Budo and the Badge

PURSUITS
One such chase was initiated by Paterson Police. They entered Clifton on Hazel Street, heading for the Garden State Parkway South. We had one Paterson car, Bill Gibson, Chris Vassoler and me, all solo in our vehicles. As we pursed the vehicle toward East Orange and Irvington, we learned that the car contained three or four black males that were also wanted for street robberies earlier that day. To my surprise, the Paterson car broke off the pursuit and got off the highway at the next exit. The three of us realizing that it was a felony vehicle, continued the pursuit further south, now traveling under Route 3. We were in the left lane reaching speeds of 100 mph.  After a few miles the suspect vehicle started to slow down and move into the center lane, of which there were three.
Why are they slowing down? I wondered silently.  Are they going to give up? Bail out and start a foot pursuit? Start shooting?  To my surprise they decelerated to about 50 mph, only to throw one of their own out of the rear passenger door. As soon as the guy hit the pavement everyone on the parkway, including us, hit the brakes.
UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES
It’s sad, all of the death that we witness.  I remember a teenager who hung himself in a garage.  Cutting him down as a rookie, I wasn’t much older than him.
The pretty, young girl that died in my arms after a terrible car accident, the left side of her mouth and cheek lacerated to her ear.  Blood gushed out with each dying beat of her heart.  Her eyes locked with mine tacitly asking me to save her.
The little kid who was run over while riding his bike.
The suicides are too many to count.
The human “road kill” on the highways.  “He was struck here,” said Little Falls Sergeant Brian LaPooh, as we discussed if the accident was in his jurisdiction or mine.
“Yeah,” I said, “he was struck there by the first car, over there by the second car, and there where his intestines lie, by yet another vehicle.”
The vicious homicide of that poor pregnant girl in her own bed, lying in her blood soaked sheets.
The bizarre case of the guy who put a drill in a vise, drilling a hole in his forehead.
The Hail Mary murder.
The autoerotic asphyxiation guy hanging from his closet door, while masturbating for that ultimate climax.  Hope it was worth it.
The guy that blew his brains out.  I can still see them dripping from the ceiling.
Passaic’s little Devina, raped and murdered; we still remember you.
The Third Street Church shooting.
Opening the door on Harrison Street to discover an entire family was murdered.
Unless you were there, you don’t know how it feels.  People want to help you by offering advice.  You sometimes just want to scream, “Were you there?!!”  You have to find a way to work this out in your mind so you can keep going.  The big city cops have it even worse.
There are countless cases that end in tragedy in the career of a cop.  You start to become numb and jaded.  People don’t understand, your own wife doesn’t understand.  You come home from a traumatic event thankful you made it, while she’s nagging that you didn’t cut the grass.  If you’re a cop, talk to your brothers, brother.  They’re the only ones who can relate.
ASH STREET
The actor pointed his gun at Bill and then at me.  He started babbling, “We’re all going to die!”  But something was wrong because he wasn’t firing.
He wants to die, I thought.  So you know what?  I’m not going to kill him.  I knew that Billy was an excellent shot.  I also knew that Billy was aiming center mass.  With this, I thought, Ciser, you ain’t got a hair on your ass if you can’t shoot that gun out of his hand.
STATE OF LAW ENFORCEMENT
Guns are everywhere in our large cities.  Cops are constantly caught in the crossfire, as are innocent bystanders.  Cops don’t wake up every morning thinking, I wonder who I could kill today.  But there are gang members who do.  Cops have to make split second decisions in a world gone crazy as their detractors lie in wait.  The media shouts, “Why did he fire?” while the family at a cop’s funeral asks, “Why didn’t he fire?”  Cops today are more concerned about public lynching of officers, rather than the violent adversaries they confront.
If men, like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson, would concentrate more on saving the lives of inner city youth from each other, instead of seeking headlines going after cops who made a mistake, maybe we would finally see some results.  With their national notoriety they could start with the countries five most violent cities.  These would be St. Louis, Camden (New Jersey) Detroit and Flint (Michigan) and Oakland (California).  Maybe it wouldn’t kill them to listen to men like Bill Cosby, J.C. Watts or Alan West, for real solutions to the problem.
BECOMING PAT CISER
After winning my first two matches in kumite, I was getting pretty fired up.  My third match was getting ready to start as I went up against a competitor from Aruba.  I had a devastating right side kick in those days, that could break a two-by-four in half.  Hajime (begin) was heard as I viciously attacked with my trademark kick.  Down went the Aruban fighter as the kick found its mark.  Clearly in pain, holding his left ribs, the doctor was called over.  It appeared that they might have been broken or at the very least, badly bruised.  His coach told him that he could continue if he fought on his left side.
Karate is not like boxing.  Most good fighters can fight in either a left or right side stance.  He entered the ring with his injured ribs away from me.  The referee shouted, “Hajime” and bam!  I threw the right side kick.  This time he got his right arm in the way to block his ribs.  Crack! as the kick broke his arm.  He went down screaming in pain as I jumped up and down, exclaiming, “Get up!  Get up!”  (Told you I was fired up).  Not something I would do later in my career, but hell, I was only 19.  The crowd got angry when I was declared the victor.  I would rei (bow) out of the ring and exit proudly with large U.S.A. letters on my back.
BODIES
Don Henley’s, In a New York Minute, used to come to mind, as we periodically dealt with suicide.  Few jobs were harder than having to ring the doorbell of parents, informing them of the passing of their child.
Hangings were, from my experience, the most common method used.  Some I remember, while others I’ve tried to forget.  There was one, however, that I’ll never forget.
It was a frigid winter night, as the cold penetrated right down to the bone.  I was dispatched to Piaget Avenue, just up from Main Avenue, over the railroad tracks.  A young woman had thrown herself off the bridge, while snapping her neck with a heavy chain.
The way she killed herself ensured that there would be no coming back.  I later learned this was not her first attempt, as she once jumped from a bridge without a rope or chain, never expecting to wake up again.  Taking a thick chain, strong enough to tow a car, she secured it to the heavy steel fence, along the sidewalk with a heavy duty lock.  She then wrapped the other end around her neck and secured that with a second heavy duty lock...