Christmas 1991 to October 1992

Second District

At the time, the Second District covered Uptown—basically everything from Louisiana Avenue to the Jefferson Parish line, river to I-10. Tulane and Loyola fell within our borders, meaning on any given night you were equally likely to get a shooting or a naked frat boy. The station was at 4713 Magazine Street, a relic of a building from 1899. It had cobblestones and an old carriageway for actual horse-drawn patrol wagons. It looked like a haunted firehouse and smelled like despair, leather, and whatever boiled inside the radiators during summer. It had once been the Seventh Precinct, a jail, and a courthouse.  The building now belongs to the Sixth District and no longer serves as a police station.

My First Day: Trial by Hat

First day of roll call, I stroll in wearing my hat, holding my clipboard, and trying to radiate “I belong here” energy. Behind me sit Jeremy Kleinberger and Brad Glaudi—two guys who looked like they’d just walked off the set of a buddy-cop prison movie.

One of them says, “Take that hat off, boy.”

Excellent. Just what I needed: hazed by a linebacker and a walking tattoo sleeve before I even got to pee.

A little background—Brad Glaudi had won multiple bodybuilding titles. His brother Ben looked like he could be blown away by a strong gust of wind, which is exactly why I picked him to fight during the Academy’s boxing phase—after getting wrecked by a guy named John Drury (see Academy section for this story). Brad’s other brother, Bruce, was also a bodybuilder. Years later, Doug Baudier and I would help Bruce put on his jacket because his arms couldn’t reach behind him. That’s not a joke. That's physics.

The Great Foot Chase of Day One

Later that day I’m riding with my field training officer, Reggie Cryar. A call comes out near the lower end of Broadway, toward the river. Someone’s running. What did they do? Who knows. It’s Uptown. Could’ve been a stolen car or stealing something from a store.

We pull up, and there he is—suspect sprinting down an alley. I’m fresh out of the Academy, adrenaline pumping, voice in my head shouting "NOW'S YOUR MOMENT!"

I jump out, take off running, and both of us nearly decapitate ourselves on a window unit sticking out of the alley wall like a booby trap. He stumbles. I grab him. Textbook arrest! Just like they taught us at the Academy, minus the whole concussive air conditioner part.

But then—plot twist.

Suddenly, I’m being yanked back. Not by one person, but three. One after the other, like a conga line of confusion. I get dragged all the way back toward the front of the house, listening helplessly as my suspect was shouting in pain. 

One of them eventually hands me my cuffs and says, “Good job, man.” Then he walks off with the guy I arrested who appeared quite "exhausted".

I still have no idea who those officers were. Reggie wasn't one, that I know. But it felt like someone took my test paper, erased my name, and wrote theirs.

Welcome to NOPD.

FTO Hargrove

One of my other FTOs was Captain Simon Hargrove. At the time, and  this is not a knock on him because he was genuinely new to training and still under the dangerous impression that we should do things by the book.  Years later, he'd end up in Public Integrity and Compliance, which—if you knew him—makes total sense. Once, while responding Code 2 (that’s one level below "I'm getting shot at") down S. Claiborne, I was doing about 50 MPH. Maybe a little more. Simon tells me to slow down. “You’re supposed to go 10 over, lights and sirens, obeying traffic controls.” Meanwhile, grandmas in Cadillacs are passing us. I argue that if I’m going slower than regular traffic, there’s no point in the lights or siren. He insists. So I shut them off. Now he’s really confused. “Why’d you turn them off?” I tell him: “If I’m going to drive like an old man, I’m not doing it with lights and siren.” I won that round. Simon was not pleased.

Don Harris: The Original Buzzkill

Then there was Don Harris.

We got off to a phenomenally bad start. During roll call, I asked him where he got his boots. (They were cool. I was trying to be friendly.) He turns around, scowls, and growls, “Mind your business.”

My first instinct was to respond with a friendly “Fuck you,” but I held back because I was brand new and we were in roll call.

I guess the sergeant noticed some of this and announced the partners for the shift. Harris and St. Germain, 204. (What the fuck?)

I quietly protested. Pretty sure Don protested too. Rank ignored us both like background noise.

That week—Hell Week—was long. Don wore fingerless gloves, which for some reason made me irrationally angry. He reclined the seat so far back I thought he was driving from the trunk.  Eventually, I asked why he did that.

He pointed to the door frame between the front and back seat and said, “If I position myself here, I’m protected from bullets.”

I blinked a few times, digested the logic, and then adjusted my seat fully upright—because, as anyone with a basic understanding of metal knows, bullets don’t care about your posture.

He later left to become a nurse. I sincerely hope he’s happier there. And that none of his coworkers wear cool boots.  

Off-Duty Detail: My First Side Hustle

Cops could work off-duty jobs, known as “details.” Back then, you’d get gigs through personal connections. Today, the city runs it—and skims $8 off every hour worked, which is about as mob-like as it sounds.

My first detail? Canal Villere, corner of Magazine and Washington. I made $11/hour. In cash. Tax-optional.  That exact location is now a Starbucks. As of April 2024, my daughter Bridget works there. So now, years later, my family is still patrolling that same corner—only now with lattes instead of cuffs.  

Louisiana Avenue - where car chases begin:

You meet lifelong friends on this job—just like in a fraternity or sorority, except with more felony arrests and fewer pastel sweaters. For me, it all started in the Second District. Guys like Mike Dalferes, Mike Eskine, Russell Philibert, Sal Caronna, and Mike Montalbano—these weren’t just coworkers. These were your 3 a.m. dinner buddies, your bar brawl backup, and your emergency alibi network.

Montalbano and I used to drive up and down Louisiana Avenue—which back then was the line between the Second and Sixth Districts. We'd creep up behind cars, flip the overheads on, and just... wait. If the car pulled over, we kept driving. But one would always run. It was like magic. A high-speed dumbass magnet.  Wow those were fun times.

We chased cars all over. They’d usually head to either Claiborne (our favorite—three wide lanes of chase perfection) or Tchoupitoulas (one narrow lane). Either way, we could usually predict where they’d bail, which made for a perfect foot chase. And yes, they always bailed while the car was still in gear, because why not add a slow-rolling deathtrap to the chaos?  So, not only did we get to chase cars, but we got to run after people and tackle them!

These days, things are different. Chasing a stolen car? Banned. Traffic violator? Nope. You can only initiate a pursuit if the vehicle was used in a violent crime and you reasonably believe the actual perpetrator is behind the wheel. So, naturally, no one chases anything anymore. Not unless you’re also psychic.  

Bonnet, a Cigarette, and a Code 3 Cluster:

I once did a stakeout—Code 5—with Richard Bonnet. We sat in his Crown Vic, he was chain-smoking and we were listening to Tool. Never saw a single suspect. (But he definitely gave lung cancer a head start.)

Another night, we got in on a real Code 3 situation—some guys had been robbing women of their diamond rings and were now leading officers on a high-speed chase. Ricky was operating the car, his cigarette, the radio, and his gun was in his hand. I told him, “Dude, you’re going to have to give up at least two of those things.”

The chase ended at LaSalle and Washington after the suspects rammed a police car, fracturing Officer Paul Ridolfo’s neck. They bailed. We all gave chase. There was a shootout (not from me—I didn’t fire because there were cops on both sides). The suspects were caught. Bonnet somehow never dropped a thing—not the cig, not the gun, not even his vibe.

I got my one and only “dinky button” for that one. You know, the little mini badge pin for meritorious action that everyone pretends not to want but secretly polishes when no one's looking.

Pranks, Border Wars, and Flour in the Vents:

The Second District is where I learned that pranking other officers isn’t just acceptable—it’s practically required. Along Louisiana Avenue, the “border war” with the Sixth District was alive and well. Egg tossing was a classic. But the true pièce de résistance was the Crown Vic back seat on the roof prank. If you left your back door unlocked, congratulations—your seat was now rooftop décor. Other highlights: Flour in the A/C vents. Shrimp hidden under the seats. Late-night radio sabotage: At the end of the shift, we’d all be sitting in our cars on Camp Street waiting for the time to be called in. We had so many officers we were mostly 2 to a car. A call would some out late, while we all sat there. Back then the radios didn’t identify who was talking. So, my partner and I, 204, would get on the radio and say, “206, I got that one”. Then we look over to car 206 who would be flipping us off. Yeah, that was fun too.

The Wharf Incident: A Masterclass in Disaster Management

Now, for my proudest driving failure.  I was on Night Watch. Brian Jacomine, a veteran officer fresh from court duty, had just joined the Second. I was showing him a shortcut behind Tchoupitoulas on the wharf system. I was driving one of those Chevy Caprices that was as long as a battleship and handled like a barge.

It was foggy. It had been raining. And I drove off what I thought was a ramp... only there was no ramp. Just gravity.

The front half of the Caprice dropped off the wharf down toward the railroad tracks (no, not on the water side). The back half hung on. We were now see-sawing on the edge of disaster, literally balancing like a Looney Tunes sketch. I looked over at Brian and said the only thing that made sense:

“10-28?” (Translation: “Should we pretend this was a chase?”)

Eventually the engine weight pulled us down to the tracks below. Now the rear end pointed skyward like we were launching this land-yacht into orbit backwards.

We were now staring at the ground. We carefully got out and weighed our options. Calling in a chase was a bad idea because it would bring just way too much attention. Let’s take a “10-40” which is a lunch break, veteran officer Jacomine suggested. We call that in, giving us 15 minutes to find a meal location, then 30 more to eat. We have 45 minutes to fix this.

We roped in Danny Murchinson, our desk officer, unit 249, who contacted our “unofficial” district tow guy—a man so connected he might’ve had his own radio and his own fictional unit number. (We don’t ask questions. It’s safer.)

Problem was, we ran out of time and we still needed someone to take our calls. So we got a two-man unit—Andy Roccoforte and... someone else I can't recall—to “be us” for a while. Naturally, they had to see the wreckage with their own eyes. Eventually everyone came by. Harbor Police even drove past, gave us a pity look, and offered no help whatsoever. Appreciate y’all.

We considered firing up a massive forklift nearby. Then we remembered: we're cops, not crane operators. Barely cops at this point.  

Finally, the tow guy showed up. His plan was... optimistic. He’d hook the front end, lift it as much as he could, then detach and go up on the warf to pull the monstrosity forward. Simple. Terrifying.

Halfway into the pull, the mechanism slipped and smashed into something under the engine. Whatever it was, it broke. But at this point, we were past caring.

Once the vehicle was as high as the tow wagon could get it, the engine kept pulling it back down.  Our genius counterweight plan? All four of us climbed onto the trunk to offset the engine weight. That’s right—we became human ballast.

The tow guy raced back, hooked the rear, and just managed to scrape the Caprice a few feet forward. But the fog had left the surface of the warf slick and the tires on the tow wagon began to spin. Also, the rear tires of the tow wagon were not 100% on the ground due to being pulled up by the stupid Chevy. Man, it was really touch and go for a minute or two. 

Decisions had to be made:
(1) Let it go and take the hit. This was a very undesirable option.
(2) Gun it and hope the apparatus held so the tow wagon didn’t go speeding off the other end of the warf into the Mississippi River. Oh my God a far worse result.
(3) Risk both vehicles being pulled into a position where neither rear axle touched the ground. This was the best option, but it worked in conjunction with option 2 where leaving it hooked still required significant power to pull that damned thing up past the front wheels. Let’s go…

I jumped in, slammed it in reverse as the tow truck gunned it, and the front wheels popped over the curb. Victory. Exhaust. Shame.

We turned in the paperwork like nothing happened. But the A/C was broken.

Holy crap. Crisis averted… or so I thought. The A/C didn’t work. We turned our paperwork in, and the Day Watch went out after roll call to do their vehicle checks. An officer noted the A/C didn’t work in this new car and saw that something was amiss under the front of the car in the engine area. Something had been struck and was broken. Sgt. Taffaro got a hold of me before I had a chance to get out of there and asked me what happened. “I guess I hit something when I went into a pothole filled with water, maybe that one on Grape Street?” (Grape Street is a small street back in the Fountainbleau area notorious for its landmine-like surface.)

Fine, he says, we’ll go the next night and find the pothole and make an accident report. (Wheew) Mike Montalbano informs me early the next night that he knows where the biggest mother of all potholes is and it’s on Grape Street! Hell yeah. Sgt. Tarffaro and Floyd Wagar follow Montalbano and me as we drive to this egregious pothole. Holy shit. In the last few days, the city had come along and TOTALLY REPAVED Grape Street. WHAT?!? We drive up and down, sweating it out. Finally, Sgt. Taffaro calls me on the radio, and we all get out. He points at the paved road and asks if this was the pothole I fell into. I nod like a guy who just spotted Bigfoot. “Yep. That’s the one.”  Floyd did the report and that was that.

The “Lie Detector”

At my daughter Bridget’s 20th birthday dinner she reminded me of one of my finer contributions to criminal psychology: the Second District Lie Detecting Machine.

Here’s how it worked: we printed the word “LIE” in huge, bold letters and placed it face down on the glass of the copy machine. We'd tell the suspect this was a polygraph machine—state-of-the-art, obviously—and instruct them to place their hand on the top of the machine. Then we hit the green button. “LIE.” Every time.

It didn’t work on everyone, but when it did—when they recoiled like we’d caught them on To Catch a Predator—it was pure beauty. No grants, no wires, no fancy tech. Just a little toner and a lot of bullshit.

The Cute Terry/Terri Dilemma

Back in the Second District, there was an officer named Theresa Meunier—Terri to everyone. Very pretty, very sharp. One day, someone (a supervisor, if memory serves) walks by and sees us standing together.

“Hey, look—it’s the cute Terry/Terri and the nice Terry/Terri!”

Terri turns to me with a puzzled look and says, “Wait… which one am I?” Great question, Terri. I still don’t know. But it taught me an important life lesson: always be specific when flattering people who carry guns.

The Memory Fog (aka I'm Old or Traumatized)

I’ve forgotten way more than I’ve remembered. Could be the job—funny and tragic moments stacking up until the brain just says, “No more, please.” Or it could be age, the slow deletion of old files to make room for things like “where are my keys” and “what day is it.” Or, possibly... the electricity.

Electricity Hurts: A Live Demonstration

One day I’m cruising down S. Claiborne near Nashville and I spot a massive metal light pole that had fallen across the lanes of traffic. It’s got one of those long arms where the actual light fixture dangles out over the road like a giant metal fishing rod.

It’s clearly a hazard. Someone’s going to come flying down Claiborne and end up with a new sunroof. So I decide to be the hero. I figure I’ll just use the long arm for leverage and roll it out of the street. What I didn’t figure? That the pole was still juiced.

ZAP.

Next thing I know I’m on my back, staring at the sky, wondering if I’d just died, time-traveled, or something inbetween. Spoiler: I had not. I was just an idiot who touched a live electrical pole.

I like to think that incident is responsible for why I’ve forgotten so many stories from the Second District. Brain cells fried in a flash. Either that or it was God’s way of saying, “Hey dummy, let Entergy handle that next time.”