A Veiw From the St

                                                       A look Behind the Badge

            I joined the Portland Police Bureau as a patrolman in 1961.  I was one of the "new breed" of cops that were hired for their brains, not necessarily for their brawn.  I was 25 and fairly naive then and joined a police bureau that was still rife with corruption. I didn't know about it because I had a reputation as an honest cop.

            The book "Portland Confidential" written by journalist Phil Stanford talks about the police bureau of that era. I worked for Carl Crisp head of vice squad but was always sent on details looking for prostitutes or kept out of the way of what was really going on.  It wasn't until I was assigned to North Precinct that I ran into and a foul of Jim Purcell Jr. But here is is the police bureau of the 1960's and 1970's.  I tell it like it was, warts, corruption and all.

                                                        Chapter one

                                             Early to bed, early to rise!

            It was about 3am and my partner and I were sitting in the Sun Sang cafe on SW 2nd and Oak drinking coffee and writing reports.  I was new on the job and being trained as a street policeman and we had just arrested a wino that crossed our path in front of the police car.  In the spring of 1961 it was a violation of the city ordinance to be drunk on the street and drunks went to jail.  They were an important part of the police overtime pay system I was to learn.  I finished the hand written report on an officers eight by ten report sheet.  Just about all reports went on one form.  It made it easy.

            I knew that I had better not drink too much coffee or I'd be out pissing and keeping my partner awake all night.  This guy wasn't my regular training coach.  He was one of the old timers that worked a full time day job and used the graveyard shift as a place to sleep.  Most of the guys on graveyard slept in their cars at night.  It irritated me no end. The Sun Sang was just across the street from Police headquarters and Central precinct and  we  walked back and put the completed report in the Sergeant's "in" box.

            Next we went to my partner's friends service garage in downtown Portland, opened the overhead door with his key and drove inside closing the garage door behind us.  "Isn't this great?" he said, "we're inside out of the weather, nobody can see us and hopefully the radio won't bother us. You be sure and answer the radio if they call car 7, but don't volunteer for nothin'." He got out from behind the driver's seat and took off his gun belt, put it in the trunk and retrieved a pillow and blanket.  Climbing into the back seat, he-was  asleep in 20 minutes.

            I  was angry.  Is this what police work was all about?  I was disgusted and then bored.  Praying for a radio  call didn't help either and the night dragged on.  Our police car was a Black and White 1959 Ford.  The heater didn't work well, but anyway I was afraid to turn on the engine for heat, afraid of waking up the old timer.

            But that's the way it was in 1961.  New cops were as low as dirt, not entitled to an opinion, and could be fired immediately.  Our job was to write the reports and answer the radio.  There was no civil service protection until after one year of employment, so I kept my mouth shut, waiting not only for the night to pass but the first year too.  After all, in a year I'd be making a hundred and twenty bucks a week and have a secure civil service job. Still, I wondered why he assumed I wouldn't complain to the Sergeant about his sleeping on the job.  (Yup, I was real young.)

            Slowly daylight came and about 7:30am, the old timer woke up.  He put his bed in the  trunk, strapped on his gun and we were off to the coffee shop for coffee and  toast.  I found out early in my career that cops were rarely charged for what they ate or drank.  I  enjoyed the coffee.  It warmed my bones  from the long night in the cold car.

            After work we went to court on the wino we had arrested.  My partner had arrested him for being drunk on the street and had stuffed a citation in his pocket for jay walking.  Actually he didn't jaywalk but was too drunk to remember.  My partner needed  credit for the ticket.

            It was a different world in the 60's.  Adultery was a three year felony.  Hell, I found out half the police department was committing adultery. Loitering, just standing on a corner could put you in jail.  Portland had an adult curfew called the "After hours" law.  An adult could go to jail just for being on the street after 3am, without a good reason.  The "good reason" was always determined by the cop.  The law always bothered me and I never abused it.  Lewd Cohabitation, or living together not being married was against the law.  Man...how things change!

            Once in a while I got to  work with a  training coach.  One whose job  was to  teach and not sleep all night.  I called him "Red," and we got along great.  We never slept on the job.  When we  weren't answering calls we were checking alleys, looking for break-ins and talking to people on the street. The radio cracked, "Car 3, check on a man down on 4th street near Flanders."  I reached in the back seat to get my rain coat.  It was pouring.  Coach answered the  radio and we weren't long getting there. 

            We saw the man was down, laying partially on the  rain soaked sidewalk with his head and chest in the gutter.  Blood was gushing from his mouth as he vomited, huge amounts of blood. His hat had come off and was floating down the street in the  bloody rainwater mixture.  The man died right in front of my eyes.  It was my first time I had ever seen a man die.  It was bloody.  It was gross and I've never forgotten him.

            Although they always denied it, the Police bureau had a traffic ticket quota.  Prowl officers, whose jobs were primarily non-traffic, had to  write a minimum of 12 moving traffic violations per man, per month.  Speeding, running a red light or traffic sign were all moving violations, and so was jaywalking.

            In the early 60's gay people were just  called "queers and faggots," by the police and were the target of extra police attention by both uniformed officers and vice cops.  There was a gay bar at SW Yamhill and 1st and my coach would park the police car about a block up the street.  He positioned the car so as to have a clear view.  After closing time the bar patrons would crowd out onto the sidewalk and many would jaywalk across Yamhill.  We would write 2 or 3 jaywalking  tickets, checking their records for any warrants and filled out Field Interrogation cards.  We called the area a "cherry patch," because so may jaywalkers were available.  It helped us get our mandated quota.

            The downtown  graveyard shift  routine was clear.  Be sure and get a traffic "Mover" and if any arrests were made we had to sign a complaint.  Overtime pay was fortunately unavoidable.  Not that people shouldn't get traffic tickets when they violate the law but the problem with a quota system is that it often caused citizens to get traffic tickets they  would not have received otherwise.  Also, the officers were punished if they didn't comply.  Punishment was usually a week working desk duty at the precinct.  Traffic safety aside, citations are now and always have been an important source of revenue.  Unfortunately law enforcement should be about truth and justice. Not about revenue!! 

                                                         Chapter Two

            New officers were transferred around the Police Bureau for training purposes and I was soon sent to work in the city jail on the 4 to midnight shift.  The jail was located on the top floor of the police headquarters building, accessed only by a single elevator from the lobby.  The Chief of Police was the official keeper of the city prison but the real bosses were an a abrasive cigar smoking Sergeant and two or three older patrolmen.  These were guys that were tired of working the street and found an inside job.  Another cop drove the paddy-wagon picking up prisoners.  The boss Sergeant had a full time day job building houses and was always two hours late for work each day.

            Because police cars didn't have roll bars or secure back seats at that time, officers were not allowed to  transport their own prisoner.  The paddy wagon had radio number #99 and did all the transporting of prisoners.  I enjoyed going on runs in the paddy wagon.  It gave me an opportunity to get away from the jail which always had a repressive feeling and a bad smell.

            When picking up a prisoner we rolled into the basement parking area of headquarters building.  When we opened the back door of the wagon the prisoner would see a wide yellow line complete with directional arrows painted on the concrete leading to the jail elevator.  Once on the jail floor you entered into a glass enclosed secure area.  On duty jailers would then activate the electrical door lock and book the prisoner in at the booking counter.

            Just down the hall was the "boil up room." Filthy prisoners would be given a hot bath, willing or not, and their clothing placed in a steam cabinet that killed vermin.   All the dirty boil up work was done by jail trustees.  They received one half day off their sentences for each boil up and earned it.  Trustees also washed all the police cars and manned the shoeshine stand in the officers lounge.  Trustee labor was free!!

            Prisoners were generally well taken care of and there was no abuse or brutality by jail officers.  I got along with everyone except the boss Sergeant and we just naturally clashed.  He was middle aged, heavy set and not too bright.  He always had a nasty cigar chomped in the corner of his mouth and always about two hours late for work.  His real job of building houses kept him from getting to work on time, but no one said anything.  Oh well, that was civil service. 

            Visiting hours at the jail were once a week for families and friends.  Other than that we were constantly kept busy assisting identification officers with mug shots, making prisoners available to detectives to interview and assisting bail bondsmen in releasing prisoners. Joe Levy's bail bond company was located directly across the street from the jail and he did a good business. Joe was a short older man, a little stooped over, with a few wisps of silver hair.  He showed up at the booking desk two or three times a shift bailing prisoners out.  Levy was a nice guy for a bail bondsman and a sharp businessman.

            The summer of 1961 resulted in one of the biggest murder investigations of the time. Richard Marquette, the butcher!  He really was a butcher by trade.  He killed and butchered Joan Caudle.  Some of her body parts had been found in his house at 314A SE 27th and detectives were continuing to hunt for her head.  The horror story was all over the media.  After the killing Richard fled Portland and ran as far as Tijuana but was arrested in California by the feds who found him in Santa Maria  California working in a junkyard.

            So now he was back in Portland and in the city jail and had just been booked in by the transporting officers.  Richard Marquette was the first murderer I had ever seen.  He looked unkempt, dirty and needed a shave.  There was a very intense look in his eyes that I'll never forget.  Sergeant 'not to bright' had assigned me to give Marquette a safety razor and guard him while he shaved.  Marquette kept glancing at me standing behind him in the mirror with those intense eyes.  Here was a man that had butchered the mother of two children trying to keep from cutting himself shaving.  How could he have cut off her head I thought to my self.  Yes, he was the first murderer I had seen.  He would certainly not be the last. 

            One hot afternoon at about 6pm, myself and the two regular jailers were sitting behind the booking counter.  We had a fan going and the outside windows were open to get some air for the prisoners.  It was an unusually slow day.  No one had  been booked in since we came to work at 4pm.  The jail elevator doors opened and an officer appeared.  He had one of our regular wino's in custody.  His name was Swede, and he wore a wooden peg leg.  It looked like something right out of a pirate movie. Sergeant 'not too bright' was also on the elevator just coming to work.  We were all sitting down but he yelled at me, "Hey son, get off your lazy ass and get this prisoner booked in."  I flashed anger.  "I'll take care of it," I said, "but I don't want too hear much of anything from somebody that's two hours late for work every day."  The Sergeant just about bit his ever present cigar in two.

     Of course the very next morning at 9am sharp I was ordered to be in the Captain's office.  Captain Harms was a Grey haired old timer that had come up through the ranks in the forties and fifties.  He was friendly but his message was clear.  He said that I had the makings of a good cop but that if I didn't learn to keep my mouth shut about what I saw and heard at work I wouldn't make my probation. "Is that clear officer?"  "Yes sir." I was out of his office at 9:10am.  Well, that's the beauty of civil service.

     Toward the end of my assignment in the jail, I was sometimes allowed to make paddy wagon runs by myself.  District car #28 seemed to be having trouble with an arrest near Vancouver and Hancock and "Could you hurry?"  As I pulled up I saw that one of our Black uniformed officers was struggling on the front porch of a house with another Black man and a shotgun.  I helped the officer get handcuffs on the man and secure the shotgun.  We put the handcuffed prisoner in the paddy wagon and he told me to shut the door with him inside for a minute.  I did as I was told remembering the jail Captains admonition.  There was a lot of crashing and banging going on inside the closed van and I heard "Don't you ever call me a nigger, and never point a shotgun at me.  Do you understand?" A few minutes later I let the officer out of the van.  I guess they had reached an understanding.

     The  Black officer was not an old timer.  I wondered why he just automatically assumed that I wouldn't question the beating up of a handcuffed prisoner. The Black cop didn't stay with the police job.  He got into politics and wound up on the city council.

By Don Dupay