Adventures in Profiling
The reader is deputized in the search for a hoodlum.

Mr. Dunphy* is an officer of the Los Angeles Police Department
February 12, 2001 1:35 p.m.

ohn Derbyshire and Roger Clegg performed a valuable service in distilling the arguments for and against racial profiling on these pages (if that's the proper term) last week. As best I can sum up their views and still have space remaining for my own ramblings, it seems that Mr. Derbyshire sees racial profiling as perfectly rational and acceptable given the disproportionate numbers of certain races represented in the pool of criminal offenders, while Mr. Clegg calls the practice immoral and destructive, as it leads to resentment among those law-abiding citizens who see themselves the targets of undue police attention. Though I lack their academic and journalistic credentials, I thought NRO readers might nonetheless enjoy the perspective of one whose experience in the matter has been more practical than theoretical.

In certain respects I agree with both of them. If a police officer relies solely on race to determine where to focus his investigative efforts, that officer is a racist at worst and a fool at best. But if an officer's goal is to reduce crime through arresting criminals, then he will spend his time in those areas where he is most likely to encounter them. Reasonable people may argue as to why this is so, but in the United States of America in the year 2001 AD, the officer is more likely to encounter criminals in areas dominated by certain minorities than elsewhere. Just as some schools fill the heads of young black children with Afro-centric claptrap for the dubious purpose of enhancing their self-esteem, there are those who would have the police and everyone else ignore this unpleasant fact so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of such as Al Sharpton and his followers.

Based on long experience in law enforcement, I have reached the conclusion that when criminals — such as certain former running backs and certain former presidents — are about to be pinched, they say to themselves something along the lines of, "Curses, I am about to be pinched. How can I now avoid culpability for my misdeeds?" The answer they very often come to is this: "I will accuse my accusers of harboring bias against me."

Let us engage in a little exercise of the imagination. The reader is hereby deputized into his or her local constabulary. (Wouldn't you look darn snappy in that uniform?) Insert yourself into a hypothetical scenario such as we police officers encounter nearly every day. You are called to local park, the scene of a reported assault and battery. There you find in repose on the ground a man, handkerchief pressed to brow in an effort to stanch the trickle of blood emanating therefrom. "What's all this, then?" you ask. "How have you come to suffer so?"

"I've been walloped with a chessboard," the man says, "and very roughly."

You take out your notebook and pencil. "Provide if you would, sir, the details of this walloping."

"We were engaged in a game of chess, one in which I had pressed an early advantage. My opponent apparently thought so little of my powers of observation and knowledge of the game that he dared to castle with his king in check."

"He didn't!" you say.

"He did!"

"You objected?"

"Of course. In the strongest and most unambiguous of terms. I mean, if one sits by idly while his opponent goes about castling with his king in check, what then becomes of an orderly society?"

"No one would blame you, sir. There must be limits."

"And when I voiced my objection, he had the crust to maintain that his king had been protected by his bishop at c-3. Well, the bishop at c-3 didn't enter into it at all. The man had completely overlooked the stealthful manner in which I had employed my knight. The game would have been mine in six moves or less."

"Of course. Anyone can see that."

"Indeed. And when I pointed out the futility of his strategic position, he picked up the chessboard and cracked me a sharp blow atop the head, resulting in the painful condition you see manifested before you."

"Describe this scoundrel," you say.

The victim, between dabs at the forehead, offers you an image in words of his attacker. "He is about yay high and is wearing a blue Yale sweatshirt."

"Ah," you say, "it comes as no surprise. We've had plenty of trouble hereabout with that sort."

"Yes. And he will be carrying a chessboard, impressed into which you will very likely find a bas-relief of my freshly creased cranium."

"Fear not," you say assuringly, "we'll have him nicked in two ticks."

Whereupon you set off in search of the brute. And a few blocks away you spot a man who seems to fit the proffered description in every detail. He even carries the checkered implement of destruction. You inwardly exult in the anticipated praise of your superiors — only moments will have elapsed between crime and capture. You are curt in your demeanor — brusque, even — as you are eager to convey that any further mischief with the chessboard will be harshly met.

"Look here, sir," you say, "we'll have that chessboard down and those hands up!"

"We'll have nothing of the kind," he says. "I do not wish to be bothered."

Faced with this naked affront to your lawful authority, you threaten the application of violence. "You'll comply," you announce, "or you'll soon feel the business end of a stout stick!"

"I will not," he says. "And as for your stout stick —"

"Cut the chat," you say, interrupting what would surely have been a most disrespectful remark, and when you move to seize the fiend he raises the chessboard in what you interpret to be a rude and threatening manner, all but forcing you to administer a proper thrashing with the above mentioned stout stick. When the fracas has concluded with the man in handcuffs, one of your colleagues brings the victim to the scene so that he might identify his assailant. Merely a formality, you suppose.

But, to your horror, the victim informs you that this is not the man who sloshed him with the chessboard. "Yes, there are similarities," he says, "but where the criminal's Yale sweatshirt was navy blue, the present one would more accurately be described as royal. Furthermore, the white squares on the chessboard utilized in the crime were of an ivory shade, while few would describe those on the board at hand as anything but ecru."

You turn to your manacled prisoner. "Sir, I apologize."

"Stuff it," he replies. "I'll hear nothing of your apologies. You'll shortly be hearing from an entire cadre of the very nastiest attorneys."

Your mood darkened, you nonetheless continue your quest for the man who would cheat at chess and become cross when confronted about it. Moments later, to your astonishment, you come across someone matching not only the earlier, general description, but who also comports with the added details you have more recently come to learn. The sweatshirt is navy blue; the white squares are most assuredly ivory.

The villain's face is a mask of guilt as he sees you approach. He attempts to flee, prompting you to pursue and once more put to use the trusty stout stick. You are again triumphant, and then much relieved when the victim arrives to confirm that this time you have apprehended the true perpetrator. The day has not been lost.

But when the various investigations have been completed and the attorneys have had their say, the first man is compensated by your employer to the tune of many thousands of dollars, this despite your quite reasonable though erroneous belief that he was in fact a hoodlum at the time you accosted him. The second man, he too receives a considerable sum from the public coffers after his criminal case is dismissed in court. He has raised the issue of your animus against Yale men, the proof of which is offered the rough treatment you gave the first fellow. Yes, he was guilty of the crime alleged, but he has suffered greatly at your hands, and in the interest of a just society he should therefore be recompensed.

And you, when all is said and done, are suspended without pay for two months for making such a hash of things. When you return to work — after two months of bagging groceries — you vow that those damned Yalies can pretty well run amok and raze the town before you'll so much as lift a finger to stop them.

Gentle readers, welcome to police work.

(*Jack Dunphy is the author's nom de cyber. The opinions expressed are his own and almost certainly do not reflect those of the LAPD management .)