Trooper Down! (6 page)

The bonding process begins in cadet school when fifty or more carefully selected individuals come together and gradually merge into one strong, cohesive unit.

Enlistment procedures operate basically the same for state police agencies around the country, but North Carolina's standards are considered somewhat more stringent than most. The highway patrol in North Carolina accepts between one and two thousand applications each year from men and women who want to become state troopers. Out of those applicants, about two hundred are chosen for a ten-hour screening, led by a high-ranking officer on the patrol's administrative staff.

“First, I answer questions about the highway patrol, from what it's like chasing cars to basic requirements and benefits,” said Lieutenant Billy Day, director of administrative services. “Then I tell them if they're just looking for a job, they won't make it in the
highway patrol because there's something special they've got to have.

“I explain they'll be gone from home half their lives and their wives will be doing all the grocery shopping and raising the kids. I tell them they can't go to beer joints and nightclubs because people will watch and judge them by their actions. I tell them they'll have to move whenever and wherever the patrol commander wants them to go and they'll be lucky if they get stationed within a hundred miles of home.

“I tell them that law enforcement is one of the worst jobs in the world as far as the pay and the hours are concerned. Then I tell them if they don't want to meet all of our requirements, or no longer think they want to be a highway patrolman, they're free to go. We want each person to make the decision about what he really wants to do.”

Those who stick around for the second phase of the screening fill out a series of forms and write a narrative explaining their reasons for joining the highway patrol. Applicants are then given a psychological test that measures their attitudes about use of force, the role of authority, race relations, and police work in general.

Steve Wollack, a California psychologist who designs attitude tests for a number of highway patrols around the nation, says he's found that, contrary to public opinion, there's no single personality “type” who goes into law enforcement as a career.

But according to Lieutenant Day, who's had fifteen years of experience in screening potential troopers, there is a “typical” highway patrol applicant. The average cadet, says Day, is a white male, twenty-two years old, and a high school graduate (though an increasing number are college-educated). He often has conservative political opinions and a prior connection to law enforcement.

The psychological test that applicants undergo is followed by a basic reading and writing exam, then a two-hour physical skills course (also designed by Wollack) that simulates on-the-job experiences, from changing a flat tire while being timed to removing an “injured” person from a burning vehicle.

Until 1983, the North Carolina Highway Patrol had height requirements that excluded anyone under five feet six, a requirement that eliminated otherwise qualified men and women. Part of the reason for this restriction was the patrol's belief that a smaller person, particularly a female, could not physically handle the job. The other part was pure public relations: since 1929 the patrol had built its
“don't-mess-with-me” reputation on the size and toughness of its men.

“When I was growing up, no one in their right mind would jump on a highway patrolman, because they knew he'd be a good-sized fella,” said a trooper who bemoans the change in standards. “Now it happens all the time. Size may not have anything to do with a person's ability to do the job, but I think it does have something to do with the patrol's image.”

Others disagree and say the concept of the “big, bad patrolman” was due for a change.

“It used to be that the meanest kid on the block got the job because he could physically handle any situation,” said a ten-year trooper. “So here you had these big, robust men who didn't have a lot of education, but who could box your jaws in a heartbeat if you stepped out of line.

“Today, we realize that we need more education and training so we can learn how to deal with people intelligently and avoid confrontations.”

In an interesting aside, police studies have shown that short and medium-height officers demonstrate a
greater 
propensity for aggression than their taller counterparts, refuting the argument that tall officers make better cops. The studies went on to conclude that despite being more aggressive, smaller officers have learned to hold such tendencies within acceptable bounds so that they don't reflect negatively on themselves, their department, or the law enforcement profession.

Men and women under five feet six were not the only ones barred from the highway patrol before the sixties. In 1967, there was only one black man on the force, Charles H. Johnson. Faced with dismissal for growing an unauthorized mustache, Johnson filed state and federal class action suits against the patrol in 1975 on behalf of all blacks, contending that in his seven years on the patrol he had been limited to the rank of trooper and denied promotion “in ways which discriminated against me solely on the basis of race and color.” He also stated that a mustache was “symbolic to black tradition and culture,” and that the highway patrol's policy on hair should be amended because it was unconstitutional.

As a result of the lawsuit, North Carolina was placed under a five-year federal consent decree in 1980, which stipulated that the patrol
must reach a goal of 50 percent black applicants and 25 percent women in each training-school session. As of 1987, the goal had not been met, and the highway patrol remained under the federal order.

After the initial screening process, all applicants are scored in three categories. The psychological test counts one-third, as do reading-comprehension and physical-skill tests. The totals are combined to form a “T” score for each applicant. Starting with the highest “T” scores, the highway patrol administration proceeds down the applicant list to fill vacancies, making sure that a percentage of women and blacks are included.

But there's still more weeding to do before the fifty to sixty individuals who finally enter cadet school are selected. At this point, about 150 applicants remain of the original 500. Each must go before a five-member review board consisting of field officers from various parts of the state.

The panel examines each file, grills the applicant with questions pertinent to the highway patrol, and judges him or her on appearance, personality, and demeanor. At the end of the two-hour session, panel members vote “pass” or “fail” in various categories, thereby determining the candidate's fate. About half of the 150 applicants do not pass this part of the screening procedure.

The remaining seventy-five are given a thorough physical exam. Since most applicants are young and relatively healthy, few are turned down for medical reasons. When it happens, it can prove devastating to the applicant.

“Some people are so determined to get on the highway patrol, they'll pay their family doctor to provide them with a ‘clean exam,'” said Lieutenant Day, “only to learn the patrol has its own physician on contract.”

Once an applicant passes the physical, he's placed on the waiting list for school. The entire process—from the time an application is filled out until the physical is completed—takes about three months. If no vacancies occur on the patrol, it can be two years before an applicant enters training. With the exception of retirees and involuntary dismissals, few troopers quit the patrol. Employee turnover rate averages less than 5 percent a year.

Not only is it difficult to get into the North Carolina Highway Patrol, there's a tremendous cost involved in turning each cadet into
a well-trained officer. Lieutenant Day estimates that the state spends $90,000 per person, including the expense of screening each applicant, paying for five months of room and board at school, covering cadet and instructor salaries, and providing uniforms, patrol car, and equipment.

“That's why we tell cadets, ‘Be sure this is what you want to do. We've got a lot of money invested in you,'” he said.

It is a warm Saturday afternoon in midautumn at the North Carolina Highway Patrol Training Center in Garner, five miles south of Raleigh. Outside the brick-red administration building, on 357 acres, are sixty-two adults, including three women, who are arriving for the first day of the Seventy-Ninth Basic Training School. Here they will spend the next five months; and here, through 288 hours of instruction, they'll learn what it takes to be a North Carolina state trooper. For some, the experience will prove too difficult to endure. For those who stay, the training will provide them with strengths and challenges they have never encountered before.

Initiation into the patrol's paramilitary rules and regulations begins immediately.

“Any of you people want to be troopers?” yells First Sergeant Braxton B. Oliver, basic school commandant. “Then fall in line!”

He is tall, blonde, and lean, and wears wire-frame glasses that give him an almost boyish look. Accompanying him are four officers, a line sergeant, a first sergeant, a lieutenant, and a major.

Squinting against the harsh sunlight, the group quickly forms three lines. Dressed in civilian clothes, hair ranging from collar-length shags to crew cuts, they are a motley bunch. One youth is wearing shorts and a bright-colored sport shirt.

Sergeant Oliver approaches and glares at him, nose to nose.

“Did you ever see a trooper wear shorts?” he growls.

The cadet shakes his head.

“Then put on some pants!
Now!”

The boy races off to change clothes.

Another cadet, twenty minutes late, comes wheeling into the parking lot, jumps out of his car, and hurries to the line of people who are standing at attention. Despite the day's warmth, the atmosphere is decidedly cool.

“Where you been, boy?” Sergeant Oliver says.

The youth mumbles an excuse and Oliver, much to the boy's relief, moves on.

Circling the group, closely eyeing each cadet, are the school's instructors, four troopers assigned to mold raw recruits into professional officers during the next twenty weeks. It is these men the cadets will come to know, fear, and respect the most.

But it is Sergeant Oliver who has their attention now. His fingers tapping the clipboard that contains the name and address of each cadet, he launches into a speech. It is one he has given numerous times before.

“Our program isn't easy,” he tells the group. “What it takes to get through this school is determination. And along the way you may find that you don't really want to be a trooper. Well, that's okay. This world has got to have something in it besides troopers. Just be honest and tell me. If you slip out of here at night like a dog—and I've had that happen—you'll never get a recommendation from me for a job in any state agency. If you stay, that's great. We need you. But we want you to be the best you can be. We're not going to put you on the highway if you're not prepared. I wouldn't do that to my fellow officers.”

Next comes a grueling physical assessment that includes push-ups, pull-ups, hand-strength tests, and endurance runs. During the assessment, one cadet faints from the heat and another, deciding that an hour of patrol school is enough, resigns. The remaining recruits are marched to a classroom across campus for orientation. At each desk are seven manuals and three loose-leaf notebooks, containing subjects that range from college freshman English to highway patrol policy. The cadets, seated rigidly in green plastic chairs, are not allowed to speak without permission. A few, exhausted from the physical evaluation, appear dazed, like battle-scarred soldiers who accidentally wandered into enemy camp.

What Trooper Randy Hammonds is about to say is not meant to make them feel better. A handsome, muscular Indian in charge of physical training, he strides purposefully to the front of the room.

“We only have one race here,” he says bluntly. “And that's cadet. And only one color, confederate gray.

“I'm not gonna make you do anything during your training. But I'm not gonna do anything for you, either. I didn't send those
acceptance letters to you—headquarters did. The only way you're gonna earn my respect, and the respect of your peers, is through a four-letter word. It's called
work. 
If you're not familiar with the term, you'll soon learn it. 'Cause we're gonna work you from five every morning till ten every night. My suggestion is that you take it one hour at a time. And you just might, by the grace of God, make it.”

Trooper Tommy Cheek, whose finely chiseled features are now sternly set, goes over the list of do's and don'ts.

“I don't want to see water, hair, shaving cream, or anything else in the dormitory sinks. Keep all towels out of sight. Dry all water spots on the hardware. Don't use the soap that's on display. Clothes are to be hung with shirts buttoned, sleeves across the chest. Shoes are to be polished, with laces tied. Dresser drawers are pulled out six inches for display, with all items secured by tape so that nothing rolls around.

“And woe be unto the first one who squirrels M&Ms in the ceiling or sets his alarm for 3:00
A.M. 
to sneak across campus for a Coke! If one messes up, you
all 
pay.

“Line sergeants will be coming on campus for in-service training and they'll be eyeballing you,” he continues. “Their first questions are gonna be, ‘How are they doing? Who's the sharpest? How many have you lost?'

“You are reflecting us, so you better not let us down.

“Crosby!” 
Cheek suddenly barks at a sleepy-looking cadet. “If you don't open those eyes, I'm gonna come back there and open them for you! If you think I'm standing up here just to hear myself talk, you're mistaken! And get your arm off that prop. There won't be
any 
propping in here!”