INTRODUCTION
Three years of a corrupt FBI investigation and evidence concealment, lying under oath, a fraudulent federal grand jury indictment, two federal grand juries, two federal grand jury trials, and multiple tests of faith. Not the way I had hoped and expected to wrap up a twenty-four-year law enforcement career.
A jury ultimately exonerated me of all charges. That should have been a good thing, but following the would-be redemption, I was summarily ostracized by my own department’s FBI-friendly police chief and treated as if I wore a scarlet letter, leading to wrongful denial of promotion, overtime, and advancement in my career.
It wasn’t supposed to be that way. I had visions ofDragnet,Adam-12, andThe Rookies the day I decided to be a police officer. I was about eight years old, skateboarding with my best friend, Nick, down Highland Avenue in Monrovia, California, at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains. Like most kids that age, we were full of piss and vinegar but not an abundance of common sense. Skateboards don’t have brakes, so we flew straight through a stop sign on Foothill Boulevard, a very busy town thoroughfare, without slowing down to even spare a glance at traffic. We were foolish on all fronts, but fun trumps sensible any day when you’re eight.
As luck would have it, a Monrovia police car happened to be near the intersection and saw our hijinks. He turned in behind us, gave the siren a quick yelp, and pulled us over at the curb. I still remember every moment like it was yesterday. There we were, two little kids scared out of our minds while a quintessential 1970s officer—dark uniform, thick caterpillar mustache bigger than his nameplate, six-shooter on his hip, mirrored sunglasses—walked up to us. His radio crackled as he questioned us. “Where do you live? What were you thinking?” Nick and I stammered out answers, hoping somehow to get out of the mess.
Then he said something that stuck with me forever: “I could take you both to jail for this.”
We froze as he let that sink in before adding, “All I’m trying to do is make you think. You could have been killed.” And then he just smiled and told us to go home and tell our parents. We never did, of course, but that moment had a huge impact on me. That day, I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to be a police officer.
All throughout my childhood years, I had always held that dream of being a police officer. Although I did not have any law enforcement in my immediate or extended family, I couldn’t shake the desire to be a cop.
Fast-forward nearly a decade. I was seventeen, living in Monterey, California, a small beach town, with my mom, stepdad, and grandpa. My grandpa was visiting while my mom and stepdad were out of town, so he was in charge. At the time, I had a beat-up, rusted-out gray 1973 Volkswagen Super Beetle, a $300 car at best. One night, I picked up a couple of buddies, and we drove over to Seaside, the next town over, to check out a nudie bookstore, because, you know, we thought we were cool.
When we got there, I figured I couldn’t park right in front of the place, so I left my car in the pizza parlor lot next door—completely ignoring the giant “Tow-Away Zone” sign. We went inside, but within twenty minutes, we were freaked out enough to leave. When we stepped outside, my car was gone. I couldn’t believe a tow truck had shown up that fast. I found a pay phone and called the number on the sign. A police officer showed up within minutes (the tow truck was probably waiting around the corner for idiots like us) and told me my car had been towed; I’d have to get it back the next day. Our “big adventure” was rapidly flaming out.
We started walking the four miles back home. About halfway there, w
