A Detective's Story

By Stone Jackson

At 81 years old, this book is the first book written by this author. It is an introduction to him and, with all the challenges that an urban city police department faces, how he came to be a highly respected and accomplished detective.

From his short childhood, having joined the military at the tender age of 17, to an adult, there will be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stone Jackson
• Release date: Dec 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869085818

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A Detective’s Story: Duality of Peacemaker and Warrior

Stone Jackson

Copyright © 2023

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 979-8-8690-8581-8

Dedication

This publication is dedicated to the police officers who humbly wear the badge to serve and protect the citizens of the community they belong to without the expectation of the community serving them.

OFFICER’S ADHERENCE TO THE POLICE OFFICER CREED AND LAW ENFORCEMENT OATH OF HONOR:

On my honor, I will never betray my integrity, my character, or the public trust. I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions. I will always maintain the highest ethical standards and uphold the values of my community, and the agency I serve.

I would like a special dedication of this book to my lovely wife, Lois Jackson. She has inspired me and has been instrumental in assisting me in both my health and welfare as well as my endeavors to create this publication. Lois, whom I love dearly, has encouraged me with her inspiration and positive attitude and is, above all, the number one person in my life.

Acknowledgment

First and foremost, I give honor to God, for without Him, this would not have been possible. I thank Him for all the blessings bestowed upon me throughout my life.

I want to thank my mother, Lettie Rucker-Jackson, who raised me as a single parent. Although she had nothing more than a third-grade education, she had a PhD in common sense and developed practical and sound judgment in making a difficult situation easier. My mother was a God-fearing Christian and introduced me to God at an early age.

I would like to acknowledge my surrogate mother, Sarah Frances Beckner, whom I love dearly. All her children were like brothers and sisters to me. Her brothers, Harry, Sam, Luther, and Walter Lanier, were positive influences on me. Luther and Walter were Los Angeles County Sheriff’s deputies and inspirational in my selection of a career path in law enforcement. The entire Lanier family accepted me as family.

I would like to give honorable recognition to my only surviving sister, Laura Nowlin—ninety-three years young—my daughters LaGina D., Tamala, and Stacy, and all my nieces and nephews, whom I love immensely. And to my unofficial adopted son, Donald Porier, a young man I love and am proud of, an LAPD sergeant.

I also acknowledge retired Compton PD Commander Thomas Armstrong, retired Compton PD Chief Hourie Taylor, retired Compton PD and LA County Sheriff’s Sergeant John L. Swanson, retired Compton PD and LA County Sheriff’s Sergeant Frederick Reynolds, retired Compton PD Sergeant Frank Villegas, and last but not least, Detectives Theodore Jones Jr., Marion and Regina Ming, all of whom are more than just former colleagues and current friends. They are family I would go that extra mile for, and I believe they would go that extra mile for me as well.

There have been many others who have played a part in my life, but the list of remaining names is too long and continuous to mention here.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgment

About the Author

Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

Stone Jackson is a man of honor. If you ever have the pleasure of meeting him, you will understand why he is so loved and respected by his family, friends, and peers.

Based on his illustrious life in the military, serving eight years in the U.S. Army and seventeen years in the U.S. Marine Corps; additionally, he spent twenty-eight years in law enforcement, becoming a well-known and respected Homicide Detective, closing more than 400 cases. Then after retiring from the Compton Police Department, he went on to spend 12 years with the U.S. Marshall’s Service Security Division.

He embarked upon this journey to write so that in his own words, he could tell his family and friends about his life. His life has not been boring—he’s had many professional, personal, and humorous adventures that enhanced his knowledge and his personality. He’s kind, he’s funny, he’s smart, he’s warm and loving.

He’s not an ordinary man. Stone has been an exemplary man in his professional and personal life. Well known as a sharp dresser, always in a vintage hat. He’s better known as a great husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, and friend.

His dedication to God, hard work, and family values makes him worthy of imitation. Thus, if there is a person who is a great role model, that is my wonderful husband, Stone Jackson.

- Lois Jackson

Preface

In the heart of Compton, California, a place known for its grits and challenges, a remarkable man’s life unfolds in a relentless pursuit of justice. A Detective’s Story: Duality of Peacemaker and Warrior delves into the extraordinary journey of a man who, against all odds, emerges as a seasoned detective, battling adversity and fighting for truth and righteousness.

The story commences in his turbulent childhood, marked by relentless bullying and the harsh realities of juvenile delinquency. Living in an environment plagued by crime and poverty, he bears witness to the darker side of life from an early age. Despite the hardships, his spirit remains unyielding, fueled by an unshakable belief in the power of justice.

He finds solace in the stories of heroics, tales that transcend the confines of his troubled surroundings. These narratives ignite a fire within him, inspiring him to envision a life of service and valor. Yet, tragedy strikes even before his adolescence, as he endures the trauma of witnessing four men meet their untimely end in a harrowing act of violence.

In the face of such adversity, he finds purpose in seeking truth and justice. He channels his pain into determination, vowing to be a beacon of hope. His tenacity and dedication lead him to embark on a career in military service, where he hones his skills and learns the value of discipline.

He is resolute in his mission to bring justice to the victims of crime. His unwavering advocacy for fairness and equity transcends race and societal norms, making him a symbol of hope.

Behind the badge is:

PRIDE

A deep satisfaction derived from the achievements of a special type of men and women whose professionalism is widely admired and the service they provide to the community is second to none.

INTEGRITY

The officer’s strong moral character and adherence to moral principles.

GUTS

(Courage)Uncommon valor was a common virtue; when danger beckons the virtuous men and women behind the badge, they do not run away from it but aggressively confront it instead. Typically unappreciated, the men and women behind the badge stand between the community and chaos.

Chapter One

I’m an old man now.

Perhaps it would be more politically correct to refer to myself as a senior citizen. If I had it my way, the age box on my driver’s license would reflect Old Lion instead of a number. Still, even though I have been on this wonderful planet for over eight decades, my memory of days past is vivid.

I can remember many details from my childhood, from the sights and sounds of the city where I grew up—Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—to the smell of human suffering, poverty, and perceived racial inferiority so odiferous and prevalent in my neighborhood. I still vividly recall the thrill of experiencing something for the first time, be it kissing a girl or getting in my first fistfight.

I was mischievous as a kid, but I had a relatively happy, normal childhood as I crawled my way through the rites of passage to become a Black man in a country where we were seen as lesser than other men.

My father, Stone Jackson, was born in 1889 in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. His father was a former slave in Georgia who migrated south to Florida with his father. After the Civil War, they lived among the Seminole Indians. My father had three brothers and two sisters. I have only met one of his sisters.

My mother, Lettie Rucker, was born in 1914 in a rural area of Virginia. She was raped by a White man and impregnated at the age of twelve. She gave birth to my sister Lucy, who she named after her mother, in 1927. The rapist got off scot-free. Two years later, he raped my mother and impregnated her again. She had another girl, who she named Laura Virginia. My mother, still just a child herself at the tender age of fourteen, was obviously unable to take care of two children, so she permitted an elderly non-relative woman to raise Laura Virginia while she kept Lucy.

The conditions for Blacks were horrible at the time. Although slavery had been abolished in 1865 with the passing of the 13th Amendment, we were still largely seen as less than human. We had no voice or rights and were routinely called derogatory names such as nigger or pickaninny. This meant a White man could have his way with any Black woman he desired without repercussion, whereas a Black man could be castrated and lynched for merely looking at a White woman.

In the mid-to-late 1930s, my mother and Lucy moved to Homestead, Pennsylvania, where they connected with my mother’s uncle, Jim Stewart. It was during this time that my mother met myfather, who had moved there from Florida to get a job in the lucrative steel industry. He was also an ordained minister. My mother and father subsequently fell in love and got married. Lucy would later meet and marry a seemingly ordinary guy by the name of George Benjamin.

I was born in 1942. I was named Stone Jr., after my father. My mother had me in her own bed with the assistance of a neighbor, Mrs. Wilks. Everyone called her Mama Wilks. By now, my family lived in the Terrace Village housing project in Pittsburgh. Our house was quite crowded, as Lucy and George also lived there. World War II was raging. Not long after, George joined the Navy and was deployed somewhere overseas.

Terrace Village was a newly built government project. We lived in one of two L-shaped buildings. The buildings were racially segregated, but all the children played together and attended integrated public schools. While the White people lived on the hill, Blacks lived at the dead-end of Aliquippa Street, which included the two L-shaped buildings. They were at the bottom of the hill in a cul-de-sac. This area was known as the colored section.

Being a wartime baby, I would come to learn the fragility of life as I listened to adult conversations. I learned that brave soldiers were dying on the front lines. In the summer of 1945, I remember hearing my mother, Lucy, and various neighbors talking about George. I later learned he was stationed aboard the USS Indianapolis, a cruiser that had recently completed a top-secret mission to deliver uranium for Little Boy, the nuclear weapon dropped on Hiroshima, Japan. After completing the mission, the Indianapolis was torpedoed by a Japanese submarine. It sank in 12 minutes.

Three hundred of the 1,195 crewmen went down with the ship. The others treaded water, clinging to lifeboats, debris from the ship, and anything else that would float as they faced exposure, dehydration, saltwater poisoning, and never-ending shark attacks for four straight days. Hundreds of sailors were eaten alive. By the time the rest of them were spotted by a ship in the area searching for them, only three hundred and sixteen men were still alive. George was one of them.

When Lucy initially received notice that George had been lost at sea, she was heartbroken. She was angry at the world, blaming the war, the Japanese submarine, and anything else she thought had taken her husband away from her. I remember the joy on her face and gleeful laughter as she celebrated when she found out that George had been rescued.

George came home later that summer. To me, he didn’t seem like a man who had escaped the jaws of death for four days. All I remember is him chuckling and throwing me in the air and then catching me while I squealed in childish delight.

Soon after George’s return, he and Lucy moved out of my parents’ apartment. The rest of us moved to a different apartment in the same building. This one provided a great view of the steel mills, the Monongahela River, and some of the downtown Pittsburgh area.

It was a breathtaking view, with all its buildings and tall skyscrapers. When the sunlight hit the huge glass windows of the distant buildings, it made them glow like torchlights during sunset. From the west bedroom, I could see the playground directly below us, some of the Oakland neighborhood commercial area, and the stadium lights of Forbes Field, where the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Pittsburgh Steelers played their home games. I loved that playground. It was where I spent most of my childhood.

My parents separated when I was four or five years old. My father moved to Cleveland, Ohio, where he established a coal and ice business. Although he was an ordained minister, my mother and other relatives sometimes referred to him as a jackleg preacher. Apparently, he could not practice what he preached. He was a hopeless womanizer and cheated on my mother multiple times while they were married.

Mama Wilks was my sitter most of the time. She was an older, heavyset, dark-complexioned and mild-mannered woman. She and her husband lived in the 2406 section of our building. I don’t remember her husband’s name. He was always just Mr. Wilks to me. He had a medium brown complexion and was not very tall, but he was very muscular. He worked for the Pittsburgh Sanitation Department, a nice way of saying he was a garbage collector.

Mama Wilks was an excellent cook. Her specialty was fried pie. In the mornings, before I went to school, the coffee would be percolating, and it smelled so good. Mr. Wilks always got a good breakfast and a steaming hot cup of coffee before leaving for work. They had four children, three boys and a girl. The oldest was LeRoy, then it was Elsie, Ronald, and Ralph. Ralph was the youngest, but he was four years older than me. He would bully me by casually thumping me on the head or tripping me when no one was looking.

Just before my sixth birthday, I was playing with several other children outside when Ralph came over and pushed me down. He started laughing, and I got up and pushed him back. He punched me in the face so hard that I fell. My nose was bleeding, and I started crying. Ralph smirked and said, Oh, shut up. You aren’t hurt.

I yelled as loud as I could while Ralph quickly walked away. LeRoy, who was in a nearby parking lot, grabbed me by the hand and walked me to their apartment. Mama Wilks was sitting on a bench with several other women out front. After Leroy told her what happened, she stood up and said, Excuse me, ladies, I have some straightening out to do. Then she went to find Ralph, and she beat his ass like he stole something.

In the summer of 1949, my mother took me to visit my Uncle James, who was now living in Norfolk, Virginia. He was a huge man. He looked like a giant to me. One day, he took us to his job at the railroad yard, where coal hopper cars were parked, waiting to unload. I excitedly watched my uncle control the speed of a coal hopper by turning the handbrake as it approached the large receptacle building.

As sparks flew from the wheels on the rail, Uncle James jumped off like a superhero after bringing the coal hopper to a halt on the platform. Then, mechanical hooks came out and cradled the hopper. The hooks turned the hopper upside down and deposited tons of coal into a bin, causing a large cloud of coal dust to rise.

We stayed a week with Uncle James. It was good for me and a welcome break for my mother, who was a hard worker with the Pennsylvania Railroad. When we left to go back to Pittsburgh, we took the ferry across the Chesapeake Bay to Cape Charles to catch the train. While walking to the railroad car, I was holding onto the suitcase my mother was carrying. Somehow, in the hustle and bustle of the crowd, I got mixed up and ended up holding onto a suitcase that wasn’t hers. A White man was holding the handle. He looked at me and asked, Boy, are you lost?

Suddenly, I realized my mother was gone. I was terrified and began crying uncontrollably. The White man found a conductor,