Trooper Down! Page 2

  Some of the material I wanted to include had to be omitted for editing purposes. For example, an entire chapter on the highway patrol’s communications system, which serves as a “lifeline” to troopers on patrol, was deleted to save space. I hope telecommunicators across the state, who generously gave of their time and their stories, will accept my apology. Without them, the highway patrol would come to a virtual halt.

  At the heart of the book are the accounts of three North Carolina troopers who were killed in 1985. I found these passages difficult to write. In each case, the violence was senseless, and the victims—all of whom were fine people—had their lives prematurely ended. I’m deeply indebted to the families of the troopers involved—Frank and Bonnie Harmon, James and Frances Coggins, and Mrs. Jackie Worley—for their faith in this project and for their courage in recounting the painful details surrounding the incidents.

  I also wish to thank Colonel Jack F. Cardwell and the North Carolina Highway Patrol for giving me almost unlimited access to the information I needed to complete the book. Without such cooperation, Trooper Down! would not have been possible,

  While nearly everyone I met provided some type of assistance, certain people were particularly kind. My special thanks to the following: Captain William T. Harris, Troop G Commander, who patiently honored all my requests, including rides on patrol “just one more time” so I could experience first-hand the role of a trooper; Major Robert A. Barefoot, Sergeant Braxton B. Oliver, and the instructors at the Highway Patrol Training Center in Garner, North Carolina, who allowed me to roam their campus freely and answered dozens of questions about cadet life; and Communications Center directors Glenn Griffin, Thurmond Perry, R. C. Savage, and Frank Huggins, who explained how the patrol’s statewide radio network operates.

  Several people were responsible for helping me see this project through. My heartfelt thanks to: Rick Boyer, fellow author, who led me to Catherine Mahar, a wonderful agent in Boston; Asheville Citizen-Times western bureau chief Bob Scott, who gave so much and asked so little in return; Dr. Louis Rubin, publisher, and Susan Ketchin, editor, at Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill, whose excellent ideas enhanced the manuscript greatly; finally, Trooper Joey Reece, who kept me out of trouble by making sure I got the details right.

  Through my research—which began as a newspaper feature and grew into a book—I came to see the men and women behind the gray-and-black uniform as individuals. I gained a new understanding and sense of respect for what they do, day in and day out. I met with them on their jobs, in their homes, in restaurants, jails, courthouses, headquarters, patrol cars, and on the side of the road. I took coffee breaks with them, had dinner with their families, spent hours on patrol with them, watched them laugh at their mistakes, cry about their losses. As a result, I came to view them as people, rather than simply figures of authority. Some of these officers I now consider good friends.

  I was impressed with their honesty, intelligence, and sensitivity. While a few of the troopers I met were less than sterling characters, the majority were decent, hardworking people attracted not just to the elite image of the highway patrol, but by a sincere willingness to help others.

  None of which means that next time I’m caught speeding, I won’t be stopped, questioned, or fined. For that’s one of the first things I learned about the North Carolina Highway Patrol. It’s an organization composed of professionals, people who by and large believe in what they do and take their work seriously, yet who are often misunderstood.

  “There are things the public will never comprehend about the highway patrol,” said one officer. “They see this guy riding around in a shiny car, or drinking coffee at a restaurant, flirting with women, or writing a few tickets.

  “But that just happens on the best damn days. They don’t see the times when we’re holding a kid whose mother just got killed, or telling somebody’s parents their son won’t be home, or seeing a teenager so strung out on drugs he’ll never be worth anything to society.

  “They don’t see us at two in the morning on one of these back roads with a car full of drunks—none of them wanting to go to jail. Or see us facing the possibility of getting shot.

  “The hours are hard and demanding. We’re working nights, holidays, weekends, while our family spends time without us.

  “There’s just a lot more to it than anyone realizes.”

  This book is for troopers everywhere, on every highway in every state, and for the public they willingly serve.

  MARIE BARTLETT

  February 1988

  Candler, North Carolina

  Prologue

  “We’re state employees with a job to do, but we’re a fraternity too. You don’t say, ‘I work for the highway patrol.’ You say, ‘I’m a member of the highway patrol.’ It’s like joining a club, with a very elite membership.” —Anonymous trooper

  It is 11:05 on a Friday night and North Carolina highway patrolman Joel K. Reece is parked in a silver, unmarked LTD, calibrating a VASCAR unit. The device earmarks speeding drivers by measuring and computing the distance between two points of reference. Troopers like it because it allows them to spot potential violators without being detected.

  There’s nothing to do now but wait in the dark. Reece leans back against the seat and taps his hand against the steering wheel, forefinger and thumb pressed together—a sure sign he’s getting restless.

  At five feet eight and 160 pounds, the thirty-two-year-old officer is small but powerfully built, with dark good looks and an impish grin. The son of a former policeman, he is proud of the patrol’s sharp image and works hard to keep himself in shape.

  Once called a “golden boy”—a term used for troopers who present a neat appearance, perform their duties well, and don’t create problems for the patrol—he is devoted to his job and the organization.

  “I guess I’m a company man,” he has said during his nine years on the patrol. “I love what I do.”

  The radio crackles and Reece picks it up. It is another trooper, patrolling another stretch of highway.

  “Ten-twenty?” Reece asks the caller (what’s your location?).

  “Downtown Swannanoa.”

  “What’d you do? Give up around here?”

  “Negative,” the patrolman replies. “I’ll be back in just a minute. We’re looking for a 10-55 (drunk driver).”

  A second officer’s voice comes over the line.

  “This is the pits!” he exclaims. “There’s nothing going on tonight. When we do find a drunk driver, we’ll probably wreck, what with all of us trying to get to him at the same time.”

  “It’s early,” says Reece. “It’ll pick up.”

  The men sign off and Reece decides to cruise Interstate 40. In the traffic ahead is a green, dilapidated Buick periodically crossing the midline.

  Reece clocks him at a suspiciously slow 28 mph before he flicks on the blue light.

  Moments later, the Buick comes to a weaving halt.

  In the dark there is no way to tell if the driver is alone, male, female, harmless, or armed to the teeth. Flashlight in hand, Reece approaches the car with a caution born of experience. Ever since his close friend, Giles Harmon, was shot and killed during a routine traffic check, he applies all of his law enforcement training to every stop.

  Reaching the left rear of the car, he swipes his hand lightly across its side, making sure his fingerprints are left behind. Such prints could serve as evidence against a driver who fires at an officer, then takes off, claiming he was never stopped.

  Then he does a quick but professional scan of the car’s interior. How many occupants? Any weapons in sight? Signs of drugs? What’s the driver up to? Has he turned around or is he sitting face forward? Is he reaching for anything and what is it? Are his hands in plain view?

  Reece stops just short of the driver’s window, his body close to the car for protection.

  A bearlike man with stringy hair and a scruffy yellow beard looks up.

  “Evenin’, officer,” he
says, slurring his words.

  “Let me see your driver’s license,” Reece says calmly. The man hands him a small plastic card and Reece holds it under the light to check its validity.

  “Okay,” says Reece, opening the car door. “You’ll have to come with me.”

  His name is Devlin Farmer (the person is real, the name is not). Twenty-six years old, he is wearing a dark purple T-shirt, mud-splattered jeans, and a pair of black canvas shoes that curl at the toes.

  And he is huge. So big that he dwarfs his arresting officer, who has just told him he’s being taken into custody for drunk driving. Reece has already handcuffed him and placed him in the front seat of the patrol car.

  “Sir, uncuff me, sir,” Farmer pleads. “These things are killin’ me!”

  Reece, struggling to get a seat belt around the man’s enormous midriff, ignores him.

  “Hell,” he mutters, jerking the seat belt forward. “I don’t know if I can get this thing around you or not!”

  “My arms is cut in two, sir.”

  “No they’re not.”

  “Yeah, they are, sir.”

  The belt finally snaps into place and Reece returns to the driver’s seat, where he radios in his position. He will ask the telecommunicator to verify Farmer’s license and check the vehicle registration. Then he’ll inform them he has a 10-55 (intoxicated driver) in custody.

  “Turn around and face me now,” he instructs Farmer. “I’m gonna give you a little test. See the black tip of this pen?”

  Farmer nods, his head bobbing unsteadily.

  “Follow it with your eyes.”

  The man tries, but can’t seem to focus.

  A slight edge creeps into Reece’s voice.

  “Can you not do it?” he says.

  “Sir, I’m nervous.”

  “Well this isn’t too hard to do—to look at a pen. Don’t move your head. Keep your head still.”

  Farmer squirms and the cuffs bite deeper into his wrists.

  “Sit still,” Reece says, “and it won’t hurt so bad. Now tell me how many beers you’ve had today.”

  “One or two,” says Farmer.

  Reece eyes him warily.

  “One or two beers won’t make a man your size stagger around.”

  “I ain’t lying.”

  “Had any liquor or drugs?”

  “Nope,” says Farmer, “I ain’t that kind of guy.”

  Reece shakes his head and puts the cruiser in gear. He has yet to meet a drunk driver who’s had more than “one or two beers.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Farmer wants to know.

  “To the breathalyzer room at the courthouse.”

  “Well, can’t you please uncuff me first?”

  “No, I can’t,” says the trooper. “You might reach over and grab the steering wheel.”

  “I won’t do nothin’. I promise.”

  Reece tells him to sit back and relax. They’ll be at the courthouse in five minutes. At the entrance to the booking room, the officer unbuckles his holster and steps into a cubicle to deposit his gun. Twelve years earlier, in this same building, North Carolina troopers Dean Arledge and Lawrence Canipe were killed in the breathalyzer room when a drunk driver grabbed Canipe’s pistol and shot both men in the back. As a result, law enforcement officers are now required to put their weapons aside while administering breathalyzer tests.

  Inside the booking room, Reece starts the paperwork while a sheriff’s deputy frisks Farmer. Behind them is the “drunk tank,” a grimy, concrete enclosure designed to hold up to twenty or thirty inebriated adults. Three men, all in various stages of intoxication, are sitting on a wooden bench against the wall. One has been protesting his innocence all night: he wasn’t driving the car in which he was found, he says, he was walking alongside it.

  “Yeah, and doing about eighty miles an hour at the time,” says the trooper who arrested him. “You must have a great set of legs.”

  Farmer is spread-eagled against the counter, ready for the routine search that is part of every arrest. With the cuffs removed, he seems faintly bored, as though he’s done this several times before.

  “Take your shoes off,” the deputy tells him. “Now your socks. Turn them inside out. That’s right. Now put ’em back on.” His brown leather wallet, a set of keys, and seventy dollars in small bills are on the counter.

  A few minutes later, Reece, who’s been busy with paperwork since he and Farmer arrived, escorts him down the hall. In the breathalyzer room, no larger than a bedroom, are three desks, five folding chairs, and—at the moment—eight people. Half are waiting their turn at the breathalyzer machines. The other half are troopers. Two of the officers are sergeants who routinely administer drunk driving tests.

  Inside the small, windowless room it is hot and stuffy. Reece pulls up a chair and loosens his tie before turning to Farmer.

  “Welcome to the circus,” he says. “Grab a seat ’cause it looks like we’re gonna be here a while.”

  On weeknights, it takes up to an hour to process one drunk driver. Fridays and Saturdays are worse.

  In a corner of the room is a heavyset woman wearing tight black pants and a low-cut top, exposing parts of her considerable breasts.

  “So what are the charges?” she asks the trooper seated before her.

  “Lots of stuff,” he says, smiling. “But first we’ve gotta get the basics. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Color eyes?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, leaning forward. “Look for yourself.”

  Every trooper in the room grins.

  “Occupation?”

  “None right now,” she says.

  “Ever been arrested before?”

  “Yeah, for all kinds of things.”

  “What?”

  “I said all kinds of stuff.”

  The officer looks up sharply, his good humor gone.

  “What?” he says impatiently. “You might as well tell us because we can find out anyway.”

  “Then go ahead and find out.”

  “Anything bad? Ever had any felonies?”

  “No.”

  “Any drug charges?”

  “No.”

  She sits back while the officer prepares the breathalyzer test. After blowing into the machine and waiting for the results, she registers .11, one point over the legal limit. A few minutes later, she is on her way to the magistrate’s office to post bail.

  “Don’t we know her from somewhere?” Reece asks when she leaves the room.

  “Yeah,” says a sergeant, “she’s that hooker who got busted for cutting up a customer. Hurt him pretty bad too.”

  “You mean guys actually pay for that?” says another officer.

  Reece laughs and looks at his watch. It’s nearly 2:00 A.M. and he’s only brought in one drunk driver tonight. Still, he expects to hit triple figures soon, when he arrests his one hundredth drunk driver for the year. That makes him feel good.

  It is Farmer’s turn at the breathalyzer and Reece completes the paperwork while the sergeant explains to Farmer that he has the right to refuse the test, the right to call an attorney or to have another witness on hand. Most people waive these rights when they realize the delays will wind up costing them more time and money. Farmer agrees to take the test.

  At an adjoining table is a short, slender man, early twenties, wearing glasses, jeans, and a sleeveless black T-shirt. He was at a bar when a friend convinced him to go to a restaurant and bring back some food. On the way, he was stopped by a sharp-eyed trooper and arrested for drunk driving. The breathalyzer shows a .14 score, four points above the North Carolina legal limit. He will automatically lose his driver’s license for the next ten days and, if convicted, could have his license suspended for up to a year.

  He is shaking his head over the news.

  “My wife is gonna hate me for the rest of my life,” he moans. “She’s gonna kick my ass. I can’t believe I did this.”

  No one
appears to be listening.

  Reece is intent on watching the sergeant complete the first half of Farmer’s test.

  “I say at least .14,” he predicts.

  “Umm, maybe,” the sergeant responds. “With this guy’s size, he’d have to drink a case of beer and a pint of liquor before it would even tell on him.”

  Farmer looks dejected.

  “I’ve got to quit this drinkin’,” he says. “It’s killin’ me.

  “I’d like to stop,” he adds softly.

  He scores .13 on the breathalyzer.

  “Can you come to court on the twenty-second?” Reece asks him. Farmer nods.

  “Then let’s talk to the magistrate and get your bail set. As long as you can post bail and get someone to pick you up who isn’t drunk, you’re free to go.”

  “How much is it gonna cost me?” Farmer says.

  “That’s up to the magistrate,” Reece replies.

  Half an hour later, the legalities complete, Farmer is on his way to find a phone.

  For Reece, hours away from the end of his shift, the night is still young. So far, everything’s been normal . . . even quiet. Yet that is subject to change, and quickly, as every state trooper well knows.

  Just ask Louis B. Rector.

  1. “Am I Gonna Die?”

  “It’s always in the back of your mind. You use all the precautions you can, but when you’re out on the road alone, you’re vulnerable. And there’s not much you can do about it.” —Patrol sergeant

  Trooper Louis Bryan Rector almost didn’t make it into the highway patrol.

  Bom in the small coastal town of Elizabeth City, North Carolina, he tried to join the N.C. State Highway Patrol after high school, but failed to pass the entrance exam. For a while he forgot about his yen to be a trooper, went on to complete college with a degree in drafting and design, and took a job in Suffolk, Virginia, at the Highway Department, drawing road plans.

  One day he got a call from a highway patrol sergeant who said that Louis could take the entrance exam again. This time he passed and was accepted at the patrol academy in Chapel Hill.