Officer 1eight7: Trials and Tribulations of an Undercover Cop

By paul lozada

This is a true story of San Francisco's most decorated and most investigated undercover cop, Paul Lozada. Follow Paul's journey throughout his career as he recounts near-death experiences, leaning into his faith, navigating fears as a family man, and confronting political barriers to uncover police corruption within the San Francisco Police Department.

Don't be swayed by the badge number, Paul stood against the city's dirty cops, inequality, and racism poisoning the ranks of the police force. Officer 187 became a liability, a symbol for the demise of department corruption, and the powers at hand that made every effort to silence him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: paul lozada
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005819088

paul lozada

In his career, Sgt. Lozada’s assignments were an Intelligence Unit, Special Operations Group, Federal TaskForce, Homicide Division, Special Investigations Division, Gang Task Force, Narcotics Division, FencingDetail, Vice Crimes, Plainclothes Unit (34 years), and Patrol Division (2 years). A Subject Matter Expert inOrganized Street Gangs and Narcotics. Sgt. Lozada has made over twenty thousand Felony Arrests as aPolice Officer, ranging from Narcotics to Homicides. During these arrests, Sgt. Lozada survived numerousOfficer Involved Shootings and armed assaults by violent criminals. His status and badge weren’t the savinggrace in all of these situations. It was his faith, service to the Lord, and the Armor of God he wore on a dailybasis to fight the Spiritual Battle against the forces of Evil, on the Street, and within his own Departments.As a result of his bravery and work beyond the call of duty, Sgt. Lozada was awarded: 2 Gold Medals ofValor, 3 Silver Medals of Valor, 5 Bronze Medals of Valor, 5 Meritorious Conducts Awards, 15 PoliceCommission Commendations, 300+ Captain's Commendations, 17 Auto Theft Recovery Awards, 1992 PoliceOfficers Association Police Officer of the Year, 1993 San Francisco Board of Supervisors and Mayor's PoliceOfficer of the Year, 5 Unit Citations, Drug Enforcement Administration Certificate of Appreciation,Department of Justice Certificate of Appreciation, American Legion Medal of Valor, Police Officer of theYear - 2000, American Police Hall of Fame – Silver Star, United States Martial Arts Association PublicServant of the Year - 2007, and Santa Clara Police Department’s Special Operations Award - 2018. Paul wasconsidered to be the highest decorated officer in the San Francisco Police Department.

Book preview

Officer 1Eight7

by

Paul Lozada

(Officer 1Eight7)

Copyright © 2021 by Paul Lozada

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 978-0-578-24674-1

Printed in USA by 48HrBooks (www.48HrBooks.com) 

Book Cover by Christopher Peachey

PREFACE

They had an agenda, and I had an agenda. Mine was to serve the Lord, our Savior and do GOD’s work on the streets as a Cop. Theirs was to put a feather in their cap by taking down a Cop who was doing the Police Work they could only dream of doing. Obviously, we were serving two separate GODs, I knew who mine was because I got on my knees every day to pray for guidance and discernment.

They served only themselves and the powers who presented them with the ability to receive an overtime check at any cost. They know in their hearts what they did was unethical. How can a person wake up in the morning and look at themself in the mirror knowing that they are living out a lie? The Police Star gave them a false sense of authority. The Almighty has authority over all his creations.

It was never about money when I filed lawsuits against the City of San Francisco and the San Francisco Police Department, California Exposition & State Fair Police Department or Santa Clara Police Department. It was about principle. I find it very telling how all the Command Staff that went after me and or made derogatory comments about my character and Police work ended up dead by suicide, heart attacks, or alcoholism. It was very sad to hear about their demise and seeing some of them in current time. My only hope was that they accepted Christ before they selfishly took their lives. I have forgiven those who have caused me pain and anguish. I pray that as they continue their life’s journey, they forgive themselves first, so they can in turn forgive others.

INTRODUCTION

I remember communicating to my mother of my interest in writing an autobiography. This was in her later years when she was in and out of the hospital for various ailments related to age. She told me that she would write the introduction for my book. There were no further discussions after that. Nineteen years later, as I’m writing my book. I take a break to research some files that I could add. I came across a pdf file with a collection of my mother’s personal memoirs. I saved these writings without ever taking a glance. So here you are, my mother’s introduction to my life:

To those of you who are about to read this book, know that you will be sharing the memories of one man’s heart and soul as he shares with you the trials, tribulations and successes of one’s journey from the 1960’s into the Millennium.

Yet, his story cannot be told without the inclusion of the woman whose own personal tragedies, determination and spiritual courage to face adversity unflinchingly, set the example which enabled him to sustain life. You will know of the betrayals and jealousies of the faceless enemies that sought to malign his integrity, and failing at that, sought to destroy his credibility and in the extreme, his life. This man gave substance to the word ‘Honor. He existed in a world where Honor and Integrity" were words whispered in the dark, for fear of ridicule or retaliation. His life and work were a living, breathing entity that bridged the chasm between sanity and insanity.

He is living proof that one can endure the evil and negative forces that permeate our lives from time to time. Yet emerge victorious through perseverance of a higher consciousness. How can I speak so eloquently of this person, my son? Unconditional love gives you clarity of vision. I understood his heartaches; the betrayal of his trust by the people to whom he had given it. His unrelenting search for the Inner Peace all men of valor seek.

It was only the strength of his spiritual faith, which transcends time and space, that empowered him to endure the embowered uncertainties that plagued his soul. His hopes and aspirations for his family were intrinsic with mine. I felt his pain deeply as my own. Perhaps in the telling of the story, you will understand and experience the pride and joy one can hold for another. I never dreamed of any of my sons working for a City Government - the establishment, let alone the Police Department. I had illusions about the organizations or people who on occasion I have contracted with based on my expertise. The stakes were high, and the ruling consortiums were determined to maintain their status quo, no matter what it demanded of them. Mistakes could possibly be fatal. In the International Finance and Trade community, I was called their Midas and they protected my identity. Discretion was non-negotiable. I relied on a duality to keep my family safe from exposure and harm.

Ultimately, that duality will need to be addressed one day. But until then, let us continue and get back to this autobiography. Let me pick up where I left off. I make no excuses for myself or the life I’ve lived. Whatever gains I made. I gave with my heart to those I loved. The mistakes I may have made that affected my family in any form whatsoever, I blame on my blind stupidity. I would like to believe that who I am, amounted to some value and growth to my children.

So, walk with me, as we journey through the pages of his life. Share with me the recollections as I remember them, the heartache, pain and joy that compassion allows us to silently feel for another soul. You see, I am not just the Author privileged to write of his life, I am his mother. He entered my life on a cold, windy February afternoon. Two days after Valentine’s Day. His expected due date was Valentine’s Day, and I was disappointed when that day was uneventful. I was looking forward to the arrival of this baby. It had been 7 years since the birth of his sister Desiree Anjalique.

My mothering instincts missed the nurturing comfort of a baby. I shall never forget the exact moment, when I opened the fold of the baby blanket partially shielding his face. His eyes were opened, staring at me. Their color startled me into silence.

I looked into hazel eyes with flecks of gold and bent my head to nuzzle the softness of his skin. I noticed the stark contrast of his very rosy cheeks against the fairness of his skin color. I was immediately charmed. For a fleeting moment I thought I detected a faint smile on his lips, but then logic told me, it was wishful thinking. I prodded his little hand with my finger, and his little hand clutched it with unexpected strength. I mused to myself that this child would be a fighter. I didn't know how accurate that assessment would turn out to be. But at this moment, I savored the sweet softness of a brand-new infant, and eagerly anticipated bringing him home.

Later in the day, a lady from the office of Birth Registrations paid me a visit with forms for me to fill out, and I told her she would have the documents by the next day. I wanted to wait for my husband to help me name the infant. But the day came and went, and my husband never made it to the hospital in time for us to decide on a name and fill out the pertinent documents. I had no choice but to complete that task alone.

That evening, a Catholic Priest entered my room and asked me if I would like to read a few pages of the Bible with him. Feeling depressed, I thought to myself, Why not, maybe hearing God's word will lift my spirits. The chapter he chose to read was from the book of Paul. As he spoke of the life and sacrifices of the Apostle Paul, I decided to name my child after Paul. I wanted my son to have the spiritual protection of his Apostle namesake.

The next day came and went without the appearance of my husband, so I decided to go ahead without him. I signed the formal documents, satisfied that I had picked a name of strength and character. I silently prayed that Saint Paul would be my son's guardian angel. Because I still believed in Angels. Perhaps some people would view my opinion as childish prattle, but it didn't matter to me. It was the faith of my childhood that sustained me always in my darkest hours. That night, I fell asleep contented in my heart, that would be close to GOD. In a few more hours, I would be going home, and my infant boy would meet his brother and sister. I had spoken to the children earlier that morning and they were excited about the baby coming home.

Once the baby came home, they contented themselves with each giving the baby a finger to clutch. When we arrived at our home, I was totally unprepared for what happened next or the brutality of my husband’s treatment of my son Stephan’s simple mistake. We were able to open the garage door, but Stephan had accidently left the inner door keys inside the house. Enraged, my husband turned on my son, berated him, then not satisfied, kicked him in the tailbone of his spine. Stephan screamed in pain, falling to the garage floor, his body twisted in agony. Shocked by my husband’s violent reaction and hearing my son’s screams of pain, activated my mother’s instinct. I laid the infant Paul down on the seat of the car and rushed to the aid of my other son.

As his father attempted to strike him again, without thinking I picked up the nearest object I could see and strike my husband. It turned out to be a portable television set. I hit him in the back causing him to drop to his knees. He looked at me with disbelief as I threatened to slice his throat if he were to ever raise his hand to any of our children.

Returning to the car where Desiree sat, watching the new baby, her big eyes filled with tears from seeing the violent confrontation between her father, brother and mother. I hugged her and wiped her tears and told her everything would be alright, and she had nothing to fear. She then helped me taking little Paul into the house. From the corner of my eyes, I scanned the interior of the garage, but my husband was nowhere to be found. I was glad he gone somewhere to lick his wounds. He had to have seen the willingness in my eyes to kill him and he wasn’t foolish enough to give me that reason or opportunity. He was well-aware of my proficiency in the arts of weaponry and my deadly determination to protect my children.

From infancy to the moment, he took his first faltering steps, he was cheerful, smiling baby, and family to friends adored his company. He rarely cried, except when he was hungry or wet. His great-Aunty Rose took a special interest in him, all her children were female. I think she regretted not having a son. She bought Paul a little radio and we kept it near his crib, so could listen to music which Paul loved.

He always mimicked dancing when the music played. Paul was without a doubt, an armful of joy. As he toddled into the terrible 2 years, curiosity about the world around him caught his rapt attention. He would stalk a ray of sunlight trying to catch it, or sit for hours examining a toy, intent on finding out how it worked. The sunlight on his head always diverted my attention. It lit up the gold highlights on the new fuzz of hair on his head and reminded me of a halo. Because he had natural curly hair, it lay in ringlets on his head. I let it grow long. People always mistook him for a girl. His sister would take him rides in her doll stroller. Paul was such a happy child and could charm anyone. As Paul grew, there were wonderful moments filled with childish laughter as he experienced the wonder of discovery.

He was always fascinated with toy guns. Who would have known these would be the tools of his trade in years to come. But nothing completed the circle of his world like the baby brother, born 2 years later. A baby brother he would mentor and always look after. The child I called Newby. They were like twins. The two years between them made each ideal companions. I had planned it that way. I wanted Paul to have a sibling close to his age. I did not want him to grow up alone.

But to get back to the gist of this story, the entrance of the infant boy I nicknamed Newby into young Paul's life, was both a joyous occasion and a thorn in his side. They did everything together, sharing the bad and the good that came with growing up. And the young child Newby with the endless curiosity shining in dark soulful eyes, worshipped the brother, older by 2 years. Following Paul's footsteps, emulating everything his brother did. And in the quiet moments they did find to share, the silence of bedtime, they made childish promises to each other to always be together and continue to share their lives. A promise they would try hard to keep. But as the years followed and personal lives took them in separate directions, the promise would hang in the air, until a traumatic event would reactivate the memory of the childhood promise of one brother to the other.

Until that event came to pass, they would play their childhood games, compete against each other, but when their family bond was threatened or at risk, they would close ranks and protect their interest with deadly earnest to the point of death.

They played their childhood games with gusto. Both had an equal number of cuts and bruises. I remember one incident when they were riding their bikes down a hill we lived on. They created a ramp area that led and ended on the front lawn. Apparently, someone added to its height with some bricks. When Paul rode down the hill and onto the ramp, he could not stop his momentum in flight which propelled him into the Juniper trees. It knocked him out cold, as his face hit the concrete, after descending from the trees, he slid down the block. Thank God for the resiliency of youth. He only suffered a concussion.

A more serious accident occurred to Paul while we were on vacation in the Hawaiian Islands. Paul was 11 years old; his brother Newby was 9 years old. We occupied a hotel room on the 11th floor of the Travelodge Hotel and its balcony overlooked the pool. It became a favorite activity for them with their best friend Omar to throw things into the pool below and startle the people swimming. That afternoon I went shopping and left the boys with their sister who had the adjoining suite. The memory of the accident still sickens me. Because my son, Paul, could have died had circumstances been worse.

Apparently, Paul, Newby and Omar were playing their usual game on the balcony. Tossing something into the pool then running back into the room to hide. Well, it was late afternoon, and getting a bit dark. The sliding door to the balcony was partially open, but the Decal on the glass was very small, barely visible, and placed above eye level of the children. Paul didn’t see that door wasn’t completely open and ran into the panel with such impact that the glass shattered in jagged pieces. One large piece impaled itself in his arm. If it wasn't for the quick thinking of his little brother Newby, pulling him away from the falling shards of glass. Paul would have fallen forward and been decapitated. The screams of the children alerted their sister and the hotel staff, and Paul was brought to the nearest Emergency hospital for treatment.

I was informed the minute I arrived back at the Hotel. There are no words to describe the anguish and cold fear that chilled my body, not knowing the severity of the accident or whether my son was alive or dead. I cannot remember how I got to the hospital. Fear had rendered me blind and mute. I only recall the overwhelming relief I felt when I saw my two boys. It was difficult not to burst into tears, and I blamed myself for not being there, taking care of them. After speaking with the physician, getting the prognosis of Paul’s injury, he was released from the hospital. Because of the traumatic incident I wanted to go back to the mainland as soon as possible. The hotel lacked safety glass, a lack of concern for their clients and a blatant disregard for the safety of their clients, I contacted a lawyer and filed suit. We settled some three years later.

The boys continued to train in Martial Arts into their teenage years. It would teach them discipline, focus, and harness the energies they possessed in abundance. They took to the Martial Arts training like fish out of water and I applauded each plateau they conquered and cried with them each time they hurt. I introduced them to Gymnastics to strengthen their muscles and internal systems. Both boys developed into formidable opponents, and their achievements were well known and chronicled in every major event they participated in. It was a natural transition that they would gravitate into Martial Arts Instructors at a very young age and achieve world class status and Gold Medal Olympic champions.

It was inevitable that one son would be ensconced in the Black Belt Hall of Fame for his superb Martial Arts skills and that would be Ray Jr. aka Newby. The other would represent and win for the United States, the coveted Gold medals for the World Police Olympics. It was the chosen profession of Paul's and he excelled at his job, becoming the most highly decorated Police Officer in the State of California. In the final analysis of his excellence, it would be this profession saturated with men of lesser skill and dedication, whose incompetence and jealousies had eroded their morality that would seek to destroy Paul.

In the accomplishments of the fearless, young Police Officer, their ineptness became glaringly transparent, jeopardizing the comfortable positions they developed for themselves with their adherence to the Good Ole’ Boy system of Police work.

It was expected that their natural paranoia would illicit an unholy alliance with the forces of evil that cowardly men use to break the spirit of men of valor. But this, your Police Officer, Paul, withstood the lies, innuendos, thinly veiled threats, and internal manipulations to discredit him and the group of Police Officers he worked with whose loyalty to him never wavered. Police Officers whose own reputations were held up to ridicule and questionable integrity. Had it not been for the intensive Martial Arts training he had been subjected to. A lesser man would have been fragmented in spirit and body. But for a man such as Paul who is also grounded in his Faith. The losses he had to cut was simply a means to an end and a reinforcement of the need to find another path.

Leading to the completion of goals he set aside for his future and that of his family. Paul never forgot the lessons of his youth, nor good advice. My final warning to him was harsh and rigid. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. Survival demanded a regimen free of illusions, where only the strongest sword determined the balance of power in all things tangible and intangible. It was on this hard bread of Truth, Paul first cut his teeth on. And it governed every decision he had to make from that point on.

There are no guarantees in life, except death and tax. Nor did GOD guarantee a garden without thorns, and the flowers most desired is the one with the sharpest thorns. Will there be closure to Paul’s search for the happiness that eludes him? That question is debatable and only Paul knows the answer to that. He has yet to tell you his story as lived and seen through his eyes. You will learn as he has learned that his autobiography is not just a story of his life, it encompasses a City, beautiful on the surface, deadly internally. For it embraces a corrupt system of government that enable the Rich to stay rich and the Poor remain poor.

Trapped in a maze of bureaucracy where the legal system metes out justice to those who can afford justice. And the blindfold that the Lady Justice wears is made of stone covering both sight and sound. This is a system that Paul served with loyalty and honor for many years.

The same system that now condemns him and seeks to destroy the reputation and credibility of his years of service to the profession. There is no pain sharper than betrayal of trust. It is a facet of unconditional faith you are willing to give your life for. There is no retrieval for his kind of dedication. It is a piece of your Soul that you have freely given away. It is Judas and Brutus rolled up in one package and its common name is called Betrayal. Perhaps you will find my notes and comments too judgmental, then again, perhaps you will agree it is not strong enough. Either way, I stand by my observations and take my place beside my son, his brothers and sister. We will weather the storm together as a family, held together by years of shared mutual adversities and triumphs. And only time will give substance and measurement to unconditional love which has always been the reason for everything. Success needs no introduction.

CHAPTER ONE

Genesis

My story begins back in 1963. I actually recall the floating ride home from the hospital in my Dad’s 62’ Cadillac Coupe DeVille, red in color with a white convertible top. I only know that because I saw pictures of it later in life. Even as a small infant, I always had a photographic memory. On this day which was a few days after I was born, I remember hearing both my parents yelling at one another as I laid bundled up in my Mother’s arms. This ongoing dialogue between Mom and Dad was going to be a re-occurring event for most of my early years. I could hear the voices of my two older siblings, Steve and Desi coming from the backseat imitating my parents.

What became familiar to me as an infant was the distinct smell of a pine and redwood mix. A number of occasions, Steve and Desi would wrap me up in a bundle and place me inside of this dresser drawer which of course was made of pine and redwood, it was actually located in the garage of our house. The drawer would remain open for a while which allowed me to catch some light, but then after they closed it, darkness would overtake my vision.

That smell of redwood and pine stuck with me for a long period of time. I believe it caused me to be claustrophobic in tight places. When I got older and went into the garage. I walked by that dresser and took in that smell of the wood. It brought me back to that time and place.

This same dresser would contain all the tools I would later use in life. The top drawer’s contents consisted of boxes of bullets and gun related items. They either belonged to my Dad or Uncle Glenn. The other five drawers contained Martial Arts weapons and equipment. These drawers did have some type of significance in my life to come. Starting with a Bullet, ending with a Nail.

CHAPTER TWO

Schooled

As a kid, education was not a priority,