Post by pete1 on Dec 20, 2010 3:30:30 GMT -4
In 1966 I was a young Baltimore Policeman working a foot post in the Eastern District. One day I was loaned out in the Wagon with Bernie The Pouch Sanzone. Bernie got that handle by being the spaghetti eating champ of the east side, and he looked the part. In those days female prisoners were held at the old Pine Street Station on the west side. Every District had its own court room, and one job of the wagon was to transport female prisoners to court. On these wagon runs a Police Woman would ride along for our safety. In those days females were not Police Officers. The Police Women handled juveniles, assisted on rape cases, undercover investigations, handled the female prisoners, and never worked the street in uniform. Our Police Women was Faith Briscoe. Ms. Briscoe was a highly educated, good looking black lady that was street wise, and sharp as a tack.
Leaving the station with Faith riding in the center our first stop was the White Coffee Pot at Monument and Patterson Pk. Avenue for a coffee, donuts, and an egg sandwich. In those days people liked the Cops, they knew us. It was impossible to eat without the citizens interacting with you. During these interactions information would flow on the bad guys. After breakfast we headed for Pine Street.
Our prisoner was a West Virginia transplant arrested after some heavy drinking, and whatever, on The Block. The Central District entertained The Block; however we butted the Central at Fayette, and Aisquith Street in those days. The prisoner in her early thirties had a black eye, a fat lip, and several teeth missing. Riding in the back of the wagon with the prisoner not a word came out of her mouth for ten minutes. When she opened up I got her life’s history. Born dirt poor with six brothers and sisters. The oldest of seven her father was killed in the coal mines when she was ten. She only went to the eighth grade, and has been working her whole life. Her only recreation as a kid was playing guitar, and singing in church. I’ve heard these type of stories before, buy there was something different about this woman.
After court we transported the prisoner back to Pine Street. Something the Judge said convinced her that she needed to go back home, and change her wicked ways. Like a sucker I loaned her twenty bucks for the trip, and of course she promised to pay me back. The money never came in the mail.
Four or five years later I was detailed to the Civic Center right around Christmas for an event. The Sergeant told me to walk Baltimore St. down to Holiday to prevent purse snatches. It took me about a half hour to reach Holiday running the punks off the corners, and checking things out as I walked. On the corner of Baltimore and Holiday the Salvation Army was singing Christmas Carols with a small band for donations. I walked up and put a few dollars in the pot. The band was playing an old gospel song called This World Is Not My Home. Turning back to my post the female guitar player started singing; she had a strong West Virginia Accent. I hesitated for a moment, but continued walking my post. After five minutes curiosity got the best of me. I went back.
As I approached the band they were cleaning up for the night. Making eye contact with the guitar player I thought to myself, this is not the same woman. She looked at me for several seconds when a bid smile came over her face. She said to me, “you’re my Santa Clause Policeman”. To make a long story short she straightened her life out, had her teeth fixed, and I got my twenty back with a five dollar tip. Twenty five years later I ran into her again while she was singing gospel music at the mission on Central Ave. near Baltimore Street. I took her guitar, and together we sang This World Is Not My Home.
True Story
By Pete Richter
Leaving the station with Faith riding in the center our first stop was the White Coffee Pot at Monument and Patterson Pk. Avenue for a coffee, donuts, and an egg sandwich. In those days people liked the Cops, they knew us. It was impossible to eat without the citizens interacting with you. During these interactions information would flow on the bad guys. After breakfast we headed for Pine Street.
Our prisoner was a West Virginia transplant arrested after some heavy drinking, and whatever, on The Block. The Central District entertained The Block; however we butted the Central at Fayette, and Aisquith Street in those days. The prisoner in her early thirties had a black eye, a fat lip, and several teeth missing. Riding in the back of the wagon with the prisoner not a word came out of her mouth for ten minutes. When she opened up I got her life’s history. Born dirt poor with six brothers and sisters. The oldest of seven her father was killed in the coal mines when she was ten. She only went to the eighth grade, and has been working her whole life. Her only recreation as a kid was playing guitar, and singing in church. I’ve heard these type of stories before, buy there was something different about this woman.
After court we transported the prisoner back to Pine Street. Something the Judge said convinced her that she needed to go back home, and change her wicked ways. Like a sucker I loaned her twenty bucks for the trip, and of course she promised to pay me back. The money never came in the mail.
Four or five years later I was detailed to the Civic Center right around Christmas for an event. The Sergeant told me to walk Baltimore St. down to Holiday to prevent purse snatches. It took me about a half hour to reach Holiday running the punks off the corners, and checking things out as I walked. On the corner of Baltimore and Holiday the Salvation Army was singing Christmas Carols with a small band for donations. I walked up and put a few dollars in the pot. The band was playing an old gospel song called This World Is Not My Home. Turning back to my post the female guitar player started singing; she had a strong West Virginia Accent. I hesitated for a moment, but continued walking my post. After five minutes curiosity got the best of me. I went back.
As I approached the band they were cleaning up for the night. Making eye contact with the guitar player I thought to myself, this is not the same woman. She looked at me for several seconds when a bid smile came over her face. She said to me, “you’re my Santa Clause Policeman”. To make a long story short she straightened her life out, had her teeth fixed, and I got my twenty back with a five dollar tip. Twenty five years later I ran into her again while she was singing gospel music at the mission on Central Ave. near Baltimore Street. I took her guitar, and together we sang This World Is Not My Home.
True Story
By Pete Richter
