Women in the LAPD, Part 2, "Jail Time"

The cool circles of steel close around my wrists.

I pull gently at the connecting chain…no give.

I twist my wrists inside the cuffs…confined, but not uncomfortable. I can see how the unyielding metal would chafe and bruise in a struggle.

The police officer ratchets them tighter and I feel a twinge of panic.

No, I hadn´t committed a crime and I was not being arrested. I was visiting the LAPD Foothill Station to write a story about women in the police force. I´d been assigned Sgt. Sherri Egan as my guide and informer, and in this case, my jailor.

Sgt. Egan and I had already spent hours together in the station talking about the LAPD in general and female officers and detectives in particular. I had gone on a Ride-along with her and we´d eaten together at El Pollo Loco. (See The Foothills Paper, January 15, 2010 issue for Part 1 of this story.)

Now that I was about to tour the jail, I wanted to "feel the steel."

Sgt. Egan had hesitated when I first asked her to cuff me. (The word "lawsuit" probably flashed through her mind.) But another officer stood nearby and could verify my request.

"You heard her ask me to put them on," she said to him then turned to me. "There´s a security camera recording our moves." I nodded. She was covered.

When the cuffs are off and folded neatly inside a leather case clipped on her kit belt at the small of her back, I flex my hands and ask Sgt Egan to walk me through the "booking process."

She nods and leads me to the rear exit. I look through the wire-meshed window and see a parking lot with several "black & whites" at the ready. She indicates a confined area just outside the door. "This is the "body stall" where we secure arrestees before bringing them into the station." (Officers refer to those in custody as "bodies." It´s a way of distancing themselves from criminals, but it startles me.)

"Then we walk them down this hall to the watch commander´s door." We pause and I glance inside. He nods to us then returns to his paperwork.

Egan continues, "The watch commander asks them three questions and writes down their answers: Do you know why you´re here? Are you sick, ill or injured? Do you have any questions or concerns?"

"Next they go into one of these "holding tanks" until we prepare the paperwork," she indicates several narrow cubicles with large viewing windows along the other side of the hallway. Metal benches run along the back of each. A man sprawls on one. "We have four tanks here, plus two more for juveniles. If there´s no security issue, we have them sit here on the floor."

As we approach the door to the jail, Sgt. Egan unclips her weapon and puts it into a small lock box built into the wall. She puts the key in her pocket and has the jailor buzz us through.

Inside, she indicates a man behind a security glass. "We give the paperwork to the Detention Officer and the booking process begins. He asks why the person was arrested, who did the arresting, and sets the bail amount."

We move into an open area and she introduces me to Detention Officer Preciado, a ten-year veteran jailor at Foothill. He´s short and soft-spoken, but as solid and tough as a bull. He indicates where the "body" is fingerprinted and photographed. If they're charged with a felony, DNA is also taken.

"We send it all to Sacramento then wait for the results. They inform us if there are any outstanding warrants, parole holds or immigration holds. It could take as little as a few hours or up to a couple days."

The prisoner is allowed his one phone call and then escorted to a cell containing eight bunks, a sink and a seat-less toilet. "If he´s really smelly," Preciado says with a grimace, "he gets a shower first." (Regular shower days are weekends, Tuesdays and Thursdays.) Everyone gets a set of "blues" (scrubs) to wear.

I glance around at the bare walls (yellowish-beige) and scrubbed linoleum floors…practical, serviceable, definitely not "Home Sweet Home." It´s very cool, and when I take a deep breath I am surprised (and impressed) that there´s no bad odor…no sweat or urine, not even a whiff of disinfectant.

Preciado indicates a small kitchen where hot meals (prepared elsewhere) are put on trays and taken to the prisoners. There´s a viewing room, bare except for a single pay phone, and another small cubicle where visitors can talk to prisoners through a partition.

The Foothill jail holds 50 prisoners. Preciado tells me the maximum they´ve had since he´s been there is 35. "We can hold them up to 48 hours – longer if it´s a holiday weekend – then the maximum hold time is five days." Every weekday morning a Sheriff´s bus takes the prisoners to court for an "open" charge.

"After the police transfer them to County," Sgt. Egan adds, "we don´t see them again unless we´re called to testify." Outside the jail, she retrieves her weapon and clips it on her belt…the very picture of a competent, committed, Officer of the Law.

And then her cell phone rings.

Sherri Egan always wanted to be a police officer. (Her grandfather was in the Glendale PD.) After high school, she worked and took classes in business administration until she was old enough (21) to enter the Police Academy. Then she served her two years as a probationary.

At twenty-two, she had that "defining moment" which proved, at least to Sherri, that she could handle herself in a life-or-death situation. An armed suspect came at her in the dark. Her weapon was drawn, and although her legs were shaking, she knew she would have no problem doing whatever she had to do, "to go home."

"In a situation like that, you revert back to your training. You think; kill or be killed. I´m glad it happened early in my career."

Seven years into her service, Egan got married (to another police officer) and became a mother. Many things remained the same…many things changed.

"Before I had kids, I used to be frustrated with mothers who took time off when their kids were sick or the babysitter didn´t show. I didn´t think their problems should affect the Department. I´d always tell them to take sick leave, because if I forced them to come in, their heads would still be at home and not "in the game." They´d be a danger to themselves and their partners."

"I was humbled," she admits. "I had no idea how hard it was to juggle being a cop and a mom."

Police officers are allowed 12 days sick leave with no questions asked how they´re used. When they have a baby, BOTH parents are allowed up to a year to take a 6-month "bonding leave." Sherri and her husband each took their allotted time at home. (Most dads do nowadays)

Sherri discovered that motherhood changed her mind-set about the job. "You have to balance an inflexible career with the fluctuating needs of your family. You weigh your love of the job against your guilt about leaving the kids at home. You are constantly flipping between home and here. The Department always takes the most."

Sgt. Egan suddenly grins. "Sometimes "the cop" comes out in me when I´m with my kids, and I have to check myself…remember where I am. And sometimes," she admits wryly, "I treat my officers like my kids!"

"But," she pauses and adds seriously, "I look at felons in a different way. If push-comes-to-shove, my kids come first. I want to be there for them."

In a couple years, Egan will have 20 years with the Department. She plans to reevaluate her career at that point. Meanwhile, she supervises (monitors, responds to requests, and rates) the eight officers in her "den." She has no dreams of becoming a lieutenant, but would love to advance to watch commander. "I´d still be a sergeant, but with a "rocker" (V stripe) on my sleeve."

Sergeant Egan flips open her cell phone. She looks relieved. It´s the pediatrician returning her call. Her kids (and her husband) are all home sick, and she wants to be reassured about their worsening symptoms.

A minute later the phone clicks shut and Sgt. Egan is a cop again.