Preface

I was a white rez cop — a police officer serving on a Native American reservation. In the 1980s and 1990s, I was one of the first white men to wear the badge in Indian Country. I was sworn, commissioned, tested, and scarred by the work.

Some of what follows may sound far-fetched. I understand that. But I swear it is true. This is the story of my time as a tribal police officer in Arizona, certified through AZPOST and commissioned through the Bureau of Indian Affairs. I have changed some names and identifying details because certain incidents still carry risk for me and for others who were involved.

So buckle up.

This ride gets rough.

My beginnings could hardly have been more different from the life I eventually chose. Picture Mayberry with fewer charms and more awkward freckles. That was me: Midwest-born, redheaded, Irish-blooded, and shaped by all the quirks of small-town life. I grew up in a typical cookie-cutter world of the 1950s, '60s, and '70s. It was a good life, mostly, with my parents and three brothers.

Dad provided for us. He was a good man, but he was also a strict disciplinarian, quick to anger, shaped by an alcoholic father who had never really been there for him. To Dad's credit, he tried to be different. He did what he could to break the cycle.

Thank heaven Mom kept him honest.