Many fine memories, Tact Officer Greg Secani kept us in line while still maintaining a friendship. Card games and BBQ at my apartment!

i remembered Jeff Wilson, aka Spider, as a clever guy with a flair for business. I looked him up on the internet and asked, “Hey stranger, long time no see. What have you been up to?”

Well Damn, let Spider answer:

PART 1

Chapter 1

̴ The Battle of Welch Park  ̴

‘Put on the whole armour of God,

That Ye may be able to stand

Against the wiles of the devil’

               -Ephesians 6:11

Gathering Courage

“Wilson, snap out of it. Stop daydreaming and get ready for War!” Sitting on the bench, half-dressed. My head bowed to an open locker. Like an altar of war. Filled with memories of good times. Photos of family and friends were taped on the inside of the locker door. So many that they would overlap with each other. Taking care not to cover the faces of loved ones on the growing layers beneath them. Some photos from my 35mm Pentax camera. Others from my Polaroid. Capable of printing instant results. All precious to me. At the heart of the mounting collage is my baby girl, ‘V.’ Born on Christmas Eve, the year of my high school graduation. She was the only one that I loved with unconditional love. And when she would look at me, her infant smile embedded deep into my soul. I knew then that the feeling was mutual. She would be the reason I must win this battle. So I could make my way back home to her. I could not let death overcome me.

I began to don my uniform, reminding me of the similarities between my police uniform and the uniforms I have worn as a football player. I was a San Jose High Bulldog. My mom, dad, and uncle were Bulldogs. The school is well over a hundred and fifty years old.

The uniform was that of a superhero outfit. Instant respect, status, and full of superpowers. The wearing of it inspired confidence, overcoming several debilitating shortcomings. That harbored deep in my psyche. Each part of the uniform had a story to tell.

My boots allowed me to leap tall fences in a single bound, chasing fleeing suspects. The waffle-shaped Vibram soles of my big black boots gripped the sides of buildings, which aided me in climbing up to roofs. Capturing serial rooftop burglars. Securing my reputation as ‘Spiderman Wilson.’ My boots had a secret compartment. Hiding my sharp folding six-inch blade Buck knife from view. This gave me confidence that if captured and unarmed, I still had a ‘go-to’ weapon. The boots were like football cleats sticking into the wet grass of the playing field.

Double socks serve a dual purpose. The heavy white athletic socks functioned as a cushion. It helped when standing on hard surfaces like concrete and asphalt. While directing traffic or investigating complex crime scenes. The fabric also absorbs sweat from the feet. The same as the white socks in football. I then put on a pair of black socks. That would blend into the color scheme of the dark uniform.

The pants were tailor-fitted by Summit Uniforms, which specializes in law enforcement apparel. Heavy, dark blue wool pants. A durable lining in the seat for hard use. It would extend the wear by two more years beyond the norm. A white stripe running down the side. Similar to a football uniform. Fitted with a heavy-duty zipper. The basketweave belt, making its way around my waist through the numerous loops, would hold my pants up.

As I put my boots on, my thoughts were directed to six of my police friends. Before briefing, we would hold an impromptu boot competition in the coffee room. Seeing who had the shiniest pair. Not only would the overall cleanliness of the leather be judged. But also, the toe and heel had to be finished off in a mirror-like fashion. Our little group would stand together, looking down at our respective footwear. Usually, my friend Dexter W. and I would win. He was a tall young black man who played on the police basketball team with me.

After our session was over. I asked Dexter what his secret to such a brilliant shine was. He told me it was a trick he learned when he was in the military. After you apply the wax polish to the toe and heel. Melt it with a cigarette lighter. Then buff it vigorously until that mirror shine appears. We kept the secret from the others. From then on, only Dexter and I would win. Giving us bragging rights until the next contest.

The next article was about the shirt, also made of wool and dark blue. A perfect match in color with the pants. A pull-up zipper to close the shirt. With a flap and a row of buttons giving a false impression, the buttons were functional. Also, custom-fitted by the tailor. At my request and of my own design. Under my left armpit, the shirt harbored a secret weapon compartment. Not authorized by department policy. Modified to conceal my Combat Model 66 .357 caliber two-inch barrel Smith and Wesson six-shot revolver. An immensely powerful handgun. Loaded with 158-grain hollow point bullets. The purpose of the gun was threefold. In case I was disarmed and taken hostage. I would have a weapon to save myself. If my main gun failed or ran out of rounds, I had a readily available backup.

I was hired in 1973; San Jose was the fastest-growing city in the United States. Born in the 50’s the population was 98,000. In the 70’s, it would grow to a whopping 445,779. Its growth spurt through the 90s increased to 839,000. In the year 2022, there were 971,233 souls who called it home. Just under one million people, a tenfold growth. As the small farming town turned big city. So did the tech Industry. San Jose would become the ‘tech capital of the world.’

Joseph Wambaugh, a former Los Angeles police officer, wrote the 1973 classic, The Onion Field. It is a true story In which two LA officers were disarmed and kidnapped, and one of them was ultimately murdered by the perpetrators. This inspired me to have multiple weapons at my disposal, just in case.

Seeking out and finding an old-school master craftsman gunsmith. A true artist of metallurgy and machining. The last breed of his kind. In collaboration with him, we designed and made the ultimate handheld weapon. The short two-inch pistol barrel had the advantage of concealment. But the disadvantage was one of stability. The goal was to hit your target in the center, which we called the five-X. So named because the center of the paper practice targets is at the core of the target. Whatis the shape of the human body. A hit in the center was a score of five points. The further away you hit the target from the center, the value would go down.

Having great concern that the grouping of my shots would be as tight as possible. The design of the pistol, along with numerous hours of practice at the old gun range in the hills of Milpitas. It would ensure confidence in the merging of machine and man. Considering all types of scenarios, in the setting up of the target. Including various ranges, techniques of drawing my gun, and ready positions of my arms and body. From standing to kneeling to prone. From fast draw to double and single action. Which means, is the hammer pulled back or just pull the trigger. Is precious time taken to aim and line up the shot? Or shooting ‘quick-draw’ like a cowboy from the hip? Most shootouts occur within a range of five to twelve yards.

But to me, the most important shot was the one of my little girl being held hostage with a gun to her head. Pacing off fifty yards, two paper targets would be placed slightly offset, one behind the other. In the front target, I imagined my little girl ‘V’. Behind her would be the perpetrator. At the fifty-yard line, standing, carefully lining up the sight, holding my breath. Six rounds would be squeezed off one after the other in succession. Aiming right between the eyes of the bad guy. The grouping was so tight that the rounds would be placed no further than the size of a quarter from each other. Some even go through the same hole. I would do this with both my two-inch and four-inch revolvers. With my four-inch gun, my range score was high enough to earn the ‘expert’ badge to wear on my uniform shirt.

In order to achieve such accuracy, the master gunsmith suggested a few enhancements to the two-inch hideaway weapon. First, he said to get a ‘bull-barrel’. A huge piece of steel over an inch in diameter with rifling grooves inside. It would take the place of the short two-inch barrel. That originally came with the store-bought gun we were revamping. The purpose of the heavy ‘bull-barrel’ is to hold the gun down as you shoot. This prevented the short barrel from kicking up too much after launching the big hollow-point magnum round. With minimum recoil, the shooter can continue to fire, keeping the gun relatively level and assuring a tighter grouping. Competitive target shooters use this type of barrel for high scores. The problem for patrol officers is that it will not fit into a standard holster. What the master did was to slightly mill the sides down so it would fit in my concealed shoulder holster under my shirt.

The next improvement he made was to install a state-of-the-art gun sighting system. Way ahead of its time in technology. The old one had a standard rear sight you could make slight adjustments left or right with the use of a small horizontal screw. It was black in color. The front sight was also black in color. These two colors made it difficult to line up. Because the gap in the difference made it difficult to differentiate the front from the back.

This was problematic for me. I worked the swing shift from 4 pm to 2 am. A ten-hour shift. This period of time goes through three separate lighting conditions. At the start of the shift, it is light. As the sun goes down, care must be given to targets in front of the bright setting sun. The human eye has a chemical that helps the eyes adjust from bright light to dark. If unprotected, the glare of the sun will blind you. And, at the very least, it makes it extremely difficult to properly line up the front sight from the rear. This is why cops wear sunglasses. So that their eyes can quickly acclimate to the rapidly changing light conditions. Allowing them to see in the dark.

The gunsmith would redesign the gun sight system. From the rear sight to the front, there are several slight grooves running along the length of this new ramp. The front sight has a notch in it with an insert of bright red plastic. Allowing the sighting of the gun to be much easier under many conditions.

I was extremely impressed with his last suggestion for the modification of the gun. Which was the pistol handle that would have a major customized change to the original design. This innovation kept the gun stable while firing. In order to make the custom handle, I put my right hand on a piece of plain white paper. Spreading my fingers out and pressing down firmly. In unison, my palm pressed down, ensuring it was also in contact with the paper. Then, taking a pencil with my left hand, and traced the outline of all my fingers from the inside of my wrist all the way around in one continuous line to the outside of the wrist. This proved to be very awkward. The hand tracing would act as a pattern for my new custom grip. Placing the tracing in an envelope, it was mailed off. To the custom hand grip manufacturer that the gunsmith had recommended.

A few weeks later, I received it back. Opening the box with the excitement of a kid opening his presents on Christmas morning. It was truly a beautiful work of art. A massive black walnut grip. Looked more like a sculpture than a utilitarian piece of equipment. A diamond-shaped etched pattern on both sides assisted in the holding power of the palm and fingers.

The most impressive part was a large ramp carved into the walnut hand grip. That flared out on the left side. From the bottom to the top, tapering outward and rounding off at the tip. The ramp had a slight channel where the right thumb would rest. It cradled my thumb from its root at the bottom center of my right hand all the way to its top. Designed to stabilize the recoil of the powerful hollow point .357 round. It worked great, better than expected. I would test-fire the gun hundreds of times.

I put the shoulder holster for the bull-barrel over my white t-shirt. And snapped in the customized two-inch weapon. Locking it in place with a strap just under the hammer. Next, went on the first-generation Kevlar white bulletproof vest. It goes on like a pull-on sweater. The vest would be a secret that perpetrators would not be ready for. Since they were new to the department. The front and rear panels had a right and left three-inch hinge that rested on top of the shoulders. The holster and gun nestled in between the panels perfectly. Then the panels were brought together with four Velcro straps, two on each side. Securing the holster in place, just under the left armpit.

The vest was of a new fiber called Kevlar. The makers claimed it was bullet-proof and could absorb the energy of small arms fire. A .22, .38, and .357 rounds would not penetrate the fabric shield. The concept was both revolutionary and radical. It was difficult, if not impossible, to believe their claims. We officers just had too many doubts to risk our lives on such a new novelty. How could mere cloth stop a high-velocity round? In order to be convinced, the manufacturer distributed a film showing a fellow officer supporting the body armor. Another officer stood twenty feet from him, pointing a gun directly at his chest. Which would be the ‘five-X’ shot on our paper targets. We call this the center mass of the torso.

Looking at the camera, the officer narrated how the multi-layered material technology could stop a round and would not penetrate our body cavity. He went on to explain that the damage to us depended on the type of round used by a suspect. Also, the distance from the suspect. Our ribs may get broken, and bruising, more than likely, would be experienced. We might even get knocked down by the blast. But it would not be a ‘kill’ shot. His little speech was short and built up the suspense of the pending experiment. He turned his attention from the camera to his intended target. We all moved forward in our chairs at the end of our seats in anticipation of the results. He squeezed one off at center mass with his .357 magnum handgun. Fire flew from the barrel, the sound stifling. The bullet propelled itself right into the chest of the waiting officer. His torso blew back, bending him like a bow. Forcing him back a few steps. Never falling but certainly off balance. The room filled with awes and wows. He pulled up his shirt, displaying a small bruise. We were sold. Knowing that if we experienced a death blow, we would survive and go home to our family that night.

The tailor did a great job hiding the master gunsmith’s secret. No one could tell the ‘hide-away’ gun was there. Donning layers of protection for the pending encounter. Putting on my long blue-sleeved uniform shirt. Embellished with one white hashmark service stripe on the sleeve. It represented five years of service. I pinned my badge on through two metal eyelets. On the left side of my shirt. Representing the badge protecting our hearts. It had the new badge series; my number was #1624. Badge #466 was the old series I first wore, now retired. I placed my small flip notebook in the top right shirt pocket. Just like the academy instructed me to do. The tucking in of my shirt followed.

Uniform, ‘check’. My black basketweave gun belt was snapped onto my waist belt with four leather rings, ‘check.’ Two six-round rubber bullet reloaders in their holders placed on my gun belt, ‘check.’ Handcuffs, ‘check.’ Wooden baton, ‘check.’ The wooden baton was placed into the chrome steel ring hanging from my Sam Brown basketweave gun belt. Mace, ‘check.’ Sunglasses ‘check’. Grab heavy nylon jacket, ‘check.’ Riot helmet with clear pull-down visor, ‘check.’ Gas mask, check.’ Black leather driving gloves, ‘check.’

One final look back at my photos. A silent prayer of protection and to return safely is said. Shutting my locker door and spinning the combination lock off the last inputted number. Walking up to the mirror, I smiled, pleased with myself. Looking back at me was a meticulous, confident, professional, imposing man of color. My 6’-5” 220 lb. frame was gallant with dignity. Not a sickly boy of so long ago. Ready for battle. In the same way, I had been before so many times, marching onto the football field. Except this time, we would be facing people who wanted to harm or kill us. It was time to take the one-hundred-and-fifty-yard-long walk outside and into the main building.

Finding my way into the crowded briefing room. The room was more crowded that day than most, with all seats full. Officers crammed in, sitting and standing on all four sides of the room. Taking my place in the back row of seats, where I always sit. Feeling more comfortable with my back facing the wall, with almost everyone else in front of me. Doing what my seasoned police mentor had taught me to do. That way, you could see anything coming at you. All the brass and sergeants stood in front. Sergeant Thomas stepped onto the platform. Walks up to the podium, taking center stage. Speaking into the microphone, he begins to take roll call. It took quite a while, due to the fact that there were so many of us in attendance.

After a few words of wisdom, the Sgt. turned the briefing over to Lieutenant Millard. A tall, dark,blond, handsome man. Who was a teammate on the police basketball squad. Lt. Millard begins, “As you know, we have been running into skirmishes with Low Riders all summer. At first, it was low-riding in the downtown area. They were coming into San Jose from all around the state. Oakland, Richmond, as far away as Fresno and Merced. There were so many cars that the flow of traffic would jam up to a crawl. It made it impossible for regular traffic to get through. They would stop and party in the surrounding parking lots. We have received reports of underage drinking, dope-smoking, heavy drug use, fighting, and other crimes. Our city is growing so fast that the police department cannot keep up with calls for service. But today’s call for action cannot be ignored. There are many citizens who need us.”

The Lieutenant went on to say, “When the sun goes down, these groups migrate to other venues. Such as the Mexican dance hall in downtown off the Alameda. And the one at King and Story. When the clubs let out, cars pour into residential neighborhoods on the east side. There they party at their friends’ houses. Neighbors have complained that they could not get to their homes. Because the streets were being used as a parking lot. With hundreds of people flocking in. All summer, we chased these cars back and forth between San Jose and the sheriff’s jurisdiction. The sheriff’s office has had major problems with them. Mainly at Hellyer Park out by the lake, off of Highway 101 at the south end of town”.

Lt. Millard reveals the potential danger, “we have intel that today will be a war at Welch Park. It is located just down the street from the Eastridge Shopping Mall, off Tully Road. We have learned that the event is being coordinated by gang leaders who are in prison. They plan to have snipers on rooftops and vow to shoot cops in revenge for all of the arrests we made over the summer. Now I will turn the briefing over to Sergeant Hook.”

Sergeant Hook was a big man. As tall as me at 6’-5”. His commanding girth made him king amongst us warriors. Forty pounds heavier than me. I would never get in a ring with him. As he approached the podium, my thoughts were one of privilege. Remembering being invited to his house for poker night. On the upscale west side of town, where his house was located. As officers began to arrive, I noticed there were only a handful of us. This was very different than the large parties other officers had previously thrown. Parking my brown 1974 260 Z Datsun, taking note that I was the youngest of this elite group of veteran officers.

The most interesting event of the poker night. It was when the sarge met us at the front door. As he welcomed us in, he immediately asked for our guns. This collection reminded me of the old Western movies. Where the cowpokes had to turn in their weapons at the sheriff’s office. Before they could drink at the saloon. So that they would not create drunken chaos with their firearms. It made me wonder what had happened to initiate such a policy. Daring not to ask, and no one else did either. We freely gave up our weapons, and they were stowed in a safe place.

On the podium, his voice was that of an alpha lion. In a series of deep roars, he bellowed in booming, thunderous, commanding tones. That resonated all the way to the back of the large, crowded briefing room where I was sitting.

Sgt. Hook reveals his strategy for the first time: “Gentlemen, we have intelligence that the crowd size is estimated to be 2,000. We simply don’t have enough officers to handle a situation like this. In San Jose’s history, there has never been such a large hostile gathering. Vacations have been canceled. Other shifts have been called in. Detectives will be there, and they will be in uniform. With all of that, we still only have 200 officers. We are going to surround them on all four sides. We’ll go in ‘Trojan Horse’ style. Four officers to a car so as not to draw attention to ourselves. This surprise barrage will ensure we won’t get attacked right away going in”. As he addressed the group, I realized what a great tactical genius he was. It reminded me of the days when I played with my Green Army men. Setting them up in a strategic fashion.

He continues to pontificate, “Make sure you spread out the time leaving the station. That way, we won’t be spotted. Bring all your gear. Your riot helmet with the clear visor. And a black camo cover, so it conceals the white helmet. Make sure your visor is halfway down. When you get hit with debris, such as rocks and bottles. It will flip all the way down, protecting your face. We don’t want anybody injured. Or even worse, put out an eye. Also, have your gas mask ready. So, when I give the order to use the riot mace, you won’t get gassed. Put on your heavy jacket and black leather driving gloves to repel anything thrown at you. And, of course, wear your bulletproof vest. Especially you detectives. I know you don’t wear them every day. Four-man car teams stay together. If you work in a two-man car, then stay with your partner. If your partner goes down, stand beside him and call for help. The adjacent team form a circle around him until help arrives.”  

He finishes with, “We will pass out your four-man car assignments. Notice on your handouts that the cars have a designation of north, south, east, and west. With Welsh Park being in the center. Go to the assigned direction of the park. The handouts have a map of parking lots. Which will be located in the back of stores and schools. These will be your staging areas. There are one or two sergeants assigned to each of these allocated zones; report to them. They will tell you how to form up and when it is time to go. Keep safe, and I’ll see you out there.”

Looking over at my partner, Gomer, sitting next to me. No words were spoken. With a smile, an affirmative nod was shared between us. Knowing today would be special. Little idea did we have what was waiting for us. We got up and started walking towards the police garage. Halfway splitting up, going in separate directions. He went to get the car; my mandate was to check out the 12-gauge shotgun. It was a walk-up window manned by the weapons specialist. Usually, jokes would ensue with him. But today it was especially quiet, mentally preparing myself for battle. This is called ‘getting into the zone’. Like I had done hundreds of times before, practice and big games.

My uncle was the head of the motor pool, Frank Simmons. Gomer knew he would get the best care available because of that fact, and he did. A police intercept cruiser with a big 440 8-cylinder engine. This car was a beast. The department modeled her after the California Highway Patrol cruiser specs. The patrol unit was a new model. It had the new light bar replacing the single bucket-shaped light. Called the ‘cherry on top’.

She also had a beefed-up suspension. And a set of heavy-duty brakes, like those of an ambulance. This would give us a strategic advantage in a high-speed pursuit. The average automobile’s brakes can take about 3-4 sharp turns while slamming on their brakes. All the while, their brakes are heating up. Because they don’t have the knowledge of high-speed driving like we do. Their brakes would get to the point where they can’t absorb any more energy from the braking action. Heavy-duty cop brakes can take more heat. A good cop knows when the car they are pursuing has had it. Their brakes no longer work efficiently. And a small tap on the rear bumper at a turn will spin the bad guy out of control. Like I had done so many times before.

Our baby had a top-end speed of 125 mph. We tested similar models on Highway 280 late at night. At that time, I had held the record for high-speed pursuits. With about a dozen or so under my belt. The guys nicknamed me ‘Code-3’ Wilson. ‘Code-3’ is the official nomenclature for red lights and sirens. My theory was, ‘I’d rather run them over than shoot them.’

Walking into the garage, the shotgun butt riding on my hip with the barrel pointing up. I could see Gomer had the car ready to go. It was lined up with all the other units. There were so many cars wrapped around the inside of the garage. It reminded me of jets ready to take off from an aircraft carrier’s flight line with engines running. You could see all the uniformed officers in various phases of making ready their battle wagon. Some were doing a walk-around, testing lights and popping sirens. Others were stowing their gear in the trunk. There was very little talk. The mood was somber. We met the other two officers assigned to our four-man car.

We were all ready to go. A sergeant was stationed at the exit, armed with a metal clipboard in the form of a binder. He walked down the line confirming the patrol unit that we were assigned. And that the four officers were in the right cars. Making sure that we had our handouts and knew whichparking lot to report to. After the checklist was completed, he released us, four cars at a time. All going in different directions. Ultimately ending up on the east side of town. Taking positions on four sides of Welch Park in their assigned areas.

Our car’s assigned location was west of the park, in a school parking lot. With five other units, twenty officers in all. Believe it or not, the mood turned somewhat festive. Just like before a big game. All of us huddled around the back of our cars. With trunks wide open, we donned our riot gear. I felt a burning desire to add to the festivities.

My partner and I had jury-rigged a tape recorder in the trunk of the patrol unit. We strung a wire from the recorder to a tiny microphone. Placed in the back seat, concealed on top of the headrest. The tape recorder was cutting-edge technology and was recently released into the marketplace. I always had the best and latest gadgets. The purpose was sinister but legal. It was used to capture conversations of suspects. Freshly caught in the commission of a crime. Usually armed robbers. We placed them handcuffed in the back together. Conventional wisdom dictates not to use this practice and to keep them separated. So they don’t have time to get their story straight. However, we were very unconventional. The courts have ruled that suspects have no ‘expectation of privacy’ in the back of a police car. The recorder had a voice actuator that would automatically turn on when it detected any sort of sound. When put together, the perpetrators thought they were taking advantage of our stupidity. And blabbed their guts out. In telling secrets, such as the location of the weapons and money. Who were the stupid ones? My saying was, “I never caught the smart ones because there were so many dumb ones.” Many of those spent hard years in prison.

A special tape was made for this occasion. Taking the recorder from the trunk. Placed it up front of the car on the dashboard and popped in the music tape. The speaker of the recorder was attached to the microphone of the public address system. We taped the police mic down and turned on the music. All the officers immediately turned my way, looking surprised. The song ‘Low Rider’ by War blared out over the loudspeaker. It was from their album ‘Why can’t we be friends’, released in 1975. A funky tune about a culture of car enthusiasts called ‘Low Riders.’ Who modifies their cars to hop and jump by means of trick suspension and hydraulics. The lyrics matched the occasion of the day perfectly:

‘All my friends know the low rider The Low Rider is a little higher Yeah’

‘The Low Rider drives a little slower Low Rider is a real goer Yeah’…

My friends start to dance as they put on their gear, everyone is laughing. The volume is turned way up. The song spills from the parking lot over neighboring fences.

‘Low Rider knows every street, Yeah’

‘Low Rider is the one to meet, Yeah’…

The sergeant is not sure if he likes what’s going on or not. He looks at me, then at the men, as he scans the neighbor’s fence line. Maybe he doesn’t want the loud music to give away our position. Maybe he wants to start having us get into ‘the zone’ to get ready for battle. Perhaps it was both. Looking at me again, he shouts, “Wilson, turn off that music.” In any event, he was right. The speaker goes silent, turning the mood somber once again. Our armor and weapons are ready. The sarge yells out the order we were waiting for. “O.K. Mount up. Report to Sergeant Hook in the parking lot behind Kragen’s Auto at the intersection of Tully and Welch. Down the street from the Eastridge shopping center. On the south side of the park. Don’t bunch up when you leave. Everyone, stay safe and watch your partner’s back!”

All four of us mounted the vehicle. We were the third one to leave the lot. I was the driver. We drove through residential neighborhoods. Instead of main thoroughfares, in order not to be detected. We finally landed at our destination. I was surprised to see how many officers were at the location and how few cars were present. Thirty-plus officers and only a handful of marked patrol units, more were pouring in. The ‘Trojan Horse’ strategy had proven successful. Our strength and numbers remained hidden from the growing assembly, nearing several hundred now.

As we approached, I was pleasantly surprised to see Sergeant Hook. He would be our tactical sergeant. Sergeant Hook was careful in instructing us not to peer over the concrete wall that was located at the back of the auto store. He didn’t want us to give away our position to the crowd on the other side. He would only let one to two of us at a time look over the wall at the growing crowd. When it was my turn, I placed my eyes just high enough over the wall. I took my helmet off. Amazed and shocked at what was unfolding. A sea of people covers half the grass field of the park. They were parked, blocking the streets, which made it impassable. There was plenty of beer and hard alcohol being consumed. The smell of dope permeated the air with a pungent aroma. During those days, it was illegal to smoke marijuana. But strangely enough, no BBQs lit or food out. The crowd seemed like they had planned for an insurrection.

Hook called all of us in a big huddle. Just like the huddles of my old football days. He grouped us according to rank, seniority, experience, and aggressiveness. The ’ big boys’ were banded together in the first unit. All heavy weightlifters. They hung together both on and off duty. The sergeant broke out a new type of tear gas canister. He had two of them. It was as big as a quart of soda with a tremendous forty-foot range. He handed one to Ron Davis, not the tallest of us. Yet he had more muscles than any of the officers. He had won several weightlifting competitions.  

When it was time to encounter the crowd, he wanted us to run out there as one group. He gave everybody their formation assignments. Wonderment came over me as to why he hadn’t called my name. Little did I know he had a big surprise planned for my partner and me.

Looking directly at me, he said, “Wilson, your ‘B’-team. ‘B’ stands for bait. You’re the only one that will be allowed to drive a car into the crowd.” He went on to say, “Wait for my signal. When I call you, drive through the crowd and come up to where I am.”

Thinking to myself, ‘What an honor’. Achieving the respect of my peers and superiors. Quite different from the quiet, shy child of my past. Yet, at the same time, I was experiencing some apprehension. Fighting off the pulse of self-doubt that was embedded into me so long ago. In the history of San Jose. Nothing of this magnitude has ever happened. And I would find myself at the center of it.

Hook continued with our responsibilities. “I have a plan worked out with the motorcycle units. Who are circling the perimeter, looking for violators. That when there is some kind of incident with an officer, I will go in. If we have an arrest, Wilson, you, and your partner will go in for prisoner transport. Leave the back seat empty for prisoners. Your other two partners will get a ride back with one of the sergeants. When you show up alone, that should act as bait for the crowd to gather around you. When they’re distracted, all four sides will move in, surrounding them. Our group will run in and protect your car.”

The stage was set, and everything was going according to plan. Sergeant Hook called me over to his patrol unit. It was just him and me in a private huddle. The others looked on with curiosity. This was the kind of attention that had perpetrated my well-earned reputation as ‘Spider-Man Wilson.’ Always having your back. And would go above and beyond the call of duty to catch the bad guy.

The sergeant looked me straight in the eye, standing toe-to-toe. We were the same tall height. “Wilson, no matter what happens, you make sure you get to me. Don’t let anyone or anything get in the way. Do you understand?” My response was in the affirmative. He said, “Mount up and get in your car.” The next time we would see each other would be in the thick of things. Our car was positioned in the front of the line, pointing out towards the street. Sitting behind the wheel, waiting, wondering why he picked me for such an important task. I think my aggressiveness comes from playing tackle football. And my dad was rough with me. As in football, I was going mentally deeper into the zone, psyching up for combat. People would get hurt on both sides. Praying I was not one of them.

My partner and I waited in the car for about 15 minutes. Then the call came out over the radio. A traffic unit called Sergeant Hook to join him. A Low Rider had committed a minor traffic violation at Tully Road and Highway 101. He refused to stop. Even when the motorcycle unit hit him with red lights and siren. The Low Rider knew about the large crowd. And sought out the sanctuary of the safe harbor that the group could afford him. The motor unit followed him into the crowd. He was refusing to sign the traffic ticket. The sarge took off to go to the aid of the officer. A few minutes later, Hooks’ order blared out over the radio.

“‘B’-team, we have a driver refusing to sign his citation. Move in. We’re going to make an arrest. Be advised that the crowd is getting rowdy.”

Pulling out of the parking lot, turning the corner, beholding a sight I shall never forget. Ordered chaos on a grand scale of epic proportions. Organized but unruly, a sea of human bodies. Not showing a blade of grass. The entire first half of the park was covered by the illegal assembly. We drove over the curb onto the grass. Slowly pushing our way into the hostile group. That was purposely blocking our police cruiser’s path. Sometimes, stopping so as not to run over those in front of our marked police car. Dozens of hands pressed against the glass on all four sides.

As we got closer to the sergeant and the lone motorcycle officer. We could hear hundreds of people chanting, “Don’t sign, don’t sign, don’t sign!”  We finally got within a few feet of the sarge. Observing the suspect driver, who had sought sanctuary in the large gathering, he looked scared. I could tell he didn’t want to go to jail for want of not signing a simple ticket. But at the same time, he feared harm from the crowd yelling, “Don’t sign” directly at him.

The sergeant looked like a pillar of stoic stone amongst the hostilities. Fearless he was. The motor officer looked threatened, with no place to turn for safety. Hook had had enough. He gave the driver one last chance to sign. The driver acquiesced, giving in to the angry assembly, and refused to sign the ticket. He was handcuffed by the motor unit and placed in the back of our patrol car. The mob began to pulverize our unit. Hitting it with any and everything they could get their hands on. Branches torn from trees, rocks, fists, feet, and full beer cans. The car was rocking back and forth. The situation escalated quickly. From a minor disturbance to a felonious lynching. Even the prisoner was frightened. His eyes widened as he rocked back and forth in abrupt unison with his mobile cage. Handcuffed behind his back.

Staying cool, it was almost fun. For I knew what faith awaited the gathering. The only concern was would the glass of the windshield would hold up before reinforcements arrived? The two hundred officers had secretly snuck up behind the crowd, which was focused on our patrol car. The Trojan Horse plan had worked flawlessly. The crowd did not realize what had just transpired. The officers started to peel the group back like an onion, layer by layer. Pulling them by their collar as they fought their way to the core. Where the sarge, the motor unit, my partner, the prisoner, and myself were. It was as though we were a tiny island surrounded by a sea of hostility.

The two hundred in blue finally got to us, taking up positions all around our car. The mob poised themselves in an offensive manner. It was apparent this endeavor had been well orchestrated. Confirming what intelligence had discovered. That gang leaders from prison had dictated the events of the day. The anger in the crowd’s faces told the whole story.

My partner and I dismounted the vehicle in order to protect it and the prisoner. It was the lull before the storm, and we were standing in the eye of the hurricane. Both sides faced each other, waiting to see who would blink first. Who would show weakness, a chink in the armor, that the other side could take advantage of.

Then, a command to attack was given from an unknown source in the crowd. A deluge of debris flooded the sky. Turning the blue into black. Raining down on us for a harmful purpose. The debris fell like artillery shells before the charge. Busted pieces of fence planks torn from neighbors’ fences. Limbs, beer cans, glass soda bottles, metal canned goods, plastic bottles full, half-full, and empty. Bushes pulled up from the park and surrounding landscape. It seemed as though many of the items were brought from their homes. To be used as ammo. The makeshift rounds hit the officers’ helmets, knocking down the half-open visors as it was designed to do. In order to keep our faces from injury. Our heavy nylon jackets protected our bodies as various projectiles bounced off them.

The mob broke through the line. It brought up memories of an old movie. Where the Roman soldiers’ frontline was intermixed with the enemy, in hand-to-hand combat. Everything turned into slow motion. The horde was fighting to get to our car, still several feet away. Batons were flying, fists landing on their intended targets. Muffled sounds, whispers of quiet moans. It reminded me of a goal-line stand in football, with us holding the opponent up on the one-yard line. Preventing them from crossing the goal line.

I have never been in such chaos, or have I? There seemed to be something familiar about the scene. Scanning the horizon, an epiphany came to me. Reminding me of all the football games I have played in. Hand-to-hand combat, bodies falling all around me, protecting my buddies. Having their backs. Knowing an injury could be sustained at any time. The difference was that in this situation, my oath was to protect everyone, even to my own demise.

Winning many trophies and awards playing the sport. And was good enough to go pro. But my little secret was being afraid of getting severely hurt. A broken leg or, worse, a paralyzed,damaged spine. In which providing for my young, loving family would not be possible. The difference here was that there were no referees. No one to blow the whistle or call a foul. This was far more dangerous than a football game. Because of this battle, tackle football held no more fear for me. Facing this, I could face anything. Going on to play for a few more years. On the police football team and Semi-pro. I was too old, and my speed had left me to play offensive tight end. Yet a pretty good defensive end. Fearless, I had become. There was one common denominator between football and police work. And that was having and belonging to a team you could count on. With each of us protecting each other.

Then it happened: one of our officers went down after he was hit on the side of his head. Right below the helmet line with a brick. It was Ron Davis; he was the one with the quart of mace,shooting it out forty feet into the crowd. The assailant looked around for any witnesses to his crime. His gaze caught my cold, steely eyes zeroed in on him. A meaty target takes off, running through the assembly. Dodging in and out between the police and the civilians. Thinking that he had made a clean getaway. Little did he realize ‘code-three’ Wilson (meaning red lights and sirens) was about to bring blue terror into his life.

Shouting to my partner, “Gomer, that guy running just hit Ron with a brick.” I howled instructions, “Quick, get in the car!” His reply was difficult to understand over the chaotic screaming transpiring. The slow motion I was experiencing quickly evolved into the reality of the moment. “NO!” He yelled back, “I’m getting on the hood of the car!” “Are you crazy?” I retorted. My partner, with boastful arrogance, hollered, “Don’t worry, I’ll hold on to the front push-bars, go, go!” Hitting the gas with reckless abandon. Never losing sight of the moving target, while activating the red lights and siren. All the while plowing our way through the contentious throng.

My buddy was waving with one hand, motioning people to get out of the way. While holding on to the push bar with the other. The siren made the felonious suspect turn around with an incredibly surprised look. I’m not sure if he ever saw the patrol car at first in the sea of people. Once he did notice us, he kicked it up into a higher gear, running faster. He tried to elude us by running into the street, which was packed with cars. Running in and out of them. My football training kicked in even more. The ‘pursuit angle’ anticipates where the perpetrator will be on his current route. Taking the pursuit angle will place us at the spot right as he gets there. That is what I did with my patrol car, as my cohort still held on to the push bar while sitting on the hood.

Slowing down by trying to maneuver around a myriad of low-rider cars. The suspect beat me to the rendezvous point across the street from the park. But only slightly, the plan would be altered. Positioning the unit half on the sidewalk and half on the front yards of the neighbors. As he turned around to gauge my distance, his look was worrisome. We were gaining on him, now only three car lengths away.

The suspect thought he would be clever. Running on front lawns, jumping over white picket fences, and through landscapes of various heights. His actions didn’t deter me a bit. Making the decision to adjust a slight course change. Running over the same lawns busted through the fences and landscape; he had just traversed. My partner, still on the hood, rode the unit like a bucking bronco. Lifting his feet while the push bars plowed under all that was in its path. The kid had no more in him, stopping abruptly on a front lawn. However, there still was a price to pay for what he had done to our friend and for running from us.

Driving up to the felon at a rapid rate of speed within inches of him. This distraction was just enough for my partner to leap from the bumper and tackle him to the ground. I stayed in the car to protect it. And the original traffic violator we already had in the back seat of the unit. All I could see was Gomer’s head and arms flailing back and forth. The second suspect, whom we just caught, was cuffed. And placed in the back of the unit with the first one. We slowly made our way back, retracing the destructive path. Finding our way to the core of the riot.

The melee was now at its full height of pandemonium. Ron had recovered from his fall; he was upright and in the thick of battle. Bleeding from the side of his head. His quart-size mace was now depleted. We had reformed the front line. Most of the rioters had faced off with the cops’ skirmish line. I held the right flank with my unit, still holding the prisoners in the car behind me. Bodies were piling up like logs, ready for a fire. We were responsible for those we had arrested. The senior officers instructed us to take a black Sharpie and write our badge number on the forehead of those we had taken into custody. So, we did, and there was very little objection from those arrested.

It is somewhat difficult to describe being in the middle of a big battle. Stepping over bodies, glancing blows of all manner of debris falling all around us. Hitting my helmet, arms, and legs. My head on a swivel. Watching out for a devastating blow. Fending off direct attacks from all sides. Such hate in their eyes, anguish in their faces. Both males and females were participants. Trying to watch my back and my buddies’ backs. The mob was really trying to hurt us. What had I done to deserve such a felonious assault? Other than wearing a blue uniform and a badge of law. After about 45 minutes of combat, the riot subsided. Fifty people were arrested in all, and the booking was full. Suspects were sorted out to the officers who made the arrest. Marked by the black Sharpie badge number on their forehead. There were various charges, none too serious, except for assault on a police officer by the perpetrator, who threw the brick at Ron. We won the battle of Welch Park. Like I said before, ‘this was the moment of truth’ for me. My bravery was tested to the extreme. Not only would I not be afraid of playing tackle football at a higher level. I would never be fearful of anything else in my life again. I had come a long way from the doubtful little boy.