Walking the White Line: From Hymns to Highway Patrols
If you’ve ever been told to “walk a straight white line,” the meaning depends a lot on where you’re standing. It also depends on who’s watching. In the Welsh valleys of How Green Was My Valley, the “white line” was a poetic path. It symbolized memory and loss. In American trucker slang, it’s the hypnotic blur of endless road miles. But to a police officer at 1 a.m. on the shoulder of a highway, that white line is all about one thing: sobriety.
A Path in Song and Story
In How Green Was My Valley, the final scene drifts to Alfred Newman’s Finale. It is woven with the Welsh hymn Pen Calfaria. Its the “white line” was a poetic path of memory and loss. “This shall never leave my memory”, feels like a pledge. This pledge is to never forget where you’ve walked. The “white line” here is a metaphorical road. It signifies a way home, a journey of life. It is the one path you try to stay true to.
Road Paint and Real Lines
Outside of metaphor, the first real white lines appeared on American roads in the early 20th century. Two names claim credit:
A leaking milk wagon inspired Edward Hines in 1911.
Dr. June McCarroll, who proposed painted center lines after a close call in 1917.
Whichever story you buy, the point is safety—keeping drivers in their lane and avoiding head-on collisions. And from there, the idea of “walking the line” naturally started meaning “stay where you’re supposed to.”
Law and Order: The Walk-and-Turn
The “walk the white line” sobriety test isn’t ancient Irish pub lore or a circus stunt. It’s a product of late 1970s American law enforcement. The U.S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) funded research to standardize roadside sobriety tests. Out of those studies came the now-famous “Walk and Turn” test:
Nine heel-to-toe steps along a straight line.
Turn in a prescribed way.
Nine steps back.
It’s part of the Standardized Field Sobriety Tests (SFSTs), along with the horizontal gaze test and the one-leg stand. The idea is to challenge both balance and divided attention—two abilities alcohol loves to mess with.
Officers used informal techniques before the SFSTs. They asked suspects to touch their nose. Suspects were also asked to recite the alphabet or, yes, walk a straight line. These early “white line” walks have been inspired by the painted road markings. They also have been inspired by circus balance acts. Alternatively, the practical idea of watching someone try to move in a perfectly straight path have been the inspiration.
Beyond the Pavement
Hymns about life’s journey include the image of a narrow path you must follow. Truckers experience “white line fever.” Country music promises fidelity with songs like Johnny Cash’s“I Walk the Line.” This imagery runs deep in human storytelling. The white line is painted down the middle of a highway, showing control and direction. It can also be imagined across the green hills of Wales. It shows the consequences of straying.
The modern police test feel clinical—clipboards, flashlights, and a yellow legal pad. Nevertheless, the symbolism is the same. Can you keep your feet steady? Is your head clear, and can you stay on the line?
Sometimes, the answer to “where did it come from?” is that it came from everywhere. It came from roads, songs, and courtrooms. It also originated from the human habit of evaluating a person’s worth. This is done by observing how well they adhere to the path.
After every mass shooting, the same story unfolds. News reports reveal the shooter made threats. He posted disturbing content. He stockpiled weapons. He scared people.
And then the world asks,
“Why didn’t anyone say something?”
Except someone usually did.
They said it quietly to a friend. They reported it to HR. They sent up a flare—but it fizzled in a system built to tolerate discomfort until it explodes.
“It Just Felt Off”
Human instinct is powerful. We know when something doesn’t feel right—when someone is spiraling, simmering, or clinging to rage a little too tightly. But we’ve been trained to doubt our gut.
Why? Because:
We don’t want to overreact.
We don’t want to get someone in trouble.
We don’t want to look paranoid or mean or judgmental.
So we say things like:
“He’s just blowing off steam.”
“He’s always been like that.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
Until it’s not.
The Signs Were There. The Action Wasn’t.
Let’s break it down. Red flags can look like:
Obsessive talk about violence or past shooters
Extreme ideological rants
Sudden personality changes or withdrawal
Threats—direct or veiled
Obsession with weapons or martyrdom
Social media posts that scream “notice me”
But here’s the kicker: Even when these signs are clear, most people don’t act. And when they do? They’re often ignored, dismissed, or redirected through layers of bureaucracy.
“It’s not our jurisdiction.” “We can’t do anything unless he acts.” “He hasn’t broken any laws.”
We treat early warning signs like legal puzzles, not human lives.
Fear of the Awkward Conversation
Red flags aren’t just missed. They’re avoided—because confronting someone is uncomfortable.
There are times when you have to take the bull by the horns.
What if I’m wrong?
What if they get mad?
What if it ruins my relationship with them?
What if it’s not serious?
So instead of leaning in, we back away.
And we let someone else deal with it. Except, too often, there isn’t someone else.
The Burden of Hindsight
Afterward, the red flags look obvious. Crystal clear. Undeniable.
But by then it’s too late. And we’re left with vigils, flowers, and questions we didn’t ask soon enough.
A Shift in Mindset
We need to stop treating red flags like rumors. They’re signals. Warnings. Opportunities to intervene.
That doesn’t mean we accuse people on a hunch. It means we build systems and cultures that listen. That act before a weapon is drawn, not after.
Because by the time the police tape goes up, the story’s already been written.
Coming Up in the Series:
Part Five: What We Can Actually Do About It We’ve identified the patterns. We’ve seen the signs. Now it’s time to talk about real solutions—what works, what doesn’t, and why “thoughts and prayers” aren’t enough.
About the Author:
Benjamin Groff is a former police officer and radio news anchor. He has hosted programs for CNN and ABC News affiliates in Colorado and Wyoming. His career in law enforcement began in 1980 and lasted more than two decades. This gave him firsthand insight into the criminal mind and public safety. Moreover, it provided him with an understanding of the human stories that often go untold. His writing draws on these experiences, blending street-level truth with a journalist’s eye for the bigger picture.
Steve Mahan was a laid-back guy — the sleepy type. He rarely overreacted, and getting him excited about anything was hard. One day, Sgt. Mahan responded to a bomb threat at a local school. When he found the suspicious device, he calmly picked it up. He put it in the trunk of his patrol car. Then he drove it back to the police station.
He carried it inside without much fuss and placed it on the booking counter.
I had never seen the top brass lose it all at the same time. The Chief, the Major, and the Captain were all upset at once. They cussed and yelled in perfect unison, ordering Mahan to promptly take the device back outside. Then they called the fire department, which, ironically, was located right next door.
The fire department’s first response?
“Have him bring it over.”
The Chief shut that idea down on the spot.
If I remember right, Mahan took it to the shooting range. The three top brass joined him there with rifles in hand. They tried to get it to explode.
It turned out to be a dummy.
Thankfully, it was because I was working on the other side of that booking counter the whole time.
Sgt. Steven Mahan was killed in the line of duty on January 5, 1983. That night, his girlfriend was working at the police department. Another female dispatcher was also there. He drove upon an armed robbery in progress at a local hotel. Unbeknownst to him, he was moving into an ambush.
After handing over the cash, the hotel clerk ducked behind the counter and observed the unfolding scene. She promptly called the police, reporting that an officer had been shot in the head. She couldn’t recognize the unit number but noted the word “Supervisor” on the vehicle’s front panel.
Upon realizing it was him, Sgt. Mahan’s girlfriend became understandably distraught. The other dispatcher maintained composure under extreme pressure. She coordinated response units. She relayed critical information from the hotel clerk to surrounding agencies. The suspects were taken into custody within the hour thanks to swift action and coordination.
Sgt. Mahan had been overpowered and shot in the head with a .25 caliber pistol, then fatally shot again in the back of the head with his service weapon. The officers rushed him to the local hospital in the back of a patrol unit. Dense fog made air transport impossible. An ambulance was then dispatched for the nearly three-hour drive to the nearest trauma center. It traveled through whiteout conditions with visibility near zero.
I arrived at the station about an hour after the shooting. I was designated as the point of contact for media outlets. They were calling nonstop. I remained in contact with the ambulance, his girlfriend, and a fellow officer riding alongside Sgt. Mahan. The driver reported struggling to reach even 35 mph on the fog-covered interstate.
Killed In The Line Of Duty – Elk City, Oklahoma
Roughly thirty miles from the trauma hospital, I heard the ambulance driver radio for local police assistance. They needed help to reach the nearest hospital. The ambulance had to exit the highway. I knew what that meant. I called the Chief’s office. I delivered the news. We had just lost our first officer in the line of duty.
Official Summary –
Bobby Lynn Ross was convicted of the 1983 murder of Elk City Police Sgt. Steve Mahan, who was 30 years old at the time. Two co-defendants were also convicted of second-degree murder in connection with the case.
On January 5, 1983, Sgt. Mahan was conducting a routine check when he drove up to the Los Quartos Inn in Elk City, Oklahoma. Unbeknownst to him, an armed robbery was already in progress. Mahan interrupted the robbery, during which Bobby Lynn Ross had already threatened to kill the motel clerk.
Ross disarmed Sgt. Mahan and ordered him to lie on the ground. Although the officer complied, Ross shot him multiple times at close range with a .25-caliber pistol—then took Mahan’s service weapon and shot him again.
Ross was convicted of first-degree murder and robbery with firearms on October 21, 1983.
During a failed clemency hearing before the Oklahoma Pardon and Parole Board on November 19, Ross asked for forgiveness. He addressed Mahan’s family. He claimed he had changed. Sgt. Mahan’s daughter, who was only 18 months old when her father was killed, submitted a heartfelt letter to the board:
“I missed out on all the opportunities that most children had. My father was stolen from me before I even had a chance to know him. My father was doing his job, not out trying to disrupt people’s lives. All I ask for is justice to be served.”
That night, Elk City police detective Jim LaFarlette sped through the darkness. His dying colleague was in the back of a patrol car. A family lost a son. A child lost her father. A community lost a hero.
“We all under the badge were deprived of a brother,”
LaFarlette said of the murder of Elk City police Sgt. Steven Mahan on Jan. 5, 1983. Ross was put to death by lethal injection on December 9th, 1999. Ross had lived 11 years longer than Mahan was allowed.
It was the day of Bobby Lynn Ross’s execution. I called Elk City Police Chief Bill Putman to confirm that the execution was moving ahead. He assured me that it was. He informed me that he and Officer Jim LaFarlette would attend to witness it themselves. Indeed, they did.
New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission
A True Story
New Year’s Eve 1986: Officer Tim Roff’s Midnight Mission
It was New Year’s Eve, 1986. Officer Tim Roff had just received a dispatch call. It sent him to the farthest point in the southern district of his patrol area. The report was grim, suspecting abuse of a newborn child.
In Oklahoma during the 1980s, police officers had significant authority in child abuse cases. If they believed a child was in danger, they would promptly remove the child from a home. They did this without a court order. No approval from higher authorities was needed.
As Officer Roff pulled up to 22735 SE 30th, Lot #14, he found himself in a trailer park. The location led him to a white single-wide mobile home with yellow trim. The porch light was on, illuminating a screaming woman on the front steps.
As he exited his patrol car, a backup unit from the traffic division arrived. Officer Wynn Peters stepped out and surveyed the scene.
Roff turned to him and said,
“Take care of the screaming lady. I need to check on the child.”
“Got it,”
Peters responded, moving toward the woman, who was now slurring her words. It didn’t take long to find she was intoxicated.
Inside the trailer, Roff found the baby. The infant, barely a few months old, lay bundled in a thin sheet—no diaper, no proper clothing. His tiny body bore the unmistakable signs of abuse: cigarette burns and raised welts from a cord.
Roff’s calm professionalism evaporated in an instant, replaced by controlled fury. Gently, he lifted the baby, cradling him close. The child whimpered, and Roff whispered,
“You’re safe now.”
As he carried the infant outside, the mother, now identified, spat out her excuse.
“I couldn’t get the little bastard to hush. It got to me! His father won’t come around because of it. I had to do something to shut it up!”
Roff’s jaw tightened. He turned to her.
“Well, you got your wish. The baby is quiet. And you? You’re going to jail.”
Before the woman reacted, Officer Peters had her in cuffs and secured in the back of his patrol car.
Roff gently placed the baby in his cruiser’s car seat and radioed dispatch. He needed someone to hold the baby since he didn’t have a child seat in his unit.
“I need Child Services at my location ASAP. I have an infant who needs immediate placement before transport to the county shelter.”
After locking the trailer and securing the scene, Roff returned to the patrol cars. He informed the suspect that detectives would issue a search warrant before she was even out of jail. The charges? Felony child abuse. Her chance of bonding out before seeing a judge? Slim.
As Roff spoke, a man approached from the shadows.
“I was sent by Child Protective Services to hold the baby.”
He said.
Roff sized him up quickly, then gestured toward his patrol car.
“Get in the front seat.”
As the CPS worker did, Roff handed him the baby, who was still wrapped in the sheet.
“Hold him close and buckle up.”
Now, it was time to move.
Roff flipped on his headlights and pulled out onto the darkened road. The county seat was twenty-five miles away, and the streets were dangerous on New Year’s Eve. Drunks, criminals, and gang activity all made for unpredictable hazards.
When it happened, they had nearly reached their destination—just five miles from the shelter.
Gunfire.
Bullets cracked through the night air. The unmistakable pop-pop-pop of semi-automatic fire echoed as Roff’s black-and-white patrol unit came under attack.
“DOWN! GET DOWN!”
He barked, shoving the CPS worker onto the floorboard.
More shots rang out, shattering the tension of the night. Roff slammed his emergency lights on, flipped the siren, and grabbed his radio.
“Unit 852 to Headquarters—I’m under fire near NE 23rd and Blackwell! I have a baby and a Child Services worker in the vehicle. I can’t stop! Send units!”
Every muscle in his body tensed as he navigated the streets. He weaved through traffic and pushed the car to its limits. The next five miles felt like an eternity, but Roff never let up. The patrol car screamed through the city at full speed, sirens blaring.
Then, finally, the shelter’s lights appeared ahead.
As Roff pulled in, he exhaled sharply and keyed his radio.
“We’re safe. We made it.”
Moments later, Headquarters responded.
“Copy that, 852. Three suspects are in custody. They were shooting at vehicles in your last known area.”
Roff stepped out, his pulse still hammering. He unwrapped the baby, handing it over to the shelter staff.
The CPS worker stood frozen.
Roff raised an eyebrow.
“You need a ride back to your car?”
The man swallowed hard.
“If it’s all the same to you, Officer, I think I’ll catch a ride from someone here. Or maybe –– get a taxi.”
Roff nodded, the ghost of a smirk touching his lips.
“Good call.”
And with that, he turned and walked back to his cruiser. Another night. Another battle. But at least, on this night, one child would see a safer tomorrow.
This is a true story!Names and locations have been changed to protect the privacy of those concerned.
Jethro’s patrol car rounded the corner in the middle of the night. He had been around the block once before. His patrol practices always involved retracing where he had been. Burglars would often wait for a police car to pass and then start their craft. This practice by Jethro helped him lead the department in felony arrests for two years.
Half-dressed a week earlier, he had come across the Town’s Mayor. The Mayor, Tim Awning, was running across the front lawn of a residence. Jethro had to calm him down. He then heard a story that the Mayor had been a victim of a holdup. Reportedly, a group of thugs had taken his car. The Mayor’s story was in bits and disoriented. Oddly, Mayor Awning said he only wanted to go home. He didn’t want to file a report.
While driving the Mayor to his home, they came upon his car less than a block away, and Mayor Awning said –
“Stop here; I have an extra set of keys; I will drive it home myself.”
Jethro thought it odd that the Mayor didn’t want to file a report. Even more suspicious, the Mayor insisted that looking inside was useless. He said whatever the hooligans may have done was not an issue. Mayor Awning went even further, insisting Officer Jethro not look into his vehicle. The Mayor claimed his right to privacy through search and seizure rights.
Now, Jethro was patrolling the same area. He cruised slowly. His patrol car’s lights were turned off, and the windows were rolled down so he hear. Near where Jethro had come upon the Mayor a week earlier, he went to a near stop. The hair on his neck started to rise; his sixth instinct was telling him something, but what? He crept his patrol unit further when he heard a lady screaming. He stopped and tried to find where the screams were coming from.
He looked over his right shoulder. He saw a lady in night clothes running across the front lawn of a home. The same home he had come across the Mayor. He radioed his headquarters his location and told the operator he was out with a distressed resident. The operator sent an extra unit as a precautionary measure. As Jethro exited his unit, he turned on his overhead red and blues, and the lady ran to him screaming –––
“Officer, it isn’t good. I can’t believe it. I just got home and changed for the night. I went in to say goodnight to my roommates. They are all dead. Blood is everywhere!”
Officer Jethro wasn’t sure what to make of the hysterics. But he asked her to catch her breath. And told her another unit was responding. Understanding that whatever she sees is in the house was dramatic he told her they are safe outside. He made sure she had a seat in his unit. Then, he waited for the backup officer to go into the home to see what she had reported.
The backup arrived. Her name was Officer Jilly. Jethro and she worked together in the South Division for over a year. As they entered the home with their weapons drawn, they went from room to room, securing it. Finally, in the back of the house, they came to the bedroom where the carnage was found. Three women were found slashed to death.
Jethro’s gut twisted at the sight before him. Blood filled the room with a metallic stench. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast eerie shadows over the bodies. The women sprawled across the bed and floor, their nightclothes soaked in deep crimson. Jilly covered her mouth, swallowing the bile rising in her throat.
Jethro took a deep breath and turned to Jilly.
“Call it in. We need the homicide unit and CSU here now.”
Jilly nodded and stepped into the hallway to radio for assistance. Jethro scanned the room, taking in every detail. There were no signs of forced entry. The door had been unlocked, and there was no shattered glass or overturned furniture. This wasn’t a robbery gone wrong. This was something else—something far more sinister.
Then, he noticed it: A single business card on the nightstand, smeared with blood. He pulled out a glove from his belt, careful not to contaminate any evidence, and picked it up.
The card read:
Timothy Awning – Mayor
Jethro’s jaw tightened. His mind flashed back to the Mayor’s bizarre behavior a week earlier. He remembered the frantic running across the lawn. There was also the refusal to report the car theft. The Mayor insisted that Jethro does not look inside.
Jethro was a thorough officer. He made notes of everything, time-stamped his reports, and carried a voice-activated tape recorder in his patrol unit. Anything said inside the vehicle was considered public, and Officer Jethro had recorded the entire meeting with Mayor Awning. Now, he had a reason to review it.
“Jilly!”
He called.
She reentered the room, her face pale.
“What is it?”
Jethro held up the card.
“We need to talk to the Mayor. Now.”
——
Mayor Tim Awning sat in his lavish den when Jethro and Jilly arrived. He held a tumbler of whiskey in his hand.
His eyes flicked toward them, momentarily startled, before he forced a grin.
“Well, Officers, this is a surprise,” he said, shifting in his chair. “What brings you to my home at this hour?”
Jethro stepped ahead, tossing the bloodied business card onto the coffee table.
“We just left a crime scene. Three women were murdered in the same house where we found you last week.”
Awning’s face paled, but he quickly regained his composure.
“That’s—terrible. But I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
Jilly folded her arms.
“Your business card was found at the scene.”
Awning scoffed.
“I’ve given out thousands of those over the years. That proves nothing.”
Jethro leaned in.
“Your behavior last week was unusual. You were running half-dressed across the lawn. You claimed your car was stolen but refused to file a report. What happened that night, Mayor?”
Awning’s grip on the tumbler tightened.
“I told you what happened.”
Jethro’s voice dropped.
“No, you told me a story. But the real story is that you were at that house that night. You saw or did something that made you run. And I think whatever happened, it’s connected to what we found tonight.”
Awning’s jaw clenched. Beads of sweat formed at the Mayor Awning’s temples. Jilly took a step closer.
“Where were you tonight, Mayor?”
Awning exhaled sharply and downed the rest of his whiskey. He set the glass down with a sharp clink.
“At home. Alone.”
Jethro exchanged a glance with Jilly. They had him.
——
The crime scene investigators recovered more evidence. Fibers from the Mayor’s vehicle matched traces found in the victims’ home. Security footage showed his car in the vicinity the night of the murders. And then there was the most damning piece of evidence—blood found in the trunk of his car.
Faced with overwhelming proof, Mayor Awning finally broke. He confessed that he had been involved in a secret arrangement with influential figures in town. The house was where illegal dealings occurred—deals that had gone wrong. That night a week ago, he had seen a gruesome execution. He panicked and fled, leaving behind his car. The killers, nonetheless, had unfinished business.
By the time Jethro and Jilly had put the pieces together, it was too late for the three women. But it wasn’t too late for justice.
Tim Awning was arrested, and his political career ended in disgrace. As he got led out of his mansion in handcuffs, the weight of his crimes hung heavy in the air. Jethro knew this case would haunt him. Nonetheless, at least now, the Mayor would finally pay for his sins. This Mayor had helped kill women.
It was a typical summer night in western Oklahoma, and Officer Ben Groff enjoyed a rare night off. He planned to eat at a restaurant on the city’s west side. He drove there in his newly purchased 1985 Dodge Ram. Gaming gold and black under the streetlights, the pickup was his pride and joy. As he cruised along old Route 66, he rolled down the window to enjoy the cool evening breeze.
At an intersection, a red Jeep pulled up beside him. Its driver, a man about Groff’s age, turned down his radio and hollered over the traffic.
“I like your truck; that is slick, man!“
Groff grinned.
“Thanks! Your Jeep’s pretty nice too!”
The man motioned toward the Sonic drive-in up ahead.
“Pull over. Let’s talk!”
Curious and lacking close friends outside the police department, Groff agreed. They parked at Sonic, grabbed burgers, and swapped stories about their vehicles and work. The man introduced himself as Lenny and said he had a knack for making fast friends. Groff, still, couldn’t ignore the possibility that this chance meeting lead to more than small talk. Lenny’s interest in trucks worried Groff. His easy charm also raised Groff’s suspicion.
That night, over beers at Groff’s house, a tentative friendship began to form. But Groff had a strategy. He suspected Lenny was his way into a group linked to a string of thefts plaguing the city. The Chief of Police gave a cautious blessing. Groff embedded himself in this new circle of acquaintances. He balanced camaraderie with the thin line of professional detachment.
Walking the Tightrope
The deeper Groff immersed himself, the more skeptical his fellow officers became. Some resented his approach, accusing him of consorting with known criminals. Others were envious of how the community responded positively to Groff’s efforts. For Groff, the criticism was a necessary price. He knew abandoning the operation would make months of effort meaningless.
By late November 1985, Groff’s relentless work—juggling undercover meetings, regular patrol shifts, and state-mandated training—was starting to pay off. A critical breakthrough came unexpectedly when one of Lenny’s associates sold Groff a set of truck railings. The thrill of the chase was palpable as Groff made the buy and then cross-referenced recent police reports. Sure enough, a burglary at Bill’s Auto listed truck railings among the stolen items.
It was the break he’d been waiting for.
Closing the Net
The next day, Groff burst into the Chief’s office, his excitement barely contained.
“I’ve got them, Chief! One of them sold me stolen property. If I press him, I can flip him and take down the whole operation!”
The Chief, weary but intrigued, leaned ahead.
“Are you serious? You’re sure this will work?”
Groff nodded.
“I’m sure. But I need to move fast before they catch wind of it.”
“Not alone,”
the Chief said firmly.
“We’ll grab a detective. Let’s do this right.”
The weight of responsibility was heavy on Groff’s shoulders. He agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone. He wanted to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.
Groff agreed but insisted on leading the first confrontation alone to avoid spooking the suspect. The Chief and the detective parked discreetly down the street as Groff pulled into the suspect’s driveway.
The suspect, Joey, took his time answering the door. His surprise was clear when he saw Groff in uniform.
“Joey,”
Groff began, his voice steely,
“I know everything—the railings, the bumpers, all of it. This is your one shot to come clean before this place gets torn apart. Don’t blow it.”
Joey’s defiance crumbled.
“How’d you find out?”
he stammered.
Groff played it cool.
“You sold me stolen property. It wasn’t hard to figure out.”
Joey hesitated, then blurted,
“There’s more—way more.”
The Haul
Inside Joey’s attic, Groff and the suspect found a treasure trove of stolen goods. They discovered jewelry, electronics, vehicle accessories, and a firearm. Over $40,000 in items were recovered from Joey’s residence alone. Joey’s confession led to six extra arrests, dismantling a theft ring that had operated for three years.
But the investigation didn’t end there. Interviews with the subjects hinted at more profound corruption, implicating former high-ranking officers in a grocery robbery scheme. Groff pressed for a deeper probe, but political resistance and departmental politics hampered his efforts.
Despite these setbacks, Groff’s work earned him a reputation as a relentless investigator. He was willing to make personal sacrifices to serve justice. The satisfaction of justice served was palpable. Groff’s relentless pursuit of the truth led to the dismantling of a major theft ring. That summer night on Route 66 started a chain of events. It led to one of the most significant cases of his career.
The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 marked a pivotal moment in U.S. immigration history, becoming the first significant federal law restricting immigration. It targeted a specific ethnic group driven by economic fears, racial prejudice, and political populism. A review of this historic legislation, alongside the context of its enactment, reveals striking parallels to modern immigration debates. Both historical and contemporary issues illustrate how economic anxieties, cultural misunderstandings, and political opportunism can drive restrictive immigration policies that may ultimately prove disastrous for society.
The Role of Immigrant Labor in Economic Development
In the mid-19th century, Chinese immigrants, despite facing systemic discrimination and being blamed for economic problems, played a crucial role in building the American West. Their resilience and determination were evident in their instrumental role in constructing the transcontinental railroad, tackling some of the most dangerous and demanding jobs in brutal conditions. However, when the Panic of 1873 led to widespread unemployment, populist sentiment scapegoated Chinese immigrants, claiming they were stealing jobs from white workers.
A similar narrative exists today. Immigrant labor is fundamental to the agriculture, construction, and technology industries. Despite this, immigrants are often vilified during economic downturns, accused of taking jobs or lowering wages. This cyclical pattern of scapegoating undermines the reality that immigrants frequently perform jobs that native-born workers are unwilling or unable to do, driving economic growth and innovation. Restrictive immigration policies, such as deportations or bans, risk damaging these essential industries and the broader economy, much like the exclusion of Chinese workers stunted specific sectors in the late 19th century.
Cultural Backlash and Populist Politics
The transcontinental railroad’s completion in 1869 symbolized a remarkable technological achievement but also marked a turning point for Chinese immigrants. Their presence sparked a cultural backlash as they settled in communities like Truckee, California. Fueled by racial prejudice and populist rhetoric, white workers and politicians pushed for their exclusion, culminating in the Chinese Exclusion Act. This act institutionalized xenophobia and created a precedent for racially biased immigration policies.
Today, cultural anxieties continue to shape immigration debates. Concerns about preserving cultural identity and fears of “otherness” fuel resistance to immigrants. Particularly from Latin America, the Middle East, and Asia. Politicians often exploit these fears to rally support, pushing for restrictive measures such as border walls, travel bans, or mass deportations. Such actions not only marginalize immigrant communities but also foster division and xenophobia, hindering social cohesion.
Economic Consequences of Restriction
The long-term economic impacts of the Chinese Exclusion Act highlight the dangers of restrictive immigration policies. By limiting a vital workforce, the law hampered industries reliant on immigrant labor. The exclusion of Chinese workers also set a precedent that discouraged innovation and adaptability in labor markets, contributing to stagnation in certain regions.
Policies that limit immigrant contributions to the workforce have modern parallels. For example, restrictive visa programs and deportations threaten industries like agriculture and technology, which rely heavily on immigrant talent. Moreover, these policies can exacerbate labor shortages, driving up consumer costs and reducing the global competitiveness of U.S. industries. History demonstrates that economic growth thrives on diversity and inclusion, not exclusion.
Lessons from the Past
The Chinese Exclusion Act teaches us that targeting immigrants as scapegoats for economic or social challenges is a shortsighted and counterproductive strategy. Immigration is a cornerstone of American prosperity, fostering innovation, cultural richness, and financial resilience. Policies driven by fear and prejudice, rather than informed analysis, risk repeating the mistakes of the past and should be considered.
Today’s immigration debates echo the populist rhetoric and exclusionary measures of the late 19th century. However, we have the benefit of hindsight to recognize that such policies often create more problems than they solve. To avoid a similar disaster, today’s policymakers must approach immigration with a focus on integration, economic opportunity, and respect for human dignity. By learning from history, we can build a more inclusive and prosperous future, where all individuals feel valued and respected.
Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II
The days felt strange for those of us who worked nights. As the darkness stretched on, one night blending into the next, daylight seemed more a memory than reality. Law enforcement is more than just a job; it’s a close-knit community, a world. There’s a deep-rooted fellowship among officers and an unbreakable chain of command that’s everything. Yet, that structure was sometimes a challenge for me to accept.
In a large family—four older brothers, two older sisters, a strict father, and a devoted mother—order was part of life. In a rural setting, the school was the only place outside the home where I experienced a different structure. Dad was the highest authority in our household, followed by Mom, then the eldest sibling present, down to the youngest. Dad’s words held firm even in his absence; his authority was an invisible force that needed no reinforcement.
Adjusting to the chain of command in law enforcement took me time, especially after starting in small departments with more relaxed structures. But at Elk City Police Department, things were different. There was a formal hierarchy: chief, assistant chief, major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant, patrolman, and communications officer. Here, I quickly learned that approaching the chief directly with questions or concerns was a breach of protocol, often met with a firm reminder to follow the ranks.
Simple tasks became lessons in patience. Whether I needed a lightbulb replaced or advice on a report, the chain of command required me to go through several levels before reaching a solution; I would have to wait days to get a minor answer. Frustrated, I eventually bit my lip and followed the structure, even if I didn’t like it. My captain called me out over the most minor lapses, like failing to change a burnt lightbulb on time, and I’d swallow my frustration, understanding that order was paramount.
As the community passed a tax to fund a new police station, we began to outgrow the quirks of our aging headquarters at 303 West Fifth Street. The old building, despite its shortcomings, was more than just a structure. It was a part of us, a place where we shared stories, laughed, and supported each other. Built in the 1930s, it had weathered time and neglect. Prisoners on the second floor could flood toilets, causing wastewater to seep into the dispatch and booking area below. But it was our home, filled with memories and camaraderie.
The new station was completed in 1984. Moving was bittersweet, not just for the community, who’d grown used to stopping by the old station for a friendly chat, but for us, too. The new facility was a symbol of progress, outfitted with state-of-the-art security, bulletproof glass, and advanced communication systems. The dispatch had better lighting, new mirrors, and high-tech computers; the National Law Enforcement Telecommunications System and National Crime Information Center computers were side-by-side. Every call was recorded and could be retrieved at any moment.
The jail had electronically controlled gates, holding cells, a kitchen, and a secure emergency exit. Security cameras covered the entire facility, displaying activity on monitors in the booking area. There were dedicated offices for records, evidence, detectives, and the command staff. In every way, it was an upgrade.
On the day of the move, I was instructed by ‘Captain Bick’ to stay home and prepare for the night shift. Despite my eagerness to be part of the transition, I respected his orders. Later that evening, I found myself driving to the old station out of habit. As I parked and entered, I was struck by the emptiness of the dispatch office. This was where I had sent officers out, received urgent calls, and coordinated responses. Now, it was a mere shell of its former self. Assistant Fire Chief Bob, who was also present, chuckled, ‘You’re at the wrong place—no cops here anymore!’
I smiled, feeling a wave of nostalgia, and pointed to the old wall that separated our side from the fire department. ‘Did you know President Carter’s original ‘Beast’ limousine was parked right on the other side of that wall one night? All the fire trucks were cleared out, and our officers watched to ensure no one touched it.’
Bob laughed, “Yeah, I remember that night. I was here too.”
It was hard to let go of stories like that—stories that had lifted people’s spirits and given them a break from their own troubles. With a sigh, I left the old building, heading to the new station, marveling at the thought of a facility so high-tech that even the door lock had a security code… which someone had promptly taped over because officers kept forgetting it.
After settling in, I was tasked with a significant assignment: entering city burglary data into the new computer system. I approached this task with the same dedication I gave every task, and it quickly provided me with valuable insights into the patterns of theft in the city. Over the next two years, this groundwork would prove instrumental in helping us dismantle a significant theft ring. But that’s a story for another time—this one is about the journey to a new place and the adjustments, big and small, that shaped us along the way.
It had been a long year. On January 5th, 1983, we lost an officer in the line of duty. That spring, three officers were arrested for stealing from a business they’d responded to on an alarm call. By summer, automobile burglaries and thefts were on the rise. The suspects were careful, leaving no evidence. Their modus operandi was smooth and untraceable—no one ever heard, saw, or interrupted these thieves. Most stolen items ranged in value from around $200, making each theft a felony under Oklahoma law.
The city was facing yet another wave of crime. Typically, it had about 10,000 residents, but the recent oil boom brought an influx, swelling the population to around 25,000. The sudden increase in population put a strain on the city’s resources, leading to a rise in crime. Jobs attracted people from all over, but housing needed to catch up. Tent cities sprang up in the southern sector, and parks filled with tents when vacant lots overflowed. Expecting thousands of oil jobs, many newcomers broke and scraped by.
Among the job seekers were newly released inmates from Cook County Detention in Chicago. Judges offered a stark choice: a one-way bus ticket to Elk City, Oklahoma, or a lengthy jail sentence. Most took the bus ticket. Upon arrival, they had to call the detention center from Elk City’s bus depot to check-in. Ducks in the city park began disappearing as desperate people scavenged for food. In response, the city council enacted a law prohibiting the molestation of ducks, with fines and jail time for violations. Signs reading “DO NOT MOLEST THE DUCKS” popped up, adding a hint of levity to an otherwise grim situation.
But ducks were far from the town’s biggest problem. It wasn’t the bars, the transient hotels renting beds by the shift, or even the “ladies of the night.” The real threat seemed to be the string of broad daylight robberies plaguing the community’s three leading grocery stores, and each hit at least once. One robbery even happened just a block from the police station, with the suspects abandoning their getaway vehicle behind the station in a post office lot.
The police department’s image was suffering. Officers worked 12-hour shifts, often doubling up due to the flood of calls, sometimes stacked five to ten deep. I reported at 5 p.m. for a 6 p.m. start to my 12-hour shift one day, noticing a huddle of high-ranking officers and county deputies outside an office. Figuring I’d get briefed later, I didn’t poke around—I had enough court subpoenas already without getting involved in another incident. And this was one situation I was glad to avoid.
“You have got to be kidding me,”
When my Captain came over, he told me they’d just brought in an officer for raping his daughter. This shocking revelation not only shamed the individual officer’s reputation but cast a shadow on the entire department; as police officers failed, the public’s trust in law enforcement was further eroded.
“You have got to be kidding me,” was all I could say.
This scandal was nearly the final blow for our department, already reeling from the recent departure of a chief struggling with personal issues. Within hours, newspapers and television stations caught wind of the arrest, and the phone lines lit up. Callers unleashed waves of abuse, condemning every officer affiliated with the department. The calls went on for days, creating a hostile environment for all officers and making their jobs even more difficult.
The officers arrested earlier in the year were convicted, further damaging the department’s reputation.
Amid this turmoil, my law enforcement career truly began. Although I had worked in various positions and departments, it was in this community that I found my calling. This city is where I started my adult life and career earnestly. I remained loyal to this place, forming memories with people in the booking area, the jail, and the streets. A shift in the workforce followed, which opened doors for me—an unexpected opportunity in a turbulent time. Could it get any worse? The heat was about to get turned up. In coming stories!
(You’ve been reading the back story for the big news over the next forty years involving several lives and lifetimes.)
On a dark, silent night in 1980, the highways through Caddo County near the rural communities of Gracemont and Binger, Oklahoma, were deserted. Residents had long settled in their homes, leaving the quiet stretches of U.S. Highway 281 nearly void of movement. It was a time when law enforcement in rural Oklahoma had limited resources and technology, making cases like this all the more challenging to solve.
That night, an Indigenous man, Jasper Williams, had set out on foot from his home, heading south along a dirt road that eventually led to the pavement of Highway 281. It was common for community members to walk from one home to another, no matter the distance, and Jasper was going to a friend’s house. The night was pitch black, with no moonlight or streetlights to guide him, save for the faint outline of the highway stretching before him.
As Jasper walked, visibility was almost nonexistent. The road was shrouded in darkness, with no nearby lights to help him stay clear of the highway’s center. At some point, as he walked around six miles north of Gracemont—almost midway between there and Binger—tragedy struck. Jasper was hit by a passing vehicle, which left him severely injured on the side of the road. By daylight, he was found deceased, having bled to death, with no car in sight and no immediate reports of an accident.
Upon closer inspection, deputies discovered fragments of evidence scattered on Jasper’s clothing and body: broken glass, bits of chrome, a hubcap, and remnants of a car’s signal light and headlight assembly, as well as traces of paint. With these clues, investigators determined the incident might not be an ordinary accident but potentially a case of vehicular homicide.
Deputy Hamilton drove a Ford Ranchero
The case was assigned as a homicide due to the absence of witnesses, the lack of any report from the driver, and the fact that the vehicle fled the scene. Caddo County Deputies Hamilton and Ware—both of whom have since passed—took on the painstaking task of finding the person responsible. Armed with the physical evidence, they began an exhaustive search of autobody shops across the county and surrounding areas, hoping to find a vehicle with damage matching the debris at the scene.
After several weeks, their search finally paid off. The deputies located a damaged vehicle that matched the evidence they’d collected. The owner was identified and subsequently interviewed, leading to the arrest of a man named Larry Johnson.
During questioning, Johnson admitted he had left a bar in Binger around 2 a.m. on the night Jasper was killed. On his drive home, he confessed to drifting in and out of sleep, initially thinking he had hit an animal, possibly a dog. However, he chose not to stop. Later, after hearing news of the fatal accident, he realized he was likely the driver involved but continued to hope he was wrong.
Binger Main St. There Were Bars On Both Sides of Street.
Johnson was later tried in Caddo County, where a jury found him guilty of manslaughter. He was sentenced to serve 15 years at Oklahoma’s Granite Reformatory.
Note: Some names, dates, and details have been altered to protect individuals’ privacy.
I want to delve into the Border Issue, a topic that often dominates national news and political discussions. As a resident of Mesa, Arizona, and a frequent traveler across the state, I’ve never encountered the dramatic scenes that the media often depicts. There have been no families from Central America camping in my front yard or streams of people crossing into nearby towns. This stark contrast between media portrayals and my personal experiences is a puzzle that I’m eager to explore.
It’s interesting to note that I know individuals who firmly believe in these media portrayals. Some have even ventured to Mexico, confident that the Border Patrol would ensure their safety. Upon their return, I eagerly inquired about their experiences, expecting tales of chaos. To my surprise, they described the areas as eerily quiet—almost like ghost towns. They reported no issues crossing the border and found the most challenging part of the journey to be the drive itself.
Despite these personal accounts, the news continues to show what’s framed as thousands of people crossing the border here in Arizona. While I acknowledge that some may exploit entry points or policies, I struggle to find evidence of this on the ground. It raises questions: where are these images and reports coming from, and are they truly reflective of the situation here?
Information Produced and Presented By Organizations Other Than Groff Media 2024
Above, two-time Academy Award nominee Marshall Curry presents A Night at The Garden, a film that revisits a night in February 1939 when “20,000 Americans rallied in New York’s Madison Square Garden to celebrate the rise of Nazism — an event largely forgotten from U.S. history.” As we described it back in 2017, the film documents the following scene:
What you’re looking at is the 1939 “Pro-American Rally” (aka Pro-Nazi Rally) sponsored by the German American Bund at Madison Square Garden on George Washington’s 207th Birthday. Banners emblazoned with such slogans as “Stop Jewish Domination of Christian Americans,” “Wake Up America. Smash Jewish Communism,” and “1,000,000 Bund Members by 1940” decorated the great hall.
New York City Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia—an Episcopalian with a Jewish mother—considered canceling the event, but ultimately he, along with the American Jewish Committee and the American Civil Liberties Committee decreed that the Bund was exercising its right to free speech and free assembly.
A crowd of 20,000 filled the famous sports venue in mid-town Manhattan to capacity. 1,500 police officers were present to render the Garden “a fortress impregnable to anti-Nazis.” An estimated 100,000 counter-demonstrators were gathering outside.…
The most disturbing moment in the short film comes at the 3:50 mark, when another security force—the Bund’s Ordnungsdienst or “Order Service” pile on Isidore Greenbaum, a 26-year-old Jewish worker who rushed the podium where bundesführerFritz Julius Kuhn was fanning the flames of hatred. Valentine’s men eventually pulled them off, just barely managing to save the “anti-Nazi” from the vicious beating he was undergoing.
Made entirely from archival footage filmed that night, A Night at The Garden “transports audiences to this chilling gathering and shines a light on the power of demagoguery and anti-Semitism in the United States.” You can learn more about the film and the 1939 rally at Marshall Curry’s web site.
Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or other xenophobic rallies being held this weekend in Madison Square Garden is purely coincidental, of course.
MAGA Is Not The First To Attempt And Bring Down America. A Populist Movement Nearly Destroyed American Democracy Over 110 Years Ago, But Our Democracy Prevailed
Over a century ago, the United States grappled with a political movement that closely resembled today’s MAGA (Make America Great Again) movement, a populist uprising spearheaded by former President Donald Trump. Like MAGA, this earlier movement thrived on populist discontent, nativist sentiments, and rejection of the established order. If not kept in check, it could have reshaped American democracy in ways that might have undermined its democratic institutions, a peril we must remain vigilant against.
One of the most significant instances was during Theodore Roosevelt’s presidency, a man with intricate political loyalties. In 1912, Roosevelt’s Bull Moose Party brought populist elements into the political mainstream, appealing to working-class voters who felt marginalized by the two major parties. While Roosevelt was not anti-democratic, his charismatic leadership style and his ability to rally crowds around a strongman image set a precedent for future political movements that would seek to undermine democratic norms.
Simultaneously, the rise of the “America First” movement and the Ku Klux Klan spanning the 1920s showed how easily populist rhetoric could veer into exclusionary nationalism and nativism. The Klan’s widespread influence reached local, state, and federal government levels, promoting an agenda that sought to disenfranchise non-white citizens, immigrants, and anyone considered “un-American.” This movement found an audience among rural and working-class Americans who felt left behind by the rapid industrialization and modernization of the country.
At the heart of these movements was a profound distrust of the government, elites, and institutions—just like the anti-establishment fervor that fueled the rise of MAGA. These movements aimed to “restore” a vision of America rooted in racial and social hierarchies, often using violent rhetoric and intimidation to achieve their goals. Had these populist forces gained more traction, they could have severely damaged the democratic foundation of the country, ushering in a more authoritarian regime.
It took concerted efforts from citizens and political leaders to resist these dangerous movements and restore democratic norms. In some ways, the lessons from over a century ago echo loudly today: unchecked populism, especially when it flirts with nativism and authoritarianism, can bring democracy to the brink of collapse. However, this history also reminds us of our power to shape the future of our democracy, offering hope and inspiration for positive change.
Today, as MAGA remains a force in American politics, it is crucial to remember that the battle to preserve democracy requires vigilance. While populism can express legitimate grievances of people who feel left behind, it must not be allowed to erode the institutions enabling democracy to function. History teaches us that democracy’s survival depends on our ability to balance widespread anger with reasoned leadership and respect for the rule of law. We all have a role to play in this ongoing struggle, and our vigilance is required to maintain a true Republic of the People!
Charles Brandt, a former Delaware chief deputy attorney general and author of I Heard You Paint Houses, the book that inspired the acclaimed 2019 film The Irishman, passed away on Tuesday at the age of 82.
Brandt, who lived between Lewes, Delaware, and Sun Valley, Idaho, passed at Delaware Hospice at St. Francis in Wilmington. His daughter, Jenny Rose Brandt, a registered nurse and his primary caregiver, shared that he died due to complications from multiple chronic health conditions.
I Heard You Paint Houses, Brandt’s work of narrative nonfiction published in 2005, explores the life of Frank “Big Frank” Sheeran, a towering World War II veteran and former president of Teamsters Local 326 in Wilmington who also worked as a Mafia hitman. Brandt spent five years interviewing Sheeran, who, in those conversations, confessed to the killing of labor leader Jimmy Hoffa. Hoffa disappeared in 1975, and his body has never been found. Sheeran’s chilling accounts, shared in detail with Brandt, suggested he felt freed to speak as those he once feared were no longer alive.
The movie went to the big screen in The Irishman, directed by Martin Scorsese and featuring Robert De Niro and Al Pacino. The epic film, which runs over three hours and garnered 10 Academy Award nominations, brought widespread attention to Brandt’s extraordinary insights into Sheeran’s life and his ties to organized crime.
Charles Brandt leaves behind a legacy in law, literature, and film, his work casting light on some of America’s most notorious mysteries.
In September 2024, Missouri executed Marcellus Williams despite significant evidence casting doubt on his guilt. Williams was convicted for the 1998 murder of Lisha Gayle, a former St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter, but recent DNA tests excluded him as the source of evidence found on the murder weapon. While Williams’ legal team sought a stay of execution, and even the prosecution expressed doubts, Missouri proceeded with the lethal injection after Governor Mike Parson dissolved a previous inquiry. His execution sparked widespread outrage, igniting debates on the reliability and ethics of the death penalty.
Williams’ final words were, “All praise be to Allah in every situation,” reflecting his unwavering faith. His attorneys argued that the DNA evidence should have been sufficient to overturn his conviction, but the courts dismissed this claim. In 2017, then-Governor Eric Greitens halted his execution and established a board to review the case, but this effort was reversed by Governor Parson, sealing Williams’ fate.
Even Gayle’s family had called for clemency, asking for Williams’ sentence to be commuted to life without parole. Despite their pleas, the state moved forward with the execution, leading to questions about whether justice had truly been served. The case has raised concerns about rushing death penalty cases and highlighted the dangers of executing potentially innocent individuals.
Williams’ case continues to fuel national debates over capital punishment and the failures of the justice system, particularly when substantial evidence suggests wrongful conviction. His death has become a rallying point for advocates pushing for reforms in the death penalty process, as critics argue that his execution may have been a tragic mistake. Was this mistake a murder carried out by the state of Missouri, and those who had the responsibility to stop it ––– the killers?
When the youngest officer on duty is the only resource available, the weight of responsibility rests heavily on his shoulders, underscoring the significance of his role.
Our town’s police force was small, with just twelve officers. Eight were assigned to the streets, patrolling, responding to calls, controlling traffic, and maintaining visibility. The remaining four worked in the office, answering phones, dispatching calls over the radio, and managing the jail’s inmates. The officers rotated between desk and patrol duties, ensuring they stayed sharp and well-versed in all aspects of the job.
Most shifts saw only one officer on patrol and one in the office. This lean staffing was the backdrop when I first joined the police department and met Chief Marion Toehay Jr., known to me simply as Junior or Chief.
Junior and I formed a friendship that spanned over fifty years. Together, we witnessed the stark realities of life and death, often arriving too late to save those in peril. The helplessness we felt in those moments was crushing, made worse by the accusing stares of grieving families who saw us as their last hope.
One such event took place at a State Park east of the City. We arrived in a secluded area and noticed a boat stalled in the middle of the lake. The people onboard were waving and shouting, but their words got lost in the distance. As we waved back, trying to assess the situation, it became clear the boat was sinking.
We shouted for them to stay with the boat, realizing quickly that we couldn’t reach them from where we stood. We jumped back into the car and raced toward the dam, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Junior was on the radio, desperately calling for the Lake Patrol or anyone with a boat to respond. But the only way to reach the sinking boat was to drive fifteen miles around the lake on rural roads.
When we arrived, only the boat’s nose remained visible, bobbing on the water. A man clung to it, the sole survivor. He told us that a father and his two children had drowned, trying to swim to shore instead of staying with the boat.
At that time, the Oklahoma Lake Patrol was often assigned to different lakes, a reality dictated by tight state budgets. Law enforcement presence on lakes was inconsistent, as it may still be today in some areas. The Lake Patrol recovered the bodies of the father and his children that night and the following day.
Junior and I found ourselves witnessing several drownings, often by tragic coincidence, whenever we were near the lake or river. It seemed almost inevitable.
The department was also where I encountered my first homicide—a brutal murder-suicide that has stayed with me. A couple going through a divorce ended their marriage in violence. The husband had hidden in their home, and when his wife returned to gather belongings, he slipped up behind her and shot her in the back of the head. She crumpled to the floor, unaware of his presence or intent.
He then went to the bedroom, entered the ensuite, and used a shotgun loaded with double-ought buckshot to end his own life. The blast obliterated his face, leaving a gruesome scene with skull fragments embedded in the ceiling and blood splattered across the walls. Fingerprints confirmed his identity, but everyone in town knew who he was.
That was my first assignment at 18, in a department stretched thin. A pow-wow was happening in town, and every officer was working overtime. The City’s ambulance had to transport a critically ill prisoner to a hospital 50 miles away, and someone had to accompany them. It fell to me. Despite having just finished a 12-hour shift, I boarded the ambulance at 7:00 AM, the roads shrouded in fog as we responded to Code 3. The nurse was upset that I’d handcuffed the combative prisoner to the stretcher, and the driver got lost on the way. It was chaotic, but in many ways, it was one of the best times of my life.
The city of Riverton never slept, nor did Detectives Jake Harris and Sam O’Reilly. Partners for over a decade roamed the nocturnal streets with the kind of synergy only best friends could muster. Their squad car, an unremarkable blue-and-white cruiser, was a beacon of hope for some and a symbol of fear for others.
Jake, with his gruff exterior and piercing blue eyes, was the kind of cop who could read a crime scene like a book. Sam, a lean figure with a quick wit and a knack for defusing tense situations, complemented Jake perfectly. Together, they led the department in felony arrests, arriving at calls faster than anyone else and building relationships with the community that others could only dream of.
One brisk autumn night, their radio crackled to life with a call that made their hearts race: an armed robbery in progress at the 24-hour diner on 5th and Maple. Without a word, Jake hit the lights and sirens, and they sped through the dimly lit streets. They arrived in just under three minutes, a record even for them.
The diner was eerily quiet as they approached, save for the distant hum of neon lights. Inside, a masked man brandished a gun, demanding cash from the terrified cashier. Jake motioned for Sam to flank the back entrance while he took the front.
Jake entered slowly, his voice calm but authoritative. ––––
“Riverton PD, drop the weapon and come out with your hands up.”
The gunman whipped around, eyes wide with panic.
“Stay back! I’ll shoot!”
From the rear, Sam’s voice cut through the tension.
“No, you won’t. You don’t want to hurt anyone. Put the gun down, and we can talk.”
The gunman’s grip on the weapon faltered. In that split second, Jake lunged forward, disarming him with a swift, practiced motion. Sam was at his side instantly, cuffing the man and guiding him to the squad car.
As they processed the scene, the cashier, a young woman named Maria, approached them with tears in her eyes.
“Thank you. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come.”
Jake gave her a reassuring nod. “Just doing our job, ma’am.”
The rest of the night was a blur of paperwork and patrols. But their most memorable interaction came just before dawn. While cruising through a quieter part of town, they spotted a boy sitting alone on a bench, clutching a backpack to his chest. They pulled over, and Sam approached him gently.
“Hey there, buddy. Everything alright?”
The boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten, looked up with tear-streaked cheeks.
“I ran away from home. My parents are always fighting.”
Sam sat next to him, listening with the patience of a father and says –––
“I get it, kid. Sometimes, home can be tough. But running away won’t solve anything. Let’s get you back home and see if we can help sort things out.”
Jake contacted the boy’s parents while Sam spoke with him. The sun was peeking over the horizon when they returned the boy home. Now more worried than angry, the parents hugged their son tightly and thanked the officers.
As they drove back to the station, Jake glanced over at Sam, sighs then says –––
“Another night, another set of stories, huh?”
Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
In Riverton, one could become a legend in the shadows, and for Jake and Sam, every night was another chance to protect and serve, forging connections and fighting crime in ways that others could only admire.
Harrison, a young boy with a mop of unruly hair, was not yet old enough to attend the local school with his siblings. For that, he was delighted. The thought of shuffling off to a gloomy classroom with many kids making noise and a teacher telling him what to do was a nightmare. He’d rather be where he was, in his dad’s bustling barber shop, sitting high on the shoeshine chair overlooking the men sitting and waiting for a haircut. His dad, a tall and burly man with a booming voice, had three barber chairs, but he was the lone barber in the shop and wanted to keep it that way. The two extra chairs were great for the overflow customers who missed their chance to sit in one of the chairs against the wall. Harrison, always curious, wanted to ask the group if they were getting haircuts for a Sunday funeral, which usually draws such a crowd to his dad’s shop. But he didn’t dare ask such a question, knowing his father would object.
An older gentleman sitting in one of the chairs waiting for his turn in the barber’s chair spoke up –––
“There’s a grand parade coming down Main Street this afternoon, right in front of your shop, Harrison. The Governor and a Star Baseball Player from the Yankees are expected to ride in the banker’s convertible Cadillac. It’s going to be quite a spectacle,”
the man in the chair shared, his voice filled with anticipation.
Only Harrison’s dad remarked,
“I guess they’ll have to do it without my help; I have hair to cut.”
His dad’s voice was dry, and his humor was just as much, and the tone in which he laid out the line caused those waiting for a haircut to laugh. He pulled the towel from around the neck of the main sitting in his chair, removed the barber cape covering him, shook it out, and said –––
That’ll be a buck! Next!
Harrison watched as the man in the chair, a middle-aged man with a kind smile and a twinkle in his eye, smiled and handed his dad a crisp dollar bill. They exchanged pleasantries, their voices filled with warmth and familiarity, before the man stepped down from the chair, revealing a fresh, neatly trimmed haircut. As the man left the shop, the doorbell jingled behind him, the sound echoing in the empty space.
The following customer shuffled forward, settling into the vacated barber chair. He was a tall, lanky man with a worn-out cowboy hat perched atop his head, his face weathered and etched with lines of a life spent outdoors. Harrison recognized him as Mr. Jenkins, the ranch owner just outside town, a man known for his quiet wisdom and his love for his horses.
“Hey there, Mr. Jenkins,”
Harrison’s dad greeted warmly, draping the striped barber cape around his shoulders.
“What’ll it be today?”
Mr. Jenkins leaned back in the chair, adjusting his hat slightly.
“Well, I reckon I need a trim for the Missus’s birthday dinner tonight. Can’t be looking like a tumbleweed on such an occasion,”
He chuckled.
Harrison grinned from his perch on the shoeshine chair, enjoying the banter between his dad and Mr. Jenkins. As his dad began clipping away at Mr. Jenkins’ hair, the old rancher glanced over at Harrison with a twinkle in his eye.
“You excited about that parade, son?”
he asked, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.
Harrison nodded eagerly.
“Sure am, Mr. Jenkins! I heard the Governor and a Yankees player will be there.”
Mr. Jenkins chuckled, nodding in agreement.
“Yep, quite the spectacle, I reckon. But you know what they say, Harrison, sometimes the best show in town ain’t the one with the fanciest floats. There’s more to this parade than meets the eye,”
Mr. Jenkins said, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mystery. His words hung in the air, leaving Harrison with a sense of intrigue and a thousand questions.
Harrison furrowed his brow, intrigued by Mr. Jenkins’ cryptic comment. Before he could inquire further, his dad finished the haircut, removing the barber cape with a flourish.
“All set, Mr. Jenkins. That’ll be a buck,”
He said with a grin.
Mr. Jenkins handed over the payment with a tip, tipping his hat to Harrison and his dad before heading out the door confidently.
Harrison’s dad turned to him with a smile.
“Well, son, it’s your turn to shine. How about you polish those shoes while I tidy up here?”
Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he reached for the Polish brush, his mind buzzing with anticipation for the parade and Mr. Jenkins’s mysterious words. He couldn’t help but wonder what the old rancher meant. Was there something more to this parade than just a grand spectacle? Little did he know, this ordinary day in the barbershop would soon become an extraordinary adventure he would never forget.
After Mr. Jenkins left the barber shop, Harrison’s dad glanced at the clock on the wall and realized it was almost time for the parade. With a quick sweep of the broom, he tidied up the shop and then turned to Harrison with a grin.
“Looks like we’ve got a front-row seat, son. Let’s go see what all the fuss is about,”
He said, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door.
Excitedly, Harrison followed his dad outside, his steps quick and light. He joined the growing crowd lining Main Street, his eyes scanning the area for the best view of the parade route. The air was charged with anticipation as people jostled for the best view of the parade route. Harrison’s heart raced with excitement as he tried to catch a glimpse of the Governor and the Yankees player, his eyes darting from one end of the street to the other.
Harrison’s eyes widened with wonder as the first drumbeats echoed in the distance, signaling the parade’s approach. The air was filled with the scent of freshly popped popcorn and cotton candy, and the sound of children’s laughter mingled with the lively tunes played by the marching bands. Colorful floats adorned with balloons and streamers rolled by in a kaleidoscope of colors. Marching bands played lively tunes, their music filling the air. Costumed performers danced along the street, their movements a blur of energy and excitement.
But amidst the fanfare, Harrison noticed something unusual. At the back of the parade, a group of riders on horseback trotted along, their faces obscured by bandanas, their horses sleek and powerful. They were followed by a wagon covered in a tarp, pulled by a team of sturdy horses. The air around them seemed to crackle with an energy different from the rest of the parade, a sense of mystery and intrigue. Harrison couldn’t help but wonder who they were and what they were doing in the parade.
Curiosity piqued, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve.
Unable to suppress his curiosity, Harrison tugged on his dad’s sleeve, his eyes fixed on the enigmatic riders. His voice was filled with a mix of excitement and intrigue as he asked his dad about them.
He asked, pointing to the mysterious riders.
His dad frowned, scanning the procession.
“I’m not sure, son. They don’t look like part of the official parade.”
Just as the parade climaxed, a sudden turn of events caught Harrison’s attention. A wagon, covered in a mysterious tarp, veered off the parade route, rumbling down a side street.
Instinctively, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison’s dad grabbed his hand, his expression grave.
“Stay close, Harrison. Something doesn’t seem right here,”
he said, his voice filled with concern.
With a sense of foreboding, Harrison and his dad followed the wagon, their footsteps echoing through the side streets and alleyways. The sound of the parade grew fainter with each turn, replaced by the distant hum of the town. Eventually, they emerged into a deserted square on the outskirts of town, where the wagon had come to a stop.
As they approached cautiously, they heard muffled voices and metal clinking. Peering around a corner, Harrison’s heart raced as he witnessed a group of masked figures unloading crates from the wagon, their faces twisted in sinister determination.
Harrison realized that the mysterious riders were thieves and were about to commit a robbery right under the town’s nose.
Harrison’s dad pulled him back into the shadows without hesitation, his eyes darting urgently.
“We need to get help, son. Stay here and stay quiet. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Harrison’s mind raced with fear and adrenaline as his dad sprinted into the night. Alone in the darkness, he knew he was the only one who could stop the thieves and save his town from disaster.
Summoning his courage, Harrison crept closer to the scene, his heart pounding. Little did he know, this chance encounter at his dad’s barbershop would thrust him into the heart of an adventure filled with danger, bravery, and the true meaning of heroism.
As Harrison watched the thieves unload their crates in the deserted square, he knew he had to act fast. With a steely resolve, he devised a plan to thwart the robbery and protect his town.
Silently, Harrison slipped through the shadows, keeping his movements as quiet as possible. Drawing upon the skills he had learned from listening to his dad’s stories of bravery and courage, he maneuvered closer to the thieves, carefully avoiding detection.
Harrison quickly glanced around the square and spotted a stack of crates nearby. Acting swiftly, he grabbed a handful of pebbles from the ground and began to hurl them toward the crates, creating a diversion.
The thieves, startled by the sudden noise, turned towards the sound, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. Seizing the opportunity, Harrison sprang into action, darting towards the wagon with lightning speed.
With a burst of adrenaline, Harrison leaped onto the back of the wagon, his heart pounding in his chest. Ignoring the shouts of the thieves behind him, he frantically searched for something to use as a weapon.
His eyes fell upon a coil of rope lying in the corner of the wagon. Without hesitation, Harrison grabbed the rope and began to lash out at the thieves, swinging it with all his might.
Caught off guard by Harrison’s unexpected attack, the thieves stumbled backward, their faces contorted with shock and surprise. Sensing their momentary confusion, Harrison seized the opportunity to disarm them, knocking their weapons out of their hands with well-aimed blows.
As the tide of the battle turned in his favor, Harrison felt a surge of triumph and adrenaline coursing through his veins. With a determined resolve, he fought with all his strength, refusing to back down in the face of danger.
In the end, it was Harrison’s bravery and quick thinking that saved the day. With the help of his dad and the townspeople, he apprehended the thieves and prevented the robbery from taking place.
As he stood victorious in the square, surrounded by cheers and applause from the grateful townsfolk, Harrison knew that he had discovered the true meaning of heroism. And though his adventure had been filled with danger and peril, it had also taught him the importance of courage, resilience, and the power of standing up for what is right.
My household has always maintained a relatively liberal understanding of the country’s homeless situation. We disagree with outlawing their right to exist and have a place to live and shelter. They are, after all, doing the best they can with the current housing, employment, transportation, or other issues they face. Let them be!
That is what our stance has been all along, until we went out to breakfast this past weekend and the police department was herding a group along the main boulevard we take to our restaurant. They appeared to be the characters you don’t want to run into in a dark alley at night—or daytime, for that matter. For Christ’s sake, were they planning to put roots down behind our neighborhood. We have a wall around the place, but salespeople always jump in and try to knock on doors. We have security but are not the type that can handle these characters. Every winter, we have a homeless troupe that typically arrives and camps near a river, but they are the same people every year, and they are like the snowbirds who flow in and out of the area from the north. These new homeless characters were of a family we never experienced before.
And that is what is scaring so many in America. The police found a suitable place for the troupe to travel on to, and there were no more sights of them after that initial spotting. But that is different for many in the country. These homeless populations inundate their communities, and it is an issue they have never before had to face. What if they are following suit? How many more will come? What problems will they bring with them? Will the property values deflate wherever they plant a stake? Jesus, are they diseased?
California has spent billions of dollars trying to fix its homeless problem and has failed to find a solution. The issue is greater there now than ever. Affordable housing remains unobtainable to those needing it. California is asking people to build tiny homes in their backyards, garages, wherever there is space, and make them available to house people. The problem is, if folks don’t want them in their alleys, will they want them in their garages?
Locally in Phoenix, Arizona. My husband hired an unhoused person years ago and knew she was, although she had not disclosed so on her introduction form. He worked with her schedule to make sure she kept her employment, and within six months, she was able to get a studio apartment, moving from her car. She then told him. He said he knew all along, and that is why he had worked so hard to keep her going, and she turned out to be one of the best employees. Such an example may not be the case with every person, but it is an example of how we can attribute ourselves to improving the situation one person at a time.
While feeling uneasy about sudden changes in your community is natural, it’s important to remember that homelessness is not a choice for many people. They often face a variety of challenges, including mental health issues, substance abuse, lack of affordable housing, and unemployment, which can contribute to their situation.
As for the broader issue of homelessness, it’s clear that a comprehensive and compassionate approach is needed to address the root causes and provide effective solutions. This approach may include increasing access to affordable housing, expanding mental health and addiction services, and providing job training and employment opportunities for homeless individuals.
The Supreme Court now has the issue, and the Lord only knows what they will come up with. But no doubt Texas will pass a law ordering the execution of all homeless people after 30 days of being homeless.
Florida has a new law that is designed to fill prisons.
‘We will catch you and we will prosecute you’: Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis is cracking down on retail theft – how he’ll ‘distinguish’ the state from ‘lawless jurisdictions’ https://t.co/ksBOXG9D7V via @flipboard
— benandstevecom Galaxy8News (@benandstevecom) April 17, 2024
Commercial Incarceration Facilities Prospering In Florida. Investments in private prisons contracted with Florida show favor with new laws designed to provide continous population on a rotational basis.
The growth and prosperity of commercial incarceration facilities in Florida have been a topic of debate and concern for many. Investments in private prisons have indeed increased in recent years, and this growth can be attributed to several factors, including new laws and policies that aim to maintain a steady population within these facilities.
One of the key issues often raised regarding private prisons is the potential conflict of interest that arises when profit motives intersect with the administration of justice. Critics argue that the financial incentives associated with running a for-profit prison may lead to practices that prioritize cost-cutting over the well-being and rehabilitation of inmates.
Proponents of private prisons, on the other hand, argue that these facilities can operate more efficiently than their public counterparts, potentially saving taxpayer money. They also point to contractual agreements that often include occupancy guarantees, ensuring a consistent revenue stream for investors.
However, concerns persist about the quality of care and services provided in private prisons, as well as the potential for abuse and neglect. Reports of overcrowding, inadequate medical care, and safety issues have raised alarm bells among advocates for criminal justice reform.
In Florida, the state has entered into contracts with private prison companies to house a portion of its inmate population. With new laws designed to ensure a continuous flow of inmates into these facilities, investors in private prisons may see this as a lucrative opportunity for growth.
It’s essential to approach the topic of private prisons with a critical lens, considering both the potential benefits and drawbacks associated with their operation. As the debate continues, policymakers, advocates, and stakeholders must work together to ensure that any expansion of private prisons prioritizes public safety, justice, and the well-being of inmates.
benandsteve.com 