March 2012 to September 2019

Compliance / PSAB

Professional Standards and Accountability Bureau: Flip-Flops, Off-Duty Drama, and My Not-So-Professional Exit

Somehow, the assignment I liked least ended up being the one that lasted the longest. It all started when Lt. Ronnie Laporte wanted my gig in Field Operations Bureau. I was more than willing to trade places. Why not? Compliance work couldn’t be that bad. Spoiler: It sucked.

This wasn’t Internal Affairs. We weren’t investigating misconduct—just babysitting policies. Think of it as being the hall monitor for officers who didn’t have time to button every top button. We made sure people were following regulations because someone had to, and the field supervisors were swamped. It felt like being the assistant manager at a Blockbuster in 2004. You’re still wearing the uniform, but deep down, you know the fun is over.

The Lunch Crew

The one saving grace? Lunch. Every day, it was me, Kenny Miestchovich, Mike Sarver, Kevin Seuzeneau, and Eric Williams. For reasons still unclear, Eric became the default driver. Not a bad driver—just overly sensitive to our constant complaints. Which only encouraged more complaining.

One day, we were going at it so hard, Eric actually stopped the car, turned around, and yelled: “Get out and find your own way home!” We didn’t, of course. But it was hilarious. Takeaway lesson for any rookie: if teasing gets to you, say nothing. Because once your fellow officers smell blood in the water, it’s over.

Flip-Flops and Fury

This isn’t directly related to PSAB, but it happened while I was working there, so I’m sticking it in here. One day, Julie and I were driving down St. Bernard when a car going the wrong way on a one-way slammed into us at LaHarpe Street. Four girls bailed out and ran off toward N. Villere. Now, I’m in flip-flops. But rage don’t care about footwear.

I kicked open the door and took off after them. All I could hear was: “FLOP. FLOP. FLOP. FLOP.” I'm yelling into my phone at 9-1-1, chasing these girls down, giving exact descriptions and house numbers as they ducked into someone’s home. I'm also trying to explain that I’m not a crazy citizen and they need to send a unit now.

Eventually, a couple of officers arrive. One of them—a delightfully crotchety guy I wish I remembered by name—looks me up and down and says: “I’ve never seen you before.” I respond: “I’m Lieutenant St. Germain. I’ve been here 25 years.” He shrugs. Can I get someone else, please? Thankfully, Officer Beverly Ashe took the report (even though she really didn’t want to). Many years later, we worked together again in the First District when I was a captain. Crotchety Guy didn’t make that reunion tour.  

OPSE: The $8 Screwjob

In August 2013, Councilmember Jacquelyn Clarkson introduced an ordinance to create the Office of Police Secondary Employment (OPSE). Mayor Landrieu signed off. Chief Serpas was all for it. This came after former NOPD officer, FBI agent, and keyboard warrior Sal Perricone called our detail system the “aorta of corruption.” Not “a problem,” not “a concern”—no, the main artery of corruption. Never mind that Sal himself was knee-deep in prosecutorial misconduct, resulting in retrials and a PR disaster.

Our off-duty detail system had worked for decades. If a business wanted a cop, they called someone they knew. That person coordinated, everyone got paid, and the business got their security. Was it flawed? Sure. It played favorites. Some officers couldn’t get the “good” details unless they were in with the right people. But it was reliable. You called, you got a cop. Now? Under OPSE, every hour worked cost officers $8, skimmed off the top. The businesses paid more, officers got less, and nobody was happy.

Worse? OPSE couldn’t fill jobs in a timely fashion. So businesses—especially wedding planners and small venues—started calling anyone else. Sheriff’s deputies. Levee Board. The guy with a flashlight and a tucked-in shirt. Even jobs like the Superdome, where NOPD officers still coordinate and are paid directly, get hit with the OPSE skim—for literally doing nothing. Talk about irony. The new “anti-corruption” system ended up feeling a whole lot more corrupt.

(PANO launched an inquiry into all this on 9-18-23. To be continued...)

"NOPD Bitch Session" and My Grand Exit

Eventually, I became the 1st Vice President of PANO (sworn in November 3, 2021), and unofficially, the department’s complaint box. People came to me with gripes, suggestions, and more gripes. So I made a private Facebook group called: “NOPD Bitch Session.” It was only for NOPD members. Meant to be a venting space. Somewhere for officers to say what they really felt.

Naturally, it got reported. To this day, I don’t know who ratted me out. But someone took a screenshot, sent it to the Chief, and that was that. I took it down immediately, wrote a memo explaining that “bitch session” is a commonly used term for group venting. (Try Google.) Still, I got called into a meeting with Chief Otha Sandifer, flanked by Capt. Sandra Contreras. Sandifer looked at me and said: “This was unprofessional. You’re being transferred to FOB. That’s it.” No hearing. No questions. No chance to explain. Just gone.

I left the room, walked down the hall to Chief Paul Noel, head of Field Operations Bureau, and asked what district I was going to. He stared at me like I’d asked if he wanted to adopt a dolphin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Apparently, Chief Sandifer hadn’t told him. Real professional move.

Paul finally shrugged and said: “The Seventh.”