Running Down A Thief

At the end of a long day of photo work in Paris, I collapsed on a bar stool at my favorite Irish pub in Paris’ 8th Arrondissement. I struck up a conversation with the younger man seated next to me. His English was impeccable. Before long he was reminiscing about his years as a Rafale pilot in the French Navy. In turn, I shared experiences from my years as an F-15 pilot in the U.S. Air Force.

We were caught up in shooting our wrist watches. I was grateful for not relying on survival French to get me through a pub conversation. Interrupting us, one of the two female bartenders came around the bar and asked me if I still had my black pack. I looked down. My backpack containing all of my photography equipment—and my day’s work, was gone. She instantly turned and ran out the door, yelling in French. The other bartender followed on her heals. Without thinking, I left my cellphone on the bar counter where a moment before I was sitting. Now, it’s me, two female bartenders, and another large man—a bouncer, rapidly passing me. We were all sprinting down a Parisian street at about 9PM. From behind me I heard overtaking footsteps…it was the former French Navy fighter pilot..he clutched my cellphone. Wow. He handed it to the bouncer who passed the phone, like a relay baton, to me. I thanked the pilot, he rapidly receded.

The two bartenders and the bouncer called out to the people seated outdoors in the small pubs we ran by. “Where did he go?” Men and women pointed. A man raised his cell phone to dial…a woman stood and gestured down a yet darker, more narrow street, “He went there but he came back this way!” This was the first moment I felt internal caution, the little voice cultivated in a military career that reliably told me—perhaps it’s time to pull back. After all, I was in a foreign city, at night, not fluent, in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and perhaps up against an armed thief with innocent others alongside me. One of the pursuing bartenders yelled to the other that she had to return to the unattended pub. The bartender that remained in the pursuit was fierce. She turned to me in full stride and said, “Not in my bar! We must find him. He is not far!” It was not an opinion moment.

The bartender was focused and undeterred. She slowed, then paused, her chest heaving deep breathes. “This doesn’t feel right. We go back.” The bouncer agreed with her evaluation. They intuited something I missed. The bartender and bouncer retraced our path back to the corner. She turned and led us down another dark street. As we ran, I trailed and scanned the darkened doorways, focused on dark shadows between parked cars for a lunging figure or the glint of sharp object. We came ‘round a corner and there he stood and there he stood under a single street lamp…the thief. It was him. He seemed to fear nothing. he looked up and said to the bartender, “He went that way,” gesturing down another dark street. The bartender looked at the man under the light and at us. “NO he did not! YOU are the thief!”

The bartender was furious and cussed out the thief. The thief raised a middle finger. In the moment I realized something about this thief: he was not new to this. I boiled with anger. The bouncer and I sprinted at the thief. I was unsure what I was going to do when I made body contact with the thief, but I was not thinking warm thoughts. The thief wanted no part of us; he turned and fled. I moved faster to close the gap on the thief. While the stolen backpack was all the photography gear I owned, I knew it was not worth anyone’s life. The thief deftly scooted through the parked cars on the street. The thief turned a corner ahead and made a beeline for a dark clump of trees and bushes at the edge of small park. The bartender ran and yelled for all she was worth to attract the attention and help of any passerby. Incredibly, at that moment a National Police van turned a corner off the adjacent busy boulevard and came into view on the far side of the dimly lit park. The van stopped on a dime. From the passenger side of the National Police van a policeman emerged and advanced toward the oncoming thief. The policeman put eyes on the thief. The bartender called to the policeman to stop the man—”He is a thief!” In a single movement with Bruce Lee-like speed and dexterity, the policeman took down the thief. The thief’s body slide to a stop on the wet cobblestone street with the policeman firmly straddling the thief. We converged on the scene. In seconds, another car quickly pulled up. Two plain-clothed men appeared, one with a drawn 9mm pistol.

Rapid fire conversation ensued. The man face down on the ground protested loudly as if to deny the bartender’s allegations. The policeman on the thief pushed down with his knee—hard—and silenced the thief. It was the first use of physical power I saw, it would not be the last one of the night. The plain-clothed men it turned out, were Paris policemen called on their handheld radios about reports of a thief pushed by others (the restaurant owner on his cellphone). The two detectives quickly pieced together the bartender’s and bouncer’s stories. The Paris policeman conceal-holstered his weapon and directed the two National Police cops from the first van to cuff the thief and heave him into their van. The lead detective—the Boss, gestured to the bouncer—he was released. The bouncer turned to me, gave a narrow smile and a low thumbs up. I would see him later. The Boss, in good English, spoke to me for the first time, “You are American? ID please Monsieur.” He scanned my state drivers license and tucked it into his pants pocket. The Boss ordered me and the bartender into his car. We sat in the back seat of his unmarked police Citroen. The bartender navigated the Boss and his partner through the streets where we just pursued the thief.

The detective’s Citroen stopped at a street corner I recalled. The Boss turned and instructed me to remain in the vehicle. However, the bartender, the Boss, and his partner got out. The van with the thief inside stopped behind. The Bruce Lee National policeman pulled the thief out of that van, but the thief lost his footing on the wet cobblestones and tumbled into a crumpled mass on the stones. The Bruce Lee officer hauled the thief up as if he was a heavy, uncooperative sack of potatoes. Bruce Lee hauled the handcuffed thief onto a narrow sidewalk and forcefully stood him against a building wall. The Bruce Lee officer asked questions. Though I understood only fragments, the thief opted to stonewall. Bad call. A second National Police van pulled, siren blaring. In its noisy arrival I heard nothing, only saw. A mountain of a policeman—Too Tall, dismounted from the second van and walked over to the Bruce Lee officer and the thief. The Bruce Lee officer rapidly put the thief into a brace and applied force. The thief remained uncooperative. Bruce Lee had it. In a fluid move he put the thief down on the sidewalk. The thief landed hard on his face. The Too Tall cop observed this, towering over Bruce Lee and the thief. The Bruce Lee officer pressed his interrogation; he would not be denied. There was no yelling, only painful contortions of body parts and limbs. After several minutes of mounting pain, the thief relented. As information gradually came forth, Too-Tall shouted information to the Boss.

The Boss directed another National policeman—the Explorer, the driver of Bruce Lee’s van to head up a specific narrow street the three of us earlier abandoned in our initial pursuit of the thief. The bartender and the Boss chatted. By now, a small crowd gathered as the same restaurant customers and pub guests who saw us sprint by earlier, saw what was taking shape in the street. The Boss politely asked the crowd to disperse. They did. The Boss came to the car and beckoned me out. He handed my ID back and walked me to the first van. Seated in that van with its open side door, I had a closer view of the thief and Bruce Lee. Minutes passed. The Explorer returned with my backpack slung over his shoulder. I was in disbelief. The Boss brought my backpack to me. “Is this your pack?” “Yes.” “Please check it carefully.” All the cops watched me. In this moment I intuited the unspoken operating theory of the law enforcement team…to them this whole affair had the look and feel of a drug deal gone bad. Amazingly, all backpack camera contents were present and undamaged. I was stunned. “It’s all here. Wow.” Too Tall walked up and cast a long body shadow that further darkened the interior of the van where I sat. The Boss took back my pack and informed me that I would ride in Too Tall’s van to the 15th Arrondissement Headquarters for questioning. The Boss asked me if I wanted to file a “claim” against the thief. “Absolutely!”. “Good, then you go.” I interrupted him, “But I must first return to the pub to pay my bill.” The Boss nodded and waved his hand to Too Tall. Too Tall spoke to his driver. The bartender departed the scene in the Boss’s Citroen. Bruce Lee collected the thief and pushed him—handcuffed, into the first van.

Too Tall’s driver returned me to the pub. When I stepped in the door, the customers loudly applauded. The French pilot was all smiles and invited me to “pound down a brew.” Not a good time for that right now. Too Tall stood in the pub door, waiting and watching. I opted to quickly pay my bill and take a raincheck on the French Pilot’s offer. I emptied my wallet of all my euros and doled it out among the two bartenders and the bouncer. My obligations paid, I headed out to Too Tall’s van. We sped out of the 8th toward the 15th; to parts unknown to me of southwestern Paris. Too Tall squeezed into the van right front seat. A pleasant female cop rode beside me. The driver, a short wiry cop, could double well for a Formula 1 driver as he zigzagged at high speed, weaving, narrowly missing parked cars and pedestrians. Several times Too Tall waved a meaty arm out of his window and yelled unkind words when someone did not honor the lights and siren. I turned to the female cop, “Is he always like this?” “Non,” she replied, “Usually he’s not so nice.” She smiled.

Eventually, we arrived at the 15th Headquarters. Interviews ensued, questions, questions again, questions re-repeated. As the night wore on, I was presented to Bruce Lee. I shook his hand. He accepted my thanks. Though, I got the sense that for him, this was just another night shift. I walked out of the 15th Headquarters at half past midnight. I was spent from the day’s work and evening’s adrenaline rush. Confused by unfamiliar surroundings, I initially turned in the wrong direction, walking 15 minutes in the wrong direction. Sensing something amiss, I turned on my phone with 15% battery remaining, and paused for the GPS-driven street nav app to identify my location and generate accurate walking directions to my layover hotel near the Eiffel Tower. Meanwhile, text messages from my family in the U.S. poured in. My earlier text messages to them, my iPhone shot of the thief face down on the sidewalk, my brief descriptions; they were frightened and confused, powerless to help on this side of the ocean. They didn't give a damn about my camera gear. They needed my assurance I was okay and unharmed. I quickly tapped out a couple of messages but had to get moving. I was alone on the streets and it was early in the morning. I wanted to avoid another dangerous encounter. Setting out quickly on foot, and a couple of miles later at 1:15AM I arrived at my hotel. Once safe in my room, the stress of the day and night landed hard on me. I found it difficult for sleep to come. Hoping to attract sleep, I opened the room drapes, lay down, and stared out at the Eiffel Tower.

I love that tower. I love Paris. I had a night filled with interesting experiences and people. So many things went right for me to get my gear back. Strangers helped me when they could’ve opted out. Occasionally, photography in the field gets crazy. Despite the risks inherent in the work, it’s always a rewarding life experience. A story of how photography gets done. C’est la vie.