The ride-along.

I doubt anybody at Apple ever envisioned this a bona fide use case for Find My Friends. And yet, here we were. Pulling up my phone when the officer wasn’t watching, I could see three dots moving around the map in fits and spurs: two representing my teammates in Division 4, and one slowly blinking as the police cruiser I was in drove through Division 2 of Kentucky’s largest city, on a warm Friday evening.

It wasn’t a bourbon heist gone wrong. It was, technically, research. But although starting the Code for America fellowship in 2013 I was aware that I would be involved in criminal justice (it was my preference, as a matter of fact), and I knew the entire February will be spent far away from my San Francisco home on some intensive hands-on training, the arrival of that one form in late January took me and my team by surprise.

The introduction stated, matter-of-factly:

“Attached please find the Civilian Rider Program form. Fill out the top portion of the Civilian Rider Program form; leave the «division in which you wish to ride along» blank; then sign and date and send to me.”

The words “fun” or “riding shotgun” were nowhere to be found. Neither was a mention of the late shift on Friday night, our eventual assignment. What was there instead was a set of instructions along the lines of:

“Civilian riders are observers only and shall not become involved verbally, or physically, with anyone unless an officer’s safety is an issue or directed to do so by the officer.”

…and fine print of the kind you secretly hope is there just in case, although deep inside you know something horrible must have happened once in order to summon it:

“I agree to complete the Covenant Not to Sue Form (LMPD #03-08-0200).”


Fast forward a few weeks, then, and walking out of my hotel to Car 6168 I found myself somewhat nervous, clutching my iPhone as if it was a lifeline to the world I was leaving behind for a few hours. I have already dipped my toes in the criminal justice universe, having seen the inside of the jail and various court rooms, but this seemed like a bigger deal. I spent a significant amount of time deciding what to wear and wondering how a wimpy nerd like me could ever establish rapport with a hardened, seasoned cop.

I needn’t have feared. The officer assigned to me—a huge, black, friendly, jovial man—spent most of his time telling me about his loves: of his son-in-the-making, his job, his team, and, randomly enough, San Francisco and the 49ers. And technology, too, although that admiration was clearly unrequited by one of the many shitty old Panasonic Toughbooks that the Chief of Police was dying to replace with iPads. I remember our conversations alternating between computers, family, LMPD, and race relations. He also referred to me as “baby” on more than one occasion, which I found rather endearing—and the other cops on our beat were just as hilarious, the camaraderie exactly what you’d expect having watched Bad boys and Tango & Cash about two dozen times each.

I mean, hypothetically.

All the domestic interventions we went on had none of the glamour and polish of TV police procedurals, though. It was pretty nasty stuff. Credit card theft within family. A mother living with her 40-year-old son whom she just struck in the face with a hammer. A guy who accidentally shot himself in the leg, lying through his teeth to cover up a possession of an illegal firearm. A father holding a gun to his daughter’s head (“Why don’t you sit in the car for this one, brother.”). One constant: Alcohol. Then: Dogs barking in the background. And: A small kid sitting in a random place with nothing to do. Plus, a feeling of pervasive futility of all of it. “We’ll be back. Probably even tonight.” We often were.

My teammates fared no better, the stream of our text messages forming an alternative dispatch log where exciting events mixed with the routine, often without any of us knowing which one was which:

“Watching a guy having seizures.”

“Crazy gf busted elec meter”

“I want one of those ramens.”

“The guy may be leaking. And I doubt he meant oil.”

“Car reeks of weed. Little baby.”

“Also, watched a bit of Jackass: The Movie. Not kidding.”

“Breaking up fight in alley.”

”Arrest!”

“Bio break in a community center. EXCITING TIMES.”

“Rambling about whoring in lobby.”

“Aaaand headed back to jail.”

And so on, until two in the morning.

Ultimately, there were no shots fired. No car chases. No breaking into places. I don’t remember now if I really expected any of those things to happen, but that Friday night was an important part of the education I was getting through the entire month: Criminal justice is often repetition. Mundanity. Slow course corrections.

And, sometimes, quick reversals from seriousness to levity. So was my favourite moment of the night, in the middle of the shift. It was yet another call in yet another typical suburban home, in one of the poorest neighborhoods named, in painful irony, California. Inside the house an angry, old, drunk lady yelling at everyone, in turn: each one of the three cops, a barking dog, a little kid… really letting us all have it.

Eventually, she notices me in the background—trying to blend in in my carefully chosen attire, scribbling in my notepad. She takes a step towards me and yells “WHO’S THAT?” For a second there, I am genuinely afraid. If things go wrong, that little blinking blue dot on Find My Friends and my poignant observations (“Cool so far.”) will be people’s last impression of me.

But then, my host officer looks calmly at the lady, and without skipping a bit—and without us talking through any of this beforehand—says: “He’s a crime reporter.” And, three seconds later: “International, actually. From Poland!” 

Within three more seconds the lady calms down, looks at me curiously, and as her hand reflexively goes up to fix her hair, she mutters, half-flirtatiously, “Oh, yeah…?”

It was very hard not to start laughing right then and there.