Anxiety

            My dear old nervous friend how have you been?  I know some people you have been pestering lately and I will forewarn you that they are about to hear what I have to say about our relationship. That always wakes up and scares the old bastard.   Anxiety is the one confused state we get into which no longer applies to modern life. You heard me, it’s a nearly useless pile of energy that can cause a rash, tunnel vision, stomach pain, muscle cramps and in extreme cases change how we look permanently.

            Feel free to look up the symptoms and you will quit somatizing or go nuts. Let’s just kick old Mr Anxiety in the nuts so you can feel free shall we?

            Physiologically Anxiety cannot last. You need to know this when peak episodes perk up. It is largely felt as a rush of adrenalin in really pronounced cases or as mild to moderate irritants most of the time. Some of us are prone to having it. One thing you can do right now is look at the feelings and thoughts and just say louder than they are; “I have a life, you’re in the way.” Then force yourself into any kind of exercise you can do right their. If it’s a busy desk then have something you can crush repeatedly in your hands or stomp with your feet. You cannot walk and or run and have anxiety at the same time it is physiologically impossible.

            Triggers that set off an episode are many. I have sudden thoughts or an allergy reaction. The years of practice have made me dismissive of idiot random anxiety thoughts but the allergies need to be dealt with. First drink water. Dehydration has sent people to the hospital with false heart attack symptoms. Second check the environment. Is it dry after a wet spell? Is their construction or digging going on nearby?  After Thirty many people who could ignore allergies become suddenly crippled by them. A quick test can rule out many allergies, I have a bizarre one; I’m allergic to strong smells… not kidding.

            Things that help besides exercise are fish oil, Quercitin Bromeline, and good old fashioned water.

            It was a dry day during a cancer scare that I just stopped my anxiety in its tracks and said; “If you are within me than I am bigger.”  It was the beginning of the end of a relationship I had with the only constant companion throughout my life. Not that it ever pops up but I now know how to make anxiety my bitch when work needs to get done.

Writing about Law Enforcement

            Pet peeve and red button time!  I have been stepping over bodies and visiting celebrities in their freshly burglared homes for about nine years.  I work as a crime scene photographer for the Los Angeles Police Department.  To say that I have seen it all seems somewhat redundant.

            So here is the thing that is stuck in my craw:  People who write about crime without any people in it frosts over my will to continue reading.  WHAT!?  You heard me; stop writing as though anyone who carries a gun and a badge is devoid of personality.  I work with FBI agents who have a better sense of humor over life and its lessons than the DMV-styled officious maunder that is today’s attempt at getting a reader behind the yellow tape.  By the way, the LAPD invented that stuff to keep politicians and other ilk from trampling over evidence.

            Example:  PIII Juarez led XA-21 mission ready as always.

            Result:  I am going to find where you live and…. 

            Let us see this more clearly shall we?  A PIII has been with the department for a while, approximately five years.  They can stay at that level, many choose to do so, or promote to detectives or administration by way of Sergeant.  A PIII is a Police Officer III.  Everything has a rank.  I am Photographer III, which is right below supervisor, who could also be ranked at various levels.

            It begins at the academy where an officer is either a boot or field trainee.  After graduation, they are sent out into the field and are become another officer’s partner.  On duty, a partner is like a ventricle; you cannot pull one out and have a functioning heart.

            Rank is important.  I have been on scene where two Detective III’s had to fight over who was in charge, and it came down to date of hire.  Oh, the poor fellow who graduated first.

            XA-21 is a Unit.  Basically, two officers patrolling anywhere in the area designated as 21.  It is somewhat of a mouthy insider; do not  use.

            Avoid power words like maximum or turbo.  Relate the relatable like an officer who sees their first dead child and it looks like their cousin.

            Tensions rise on scene when brass shows up.  It gets worse when politicians are involved.  Once, the District Attorney got me on the phone to tell me directly what to photograph.

            We all have our own method of writing.  Just think about the heart behind the badge that covers it.

            Some insider things you should know.  Bulletproof vests are never comfortable.  In the summer, they do not breathe and will make a hot day even more hellish.  In the winter, they are dense, causing the cold to come straight through.  They also bunch up when you sit down.

            A car is called a unit or shop; some still call them radio cars.

            SWAT stands for Special Weapons and Tactics and it saves more lives by less than lethal means.  Less than lethal are stuff like tasers, water cannons, ladders, so on and so forth.  They go the extra mile to stop someone from hurting themselves, but primarily anyone else.  Shootouts are nowhere near as common as you are led to believe.  The people in SWAT are extraordinary; they are in amazing shape and practice safe takedowns constantly. They are not the biggest badasses on the department.

            Special units and, in our case, Metro cops are far more likely to get into a nasty fight than anyone else.  They are also some of the nicest people I know.  Funny how true badasses know they are the 600 lb gorilla and do not need to flex.

            Officers cry.  I was shocked the first time I witnessed it.  I always let them know it is okay around me.

            Please, let us connect with the human being first before you start taking us into the world of your creation.  Detectives have been single moms needing a solid job or fresh out of the military with no idea of what to do with their lives.  It is true that all of us behind the thin blue line go into a mode when it is time, but we also have to go to the bathroom and find chow if we are stuck on a long scene.

           

Over

            The Christmas season is difficult in my business.  The juxtaposition of festive arrangements and bodies do not mix together well.  After eight years on this job, if I retire tomorrow, I will never miss seeing another murder next to a Christmas tree.

            Over the years, I have photographed an assault, a murder, a natural, and a suicide during the holidays:  A young man survived being stabbed many times about the head and chest; A young mother was shot at contact range while laying on her couch; An old man died in his living room after finally losing his battle with cancer; Another old man jumped from a bridge over the Harbor Freeway.  And to think, that was just during the week leading up to Christmas.

            Lately, I have been coming home to a decorated tree that fills my living room with the fresh scent of pine I remember as a child.  I am lucky to be able to have one and so very grateful for the talent that decorated it.

            This year will soon be over.  I am grateful to be alive, healthy, and happy surrounded by love.

A future

            I am buoyed quite often by my dreams of what lies ahead.  Like many are apt to do when thinking about their future, I focus beyond the scene in front of me.  For most of you, it is retirement; for me, it is my writing.  

            I became engrossed with this blog knowing it was read by so many around the world.  (Hello Finland!)  It never would have continued if it were not for one, adorable ankle-biter who has helped me mature as a writer.

            The other day I was working a long FTC.  (Fatal Traffic Collision.)  Two young people died.  The excitement of a new, powerful car took over the driver’s sensibilities; he lost control, killing himself and the passenger.

            Many on the scene had become quite grouchy.  It may have been the combination of the tension caused by City budget problems or the overwhelming media presence.  Perhaps the scene was somehow gnawing on their insides; sometimes, the job just gets to you.  In this case, it was truly an unnecessary loss of young lives. I felt blessed to have my writing to think about.

            This blog has been a wonderful safety valve for me and a saving grace; I have enjoyed writing every word of it.

            My future has already begun with the completion of my first novel, which is currently in the hands of beta readers.  It took more than nine intense months of rewrites and revisions to complete.  I am a changed man because of the experience, which has proved to be humbling, heartbreaking, and challenging to say the least.  I am so grateful the ‘whirlwind of a process’ did not ruin my loving relationship.

            Although my posts may not be updated as often, this blog will continue.  An expanded version will be published in an E-book format very soon.  Many of the questions I have been asked throughout my career will be properly answered, and I intend to announce the title here first.

            Allow yourselves to dream about the future you desire.  Better yet, dream with somebody else.  Like me, the future you imagine today could very well become the life you live tomorrow. 

Green Light

Just like the traffic signal, this sigil of a saying has one purpose:  To let someone know it’s okay to proceed.

When I worked in Hollywood, ‘green light’ was the ultimate phrase anyone anxious to begin a project wanted to hear.  It was final approval.  Few in the industry are allowed the privilege to confirm whether something is green lit or not.  You either had the money to green light a project or you were the spokesperson delivering the message.  No matter where you were in the hierarchy of the industry, you anticipated hearing the phrase, ‘green light’.

Some in my business never want to hear it.  I know I don’t.  In my line of work, it means someone in the hierarchy of the gang structure has given the okay to commit murder.  I recently learned that members of the southern California gangs operating outside of California were given an automatic green light to get shanked.  

A shank is a makeshift stabbing weapon.  Prisoners make shanks out of anything that’ll maintain its shape long enough to be shoved into someone else.  An inmate will use a glass shard to work off a piece of furniture, sink, toilet, or whatever else over a period of weeks, even months.  They’ve been discovered in every hiding place you can possibly imagine, including rectums.  For people who do not read, this craft is one they spend their time perfecting.

I’d been working an OIS (Officer Involved Shooting) in an area just north of Dodger Stadium when I witnessed a sudden shift in the attitude of the officers around me.  Since I was the only civilian, I questioned the nearest person in uniform.  He proceeded to tell me that the Mexican Mafia had just given the green light to kill a police officer.  I was suddenly relieved and comforted by the fact I would not be mistaken for one from any angle or distance.  

Although the order was never carried out, we were forced to wear our bulletproof vests before traveling into that particular area for months after the incident.

Over the years, I’ve learned that everything good can easily be twisted into something bad.  I now know what a simple, innocent catchphrase means in the minds of those hell-bent on wielding power over life and death.  I am, however, keenly aware that I too wield power over my own life; the only one with any real authority to green light a positive attitude. 

Let The Boy Dream

I dream when I can.  

I convert the worst part of my job into the best part by allowing myself to daydream or write in my head.  I was doing that very thing when someone crept inside and killed it for me, as well as for someone else.

South Central Los Angeles has its green patches.  The neighborhood stands out, but not with extravagance like Beverly Hills or uber charm like West LA.  It stands out because it is clean, free of graffiti, and not littered by trash.

I drove through the gang-infested, trash-strewn sprawl and arrived at a green patch with clean lawns and fresh paint on the houses.  I reached the perimeter marked with police tape and an officer directed me to a great place to park.  I checked in and began talking to a detective about the scene.  I was informed there would be a delay since the investigators were not ready to lay out numbers or letters, so I waited across the street and got ready to shoot some overalls.

I was standing, facing the crime scene, when I heard a young voice behind me.  The voice seemed excited.  I turned enough to catch a glimpse of a boy resting his head on crossed forearms that were draped over the top of a short chain link fence.  

He talked about the lake his dad was taking him to.  He was excited with anticipation of the kinds of fish they would catch and the kind of place it would be.  He looked past the scene across the street and well into the next day.  

A young, adult male also overheard the boy.  He was on the same side of the fence.  He began to dispute and shoot down everything the boy imagined, stating he’d been to that same lake and it was a dump with no fish to boot.  It was nothing but verbal poison.  In that moment, I wished I could have said something.

It was time to work.  There was a black SUV parked on a sharply sloped driveway at a corner lot home.  It was, save for the dead man in the truck, a really nice place.  The driver had fled from someone who caught up to him.  The murderer shot him through the driver’s side window, opened the door, and shot him several times more in the face and chest.  Although disturbing, it truly is an act of intimacy watching someone die up close.

Across the street where the boy lived, houses showed less care.  Whole neighborhoods can go from safe and nice to dangerous and run-down in just a few blocks.  I noticed the boy’s eyes had lost some of their life.  They stopped dreaming of the future, his hopes for catching some fish and being in a nice place with his dad gone.  His eyes had been affixed on the trash blown in from a few blocks away and the spray painted gang signs on the sidewalk.  The days of anticipation disappeared from his expression.  I noticed it the moment I finished my shot and moved down the sidewalk to another position.  He was forced to retreat into the oasis of his mind.  It was better to dream by yourself than allow others a glimpse only to have them rip it apart and drag you down.  I hope that is what he thought.

If I were able to say at least one thing to that embittered man who scoffed at the boy’s wistfulness, I would have urged him to just let the boy dream.