By Richard Austin Jr.
Detective, LBPD
For those who remember me writing about my good friend Steve (Strichart), know that I have learned a lot from these officers who are now retired and live a life, mostly free of the horrors of when they were on the job as a police officer.
I remember when I was about 15 years old, talking with my neighbor Jim Smith, a retired LBPD officer about becoming a police explorer. He told me several things about what he thought I should have in order to handle the everyday stress and horror that I will see as a police officer. He told me that if I didn’t have a good sense of humor, I would burn out fast, and probably never finish my career.
I knew I already had one, but didn’t know if it was good enough to handle what he was talking about. I knew I played jokes on my parents, and my sister would get me good too sometimes, but I just didn’t know.
I met and worked with Steve and his partner Dave (Montgomery) as a police explorer and they really made me smile and they always joked. I found out later why cops seem to laugh or smile when at a scene that would make most people sick. I always kept this in the back of my mind, all the way up until I decided to become a reserve police officer for LBPD.
I was 20 years old in 1985, and sitting in the squad room with a bunch of seasoned officers who had faces that would make a professional poker player sweat. There I was sitting in the front row, with all these working legions sitting behind me, even though I didn’t know it yet.
The sergeant called roll and gave out unit and beat assignments. “Austin?” “Here.” “Madison?” “Here Sergeant.” “Boy-8.” I then remembered hearing a bunch of mumbling behind me. It must not be good. Madison then asked, “Hey, Sergeant, do you know if they gave him bullets?” Then the whole room started laughing. Well they weren’t too far off. I was issued my bullets the day before.
The only other thing was I didn’t see who Madison was due to sitting in front, and I had never met him as an explorer. Great. Now the squad meeting was over, and all these guys are walking out to head to the cars. I don’t remember who it was, but someone pointed to this 6-foot, 5-inch, 270-pound walking tower heading up the back stairs. I remember walking up, walking out to the lot, and following him to his 1983 Chevy Malibu and thinking, “He’s going to fit in that?” Well, we got in and I introduced myself and told him that this was my first day. He then looked at me, and with this look that would make a hardened criminal pee his pants, said, “No, it’s not.” I was dumbfounded. Before I could tell him as a reserved officer, he said, “You were a police explorer for two years and worked with Strichart and Montomery, didn’t you?” “Ah, yes, sir.” “OK, then this is not your first day.” Well, this isn’t going good.
Officer Madison then had me check the shotgun, and had me explain how the lights worked, the MDT, and then asked, about my duty weapon, if I carried a backup, where was I born, where do I live, was I married, did I have a girlfriend, and do I have any money. By the time I got done answering all the questions, we were pulling into a little diner at 4th and Junipero, where there were several other police cars already parked. Oh, man, I going to get grilled, literally. I then was introduced to Marg, Fred, Kendal, and Rodney. They sat me in the middle, where there was no possible way for escape. I ordered coffee and nothing else.
Oh, my gosh. You would have thought I just sank the Titanic. “What? I bring you here and you’re not going to eat breakfast?” I then went on to explain that I was a little nervous, and my stomach was upset. Oh, that was even worse. Terry, as he told me to call him, then asked me, “What do you like to eat?” Well, I told him. He then asked if I had enough money for his meal and mine. I said yes. He told me that he forgot his wallet. I knew he wasn’t broke because he had a gold chain and bracelet that looked like they weighed a ton. Well, we ate and I paid.
We then went back into the car and he drove us over to the pier. We drove down the alley and I could see this older guy with a bike digging in the trash. As we pulled up, Terry rolled down my window and told me, “Stick your hand out.” I said, “do what?” “Put your hand out the window.” We then pulled up next to this guy and stopped. This guy walked over and said, “Hi, Officer Madison.” Terry said hi back. The guy then proceeded to place broken pieces of colored glass on the palm of my hand as if he was handing me nitroglycerin. He could not have been more careful. He then went on to explain to me where he found the glass, how glass was made, and how rare each piece was. Terry then thanked him and we drove out of the alley and right into another, and up next to a trash can. I then looked at Terry and he said, “put it in the trash.” I did. I then realized that Terry had his routine of checks that he did, and made friends along the way, including the homeless, and others not so fortunate. But he cared about their feelings. As we drove around, Terry started singing these obviously made-up little sayings. Those who worked with him know exactly what they were. I felt that he was starting to trust me since he seemed comfortable around me. We made a couple of arrests through the day, and towards the end of the day, as we were heading back to the station, my window started to roll up with my elbow still on it. I moved it, and figured he was going to put the air on. As we drove back to “400 West,” it got real quiet in the car. I figured he was going to tell me something not good. I looked at him and waited. The next thing I knew, he turned his head, looked at me, and smiled. My door then locked. The next thing I remember was the smell of something similar to teargas, but closer to a stink bomb. I still can’t tell to this day, how it came out of him without blowing up the car.
As we pulled into the back lot, he told me I did good, and I could ride with him again if I wanted. I thanked him, and got out of the car wondering if I was glowing from the “nuke” fallout.
Over a period of time, I learned not to shine up my brand new “cop, aviator Ray-Bans” before getting in the car with him. The first time I did that, he asked to see my new shined-up sunglasses and then licked his finger and told me that I missed a spot. The next thing I learned was, unless I was working with him hat day, not to hand him my finished report. Otherwise, it would get ripped up or somehow torn. I saw many rookies make that mistake. Terry loved one of the oldest tricks in the book. “Hey, you got a spot on your shirt.” When you looked down, his finger came up and hit your nose.
Terry retired in 1999 and I would see him every now and then, riding his bike in the neighborhood where he lived. He’d ride up and ask, “Can I see your glasses?” “NO.” “Hey, what’s this on your shirt?” Yeah, good try. Hey, really, there’s a car cruising the area, here’s the plate. Or, the house over there has some night activity, can you tell the night guys? Terry never stopped funning around and never stopped being the cop he was.
I now have 20-plus years and have kept my sense of humor. I share it every day with my wife and family and my extended work family. Even though nothing could ever come close to duplicating that horrible thing that Terry would omit, some came close.
I received a call on Monday from a good friend who is also retired to tell me that Terry Madison had passed away in his sleep. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t tear up, because you can’t when Terry comes to mind. What I did think of is those poor souls in Heaven who now get to have him as part of their family. I hope he didn’t ask Saint Peter to see his book, and I am sure if someone is wearing a new pair of shades, he asked to see them and told them they had a spot. And, I know for a fact, someone up there is a victim of a spot on their shirt.
I hope that when my time comes that Officer Terry Madison is there with the rest of my family to help make me not be so nervous.
