Barbarella Sweeps the Beats with the Highway Patrol
pg.2

I waited patiently in the hallway, listening to the rhythmic clink-clinking of cop paraphernalia as officers in uniform strolled by. Attached to their belts were batons, pepper spray, handcuffs, cell phones, and keys, each item tucked into its own black holster or pouch. I could clearly see their guns and tried not to imagine them being used. Many of the officers, including the women, seemed to be barrel-chested, but I soon realized that under their tan shirts they were wearing bulletproof vests.

I was wondering how they could walk with all that crap weighing them down when a short, blonde officer approached me and said, "Hi, I'm Jenny Panfil. You're my ride-along this morning." She spun around and marched off ahead of me. I followed her out the back door, where patrol cars waited in the dark like shiny black-and-white horses, saddled and ready to run. It took us a moment to find our vehicle, which apparently wasn't parked in its usual spot, but once we did, Jenny suggested we first get some coffee. My kind of cop.

Jenny is attractive and fit, a compact woman who has worked for the CHP for ten years. On the way to 7-Eleven, I learned that her husband, Scott Panfil, is a CHP motorcycle officer. They're on different shifts, which means that between work and their two small children they hardly get to see each other. Jenny originally planned to become a physical therapist, but shortly after she began a master's program she started to doubt her choice of profession. "I've always been a free-spirited person, and that just really wasn't appealing to me at all," she said. "I was not looking forward to my career." She wanted to become a cop because she "liked the idea of helping people."

Sweeping the Beat

At 7-Eleven we ran into another officer who told Jenny he was covering the Coronado Bridge, saying something about a "jumper." The bridge is infamous for being the site of numerous successful suicide attempts. As we pulled away, Jenny explained that many officers have had the haunting experience of trying to talk someone down and failing. Then she said, and not for the first time that morning, "Death is something you're never prepared to deal with."

We set off to "sweep the beat," which to you and me means "look for stranded cars." Officers select beats by seniority at their morning briefing, and that day Jenny had chosen Beat 1, which stretches from the border to downtown along Interstate 5. We cruised the freeway without incident until the staticky voice of the dispatcher filled the car: someone had called in to report a dead animal in the roadway. "Why would they tell you that?" I asked. Jenny explained that CHP officers are responsible for dragging roadkill off of the freeway, where Animal Services can pick it up later.

It is obviously not her favorite thing to do -- "I pretty much gag the entire time" -- but Jenny stressed that the CHP's primary obligation is keeping the roadways clear and safe. The caller had told the dispatcher that the dead animal was "near a lottery sign," but after a diligent search, Jenny called in a UTL (unable to locate) and we continued our sweep.

We drove south as the sun peeked up over the cement horizon. Traffic was light for us, but the northbound side was bumper to bumper. We soon spotted a car stopped on the shoulder next to the center divide. Jenny stopped on our side of the divide and told the driver the FSP would come give him a tow. She called it in, he smiled gratefully, thanked us, and we moved on. I looked at Jenny and raised an eyebrow: "FSP?"

Freeway Service Patrol, she explained, is free in California; giving the CHP sweepers a hand, tow-truck drivers cruise the freeway at rush hour in search of broken-down cars. The FSP can help motorists change tires or, if necessary, tow their cars to designated areas called "drop spots" located safely off the road. Some drivers sit in their car for hours after breaking down, waiting for help to come, oblivious to the fact that a call box may be just feet away.

I was mulling over the surprising utility of our tax dollars when Jenny suddenly floored it. A motorcycle was ahead of us, moving very, very fast. Jenny accelerated until we were behind the bike, explaining that she was using "bumper pace" instead of radar. "Right here, we're not losing or gaining any distance, and my speedometer is staying at about 88 or 90 miles per hour." The motorcycle driver clearly had no idea we were behind him. "See that?" Jenny asked. "If I can't see his rearview mirrors, he can't see me. With that girl on the back, at this speed, all she has to do is lean one way or the other. That's how they lose their balance."

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