Buried somewhere in the depths of my young adulthood is a string of speeding tickets the length of a 1993 Ford Escort station wagon. Almost everyone who knows me well is aware of them. I was in danger of losing my driver’s license once or twice, but managed to escape that purgatory by entrusting my future to an exceptionally shrewd attorney. I don’t recall his name, but he may well have been Samoan…
It recently occurred to me that I’d been tailed and stopped by countless police cruisers, but I’d never ridden in one. So, almost on a whim, I contacted an old high school classmate—Patrol Officer Ben Newell of the Champaign Police Department. He invited me to observe a typical Friday afternoon in the life of a Champaign cop.
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The civilian waiting area at police headquarters is a bazaar of informational literature on everything from shoplifting to alcoholism, senior citizen exploitation to sex offender registration, points-of-entry security to teenage inhalant abuse. Much of it is innocuous bromide, quite unlike the “Have You Seen Me?” child abduction photos that beckon from a nearby wall. These are positively heart-wrenching, and I study them while my consent forms are processed and a criminal background check is conducted. Sadly, I conclude that I haven’t in fact seen any of the missing children.
Shortly after 1 p.m., Officer Newell and I hit the streets. His patrol zone is the North District, which encompasses all of Champaign that lies east of Prospect Avenue and north of University Avenue. Historically, it has been the most crime-ridden area of the city, only recently allowing the neighboring Northwest District to share that distinction. Hearing this, I assure Officer Newell—just as I am assuring you, the reader—that the fresh spike in Northwest malfeasance has nothing to do with the fact that it is the district in which I live.
A patrolman is not necessarily bound to his assigned area at all times; he is free to visit other parts of town in response to calls and in search of information pertaining to criminal activity in his district. But the officer at the wheel in this squad car concentrates on the North, so we aim northward to kick-start our afternoon of crimefighting.
For the sake of this story, I will be referring to Officer Ben Newell and myself as “we”, even though I know damn well that I’m simply along for the ride, completely irresponsible for the welfare of society or the enforcement of legal code.
Our first order of business is to respond to a report of a petty theft that has occurred two hours prior at the home of an 80-year-old man and his wife. En route to the address, we are alerted to an in-progress crime of trespass with possible property damage. We temporarily abandon plans to visit the elderly couple and hurriedly proceed to the more pressing case.
A white male in his mid-to-late-20s has allegedly entered a fenced-in lawn that sits between two houses on a piece of land owned by a middle-aged former military employee. When confronted by the landowner, the suspect, who is nowhere to be found when we arrive at the scene, has also allegedly destroyed part of the man’s fence. I accompany Officer Newell while he speaks with the victim, who offers such a detailed description of the perpetrator that the patrolman immediately knows who is likely at fault. After finishing here, we set out in search of a man known well by Champaign Police.
He has been arrested two dozen times in his 30 years and has half a dozen convictions under his belt, for offenses ranging from burglary to drug peddling. We canvas the neighborhood for less than five minutes before locating him two blocks from the crime scene. He is carrying a pad of paper and a pen, and is standing in front of a run-down rental house. When questioned by Officer Newell, the man acknowledges entering the private lot but claims he is merely trying to find a place to live. Apparently he has been all over the area jotting down leads for possible rentals. He cannot, however, provide a satisfactory reason for his presence within an enclosed lawn that lacks signage detailing housing availability, so he is handcuffed and placed under arrest.
I am mildly astonished when the man is then escorted into the back seat of Officer Newell’s prowler—the very auto in which I am sitting. Initially, my unease is only slight, despite the subject’s lengthy criminal record; however, my immediate proximity to this unfamiliar world is suddenly brought into focus, and the realization is hard-hitting. It happens when I overhear a brief conversation between the man in the backseat and a Champaign Police Department detective, who is also in the area and has joined Officer Newell, two other patrol cops, and the Chief of Police, for an impromptu conference right outside the squad car.
After the decision is made to issue the perpetrator a trespass citation and release him, the detective strolls to the car and asks the man sitting behind me and Plexiglass if he recalls the rape of a neighborhood woman, which has occurred some time ago. He vaguely remembers hearing of the crime. He is then informed that the DNA evidence that has recently been analyzed points to his guilt. This time, though, he is lucky. The victim has refused to press charges.
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The Champaign Police Department is made up of 120 officers, neatly organized into tributaries which feed information to Chief R. T. Finney. Officer Newell and his fellow patrolmen fall under the “Operations” wing of the department, along with such outfits as the Narcotics Unit and the SWAT team. In each of four districts, squad car officers answer to a handful of sergeants and one lieutenant. The chain of command is steadfastly maintained, the better to keep order.
It is commonly perceived that the work done by police is shrouded in privacy, closed off to the general public. Indeed, during my ride-along experience I was shocked by the level of access that was afforded me. So long as Officer Newell wasn’t about to enter a potentially dangerous situation, I was encouraged to observe every aspect of the patrolman’s responsibility. For that reason, I was able to gain plenty of appreciation for what he and his colleagues do. The very existence of the Champaign PD’s ride-along program, while not particularly well-publicized, is a viable step towards shattering the closed-doors perception—a few hours at a time.
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Barely an hour has passed since Officer Newell and I departed police headquarters, and it is now time to follow up on the petty theft report from the beginning of the afternoon. The home of the elderly victims is only a few blocks west of where we dealt with the trespass call, and we arrive there shortly before 2 p.m. According to the 80-year-old man who lives in the house with his wife, a well-known neighborhood woman has stolen a wallet containing several credit cards and three dollars in cash just hours earlier.
I follow Officer Newell into the house and observe his conversation with the elderly man, who does not appear to be overly concerned about the crime that has been committed. He has already cancelled his credit cards, and he doesn’t wish to press charges against the alleged thief. He seems most perturbed by the fact that he has allowed himself to be victimized by a con artist, and he wants his wallet returned on principle alone.
By the resident’s own account, the alleged perpetrator—a white, middle-aged fast-food restaurant employee—is a semi-frequent visitor to his home. She has often stopped by, asking for small amounts of money or to use his telephone, which is what has preceded this morning’s incident. She has allegedly swiped the wallet from a living room table before exiting the house. After relating his story, he points us in the direction of the residence at which she is staying.
The patrolman and I walk a hundred yards west to the house. He raps on the front door and calls the name provided us by the elderly man. Several attempts are unsuccessful, but we are subsequently greeted by three female neighbors who ask if they can be of assistance in making contact with the suspect. After much coaxing she appears in the doorway, dressed in dirty pajamas, twitching and scratching an itchy neck with gnarled fingers. She issues pejoratives in response to Officer Newell’s questions regarding the whereabouts of her neighbor’s wallet, claiming to know nothing about it. She does acknowledge visiting his home today, but because of her denials and the victim’s disinterest in pursuing charges, we are compelled to drop the matter and return to the car.
For a moment we are accompanied by the three neighbors, who assure us that the suspect is a crack addict and is undoubtedly responsible for the theft of the wallet. As we walk east on Bloomington Road, I feel a profound sadness.
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Inside their squad cars, Officer Newell and his colleagues in the patrol division receive radio transmissions through a dispatch center known as METCAD, which serves all of Champaign County from its Urbana base. The Champaign PD collects signals on its own radio channel. Its officers are not required to monitor other channels, but some, including Officer Newell, do so regularly. The Champaign County Sheriff’s Office and several local forces, such as those that police the city of Urbana, the University of Illinois, and the village of Tolono, share a channel that is frequently scanned by Champaign officers.
While we cruised around the North District, Officer Newell simultaneously listened and responded to audio messages conveyed by his fellow patrolmen and their superiors, answered text commands with a computer screen and keyboard, and monitored the radio channels used by his department and its neighbors. He allows that this onslaught of information can at times be maddening, but he welcomes his duties and seems a natural at balancing everything and keeping a level head. He very much enjoys his job at large, if not some of the more frivolous responsibilities—towing vehicles, quieting barking dogs, etc.
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The rest of our afternoon is peppered with items not frivolous, but of a decidedly lighter fare. In many ways I’m thankful for that. We sit outside Stratton Elementary School at 3:15 with our lights flashing, mainly to retard the flow of vehicular traffic while children scamper home. We pay a visit to the Econolodge on the northwest side of the city for the expressed purpose of checking on the welfare of a possibly-suicidal man. It turns out we have been sent by his wife to confirm the presence of a mistress. We respond to an accidental 911 call a block from my own house. We look into a drive-off at the Mobil gas station on North Neil Street, taking a statement from an attendant who looks a bit like Chloe Sevigny.
I get a cheap thrill when at 4:45 we book it cross-town to see about a fight outside Centennial High School. We’re doing upwards of 60 MPH on westbound Springfield Avenue with the blue-and-reds on and intermittent sirens chirping. My eyes are wide as saucers and I grip the sides of my seat, all the while remembering that it is this sick need for speed that damn near rendered me immobile years ago. If there has been a situation, it has already dissolved when we arrive. And now it’s time to go home.
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Matt Campbell wishes to thank Patrol Officer Ben Newell for leading him through a fascinating afternoon. Ben is a good man, and an asset to both the department and the city of Champaign. Matt encourages readers to contact Officer Newell or one of his colleagues to arrange for a similar experience.