The Choirboys by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

in the thick of the action. And since Roscoe arrested so many drunk drivers and wrote such an incredible number of traffic tickets he was still the darling of those police supervisors who believe that writing one moving traffic violation a day is tangible proof of good police work.
    Roscoe also arrested more drunk drivers than most traffic cars. Of course, he also went to court more than any traffic car because he booked the “borderline” drunk drivers. In fact, he wrote the “borderline” tickets.
    “All I see and some I don’t see,” as Roscoe put it.
    On the night that Roscoe Rules was to become a legend he and Whaddayamean Dean had been trying to catch a drunk driver by staking out a bar on West Jefferson frequented by hard drinking blacks who wasted no time with fancy drinks, but nightly consumed gallons of Scotch, gin and beer. Roscoe had hoped to find a drunk sleeping in his car in the parking lot at the rear and wake him gently, telling him that he had better go home and sleep it off. Then they would wait down the street in the darkness and arrest the grateful motorist for drunk driving as he passed by.
    Some policemen become legends by virtue of accumulated felony arrests which propel them into the category of instinctive policemen, who doglike smell or sense when something is wrong: when a suspect is lying, when a turn of the head or clicking of eyeballs means more than just another case of black and white fever. When one
knows
which cars to stop, whichpedestrian to talk to, most importantly, which one to
believe
, since most policemen eventually conclude that in addition to being hopelessly weak the human race is composed of an incredible collection of liars who will lie even when the truth would save them, and more often than not haven’t the faintest idea of what the truth really is.
    But there are other ways to become police legends, that is, by a single action or reaction which is so outrageous that within twenty-four hours it is the subject of every rollcall in the city Roscoe Rules was about to become that kind of legend.
    That fateful night started pretty much as every other night with Roscoe driving and discussing the merits of fast cars, hotshot chase driving, devastating weapons and ammunition, and even women, since his wounded testicles were once more intact and functioning. As he talked, Roscoe as always unconsciously squeezed, kneaded and pulled at himself.
    The salmon smoggy sun had dropped suddenly that evening. They were driving through their district at dusk, looking for traffic tickets which Roscoe believed in writing at the beginning of the watch. Often, a motorist could blow a red light at eight miles an hour during the busy late hours and Roscoe would ignore him or not even see him
if
he had already written his ticket for the night.
    They passed a construction crew building a new elementary school in a black neighborhood near Washington Boulevard, and Roscoe yelled “Building new cages, huh?” to a white man in a hard hat who grinned and raised a hammer.
    “The air’s quiet,” Roscoe remarked, lighting a Marlboro. “Not too many radio calls in Wilshire, but I got a feeling it’s gonna be a busy Thursday night. Animals got their welfare checks today Should be lots a action.”
    A battered Texas Chevrolet driven by a grim looking white man with faded eyes pulled up next to them at a red light. The woman passenger, gaunt and weak, had difficulty rolling downthe window. She was holding a baby in her arms, and one of the four blond children in the back seat helped her.
    “Suh,” she said, “kin you tell us where the Gen’ral Hospital is?”
    “Sure,” Roscoe answered. “Just go straight on this street to the Harbor Freeway and turn right. Keep going ten miles. You can’t miss it.”
    “Thank ye,” she smiled, and again battled the window which was jammed in the bent frame.
    Whaddayamean Dean looked at his partner quizzically and Roscoe explained, “Fuck this white trash.