At home that night, I go over the details with my father, who wants to hear all of it. He likes Paige and Mendoza. He owes them one now for taking care of me. When I tell him the story about looking for the gun at McDonald’s, he nods. “But you can’t write about that,” he says.
“The point is to write about it,” I say.
“Some of it,” my father says. “Not all of it.”
I have no idea why it would have been wrong to look for the gun at McDonald’s.
I want to write about the police in Los Angeles. I want to tell a story about people who do hard work. I want to explain that living beneath the weight of all those three-ring binders filled to capacity with the neighborhood dead takes a toll after a while, that being the one to discover the children entombed in cement wears you down. I have no intention of exposing anyone. It had been my intention to show what’s good. But good, like police, turns out to be complicated.
First there is a written test. Even though my father has given me directions a dozen times on how to drive to the Police Academy from the house, on the morning of the test he changes his mind; he wants to drive me over and pick me up. He says it’s the only way he can participate, and I say fine. This is, I believe, something we are doing together. When we arrive at the Academy at 7:40 for the 8:00 a.m. test, a line of people is snaking all the way down the driveway. For that minute I remember that I don’t actually want to be a cop. A van pulls up beside us. The man who gets out leans back in to shake hands with someone inside. Way to go. Good luck. My father, who has not taken me to school since I was in the early weeks of first grade, kisses me and drives away.
In line, I am given a blue card on which to write my name, address, and where I heard about the LAPD. I print my father’s name. I also get handouts about career opportunities and how the order of tests will progress. An attractive black woman wanders back and forth through the line, repeating over and over again in a loud voice that we must have a picture ID and be at least twenty and one-half years old as of today. A few people peel away from the group and slink back towards their cars. Most of the nearly two hundred people in line look like they’ve barely scraped in under the wire for age. Logo T-shirts are the order of the day: House of Pizza, Nirvana, Toad’s Gym (a drawing of an especially well-developed, slightly menacing toad). It’s a shorts-and-running-shoes crowd. Everyone wears sunglasses and is polite about sharing pencils. Less than ten percent of us are women, and less than ten percent, I would guess, are older than twenty-five. At eight o’clock on the nose, three white girls click-run across the parking lot—high heels, ruffled miniskirts, Lycra tank tops, and shoulder-skimming hoop earrings. Their big hair is long and full of loose, shiny curls. They have Natalie Wood’s eyes, red lips, foundation makeup. The woman wrangling the line clucks at them, “You girls didn’t want to get up too early now, did you?” They fill in their blue cards using each other’s backs for desks. It occurs to me that this line wouldn’t be a bad place to meet a certain type of guy.
I am far enough up in line to get a spot in the last row of the first classroom, which seats 102. It is a regular classroom with green chalkboards and rows of identical desks. There is a lot of information to cover. The test is being given by a black woman named Desrae from personnel. She has a certain movie-star quality with her high-heeled mules and chenille top. We are given a score sheet and told to fill in our name and then wait. Fill in our address and wait. We are not to get ahead of ourselves on any line. The last time I took a test, it was the Graduate Record Exam and it was ten years ago. Four number codes are printed on the chalkboard that correspond to our race and gender categories. We are to write down the one that applies to us on the top of our score sheet. The categories are: black males; Hispanic males; all other males; all females. Desrae goes over this three times as she walks down the aisles, her voice so lyrical and clear that I cannot imagine anyone’s misunderstanding the instructions. Could we be nervous enough to mistake our gender? After we darken in the circles comprising our social security number, we wait while another personnel department member comes around and presses our thumbprint on our test sheet.
The young man in the desk next to mine looks at my driver’s license. “Montana,” he says. “Well, you’ve come a long way.” I lived in Montana last year; I just never got around to getting a new license. It occurs to me I may have broken some law by not attending to this. I tell him I live in Boston now, even farther away, and he tells me he lives in Mesa, Arizona, where he’s a police officer.
“And you want to be a police officer here?” I ask him.
He shakes his head. He’s from Los Angeles originally and his best friend wants to be LAPD but his friend couldn’t pass the test here—or in Mesa for that matter, where, he informs me, they really need cops and are hiring like crazy. He wants to take the test just to prove to his friend that he can waltz into town and pass it without even wanting the job. He asks me what I do for a living now; I tell him I’m a writer.
“Oh,” he says.
We stop talking for a minute, and then he leans over again. He wears his sunglasses on the back of his head, hooked behind his ears in the wrong direction. His hair has the bristly nap of freshly mown grass. “I got a commendation,” he says. “For a report I wrote on a convenience-store robbery. Do you want to see it? I brought it along in case it would help.”
I do want to see it. In his file he has his certificate of graduation from the Mesa Police Academy and a letter of commendation, as well as his well-written report. His name, I see, is Todd White. Todd White has the kind of round, cursive handwriting that was praised in sixth grade. I am just on the first page, barely into the description of what the suspects were wearing, when it’s my turn for the thumbprint. I don’t take enough ink and have to do it again. “Don’t do it like they do on television,” the woman with the ink pad tells me, “don’t roll it side to side. It’s straight down, top to bottom.”
There is a slight, sick feeling that comes from giving up my thumbprint to the LAPD. I’m on file now. I’m in the machine forever.
We are told to put all materials under our desks, and there, sadly, goes Todd White’s packet of letters. We are told to put away all dictionaries and grammar handbooks, all calculators, watch calculators, slide rules, and compasses. I could not pass any test in which a slide rule might help even if I owned one and were allowed to use it. The test booklets are passed out, face down, along with pencils. We are told that if these numbered test booklets are removed from the room we will never be able to try out for the LAPD again. We have forty-five minutes, which should be plenty of time to finish. Start. Go.
The test includes four different ways to spell “calendar” and “attitude”; choose the correct spelling. Four different sentences, each saying the same thing in a slightly different way, in which we are to choose the most grammatical. Reading comprehension, in which none of the four answer options (choose the one that best describes the role of the police officer in a burglary) really describes what I’ve read. Vocabulary words: incarcerate, felony, misdemeanor. The test would be difficult for non-native speakers or anyone who slept through high school. I take my time and read everything twice. The proctor calls five minutes.
Once the test booklets are collected, we fill out anonymous questionnaires: Where did we hear about the LAPD? What is our current income? Then the out-of-towners are told to go to a separate room. As we gather up our things, Todd tells me that later, when they come in and call a list of names for people to meet in the hall, those are the people who failed the test, a detail that must have come from his friend who couldn’t even make the cut in Mesa.
There are forty people in the out-of-town group. The out-of-towners are better-looking than the teeming masses from the test: We have not shown up on a dare after a night of drinking games. We have not shown up wearing questionable T-shirts. There are still fewer than ten percent women in the room. This session will be run by Officer
Crane, a very slim black man with a mustache. His uniform is so tight I can make out his abdominal muscles. The sleeves ride his biceps like tourniquets.
“Everyone else has the chance to take a five-hour training class to pass the oral exam,” he tells us. “You people don’t have that advantage. So it’s my job to tell you as much about the oral as I can in as short a time as possible.” He tells us that they will ask us why we want the job. “People will say, ‘I want to protect and to serve.’ ‘I want a good career.’ ‘I want to serve my community and help people.’ ‘I want to be a part of number one.’ ” He stops to lift his chin and kiss the air. “Can you believe it? That’s what everybody says. If you say this you’ll get a high enough oral score to pass, but it won’t be high enough to get in.” (A score of 70 is passing, but rumor has it you need 95 to actually be considered for the Academy.) “What you have to tell them is how your being an L.A. police officer will benefit the community, the department, and yourself.” Officer Crane has a large, neon-pink water bottle, which he drinks from compulsively as he paces to every corner of the room, forcing us to swivel in our stationary desk chairs.
“Ask yourself, how has your job experience prepared you for a career in law enforcement? Well, any job requires that you be a team player. Say you’re working at the counter of McDonald’s, Burger King, or whatever your local hamburger stand happens to be.” He says this kindly. There is no condescension in Officer Crane. “And you’re thinking, ‘That hasn’t helped me be a police officer at all.’ But you tell them, ‘I’m capable of making independent decisions with little or no supervision. I’m honest, trustworthy, and responsible. I deal with the public, people from all different ethnic groups, and I treat them all fairly. I have a good attitude towards customer service. I’m a TEAM PLAYER. This is true in any job.”
I want to raise my hand. Except for novel writing, Officer Crane.
“Show them you know something about the city. Tell them there are eighteen different geographical regions, that eighty-eight different languages are spoken in the schools. Tell them you know all about the different careers in the LAPD, narcotics, child abuse, dog patrol. Tell them this is a career that would allow you to have a comfortable middle-class lifestyle. Tell them that to prepare yourself you’ve gone into the military. Don’t just say you work out, tell them you have a customized training program: ‘I build up my endurance through running and swimming.’ ‘I build upper-body strength by lifting weights.’ ‘I could use force that was reasonable to overcome a suspect.’ ”
He talks about the integrity that is required at all times. While I believe I am the only person in the room planning on writing about my experiences, I am not the only one furiously scribbling into a notebook. He maps out possible scenarios and we listen. “You and your son are at a Raiders game,” Officer Crane begins, “and a rowdy group wants to fight a cop, and your son says, ‘Hey, Dad, you’re a cop, go get ’em.’ But you have to go and call security. No heroics.” He turns and paces quickly to the other side of the room. “You’re out with your kid and you stumble onto a robbery in progress at a convenience store. The gunman is holding a gun to the cashier’s head. You go in and pull your gun, they shoot you and the cashier. You had figured your kid was safe in the car, but there are other guys working outside and they shoot your kid.”
The aspiring cadets inhale sharply at their desks.
“You have to call for backup, the guys in the car. You get a good description of the suspect and wait to direct the officers when they arrive after the suspect has taken off. You’ll do more good this way. When you’re off duty, your role is to be the best witness.”
A woman enters the room and Crane gives us the “time out” signal I’ve seen my father make so many times. She has a thick stack of blue cards, and announces she’s going to read some names and those people should gather their things and meet her outside. Todd White gives me a conspiratorial nod. She has to read the names of everyone who failed from the entire original group of nearly two hundred because she doesn’t know who is in the room. Every time she reads an, “Anthony” or “Andrew” I hear my name. What if, after years of teaching college freshman composition, I fail a grammar test for the police department? How do you spell “calendar”? She reads about eighty names, most of them Hispanic. Ten people in the room get up and leave. Todd and I stay put.
Officer Crane appraises us coolly. “Now I know you’re wondering, ‘Do I want to be in the group that goes outside or the group that stays in here?’ But I want to congratulate you people. You passed.” We applaud ourselves heartily and then receive our oral exam times. Several people have to leave right away, but I have until one o’clock and wouldn’t miss the rest of this talk for the world.
The LAPD appears to have no intention of tricking anyone. They offer a study group for the written exam. They will give you the best answers for your oral. They will show you how to get over the wall. The message is clear—they want to help us if only we will listen. Officer Crane proceeds with his lecture. “Next, any misconduct is to be reported to a supervisor. But first you have to verify the misconduct.” His voice rises, his eyebrows go up. “You and your partner go to a robbery call on a computer store. Your partner, who has twenty years’ seniority on the job, has a computer in his hands. He tells you to check the front of the store. You hear him leave the store, then you hear the trunk of the police car being slammed. He comes back empty-handed. You have to first verify the misconduct. Ask him about it politely. Maybe he’s taking it in to be fingerprinted. Maybe he’s putting it back in the stockroom. Maybe he says, ‘Hell yes, I got one, now you pick out one for yourself, partner.’ Call the sergeant immediately, have him come to the store.”
Having prepped us for simple theft, Officer Crane ups the ante. “On this job you will have to deal with the worst of the worst of the worst.” Once he says this he looks at us to see if we can take it all in, and then he repeats it, slowly. “You go on a rape call. It’s a six-year-old girl. The paramedics are already there and they tell you she has a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. The mother is there and she is screaming. Other cops are already on the scene and the suspect is handcuffed. He can tell that you’re a probationer and he starts in on you.” Officer Crane then outlines all the vile things the suspect claims he will do to your children, and you, and various other people, until your partner hauls off, “POW!” Officer Crane punches the air hard enough to make the whole room jump. “Clocks the suspect right in the solar plexus. And you say, ‘Yeah!’ ” Crane gives the thumbs-up and smiles a Hollywood smile. “No you don’t, not really, because the suspect is handcuffed already. The people on the street around you are clapping. They say, ‘I would have done the same thing. If I was you, I would have shot him.’ Your partner says, ‘Oh my God, Buddy. I can’t believe I did that. Twenty-five years on the job and I’ve never done anything like that. I just got so mad. That won’t happen again.’ Any misconduct,” Crane repeats. “Say you let it go, and that night you’re home and there’s a report on the six o’clock news about police brutality and you sit down to watch and who’s on television? You are on television, grinning and giving the big thumbs-up when your partner hits the guy. Then you lose your job. They don’t talk about what the suspect did, they talk about those brutal cops. You are expected to be PERFECT. Once you are a police officer you are expected to be ERROR FREE.”
I’m not entirely sure about the moral of the story, but I take it all down as Officer Crane brushes over traffic violations and the importance of a good closing statement. When we’re outside, the rest of the crowd heads for the parking lot while I go to the pay phone to call my father for a ride. I’ve got an hour and a half before my oral exam, just enough time for lunch.
I look through the paperwork I’ve been given, and discover that before the oral I have to fill out a form listing every job I’ve had in the last fifteen years: locations (including addresses), months worked, monthly salaries, names of superior
s, job descriptions. I sit on a curb and begin to make a list in my notebook: a teaching assistantship in graduate school, other teaching jobs. Is my publisher my employer? What about freelance writing? Houghton Mifflin, Bridal Guide, Seventeen, the Bunting Institute at Radcliffe, the University of Montana, Murray State in Kentucky, Book World in Nashville. My father and Jerri arrive. At the restaurant I fill out forms like mad while they eat, finishing just when it’s time to head back. A pamphlet on the oral has told us to dress well, and my father has thoughtfully brought my blazer. In the restaurant bathroom I borrow a lipstick from Jerri and smooth out my hair with tap water.
When I arrive for the oral, I see several of the people from my original group, now wearing stiff, ill-fitting suits. I give my employment form to the young woman behind the counter, a gum-chewer with spiked mascara. She wants to know how I am still working for Radcliffe College, Houghton Mifflin, and Seventeen. She wants monthly wages that I can’t provide. I fill in a few more lines, she whites out the places I’ve written “Not Applicable.” While I’m trying to correct my answers, she begins to pick apart the form of the next person in line. I take the opportunity to give my form to a woman at another desk, who seems to accept it for what it is and sends me down the hall to testing room B. It turns out there are more written tests to take, and while I hadn’t understood that, I am glad to tackle anything that is not my employment history.
I’m sure that white men do not comprise the entire group who’ve made the cut, but that’s the story in this room—white men in suits hunched over papers. A woman reading a Danielle Steel novel at the head desk, the proctor, gives me a copy of the test and a pencil and tells me I have forty-five minutes. I take my place at the table and read the instructions for completing Form P: “No dictionaries, no grammar textbooks allowed.” Whatever this test is, it’s worse than the last one. The men in suits seem close to tears. All around me a great deal of erasure is going on. I answer a set of questions on the first page about my conduct in the workplace: Have I ever been fired? Have I ever had a fight of a serious nature with a co-worker or superior? Have I ever been praised for good work? If yes, tell the last time it happened. All I can think of is an article I wrote about virginity for Seventeen that was popular. I mention the praise without naming the piece. I don’t mention that my first novel was a New York Times notable book of the year. Have I ever been reprimanded for poor work? Yes. I’ve had to rewrite countless articles in my life. I don’t want to appear suspiciously eager to please by saying I’ve never done any cut-rate work. Have I ever been put on probation? The other side of the page is clearly what’s got the suits sweating. Write four sentences in which you describe three qualities that are important in a police officer. Next, write a mock police report about a disruption at a public event. It is not important to know correct police procedure. What is important is the quality and clarity of the writing. I may not be able to outrun them, but chances are I can outwrite them. I have forty of my forty-five minutes left. I settle on a city legislature meeting about putting a homeless shelter on the outskirts of an affluent neighborhood. A shoving match ensues and I get down the details. I figure that anything concerning property values is a good choice.