John Caprarelli - Uniform Decisions: My Life in the LAPD and the North Hollywood Shootout

By

John Caprarelli withLee Mindham

*****

Copyright 2011 byJohn Caprarelli and Lee Mindham

All rightsreserved.

Published by End ofWatch Publishing

Los Angeles, CA

SMASHWORDS EDITION,License Notes

This ebook is licensedfor your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold orgiven away to other people. If you would like to share this bookwith another person, please purchase an additional copy for eachrecipient. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, orit was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respectingthe hard work of this author.

The contents of thisbook are based on actual experiences as recalled and/orinvestigated to the best ability of the authors. Some of the namesof those involved have been changed. Comments of a personal natureregarding any persons or organizations are the sole opinions of theauthors. No legal advice is intended.

No part of thispublication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, ortransmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical,photocopy, recording, or otherwise without prior writtenpermission of the copyright owners.

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Table of Contents

To my wife, Lynn, andtwo sons, John and Jim:

Evidence beyond ashadow of a doubt how blessed I am.

*****

Its not easy towrite about ones career and turn those memories into words thataccurately describe them.

Thats not for a lackof eligible excitement, if you choose to call it that. My careerhad more than its fair share, but translating emotions into wordsis not always an easy task.

Putting my story downon paper was never something I chomped at the bit to do, but aftermany years of urging by family, friends and acquaintances, Idecided the time was right.

Is it worth the priceof this book? I think so.

My career was anythingbut ordinary. During twenty-seven years with the Los Angeles PoliceDepartment, I experienced many an extraordinary day at work,including involvement in a modern-day Shootout at the OKCorral.

Its said that workingthe streets as a police officer is hours of boredom sprinkled withseconds of terror. I can vouch for that. It was quite a ride.

John Caprarelli

*****

With my kneespressed against the back of the drivers seat, I can feel its metalframe. The atmosphere inside the car is electric, crackling withthe ozone of anticipation and masked fear. The police radiostrapped under the dash is spewing out a torrent of messages,updates and yells overrunning one another in a mass of urgency anddesperation. Its a morning of utter chaos in North Hollywood.

I turn my head tothe officer in the seat next to me. Facing forward, eyes wide openand stone faced, he slowly looks to the floor as if bowing his headand momentarily closes his eyes as if saying a quick prayer. Not abad idea after just being shot at and about to face what is yet tocome.

As he raises hishead a bead of sweat, as if in slow motion, rolls down his nose,catching the sunlight as it falls to oblivion between his feet.

The neck of my ownshirt is soaked as well, and I can feel the beads on my face makingtheir own journeys downward. It reminds me of my summers as a youthworking up a sweat pushing the lawn mower under the hot sun. Itisnt the scent of freshly cut grass permeating the air today,however. Another scent intrudes, a dark and pungent odor that hasno place among that soft reminiscence: burnt gunpowder.

Jolted back toreality, here we are crawling northbound along Agnes Avenue, fourof us in an unmarked police car. Suddenly, gunshots erupt and awhite Chevrolet Celebrity comes bounding through the intersectionjust ahead. The human silence in the car is broken.

THERE! THERE!yells the front seat passenger, pointing at the fleeing car.

My head snaps up,eyes catching the tail end of the Chevy, trunk open and flapping asit picks up speed. Our driver stomps on the gas pedal, and thecruiser leaps forward like an eager cheetah after its prey.

As we approach theintersection, I glance to my leftan automatic, mentally programmedcheck for traffic. It isnt traffic that I get a glimpse of, ratherthat of a tractor-trailer parked at the curb with somebody movingunderneath, someone who obviously doesnt belong there.

Without anythought process, my instincts take over. I yell, Hold it! Waitingfor what seems like an eternity I fling the car door open and jumpout before the car comes to a complete stop. Quickly but cautiouslyI cross the road, gun in hand and scanning the area in front of mefor any other movement or sound. There is nothing else, just themovement under the truck and the sound of my own footsteps.Suddenly, another staccato bark of large-caliber automatic gunfiresnarls out from close by, followed by muted cracks of smallerarms returning fire.

Someone has tostop this, and I quickly realize I have the chance to do justthat.

As I near thecorner, a white metal fence standing waist high and rounding to myleft catches my eye. The thought of its thin, sparsely arrangedpillars being any sort of cover exits my mind as fast as itenters. So, here I stand, alone and exposed on Archwood Streetfacing this brown tractor-trailer unit. Underneath: my target.

Dressed all inblack, resplendent with ski mask, body armor and an AK-47 assaultrifle, is a wounded and highly aggressive suspect in flight. Like acut rattlesnake, he is angrily firing at anything that moves,pinning everybody downmy brothers in arms, my friends, eveninnocent civilians who have happened to get within his strikingdistance.

As he squats down,facing away from me and shuffling his position slightly, I raise my9mm Beretta. I begin to feel as though Im being submerged inhoney. Time becomes sticky, slow and tangible.

The muzzle of myweapon gradually rises past my chest level. I can see the frontsight come up higher, seeking a straight shot at this monstersback.

In a heartbeat, itall starts to go wrong.

He has seen meover his shoulder. I am now a threat, a threat to his life and veryclose. I have been caught creeping and the world, except for thetwo of us, will now cease to exist until this tableau has playedout. Only one of us will walk away; only one will survive. A fewseconds ago, Id have bet it would be me going home that night, butnow Im not so sure.

My breathing slowsdespite a massive surge of adrenaline flowing through my veins. Itry to move faster but cant, like those dreams when you try to runfrom some threat and your body just cant respond. I am too slow,and hes going to get the drop on me.

I can see it all,the muzzle of the AK-47, the 100-round drum, the ground litteredwith spent casings and the dark eyes fixated on me, full ofloathing. He looks like an angry cobra puffed up and ready tostrike.

My breathing slowseven more; I feel like Im not getting enough oxygen. Tunnel visioncloses in.

Why cant Ibreathe?!

With my gun nowpointed squarely at the center of his chest, I jerk back on thetrigger; the metal pressing against my right forefinger.

This is it! I gotyou after all! Or so I think.

Nothing! Thetrigger will not move.

I squeeze harder.Again, nothing. It feels jammed solid.

WHAT ISHAPPENING?

The muzzle of hisrifle is now squarely on me. Another second, maybe a half, and itwill be all over.

I glance at myweapon in confused amazement. I feel like I havent drawn a breathin minutes. My head is spinning, my chest constricted, and I canhear the blood roaring through my ears.