COP-TURNED-PRIEST A FORCE FOR GOOD IN TX
Ken (NY)
Dateline: San Antonio, TX - 4/20/2001
A force for good
Chief, priest help SA police weather turmoil
04/20/2001
Dallas Morning News
By David McLemore
The new year was barely two months old when a San Antonio police
officer was gunned down in the night.
Things only got worse.
The next month, another patrol officer was shot to death as he
answered a routine call – the third police attack to end in death in
13 months, the most since three officers died in the line of duty in
1988.
Amid the grieving, eight San Antonio police officers were arrested on
federal drug charges, caught on videotape offering to guard cocaine
shipments in return for cash from a drug dealer they learned later was
an FBI agent. The whipsaw effects of grief, anger and betrayal plunged
the department into its darkest period in nearly 20 years.
Veteran officers and rookies alike struggled to make sense of it all.
In the middle, Chief Al Philippus and the Rev. Jimmy Drennan, a
cop-turned-priest and unofficial chaplain, became partners of sorts in
the effort to bring the department back.
"I've never seen a series of blows like this hit a department, and I
hope to never see it again," said Chief Philippus, a veteran of 26
years with the San Antonio Police Department.
Father Drennan, whose parish is in a middle-class northwest
neighborhood, agrees.
"I've done more police funerals in two months than I ever want to do
again," he said. "But they know that this is not a cursed department.
It is not the sign of a department in turmoil."
Nationally, there were 51 fatal assaults on police in 2000, a jump
after a 30-year low of 46 police assault deaths in 1999, according to
the National Association of Police Organizations. Texas recorded 10
fatal assaults on police last year, compared with five in 1999.
During the first three months of 2001, three officers died in gun
violence, according to the Texas Department of Public Safety.
In San Antonio, it began Feb. 3, when Patrolman John "Rocky" Riojas
was shot to death in a struggle with a burglary suspect. Nearly eight
weeks later, Hector Garza, 48, a 26-year veteran, died when an angry
man opened fire with a semiautomatic rifle as the officer attempted to
help the man's battered wife leave the house. The woman was also
killed.
The department was already reeling from the death of Oscar Perez, 31,
another veteran officer, gunned down March 24, 2000, as he served a
drug warrant.
Father Drennan and Chief Philippus credit an immense outpouring of
support from the city with helping ease the sting of misfortune. They
note that the funerals of Officers Riojas and Garza were televised
live on local television, that everyday citizens mailed in their
condolences to police and lined the streets to honor the cortege as it
passed by.
"When Rocky died, something happened in the relationship between the
city and its police force. His funeral became a citywide event,"
Father Drennan said. "Before, police deaths were left as a loss for
the family and the department. This time, the city said, 'He belonged
to us.' It was the first time I'd ever seen that happen."
Chief Philippus recalls the crowds that lined the streets after the
last two funerals.
"We passed thousands of people standing along the way, rich people,
poor people, every possible combination of people in this city," he
said. "Some held signs that read, 'We love you.' It's the most
incredible thing I've ever experienced."
The death of Officer Garza hit him particularly hard. The chief and
Officer Garza were classmates in the police academy class of 1975.
They continued a friendship after Chief Philippus assumed command of
the department's 1,900-member police force in 1995.
For police officers, the death of another officer is a death in the
family. It is also a sobering reminder of just how dangerous their job
can be.
The cop who becomes a criminal sends another message.
"It was a slap in the face," said Officer Gabriel Trevino, director of
the police public affairs office. "Officers throughout the department
were embarrassed. They felt the arrests reflected on their own
integrity."
The sense of betrayal was all too real, Father Drennan said. "For me,
watching those videos of them counting money for protecting what they
believed to be drugs was the most numbing moment of my life. I kept
thinking, 'We just buried three guys who died fighting that kind of
thing.'"
Yet Father Drennan testified as a character witness for one of the
defendants, a friend and member of his parish.
"I'm a priest, not a judge. I have to put away my personal hurt and
anger," he said. "I won't throw those officers away. I'll minister to
them and I'll pray with them."
The arrests didn't come as a surprise to Chief Philippus. The FBI told
him in 1998 that an investigation of some of his officers was under
way. Coupled with a department in mourning, however, it was a heavy
burden.
How did he cope?
"Faith," he said. "The Lord never promised us we'd have it easy all
the time." He keeps a well-thumbed Bible on his desk as his touchstone
for those days when it's not easy.
After the indictments, Chief Philippus placed the officers on leave
without pay and offered them the opportunity to resign. Those who
didn't would be fired. An investigation is under way to weed out any
others who may have known about the corruption but didn't report it.
The chief and the priest acknowledge that they embody distinctly
different perspectives.
Father Drennan, 35, was born in Germany into an Air Force family. He
grew up on San Antonio's blue-collar South Side after his parents
divorced. In 1985, he joined the Police Department so that he could
help people, he said.
"Police are the true believers. They believe in justice and the law
and that there is a duty to help the community," he said. "They are
called to serve."
Officer Drennan worked as a patrol officer in a tough section on the
city's East Side. Three years into his tour, he attended his first
police funeral – that of Patrolman Edwyn Gorrell, an academy classmate
gunned down. In 1991, Officer Drennan, a lifelong Catholic, heard
another calling.
"I passionately love the church and wanted to do something more
involved with service. Police work, at that time, was reactive. I
wanted to work more positively in the community," he said. "I also
felt the church had alienated many police officers. I wanted to have
the church welcome those who do the dirty work. I was able to merge my
two loves in the priesthood."
Chief Philippus, 50, grew up in San Antonio, the son of an auto
mechanic. He planned on a career as a firefighter but missed the
deadline for the entrance exam.
"I took the one for the police department," he said. "I took the job
and fell madly in love with it."
After becoming chief, he began implementing a series of initiatives,
including foot patrols, neighborhood substations and other community
policing to make police a more tangible part of the neighborhoods.
"We also energetically weed out the people who want to be police to be
enforcers and intimidators," the chief said. "We're not going to
tolerate any bad apples. We arrest people who break the law. That
includes police officers."
The chief and the priest agree that the city's police will survive the
dark days.
"Bad things just happen now and again. It's been rough on our people,"
Chief Philippus said. "I want them to keep their heads high and know
they have nothing to be ashamed about."
Across town, Father Drennan nods in agreement.
"I don't think we're seeing anything more than one of those sad
coincidences of life," he said. "There is more to be learned from how
the public has taken its police to heart and gave them love and
support. That, I believe, is the trend for the future."
Ken (NY)
--
Vice Chairman,
Department Of Redundancy Department
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