They were playing on the front lawn.   Two brothers age six and eight years, kicking a soccer ball when the dark coloured car stopped in the middle of the road.   The driver, a scraggly haired youth, opened the door of the older model car and stood with one leg out on the pavement.

“Your father is a fucking pig!”  He shouted at the boys and then he got back in the car, slamming the door behind him.   With a screech of tires, he sped off to the dark, slimy hole that he came from.

Sharon, my wife, listened quietly as Chris and Geoff told her the story of the screaming man.   They were upset and wondering why someone would say that about their Dad.   Yes, upset but not as upset when she later told me when I came home from work that day.   I do not remember my words, but I am sure there were a few angry explicatives, included.    If he had said this to me, it would not have mattered.   I probably would have laughed and told him he wasn’t the first to call me that nor would he be the last to use that term to describe someone in uniform.   But he said it to my sons.   That made me angry then and still does when it comes to my mind.   I never did find out who this person was, but I often wish to have the opportunity to straighten him out.

When my sons, Chris and Geoff were eight and 10, we lived in Marystown, Newfoundland and Labrador.   When we moved to Marystown in 1985, it was their fourth move and their second since starting school.   My father was an RCMP officer, so I had grown up moving around.   It was easy for me now and in fact I looked forward to moving after four to five years in a place.   But, the early days of moving were hard.   Leaving good friends and familiar territory to start fresh somewhere new.   Trying to fit in was difficult at best but your father being a police officer just added to that.   I knew it had to be rough on my sons, but they were good kids and they rebounded quickly making new friends.  I did not need to worry but I did.

I served in many small communities in my policing career.   Those communities were home to many good souls, and I became friends with some of those good people.    However, the relationship with the residents in the places I policed was sometimes like the relationship one has with the boss of a large company.   You want to be friendly with him or her yet not too friendly because others may think of you as a suck hole or the boss’s pet.  That has something to do with trust, I guess.   If you are too close to the police, then you just might be a pipeline of information about the people you live with so people might be careful about what they say or do around you.   While I can understand the attitude, it did make you feel on your own at times.

On September 9, 1982, Chris was almost five years of age and Geoff has turned three in May.   We lived in Wesleyville (Wesley Bill Geoff called it) on the northern coast of Newfoundland.   This was a three-person unit which was responsible for approximately seven thousand people in 16 municipalities spread over approximately 140 kilometres of road.    The nearest backup to Wesleyville was from the detachments in Glovertown, about an hour drive away, Gander, 90 minutes and Carmanville, just under an hour.   The time frames are relevant to where you were in the detachment area at any given time or if anyone was free to assist you.    Often, we had to work alone with your only connection being the telecom centre located (at that time) in Grand Falls-Windsor, Newfoundland & Labrador.    In the 1980’s the radio communication was not too bad but there were several dead spots throughout the area.

I was working the night shift and around 10:30 p.m. I had the occasion to check a teenage dance being held at the Seagull Lounge.   It was an adult establishment, but the bar was closed.   It was customary during our patrols to check out these dances to cut down on the consumption of alcohol and perhaps some marijuana.   I also used these as opportunities to build rapport with the young people.   I knew a few of them through my involvement with the local army cadet corps.    I stopped at the far end of the parking lot about 30 feet from the entrance.   I spoke to a few young fellows near the entrance and I noted a few empty beer bottles on the ground close to their feet.   As I spoke to these youths, a crowd gathered around me.    I moved back to the police vehicle and I sat in with the door opened making notes on my night sheet.

Often teenage dances are attended by some who are in their twenties and this night was no different.   One such individual Charlie (not his real name) approached me and asked if he could speak to me.   I said yes and he asked me when his brother’s things were going to be returned.   I had seized some items during an investigation I had been working on.   I was in the process of explaining that I had no authority to return these items when Charlie’s other brother, James (not his real name) came to the police vehicle.   A crowd had gathered behind him.   James was recently home from Toronto, and he had a lengthy criminal record.  I asked him what he wanted.

“You’re talking to my brother so I’m going to stay here until you’re finished.” He said loudly.   I noted a strong odour of alcohol from his breath as I replied, “He’s talking to me.”

He raised his voice and repeated, “You’re talking to my fucking brother and I’m going to stay here until you’re done!”

I told him to keep it down or I would have to charge him with causing a disturbance, but he said, “I don’t care.  I’m staying.”

Charlie tried to get him to leave but he would not go.  He began shouting, “What are you going to do with my brother’s stuff?   That’s stealing.   All that about Ottawa is all shit.  Bullshit.  When are you going to give it back?” I attempted to tell him I had no authority to give it back to anyone.

“That’s fucking shit.”  I again told him to lower his voice or I would have to arrest him for causing a disturbance.

“Who gives a fuck.  I know all about you cops.  The Toronto cops are assholes but you, you’re the biggest asshole of all.”   I again tried to quiet him, but he persisted.  “I don’t give a fuck!  Charge me, see if I care.   I got lots of charges now and one more won’t matter.   But I’m going to charge you.    You can’t hold those things.   His hat, his coat, his money.  I’m going to get my fucking lawyer and charge you!”   His shouting had reached the level of screaming.

He then said something about losing his finger and he poked his fist in the doorway at me twice.  I got out of the car and said, “Come here!”  He started to run away but I grabbed him and told him he was under arrest for causing a disturbance.

“No fucking way!  You ain’t taking me.”  He shouted as he resisted me.   He pushed me and I lost my grip, but I grabbed him again. I put him up against the right rear side of the police car.   He was still trying to break free when Charlie took hold of my arm.    I told him to let go twice.    He asked me not to hurt his brother and I told him I would not and if he (James) got in the car he wouldn’t have any problems.   He let go of my arm.

I attempted to open the rear door, but James continued to struggle, and he knocked it shut.  I made another attempt but was unsuccessful and I wrestled James to the ground.   As we fell to the ground, he grabbed my coat and hauled it over my head and was pulling on it.   Despite this I managed to get one hand cuff on but could not get the other one on because of his continued resistance.   He attempted to bite me as I tried to get the other cuff on.   Charlie was in the background saying not to hurt his brother.  Finally, I got James to his feet and had him in a headlock.   I asked one of the fellows standing nearby to open the rear door for me.   He did comply but James kicked it shut.   James apparently knew this guy and he told him he would get him.   I told this guy to open the door and hold it open.   He did so and I put James in the car.   James was shouting and kicking the silent patrolman as I closed the door.

“I’ll get you, Hebb.   You fucking asshole!   I’ll blow your fucking head off.   I’ll kill your wife too!”   He shouted as I drove to the office.   He continued these threats until we arrived at the detachment building.  I opened the rear door and I told James to get out.

“If you want me out, you’ll have to drag me out.”  He yelled.

I tried to get through to the telecom centre to get some assistance while driving to the office, but I was not successful.  I locked the police vehicle and I went to the office door and unlocked it.   I opened the door and ensured I had a clear path to the cells.    I then returned to the police vehicle.

“I got you now!   You didn’t give me my rights.  I’m going to get my lawyer and charge you.”   He said as I opened the door.   He was right.   In the struggle I had forgotten to caution him and advise him of his right to counsel.    He got out saying, “I got it made now.  I got you!   You didn’t give me my rights.”

He did not struggle as I put the other handcuff on.    I regretted not advising him of his rights, but I was not worried.   I would do this once I had him safely in the office.    Given it appeared I would not have further resistance from him, I was almost glad at this turn of events.   “Yeah, put it on.    I got it made.”   He said as the handcuff clicked around his wrist.

In the office, I did a physical search of his person as he continued his commentary.  “I shouldn’t have said that about your wife.   She doesn’t deserve that.  But you!   An asshole like you I’m going to kill!  Yes sir.”

I gave him the police caution as I was searching him and then he started shouting saying that I couldn’t do that.   He wanted to see Waterman (Cpl. Bert Waterman the corporal in charge of the unit).   I told him Cpl. Waterman was on the mainland.  (Mainland is a term used to refer to the rest of Canada.).   He then started yelling “You fucking asshole!” and I took him to the cells.   I advised him of his rights to a lawyer as we moved toward this area.   I advised him that due to his behaviour and his intoxicated condition he could make a call to a lawyer in the morning.  He continued yelling and wanted to see Waterman and to call a lawyer.    He broke free from my grasp and ran down the hallway.    I tackled him.   He raised his fist toward me, and I punched him in the face three or four times, maybe more.   I machine-gunned him with my fists.   I had reached the end of my rope with him.   Maybe one punch would have been enough, maybe not.   I did not worry about whether I might have overstepped my bounds, I thought I exercised tremendous restraint because I did not want to stop.  He was somewhat subdued now and I managed to get him in the cell and locked the door.

e continued to rant through the cell bars.   “I’m going to kill you and your wife.    I am going to blow your fucking heads off.   I can’t wait.   I live for it.   I’ve got nothing to lose.   It’s great to do a cop.   I’m going to show this town whose boss.   I can’t wait until I get out tomorrow.   I’m going to get you, Hebb, and your wife.   As soon as I get out of here.   I better get some rest because I got a lot to do tomorrow.”   He lay on the bottom bunk as he finished the last word.   When the local guard arrived and I left the building, he was sleeping peacefully.

The next day, I let James out to make a call to a lawyer, but he was unable to contact one.   I brought in a justice of the peace and had him remanded into custody until the 27th of September 1982, when he could be brought to court in Gander to be released on conditions.    He was quiet as I returned him to the cells.  When I brought him to court on the 27th, he was released on conditions to appear on the 5th of October of this same year.   I cannot recall what happened after that.   I believe he pleaded guilty because I do not remember a trial.   I guess some of you may judge me, say that I used excessive force and perhaps you might be right.   There was no Face book or other social networks then but if there had been, I may have been condemned vigorously by gangs of anonymous outraged people.

I did not have any dealings with James after that.   He did not charge me with anything.  He didn’t show up on my doorstep to blow the heads off me and my wife.  It might have just been the alcohol talking or it might have been the look in my eye when I stopped punching him.   I do not know.    All I knew back then, when I was home sitting on the couch watching TV, with my two boys cuddled between me and my wife, is that, I had no regrets.