WHEN COPS GO CORRUPT

Monday morning, Chicago Police Supt. Terry Hillard congratulated some
150 officers and their families at a commendation ceremony. The
officers' deeds ranged from safely disarming a man who had pulled a
gun at a crowded Chicago Transit Authority station, to unraveling a
scheme in which a bank employee was siphoning away an elderly woman's
life savings, to carrying a man who could not walk--and his oxygen
tank--from a burning building.

Monday afternoon, Hillard stood with federal prosecutors as they
disclosed the indictment of three Chicago officers for allegedly
conspiring to possess and distribute cocaine. In 1998 the three
allegedly took seven kilograms of cocaine from a vehicle police had
impounded in order to sell five kilos and pocket the proceeds. The
government's narrative also accuses one of the three of obstructing a
murder investigation. (One officer has pleaded guilty; the others have
pleaded not guilty.)

Three days earlier, former officer Joseph Miedzianowski was sentenced
to life in prison without parole. A federal judge said he betrayed
society by arming street gang members who were part of his conspiracy
to distribute crack cocaine. Last year William Hanhardt, a former
deputy superintendent, was sentenced to almost 16 years in prison for
leading a mob-connected crew of jewelry thieves. And in the late
1990s, seven Austin District officers were prosecuted for robbing drug
dealers.

The phenomenon at play in the cases already adjudicated both
fascinates and repels. How is it that some officers who have sworn to
uphold the law become lawbreakers?

Granted, some bad people become cops, just as some bad people become
surgeons who defraud Medicare or journalists who write glowing
articles about companies whose stocks they own.

There is no effort here to analyze why specific Chicago officers have
wound up in prisons. But in broader terms, the psychology of cops who
go corrupt has been studied for decades. It's typically a downward
spiral that Kevin Gilmartin, a nationally prominent, Arizona-based
behavioral science consultant to law enforcement agencies, calls the
continuum of compromise.

It's also a spiral that often can be interrupted. Tom Cline, the
Chicago Police Department's top ethics training officer, has been
teaching Gilmartin's lessons to police recruits here for about two
years. The question is whether all Chicago officers should hear the
same message--not just at the police academy, but after five to seven
years on the job. That's when a combination of factors often tempts
officers to make choices that can devastate careers and families. "The
vast majority of officers are honest, decent people," Gilmartin says.
"Our failure is that we don't always keep them that way."

The truncated version of the continuum looks like this: An officer
starts his job enthusiastic and "hypervigilant," focusing an elevated
sense of alertness on his beat's people and places. But after a time
he compensates for the seductive intensity of his work by becoming
more detached in his outside life. "He can get overinvested in the
police world, and less invested in his personal world," Gilmartin
says. Relationships and hobbies become secondary. The job is all.

But the job no longer seems perfect. Too many rules, too much politics
in choice assignments, too many dumb orders. Our hypothetical officer
arrests the same people repeatedly, only to see them back on the
street almost as quickly as he is. As his cynicism rises, his idealism
drops. He starts to see himself as a victim, entitled to retaliate. He
moves from acts of omission (ignoring a few instructions from a
commander) to violating administrative rules (violating regulations
against carrying a certain weapon or engaging in prohibited auto
chases--rules that, he thinks, get in the way of "real police work.")

Even for most alienated officers, that stage is as far as misbehavior
gets. Some, though, go further, rationalizing criminal acts that a few
years earlier would have been unthinkable to them. They extort
protection money from businesses, they steal cash or other assets
seized from criminals. "They figure nobody's getting hurt except some
doper, so there's no real victim," Gilmartin says. "By this point
they're in a siege mentality, with not enough pull from family or
church or other activities to keep their lives in balance."

Cline says Chicago recruits often are startled when he walks them
through Gilmartin's continuum; they can't imagine sliding down that
spiral. But the presentation resonates with older cops. Most avoid the
spiral, he says, because, like most civilians, they're able to keep
their careers in perspective and easily weigh moral decisions.

Cline teaches recruits to "survive storms" by conducting "inner
inspections." Among his questions: "Is my attention to my family
suffering from a disordered dedication to professional or social
matters? Do I recognize the negative influences and temptations that
can overcome an officer--and do something daily to counteract them?"
He also teaches recruits never to fear saying to a straying officer,
"Don't do it. Neither of us needs to go down over this."

If nothing else, the cases of Hanhardt, Miedzianowski and others
should help Cline's recruits realize the depths to which a career can
plummet. But that isn't enough. Teaching the full continuum, or some
similar curriculum, to mid-career officers on a regular basis wouldn't
undo the damage for someone who's already violated the public's trust.
But it would serve as a warning of a difficult job's perils--and
remind officers of the reasons they wanted to be the police.