up or kill), I was relieved to no end that I would survive this night, or so I hoped. I may have dozed a few times during the rest of the night, but slept very little. Fear has a way of making sleep seem like a luxury you can do without.

The next day, my drive into downtown Saginaw was so surreal that it is forever seared into my memory. When I drove up E. Remington Avenue and turned right onto E. Genesee, it seemed every building was boarded up, vacant or burned out. I could not believe how bad Saginaw looked. What the hell was I doing here? But I pressed on, keeping an eye on the 11-story-high Feige Building in the distance. I wondered how many cops a city like this could possibly employ. Who the hell pays their salaries? Where does anybody work in this town? This was actually a very fun part of the chapter to write, if only because the memories were so vivid I had no problem re-living that drive on paper.

When I got to the Saginaw Police Department, it had a very early-70s dusty brick feel to it, which, sadly, was much more modern than anything else I had seen the past 10 minutes. The interior was very drab and cold. I am not sure who the desk officer was that day, it may have been retired sergeant and then-officer Gil Walton, but there was no smile when I asked where to report for my interview. He silently pointed toward the stairs, probably worn down by the dozens of people who asked him that question every 15 minutes for the past several days. My nervousness faded quickly and was replaced by the thought that not getting this job was not the worst thing that could happen to me.

When my interview started, I felt strong, I felt confident. Most questions, as I expected, were based on racial attitudes and integrity issues. Police employment interviews back then were all very similar, almost to the point of being interchangeable. I made sure to make good eye contact and project my voice while keeping good posture. I was sure my interview panel bought what I was selling until the Deputy Chief on the interview panel told me, ominously (or so I thought) to “Keep working on those communication skills.” I was, as I said in the book, horribly deflated. When I left the SPD that day, I truely thought I would never be back . . . and I was truely not bothered by that thought. Having been called back for more testing, however, and having gained the life experiences I have working the streets of Saginaw, I am glad now they gave me a chance. There were 1,600 applicants for the jobs availble at the SPD in 1993. In May of 1994 only 26 of those applicants, myself included, were hired.

People often ask, usually after reading one or both of my books, if I regret taking this job. It would be easy to assume so considering the negativity of much of my writing about policing Saginaw’s violent streets. I do not regret taking this job for one minute. While I would love to see some improvements in both my city and my police department, and while I have had to deal with a lot of gory things and a lot of truely evil people, I have gained the ability to see the world as it really is, and I have learned how to deal with people at their worst. My job at the Saginaw Police Department has afforded me a wonderful middle-class lifestyle, a lifetime’s worth of memories, and the opportunity to experience life for all it offers, both good and bad. There have been a couple people who have claimed that I made up much of what is found within the pages of my books; they do not believe things such as these could ever happen; they do not want to believe pure evil exsists in this world. Being an urban cop has, more than anything else, blessed me with the opporunity to know the truth about good, about evil, about life and how fragile it can be. I thank God for that every day.

By the way, the Deputy Chief who blind-sided me with the “Keep working on those communications skills” comment the day of my interview at the SPD, was then-SPD Deputy Chief and current Saginaw Circuit Court Judge Darnell Jackson. I ran into him recently. He asked for a copy of Beyond Hope? and said he couldn’t wait to read it. I told him to look for himself on page 14. Funny how life works.

My next entry will cover the chapter known simply as “Mick,” which was one of the most personal chapters in Beyond Hope?

Thanks for stopping by.