Fugitive in Oceanside

Update: Police catch felon in Oceanside: Link to article

Excitement today in Oceanside. I'm sitting around listening to Michel Lewis explain Collateralized Debt Obligations on NPR when I hear an aggressive, very loud voice yelling, sounding like from almost inside the house--I assume it's some idiot trying to sell me something or somebody is pissed-off and has come to the wrong door.

I start to walk down the stairs and say "Who am I speaking to?" As I come to the landing I see a burly, round-headed guy holding a dog on a choker chain. He's standing at the open sliding-glass patio door wearing a faded orange T-shirt with a police badge hanging round his neck like a medallion. I realize they he has been yelling something like "are there any pets in the house? Is anybody in the house?" There are about a half-dozen men with him, and when he sees me he tells me to come over to him. For a moment I have a hard time trying to make sense of this and after he tells me again to come over to him I ask who they are, as my brain is trying to catch up with a crowd of policemen, half in T-shirts, half in uniforms.

I walk out through the kitchen and onto the cement patio in my bare feet and shorts and answer a few rapid questions: "Is anybody else in the house? Does anybody else live here? What is your name? Did you hear anything?"

I explain that there are three other guys who live in the house and as far as I know I am the only one here right now. No, I didn't hear anything.

They ask if they can go into the house to search for the fugitive. I make a quick mental inventory of my room and the house and I can't think of anything I'm doing that I need to worry about, legally speaking, though I'm not sure about my roommates. I say "I can let you into the house, but I just rent one of the rooms."

"We'll have to go inside and check anyway, just for your safety," one of them replies. Can you just hang out here? Two or three go inside, bristling with weaponry; as one turns his back I see four or five shiny rectangles which my Hollywood-trained brain tells me are ammunition clips for an automatic pistol.

Another officer--tall, husky, and dark-skinned, in baseball cap and white T-shirt and again accessorized with the cop-badge medallion, pulls out a notepad, asks my name, writes it down, the address, gets my phone number. He asks if I have ID on me and I tell him it's in the house. He asks if I know my driver's license number and I say no. I can't help but feel that he's just filling time and doesn't need this information, but it seems reasonable enough.

One uniform stands near the back wall of the property with a German shepherd. He talks to the baseball cap next to me about where the guy jumped over the wall and says he hasn't tried to use the dog to pick up the scent trail.

The officers come out and ask me what room is mine. I tell them it's the one in the front, with the door open. They ask me if my roommates always lock their doors before they leave and I say I think so but I can't say for sure. They talk back and forth reassuring each other that they've checked everything and nobody's here. I go back inside and tell them I'll lock the doors and just before I close the back I say "thanks guys," to the officer closest to me. He's in full uniform and wielding a black, rifle-like weapon but with a muzzle that seems to end in a solid, black cylinder.

"You're welcome!" he replies. He seems surprised, pleased, and eager to move on with the search. I lock the sliding-glass door, then go and check the rest of the doors. As I walk back up to my room, I look around and try to think of places where somebody might hide. There isn't anywhere. It's all clear.

Looking out my front window, there are three or four police cars on the street; I see officers going into the backyards of other houses. A police chopper circles overhead and I see a bright-flash of white light like you see from stop-light cameras. The helicopter starts broadcasting:

"Oceanside Police!"
"Looking for a fugitive!"
"Hispanic male!"
"Five Foot Nine!"
"Shaved Head!"

The chopper circles, repeating the message about a half-dozen times, and slowly ascends. One by one the officers and the patrol cars move off. I see the recycling containers on the street in front of the house and I wonder if all of the commotion has preventing the trash company from picking them up.