Ebony Cop: Last One Standing

By Sharon BerryHarper

Heading south to the big city of Los Angeles, Sharon Berryharper abandons her plans of attending a local junior college and, works in factories instead. All the time she works as a machinist, she has one dream--to become a cop. Sharon's opportunity comes when a federal court orders the Los Angeles Police Department to hire more women and minorities. Thinking that being a cop is about restoring peace and calm and working as a team, Sharon succeeds in getting into the force but finds out the reality of her dreams exactly the opposite. The first thing Officer Berryharper learns is that for her and her sister officers, there is no team. Sharon discovers how alone she really is. Forget team playing. The ebony cop will have to survive on her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781640274341

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Ebony Cop

Last One Standing

Sharon BerryHarper

Copyright © 2018 Sharon BerryHarper

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2018

ISBN 978-1-64027-433-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64082-414-0 (hc)

ISBN 978-1-64027-434-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Thanks Mom and Dad,

Thank you for the strong foundation that you built, on which I stand today, thank you for your love, support, and the value of prayer that continues to give me strength.

Pastor Willie Berry St. John 1:1.

Missionary Willie Pearl Berry

Special Thanks to Dorothy Taylor-Wheeler and Ellie Carper for helping me through the editing process and their continuous encouragement and contributions for this book.

A special thanks to Lionel Frederick Menuhin Rolfe for his help in making this book possible.

Chapter 1

An Unseasonably Cool California Evening

April 15, 1984, was an unseasonably cool California evening, and an extremely important one for me. I was starting my first day at a job I had yearned for, for years. I looked over at my son, Richard, walked over, and kissed him affectionately. He was a wonderful little fellow and surely gave me a strong reason to succeed in the journey I was embarking on.

As I headed for the door, I warned him not to stay up all night playing and watching television. I glanced at my sister, a beautiful but quiet, shy, timid, and sometimes naive young lady. She would be watching over my son while I was working. I smiled at her and said, Good night, sis. And I added, Make sure all the doors and windows are locked and secured before going to bed. I also told her not to hesitate in calling 911 if she needed to. What I had seen on my job, even in the academy, taught me that being extra cautious was not a bad idea.

I emerged into the cool night air and pulled my scarf up around my neck, hoping to mitigate the breeze. It was cold enough that I was dressed in a light jacket and scarf. I walked toward the carport. There was a beautiful full moon in the sky, making the whole night appear much brighter than normal. I unlocked the door of my banana yellow four-door Hornet. It wasn't very fast, but it got me to work. I fired up the Hornet and began driving. As the bright city lights flashed before me, I felt an uneasy and anxious feeling. Plainly, I was worried. I was afraid of how the night would unfold. I thought to myself that maybe having a beautiful full moon might backfire. A full moon makes some people crazy and makes even regular folks a little bit on edge.

Okay, I was on edge. I hoped I'd get a decent training officer, which would make the fears of a first night bearable. I had negative fears gnawing in my brain, but I wasn't going to let them take over. I decided I would only think good and positive thoughts. I am trying to be optimistic, I said to myself.

I was going to work in the war zone, which is what most cops, who went to work patrol in South Central Los Angeles, called it. I wanted to work in the war zone. The Los Angeles Police Department breaks the city up into eighteen divisions. I asked to work in the Southwest Division and I was assigned there. The idea of working in a predominantly African American area of Los Angeles was exactly what I was looking for. It was something I had wanted to do since I was seven years old.

I should explain. My father was a construction worker and a preacher. My mother took care of us. I was the fourth of eight children. My childhood was tough and challenging but a valuable learning experience. During the summer break when I was in elementary and middle school, I worked in the field picking apple, cutting grapes and harvesting walnuts earning money to help support the family.

My childhood taught me an important lesson: you can't do anything without hard work. If you want to do something, to accomplish something, you had to learn this lesson early. I learned the lesson early. I developed a strong and indisputable work ethic, which gave me the strength and tenacity to survive any and all future devastations. You learn to never give up. Sounds simple. It really is just that simple.

It isn't always easy to fathom just what in your childhood has most molded you, but I know something happened to me when I was seven that was certainly important in my decision to never be victimized again.

At first, it might sound bucolic and idealized. One Saturday, as she often did many Saturdays, my mother gathered up a few of my brothers and sisters, and we headed over to my grandmother's farm. The women would gather around and begin canning tomatoes, peaches, and/or apples. These foods often carried us, especially through the winter months, when construction work slowed down and my father didn't get much work.

On one of those Saturdays, we were helping our mother wash and peel fruit, and while they cooked, we would go to the barn to play with the chickens and roosters.

One of my brothers in particular loved to play with the animals but was also afraid of them because they would chase us around. Of course, the fact that they chased him also no doubt made it more exciting for him. I didn't get in trouble with the birds because my favorites were the baby chickens. I loved them because they were so small and yellow.

On that particular day—it was still early in the morning—a big red rooster jumped on my brother's back and began to peck at his head. My brother screamed, and suddenly, a friend of the family appeared, stepping out of nowhere, pulled the rooster off my brother's back, and sent the rooster flying across the yard. I sat there laughing as my brother took off for the house, crying. I started to follow him, but the family friend took me by the hand and led me to a small corner in the barn and molested me. Once he was done, he told me to go into the house and tell no one. Over time, and not much time, I began to feel confused and traumatized and degraded beyond words. But it also helped set in motion the broad outlines of how I was going to live my life. I never spoke to him after that, and he never spoke to me. We never spoke again about this horrible trauma that I have internalized all my life. I also never told anyone, least of all, my parents. I felt incredibly ashamed. The family friend went on to live a long life.

I was twelve when my oldest brother returned home from the war in Vietnam. That nearly tore my family apart. Like so many who returned from Vietnam, he was an alcoholic and was also addicted to heroin. He was violent, and he was spinning out of control. The family fights became unbearable.

I was extremely disillusioned with my brother. He went away to a war as a wonderful, handsome, young man that was loved by all. Four years later, when he returned, he was a hardcore heroin addict. My father was devastated; he was always in complete control of his family. My dad was the strongest, most positive, encouraging person in my life. But this strong father figure absolutely couldn't deal with his drugged-out son. There came a point where my parents had no recourse other than to call the police on him.

That too was an important moment. I was incredibly impressed with the way the police handled the entire situation. The whole mood in the house changed with the police's presence. My brother's demeanor changed; he was quiet and compliant. I think it helped that they handled it well, really well. It was at this point I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

My dream of becoming a police officer only grew as I got older. The realities of life forced some detours from my realizing my dream, but it remained inside, and it was so strong. I knew I would one day obtain my dream. My work life was dreary, an unending series of miscellaneous, dead-end jobs. I also married young and had a son. I struggled to keep the marriage, but it was not to be.

Chapter 2

Aiming for the Top and Making a Good Friend

Under Police Chief Bill Parker in the '50s and '60s, blacks couldn't even work above the second floor in Parker Center. There were nine floors to the Parker Center building. The first floor was central division and central jail, and it was known, not with much affection, as the glass house. The second floor was occupied by the Records and Identification Division (R&I). The staff was approximately 40 percent African American civilians. 20 percent other ethnicities and 40 percent Caucasians sworn and civilian's personnel. This was known throughout the force as the NNA (need not apply) policy above the second floor. The reason was that the more important you were in the police hierarchy, the higher up you were. The ultimate was the sixth floor, where the top brass dwelled. You particularly didn't get to ascend in the hierarchy if you were a black. And don't even think about it if you were female and black like me.

By 1980, the Los Angeles Police Department (LAPD) was under a federal consent decree, which mandated the hiring of minorities and women on the force. That was because of a 1973 discrimination suit initiated by Fanchon Blake, a true pioneer for equality. By the time I came on the scene, the department was known to have been very subjective in hiring women especially black women. Thus, Sharon BerryHarper had a chance, thanks in great part to Fanchon Blake.

Blake was a white woman, but she opened the doors for African Americans and Hispanic Women on the force. Daryl Gates was the Chief of the Los Angeles Police Department from 1978-1992 he retired ensuing the Rodney King beating. Gates had made his way presumably—and that is a big presumption—to heaven. Ed Davis was a garrulous Irishman with a proclivity for the bottle. He gained notoriety for suggesting that the way to punish terrorists was to hang them at the airport. The comment may have been made when he was a bit tipsy; for when he got tipsy, he liked to say things to shock people.

Davis would go on to become a relatively progressive Republican state senator of California with an ecological bent. Some say that his better part came out because of a good marriage to an elegant English lady. But when he was police chief, females were not allowed to take a test for anything higher than sergeant. Blake had become a sergeant and detective in the LAPD, but she had a history. She had joined the United States Army in 1941 to fight in World War II. She became a major. She also was the only female soldier recalled to duty in the Korean War.

She joined the LAPD in 1948, and then decided she wanted to take the lieutenant's exam. After trying without success to convince the police commission and city council to change the rules barring women from rising above the title of sergeant, she went to court and filed a sex discrimination suit against the department.

She suffered for her crusade. The men around her were not only racist but also sexist. They believed that patrolling the city could only properly be done by men. It was a man's job. But Blake got the last laugh. Eventually, she won, and in the 1980 decree which came out of her suit, the LAPD promised the feds a force that would be 20 percent female. And Blake got $50,000 from the city for the ill treatment that had been heaped on her.

That's how it came about that I was able to take the Los Angeles Police Department exam to become a Los Angeles police officer. Although Blake had paved the way, each of us who followed had to tread the same path.

I got excited about applying for a job with the LAPD after reading that the department was under orders to hire more minorities and women. I passed the written exam, oral interview, physiological, and the physical agility test and was accepted into the academy. I was really up during my six months' police academy training. Some part of me was warning that I would face real problems when the status quo trained me because they would regard me as a threat to their turf. Still, I was on a high at the academy and not at all prepared for the ordeal my journey in becoming an African American police officer would entail.

So there I was, on that cool January evening in 1984, pondering the next twelve months. I had asked for and been given the Southwest Division as my preferred choice. It was there, I would have to prove myself against tremendous odds.

I needed to be successful and prayed the time would go by fast. I was pretty confident—at least that first night on the way to work in my trusty yellow Hornet—that the time would fly by quickly. The very thought of knowing that I would be a full-fledged police officer after completing my probationary period made me smile deep down inside. I was sure that I would be a great police officer so long as I was given half a chance. I had confidence that I was intelligent enough, capable enough, and eager and willing enough to do the job well.

But as I drove along, I looked up at the full moon, and it surprised me by making me feel a little nervous. I shook off the feelings of trepidation and told myself to think only positive thoughts. After all, I had a beautiful son, a great career ahead of me, and I was in the best physical condition of my life. I was embarking on a brand new career, a brand new life.

In the face of reality, sometimes it can be tough to maintain the power of positive thinking. I pulled the trusty, old banana Hornet into the parking lot of the LAPD's Southwest Division, parked, jumped out, grabbed my uniform and war bag, and walked toward the women's locker room. It was on the north side of the parking lot, next to the station.

Suddenly, something caught my eye. It was a personalized license plate. Red Neck, it said. I pondered the matter. That license plate said a whole lot about that particular officer. Perhaps, hum, I thought, maybe the word has a different meaning to him than to me.

As I marched along, a less-than-positive notion entered my mind. I hoped he wasn't my FTO, (field training officer). It struck me that a guy who'd liked to ride around South Central Los Angeles with a Red Neck plate should have had better judgment.

As I was thinking this, the door of a car opened and out stepped, a young white male about 5'6 tall, medium build with curly hair. He was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Our eyes met. I felt a need to speak, but no words emerged from my mouth. Finally, I managed to say, Good evening." His name tag said he was a Jordan, but I felt I shouldn't use his name in my reply.

A confused expression passed over his face and, without saying a word, turned his back on me, opened his trunk, and took his equipment out. I'm sure there was a confused look on my face as well. I hoped I had not just met my FTO, but I also suspected he would be. I didn't regard our encounter as a good sign.

My pace slowed down. I realized that I had better preserve my energy for the night. The door to the woman's locker room was old and shabby with pieces of white paint hanging off. I stepped inside the room that had been recently painted, and there was a nauseating light, musty smell to the air. It was a small room. There were two rows of rusted, scratched gray metal lockers, a total of twelve of them.

I found my locker, and it had a brownish-gold knob, which I slowly turned and pushed open. It made a screeching sound as it scraped across the floor.