CHAPTER 62

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The arrest of Sheriff Steven Johnson made the front pages of every newspaper in Tennessee and most of the TV stations' news, too. I saw the story on the six o'clock news that evening and sat down with the newspaper for the in-depth story the following morning after inspection. It told about a thorough investigation by State Attorney Julia Adams and the State Police. Several deputies were identified as having participated in the investigation—recording conversations with the Sheriff and even paying him with "marked money." Johnson was charged with several election law felonies, but they were nothing compared with the allegations of soliciting and accepting bribes from his employees. If convicted—and the chances looked promising—Johnson was looking at a long time in one of the state's penal institutions. After reading the story I set the newspaper aside and returned to my work. This was the week we were due at the County Firing Range and I was looking forward to hearing from the range personnel about the arrest. Nothing was said or written about my limited role and that was just fine with me.

There was a lot of talk between the firing range staff about how it was time Johnson had been held accountable for his actions. They even asked for my opinion, but I remained mum until I asked which one of the captains would take over once Johnson was fired. "None of them," was the manager's reply. "They were all in cahoots with the sheriff. They all thought that what he was doing was right…and, mostly because they were going to profit when he was reelected." I shook my head in disbelief. Thankfully, it wasn't my problem. I didn't have anything to do with county politics and that was the way I wanted it.

Over the past year our shooting has improved incredibly. A good part of that was due to the retirement of the older officers and the interest of my new minority personnel. There was soon a healthy and positive competition between the experienced training officers and their charges. The contests were close with one exception. Aimee Johnstone's trainer was an excellent shot, but he wasn't even close to being in Aimee's class. He took the ribbing from his peers with a smile, telling them that he taught her everything she knew. That only made them laugh all the harder while Aimee merely smiled. Smart woman—she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

I drove home that evening in great spirits—spirits made even higher when I stopped off at one of the new community substations. The buildings had been erected and the interiors painted and finished, but the grounds still needed a lot of work. Even though the parking facilities were still not paved I had opened the substations, meeting with community leaders about setting up neighborhood watches. Two auto dealerships donated vehicles that were custom painted, saying—POLICE, NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH—on the doors and trunks with smaller print—DONATED BY ABLE MOTORS or DONATED BY CULLEN FORD. We had big ceremonies at each dealership with photos for the press and TV interviews, all designed to show the generosity of the dealers toward the community.

Believe it or not, neighborhood watch programs involve a great deal of training—driving, observing, using the radio, keeping clear detailed notes for the records, etc. The value of the program was shown very early on when a watch team in training came upon a burglary in progress. When the sergeant who was driving bemoaned losing the suspects, the passenger-trainees just laughed. "Doesn't make a bit of difference, Sergeant. We know who they are and where they're going. One word to their mama and they'll be toast." It turned out they were right. The watch team was in the kitchen drinking coffee with the mother when the kids strolled in. Their grins disappeared when Mama picked up a wooden spoon that they apparently knew too well. Mama and the boys went to the substation the following morning to surrender and confess. Both received 100 hours of community service and a severe warning from the city magistrate.

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Peace and quiet never seem to last when you're a cop. There's always something—domestic violence, arson, armed robbery, or perhaps the worst situation of all—an influx of gang activity. This was another example of how the neighborhood watch helped us. Three mothers in a predominantly black neighborhood approached Pastor Anthony Michaels after services at the AME Church. Anthony phoned me and I met with the women at the substation the following evening with Anthony, Daryl, and Aimee Johnstone.

"Tell us about your concerns, ladies."

"We've had several new families move in down the street. Well…they call themselves families, but mostly they're males in their late teens and twenties. There are some women, but not many and they're all young, too. Yesterday, my eighth grader son told me they were trying to get him to smoke pot and that they called themselves, 'Bloods.'"

I gave Daryl a look—the same one he gave me. "We will need to know exactly where they are living and approximately how many there are. We assume that they have weapons—typically AK-47's and 9mm pistols so we don't want anyone to get too close or be too obvious. We have a lot of planning to do."

"What will you do, Chief? What can you do?"

"I can't say now, but I promise you that strong action will be taken. I assume that they're renting the house."

"Yes, sir; the two houses at the end of the block on Freemont have always been rented, just like a lot of the houses in our neighborhood. Most folks are like us—hard working, God fearing families. We don't want any gangs here making our streets dangerous."

"Ma'am, we agree with you completely and we want to thank all of you for bringing this to our attention. What happens in many communities is that these gangs get a foothold and recruit dozens of members before the police even know they're there. Then getting them under control is really difficult. They always bring drugs, sex, violence, and death with them. We want them out as much as you do. No, we want them out even more than you do." We ended the meeting then, shaking hands with everyone, and walked out to the cars. There were two basketball games under the lights on the new courts. The kids waved to us even though we were in uniform and we waved back. That was the kind of relationship we wanted to have with all of our citizens. I made arrangements to meet with Daryl tomorrow morning. I phoned Martin Albright on the way home and he agreed to come to headquarters around 10:30.

Lucy was up waiting for me when Max and I walked in the door. "Good meeting," she asked.

"Yes and no," was my reply. "There was good communication all around, but we apparently have a bit of a problem." I continued a moment later after Lucy had shot me a questioning look. "Bloods—one of the scourges of our country; they're no better than rats, spreading disease wherever they go."

"What are you going to do?"

"First step is to meet with Martin tomorrow to see if there's anything in our city laws that we can use to get rid of them. We may get some grief from the ACLU or some other liberal groups, but the safety of our people comes first, besides I'm pretty sure we can document them in some illegal acts that will enable us to get rid of them."

"You're not going to get shot again, are you?"

"I'll do my best not to," I said with a chuckle, hoping that Lucy believed what I was saying more than I did.