October 2010 to April 2011

Intelligence

The Intelligence Unit: Snipers, Snubs, and “The Human Centipede”

When the lieutenant running the Intelligence Unit retired, I got the call to take over. It was another one of those jobs I didn’t necessarily plan for, but ended up loving. It was fascinating.

We tracked visiting groups like the Westboro Baptist Church and OMGs (Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs—not to be confused with actual surprises), monitored extremist threats, and coordinated with state and federal partners on security issues. Captain Bruce Little was put in charge and had a solid plan: collect actionable intelligence and push it back out to the districts in real time. It worked.

Our bureau chief at the time was Chief Kirk Bouyelas—which brings me to one of my favorite “open mouth, insert foot” moments of my career.

So, I’m at Igor’s having a beer (as God intended), when I get a call from Chief Bouyelas. I don’t remember what it was about—honestly, it doesn’t matter. What matters is this: he and Captain Little were not exactly best friends at the time, and I was stuck between them. I’m a lieutenant, trying to follow the chain of command, so when the chief gives me an instruction, I say something like: “Okay, I’ll let Capt. Little know.”

Bouyelas clearly doesn’t love that response, but I’m already juggling a call with Captain Little on the other line. So I click over and say: “Hey, Bruce—I’m not gonna do what the chief wants if you don’t agree.” Except... it’s not Bruce. The call never clicked over. I had just told the Chief of the Bureau that I wasn’t following his orders.

There’s a beat of silence, then the voice on the line—definitely not Bruce—says: “…Uh oh.” That was it. “Uh oh.” He didn’t scream. He didn’t explode. He just said “uh oh,” and it was somehow way worse.

Westboro vs. the French Quarter

At one point, the Westboro Baptist Church came to town. Somehow, I was the one in charge of coordinating their protection. Yes—protecting the people protesting against the military, police, gays, and Jews, all while carrying signs that looked like they were made during a seizure.

We gave them a designated protest area in Jackson Square. Word spread fast through the artist and performer scene, and it wasn’t long before they were chased out by a glorious mix of jugglers, drag queens, and angry locals.

They were scheduled to appear later that day on Canal Street, and I may or may not have let some of the Jackson Square crowd know where and when. When Westboro showed up, they were met with a massive gay flash mob singing expertly rewritten show tunes and kissing each other with operatic passion. It was beautiful. They packed up and left. New Orleans: 1, Hate Group: 0.

The IDF, the Protesters, and the Wedding Photo

Later, I coordinated a large international Jewish conference split between the Marriott and the JW Marriott, directly across from each other on Canal Street. The IDF liaison assigned to work with me took one look at that setup and nearly passed out. He was a very serious man with an accent that made everything sound like a tactical threat. Then I told him a Palestinian protest was scheduled to happen right there, while attendees were walking between hotels.

“THIS IS A DISASTER!” he told me, panicked.

I had to calmly explain this was New Orleans, not the Gaza Strip, and a protest in the middle of Canal Street was not the same thing as a mortar attack. He wasn’t convinced. It got even better.

A Vice Presidential visit happened to be scheduled for the same day. Now, in addition to Jewish conference attendees and Palestinian protesters, we had Secret Service, snipers, and motorcades rolling through Canal Street like a parade of overkill. Somewhere in the middle of this circus, a bride and groom decided it would be the perfect time for wedding photos—right there in the middle of the street. The bride, in full dress, posed beautifully while the protestors shouted, security teams ran back and forth, and government vehicles screamed past. Welcome to New Orleans, sweetheart.

During that exact scene—wedding, protests, foreign dignitaries, sniper overwatch—I ran into Charlie Hoffacker, one of the NOPD guys assigned to help cover the event. We could’ve talked about logistics or crowd control. But instead, he told me about a movie he’d just seen: The Human Centipede.

So while global politics exploded on Canal Street, Charlie and I stood on the sidelines debating the ethics of surgically linking people together in a horror film. Just another day in Intel.

Stability, Sort Of

Eventually, Capt. Little was replaced by Capt. Michael Harrison, who later went on to be the Superintendent of Police. I asked him if my position was going to stay in place or if I needed to start looking for a soft landing somewhere else. He looked at me and said: “You’re good.” That was all I needed.

Except I wasn't "good".  Almost instantly I was replaced by Lt. Mark Mornay.