World's Toughest Cops: On the Front Line of the War against Crime. Vinnie Jones
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picked up he didn’t even know it was nicked. He said he didn’t know if his friend had a gun.
The Canine Unit was called. In this jumble of empty and smashed-up houses, derelict plots and scrubby wasteland, there were a million places to hide. Dogs might just give us the edge.
As they did their work, we moved with them. All the cops searched with guns drawn and we shadowed them, scouring the area ourselves, eyes peeled, senses straining for any sign. I still hadn’t come down from the rush of chasing the first suspect: right then I wasn’t thinking about my family, or my career, or even making a TV show about these guys – all I was thinking was how we needed to find this kid. If I could help, I would help any way I could.
And for their part, the squad were right there with me. Nobody questioned what I was doing, nobody asked me to hang back and leave it to the professionals. Finally, it seemed, I was one of the team.
We searched for over an hour. We went through every garden, every abandoned house…the dogs snuffled and sniffed, and we followed them, peering and probing every nook and cranny of the neighbourhood. We couldn’t find him. He’d disappeared, like a ghost into the New Orleans night.
Back at the car, Barbetti wasn’t too downbeat. ‘Listen, man,’ he said, ‘you did a good job tonight. You did a good job spotting the guy. It was good eyesight and it led to an apprehension. And as for the chase…that was something else. There’s one more criminal off the street right now.’
The chase. The adrenaline was wearing off and the reality of what I’d done was beginning to kick in. We’d seen so many guns in this city…thank God there were none involved right here. We left with hearts still hammering.
The New Orleans VOWS unit were unlike any other squad we encountered. If gaining their trust was difficult – and I still had the bruises to show it – then once we’d been accepted, it was magic. Rolling with them, becoming part of the team, getting involved…it was amazing how much I got into it. It felt like I was one of them.
It was only later that I fully appreciated the danger I’d been in. Before we quit the Big Easy, we hooked up with Jeff Roach again – he’d heard about our chase and he told us a story that seemed to sum it all up.
‘There was one time,’ he said, ‘we were looking for a guy wanted for second-degree murder…he was tall, like six-three, but he was slim – and we couldn’t find him anywhere in the house. So I go in the bathroom, and I don’t know how the houses are done in the UK but there was a laundry chute, where you put the laundry in and it just drops to the ground, right? And it’s like, a couple of feet wide at most, and I had holstered my gun and I was just looking at things, cabinets and whatnot, and I flicked that cabinet open and the guy was in there.’
He laughed. ‘I mean, his knees were by his face and literally you couldn’t have fit another inch in there, so I jumped back and I drew my gun, said ‘Lemme see your hands!’ and he could barely show me his hands, so we pulled him out and we got him cuffed. And after he’s out we see there was a wig in there, right?
‘And the sergeant said to me, “Lucky he didn’t have a gun!”…I moved the wig and there’s a 9mm pistol right there. If he could have moved his hand he’d have had me. I laughed then but I got home and I was like phew…I really looked in the mirror on that one, know what I mean?’
We got it loud and clear. I was lucky, I said. We shouldn’t have taken the risk.
He grinned again. ‘One thing cops here say: sometimes we’re lucky – sometimes we’re good. One of our captains who was in command during Katrina: he always used to say, “It’s better to be lucky than good – but when your luck runs out you better be good.”
‘You got the guy. You did good.’
RAGING BULL: ON THE FRONT LINE WITH ANDRE STEYN
Durban lies on the east coast of South Africa. The busiest port in the continent, it has a population of nearly three and a half million people, and its sandy beaches and subtropical climate have made it a popular tourist destination.
But like everywhere in what they’re calling the ‘Rainbow Nation’, a new society of equality and optimism, Durban has its problems with crime.
There’s not a whole lot of optimism on the streets. And there’s not too much equality either. From armed robbery and gun violence to ATM bombings and carjackings…those getting left behind by the vibrant new South Africa are taking the law into their own hands.
Battling against the crime epidemic is the thin blue line of the South African Police Service – a line stretched almost to breaking point. They’re the ones desperately trying to maintain order against all the odds here; they’re the ones trying to prop up South Africa’s wholesome new image as a safe, friendly place in which to live, work and to holiday. And, right there at the sharp end, often first on the scene, is the Flying Squad, a mobile unit that deals with anything and everything that Durban’s criminals have to offer.
We were embedded with Andre Steyn, an inspector with the Flying Squad – a man who knows these streets better than anyone out here…and who takes his life in his hands every time he clocks on for another shift.
Back in my playing days I once said there weren’t many footballers I’d want beside me in the trenches. Well, I’d want Andre Steyn.
THE MAN IN THE ORANGE TOP and baseball cap shielded his face, turning away and hunching his shoulders. He spoke in a low voice – so low that the cops surrounding him had to lean in to catch his words. We couldn’t pick up anything he was saying.
The officers’ voices came through loud and clear, though. They hit him with a barrage of questions – and leading the interrogation was Inspector Andre Steyn.
‘How are we going to get into the vehicles?’ he demanded. ‘Are they locked? We don’t have a warrant to break the window. If you’re a hundred per cent sure…’
Another cop joined in. ‘Where were the guns fired? Was it outside the club? If we go into the club we are not going to get out the back.’
Steyn again: ‘What are the suspects? Coloured males? White males?’
We were in an underground car park in the centre of Durban – and something big was about to go down. It was past 10 p.m. but Steyn and his team from the Flying Squad were just getting into their stride: their informant had word that security men at a popular nightclub were carrying illegal guns. As they hit their source for details, the air crackled with restrained adrenaline, each of the officers itchy to get going, but smart enough to know that doing so unprepared would be suicide.
‘Will they give over the firearms or will they fight? What is the score?’ demanded Steyn.
Finally, we picked up an audible answer. It wasn’t exactly the one we were hoping for. ‘They’re not just going to give you them like that,’ he muttered. ‘You can expect something. They can give you a fight.’
One of the squad chipped in. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We hit the outside, then after that one of us has to go inside. Into the offices. Not into the club itself. We can maybe take him into the office, check the office, the safe and all things like that.’
There was a moment of silence, as each of the men took in the info and prepared himself for what was to follow. In the car park the strip lighting hummed and flickered, casting a weird glow over the faces of the cops, before the silence was finally broken by the man we were here to shadow.
Steyn turned to us and grinned. ‘Are you coming? This may be peaceful, maybe not peaceful. It depends on how quick we hit them and how surprised they are. They want to fight? They get fucked up, bro.’
Were we coming? Are you joking? It had been a hell of a night so far…and it was just about to get a whole lot more intense.
Andre