I Was a Young Probation Officer

Trigger Warning: Snowflakes ❄️please do not read this!

Every so often, I briefly allude to having served as a P.O., as in an Adult Probation Officer.

This was no small part of my life, being my first so-called “real job” out of college from the spring of 1994 until the fall of 2000 when I segued from that job to the field of economic development, in which I remain employed today. Even when our son was a baby, I was still a P.O. in Chicago.

If you are or were on probation, felony probation specifically, I do not wish to offend you with the following, but I basically spent my days dealing with, not working with, the lowest of the low and some of the dregs of society.

Sure, there were plenty of decent folks and even, dare I say, some good ones who found their way onto felony probation due to unfortunate circumstances, but many of them should have been incarcerated rather than roaming the streets freely in search of their next scam or victim.

If you are now in your twenties or thirties, you may still recall bits and pieces of being in kindergarten or first grade, but eventually, most of those memories fade.

Now past the age of fifty and having worked in a high-pressure field (even higher than probation!) for over twenty-two years, my probation officer days have mostly faded from my mine.

It was not even until only a couple of years ago that my daughter even knew that I spent my first seven years out of college toiling in the basement of one of the greatest pits of despair ever created — 26th and California on the south side of Chicago.

Because my late father was a “real” author who told me that “Writers Write,” he urged me to put some of the probation stories that I told on paper. So that is what I did. I wrote and I wrote and then later typed up the stories and published them on Amazon.

To be honest, despite never using my real name for obvious reasons, I thought that some producer or screenwriter might discover my not-so-little 800-page depiction of life as a Big-City P.O. in my twenties back in the nineties and want to put an option on it. Is anybody from Netflix reading this?

I do not claim it to be great prose, but it is about as close to a realistic look into what being a P.O. is like and how horrible the system is.

If you are easily offended, I strongly urge you not to read this brief Prologue or any “sections” that I post. I refer to them as sections because one could not really call a 125-page story a “chapter.” Each section is not unlike a book in itself.

The topic of Race was, is, and always will be a hot-button topic. As a Jewish person with a Caucasian complexion, it is highly frowned upon for me to make any reference to race whatsoever.

It not only opens me up to hate based on my own heritage but references to my seemingly privileged upbringing in comparison with those whom I had been tasked with monitoring. I never had even one Jew on my caseload in over six years although I am sure that there are plenty of my brethren on probation somewhere. Probably in New York or L.A.

But my own reality was that on a spring day in 1994, I was assigned a caseload that had been neglected for the past six months, with over 250 cases assigned to me and about 200 of those on my caseload were Black. Nearly all the rest were Hispanics, now referred to as LatinX. I had three white guys — one crackhead, one heroin addict, and one low-level dealer (who also owned a mobile carpet-cleaning business).

On the contact write-up sheet, those were depicted as “B,” “H,” or “W” in the box marked “race.” Everyone was marked either “M” or “F,” based upon their plumbing at the time of booking no matter what their preference or identity was. There was no box marked “other.”

I should mention that I was twenty-three years old at the time.

One could go into a deep dive into why the court system was, is, and most likely always will be filled with poor minority defendants in greater percentages than they are present within the overall population.

You could ask why it was that I met with fifteen to eighteen Black people, three or four Hispanics, and no white folks most days that I took reports.

Many believe that it is due to systemic racism within police departments. And some of that may even be true.

But I do not want to beat the point to death. That is how it was for most of my colleagues at 26th & California and me.

Furthermore, nobody made it into a Federal case back then. As officers, we simply dealt with the offenders assigned to us by the court no matter their age, race, gender, religious beliefs, sexual preference, drug addiction, gang affiliation, and other lists of crimes admitted to and denied.

The daily reality of life at 26th and California was, and likely still is, one filled with rage, fear, emotions, confusion, violent offenders, their victims, drug dealers and addicts, child molesters, crooked attorneys and judges, honest attorneys and judges, transexual prostitutes with communicable diseases, police officers, sheriff’s deputies, prosecutors, public defenders, helpless relatives of offenders and victims and, oh yeah, over 300 probation officers.

BTW, although I was one out of three Jewish officers in the entire department (one was my close friend from Evanston while growing up who I call “Malinowski” in the book), I made the primary character Polish to better fit in with the reality of the place. The white officers were about half of Irish descent, one-sixth were Italian, another sixth were Polish, and the remainder were “mutts,” as many referred to themselves.

The following is the Prologue from the eBook that I wrote over twenty-five years ago and first posted to Amazon in 2006.

You may find it somewhat fascinating or may be so offended that you never read one of my stories again.

That’s up to you.

Prologue: Trained and Ready

My training class of twenty-seven officers is on the final day of our seven-week Pre-Service training program. Everyone in the class of new officers feels the exciting mixture of nervousness and anxiety, including Yours Truly. Following seven weeks of listening to the department’s propaganda and regurgitating it back on a dozen or so simplistic quizzes, this last day has finally arrived.

Similar to the last day of the school year, today is basically a formality. The twenty-seven of us will provide a great snapshot for both the county and the probation department’s newsletters, with a nearly even split among gender lines, twelve whites, nine blacks, and six Hispanics.

Of the twelve of us with Caucasian complexions, another woman and I are the only two who do not hail of Irish or Italian descent. We are also two of only three officers who did not grow up within the closely-knit Bridgeport neighborhood on the City’s south side or the south suburbs of Lombard, Bridgeview, Palos Heights, or Orland Park. One very tough sonofabitch Italian whom I do my best to avoid, Marco Parisi, hails from the infamous town of Cicero.

I guess that this time I must have benefited from whatever quota required the department to hire a white Polack from the northwest side. Usually, the informal quota system blocks me from obtaining the city and county jobs that I really want.

The last day passes quickly as old-timers and other POs with a few years under their belts drop into the training room to wish us luck and to pass on words of wisdom.

Our training coordinator, a peppy young Latina named Maribel, hugs some officers and offers best wishes to others. The guys that I hang out with in the training class regard Maribel as a joke and refer to her as the ‘probation cheerleader’ behind her back.

Listening to her speak, one would think that a fun and rewarding career lies ahead, rather than a future of listening to one lying scumbag after another and churning out several tons of meaningless paperwork.

Then again, having spent only two years as a ‘Resource Consultant’ at a suburban branch location prior to her promotion to training coordinator, she never had the down-and-dirty experience of being a “real” PO in the big City that I was unknowingly embarking upon for the next two dozen-plus years.

I sit in the back row of the training room every day with my two newest pals, Eric Monaghan and Nick Romano, two south suburban guys with the same attitude that I have. In other words, we do not buy into any of the crap being shoveled at us, such as that the clients are just like us, only that they have had some tough breaks.

“The three amigos,” as we are frequently referred to by other members of our class, snicker and make faces in the back of the room as deputy chiefs and other big shots come in and lecture us about the values of compassion, rehabilitation, the importance of proper supervision planning, and our meaningful roles within the community. The three of us are young men in our early twenties who are just happy to have our first “real” jobs with steady paychecks, the littlest bit of power, and badges, to boot.

All of us officers-in-training have spent a total of five days completing on-the-job training, so we have been well-informed by veteran officers as to what our new jobs are truly all about: trying to keep up with endless piles of paperwork, long lunches, blow-off field days, great benefits, dealing with pompous yet lenient judges, and shuffling an endless parade of losers in and out of your office as quickly as humanly possible.

Just before noon, Maribel informs us that our swearing-in ceremony will be in the downtown office of the Chief Judge of Cook County at nine a.m. sharp two weeks from today. That is when we will take an oath and receive our certificates of commission and badges. I can’t wait.

Maribel excuses us for lunch until two o’clock, giving us two hours, and reminds us that we are to receive our assignments this afternoon. She seems more excited than most of us new officers.

As we “three amigos” start heading towards the door, Angel, one of the friendliest persons that I have ever met and a die-hard Cubs fan, like myself, tells us amigos that he and a couple of other guys are heading to Paul’s Club to celebrate a bit and shoot some pool. We agree to join them.

Ten minutes later, we are pulling up in Monaghan’s Grand Prix, right behind the old Buick driven by Angel. We park directly in front of Paul’s Club, one of those small neighborhood establishments that are so popular and well-loved throughout Chicago. The proprietor and bartender know Angel when we walk in.

We six new POs sit at a table, laughing it up about various other officers and supervisors in the department while sharing a couple of pitchers of beer and shooting three-on-three games of pool. I am extremely out of practice and, shooting only every sixth turn, I miss every shot, only knocking in the eight ball accidentally to lose the second game.

The six of us nurse our beers while speculating where we will be assigned later in the afternoon. A few of us, including me, are actually hopeful of landing halfway decent assignments. We know that none of us are slated for an assignment to a weapon-carrying unit, so none of us will land the department’s absolutely worst assignment — the midnight to eight shift in the home confinement unit.

Mostly, five of the six of us (Angel excluded) do not want to be assigned to Night Court. Having recently embarked on my graduate school career, I cannot imagine how I would be able to juggle two evening courses with covering Night Court God knows how many nights per week.

Andrew McRory is one of the two guys who came over in Angel’s car. He comes from one of those Southside Irish families that I would learn about in the years to come.

His father is a precinct captain in the democratic political machinery, which gives Andy the necessary clout to get into the APD. Andy’s older brother, Dennis, spent a few years with the APD, as well, prior to becoming a police officer in the southwest suburb of Willow Springs.

Thus, Andy is the one of us who is most familiar with the true inner workings of our new employer.

Somehow, Andy already seems to know who in our class of officers has the juice, or clout, and where some of us are to be assigned. I am just sitting back and listening, sipping some Bud Lite, which I hate, and eating my greasy cheeseburger. On the rare occasions when I do drink beer, I generally prefer Heineken or Corona.

“I hear Mary’s going over to Bridgeview,” Andy tells us.

“Jeez, who’d she have to suck off to get that spot?” Monaghan asks.

“Her old man’s got big juice out there,” Andy says. “He used to be some kind of special prosecutor or somethin’ in the State’s Attorney’s office. I think he went into private practice.”

“Big fucking deal!” Romano says. “My old man worked at the probation department five years, then became a cop out in Homewood and made Chief Dick. That don’t mean Jack, but I don’t give a fuck. I’m going to Night Court and I know it.”

“We’re all going to Night Court,” Andy replies. “All the young, single guys without the juice are going there.”

Fuck! I think to myself. I really want to go over to Maywood or Belmont and Western but, realistically, I know that I am not getting either of those two choice spots. I guess that my father’s friend who helped me get into the department did not have enough pull to get me one of those prime assignments.

At the least, I do not want to get assigned to Night Court.

“Is anybody going over to Maywood?” I ask Andy.

“Shit!” he replies. “There’s a waiting list of officers as long as my dick waiting to get out there! Believe me, G, you ain’t going to Maywood.”

“Can I put in for a transfer yet?” I jokingly ask, seeing as how we have not yet been given our first assignment.

“Hell, yeah!” he answers. “I’m putting in for my three transfers on Monday, right after I introduce myself to my new supe.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“But don’t hold your breath,” Andy says. “They don’t really need more officers out there, but I heard they might create a new position so Karen Pratt can get out there.”

“Who the fuck is she?” Romano asks.

Andy replies, “she was an officer for a couple of years, then left to go into business, a travel agency or some shit like that. Anyway, she fucks up royally, as any PO would, but since her husband’s friends with Jack McLean, they give him a call, and, voila! Karen gets her job back. Only thing is, she’s stuck back at the old two-six. Hubby dear makes a few calls and, what do you know? Now they need a ‘resource consultant’ over at Maywood.”

“Where the fuck do you hear this crap?!” Romano demands, echoing my thoughts exactly.

“Ancient Chinese secret,” Andy answers in a bad imitation of the old Tide commercial.

“Why do all those bimbos get the best spots?” Romano asks rhetorically.

“Shit! What, do you think the bosses want to look at out there anyway, dumb ass?!” Andy replies. “Your pimply ass and hairy Wop back or Karen’s big old tits and ass?”

“He does have a point!” Angel chimes in, laughing and slapping a high-five with Andy. “I wouldn’t mind getting a piece of that!”

“No doubt,” I add, joining in the machismo a little bit.

“You know who’s looking pretty good?” Andy says towards Angel. “Cynthia,” he says, referring to a gorgeous Latina in our class whom Angel constantly fawns over.

“Don’t you be talkin’ about my first wife, now,” Angel jokes.

“What is she, anyway? I know she ain’t a Mexican,” Andy says.

“Hey hey!” Jose says from about twenty feet away from our table, where he is knocking down shot after shot at the pool table while the other five of us eat. “I heard that!”

“I think she’s, like, half Ecuadorian and half Brazilian, or something like that,” Angel says. “She’s got a little five-year-old daughter who looks just like her.”

“Perfect,” replies Andy. “Give her daughter a few more years and we can go out on a double date.”

“Fuck you!” Angel says, a big grin on his face.

“So you gettin’ any?” Andy asks Angel, referring to his frequent socializing and lunches out with Cynthia.

Having steadily dated my girlfriend, Sara, for nearly four years now, I cannot even fathom becoming involved with a female officer in our training class.

“We’re just good friends,” Angel says laughingly, knowing how absurd it sounds for a fun-loving, horny guy like him to be “good friends” with a gorgeous young woman who could easily pass for a swimsuit model.

“Yeah, right, whatever,” Andy says. “Do you fine young officers want to get another round?”

“What the fuck,” Romano replies. “We’ll all be covering Night Court for the next three years. We might as well.”

“Yeah, why not?” I say.

Andy makes eye contact with our waitress and points to our empty pitcher.

The waitress brings us another pitcher of piss water and while I listen to my colleagues, I still hold on to some faint glimmer of hope that later today I will receive a decent assignment and leave these other guys behind to cover Night Court.

My next story is a very long section detailing my next experience as a PO titled “Must Be a Full Moon”