October 2000 to October 2001

Fifth District Night Watch

This was the third district I had been assigned to so far in my career.

I finally got promoted to sergeant. I say finally because they had gone into my promotional “band” (grouping of similarly scoring people all assumed equal in each band) on the sergeant list long ago and had promoted lots of sergeants from my group. Serpas finally explained to me he didn’t want it to look like I was promoted because I worked in the Deputy Chief’s office. I mean, I appreciate the political optics, but it’s not like I was handing out bribes or rubbing shoulders at Galatoire’s.   Hmm. Thanks, I guess? In the end this was genius. I really thank him for that.

I was assigned to Night Watch. My first roll call went better than expected. I assumed it’d be wall-to-wall rookies and lost souls, but no—there were actual veterans. Real, competent officers. One of them was Melvin LeBeau, a guy I still respect to this day. As of November 2023, he was still working 5th District Night Watch. Some folks chase promotions, specialty units, or SWAT teams. Melvin chased down calls and trained new guys. Different kind of superhero.

That’s the beautiful mess of this job: you can carve out your own path. Like supervising? Promote. Like kicking in doors? Join SWAT. Like sniffing out lies and following clues? Homicide, my friend. Want dogs, horses, or motorcycles? We got those, too. Of course, knowing the right people helps. (And by “helps,” I mean is essential. Sorry, I don’t make the rules—I just live under them.) But there’s something rare and quietly heroic about staying in patrol, night after night, helping strangers through the worst moment of their lives. That’s what Melvin does. That’s what so many good cops do. And yet, those officers—“the backbone of the department,” as the city and academy love to say—get treated like cartilage. No extra pay, no cool cars, and your lunch break is monitored like you’re sneaking state secrets. Meanwhile, detectives get unmarked cars, unlimited lunch, and no biometric time clocks to use when arriving or leaving work.  I think this is opposite of how it should be. The benefits of being a platoon officer should be equal to their worth. This will never be the case in this or any other department.

Hijinks and High-Speed Singing

At the time, Homicide was still decentralized, and my old partner-in-crime (and laughing) George Waguespack had landed in the 5th District, too. We had a blast. My lieutenant was Richard Wheat—a man who had memorized the NOPD regulations book like it was scripture and could quote it like Rain Man. The man was a walking encyclopedia in a brass badge.

I was lucky to work with great co-sergeants like Todd Morell and Barry Marquez. My “teaching sergeant” was Jimmy Eaton, who deserves a statue for putting up with my questions and cluelessness. Being a new sergeant is like being the new kid in prison—watch everything, trust no one, and pretend you know what you’re doing. But in the 5th District, it didn’t take long to catch on.

One night, George and I were driving one of the rank cars—an Expedition—singing “Chop Suey” by System of a Down at full volume. Now, if you don’t know that song, just imagine two grown men screaming nonsense with passion. George had a way of singing it that made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to throw a vertebra. Night Watch: where homicides and headbanging coexist peacefully.

Then there was Ray Huber—the alligator-flashlight guy from the 8th District saga. Ray was on night watch with me. Unfortunately, Lt. Wheat had it out for Ray, and bought an atomic clock. Not a fancy clock. An atomic one. The kind you’d use to time a rocket launch into space—or apparently, Ray’s career.

Wheat would write him up for being late by the atomic clock, even though by the standard, non-nuclear, civilian-grade clock in the roll call room, Ray was perfectly on time. Eventually, the write-ups stacked so high Ray got fired. I testified at his Civil Service hearing and explained the absurdity of it all. Ray got his job back with back pay. Justice, via poor timekeeping. Ray eventually retired from Southwest Airlines as a pilot. That’s right—he went from patrol to pilot. Somewhere, an atomic clock weeps.

The Missing Victim Fiasco

One night we worked a standard-issue shooting. Officers responded, paramedics patched up the victim, statements were taken, detectives showed up and nodded sagely like they always do. Everything seemed routine.

Until it wasn’t.

Hours later, after the scene was cleared and half the tape had already been stuffed back in our pockets, a citizen found a body on the other side of the fence. Turns out our original shooting victim had a friend with him, and that poor soul had been shot, vaulted the fence, and died behind it. Nobody knew he existed. Including the first victim, who—helpfully—never mentioned him once. Thanks, buddy.

Naturally, the brass blamed us for not doing a sweep for victims we didn’t know existed. Captain Donnie Curole got transferred over it. That was straight-up political theater. I still call bullshit on that one.

Surprise at La Peniche

Night Watch in the 5th had zero food options unless you counted stale vending-machine peanuts or gas station sushi. So we had two sacred pilgrimages: the Arabi Diner in St. Bernard Parish, or La Peniche, which was just across the border into the 8th District.

One night, I was at La Peniche with another sergeant, my lieutenant, and the district’s deputy commander. We're deep into our greasy breakfast-for-dinner when in walks... a vision.

Pink cowboy hat. Feather boa. Skimpy outfit. All eyes turn. And where does she go? Straight to my lap. Possibly a kiss happened? The details are fuzzy, your honor.

Turns out it was Julie Weiner, someone I’d known for a while. I was newly married at the time—very newly—so this was what we call in the business “a complication.” She vanished just as quickly as she appeared, leaving me with a restaurant full of stunned command staff and a facial expression that screamed, “I swear I can explain.”

They all stared like I was undercover in a rom-com. I sat there wondering how I was going to explain this to anyone. The answer: I didn’t. I just paid the check and prayed no one had cameras.