FREEZE!
Robert Ladd was born in 1959 in Hawthorne, California, but was raised in and has spent his whole life in Garden Grove, a small city in northern Orange County, about thirty-four miles south of Los Angeles.
Bob and his wife, Kathy went to junior high and high school together and were married right after graduation. He worked an assortment of construction jobs, then decided to become a police officer.
Bob graduated from the academy in 1983. Suddenly there he was, twenty-four years old - ready, eager to be a cop. He began working as a reserve officer at the Garden Grove Police Department. They didn’t hire him for a position, but he was learning and doing police work alongside members of the force.
By this time, he and his wife had a son, Brian, and Kathy was pregnant with their daughter, Shannon. They were like most young couples starting families, struggling financially, doing their best to get by and work toward something better. Bob had a construction job at Miller’s Outpost where he made two hundred dollars a week. It wasn’t enough, not for what was about to be a family of four. Kathy was waitressing at Coco’s, a local chain restaurant.
They were barely eking by.
He was putting in several days a week at the Garden Grove Police Department learning as much as he could, but he needed more. He needed to be hired for a full-time position, but Garden Grove had a hiring freeze.
Bob felt he had to do something; he was determined to be a cop. There had to be a police force out there where he would be a good fit.
He started applying everywhere, then he remembered Barry Case from the Huntington Police Department. Barry had been one of Bob’s arrest and control tactical training instructors at the academy. Barry told war stories about where he started his career at the Compton Police Department. It was apparent to anyone listening that he loved his time there.
“If you want to be a real cop,” Barry said, “go work for Compton.”
Bob wanted to be a real cop and he needed a real job. He decided to follow Barry’s advice. He applied for a job on Compton’s police force. In a move that seemed like no less than fate, the Compton Police Department was the first to offer him a position. It meant steady money and insurance coverage. His wife, Kathy wasn’t too happy, but she understood it was necessary for the stability of their family.
This wouldn’t be Bob’s first experience in Compton. He had worked with his brother, Jim several years prior at a liquor store at the corner of Alondra Boulevard and Central Avenue. A&A Liquor. His time there had left an indelible impression. Jim was the manager and their cousin owned the store. Jim had been making great money at the time and let Bob work there to earn some extra cash.
Being at A&A Liquor gave him a preview of what he would be dealing with as a police officer in Compton. A ton of shit went down at the store. Shootings in the parking lot. People coming in wielding guns, wasted on PCP. It was a dangerous job, but the extra money allowed Bob to take care of his family.
It gave him a taste of Compton and, ready or not, as a newly-hired cop, he was about to be plunged headlong into what he’d experienced at A&A Liquor, a thousandfold…and worse.
***
Most people can recall their first day on a new job, especially one that ends up becoming a lifelong career. Bob was no different. That first day at the Compton P.D. would always be crystal-clear in his mind.
He was nervous as hell as he walked into the locker room. He didn’t say a word, which wasn’t something that would stand out as unusual. It was pretty well-known that rookies kept as low-key as possible, not trying to draw too much attention to themselves to avoid becoming the target of the seasoned cops. Being singled out by them was inevitable, but Bob didn’t want to expedite that happening, so when he came in, he didn’t say shit.
There was a heightened energy in the air that day. A veteran cop named Henry Perez had just shot and killed a suspect, so the locker room was already buzzing. Officer-involved shootings were a big deal. A Black guy wasted on PCP had, for no known reason, run up to Perez’s parked car as he sat inside and began attacking him through the open window. Perez and the guy fought over Perez’s gun. Perez shot him in the head and killed him instantly.
It was tragic, but not hard to understand how it happened. The duster, high out of his mind, had been oblivious to what he was doing and fought relentlessly.
PCP was one of the worst things to ever hit the streets, and its effect on the people who used it, the cops who were called in to deal with them, and the community at-large was no small matter. Folks would buy this stuff, dip their cigarettes in the liquid, then smoke the cigarette. Once it kicked in, the transformation was complete. The person would become wild, Herculean.
These were the early days of PCP. It was just starting to become an epidemic. It wouldn’t be long before Bob really got to see what this drug was all about.
From the excitement in the locker room that first day, he reported to his first shift briefing. These were standard meetings that happened before each new shift. Roll call was usually taken and each officer was told their beat or assignment for the day (which area to patrol, radio call numbers, etc.), and updated on any other important information from the shift supervisors.
Bob learned during that first shift briefing that the veteran cops ran the show. The supervisors were just trying to keep up.
It was the P.M. shift, which was from 4 p.m. to 12:30 a.m. He sat in the front row, the area designated for rookies.
The room was filled with salty veteran cops. Guys like Jack McConnell and John Wilkinson. These guys savored fucking with rookies. They considered it their job to do so during the briefings.
Two sergeants came into the room.
“Okay, let’s get started,” one of them said.
The first topic on deck was Henry Perez shooting the man on PCP. This was discussed for a while. Bob listened intently.
“Hey rookie!” a voice yelled from the back row. “Stand up and introduce yourself!”
Bob looked around. He was the rookie.
Shit, he thought, nervous as hell. He stood, facing the guys.
“Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I’m Robert Ladd. You can call me Bob. I’m from Orange County—”
“Pussy!”
The entire room erupted in a thunderclap of laughter.
Bob stood there, unsure of what to do. He looked toward the sergeants. They were just letting it happen.
Young Bob Ladd in uniform.
OG Compton P.D. Briefing. Front row: Rene Fontenot. Second row, right to left: Bud Johnson, John Kounthavong, George Betor. Third row, right to left: Ron Thrash, John Wilkinson. Fourth row, right to left: Joey Reynolds, JJ Jackson, Marcos Palafox. Back row, right to left: Reggie Wright Sr., Rich Rivera, and Lt. Bunton.
“You got any sisters?” someone else shouted.
More raucous laughter. That comment was actually funny. Bob fought back a chuckle and continued. “I’m excited to be—”
“Sit the fuck down, rookie!”
And just like that, it was over.
He sat the fuck down.
The briefing went on like that interruption had never even occurred.
Bob learned that this was how every rookie got treated in the Compton P.D. Like shit. You were a nobody until you proved yourself. Then, and only then, would the veteran cops treat you with respect. When it came to dealing with the streets, there was an “us vs. them” mentality. The veterans needed to know the rookies understood that “us vs. them” meant cops looked out for each other. Even if you couldn’t stand the guy sitting next to you, in the streets, you were supposed to have each other’s backs.
***
That first day, Bob was supposed to ride with one of the veteran cops who loved to taunt rookies. Jasper Jackson. Everyone called him J.J. He was a 5’11 dark-skinned Black guy with a strong, solid build, super-buffed. Skinny waist, huge arms. He was an ex-Marine who’d served in Vietnam. A real badass of a guy who carried a chrome-plated .357 magnum. Bob had never seen anyone with presence like him. J.J. could actually make gangbangers cry just by looking at them. Bob would later see proof of this.
But J.J. wasn’t at work that first day, so Bob was placed with another veteran cop: Mikey Paiz.
Mikey was a Latino guy of medium build, about 5’10 with a mustache and curly black hair. He was cool, but he wasn’t a training officer like J.J., so he wasn’t too happy about having to ride around with someone brand new.
“I’m driving,” he said as Bob walked with him to the patrol car. They got inside. Mikey looked at Bob. “I like to work dope. You ready?”
“Yeah,” said Bob.
He thought he knew what Mikey meant by “work dope”, but Bob was super-green. He didn’t know anything. Not about Compton, outside of what he had encountered at A&A Liquor, and not about being a cop.
That was about to change.
***
They drove five blocks north to Elm Street. This was an area where Pirus were known to sell PCP. They made a left turn and saw three Black guys walking toward them. Mikey suddenly sped toward the guys, then slammed the brakes and jumped out of the car. He rushed over, grabbed two of them, and threw them to the ground.
“Get the other one and handcuff him!” he yelled at Bob.
The rookie did as he was ordered. It all happened so fast.
What the fuck is going on here, Bob thought as Mikey got on the radio and called for backup.
Within what seemed like just a couple of minutes, two units came speeding around the corner. Bob and Mikey searched the three guys and tossed them in the back of the patrol car.
Mikey walked over toward something on the ground. It was a small clear bottle with an amber-colored liquid. He came back and held it up, showing it to Bob.
“This is PCP,” he said. “I saw one of those guys drop it when we first turned the corner.”
He took the cap off and waved it under Bob’s nose. The rookie leaned in, taking a whiff. It was strong, like ether. Bob reared back.
Who the hell smokes this shit, he wondered. A person would be brain dead behind that stuff.
Mikey said, “Those other two, the ones I tackled? They’re dusted.”
“What’s that?” Bob asked.
“It means they’re high on this stuff.”
Bob glanced at the guys in the back seat, then back at Mikey. He hadn’t noticed any of the things Mikey had seen. Not the guy tossing the PCP, nor the erratic behavior of the other two.
Mikey laughed. “Shit happens fast out here, rookie.”
Bob stood there, dumbstruck.
“Let’s go,” Mikey said, still laughing.
Bob was in a sort of quiet reverie, wondering who this crazy guy was he’d been sent out with on his first day. The shift was just getting started. It wasn’t even dark out. He had to spend eight more hours with Mikey. Things had gotten off to a wild start.
To Bob’s surprise, he found himself amped for more.
***
Mikey and Bob went back to the station. It took about two hours to process the guys they’d arrested and write up the reports before they could get back in the field. By that time, Bob was ready for some more action. It was a bit unnerving for him to not know the area or what could be lurking around any corner. There were times when he wasn’t even sure what direction they were traveling, but Bob was excited; it felt like a point of no return was happening inside of him. He instinctively knew that, with this job in Compton, his life was never going to be the same.
He was right.
***
As he and Mikey rode around, Bob observed everything, including what was inside their car. He noticed a baseball in the center console and, at one point, picked it up. It was hard, solid. The world “FREEZE” was written on it in big black letters.
“What’s this for?”
Mikey started laughing.
“What?” Bob asked. Why was this ball so funny?
Mikey glanced at the ball, then at him.
“I keep that in case a motherfucker tries to run.”
He could tell from the rookie’s face that he didn’t get it.
“Say I have to get out and chase someone,” Mikey explained. “Before I do, I throw this ball at him as hard as I can and I yell, ‘Freeze, motherfucker!’” He laughed. “Sometimes it works.”
Bob laughed. Mikey couldn’t be serious. He was crazy as shit.
Bob found out, however, in the months and years to come, that Mikey had a pretty mean arm. He was quite the ballplayer. There were lots of stories floating around about him really using that ball. Supposedly, he’d once knocked a fleeing suspect out cold. No one knew whether that story was real or not. It was more like an urban legend. But from Bob’s first night with Mikey and seeing how he was, it wasn’t much of a stretch for him to believe it.
Mikey Paiz
***
Bob’s first night out with Mikey was almost over.
“5-Adam,” the dispatcher called over the car radio. That was Mikey and Bob’s call sign. “Shots fired at Oleander and Peach. Possible gunshot victims at the location.”
Bob’s heart raced. Shots fired! They were about to get into some real cop stuff.
Mikey picked up the mic, disgusted.
“10-4.” He put the mic back in place, then pounded the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
“What’s up?” Bob asked, confused by Mikey’s reaction. He was learning everything this first night on the fly.
Mikey was super-pissed. “We get off pretty soon. I wanted to drink some beer tonight.” He breathed heavily. “These motherfuckers. And I got a rookie, too? Fuck!”
Bob couldn’t show it, but he was excited. He didn’t give a shit about the fact that the shift was almost over. He was about to see a gunshot victim.
Mikey floored it to Oleander and Peach. When they arrived, Bob saw two guys on the sidewalk. One was lying down. The other was sitting on the curb. Several people were standing around. He and Mikey got out of the car. When the bystanders saw them approach, half of them immediately dispersed. Bob was riveted by the two wounded guys. He couldn’t take his eyes off them.
Mikey grilled the people standing around. “Any of you see what happened?”
“I didn’t see shit, man!” someone said.
The guy on the ground was a young Black kid. His left upper thigh was bleeding. There was a small bullet hole in his black pants. He groaned, clearly in a lot of pain.
The guy on the curb had on a white wifebeater. He was bleeding from what looked to be a graze wound on his right shoulder. Both he and the kid had on red shoes, red belts, and had red bandanas. Bob might have been green, but he knew enough to know that meant they were Pirus.
More units arrived, along with the paramedics. Bob didn’t know what to do, so he hung back and watched as it all played out.
“Payback is coming!” someone screamed.
People obviously knew who’d done this.
Bob watched Mikey talking to the two victims. He took down their names and tried to get statements from them. “You know who did this?” he asked the one in the wifebeater.
“I didn’t see shit.”
“What about you?” he asked the other.
“Fuck that,” the kid groaned. “I don’t know shit. I need to go to the hospital.”
Those were the statements. No one wanted to tell him anything. Everyone, it seemed, had an attitude about even being asked.
This was Bob’s introduction to the world of gangs. Gangbanging 101. Nobody was giving up anybody. Take a lick, take a bullet, but keep your mouth shut when the cops showed up.
The paramedics treated the wound of the guy in the wifebeater, bandaged him up, and he walked off into the night. They took the kid to Martin Luther King Hospital.
Bob watched as Mikey collected .22 caliber casings in the street. He walked over to Bob.
“Fuck these motherfuckers,” he said. “They’re the ones who got shot. If they don’t wanna tell me who did it, they can go fuck themselves. I ain’t begging them.”
It took him and Bob about 35 minutes to clear the scene. Mikey was happy because he got off on time. Now he could go have his beers.
***
Bob was still excited when went home that first night. He told Kathy everything. She listened, closely watching his face.
“Your eyes are all lit up,” she said. “This is it for you, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he replied, knowing his life was never going to be the same. “I love this shit!”