It would be my first time riding in the front seat of a police car. I was anxious to hit the city streets of Phoenix and watch the boys in blue in action. Officer Jeff Benza was to be my Phoenix Police Officer for the evening, and I was his Civilian Observer. During our telephone conversation earlier that week, Officer Benza laid down a few ground rules.

"Don't bring any guns," he advised, "we have plenty."

"And wear khakis and a polo shirt or something nice. We don't want to get you confused with the people we're chasing."

Bad people don't wear khakis? "Not on my shift," Benza says. Indeed they don't, I would later discover.

Officer Jeffrey Benza, or "Benza" as he is called, is a young man under 30 who reminds me of a slim and trim Joe Mantegna. Benza has jet-black hair, calculating eyes, a cleanly shaven face and a sincere smile. He's friendly, trustworthy and since he's a police officer, he's obviously brave. He holds a Master's Degree from Oklahoma State University and his undergraduate studies were completed at the University of Arizona.

Tonight we are "7-36 George," our call sign if you will. We don't have a beat, really. We will cruise around on a Saturday night, waiting for something to happen and assist other officers. Our shift starts at 2:00pm and runs until the booze sales in Phoenix go dry, which is 1:00am.

I wiggle my way into the cramped passenger seat of the Chevy Caprice. Jutting out from underneath the dash, and sitting practically in my lap, is a large keyboard with a monochrome screen the size of a man's wallet attached to the top. Looking at it, you'd think this gadget would be good for nothing more than a few mediocre rounds of Pong. However, this archaic-looking device is our Command Central and without it, we would be mostly inept. Throughout the evening, we use the computer to look up information on license plates and people, helping us identify if a car is stolen, and if a person is wanted by the law.

Our first call takes us to an apartment complex where 3 young men were abusing pool privileges they don't have because they don't live there. The trespassers are nowhere to be seen, but they did leave behind a wallet (absolutely empty) and a shoe. The complex owner regales us with his version of the story, which involves his confrontation of the young men, their refusal to leave the grounds, their threatening to whip some part of the owner's anatomy, the owner's famous line, "Friend, the only thing you 'gonna whip is going to jail," and the subsequent phone call to the police. This all happened before 4:00pm.

Saturday night hasn't even started yet.

In the next three hours, we have back-to-back calls that involve suicidal people, automobile break-ins, indecent exposure by a man who appeared to have been drinking since Thursday, a tip of someone selling crack cocaine in an apartment complex, and a couple complaints about loud music. Again, Saturday night hasn't even started yet.

About the time that the streetlights start flickering on, things started jumping. I count 6 radio broadcasts in 15 minutes from "dispatch" regarding beer being pilfered from convenience stores. Thieves are apparently gearing up for the evening.

While sitting at a stoplight we are almost broadsided by a pickup truck that takes a right turn way too wide. Benza whips the car around and heads off in hot pursuit of the truck with our lights flashing.

The adrenaline is flowing right now, and I'm wondering if we're chasing a dangerous felon and - most importantly - if I should be in control of some sort of weapon. We chase the truck for several blocks. Benza barks coded messages into the radio handset, and scans the computer screen for feedback. The driver finally pulls over (after two more wide and loopy turns) on a dirt road in a scrappy residential area that I didn't even know existed in Phoenix.

If I was blindfolded and driven to this location, I'd swear I was in Mexico or a sordid section of rural Peru. The dilapidated houses in this area are shocking. Some are missing doors; some have no windows. People live here. It's dark, and suddenly there are a lot of residents interested in what's going on with the police car that we've just emerged from. These people aren't wearing khakis. In fact, these people aren't even wearing shoes.

The kid we've pulled over can't be more than 20 years old. He's not from this country, and to make a long story short, he is drunk. He does not speak a word of English except for "sorry," which he repeats over and over again from the back seat of the police car, through the plexi-glass divider. It sounds like "sore-hee" when he says it. The drunken driver is from Mexico and he doesn't have a driver's license, much less any form of identification. He won't be deported, though. He'll just receive a handful of tickets for his stunts tonight, and he'll be expected to appear in court. "Which he won't," Officer Benza says, sounding like he's dealt with this stuff before.

Later, we stop at a convenience store and assist another officer who is photographing a 15-year-old child who is so proud to be in his gang, he is willing to make gang-signs for a Polaroid picture. Little does he know that his now known affiliation with a gang makes all of his future crimes more punishable, since they will be considered "gang-related."

We make another half dozen traffic stops in the two hours before the end of our shift. People drive like crazy on Saturday night, it seems. We don’t write any tickets, but some strict warnings are given. "Take a deep breath," Benza advises one person, "and let's just slow down a little."

I take his advice myself for my drive home from the police station, as I have a renewed sense of comfort, knowing that I'm a model citizen in comparison to some of the people I've seen tonight.