Chronicles of a County Deputy

DISCLAIMER: These stories are based on actual law enforcement calls. Names and circumstances have been altered to protect the identities of those involved.

Hey there, I was a County Sheriff’s Deputy for three years, spending six months of that working in the jail and the rest on patrol. I was so proud to serve that community, and work alongside some of the bravest men and women I’ve ever met. I’ll say it again, names and certain aspects of the calls have been modified to protect identities. In those three years, I experienced some of the best and worst moments of my life, and was also given a front-row seat to the best and worst moments of other people’s lives. These are those moments.

TUESDAY. 6:32 PM.

I stood in silence as the hot water ran down the back of my neck, washing away the dust from the Cliffside I spent my shift on. Riley was taken to the vet by the paramedics. The recovered belongings were left with Ashley’s mother. The red Saturn remained wedged on the hillside of Highway 27. No cranes or tow trucks could retrieve it, so it would rust there for years to come. As the hot steam cleared my sinuses from the dirt and grime, I thought of Nelson. Had they told him yet? How did he take it? Would he rise to the occasion and raise his child, or falter and run away, leaving the kid to its grandparents after the loss of his would-be-fiancé? Hanging over all of this was the selfish realization that I had been one of the last people Ashley saw on this earth. Had I known that, what would I have done different? Should I have picked up on her despair? Should I have talked with her longer? Could I have been kinder to her? Offered more resources? Would it have made a difference? I would never know. The only thing that was definite was that Ashley Davis was gone less than 24 hours since I had spoken with her, and that there was at least one ticket in my career I knew would never be paid. I’d call the court in the morning and let them know.

MONDAY. 5:25 AM.

I snapped awake and sat up in bed with the force of a humpback whale breaching the pacific. My alarm was particularly deafening as I hadn’t yet adjusted to day shift. As challenging as my field training was, it sure was nice to go in on graveyard shift and have my whole day to sleep in. With the passing of my training however, I was in the real world now, and 0600 was when I needed to be in uniform and on the streets patrolling. I didn’t dare hit the snooze button in my first week on the new shift, so I got out of bed and stumbled to the shower.

After my hot shower I had just enough time to grab a pop-tart on my way out the door. I looked in the mirror, taking in my uniform. Something about officially being on my own now gave my badge a new shine. I wished my dad could have seen me, dressed in the same uniform he wore so many years ago. I did a cursory check of my duty belt, making sure everything was snug in its pouch. I was starting to adjust to wearing the hard leather belt, but was still enough of a rookie that I had to check it each morning to make sure I didn’t forget anything. I finished by drawing my Glock 21 and aiming it at the bathroom doorknob, saying a silent prayer that that would be the only time I drew it today. I holstered my weapon and hurried out the door of my one-bedroom apartment.

MONDAY. 5:53 AM.

I fired up my Dodge Charger and turned on the patrol radio, the steady beep followed by a short crackle indicated I was good to go. I glanced at my G-Shock watch, its shiny matte finish illustrating my lack of time on the job, and sighed in relief. I was on time. As I listened to my new coworkers check on duty I waited for my turn. Once there was a moment of silence I pushed the talk button on my radio and said the words I had trained my whole life for: “Control, Echo-10, 10-41.” Dispatch acknowledged my punch-in as I pulled out of my complex’s parking lot. Who would be my first catch of the day? A speeder late for work? A drunk on his way home from the bar? The anticipation was as electric as the 50,000 volt taser that was currently digging into my hip.

MONDAY. 6:01 AM.

As I merged onto the freeway, dispatch hailed me on the radio. “Echo-10, copy a sexual assault in progress in Knob Creek?” Oh boy. My first call of the day was a potential felony in progress. If there was any indication I was in the big leagues now this was it. “Copy, Echo-10 en-route code three” I replied as eagerly as I flipped the toggle switches of my lights and sirens and quickly scanned the lanes to my left.

The sounds of my back-up Deputy and Sergeant checking en-route to assist were drowned out by the deafening call of my siren. It was jarringly loud, even from inside the car, another thing I hadn't yet adjusted to. I floated to the far left lane and straddled the lane marker as I had been trained. My speedometer ascended to 132 miles per hour before settling there, and I mapped out my approach.

I recognized the address of the call because it was a park I had been at several times during field training. It was the local hideout by the creek where people would go to do drugs, illegally camp and cause general mayhem. This, however, was far more serious. The dispatcher advised me of the situation: A woman was walking her dog and reported a female being sexually assaulted by a male in the back of a red Saturn. The woman was allegedly screaming “Oh my God. Help me” as the dog-walker passed by.

MONDAY. 6:17 AM.

I slowed to 95 mph, learning from past experience that was the fastest my charger could handle the off-ramp. My backup was close, we would arrive on scene at about the same time. I closed within two miles of the park and shut off my lights and sirens. I wasn’t going to let the assailant know I was coming. Once the park was in sight I unbuckled my seat belt and took a deep breath. So much for not drawing my gun today.

After parking around the corner where the pavement met the dirt, I hopped out and signaled for my backup to move in with me. Our Sergeant was on his way, but we only needed two for this. As we approached the red Saturn, I could see the windows were rolled down. No cries for help came from the open window, but rather the slow rise of cigarette smoke. I slowly released the thumb lock on my Safariland holster, hovering my hand over the grip of my Glock as my backup moved in concert with me. Once within earshot, I announced my presence. “Sheriff’s Office! If you’re in the vehicle make yourself known!” I commanded. I expected a man to jump out and run while pulling his pants up. Instead I was greeted with two pairs of hands quickly surfacing in the backseat of the car, the fingertips of their open palms touching the roof. Apparently they knew the drill. “Sorry! It’s consensual!” blurted the voice of a woman who sounded close to my age. “Consensual? Ah shit…” groaned a male voice, already piecing the situation together. “Are you dressed?” my back-up called out to them. “One second, please” the woman replied. “Do you have any weapons?” I questioned. “No, sir. I’ll step out slowly” answered the male. “I’d appreciate that” I replied.

The rear passenger door slowly creaked open and a pair of muddy hiking boots planted firmly on the dirt. Hands interlaced behind his head, the male stood up and walked backwards towards me. Having nailed his audition on how to properly be felony-stopped, I told him he could relax. He exhaled in relief and walked over to me. As he turned, I recognized him from my time as a corrections officer. This was Nelson Jacobs, a thirty-something painter who had been serving time for theft. I remembered him mentioning his girlfriend while he was locked up, saying he was going to propose once he was out. He also showed me a picture of the three-year old daughter they shared named Savannah. For Nelson’s (and Savannah's) sake, I hoped his girlfriend was the woman in the car. “Hey Nelson. How ya been?” I inquired. His face lit up with recognition, “Deputy Maddox! You’re on the street now!” he exclaimed. “I am. When did you get out?” I questioned. “Just got out this morning!” he replied with a chuckle, the dull yellow cigarette in the corner of his mouth matching the shade of his teeth.

My assisting Deputy volunteered to talk with Nelson if I’d talk with the woman, so we divided and conquered. Around this time, my Sergeant walked up with a small black lab at his heels. “Is this yours?” he asked the couple. “Yeah, sorry. He likes to wander.” the female stated. She slapped her quad twice and the dog leaped back in the Saturn.

MONDAY. 6:32 AM

I asked the female for her license, to which she replied she didn’t have one. She told me her name was Ashley Davis, and she was in fact Nelson’s girlfriend. Ashley verified the early morning rendezvous was consensual and that in fact she was not screaming oh my God help me, but oh my God...Well, I'll let you fill in the blank. Nelson told the same story to the other Deputy, confirming this was a misunderstanding between the couple and unfortunate dog-walker. Misunderstanding as it was, it was still against the law to perform certain activities in public, so I wrote them each a ticket. I explained the seriousness of their actions and that if the caller wanted to they could have them both listed on the sex offender registry. Ashley’s eyes grew large before I told her the caller didn't want that.

I printed the ticket for Ashley, instructing her to sign in the space below my name and badge number, W563. I handed her a copy and explained which court to call to take care of it. She agreed and thanked me again for not arresting them. I didn’t see it at that time, but looking back, there was a touch of despair in Ashley’s eyes. Before heading to my truck, I offered my hand out to the lab who had been hanging his head out the window, carefully observing my police interviewing technique. I asked what his name was and Ashley said it was “Riley.” I gave Riley a final pat on the head and cleared the call.

TUESDAY. 6:00 AM.

“Control Echo-10, 10-41” I announced, before pulling out of my complex to start the second day of my work week. “Echo-10, copy at 0600” replied the dispatcher. I was still nowhere near adjusted to day shift, so I drove to the 7-11 to get a coffee, or maybe a red bull. My Sergeant replied to my invitation in the shift group chat, advising he would meet me there. My sergeant drank his Colombian Dark Roast while I sipped my FDA-approved battery acid, hoping it would give me the wings I needed to wake up. We stood over the hood of my charger, relishing the eerie stillness that existed before morning rush hour arrived, laughing at where we had been at this hour the previous day. "So wait a minute, she was actually screaming 'Oh my God...'" “Yes, sir” I confirmed, finishing the joke before he could say the rest. He was beside himself laughing, “Well, your report looked good, man. What did you end up citing her for, again?” he asked. “Indecent exposure in a public place” I responded. Before we could continue the conversation our radios hissed to life. “Echo-10, copy a rollover accident on Highway 27?” My adrenaline spiked. That was the highway up in the cliffs. Known for its lack of guard rails and blind turns, calls up there were never optimistic. “Copy, Echo-10 en route, code three” I reported. I tossed my cup in the trash, slid into my car, fastened my seat belt and activated both lights and sirens.

I flew on the freeway above 130 mph for the second time in 24 hours as dispatch broadcast the details. The caller was driving by and saw a flash of metal on the side of a cliff. They pulled over, walked to the edge and found a heap of metal and personal belongings half way down. It was the underside of a car, but they couldn’t tell the make or model. I acknowledged the update and raced to the scene. Once I made it to Highway 27, I had to slow down or risk going over the edge myself. I saw the caller’s mini-van on the side of the road and pulled in behind them, blocking the road. The caller was still shaking from the adrenaline of their discovery, but was able to point me to the Cliffside in question. I thanked them, told them they were free to go and that I’d be in touch if I needed a statement.

TUESDAY. 6:19 AM.

I walked to the edge of the cliff while putting on my rubber gloves. I called out to the injured driver, but once I looked over the edge I realized it was a waste of breath. The heap of metal wedged 300 feet down the cliffside was indeed the underside of a car, but that was only discernable from a single tire that remained attached. The cab of the car was crumpled, like a deflated soccer ball and had rolled so many times it was covered in dust to the point that the color was unknown. The shape of the bumper looked familiar but I couldn’t place it. The other three tires were scattered down the hill, along with several personal belongings. I saw items ranging from tattered clothes, to crumpled soda cans, to random papers blowing in the wind. I scanned for bodies, hoping I might find one alive, when I spotted an empty car-seat lodged against a boulder. The seat was empty, causing my adrenaline to surge. I began descending the cliff, digging one boot into the soil while the other slowly controlled my slide. I inched down the hill like a baseball player crawling his way to homeplate, continuing to call out to any survivors. It was in vain however, as the wind was deafening at this height. Dispatch notified me that the ambulance was almost there. I told them they’d see my lights as they crested the hill. I continued my down climb, watching the ground with each step, praying I’d find the child still alive. I made it as far as I could before the ground shifted from gravel and soil to sheer rock face. I couldn’t progress any further without proper climbing equipment. My forearm still dug into the hillside as deep as I could manage, I took one last look over my shoulder to survey the wreckage. I still couldn’t see anything but the scattered belongings of whoever totaled this car. I made it back to the top where the paramedics were waiting. They asked if I had found the patients and I shook my head.

TUESDAY. 3:02 PM.

I tugged the collar of my kevlar vest to let the heat escape, while I waited for an update from the SAR (search and rescue) team. The objective had shifted from a search and rescue to a recovery mission. The Life-flight helicopter had located the driver's body, approximately fifty feet below the car. The SAR climbers were on their way back up with the deceased.

The body of the unknown female was wheeled past me on a stretcher as the medics silently loaded her into the ambulance. It was an “obvious echo,” which stood for obviously dead and beyond help. I found a small amount of comfort when the medical examiner told me she likely died on impact, meaning I wouldn't have been able to save her even if I had found her. I asked each member of the SAR (Search and Rescue) team if they were sure there wasn't a child in the wreckage and they assured me they had checked multiple times. I prayed this infant was with family somewhere and not further down the hill.

The last member of the SAR team eclipsed the cliff. He unhooked the climbing rope from his carabiner and dropped a large trash bag, full of the recovered belongings, in the dirt. There was no license found in the debris, so my next task was to try and identify this Jane Doe. As I dug through the items I couldn’t help but wonder if she had a family waiting for her to come home, and how today marked the day their lives would forever change. I searched the various receipts, magazines and food wrappers, but nothing had a name on it. I looked through the items a second and third time, hoping I’d catch something I had missed that would tell me who this woman was. We were on the clock. The news photographer had already ambushed the scene when the body was still visible, and the death notification had to be made before the evening news went live and traumatized this woman's loved ones. As I was un-crumpling the last receipt for a third time, something shuffled into view from the edge of the cliff.

Making its way towards me one limp at a time was a small yellow lab, the large paper in its mouth rippling in the wind. I called out to the dog, before slowly approaching and offering my hand as a lifeline. The dog inched closer, and once it was close enough, collapsed against my leg, its weight leaning into my shin. The dog was critically injured, still quivering from the repeated rolls down the hill. I called for one of the paramedics, who quickly draped a blanket over the dog as it shivered against my knee.

I comforted the lab as I crouched over him, and when I wiped the dust and sage off with the towel, it struck me. I suddenly knew where I had seen this (once yellow from dust and sage) now black lab before. It was the one in the park. I prayed I was mistaken, but the paper in Riley’s mouth proved it. Staring back at me was my own signature and badge number “W563.” This was the ticket I wrote to Ashley Davis yesterday. I beheld the ticket, half in amazement half in confoundment, not knowing what to think. I flipped it over and on the back of the citation was a handwritten note, the ink partially smeared from Riley's foamy slobber. “I’m so sorry. I love you, Nel.” the note read. “Take care of our baby. I know you loved Riley too, but I just couldn’t do this without him. Forgive me. Love, Ash. P.S: If you see that cop tell him sorry I didn't pay the ticket.”