"Oh My God, He's Dead!"
-- Irish Cop Discovers America
While Patrolling Streets of Oakland

MEMO from OAKLAND -- Barry Donelan looks down from his six foot height, places his hand on his hip right above his Oakland Police Department handgun, and explains in a thick Irish brogue how he found himself one day trying to keep the peace on the streets of an American city so far from his Dublin home:

"I'm just a blue collar lad that needed a blue collar job to support his family," he says. "And Oakland hires Irish people."

Donelan and his straight-talking, dry sense of humor moved here from Ireland 10 years ago. He has been serving as an Oakland officer for the last three years. At 30, married and now living in Contra Costa County, Donelan has also decided to return to school. He is pursuing a political science degree at UC Berkeley on his off-hours from work.

But tonight, his higher-ups have ordered him to take me -- a small statured journalism student also from Berkeley -- along with him on a shift in his Fruitvale District. So we climb into the polished black-and-white patrol car and begin moving southeast on San Leandro Blvd.

"I can't believe they put you with me," he says, half surprised and half humored by it. Donelan explains that he doesn't think he has anything to teach me, but lets me know he'll try and answer all of my questions. He quickly resigns himself to being my guide by blessing the evening with a popular Irish saying. "Well, God help us," he says. And with that, he taps into the police radio system to respond to our first call.

For the most part, the early evening is pretty slow. We respond to a few stolen cars, a small car accident, and stop a kid in the middle of urinating on someone's side lawn. Donelan explains that in the winter months things slow down a bit.

As we drive around Donelan points to a corner where street hustlers sell crack cocaine and to the apartment house where the dealers live. But "95 percent of the people here are good people," he says. "Righteous people trying to do good in life."

But over there, he says, pointing generally eastward, is a section riddled with violence. Donelan only spent a year on the East Oakland beat. He said some of his most scary times occurred there. Two years ago, he recalled, he responded to a horrific scene where two people were shot to death in a car. Donelan was called there to quarantine the area and talk to witnesses.

While homicide detectives investigated the crime scene, a crowd started to form. Donelan said the crowd got so out of hand that they took the bodies and the officers had to evacuate.

After that, Donelan said Oakland changed one key component of its homicide procedure. It's common police practice to freeze the scene by leaving the body untouched until the homicide unit has had an opportunity to investigate. Now, if police think a crowd will form and become unruly, they'll continue to attempt resuscitation until an ambulance comes and takes the bodies to the hospital. Donelan said in this way, police are assured access to the most important evidence of a homicide, the body.

The first time Donelan arrived at a homicide he was far from playing it cool. He said he walked in and started yelling, "Oh my god, he's dead," said Donelan. "Not the thing your sergeant wants to hear."

But since then, Donelan admits he's become apathetic towards much of the violence he witnesses. The one thing that still shakes him up is when he sees another fellow officer injured while on the job. Donelan paints the Oakland police as a kind of brotherhood that always takes care of its own. "If an officer dies," said Donelan, "the whole department will donate a week of pay to the family."

If an officer is injured and in the hospital, fellow officers will take turns during their off-time to stand guard 24 hours a day. Donelan said this type of protection is a must. In hospitals, such as Highland Hospital, where officers and wounded suspects can wind up side by side in the emergency room, you don't know what type of retaliation might be coming an officer's way. Without protection "they'll kill you," says Donelan.

As night falls, the evening takes a more serious turn. We make a u-turn and head North on Fruitvale towards Damuth Street where a burglary is in progress. Three other cop cars have pulled up beside us. Donelan asks me to wait in the car. He doesn't think it's a good idea to be shadowing him while guns are drawn. Ten minutes later Donelan leads me to a second story balcony where a man was trying to break into a residence. Donelan said the man has gotten away.

The night ends in the parking lot of a Seven-Eleven off of Fruitvale with a pile of black and white forms on Donelan's lap. Donelan gives some order to the pile. He then begins meticulously filling in the blanks that recap the last eight hours, which have included a domestic disturbance, another stolen car, an elderly man suffering from dementia who thought someone was trying to break into his home, and a few other incidents that didn't add up to much.

Even though Donelan still has two hours left in his shift, he needs to get busy with the paperwork. After all, he says, "it's half the job."