TIGARD POLICE EVENT: HOW NOT TO GET SHOT, pt2

 A helpful conversation after Tigard Police Event.

Open communication reduces tension, or can help reduce tension.

I kept that in mind before starting a conversation about the Tigard Police event in my front yard.

The owner of a local house with loads of traffic caught me cruising the cul-de-sac.

She parked in the middle of the road and came to my soccer mom van window for a chat.

And it was chatty, to say the least.“Hello, ma’am.”

“Well I guess you know who I am.”

“Yes I do. Glad to meet you in person.”

“Glad to meet you, too.”

“At least we’re starting on the right foot. You may change you mind sooner than later.”

“What ever would make me…”

“Ma’am, there’s three houses on the road you live on. One of them gets a lot of traffic. Do you know which house that is?”

“Well, my kids have…”

“Ma’am, it’s your house. And I’m happy to get a chance to talk. You get a lot of traffic to your house. I’ve been around prison populations, and I’m telling you some of the traffic looks like they just came from Cell Block D.”

“Some of the kids’ friends do…”

“Ma’am, do you remember the evening nine police cars were all parked in front of my house? The Tigard Police event?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you notice if they had their guns out? Their long guns?”

“Yes, they did. And one of my kids’ friends had a big knife.”

“A big knife?”

“Yes. He dropped and ran out the back to the woods when the police knocked on my door.”

“He was the runner they brought the dog in for?”

“Yes, the dog.”

“He was a good dog. Ma’am, do you know what today is? It’s the forty sixth anniversary of the Kent State shooting. The one in Ohio where the National Guard shot four dead and left a bunch of others with gunshot wounds for life. Do you remember seeing that?”

“I don’t believe I do.”

“But you do remember the nine police cars right here on Friday night?”

“Of course.”

“Ma’am, I’m not raising my voice to you. Do you know why? I don’t think you’re someone I’d raise my voice to. But you need to raise your voice in your house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nine cop cars were here. They first started coming around one at a time, then two. Now nine. How many next time ma’am, because there’ll be a next time. Maybe twelve? Maybe fifteen? Twenty? How many more police cars do you think it will take before they don’t come up any more?”

“I don’t know.”

“What happens when some of the traffic to your house drives out like they’ve done in the past, so loaded they park on the curb and fall out of their car? What happens when the posse is here?”

“Do you know?”

“I do know this: with more guns in more hands, the more the chance for something going wrong. If one of your traffic people rolls up on the curb and jumps out with an attitude, or big knife, they might get shot. If they make threatening gestures, they might get shot. See that window over in my house? If I’m standing there when bullets fly, I might get shot.”

“I’m trying my best.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll look you right in the face, like I’m doing right here, and tell you to try something else. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not working.”

“They aren’t bad boys.”

“I’ve seen men around sixty, not boys, and here’s what they are: they’re bringing in people who look like ex-cons, or on their way to prison. No judgement. Since this started we’ve all been on lock down. All doors locked, garage doors down, window shades down. We’re living in Tigard, or Syria? It’s turning into a zone.”

“A zone?”

“A conflict zone, ma’am. And here we are talking it out. You have problems in your house, now it’s in my house. I need to check the windows to see what’s going on in the street before going into some rooms. Your people are out at all hours moving things, transferring things, delivering things. I’m not asking what they are delivering, but it goes on 24/7. Who can stay up so late?”

“I’ve noticed they keep odd hours. If something’s bothering you, parked cars, or people, I’d like you to call me. Let me give you my number.”

“Let’s do this instead. I’ll thank you for stopping to talk, then I’ll park my car and go on with my day. After nine police cars pull up ready for action, I’ll be low crawling on the floor. I really, really, don’t want to get shot because of something going on in your house. To be honest, I don’t want to get shot at all.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Ma’am, here’s the track we’re on together. It runs by my house. You’ve got traffic to your house that might have an authority problem, and it might get worse if they’re wasted, if they’re incoherent, if they’re belligerent, or combative. We’re going to have a shooting on this street, right where you’re parked, and I hope it’s not you or your daughter. I hope it’s not me, my wife, or mother in law.”

“That’s awful.”

“After that we’ll have a little memorial in the street. Maybe a stain that won’t wash out, a memory that keeps haunting. Can you live with that, ma’am? Is that something you want to carry with you? Because I don’t. I’ve seen enough dead people, ma’am. That’s not something I want lingering around my front yard. I don’t want to have to point out the death zone every time someone new shows up.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Cooperate with the police. You want me to call you when I see suspicious cars with hard cases coming to your house? See that car? Those plates were on another car recently. You have eleven cars registered to your address. The police know this. You need to call them when you feel threatened by the traffic to your house. Are you afraid of your kids and their friends?”

“I’m not afraid, not exactly.”

“That’s good. What will it take before you make the call? How many people will be at risk before you make the call? Ma’am, we’re all getting older, agreed? Now we’re looking forward to a violent showdown that doesn’t have to happen. But it will unless you make the call.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I was born at night, but not last night. Putting twitchy people with their nerves on edge against a police force standing up for law and order and you get the only results you ever get from that recipe.”

“Which is what?”

“Disaster.”