Free White Death by Philip C. Baridon Page A

much to up the ante until violence is inevitable or one effectively surrenders and tries to walk away, which is not always possible. Without realizing it, many cops play this game during confrontations, almost guaranteeing aviolent outcome.
    Preacher would break the rules by saying or doing things that didn’t fit the pattern expected to unfold. The most famous story about him involved a group of Renegade outlaw bikers partying in a house, shooting out streetlights, and raising hell generally. Preacher’s appearance also fitted his personality. He was partially bald, wore wire-rimmed spectacles, always seemed slightly pale, and was a little thin and soft spoken. A photo adorned the bulletin board of him and Brinson standing next to each other with Brinson’s huge hand resting on his shoulder. In contrast to Brinson’s grim face, Preacher was smiling. Brinson towered over Preacher with a tattoo visible on one of his bulging biceps. One photo summarized their different styles.
    Two cars were dispatched to the disturbance. Preacher walked to the other car and told them he wanted to try to quiet them down alone first. All warned him that these were thugs, outlaw bikers, most of whom had to “roll their bones” (kill an enemy biker) to become “patched in” to the gang. He listened, told everybody not to worry, took off his cap (against the rules), and knocked on the door. When a pair of bikers opened it, he asked if he could come in.
    “Hey, the fucking police want to join the party.” Then, the door closed. In a few minutes, the music was turned down. The door opened briefly with Preacher pointing to a shot-out street light and laying his hand gently on the shoulder of one of the bikers. The officers waited anxiously outside. Finally, he emerged, returned to his seat, and said, “We’re 10-8 (back in service), party quieted.”
    Later, of course, other officers interrogated him as to what happened in the house. Preacher initially told them, “I want to chat with you boys, but the music is too loud, so please turn it down a little.” They offered him a marijuana cigarette and a beer. He thanked them, put the joint in his shirt pocket and set the beer next to him. Guns and drugs lay in plain sight all over the livingroom – which he pointedly ignored. With the stereo down, he reminded them of “how our mothers raised us to be polite and not to destroy others’ property.”
    “It’s okay to party,” he said, “but try to be respectful of your neighbors. They may be upset by too much noise.” Preacher looked for someone who might be the boss and said, “Let me show you something outside.”
    He anticipated the “fuck-you” response, gently grabbed him by the outer ear like a wayward child, and led him to the door, lecturing him on foul language and good behavior along the way. This was greeted by shrieks of laughter from the other bikers. Pointing to the shot-out streetlight, he said, “The taxpayers—and that’s all of us—must pay four-hundred dollars to replace it.” When they turned to come back in, Preacher said that most stared at him, speechless. So, he wrapped it up with an agreement from them to quiet down. He thanked them for their time and hospitality, and left. One of them yelled, “Goodbye, Preacher,” and that’s how he got his nickname.
    Pressed by one of the more hardline cops about ignoring all of the crimes committed or in plain sight, Preacher raised his voice a little. “Do you think we’re going to change those people? Probably none of the crimes would have resulted in jail time, and if they did, jail for them is just part of their life. Also, they were well-armed. How do we justify the bloodshed, probably on both sides? They are who they are. Our job is to contain their depredations. The dispatcher sent me to quiet the party, which I did. Perhaps some of them actually listened to me.” There were no further questions.
    Later, Preacher and I were eating at the 6200 Club. Unlike