D.J. WAS ELEVEN THE YEAR President Bill Clinton visited Dallas. By then, my son’s mother and I had divorced, and we shared joint custody, which meant I relished my precious weekend time with him. One Sunday over breakfast, I told D.J. about an upcoming assignment I’d been given. As a SWAT sergeant, I’d be part of the dignitary protection team to host the president and the first lady.
“Will you get to meet them?” D.J. asked with eagerness in his voice. Even when he’d been much smaller, he had a wide-eyed curiosity and excitement about my work.
“Yes, I’ll get to meet them,” I said. I’d been looking forward to the day. There’s a majesty to the office of the presidency, a power and grandeur that transcends the person who holds the position. You can’t see Air Force One land or step into the White House without feeling a profound sense of our shared history as Americans.
“Dad, could I come?” my son asked me. I told him that wouldn’t be possible. It’s extremely rare for the children of officers to accompany their parents to work, particularly for such a high-profile occasion. But the following week, without mentioning anything to D.J. so as not to raise his hopes, I put in a request. To this day, I don’t know what I said to convince my supervisor to allow me to bring my son onto the tarmac as the president and first lady departed, but he agreed. D.J., of course, was over the moon.
My son and I, along with the local officials and members of the media who had formed a line in anticipation of the president’s departure, stood near the stairway entrance of Air Force One. The president and the first lady arrived in their motorcade, and when the car door opened, they emerged near the stairway. D.J. and I could not have been smiling more broadly.
One by one each person in line stepped forward to greet the first couple. After the president shook D.J.’s hand, Hillary stooped down to D.J.’s height, took him by the hand, and said, “Hello there!” Then quite unexpectedly, she stepped off to the side with D.J. and began a one-on-one conversation. The other squad members’ expressions told me what they must have been thinking: Does the first lady know you? She did not, of course. As I stood there, I was asking myself, What could they be talking about? Believe me, I strained hard to hear, but I couldn’t make out a single word of what they were discussing. Yet by the wide grins they both wore, I could tell they’d hit it off.
“May I take your son onto Air Force One for a tour?” the first lady asked me. “Uh, yes, ma’am—sure,” I stammered, astounded at the offer. “Follow me,” she said. My son glanced in my direction, and once I gave him the nod of approval, he followed Hillary up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later they returned. She hugged D.J. and they waved goodbye. As they parted, the White House photographer snapped a picture of the two shaking hands for a final time.
That evening when we arrived home, my son told me about his private tour. He was amazed by how large the plane’s interior had seemed. “So what did you and the first lady talk about?” I asked him. A smile spread across his face. “That’s between me and the first lady,” he declared. I never did find out the details of their conversation, but I do know the whole experience was one that D.J. cherished. And for me, his father, it was a proud moment that I was delighted to share with my son, most of all because being singled out made him feel like the most special child in the world. The picture still hangs on my wall.
IN 1995, MY SQUAD had an open position: countersniper, the person who specialized in shooting a powerful long-distance rifle, such as the .308 bolt-action Winchester we used back in the day. There are two countersnipers on each team because if a sniper attacks, you want to be able to triangulate the gunman and return fire from more than one direction. To fill the vacancy, I wanted to choose someone who, in addition to passing the physical test and becoming an excellent shot, would be a good personality fit for our group. There are some big egos on SWAT, and a newbie needs to be able to come in and be a team player. Up to then, every countersniper in the history of the department had been a man. I, always a bit of a maverick, wanted a woman. I never forgot how hard my mother had worked in raising me, and how difficult some of her employers had made her job. Ever since I’d supervised that smart group of women in 911 and Dispatch, I’d been on the lookout for ways to promote female officers. It was my way of paying it forward.
My gender preference had to do with more than that, though. I did my research and discovered that women happen to be among the best rifle shots in the world. In the Olympics, target shooting is a sport that women excel at—and yet very few women even applied to SWAT. Before casting a net, I thought about it long and hard. I knew if I selected a woman, she had to be better than good, or else the men would give her a hard time and try to run her off. I started asking around: “Do you know any female officer who’s a great shot and can pass the SWAT test?” A few names surfaced. Anita Dickason’s rose to the top.
Anita was in extraordinary physical shape, and she was a superior pistol shooter. However, she’d have to learn how to fire a rifle. I was confident she could do so. For one thing, she was strong-willed and stubborn as hell. During my interview, for instance, a few other SWAT team members and I asked her some tough questions about how she’d handle certain scenarios. “If a commander who has information you aren’t privy to ordered you to shoot and kill a suspect, would you do it, no questions asked?” Without hesitation, she confirmed that she would. Any other answer would have been unacceptable because countersnipers have to rely on their commanders to make the tough decisions in order to save lives; such orders are time sensitive and not up for debate.
I brought her on for a trial period. At the time, Tony Black was the other countersniper on my team. I knew if I chose Anita, he’d be the kind of guy who’d give her a fair shot. I also knew, given his skill level, he’d make a great teacher for her. I pulled Tony aside. “Don’t cut her any slack,” I told him. “We’ve got to be able to put our lives in her hands.”
Anita did her training on the shooting range. At various times, to test her progress, I’d simulate a real gunfight by pulling up to a scene and saying “Get down on your rifle, and let’s see what you’ve got.” It took her an eternity to get proned (down on her stomach), to aim, and then to actually fire. “If you move that slow during an operation,” I told her, “somebody will be burying me.” She improved her speed, and after a couple months, she could quickly and accurately shoot a target from three hundred yards away. In fact, she became so great that she began taking part in competitive shooting outside work. “Now you’re ready,” I told her. “Now I’m willing to put my life in your hands.”
With great pride, I officially offered her the countersniper position on our squad. During my remaining years on SWAT, she proved she could do everything the men could, and sometimes even better. If some fool was crazy enough to take aim at us during a raid, they’d soon discover that Anita did not play. That woman took care of business.
OVER THE COURSE OF many raids, my squad cemented its reputation as one of the best. Amid the fierce competition that exists among SWAT teams, we’d proved ourselves. And not just on that crack raid. Time and again we were called upon to resolve some of the most dangerous situations, particularly by using gunfire, though only as a last resort. In one barricaded-person case, Dispatch called us to the home of a mentally ill man who was holding his own children hostage; he and his former wife were entangled in an acrimonious custody dispute. The patrol cops and negotiators had spent hours trying to bargain with this guy, who was white and middle-aged. He eventually let his children leave the home—but he refused to come out himself. Through his front windows, officers could see him wildly swinging a machete.
I knew we had to proceed with caution; a peaceful resolution is always our goal. And yet I also knew we might ultimately have to use force, because there are few other ways to take control of someone who’s brandishing a sword and lunging toward you. “We’re going to launch a canister of tear gas in there before we enter,” I told my team. I thought that would disorient the man long enough to give us a tactical advantage that would allow us to take him down without gunfire. Well, that approach didn’t work at all. In fact, once the smoke bomb filled his living room, he became even more agitated and swung the machete with greater intensity. It was the first time I’d ever seen such a reaction. When most people are teargassed, they rub their eyes and fall to the ground. Not this man. So I moved on to another idea: We threw in a flash bang, a nonexplosive stun device designed to startle anyone in its proximity. There is a risk that a flash bang can start a fire, but in this case, the benefit outweighed that risk. The plan worked to perfection. Seconds after we hurled the device, we stormed through the door and wrestled the man to the ground before he could take a swing. No gunfire was necessary. We handcuffed him, and he was transferred to a mental health facility.
As our squad became known for its strong tactical skills, we were sometimes called in on our off days. That’s what happened one Sunday night in 1994, when my supervisor rang me at home. “Please get your team over here to help us locate two armed and violent barricaded persons,” she said. Earlier that evening a couple of young guys had gone on a robbery spree in downtown Dallas: They’d hijacked a car and robbed several shop owners at gunpoint, fleeing with bags of cash. When patrol cops had arrived on the scene, they’d chased the men on foot, but in the end, the suspects had eluded them. They’d disappeared somewhere onto the property of a random home in a nearby residential area. Residents of the home were promptly evacuated as officers searched the premises. The SWAT squad on duty was called to the scene but could not find them anywhere. That was when we were brought in. “The patrol cops are convinced they’re in there somewhere,” my supervisor told me.
I rang each of my squad members. “Why are we being called in on our day off?” they all asked. “Because you’re the best,” I told them. Not only did I believe that was true; my time as 911 supervisor had shown me that managing your people involves reassuring them of their skills. That’s what can often bring out the best in a person. And of course, when you’re asking someone to get off the couch on a Sunday evening after watching hours of football, a little ego stroking is never a bad idea.
Our initial search of the home, a large old house, yielded no results. “Does this place have an attic?” I asked the patrol cop. It did—and it had already been scoured. I then walked around the home’s perimeter, considering every possibility of where these men could be hiding. I noticed the house was slightly elevated, by about two and a half feet, on a pier and beam foundation. When I circled back to the front of the home and spotted, at the base of the porch, an entrance about the size of a doggie door, I asked the officer, “Does this home have a crawl space?” No one had checked. “We’ve gotta go in and search underneath this house,” I told my team. We came up with a plan, based on the layout of the home’s upper floors, of how we’d search the crawl space. Five of us would go in—two to the left, two to the right, and me down the middle. Anita Dickason, my countersniper, was among us.
The slammer kicked down the door. But when we tried to squeeze through the entrance wearing our Kevlar helmets and two ballistic vests, we couldn’t fit. So despite the risk to our lives—these suspects were armed and had robbed at gunpoint—we abandoned our helmets and large outer vests. Even after we’d stripped down, the entrance was barely large enough for us to slither through. But one at a time, on our hands and knees and with our guns and flashlights at the ready, we did. The slammer and another squad member remained outside as our backup crew.
The space was pitch-black and filthy. It reeked of urine. We could hear rats skittering around as we entered. In the dark, we slithered along the grime on our bellies, feeling the cobwebs hanging down into our faces. We slid our way through the first half of the base and found no one. Then, at the back right rear, my eyes having adjusted somewhat to the darkness, I noticed a blind corner. I motioned to the officer nearest the corner and mouthed to him, “Can you see back there?” He could not; nor could any of the rest of us. I knew the gunmen had to be back there. “If you don’t come out,” I yelled, “we’re going to start shooting!” Crickets.
“I’m giving you until the count of three to show your faces,” I bluffed. “One! Two! Three.” Not a peep. In certain barricaded-person situations, our officers and negotiators spend hours playing good cop in order to apprehend a suspect. But you can’t negotiate with two fools on a violent robbery spree. You’ve got to be the bad cop and get tough immediately. “You guys better come out here before we blow your heads off!” I hollered, even louder than before. Seconds later a pair of hands appeared around the corner, waving in surrender. One down, one to go.
Anita and another officer grabbed the man and dragged him through the muck. At the door, the slammer handcuffed him. Meanwhile I began threatening suspect number two, who was still pretending not to be down there. “Your friend was a son of a gun,” I yelled, “and you’re a stupid son of a gun! We’re getting ready to shoot you and leave you under this house to rot, and ain’t nobody down here to even witness it.” I had no intention of shooting the guy, but I had to make him think I would. It worked. After a few more threats, he at last gave himself up. But then as we tried to pull him out, he resisted by making his whole body go limp. We dragged his butt out anyhow.
Our search team then went in and combed every crack and crevice of that crawl space. Around that blind corner, they found the men’s two guns and an enormous bag of stolen cash.
IN ADVANCE OF A DRUG RAID in the summer of 1995, my team gathered for a briefing at a patrol station. When the undercover officer who was to conduct the briefing walked across the parking lot toward the entrance door, I could not help but stare. She was petite and brown-skinned with long wavy hair. She had a broad smile and a gorgeous figure. The moment she began speaking, her accent and attitude revealed where she was from—New York City. She was at once confident and classy, using hand gestures to emphasize her most important points. It is no surprise that I, the son of a powerful woman, found this woman’s strength and presence attractive. She introduced herself as Cedonia.
After the briefing, I pulled her sergeant aside. He and I were friends. “Is she married?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Do you know if she’s dating anyone?”
He shook his head. Then as I walked off, he said, “Brown, don’t mess with her.” Cops have a “love ’em and leave ’em” reputation, and as Cedonia’s supervisor, he felt protective of her. “I won’t,” I reassured him. “I seriously like her.” And I meant it.
A few weeks later when I ran into Cedonia, I approached her. “May I take you to lunch?” I asked, conjuring up the most gentleman-sounding voice I could. Long gone were the years when I felt shy about even talking to a girl. By this time, I was in the best shape of my life, with a coveted spot on a premier squad, and I won’t lie: I didn’t lack confidence. Cedonia smiled at me. “Sure,” she said without hesitation. “I’d love to.”
We hit it off on date one. Cedonia was chatty, funny, spirited—and an excellent storyteller. She did most of the talking (like any self-respecting New Yorker), and I hung on her every word. I could tell she was both intelligent and sincere. She was also ambitious: She was a few years younger than me yet had already earned an MBA. That first date turned into a second, a fifth, and a tenth. I don’t think she fell for me as quickly as I did for her, but after a couple months of seeing each other exclusively, we were both all in.
From day one, we kept our relationship off the radar. Because our divisions often collaborated, I was concerned that, if the news got out, one of us might be transferred. I trusted my friend, Cedonia’s supervisor, to stay quiet. And for me, keeping a low profile was second nature. Both Cedonia and I, who’d spent our careers in the public eye, have always been fairly private when it comes to our personal lives. As far as we were concerned, our relationship was our business.
Dating Cedonia felt so right to me, so easy and comfortable from the very beginning. We understood the intensity of each other’s jobs. She knew the details of the raids I’d been involved in, especially since we both worked graveyard. She also knew how to let me be silent after a particularly grueling shift. My retreat didn’t threaten her. She knew where it came from and didn’t take it personally. Having both confronted perilous situations for a living, we recognized each other’s need to disconnect. For me, it was relationship bliss.
AFTER THE ARIZONA AVENUE SHOOTING, I was determined to never again let my team get caught flat-footed by gunfire when approaching a drug house. We often used flash bangs, the kind we’d thrown in on that machete-wielding man. If, after we’d thrown a flash bang into the window, the suspects came out shooting, we’d at least be in a strong position to take cover and possibly eliminate the need for gunfire. In my mind, that is always priority number one: Minimize the use of force in order to maximize safety.
That was my squad’s plan when we showed up at an apartment building in East Dallas. The entire complex, controlled by a group of big-time dope dealers, was drug infested. Another New Jack City. Residents in the area had been complaining nonstop for months, understandably; living in the vicinity of a drug house, they were walking around in fear of random gunfire. So our narcotics detectives secured a warrant, and we prepared to shut down the place, starting with the ground-floor apartment the dealers shared.
My team threw in a flash bang, and seconds later the drapes on the front windows burst into flames. The dealers came running out, coughing and holding their hands up in full surrender. As officers made the arrests, I and a new member of the squad, Joe Maines, whom we affectionately called “Broadway Joe” because he’s debonair and always dressed sharply, prepared to go in and put out the fire; we also needed to ensure no one else was still inside. We donned our smoke masks and made our way through the front door. In the living room, we tried to stomp out the flames that had engulfed the drapes. That didn’t work. As the fire burned, I ran toward the interior rooms to complete the search. No one else was in the apartment. While I was in the back bedroom, I heard the detective shout out something, but I couldn’t understand him. When I returned to the living room, I realized what he’d been trying to tell me—get out. Just in that short time, the fire had spread to every part of the living room, its hot flames spitting out in every direction. The doorway we’d entered through was completely enveloped in flames. Joe had refused to leave without me.
We searched for a window, but amid the plumes of smoke, we couldn’t find one. As we crawled around on the floor, my breathing became labored. Even with the masks on, it was impossible not to inhale some smoke. Joe finally spotted a window, stood, and used a nearby chair to break the glass. “Sarge, come over here!” he shouted. We both lunged through the window and rolled out onto a grassy area right beneath it.
I looked up to see the last face I expected—Cedonia’s. “Are you all right?” she asked as I coughed, trying to catch my breath. When she’d heard about the fire on the police radio, she’d asked her supervisor whether I’d been hurt. “I don’t know,” he told her, “but I know the apartment is on fire.” She then raced to the scene. When she arrived, the other cops on my squad must’ve suspected there was something going on between us, but we still tried to act as if there weren’t.
The EMTs took me to the hospital, where I remained overnight for observation. I was put on oxygen to clear the smoke in my lungs. I was also treated for the minor injury I’d sustained when breaking out of that window; I’d been cut by the broken glass. Cedonia urged me to receive a tetanus shot, but I don’t like needles—especially when it involves a long needle right into your behind. She eventually won that battle, and I endured the shot.
After Joe and I escaped from the building, the complex was eventually lost to the flames—the fire department could not salvage a single unit. I expected there to be endless paperwork in the aftermath, particularly since my decision to throw in a flash bang had ignited the fire. Surely a lawsuit would be filed. But in the following weeks, there was not a single ounce of pushback. Not from those who’d been evacuated from the building during the fire and subsequently lost their homes. Not from the property owner. And of course, not from the area residents who’d been complaining about the drug house. I’m sure they were happy to see the place go.
A towering inferno. A dedicated girlfriend. Machetes and crawl spaces. A joyous son. All in a year and a half’s work on SWAT.