By Stephen Sanzeri
It was early August 1984, and a busy Friday night in the Bay Area. Bar-to-bar we went breaking up fights. The brawls were settled timely and no arrests were made. With midnight approaching, people were behaving themselves. We hadn’t had a call in over an hour, but the night was still young.
I stopped at the liquor store for a soda. I was a block from one of our many watering holes when I noticed a man punching parking meters as he strolled along the sidewalk. Then he’d shake a meter and start yelling. I radioed my location and walked toward the “nut.” “And roll me a cover unit,” I added as the man eyed my approach.
“What’s up?” I asked.
In his early twenties, the man looked like he was ready to bolt. He wasn’t a big guy but was in shape. I could smell alcohol. I asked for ID and he had none.
“Back off,” he said.
“Why are you beating up parking meters?”
“Fuck you,” he said and grabbed a parking meter. Wrong! He resisted for a few seconds and then complied as he uttered a few choice words.
Mr. Jones was his name, and he was now in custody for drunk in public and vandalism. And this was just the beginning. “Turn around and lean against the wall Mr. Jones,” I said preparing to book him at our city jail. I removed the cuffs. “Sit!”
Jones starred at me and then squared off. I could tell it was on. No more words, I moved Jones toward the cell. He threw a punch and missed. With my beavertail sap, I tapped him on the elbow and he yelled, “Ah-F**k.”
EMTs arrived and transported Mr. Jones to the county hospital.
It was just after noon when I awoke at mom’s house. Swing shift was held over until 4:00 a.m. due to the call volume. I’d stay at my mother’s a few times a month for a visit. It was also closer to the department. I’d just brushed my teeth when the doorbell rang. Mom was in the garage with the laundry. Doorbell rang again.
“Hold your horses,” I said.
I opened the door and almost fell over. I was stunned. I think Mr. Jones was too. Yes, it was Mr. Jones and he had a cast on his arm.
What the hell are you doing here?” I asked.
Jones didn’t say a word.
My mother walked up behind me. “Mark, come on in. This is my son, Stephen.”
“We already met,” Jones said as he walked past me.
“And what happened to your arm?” Mom asked.
“It was an accident,” Jones said as he turned to look at me.
Mark Jones had three prior DUI’s, one being a felony. My mother was the chapter President of MADD. Jones’ visit was regarding community service. An hour later, I was walking Jones to the front door.
“No hard feelings,” Jones said, using his left hand to shake mine.
“Not at all,” I said. “And I think you should do your community service elsewhere.”
“I planned on it the moment I saw you standing there,” Jones said.
