by 
When I turned 40, I was in patrol working deep nights. On my birthday, my long-time partner Rodney Spain, trying to help me grasp the enormity of the occasion, assured me what I called freckles on the backs of my hands were in fact age spots. The night went downhill from there. Our sergeant Carl Dorman and Rodney handcuffed me to my squad car’s push bumper on Flagpole Hill, an area frequented by the gay community and the usual assortment of unsavory characters that frequent big city parks in the wee hours. Then they drove off and left me. I like to think they stopped somewhere where they could still see me in case some ne’er-do-well happened by and was inclined to take advantage of my situation. Fortunately, I was less matronly back then and was able to contort my body so that I could reach my handcuffs key in my pocket and escape my predicament. Carl and Rodney left in Carl’s patrol car so I drove to the 7-11 we frequented, marking out when I got there.
Joyce spent 21 years on the Dallas Police Department. These are some random anecdotes from her time in uniform.