‘Tough girl’ gets a lesson in toughness

Just in case my tough-girl persona has not made it clear you

shouldn’t mess with me, allow me to share this little tidbit of

information with you: I spent four hours last week training at the

Costa Mesa Police Department.

I learned take-down techniques, baton techniques, “c-holds,” arm

bars, how to deflect a man with a weapon, how to handcuff a peaceful

protester, how to handcuff a not so peaceful protester, head locks,

pinning techniques ... so much useful information.

Just ask Officer Gabe Coyoca, who was my personal punching bag

from 7 to 11 a.m. He was helpless against me. Poor guy.

OK, so maybe Gabe was taking it a little easy on me. He only

towers over me and has arms the size of tree trunks. Never mind that

I couldn’t even get my hand all the way around his biceps when

applying certain holds. Sgt. Clay Epperson kept telling me to “run

the knife blade of my hand along his tendon.” This was supposed to

bring Gabe to his knees with pain.

“Is that tendon in here somewhere under all this muscle?” I asked.

I don’t think I ever really found it, but Gabe was gracious enough

to drop to the ground each time I allegedly administered the grip.

I felt like a super cop. (Thanks for faking it Gabe.)

I learned more Friday than how to roll around on the ground with

police. I learned a lot about their jobs and their attitudes about

their jobs.

Epperson invited me to come down to the station to sit in on and

participate in, one of the routine refresher courses officers must

complete every year. I tried to get out of the first hour of the

class -- the classroom portion -- but Epperson insisted I come for

the whole thing, so I could put the physical training in the proper

context. (There’s that word again.) So, I did.

Boy am I glad.

“Our objective is to keep the public safe and keep us safe so we

can go home at night,” Epperson told the class numerous times.

Epperson reviewed proper use of force and pertinent case law. He

also showed a video that, judging by the glazed-over eyes in the

room, each officer had already seen at least twice. But it painfully

demonstrated what can go wrong on the job.

The footage was shot from a mounted camera in the patrol car. It

was a routine traffic stop and a 23-year-old state trooper came up

against a man, who was uncooperative and, as it turns out, armed. The

video ended with the screams of the officer and the man driving away.

It left a mark in my memory. Did you know the top three reasons

officers get hurt or killed on the job? Poor tactics. Overconfidence.

Complacency.

I always thought of officers as ticket writers or the ones who

always break up parties. For the most part, people don’t like being

told what to do, especially when they also have to pay a fine or

spend eight mind-numbing hours in traffic school.

Like most people, I have encountered police officers who are,

well, um, rude. Like when I got my first and only traffic ticket on

Orange Avenue (be careful right around Bay Street.) I remembered

thinking, “Gosh, he didn’t have to be so callous.”

Even though I was getting a ticket, I was smiling and friendly. A

little ticked off, but overall pretty pleasant. (Initially hoping I

might get out of it.)

Now I understand why he was seemingly rude. They can’t let their

guard down. Carelessness can get you killed.

I know I am a somewhat civil, non-aggressive, unarmed motorist,

but the officer who pulled me over doesn’t.

He could assume I am harmless. That the toddler seat in the back

indicates I am a sweet local mother, whose wooden platform sandals

apparently applied a little too much weight to the accelerator.

But we all know what assuming does.

More than making a donkey out of oneself, police officers are more

concerned about making it home at night.

Who knows, my tattoos and piercings could indicate criminal

affiliation. I could be tripping out on some weird hallucinogen. I

could have a knife in my purse, a gun under the seat or a Little

League bat that could be used as a weapon.

Not that it’s likely, but there is a chance. And when the odds

have to do with personal safety, one errs on the side of caution. Too

bad if someone thinks you’re a jerk. You’re alive.

The guys in my class were far from jerks. I can only think of a

handful of times I have laughed harder, or smiled bigger. (No, it had

nothing to do with the fact I had to intertwine my arms with a

strong, courageous police officer -- wink, wink.)

So next time I get pulled over (not that I am planning to in the

near future) I won’t expect a smile or joke. If they want to wrestle,

though, I’m ready.

* LOLITA HARPER writes columns Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.

She may be reached at (949) 574-4275 or by e-mail at

lolita.harper@latimes.com.