Trooper Down! (28 page)

Political maneuvering isn't the only obstacle to a trooper's advancement. Getting a promotion also means an automatic transfer—something many troopers do not want.

The reasoning behind such a policy, according to the highway patrol, is that an officer who stays in the same location and supervises people he knows is not as effective as one who is sent to new, unfamiliar territory.

But that's not the way troopers see it.

“The patrol's arbitrary rule that you move whenever you're promoted penalizes us,” maintained an officer with fifteen years' experience. “It would destroy me economically to take my family and change locations. The 10 percent increase in my salary wouldn't begin to offset the loss of my wife's income if she couldn't find another job. I'd have to sell my home, uproot my children. It just isn't worth it. So I'm not interested in a promotion.”

This same trooper says the patrol is losing a lot of officers with excellent potential as supervisors because of its internal political makeup and its unrealistic transfer system. In fact, he added, some of the organization's best people are never promoted: by choice, because they do not have the “right” politics, or because they refuse to relocate.

“What often happens,” the trooper continues, “is that troopers get promoted because they want to move, or they've screwed up and need to be sent out of the county, or because they're the ‘fair-haired child,' not because they have the best qualifications or would do the best job. I'd like to see more credit given to an officer's educational background, psychological profile, and overall abilities—instead of having so much emphasis placed on whether or not he's a misfit, popular with his sergeant, or willing and eager to change his address.”

“I'm satisfied being a trooper,” said an officer who has refused a promotion on three occasions. “I like this county. It's home. I love the people and I get along well with them. They know me, trust me, and I feel a responsibility to help protect them. It's not worth a promotion if I have to leave.”

“Being promoted is not what a lot of these boys think it is,” said
another trooper. “It's a lot of responsibility. My wife makes good money. I make good money [top pay for a master trooper in North Carolina was $31,620 in 1987]. Why would I want to worry about whether this trooper is running around or that one is doing his job? I'm almost forty-four years old. I don't have the headaches I'd have if I took a promotion and had to move. I'm happy here. Being a trooper is what I want to be.”

Not every officer is so resigned. A large number of troopers have a natural inclination to move ahead, strive for better pay, more responsibility, and a higher position on the management ladder. In that respect, they are no different from other ambitious professionals.

Whether rookie or veteran, each trooper has a story to tell and an opinion to express about his work, his goals, and the passages he encounters along the way. Some officers say that despite its hazards and problems, being a highway patrolman gives them a deep, ongoing sense of satisfaction. Others speak of disillusionment, frustration, misconceptions about who and what they are, and their everyday troubles with the public.

All remember what it was like in the beginning, when they were young, eager to please, and raring to go:

There was an unwritten law when I joined the patrol that a rookie kept his mouth shut for the first five years. That's because nobody would listen to him. That's not true anymore. Today, we're getting people with a higher degree of intelligence, more education, folks who don't take a back seat to anyone. We've got a lot of smart individuals on the patrol—people who could make a lot more money doing something else. I think that speaks well of the organization and the caliber of people who join it.

*

I was stationed in a small county when I first joined the patrol. I was fresh out of school and “gung ho,” writing fifteen to twenty tickets a week, while the normal amount was four or five.

One day the sergeant told me I needed to keep a low profile. It seems the mayor and aldermen had gotten together and made some phone calls wanting me transferred because I was arresting too many people. Then one night I caught the county recreation director for speeding. He'd been drinking some too.

When it got to court, the chief of police was sitting there and
knew the guy, so they let him off. I had done what I thought I was supposed to do—whether they did their job or not.

Anyway, it turned into a big mess. Newspaper articles were written about people wanting me to leave the county. So I decided it might be a good time to transfer to a larger town. That's what I did. Through it all, I thought I was doing a wonderful job. It just seems I was arresting the “wrong” people.

*

When you first put that uniform on, you feel responsible, and you think, “Man, I'm
somebody.
” But that's crap. And you realize it in a short time. Or someone makes you realize it.

*

The first time I worked in a small community, I thought I was better than they were. It was a backward, poverty-stricken county. I'd stop people for a traffic violation and they'd be wearing coveralls, the men unshaven, with tobacco dripping off their chins. Most of them didn't know what the word “citation” meant. They could barely speak decent English.

But it didn't take me long to realize I was at a disadvantage. This was their region and I was the outsider. I knew nothing about the things that were important to them—hunting, fishing, surviving economically in a county where the unemployment rate was 25 to 30 percent. They dealt with hardships I couldn't even comprehend. I went to visit one family following an accident and found them living in a shack with a dirt floor and no indoor plumbing.

That really opened my eyes. I thought, “You dumb-ass. You've missed the boat. These people aren't less than you are. You're the one who can't cope.”

I came from a family where I never wanted for anything. My experience in this county shocked me into recognizing that the people were living the best way they knew how, with no education and little hope of ever making their lives any better.

I still wanted out of that county because I felt that I would never fit in. But at least I had gained something from being there. I learned a new respect for people who were different from me. And I carry that with me now wherever I go.

*

There's always been a tendency among experienced troopers to help the younger guys, to start them off. Then the rookie gets his
feet on the ground and he wants to sit and tell you about who he's stopped and everything that's happened to him. And as an older trooper, you don't want to hear it. You've heard it all before; you've told it all before. But you don't want
him 
to know you don't want to hear it.

We all go through that initial stage, where everything is new and exciting. When I first came on, I can remember telling about experiences I'm sure people were bored to death at hearing. Now I have to listen to the same thing.

*

Here's a typical workday in a small county: You get off at 7:00
P.M.
after staying at the firing range all day. It's been raining and you're soaking wet. You go home, but it's your turn to take night calls because there's no third-shift patrol in your county.

About 8:00
P.M.
, you get a call to investigate a wreck ten miles below the next town, so you've got sixty miles to drive. Meanwhile, the people involved are sitting there wondering why a trooper hasn't shown up.

You return home, start to dry out, and the phone rings again. A car has slid down an embankment. But this is one you don't mind because it's a mother and two little kids. Everyone has their seat belt on and no one is hurt. It just takes a long time to get everything cleared up.

You get back home about ten. At eleven-fifteen, there's another call about a wreck just outside the city limits. The city police say they can handle it. Relieved, you go back to bed. A little after midnight, you get a call about a wreck twenty-five miles away. A man has run over a mailbox. It doesn't amount to much, but there are reports to fill out, paperwork to do.

You come home about 3:00
A.M. 
and finally drift off to sleep. Then you start all over again.

*

It was fun to be a trooper in the early days. You could get away with more than you can now. We had two boys stationed in Hickory who drove unmarked cars and would think up pranks when there wasn't much activity. One night they bought a fake gorilla head and rode together, one driving and one wearing the mask. Every time they'd come across someone traveling from out of state—the driver half-asleep at the wheel—they'd cruise up to his window,
turn on the siren, and scare him to death with the mask. I don't know how they kept from getting fired.

I also remember a trick we played on a corporal who was always pulling stunts on us.

It gets hot in Hickory and this was during the days when we didn't have air-conditioned patrol cars. One afternoon we were standing on the steps of the office, trying to cool off, when the corporal came out the door. He stood there a minute, put his hat on, and without saying a word, pulled his gun and shot several holes into the ground. Then he drove off.

We ran to a shed and got some motor oil, poured it into the holes, and called the corporal on his car radio. We told him to come back to the office because there was a serious problem.

When he arrived, we explained that he had punctured an oil line. In fact, there it was, oozing right up out of those holes he shot into the ground.

He felt bad about what he'd done, so he got a shovel and began to dig. Well, of course the oil stopped “flowing,” and he went on his way. After he left, we poured in some more, puddling it up real good, and called him back, telling him this time the oil leak was much worse.

He started digging again while we sat back and watched. After a while, we were afraid the poor man would have a heart attack or die of heatstroke, so we broke down and told him the truth. It made him mad, too.

Today, the highway patrol would fire you for stuff like that.

*

The patrol has had to change through the years. It couldn't remain the same and the rest of the world move on. There's more paperwork now. And more stress. Part of the stress for the older troopers comes from having to catch up educationally. These boys coming out of college have typing and business skills. We didn't. Now the patrol comes along with computers. So we're even further behind.

There's some resentment about the increase in the amount of paperwork. But there's not much we can do about it except try and keep up.

*

Years ago, you didn't question supervisors. The sergeant was
respected as much as the colonel. Whatever he said was gospel.

Now we're getting away from the highly supervised structure. The new, young troopers are harder to control, better educated, and more likely to think on their own.

I guess that's good, but it has its disadvantages too. I don't think troopers are as dedicated to the patrol or to serving the public as they were in the old days.

*

Some of the newer troopers don't take time to talk with the public. They get out, write a ticket, and go on to the next one. We older guys call them “computers with a pencil,” because the patrol sends them to school, programs them, gives them a ticket book, and turns them loose.

More experienced troopers realize you have to fit into the community first, that writing tickets to everyone you stop isn't as cut-and-dried as it appears. And that sometimes helping people is just as important as citing them.

*

When I started seeing patrolmen promoted with less time than I had, I began to think, “There's something going on here.” I had worked with many of them and knew their competency level. That's when you really wake up. Then you work a couple of years longer and you still don't get a promotion. At that point, you have a tendency to get complaints because you're taking it out on other people. You're no longer satisfied with being a trooper.

*

After twenty years on the patrol, I have peaks and valleys. Before I got promoted, I was low. Then I went as high as I could go. I've been promoted four years now and the new has worn off. There are more headaches, more responsibilities than I expected. Even when I'm off, I have to be responsible for those under me. If I want to go to town, I've got to let the patrol know where I am so they can reach me at all times. I also had to move. That's the worst thing about it. It pits you against your family because many times they're against it. My son was about to start his senior year in high school and he didn't want to leave. So we had to move without him.

I realize, however, you can get burned out by staying in one
district. You know every curve, every bump in the road, every person you've arrested time and again.

It seems like you never reach a level of satisfaction that you can sustain for any length of time. I don't know if it's ego or what.

I envy the other troopers who say they're satisfied with being a trooper. But I wonder if they're telling the truth. If you have any kind of ambition at all, you surely resent not being promoted.

I think you could be happy if you were promoted and then, if you got disillusioned, could go back to being a trooper.

But you can't go back.

*

No one has ever told me I had to write a certain number of tickets. But they always bring out this sheet when you're evaluated and put it down in front of you and the numbers are there. You can see what everybody else does. It's instilled in your mind—“the sheet is corning out.”

They want you to take the promotional test to show you have incentive. But you've figured out the system. You know there's only a slim chance you're going to make it. And it [the test] becomes a waste of time—my time and theirs.