MY BOOK12 SECONDS IN THE DARK

Chapter 1

The Foundation

As she lay there bleeding out, we could hear the gut-wrenching screams coming from the other room that only a mother could produce. Just minutes earlier, it was just another day of looking for a murder suspect that our unit was tasked with. As we left the 2nd Division, a call came out over the radio. There was a shooting involving a small child. We were only about a minute away and were the first to arrive at the scene. We heard a TV on in the front room as we approached the house. With guns drawn, we banged on the door and announced our presence. There was no answer initially. In these situations, you pray it was just a prank call. As the relief was setting in, we saw a small boy peeking out the window. We waved at the little guy and asked him to come open the door. I could see the fear in his wide eyes. At this point, my heart sank. My pulse was pounding in my neck as the realization hit that this was not a prank call. In this situation, as with most 911 calls, you have no idea what you are about to encounter once you enter that door. The young boy unlocked the security door. As we entered, we quickly assessed the scene and started to clear the room—this is a common tactic used when searching a house/building to make sure it is safe to continue the search or rescue attempt. As we entered the kids’ room, we came across the scene that every officer dreads. Blood spatter and brain matter were splattered on the wall, and the lifeless body of a small child lay on the floor in a puddle of blood. Donnie, a paramedic before becoming a police officer, was the first one through the door and immediately started rendering first aid and chest compressions. We flipped the mattress out of the way to assist and make room for EMS. On the floor next to the dresser was a .38 caliber revolver. The unforgettable smell of gun powder mixed with the iron smell of blood filled the room. We continued to perform chest compressions and rescue breathing on this beautiful three-year-old angel who had tragically been shot while playing with her teenage brother’s handgun. EMS showed up a short time later and took the lifeless body to the hospital even though they knew she was gone. I was the one who had to tell the mother her baby girl had passed. I hugged this poor woman as she cried and collapsed in my arms. As a human being, you feel this anguish. It’s especially hard when you have kids yourself and can empathize. You see, life isn’t fair. There’s no real rhyme or reason that our finite human minds can understand when tragedies take place around us. We were raised to believe God has a plan in everything He allows, but sometimes, in these situations, you ask WHY? The mother explained to me that her sixteen-year-old son had given her trouble for years. She had kicked him out of the house previously due to him selling drugs and having guns. She now had a five-year-old son and three-year-old daughter that she needed to protect from that lifestyle, she exclaimed. Just recently, the older son had begged to come home and promised he had turned his life around. The day before this accident, she had allowed him to return home for one last chance. That last chance would cost her baby’s life. That night, the older son had gone with some friends and left a loaded .38 revolver, with the hammer back, sitting on the dresser in the kids’ bedroom. The three-year-old girl saw the gun, and standing on her tiptoes, put her hand on the gun. The five-year-old brother saw this happening and attempted to stop her in an effort to protect his little sister. As he grabbed the gun in her hand, he accidentally pulled the trigger, and the unimaginable happened. Though trying to save her, this poor boy has to live the rest of his life with the guilt of his sister’s death. This heartbroken mother has to live with the guilt that she wasn’t able to protect her youngest because she was trying to save her oldest. There’s never a win in these tragedies. When I started policing in 2000, the excitement of going to work was like a dream come true. I loved playing cops and robbers growing up! I was always the cop. I remember a time we were on our senior trip in high school in 1991. I was eighteen years old and felt invincible. We were eating at a Pizza Hut somewhere in southeast Texas. I looked out the window and saw a female employee arguing with a guy I assume was her boyfriend. The girl looked scared as the older guy was berating her. He was so infuriated that he punched her in the face. Without hesitation, and definitely without thinking it through, I jumped to my feet and ran outside to confront the guy, or should I say the coward. I had no training and no plan, but as I yelled and approached him, he jumped in his car and sped off. My adrenaline was pumping. Down inside, I 2 was relieved he decided to leave. The young girl was crying but managed to muster up a thank you as she sheepishly went back inside through the employees’ door. The heart-pumping adrenaline rush didn’t compare to the feeling of being able to help a defenseless person. I grew up in Louisville, Kentucky, in a poverty-stricken part of town commonly referred to as Portland. It was a very proud community, but there were issues and hurdles to get over if you wanted to succeed. Crime was high. I saw many kids turn to running drugs for the local known drug dealers. I would see them come into the local grocery store with their “Portland Fades”—that was the name of the haircut all the cool kids would get from Myers Barber Shop located in the heart of the Portland neighborhood—while wearing their new Jordans. These same kids with the latest shoes, fresh haircuts, and rope gold chains would still have to go home to their run-down houses where they were lucky to have any air or heat and often very little to no love. They would return to their abusive, alcoholic, or drug-addicted parents. It’s understandable why these young kids would turn to the local drug dealers, who seemed to have everything they didn’t have in life, as their means of survival. Seeing these drug dealers take advantage of these kids and their situations while simultaneously ruining their lives and the lives of so many in my community gave me an abhorrence for drug dealers. I despised the destruction I watched in families’ lives over the years, so it’s no wonder that my desire from early on in my police career was to protect the community by getting drug dealers off the streets. I was very fortunate. I tell people that I am from Portland, but Portland didn’t raise me. My parents are very conservative Christians. I was sheltered from many of the pitfalls that growing up in an impoverished area presented. My dad has been a Baptist preacher since before I was born. He pastored Shawnee Baptist Church in the Portland neighborhood for thirty-seven years, and at the age of seventy-seven, he is still going strong in a smaller church in Indiana. From as far back as my memory serves, our church had a very diverse congregation. There were black, white, and Hispanic members. While we had a few congregants who were well off, many were average paycheck-to-paycheck families, and a slew were poverty-stricken or even desolate people. We had everything from doctors to business owners to those who never finished high school. Our church had several bus routes that would go into the inner city and 3 bring hundreds of kids to church each Sunday. Each week there was a promotion on the buses. The kids would get a hamburger or some type of treat before they went home. The first priority was always to present the gospel of Christ, but we also knew church provided an escape to show these kids that someone loved them and cared for them, even if for only a few hours a week. There were a lot of sacrifices growing up in an inner-city church preacher’s home. My father is the ultimate example of service and sacrifice and taught me at a young age that we that we do good things for others out of compassion and not for anything in return. The majority of the people that were ministered to had nothing to give back, and that was okay because it was the example that Christ taught us. These early experiences set me up for my destiny and calling as a public servant. I was married to my first wife—yes, I’m a police divorce statistic—and we had three kids under the age of four when I came out of the academy. I started my police career a little later than I had wanted to at age twenty-seven, but I was so excited and ready to make a difference. There were many times I would have volunteered my time to continue a shift when things were super busy. During the first five and a half years of my police career, I worked the graveyard shift. Graveyard worked midnight to 8 a.m. on a six-day on and two-day off rotation. Several days a week, we would have court, which started at 9 a.m. The schedule is brutal on your body and family life. During this time early in my career, my disdain for defense attorneys (even though most are good people) was born. The attorneys knew many of the more eager police officers— the ones who locked a lot of people up—worked the late shift. They would put us in a holding pattern and try to wait us out, knowing that after a long night and several hours of sitting in a courthouse, you just wanted to go home. Many times, they won. This manipulative game is one of the many problems in our justice system as a whole. I’ll touch more on this topic later. My first sixteen weeks of training on the street were in the Portland neighborhood that I not only grew up in but still lived. It was surreal working with the cops I had seen on a daily basis at the convenience stores or McDonald’s—and, in turn, locking up some people I had played basketball with at the community parks. Every trip to the local food market was an 4 adventure of who did I lock up this week, and who wanted to kick my butt when they saw me in public. Fortunately, I treated people the way I would want my mom and dad or my kids treated, because there were times I was stopped by police—driving late at night in the high-crime area where I lived—and it wasn’t always a pleasant experience. I was talked down to and at times accused of things I didn’t do, so I vowed that I would NOT treat people with disrespect even before I became a police officer. The first years are always the most exciting. It was like living the “best of” COPS episodes several times a week. My very first run on my first day on the streets with my Field Training Officer involved an eighty-something-year-old deceased female. When we walked into her room, it was apparent she had fallen out of her bed and passed away on the cold wood floor all alone. She had a thin nightgown on and no underclothes. This wasn’t the first dead body I had seen, but it was the first one that I had to check the pulse on. I confirmed she was gone, even though she had obviously been deceased for a while. Seeing a dead body and actually touching a dead person are two different and unnerving experiences. During the next shift, I made my first homicide run. We were dispatched to a shooting in the Clarksdale housing projects. As we climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment, I was presented with my first smell of the gun powder/blood smell I mentioned earlier. It’s a very distinct smell that you never forget. It was also my first experience with the death gurgle. The death gurgle is when a person is dead or close to it, and their body is still trying to breathe. You can hear the blood gurgling in their throat as their body sometimes twitches with reflexes. This individual had been shot in the side of the head while sitting in his recliner. His skull and brain matter were embedded in the wall next to him, and his eyes were wide open. I tried to act like I had been there and done that, but I’m sure I looked like a deer in headlights. Anytime you made a significant run in the projects, people would amass in large groups to see what happened and check on their family and friends. While the projects were full of what most of society would think are dysfunctional people, they were a community all to their own. Usually, that meant their own set of internal rules and repercussions for breaking those rules. One of the main rules was not talking to the police; more importantly, if you do speak to 5 the police, do not be a rat. Most of the time, no one heard or saw anything, but in this case, someone said the individual committed suicide. There was one problem . . . no weapon. The .45 caliber handgun used to kill this victim was found in a trash can about 300 feet from the building. It’s kind of hard to shoot yourself in the head and throw the gun away outside of your residence. This was also my first experience with the resistance between police and the community we were there to protect and serve. I was sincerely there to help this community and the family of this victim. I was dumbfounded that this was the code within the community and felt sad that it hindered the help we could provide. The learning curve is quick on the streets, and if you don’t keep up with the curve, you fail miserably. Failing can lead to lawsuits, to being fired, indictments, injuries, or even worse—death. The excitement didn’t stop after my training phases; as a matter of fact, it was just getting started. I was placed on a late-watch crew that was high speed. I don’t want to offend any of my other bosses in the police department because I have had many, but my first Lieutenant (Joe Manning) and Sergeant (Chuck Tilford) were the best command duo I ever worked for. They were the perfect balance for each other and the many new officers in the late watch. Lt. Manning was the enforcer who had you shaking in your boots if you were called into his office, while Sgt. Tilford was the loving father figure that had the amazing ability to put you at ease. Sgt. Tilford was a chain smoker who actually had stopped smoking for quite some time, that is until our crew wreaked havoc on him (in a good way) with our aggressive work ethics and practical jokes. At one point, we covered the entire walls in his office with hats and artifacts we had collected over time. Another time, one of the officers thought it would be funny to place a used toilet that had been left on the sidewalk for trash pickup in his office. Our District Major didn’t find it so amusing the next morning and ordered that we clear anything not related to police matters out of the office by the end of our next shift. What a stick in the mud! Needless to say, Sgt. Tilford began smoking again shortly after our crew was assembled. My sincerest apologies, Mrs. Tilford. On September 11, 2001, I worked my late-watch shift, went home, and crashed. I had 6 been asleep about an hour when Tonya, my wife at the time, startled me awake. She turned the TV on and said, “Something is wrong. There’s some kind of attack going on!” I was fuzzyheaded and confused, but as I watched the TV, the second plane hit the Towers. My heart sank, and I had a pit in my stomach. The helpless feeling was overwhelming. As a young police officer, all I wanted to do was help and protect. I remember the solemn feeling at work that night at the roll call table. We were given the areas in our division that had important utility and water supplies. We were assigned these locations to rotate in and out of because no one knew what the next plan of attack was or where it would take place. This was a time of uncertainty in our country but also a time of unity. The police and first responders were appreciated and thanked. People were not afraid, like many are today, to associate with police and show their support. I was proud to be a police officer. I pray it does not take another 911 to bring unity to our great country. After I graduated from the academy, Mike Campbell was my last training officer. He is a heck of a cop and became a good friend. Mike would later be one of the groomsmen in my wedding and, ironically, with me the night I was shot on March 13, 2020. In my third year on the department, I was assigned the same beat on late watch as Mike. This particular night we received the call of a lady screaming in an apartment. As we approached the door, we could hear someone inside screaming for help. I kicked the front door expecting it to be a domestic dispute. Unfortunately, domestic abuse is an all-too-common call, but to my surprise, what we encountered was a forcible stranger rape in progress. Usually, police are reactive in cases such as this—you either take a report or call sex crimes, and they take control of the scene. This situation was different. The suspect jumped out of a window and fled on foot. I was much younger and in better shape then, and the chase was on. Fortunately, I caught the suspect, and the on-call sex crimes detective responded. The suspect was found guilty in court. Just a few years ago, I received an email that he was being released on probation. Situations like this are why I wanted to do this job. For that small moment in time, I made a difference in someone’s life. I couldn’t undo the damage that was inflicted on this poor woman, but I was able to help bring her some justice and peace of mind knowing this animal would not attack her again. 7 I remember when methamphetamine labs blew up, some literally! The first search warrant I served on an active meth lab was sometime in 2003/2004. I was still on late-watch patrol and stopped a truck leaving a local pool hall that was a constant problem location. The occupant of the truck had an array of drugs and guns in the car. This guy fit the typical drug dealer stereotype that television and movies have depicted. He was a tall, thin, white male with long, greasy dark hair and a beard. He had tattoos—which weren’t as mainstream as they are now—and rode motorcycles. This arrest led to a search of his house. I contacted a friend, Tony James, who was in our division’s FLEX unit, and he gladly came out to the scene and helped me draft the warrant, gather a team of guys, and execute the warrant. Tony graduated from the academy with me and had the same desire to work narcotics as I did. Tony was also present with me the night I was shot and was the one who helped save my life with the tourniquet he was carrying in his vest. Do you see a pattern here? Anyway, as soon as we went through the door to clear the house, we could smell the noxious odors that burned our throats and eyes. Meth labs were fairly new in this region, and there weren’t many protocols at the time to protect officers and citizens when dealing with these labs. This was my first, but far from my last, dealings with methamphetamines. Meth users, and more specifically cooks, are a peculiar breed. They are collectors of knives and glass pipes (chicken bones). They love to take electronics apart and try to fix them, and every single one has an array of sex toys and pornography. It’s a whole different world than the average law-abiding citizen will ever encounter. I remember about two hours into searching this house, my entire face from my chin to above my nose was numb from all the chemicals in the air from the active, large glass beakers full of cooking meth. We didn’t yet understand the volatility of these labs nor the dangerous and deadly effects that these chemicals placed on one’s lungs. I’ve had asthma since I was nine years old, and I don’t think it’s ever been the same since this warrant. We had a point of contact in our narcotics unit that responded to the scene. He collected samples from each of the beakers for court purposes and poured the rest down the sewer drain outside the house. This all seems insane looking back. It was maybe a year later that stringent 8 national protocols were put in place for meth labs. They were now deemed hazardous scenes, as they should be, and if you were exposed in any way, the boys from the fire department received great pleasure in stripping you down and hosing you off in the middle of the street. It didn’t matter if it was 100 degrees or 0 degrees out. If you got exposed . . . you got hosed. In 2005, I interviewed and won a spot in the 4th Division’s FLEX unit. The 4th Division was a division that had it all. We had homes that were historic and worth over a million dollars, two low-income housing projects, and areas that were middle class. Still, the majority was low income and full of impoverished citizens. Crack was still the drug of choice, and there was an abundance of crack houses in this division. The FLEX unit was a plainclothes, division-based unit that served the needs of the individual divisions throughout the department. We were flexible, thus the term FLEX. We were used for theft, robbery, and prostitution details, but the main purpose was to attack the drug issues. We were basically small six-to-eight-man drug units that were very proactive—jumping street corners and conducting investigations that usually ended with search warrants. Drugs were the driving factor in most of the issues that we were facing. We’ve all seen how drugs destroy families and communities. After five and a half years on patrol, this was just the jolt I needed that rejuvenated my spirit and love of police work. I learned new skills and saw a whole new side of people’s private lives that I never really wanted to view. You see, when you conduct search warrants, you go through everything . . . I mean everything! This will come into play later on in this book when discussing the search warrant at Breonna Taylor’s apartment. After a couple of years in FLEX, the drug scene started to shift. Crack was still a drug of choice for some, but the opioid scene came on with a vengeance. We started seeing young people from every socioeconomic background affected by this epidemic. Sure, drugs have always been in every end of town and not limited by race or gender, but this was different. This was a game changer. The pills were everywhere and easy to get. Doctors were prescribing them like candy, and there was no shortage of a sweet tooth for this devil. Weed was still a staple, but kids now had pill parties. It was turning them into zombies who couldn’t get enough to feed their addictions. 9 I remember an investigation that led us to an apartment in the south end of Louisville. The target of this investigation was a Middle Eastern male who was selling OxyContin by the hundreds. After we made entry and cleared the apartment, we began looking around before we began our search to ensure it was safe to continue. Hanging on the wall was a large picture of the Twin Towers and the surrounding area. I could feel my blood pressure rising. Another detective on the scene reached out to the FBI with this guy’s information. He was not only on the no-fly list, but he was on the terrorist watch list with ties to terrorist organizations. It was determined he was sending money from the drug proceeds back to fund the fight against America. We locked almost 10,000 Oxycontin, cash, and a weapon in his apartment. The Feds took custody of him, and he was deported out of the country. A couple of years ago, I received a call that the same suspect had been arrested again in the United States. Drugs are not only destroying us from within, but the proceeds are being used to attack us from the outside as well. It’s time to wake up and stop painting the police, who risk their lives to combat this epidemic, as the bad guys. I had a great FLEX career. We served no less than five search warrants per week, and I was always fortunate to have great partners who were capable and trustworthy. We had our share of car chases, fights, and some scary times, but it was where I felt at home. In 2009, my sergeant at the time, Mindy Baker, encouraged me to take the sergeant’s test. I originally said, “NO WAY!” I had no desire to climb the ranks of the police department. I was doing what I loved and wanted to get into the narcotics division. However, at the time, I started to see the passing of the guard. The older generation was starting to retire, and people who came on after me were being promoted. I also had been on long enough to realize that not everyone in a leadership position was a true leader. Some were totally incompetent at their jobs. Mindy looked at me and said, “You can either work for them or work with them.” Enough said and point taken. The sergeant’s exam was only three weeks away, and the study material was a mountain of papers. You had to study the Kentucky law book, the Fraternal Order of Police (FOP) contract, and a never-ending SOP (Standard Order of Procedure). While I’m not a savant, I’m also not an idiot, but I must admit I do not like reading. I crammed in everything I could and 10 ended up tying five people for 33rd on the written test. So essentially, I was number 37. That’s not too great since only about nine spots would be open at the time of promotions. While I didn’t utilize the same amount of time as the others to study for the written test, I was now on an even playing field for the oral assessment which played a large role in the promotion process. I studied like my career depended on it because as much as I like winning, I hate to lose or be embarrassed by a bad performance. I worked hard and, fortunately, jumped significantly. I remember being on my way home from work when my Sergeant called me. She said, “Jon, have you seen the list?” I told her I hadn’t. She went on to tell me I was number 5. I had jumped thirty-two people. I thought she was messing with me, but thankfully she wasn’t. I was pumped. When I look back on the four guys who finished ahead of me, three ended up Majors, and the other is a current Lieutenant Colonel on the department and a friend. I never studied for another promotional test. I took one out of curiosity but didn’t put any time into it. The phrase is that you only become a sergeant to be a lieutenant because s*#t flows up to Sergeants from officers and down from Lieutenants. I’ve been told I’m crazy for staying a sergeant, but I always loved the job I was in when the tests came around. I love the fact that a sergeant can be a leader, a buffer from the administration, and still do actual police work. 11