Wednesday, July 17, 2002

Commitment and Compassion

Using both one's head and one's heart on the job.

By Kristin Davis
Points South Staff Writer

BROADWATER/MAXIMO--I feel like I’m flying. Zooming down the Sunshine Skyway bridge, the speedometer pushes 100 mph. The salt-filled air wafts through the open window, and my hair flails in the wind. A pelican swoops above the bridge. It seems to float rather than fly. My eyes alternate between the bird and the speedometer pushing, pushing forward.

I never speed, unless you count the consistent 5-mph over the limit I do on the interstate. Anytime I see those blue and red lights my heart plunges straight through my stomach and I break out in a sweat. Anytime I see a patrol car, period, my breath catches in my throat. I clutch the steering wheel. My mind races. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I? I was a little afraid of cops. I used to think they were out to get me and everyone else. Waiting like a cat for the moment I lost myself. I thought that’s what they did--always waiting, waiting to catch us all.

I was wrong.

I’m sitting next to Officer Maury Steffek, 30, of the St. Petersburg Police Department in one of those patrol cars, and we’re sweeping down the Skyway to a call. I’m sitting next to him on a ride-along, heading toward Broadwater and Maximo, communities I’ve gotten to know during the last five weeks. Communities he knows.

As we descend the silvery stretch of highway under the afternoon sun, the turquoise Tampa Bay rises around us. My breath catches in my throat. But it’s the freedom of flight that causes it.

The call, a suspected shoplifting at Eckerd Drug Store on the corner of 34^th Street and 54^th Avenue South is a dud. Another officer catches the suspicious man and he’s found with no merchandise on him.

Steffek, a six-year veteran of the department, is assigned to District 1--southern St. Petersburg. Maximo and Broadwater sit at the northeast end of his zone. He patrols everything west of 26^th Avenue South to the top of Skyway. The area contains poor and high-crime neighborhoods as well as million-dollar waterfront homes.

"It gives me plenty of room to roam around," says Steffek. "I can come out here and dream of myself on the beach."

Born in San Jose, Costa Rica, he’s been in St. Pete since age 6. With a bachelor’s degree under his belt, Steffek decided to join the department. A high school coach planted the seed for Steffek when he did a presentation on being a police officer.

The dispatcher’s voice and Billy Idol echo through the dark blue interior of the patrol car. Steffek speaks deeply, softly. "I didn’t get into it to help people," he says. He does it because every day is different, because he’s outside with no boss on his back. Because it puts him face to face with "unfiltered reality."

Same as a journalist.

"It’s unbelievable what people do to one another," Steffek says while patrolling slowly down a dirt side-road, gazing at the bay through his open window. He tells gruesome stories of blown-off heads and bloated, rotting bodies, of burnt skin on the seat of a car and the distinct smell of death. He tells the stories between pausing to look longingly at a bright yellow four-wheeler bearing the name Bombarder and calling to a beach couple to say their dog is "cute," and between making small talk with a family.

Steffek’s job is complex, a balancing act between the gore and the graceful, between affability and accountability. Just like mine.

He leaves the beach areas and heads downtown. A woman with fluttering arms wearing shorts and a black bra walks toward the street, a man behind her. Steffek turns around and heads back. He calls through the window: "Do you guys need anything?" No threat. No intimidation. Just an offer of help.

"When you’re on the scene, you’re ‘the man,’" says Steffek. "You have the power to take away someone’s freedom." And you can’t let that get to your head, he warns. Steffek knows some do. Compassion counters that, he says.

Like a journalist. The power to make or break someone by the words I write, words read daily by thousands of eyes.

A trespass call at the Broadwater Publix comes over the radio. Steffek speeds toward the grocery store. He says his instincts tell him it’s a one-armed, alcoholic war veteran whom he’s dealt with before. A couple of weeks ago, after walking drunk through the store on bare, bleeding, puss-filled feet and relieving himself outside the store, the man was forbidden to ever return. He lives two blocks away on a boat and has no car.

Inside the store this afternoon, Steffek’s instincts are confirmed. Today, the man’s calves seem regular size. He appears sober. He’s wearing white tennis shoes and there is no sign of cut feet. He’s browsing the bowls. Steffek walks up to him, and in a conversational tone says: "You need a bigger bowl." The man turns around and chuckles softly. Steffek smiles. "Remember me? You’re legs look 100 percent better." When Steffek reminds him he isn’t supposed to be on the property, the man is quiet, cooperative.

Steffek turns to the store’s security guard who made the call to the police. "How’s the man supposed to get his [groceries]? Can’t we make any arrangements?" He sends the security guard to make a call to his boss.

Steffek turns back to the man holding onto the cart with one arm. His prosthetic arm dangles by his side. "I’m here to help you out, but I also have to attend to the needs of the security company." Steffek makes sure the man gets what he needs and gives him instructions on how to be invited back into the store.

Steffek could have taken the man to jail. But he didn’t. He didn’t flash his badge and bare his teeth and showpiece his power. I’d expected him to.

The journalist and the police officer. Both walking the beat. Giving voice to the weak. Holding the lawbreakers responsible.

"We’re glorified reporters who can take people to jail. We go out to a scene and take down as much information as we can. Occasionally we get the bad guy and put him in jail," Steffek says.

My grandfather was a policeman. He died 17 years before I was born. Many of the black-and-white photos of the man who never grew old show him in his crisp uniform. But in my mind, I never pictured him as an officer. Now I do. And now, I think I’m a lot like him.

In close-up photos, I think I see a twinkle in my grandfather’s eyes. But maybe it’s just the stories I’ve heard. Like how he would take his plump widowed mother by the waist and twirl her around the front lawn and sing: "She’s a big one, but she’s my gal." How he talked to janitors like regular people despite his boss’s scolding. How he would have loved me, because he never had daughters, but he loved girls.

Like Steffek, he was a police officer, a man of the law. A man living life. Doing his job. A regular guy, not much different from the rest of us. Not much different from me.