Players Wary of Plain Clothes Cops
September 6, 2006
Steve Foley is the life of the party, and he's lucky he's not dead.
The Chargers' laugh-a-minute linebacker has been sidelined for the season by gunshot wounds sustained in a brush with the law that could easily have turned lethal.
Foley has a recurring problem with alcohol and, evidently, with authority. Coronado cop Aaron Mansker has some sticky procedural issues to answer and, apparently, a hyperactive trigger finger.
What began, purportedly, as an off-duty cop tailing a suspected drunken driver in the wee, small hours of Sunday morning is rapidly evolving into a litmus test about local law enforcement that is bound to end badly for all parties.
Foley's season is shot – both literally and figuratively – and the Chargers have elected to stop paying him because of the nature of his injuries. Mansker is on administrative leave pending an investigation and is likely looking at a future of lengthy depositions and lengthier lawsuits.
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The real victim, though, may be the justice system itself. How many citizens can be expected to heed the instructions of an off-duty police officer after events escalate as they did on Poway's tony Travertine Court? When does deepening distrust create something more sinister?
“If somebody gets out of a car, and he tells me that he's a police officer in some street clothes, and he's got a gun, I'm going to try to run over that (guy), too,” Chargers cornerback Quentin Jammer said. “(Expletive) him. I mean, why wouldn't I try to run over him?”
When Jammer paused mid-vent in front of his cubicle yesterday afternoon, safety Marlon McCree promptly grabbed the rhetorical baton from an adjoining locker.
There was none of the normal restraint athletes typically demonstrate around reporters. This was righteous, seething anger.
“All I know is he's trying to rob me,” McCree said. “That's all I know. Where's your badge? Where's your uniform? Where's your car? You're even in an unmarked car. . . .
“I can go to Toys R Us and get my little 5-year-old son a toy cop badge and say, 'Hey, I'm so-and-so, put your hands up,' and (then) rob you, tie you up. You understand what I'm saying?”
What Jammer and McCree are saying, in essence, is what the O.J. Simpson trial told us: that justice is a moving target in America; that what one segment of society regards as “resisting arrest” is seen as appropriate wariness in another.
Though the national divide often breaks down along racial boundaries – reflecting stark contrasts in experience and attitudes among different cultures – the football class may be prone to confrontation regardless of color.
The athlete who earns his living through legalized violence and intimidation is a poor candidate for conformity. This is particularly true if he's been drinking.
Steve Foley's rap sheet tells a tale of booze and belligerence. In numerous encounters with the authorities – at least two of them alcohol-related – Foley has seldom gone along quietly.
The police report summarizing his shooting indicates he may have been driving while impaired and, therefore, posed a hazard to every other vehicle on his route. If that proves to have been the case, Foley will elicit little sympathy beyond the locker room.
Yet within the Chargers' Murphy Canyon compound, Foley's popularity is undiminished. He is as loved as he is loud. Though specific details pertaining to Foley's shooting continue to emerge, many Chargers have already concluded their teammate was more a victim than a perpetrator.
Their logic tells them there are huge holes in the police report. Their loyalty is a reflex.
“Foley's one of the most liked guys on this team,” Jammer said. “Whenever something like this happens, you're expected to say good things about that person. But Foley is just a guy who you couldn't say nothing bad about. . . . He's always running around, goofing off until it's Sunday.
One day, while waiting to interview Foley at the Chargers complex, I found him declaiming with high-volume vulgarity. When I returned to his locker a little later, his head was bowed in silent prayer over a foam-plastic box bearing his lunch.
“He's a big, tough, physical, mean, hit-'em-in-the-mouth type player that is an important part of our defense,” linebacker Donnie Edwards said. “He weighs the most out of all the linebackers and has the lowest body fat. He weighs like 270, and he eats whatever he wants. It's incredible.
“I say, 'Foley, how in the hell?' He says, 'I don't know, Dawg.' ”
Steve Foley has a prodigious appetite, but it's his thirst that gets him into trouble.
Tim Sullivan: (619) 293-1033;
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Isn't the threat of a verbal warning in conjuction with that of a drawn handgun enough of a deterrant? I guess the 'warning shot' was just to make it more official... LOL.
