A Family Dispute

By Stephen Amy
The instructors at the police academy taught us that family disputes were
wildcards. “You have to be prepared for anything,” warned Sergeant Proctor
"when you respond to the family dispute radio call." In the course of responding
to family disputes my partner and I had been involved in everything from calming
an irate husband whose shoes had been slashed and thrown into the alley by
his jealous wife, to arresting a woman who had poured boiling water into the
crotch of her naked husband whom she found sleeping off a drunken night on the
town.

Generally the scene of a family dispute would be a residence. But this Friday
night in late 1968 was an exception. “12-A-75, see the woman, a 415 family
dispute at the restaurant, Manchester and Mckinley. Handle code two.” I knew
this location well. Manchester Avenue was the central east-west business route
through 77th Division. The division in 1968 was roughly Slauson Avenue on the
north, Imperial Highway on the south, Central Avenue on the east, and Vermont
Avenue on the west. As a child I had often visited my grandmother who lived a
block west of Mckinley Avenue on 85th Street. Many times I had walked to the
grocery store at Manchester and Central with my grandmother. But the1965
Watts riots had changed the landscape. The market had been burned down.
Prostitutes could be observed at night plying their trade in this area of
Manchester. The aging residents in nearby neighborhoods were moving out of
houses rapidly declining in value. This family dispute was at a fast food
restaurant specializing in tacos.

My partner, Steve Grenier, and I parked in the front parking lot of the business. A
few cars were also parked in the lot; one was a Thunderbird with a man in the
driver’s seat. We were met inside the business by a female employee, nervous
and crying. She had obviously been the victim of some physical trauma to her
face and head. She pointed to her husband sitting outside in the T-bird, “You got
to take that man to jail. I’m tired of him doing this to me,” pointing to the cuts and
contusions on her face. She explained that he had come into the business
earlier, jumped over the counter, and beat her with his fists. She added that he
had battered her many times during quarrels at home.

We completed a Battery Report which she signed. Then we explained that we

could not take her husband to jail unless she made a Citizen’s Arrest, because
the crime was a misdemeanor that was not committed in our (peace officers’)
presence. But she did not want to make a Citizen’s Arrest, asking with tears that
we talk to him and warn him. (In 1968 there were no spousal abuse laws which
would, as today allow such an arrest.)

We next turned our attention to the husband, to get his side of the story and warn
him against any further attacks. The driver’s window was closed, door locked. I
tapped gently on the window and asked him to roll down the window so we could

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talk. He looked straight ahead, refusing to roll down the window or look at me. I
began to consider various alternate courses of action, but most of them involved
an ambulance or the coroner. I wanted this wife-beating scum to demonstrate his
physical prowess with me; but the rules said I could not smash his window and
even the score for his wife. (Sometimes, in the heat of an angry moment, fate
smiles on us with a perfectly wonderful plan. In a calm instant I felt the assurance
bred by a plan that was sure to succeed.) I tapped on the window again, warned
the man not to bother his wife any further, and then walked deliberately back to
my patrol unit and got in.

Steve knew me well. He knew instinctively that we were not going to simply clear,
make a log entry and resume patrol. That would have been a first. His instinct
was confirmed as I drove a wide circle away from the restaurant and then parked
in the darkness so we could observe any further assaults and take appropriate
action. Steve smiled with approval as we focused on the suspect. Our patience
was rewarded as we observed the wife-beater’s car door open. He looked
around and walked toward the restaurant door. His trembling wife met him in the
parking lot. Without warning he slugged his wife, causing her to reel backward.
Bingo! Our suspect was now qualified for a free ride in a police car, and the
hospitality of 77th Division. I drove aggressively into the parking lot, got the
suspect’s attention, and arrested him (details omitted to protect the guilty.)

After obtaining medical treatment for the suspect at Morningside Receiving

Hospital, we booked him at 77th jail. When we attempted to clear and return to
patrol we were answered with “12-A-75 meet 12-L-30 at the station.” That meant
a supervisor wanted to talk to us. We were interviewed by a Sergeant Butch
Barton who had received a complaint from our suspect that I had used excessive
force in effecting his arrest. The lying snake had alleged that I had gotten his
attention and then beat him unconscious while he was speaking with his wife. But
his wife pleaded to the Sergeant that he had swung at me first. My partner
confirmed the wife’s account, adding that I had acted strictly in self-defense with
only the force necessary to gain control of the suspect.

I received a verbal warning to, “In the future use only department approved
methods, not fists, to effect arrests.” No question about it. I had been wrong to
use my fists. I should have used my department-issued baton on this guy.

The abusing thug, who worked as a bus driver, swore he would have my badge.
This one probably returned to his job where he might find the satisfaction of
closing the bus door as disabled old ladies attempted to board.

I was cleared of any wrong-doing, and the cuts on my fingers eventually healed.
It is still not the position of LAPD to offer wife-beaters the badges of arresting
officers.

Learning is sometimes hard, other times fun.

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“12-A-75, clear.” Very clear.
Copyright © 2007 Stephen Amy and Steven Grenier