Finally got around to writing up an article about a little brush I had with a gun pointed at my chest, police helicopters and some thugs from Folsum maximum security prison… Hey - all of life can’t be about copy…
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Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of the most unusual circumstances…
But, of course, I didn’t have time to think about that as the helicopter thundered low over my head and the lady with the 30.06, high-powered hunting rifle pointed at my chest was screaming, “I’m going to kill him!”
I did think however, that lifeguard trunks and bare feet were not the best protection against this particular threat.
But I was wrong. The circular patch on my left thigh that read, “Sacramento County Lifeguard”, was enough of an authority symbol to convince her that I wasn’t one of the white-trash, prison-thugs that had dragged her husband into the middle of the park roadway and bashed his face in with a broken beer bottle.
That, and my boss, Jerry Fox, shouting, “Don’t shoot him!”
Jerry had a knack for being in the right place at the right time when people pulled out guns. He was also on hand when Squeaky Fromm pulled a gun on President Ford in an assassination attempt.
For me though, this was all rather new. So, I appreciated the fact that besides Jerry, the cops behind their car doors, the firemen under their trucks and the ambulance crew behind their dash board were all yelling over their various loud speakers from a safe distance, “Don’t shoot him”.
Oh, I shouldn’t fail to mention the law enforcement personal inside of the low buzzing helicopter were also slurring through their mega-phone, “Put the weapon down”. Very helpful.
So, “how” you might ask, did I get here?
As is usually the case in these situations, it was just a simple misunderstanding on my part….
We had just finished shutting up the pool at 5:00pm in the Elk Grove park on a hot August Saturday. The park had been crammed to capacity that day with picnickers from half the county seeking refuge from the heat in the shade of the parks 150 year old oak trees.
Conditions like this were perfect for collecting aluminum cans from the park trash cans at the end of the day. Unfortunately, 3 white-trash, parolees arrived to a trash can at the same time a black gentleman and his wife did. There was a short argument over who had the right to the cans inside. The Folsum Three decided that a situation with this much at stake called for violence and attacked the black man.
Attacked is actually too mild a word. They brutalized him. The Folsum Three beat him and kicked him and stomped on his head until he was unconscious. They then drug his body into the middle of the main park rode as park goers looked on, horrified - but not horrified enough to actually come to his rescue.
One of the three ran to the garbage can, grabbed a beer bottle, returned to the middle of the street and began beating the unconscious man’s face with it.
Now here’s where this tale gets complex…
The victims wife, helpless to protect her husband, ran to the car trunk and pulled out a 30.06 hunting rifle. As she did, Skinny Mike, the tall,lanky, blond Park Ranger by summer, science teacher during the school year, ran up and punted the attackers face with his Park Ranger boot. He then chased his prey through the trees and the last we heard, had tackled him, beat the crap out of him, then held him pinned until the posse arrived.
In the mean time, my boss, Jerry Fox, had just pulled up and had seen skinny Mike punt the attacker with his Park Ranger boot and chase him off. Jerry ran up, dropped seated to the ground and cradled the man’s head and attempted to stop the bleeding.
Just as Jerry arrived, so did the victims wife with the gun. She was standing guard over her husbands body, and trying to draw a bead on the remaining two Folsum Three who were darting from tree trunk to tree trunk.
As this was going on, the posse was arriving in full force. The Sheriff’s helicopter overhead flew skimmed the tree tops as Sheriff’s cars below slammed on their brakes, parked their cars sideways, hid with guns drawn behind the open doors, the ambulances rolled in sirens screaming and several of the fire department’s trucks showed up – so as not to miss out on the action in this small town. When they saw the rifle, the Sheriff’s pulled their guns, the ambulance guys ducked beneath the dash and the fire guys dove under their truck.
As the posse was arriving, so was I. I had pulled up in my car with my brother in the passenger seat. When I first saw the scene, the woman has her back turned to me - so of course, I don’t see the gun. What I do see is my boss holding a piece of hamburger in his lap attached to a human body. I tunnel vision and sprint up to help.
As I close in, Jerry points at me and starts to say, “Get the first aid….” He doesn’t get to finish because the victim’s wife sees him point and turned the gun away from one of the Folsum Three hiding behind a tree - and onto my chest screaming, “I’m going to kill him!.
Jerry finally convinced her I was there to help, so, she tried zeroing back in on the guy behind the tree.
Jerry’s pretty convincing when people are holding guns and between us we finally persuaded her to hand it to me. I hand it back to Jerry and he holds it by the stock above the trigger high in the air.
In they rushed. Since the rescuers had arrived after the violence had ended, like me, they had assumed she shot the victim in the face. So, they cuffed her and were pushing her around and locked her in the back of a Sheriff’s car.
The ambulance and fire folk got the victim on a gurney and into the ambulance and Jerry was busy explaining the way it really was to the Sheriff. Once the Sheriff in charge understood the facts, he responded more appropriately and slammed the gun on the hood of his car while screaming at the victim’s wife.
Then I got a lecture about being brave and they were thankful I’d talked her out of the gun, but really, I should leave such matters to the Sheriff.
I walked back to the blood pool in the middle of the road and picked up the white ivory laying about like sea shells. I went over to the ambulance attendant - a blonde woman with her hair back in a pony-tail beneath a baseball cap - and held out my hand. “I think these belong to him”. She put her hand out and I dropped the teeth into her palm. She didn’t flinch. “Thanks.”
Then it was back to the car where my brother had been patiently waiting. As I settled in behind the wheel he said, “That was really stupid.”
The next day’s paper, The Elk Grove Citizen, perhaps best summarized the event most accurately when they credited the Fire Chief with negotiating over his megaphone with the women to put the weapon down.
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