Be Nice

For the newsletter of the Florida Association of Asian Crime Investigators

The Reminisces of an Old Fart, well past his prime:

12/98

On the Beauty of Being a Nice Guy

Working with the Violent Gang Task Force, and being seconded the Immigration and Naturalization Service, had its points. One of them was the chance to work the streets with all sorts of officers and Federal Agents. My partner was an agent.

One warm evening in Eastern New Orleans, we stopped an ethnic Vietnamese, a known drug dealer. Due to the fact he had oodles[1] of money and was driving a new car, but said he was unemployed and had not worked in years,. We confiscated his money and auto then called in the I.R.S., as well as the Financial Crimes guys from the New Orleans Police Department.[2] While waiting for these worthies to show up we chatted with our suspect, after of course reading him his rights seventy-three times and giving him a Xeroxed copy of the Constitution.

He was wearing, if you can believe it, a boat necked pull over shirt, color blue, with horizontal white stripes and blue beach pants with vertical white stripes. I called him over and, after first giving him the  “Clothing Warning” as required by the above mentioned Constitution, I took it upon myself to counsel him. “My friend,” I said[3], “that shirt and those pants look simply awful” His poor little face fell, believing as he did that he was a paragon of sartorial splendor 

He asked, “What do you mean?”

“It’s that shirt,” I told him. “You know the button down blue shirts I often wear when I’m in your neighborhood, fighting crime and suppressing evil?”

He replied he was indeed familiar with my usual attire.

“Well, a linen shirt like that with those pants and perhaps a pair of white boat shoes, would look great.”

He sincerely thanked me and said he appreciated my interest in his welfare.

My Federal Agent partner took this opportunity to come over and try also, to be his pal. His overtures of friendship were greeted with this statement.   “You? You an asshole.”

“Me?” said the shocked the Federal employee.  “Jack is the one taking all of your money and your car, and making fun of your clothes.”

“You don’t understand,” the criminal said. “Mr. Jack is our friend. He puts us in jail and shoots at us because it’s his job, but he really likes us and helps us out all the time. You? You just another federal asshole.”

The moral of this short monograph: If you want to be popular, and not get shot at too much, teach criminals how to dress.

Lieutenant Jack Willoughby

N.O.P.D. (Ret.)

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[1]            An “oodle” is somewhat more than “a lot,” but a little less than “a shitload.”

[2]            Known to the cognoscenti as the “N.O.P.D."

[3]            He and I both knowing full well we were not really friends, nor bloody likely to be.

Crime in the city

 Formating a bit screwed up.  Pity.

Article for the newsletter of the Florida Association of Asian Crime Investigators

2/99

The Reminisces of an Old Fart, well past his prime:

What webs we weave, when we practice to deceive.

Once upon a time, when the world was young and I was a fighter of crime, suppressor of evil and a bulwark for Democracy, it fell to my lot to re-investigate a crime.

After several days away from work, days spent a whoopin’ and a hollrin’ and a shoutin’ at the moon, I came into the office and looked at the reports of crimes recently committed. One such report was of an Aggravated Burglary, known in some circles as a Home Invasion Robbery. I noticed the victim, ethnic Vietnamese, listed his employment as “Unemployed Fisherman.” I thought to myself, ‘Anyone who has enough nuts to list himself as an unemployed fisherman, would wear a Sherman button to a Georgia picnic.’

Further reading of this report indicated $60,000.00[1] in cash; jewelry and other property had been stolen from this unemployed flounder assassin and his poor family, poor as church mice, living in a public housing unit. As I looked at the poorly written police report, the thought occurred to me there just might be more to this than the original investigating officer could, fathom, in his wildest dreams, There was indeed another, untold, story to be gleaned.

I went into that section of town wherein lived many ethnic Vietnamese people. A stop at a local coffee house and a cup of tea with some folks known to me as honest, upright citizens was a waste of time. They giggled, hid smiles behind their hands and shook their heads when I requested information. My next stop was a bar, frequented by robbers, rapists, burglars and ladies of little, if any, repute. They were more than happy to tell me the story.

The unemployed fisherman it seems was somewhat less than truthful as regards his profession. Fisherman he was; unemployed he was not. This gent was the owner/captain of a fishing vessel that threw its nets in the Gulf of Mexico. This was not a rowboat, but a fully appointed fishing trawler, my sources informed me. Smiling as they told the story, they said this captain and his merry crew pulled one day from the Gulf, a large package. When opened, this package was found to contain cocaine, a very large amount. They believed, and I feel no differently, that the U.S. Customs Service[2] was in pursuit of some dope smuggling malefactor and said coke was thrown overboard in an effort to escape lawful prosecution.

Our captain and his crew took this package as bounty of the sea, and the captain sold it.[3] When the time came to split the loot, he took half and gave his crew half, to be split among them. This did not please those who worked for him. The cocaine was not, you must understand, the fruit of their labor, of which the captain, as owner and commander was entitled to a much larger portion than his crew. The package of Controlled Dangerous Substance was, as it were, a Gift from God. Such gifts they felt should be “share and share alike” with all, including the captain, getting an equal share. They were unhappy and felt they had been wronged. As happens when men are unhappy, they took their sorrows and complaints to a local watering hole and began to consume Budweiser and bitch about their lot in life[4]. I was unable to find out who had the original idea to get even with the boss, but this was brought up and discussed until a plan was formulated. Some Vietnamese gang members known to someone in the crew, who had no doubt led an adventurous life as a youth, were consulted and told of the captain’s newly gained fortune. The gang members said something on the order of “Fear not. We shall even the score.” They did.

In the wee hours of the morning, the gangsters broke in the captain’s apartment, stole every thing of value, raped his wife and daughters, and made good their escape. In the family discussion that followed, before the police were called in, it was decided that the rapes would not be reported[5] and the true value of things stolen would not be told, but a much lesser value of $60,000.00 would be used for reporting purposes. They were afraid the police would think they had too much money. They were right.

Those who told me the tale knew, but would not tell, who the robbers were. “The hell with that guy,” I was told. “He deserved what he got. Bragging about having that much money is not right.[6]” I interviewed the victim and he denied the above account and stuck to his guns; he was telling nothing less than the complete truth to the police. Ha!

I made a call to an associate, who happened to be an I.R.S. Agent. After hearing the story, he requested a copy of the police report. As we all know, assisting other law enforcement agencies is part of the job of protecting and serving the public. I sent him that which he requested. Woe to the poor, unhappy boat captain. Robbed by the gangsters, and later by the I.R.S., for under reporting income. It seemed he reported on his tax forms he made almost nothing, being unemployed as he was. His newly acquired assets, as noted in the report he gave to the police, needed explaining. Woe indeed.

The moral of this story is twofold:

First Fold: Always deal fairly with your criminal associates.

B: When you’re assigned to investigate a crime, please do a nice job. If you don’t, your lieutenant will be angry.

©Lieutenant Jack Willoughby

N.O.P.D. (Ret.)

Scottsboro, Alabama

February 1999

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[1]            If memory serves me correctly. For those nitpickers and anal-retentives reading this, make that 60K an “approximate” figure. Such people piss me off. I hate to write footnotes.

                  [2]                                    Your tax dollars at work.

[3]                  We know not where, nor to whom.

[4]                                    Their mood was not helped by the fact that Mrs. Captain had been shopping in the local morning market, displaying her new jewelry and telling one and all how clever her husband was, and how he had cheated his former friends and crew members. “How clever indeed,” said her friends, “is your husband, a man who brings such wealth from the face of a calm sea.”

[5]                                    Common among Vietnamese rape victims. They feel the same of being a victim of such an act will go poorly with them in the community.

[6]                                                There is a cultural lesson here to be learned. To understand what I’m talking                                                             about, I recommend you read everything ever written by William Lawrence  Cassidy.

A Perm

Long ago,
in the land
of Bangchang-Chewie,
lived a lad named Earl
What a pearl
was our Earl
He had no girl,
only a goat
That's all she wrote
•
•
•
•
•
•
•
Earl and his goat

Comments on Hurricane Katrina

Jessie Jackson and other vomit lickers are, as usual, dead wrong.

What one usually sees on television, the day after a disaster, is Red Cross trucks feeding people and handing out coffee.  Not in New Orleans, not even now, more than a week after the storm made its visit.  Why?  Well, hell, boy, the State of Louisiana in its incarnation as local Homeland Security won't let them into the city.  "We're trying to get people to leave," was the stated reason.  "The Red Cross will only make them want them to stay."

The same route taken into the city by CNN, FOX, PRAVDA, et al, could have been followed by the Red Cross.  Instead people died because the gummint of the State of Lousyana had both thumbs up its collective ass.  

Instead of screaming for Federal help the mayor should have let the food trucks roll in.  This same mayor could have let a couple of his armed bodyguards protect the trucks, make people behave, line up and be nice.

There is a saying in my former hometown.  "Naturally N'Orleans."

Wo, safe in Northeast Alabama

8 September 2005

Smash Hit!!!

Sarah's book is a major hit.  The initial printing was 1.5 million copies, upped another million after three days.  Puts Hillary's book to shame.

Liberals are in a rage.  They cannot come up with any reason the book is such a hit.  All of their back-stabbing, sour-grape arguments come up flat. The AP had eleven (11) fact checkers working on the book after its release.  They came up with the most odious claim possible; Sarah likes to eat in nice restaurants now and then.  How dare she?

Her life is - pardon the pun - an open book.  Someone stated that she needs to know more about European history and geography if she wants to be president.  Okay.  I'm always amazed that liberals will accept any excuse why one of their fair-haired favorites can't find his ass with both hands and a map, yet they expect Conservatives to be experts on all subjects, and poke fun at them when they're not perfect.


Gov. Palin may never be president, but how could she possibly be worse than what we have now?

WoFat has spoke.

Death of a friend – November 1998

GOOD MAN GONE

Sergeant Tom Perdue of the San Francisco Police Department was killed on 12 November 1998. He was riding his new motorcycle, a Harley-Davidson Sportster, about 9:30PM, on Market Street, when a Volvo turned in front of him.  He suffered a ruptured aorta and a broken neck. He died instantly.

Tom was an expert on Asian crime.  He was good at everything, but his specialties were Chinese and Japanese. When he walked the streets of Chinatown, he knew everyone, and their children. When you met someone, as you walked with Tom, he would later give you that person’s life history, how they had been wronged and by whom, or maybe who they’d wronged or cheated, and what he’d done about it.  He knew the bad guys and the good guys, and the man who ran the tram. Bar girls, bat boys and Beat Specials, all knew Tom Perdue.  His nick-name “The Monkey King,” spoke volumes to the knowledgeable.

He was a grand tour guide and knew well the history of his beloved San Francisco, and its people. A member of the Chinese Historical Society, he was aware of the racial barriers thrown up through the years, in the path of the Chinese population of San Francisco.  He wanted to make things right, in the ways he could, by putting away some of the criminals that preyed on the Asian communities of the City by the Bay.  He did a swell job.

Sergeant Perdue is survived by his wonderful daughters, Wendy and Janna.

He was known and respected.

He was liked.

He was loved.

He was a hero.

He was my friend.

He is dead, and the world is the worse for his passing.

His ashes have been scattered over the sea.

Inspector John McKenna, S.F.P.D. (Ret.), William L. Cassidy, David Kaplan (U.S. News) and I were among those who gave, for want of a better word, eulogies, at Tom’s funeral.

Lieutenant Jack Willoughby

N.O.P.D. (Ret.)

Scottsboro, Alabama

November 1998

Another old article - from 1987

Things Are Rough All Over

Sergeant Jack Willoughby

7^th Police District

 

 I don't mind being laughed at when I do something silly, or write something funny. It is a bit odd though when people laugh at your police car. The other day I had occasion to drive Car 701 for a few hours. Folks laughed at the car. The pointed their fingers at the car. They said, " Is that all you've got to drive? Look at that @#!$% car!" (The funny signs represent words that I'd rather leave out of a high class publication like this.)

A few words about Car 701: It is what used car dealers would call a "High mileage vehicle." The doors are dented and bent.  The Air Conditioner doesn't work. Rattles and clunks emanate from the vehicle as it moves along the street.  Rattles and clunks emanate from the vehicle when it’s parked. Car 701 is a car that an escaping murderer wouldn't steal.

It is, more or less, typical of the 7th District Fleet.

Oh, to be sure we've been issued several brand new cars. Lets us examine that for a moment. The 7th got three (3) new ranking officer's cars. 710, 720, and 730. After a week or so on the street, two of the three were back in the shop.

As of this date, June 16, 1987, Car 710 is back on the street: The battery light stays on however, and we're not sure how long it will be with us. It was put in the shop because – you guessed it sports fans – the battery light stayed on.

Car 720 has no emergency lights that work. That's really O.K. though, when the lights work and are used, the driver can't see out the front and/or rear window. The lights, you see, are inside the windshield on these new cars.

Car 730 is still in the shop: Understandable, it has almost 1,500 miles on the clock!

Car 740, the old Car 720, is a Dodge Power Wagon. It's in the shop.

On to the patrol cars!

As of this date we have two (2) new patrol vehicles. Cars 702 and 708 run fine, I am told.  I am also told that we are going to get another new patrol car. That's it. One (1) more new patrol car. Three new rank cars, three new patrol cars.

The fact that the patrol officers need the new cars a hell of a lot more than the rank doesn't seem to have entered into the matter.

All is not lost however. Car 710, the old Car 710, was recycled into the new Car 714. What a grand idea! What a brilliant money saving measure, just the thing to do with a car that has been driven over 120,000 miles. Make it a patrol car. This rolling deathtrap only has one, sometimes two, gears that work, a slipping transmission, and no Air Conditioner, etc., ad infinitum, but so what. Save the money! Save it for a jim-dandy civil suit on the part of the officer who is going to be injured in that piece of garbage that the City saved money on.

At last count, not including the one (1) rank car that works, the 7th District had four (4) cars that were capable of movement. To patrol an area of approximately 235 square miles. The public can sleep safe tonight.

NOT ONE CHIEF, NOT ONE DETECTIVE, NOT ONE RANKING OFFICER SHOULD BE DRIVING A NEW CAR UNTIL ALL THE PATROL UNITS ARE REPLACED WITH NEW CARS!!!!!!

The patrol officers are the front line – at least I keep hearing that. You remember patrolmen? The guys that fight crime, suppress evil, and leap tall buildings in a single bound?

Now: A view on maintenance. It is to laugh. It is to cry.

New cars that won't run because somebody can't install police applicable wiring properly. New cars that need a gallon, yes neighbors a gallon, of oil after less than a month on the road.

Patrol officers that work not in their trained and sworn capacity as ace crime fighters but as mechanics at the district station so that at least some of the cars will be able to run, some of the time. Without our mechanic, Brian Sherrer, none of the cars would be able to move. The turn around time at Motor Maintenance, to repair a simple mechanical problem, is roughly the same time it took to decide the shape of the conference table at the Vietnam War Peace Talks.

Somebody, somewhere, with the power to do something, should.

It would seem to me, ignorant as I am of matters of bureaucratic importance, that the number one priority of a police department is to get the cops to where they can do cop type work. The fastest way used to be in a police car.

There are also other problems to be bitched about: Pay, Promotion, etc. Maybe another time.

The symbol of the City of New Orleans should be changed. To a shovel. ‘Cause baby, they're sure as hell digging us a deep hole. Wonder if we'll ever be able to crawl out?

Who’s listening?

June 17, 1987, 7:30PM - Car 710 towed to the shop.

June 17, 1987, 9:00PM - Car 702 towed to the shop.

R.I.P.

As one might guess from the above article, I was a bit of a rabble rouser in earlier days.