Asking for Help

If you've never sought help from a law enforcement agency or a court, consider yourself lucky. This is a sign that your life is uncontaminated by predators.

Sadly, I have. The offered assistance was, to put it mildly, disappointing. I was left even more grateful afterwards than I was going in that these weren't matters of life and death.

In 2003, my wife and I lived in Rio Rancho, N.M. We had moved there from Albuquerque because of repeated conflicts with the divorced father and middle school-aged boy who lived next door.

The father was fond of playing his electric guitar on the patio at night, at least when his girlfriend and her daughter weren't spending the night. Then, I could look forward to the two children frolicking on a trampoline dad had set up in the backyard.

When they could spare the time, the Albuquerque Police Department would mozy by, usually after our neighbors had gone to bed. They clearly didn't want to deal with a noise complaint.

Late one night, I suggested that since it was nearing 12 AM on a weeknight, maybe the kids could quiet down a little. This bought me a shattered sliding glass patio door the next day, compliments of a BB gun.

That was the event that led to us firing our neighbors.

In Rio Rancho, my wife and I lived in a rental home on a well-traveled side street. But the houses were spaced far apart and there wasn't a trampoline or electric guitar in sight.

One Saturday morning we were preparing to go to the supermarket. An important phone call delayed our departure. When we finally left, the work crew clearing out the burned-out portion of our next door neighbor's home (there had been a fire several days before) apparently took notice.

When we arrived home our house had been burglarized. My wife's jewelry was missing. As was my baseball card collection and a moderate cache of coins we had amassed. My 35mm camera lay on the floor, broken. The house was ransacked. 

Thankfully, they had failed in their attempt to steal my wife's car.

Our cat was traumatized. From that point forward, she would run and hide whenever the doorbell rang. It was obvious the intruders had rung the bell to ensure the house was empty. Then they kicked the door in.

The Rio Rancho police were called and took a report. My wife and I were asked to submit detailed inventories of everything that was missing. In our naivete, we did.

Among my wife's missing jewelry were several pieces that belonged to her mother and maternal grandmother. While not extremely valuable monetarily, they were of immense sentimental value.

We were gobsmacked. No one saw a thing. No one saw people kicking our door down in broad daylight or thought the sight of men running across our front yard carrying heavy, fire-proof safes and jewelry boxes unusual.

For the next two months we spent our weekends scouring pawn shops and flea markets. Eventually, we struck gold.

At the since-demolished Louie's Flea Market in the south valley, I came across a portion of my coin collection. The dark blue, hand-labelled folders I had described in our report to the Rio Rancho police were lying on a collapsible table, plain as day.

I told the person manning the booth I was interested but pressed for time. Did he have a business card? Not surprisingly, it listed the name of the contractor who had cleared out our neighbor's home.

Excited that our diligence had finally paid off, I called the Albuquerque police.

I was met at a pay phone by an officer who listened to my story. He told me he could only recover what was on site.

In a measured voice I explained the connection between the contractor and the burned-out house and our proximity to it. I explained the profound and sentimental value of my wife's jewelry and my baseball cards and how we had spent months looking for them. I asked why, with such an obvious connection, he could only seize what was on site.

The cop stared at me from behind his mirrored aviator sunglasses and walrus mustache.

Instead of answering my question or explaining the law, he told me the sole alternative would require me to wear a wire and risk great personal injury by visiting the contractor's home as an undercover civilian detective, and how such actions were highly discouraged by APD since I was not a law enforcement professional—like him.

I was slack-jawed. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It couldn't have been clearer how angry this cop was that I had pulled him away from his free coffee and complimentary doughnut.

I took his name and badge number and filed the most-strident complaint I could muster.

Predictably, nothing came of it. When I inquired about the lack of follow-up, I was told to call non-existent phone numbers and visit empty offices. It was a big “fuck you” to a law-abiding member of the tax-paying public.

Displaying the same poor manners I had when I interrupted the responding officer's caffeine and sugar repast, I didn't even send a thank you card.

Unbelievably, the story gets better.

After relating my experience to a local TV station seeking stories of citizen's interactions with APD, I was pulled over three times in six months for suspected DWI.

One cop claimed we almost had an accident. Another claimed I was speeding. Still another accused me of “moving between the lines”. (To which I was tempted to reply “That kind of sounds like a description of driving, officer.”)

But being the tower of self-control and responsible drinking that I am, none of these stops bore fruit.

It could just be coincidence. But it's certainly an interesting one.

A few years later, the chief of the Albuquerque police department held a press conference. He announced that from this point forward, the starting salaries for Albuquerque police officers would increase 47%.

In a classic bit of PR, he claimed this would strengthen and improve the department by attracting better-qualified and more-experienced candidates. 

But when you read between the lines, it was a roundabout way of saying the ones currently on the force left something to be desired.

Who knew?

A Reasonable Crime

I don't often relate to criminal activity, which is probably one of the reasons I have been able to remain blissfully ignorant of all things prison. But the actions of Dany Y. Ortiz are different.

Like you and me, Mr. Ortiz loves pizza. And again like you and me, he wasn't able to have it as often as he would like. Being the motivated individual that he is, Dany discovered the path to more pizza lay in removing spare change from parked cars.

Before you rise up in righteous indignation, know that Dany didn't take your lap-top. Or your tablet. Or your cell phone. No. Dany just wanted your tollway change—for pizza.

Who among us can't find it in our hearts to understand these powerful gastronomical longings? The incessant urges that would drive a man to pilfer loose coinage from a stilled automobile?

I do. I have felt the power of this lust myself ladies and gentlemen. Stood naked and helpless in its lure. 

And I am not ashamed.

I know only too well the feel of a warm slice of pizza on my fingertips. The gorgeous, diabolical promise being offered as I bring it to my mouth. The comforting crunch that accompanies the first bite. 

The riotous symphony of warm, gooey cheese, fresh-baked crust, herb-laden tomato sauce and smokey pepperoni my overwhelmed taste buds struggle to take in.

I chew again, pressing the luminous and erotic mix of flavors into my sensory organs. Take! Eat! For thine art pizza! Behold thy glory! Remember the pizza and keep it holy!

"Take a chill pill" my dining companions sometimes suggest. 

But there is no chill pill for pizza. Ask Mr. Ortiz.

Those schooled in the fine art of geometry have attempted to instill in me the belief that a circle has no beginning and no end. That it is, in a sense, infinite.

And yet, as someone schooled in the fine art of pizza, I can assert with some authority that a pizza is not infinite. It has a beginning, a middle and sadly, an end. The emotional devastation that accompanies a pizza pan suddenly bereft of its reason for being is the proof.

As any mathematician worth his or her mozzarella should be able to tell you, the end is, well, the end. Despite its shape, pizza is finite.

This is the lurid and unspeakable truth behind Dany Y. Ortiz's depravity.

Let me be the first to petition the court for leniency. It was not the dark force of evil that propelled Dany to perform these acts, but a mere longing for the multi-faceted deliciousness that is pizza. Is this not entirely and easily understood?

We need to advocate for this young man, not punish him. If punitive action is called for, if only to satisfy the victims of these insignificant thefts, let us create a charge as benign as their motivation.

Does the justifiable pilfering of unsecured coins work?

And if the court finds that incarceration is indeed required, I beg of you: let it be a facility within the delivery zone of a four-star pizzeria.