True Crime Blog
As my memoir, Nothing Left to Prove grew beyond 108,000 words, there were parts that had to be cut. For a writer, this is akin to choosing which child to give away at birth. But a general rule to writing is that if it doesn’t move the story forward, slay it.
A stat’s a stat. Every cop has heard this phrase. In my old stomping grounds, these words were generally spoken sheepishly, usually after a deputy had made an unworthy bust. For instance, a misdemeanor warrant arrest, or something the chippies could have handled, like a drunk driver. “Hey man, a stat’s a stat.” One night…
NOTHING LEFT TO PROVE is a law enforcement memoir to be published sometime in the near future. It is the story of my career as a deputy sheriff with Los Angeles County, but it isn’t just a collection of war stories; rather, it is a compelling story of pain and healing, self-doubt and certainty, love…
Law enforcement is shooting itself in the foot over COVID-19 and the questionably lawful orders they are being asked to enforce. Governors are releasing convicted felons from prison and sheriffs are emptying their jails, all in the name of COVID-19. Meanwhile, some officials are going after otherwise law-abiding citizens who dare to defy their orders…
The last day of March was a tough day in this already difficult time in our country and in our world. But that day, in particular, hit especially hard for me and many of my colleagues. Not only was it the 28th anniversary of the death of Nelson Yamamoto, a young Firestone deputy who was…
Not to be badmouthing my own department, but the Gun Grip Fiasco is such an excellent example of idiocy and red tape, I cannot resist telling the story. Recently there was a post in a Facebook group in which we were discussing department-issued weapons. I didn’t tell my convoluted story there, but some of you…
Even a couple of hard-charging Firestone deputies could hit a dry spell now and then. This was the result, we always reasoned, of someone having pissed off the arrest gods.
On any night in South Los Angeles, gunfire crackles against the backdrop of revving motors and booming thumps of amplified bass. But on New Year’s Eve, those nightly but sporadic—and oftentimes purposeful—volleys of gunfire, are lost in the celebratory expenditures of what some of us consider to be precious metals.
Mike Griffin was my first patrol training officer at Firestone Station. In the first three months, he and I would handle half a dozen murders and assist on many others. The first happened in broad daylight on a populated sidewalk of Florence Avenue in South Los Angeles. The call came out as a 245 (assault…
The late eighties and early nineties saw the height of the crack cocaine epidemic. South Los Angeles, the epicenter of it all, experienced a colossal rise in violent crime. Gang members controlled the street level sales, and they were willing to kill for their piece of the pie.