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Sunday Journal: Seconds of hesitation, a lifetime of what-ifs

By Bruce Gunia, Special to the Times
Published October 14, 2007

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When people find out I was once a policeman, most seem to think it was cool to carry a gun and they want to know if I ever shot anyone. If I ever did think guns were cool, that changed on a hot summer night in Phoenix more than 25 years ago.

I was a 27-year-old patrolman, working afternoon shifts in a very poor, very busy neighborhood. My regular partner had taken the day off and I was partnered with Mark, an officer I didn't know well. It was dark and nearing the end of the shift as we sat in the well-lit lot of a closed gas station while I finished writing a report. As always, we were only vaguely aware of the police radio, which, because of the incessant noise, was turned down low. I had already learned how to tune out this petty annoyance unless it mentioned our call signs, an officer in trouble, or the "hot" tone.

The hot tone was a loud, high-pitched electronic shriek that was sent out over all frequencies to alert everyone to an emergency broadcast. It always got your complete attention. This night we were half asleep, hungry and eager to go home when the hot tone slapped us awake.

The call was for a "violent family fight with one subject armed with a knife" and we could almost see the address from where we sat. I looked up the dimly lit street for any sign of what we were getting into. Maybe whoever had called the police just threw in the knife part to make us step on it.

Mark had a lead foot so there's no telling how fast we were going as we raced down a street lined with small, nondescript, wood-frame houses. I couldn't say what Mark had in mind, but instead of stopping on the street, as I expected, we rolled up into the dark, dusty yard.

The sweeping headlights illuminated a man and woman who were standing about 5 feet away from each other, arguing wildly. Huddled nearby were several crying children. How we kept from hitting anyone is a miracle since the front half of our car ended up between the adults, with the man on my side. I couldn't see any signs of a knife in either of his hands, but checking the woman I saw the glint of light on metal in her right hand - dangerously close to Mark as we both got out.

A tall, skinny kid of no more than 21 (kid, hell, I wasn't much older) ran up to me. One sleeve of his white T-shirt was soaked red and he yelled in my ear something about this b---- being crazy.

In that instant, my revolver appeared in my hand, pointed across the hood at a hysterical woman who was even younger than her mate. Her face was streaked with dirty tears as she screamed in Spanish and waved a huge knife inches from my partner's chest. Mark struggled with a revolver that wouldn't come out of its holster and didn't seem to be aware that a short lunge from this woman would put a blade into him. I begged her to drop the knife and tried to push away her bloodied partner, who continued yelling in my ear while trying to put himself behind me - all over the sound of wailing children.

I can't really remember consciously thinking anything specific until the instant I realized that I was pulling the trigger. The slowly moving hammer suddenly stopped halfway back and a voice that sounded like mine whispered, "Jesus Christ."

The bleeding kid must have seen what was about to happen because he stopped trying to hide behind me and began to run. The hysterical girl threw the knife to the ground to chase him. My finger relaxed as the unfired revolver went back into its holster. Mark stopped dancing and we chased the girl down. After we handcuffed her, I walked over and picked up what she had dropped: a cheap little steak knife.

Backup units were now pulling up so we hustled the girl into the closest one. All I wanted to do was sort this mess out and go home. Three sobbing children, the oldest about 5, pressed their faces against the window of the police car, asking what I was going to do to their mother. I can't remember what I told them as I took my first good look at this young woman. She was about 5 feet tall, weighed no more than 100 pounds and now looked frail and pathetic. No match for any of us.

As things slowed down, what had nearly happened now started to sink in and I had time to get scared. I hadn't smoked since college but asked for a cigarette because I couldn't ask for a drink. When I got one, my hands shook so much that someone had to light it for me.

What we did with the girl and the reasons for their fight have long since faded away. I know that I almost killed her because she could have killed my partner, but I don't remember consciously thinking that. My clearest memory is of the movement of my revolver's hammer and how it suddenly stopped. That young mother was alive because I hesitated. And that worried me for the rest of my career.

Bruce Gunia served as a policeman for five years before becoming an FBI agent. He retired in 2004 after 20 years on the job and is now a student at the University of South Florida's School of Music.

[Last modified October 12, 2007, 22:06:04]