Rank Discord

The cops are reluctant to talk about it. City officials flatly refuse. Who pushed the "mute" button on the most explosive affirmative-action lawsuit Minneapolis has seen in decades?

[Editor's note: A correction ran concerning this story; see end of article.]

The Show-Up, the newspaper published by the Police Officers Federation of Minneapolis (POFM), is a strange little hodgepodge of items. There are the expected notes about awards and retirements ("Hello pension--Goodbye tension!"), updates on contract talks, snapshots of new babies, and sometimes, inexplicably, full-page encyclopedia-style profiles of exotic animals like cheetahs and polar bears.

In among the fun facts and News-of-the-Weird dispatches from various Minneapolis Police Department precincts, the Show-Up can usually be counted on to provide something a little off-color. Beavis-and-Butthead stuff high school journalists would print if they could. Like the time, awhile back, when the paper ran a snapshot of a man and a woman chatting at a police function, with a cartoon bubble above the man's head proclaiming: "I can see right through your clothes."

All of which only made the story splashed across the front page of the August 1998 edition seem all the more out of place, couched as it was in lawyerly, carefully measured terms. Titled "POFM Contemplates a Lawsuit in Response to Expanded Certification Issue," the unsigned item said that the union was considering suing the city because, a few months earlier, officials had used an affirmative-action program while promoting several cops. Three black officers had been made sergeants as a result, while five others--one Native American and the rest white men--had to wait for the next round.

"We know that there is a danger that this lawsuit will have a divisive effect," the newspaper declared. "We regret that and we have done everything we can do to reassure our members. But you have to remember, we are responding to a divisive action by the city of Minneapolis....The city treats our members differently depending on their skin color."

Charlie Adams, then vice president of the Black Police Officers Association, read the piece as a warning shot. For months the department had been abuzz with speculation about test scores, political conspiracies, and arcane civil-service regulations. And this was more than the usual happy-hour grumbling: At stake was nothing less than the tenuous internal peace of a department plagued for most of its history by racial tension.

Shortly after the Show-Up hit the streets, Adams met with federation president Al Berryman at northeast Minneapolis's Jax Cafe. The labor union, Adams complained, was about to spend his hard-earned dues on a lawsuit that, if successful, would make it harder for women, minorities, and people with disabilities to get ahead on the force. Berryman wouldn't budge, Adams says; black officers he talked to after the meeting also refused to join him in protesting the move.

So, he says, he decided to drop out of the public portion of the tiff. As Mayor Sharon Sayles Belton's bodyguard, he was sensitive to suggestions that he might try to bend her powerful ear. Besides, he reasoned, Berryman was embroiled in a financial scandal and under pressure to step down; he was probably just blowing smoke.

Berryman did leave the union post, and he settled in to spend the months until his retirement in the MPD's Child Abuse Unit. But much to Adams's and other cops' surprise, the suit went ahead anyhow. Last July the federation quietly filed a complaint in U.S. District Court in St. Paul, demanding that the officers passed over be granted retroactive seniority and back pay--in other words, that they be treated as if they had been promoted the first time around.

Whether the city has a strategy for defending itself against the suit isn't known. Officials in the city attorney's office, the police department, and elsewhere in municipal government all refused to comment for this story, declining even to answer basic questions about the city's hiring policies and the composition of the police department.

Perhaps that's because the federation, in the eyes of legal experts, stands a decent chance of winning its suit. And if it does, that's bad news for affirmative-action efforts, not just on the police force, but throughout Minneapolis's civil-service apparatus.

"This is not an effort to stop minority hiring elsewhere in the city," says Mark Gehan, the attorney handling the federation's lawsuit. "But it might cause the city to look at its policies." After all, he notes, "it's been quite a while since we've heard about affirmative action being upheld."

 

As Lt. Don Banham pulls a chair up to a small, round table in a third-floor interrogation room at the MPD's Investigations Unit, it's easy to see why he has risen to one of the top ranks in the department. Tall and physically imposing, he speaks slowly and deliberately, without the "ums" and "I means" that pepper most people's conversation. When he gets between his quarry and the door out of the windowless chamber, he must provide a powerful incentive to keep talking.

In his off-duty hours, Banham heads up security for the Minnesota Vikings. He's also the president of the Black Police Officers Association, a group with a fluctuating membership that tends to be strong when the minorities on the force are feeling heat, and slack when they're not. Along with Charlie Adams, he's walked point on some of the department's most divisive battles. The conflict over expanded certification isn't one he'd have picked, he says, but now that it's in full swing he is one of the few willing to speak about it in public.

Banham came to policing because it was in his blood: His father was the first black officer ever hired by the University of Minnesota police force, a man who made lieutenant before retiring in 1984. So Banham Jr. had heard a lot of cop lore by the time he joined the profession. "I always thought the MPD was a very respectful department," he says. "It was the type of place where you didn't come in and cause problems."

Besides, Banham knew how bad things could be: Before coming to the MPD in 1982 he spent six years with the police force in Madison, Wisconsin, which he describes as a nightmare for an African American with aspirations in law enforcement. When he made the switch to Minneapolis he still encountered officers who announced flat out that they didn't like "niggers." But the episodes were few.

"You had to learn to deal with your problems," Banham recalls. "Now, it's nothing for someone to go into their supervisor's office and say, 'I don't want to ride with so-and-so.' Back then, if you tried that you'd get your ass chewed.

"I probably have less problem with the people in the police department than I do with attitudes in society at large," he adds. "It is a brotherhood, you know. It has a tendency to make us all equal."

Relations haven't been so warm between black cops and any of the recent MPD chiefs. "The consistent theme since I came on, both for me and the Black Police Officers Association, has been this intangible glass ceiling," says Banham. "And that has to do with institutional factors."

In Minneapolis, as in other large U.S. cities, the first organized efforts to recruit black cops came in the 1970s. Before then, blacks had often been turned away or had found themselves mysteriously failing medical exams and other tests. In 1975 the MPD had just 8 officers of color on a force of 833, even though the city's minority population was increasing and both racial tensions and black-on-black crime were on the rise.

The problem was beginning to attract attention. Police hiring and disciplinary policies were being probed by the city's Civil Service Commission, the state Department of Human Rights, the federal Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, and the U.S. Treasury Department (which provided the MPD with some funding).

That September state Human Rights commissioner William L. Wilson issued a probable-cause finding against the city's Civil Service Commission. After studying police hiring practices from 1968 to 1975, he found that "discriminatory policies" had kept the number of black officers disproportionately low. City officials said they agreed with most of the report's findings and vowed to redouble their efforts to diversify the force. Since six percent of the city's population were minorities, they announced, people of color should account for the same proportion of the MPD by 1979.

It didn't happen. And because change was equally slow to occur in other parts of the city's work force, by the early Eighties city officials concluded they needed to make a more formal effort to increase minority hiring. So the Civil Service Commission instituted the system that's the subject of the present-day lawsuit--expanded certification.

With the exception of some positions governed by union contracts, the system functions pretty much the same way for all 8,000 civil-service jobs in Minneapolis. First, the city's Department of Personnel Services tests applicants for any given job category and places those who pass on a list based on their test scores.

Most jobs have traditionally been filled using a system known as the Rule of Three. Under the rule, whenever a city department has a job opening, Personnel generates an "eligible list" that is forwarded to the department head. The list typically contains the same number of applicants as job openings, plus two. If there's one opening, three names are forwarded. If there are two openings, four names are sent, and so on.

When expanded certification is used, Personnel can send a larger number of applicants for any job in which minorities are underrepresented. A list prepared for one open position may include the usual three candidates, plus up to two minorities who may have ranked lower on test scores. The department head does not have to hire the minority candidates or give them extra consideration; he or she simply picks from a larger pool of applicants.

It worked, after a fashion. According to personnel records obtained by City Pages, as of November 19 last year, 58--or 6.23 percent--of the MPD's 929 sworn officers were black. (The department also employed 32 Hispanics, 25 Asians, and 30 Native Americans, for a total minority share of 15 percent. Some 148 officers are women.) Those numbers, however, are still just barely higher than the goal the city set itself 20 years ago. By contrast, the Minneapolis Fire Department--which has been operating under a court order to diversify for more than 25 years--has ratcheted its minority employment up to twice the levels achieved in the MPD, with 13 percent of firefighters African-American.

Over the years, the changes have generated plenty of grumbling--and so has the expanded-certification system. Minority applicants say the city doesn't compile the expanded lists often enough. White cops, meanwhile, often assume that expanded certification guarantees affirmative-action applicants a job, rather than merely an interview.

In a 1986 Show-Up article titled "The Death of a Police Department," two officers warned that under the system "the administration [could] choose whomever they wished anywhere off the list. No longer did intelligence, physical ability, mental stability or common sense dictate who was hired. Gender and race were the determining factors used by the administration to satisfy the chief's conception of a social ill."

But if affirmative-action hiring got some cops' dander up, it was nothing compared to the subject of promotions. Police departments have been notorious for their good-old-boy networks, and even white officers still grumble that without strict rules, it'd be hard to get ahead without being someone's son or nephew. With job assignments and even working hours dependent on rank and seniority, one person's promotion can mean graveyard shifts for others waiting to move up.

The authors of the 1986 Show-Up article predicted that if expanded certification were ever used to promote people in the MPD--the way it was about to be in other city departments--it would cause "further demoralization of the troops who haven't had an opportunity for promotion and with expanded certification, little chance for one. Try that for social injustice."

 

Twelve years after that article appeared, in February 1998, Police Chief Robert Olson told the personnel department that he needed to fill nine vacant sergeant's positions. Under the Rule of Three, the department would have sent Olson the names of eleven officers eligible for promotion; he would have interviewed them all and made his choices.

But Olson, by then in his third year on the job, faced a department in turmoil. His 1995 firing of Alisa Clemons, an outspoken black officer whom he accused of penning a series of racist letters to fellow cops, had blown up in his face when an arbitrator found there was no evidence against her. (She eventually filed a lawsuit charging discrimination, which the city settled in 1997 for $400,000.)

The episode led to some of the worst racial hostility in department history. In 1996, following Clemons's reinstatement, black officers resigned en masse from the Crisis Response Team, a special unit of black cops created to help defuse racially charged encounters between cops and citizens. The officers said they did not trust the administration. And in '97 a citizen liaison committee issued a report recommending, among other things, that the MPD take steps to promote qualified blacks--possibly using expanded certification. Deputy Chief Gregory Hestness rejected the idea, saying it would cause low morale among any white officers who didn't get promoted.

Like other city officials, Chief Olson didn't return City Pages' phone calls. But the police federation suit alleges that at some point during that February '98 round of promotions, Personnel decided to use expanded certification to send Olson a longer list of applicants. The department submitted the names of 18 officers--those with the top 11 test scores, plus 7 minorities who had passed the test but who ranked lower on the list. On March 8, the lawsuit claims, Olson promoted 6 of the top 11 candidates, all white, and 3 black officers from the expanded list.

As in any other workplace, personnel information is supposed to be confidential at the MPD. But police have the kind of bionic grapevine one might expect of professional investigators. "Every promotional test I've been involved in, as soon as the test is over, people call each other at work and compare scores," says Banham. "It's just amazing. I would venture 98 percent of the people, if you ask, they'll tell you....When those mailbags go out, there're all kinds of phones ringing and scratch pads--literally--with notes about positions and rankings."

Furious over what he'd heard about the promotions, the police federation's Berryman went to Personnel Services director Ann Eilbracht and demanded that she give the officers who'd been passed over retroactive seniority as sergeants. Berryman says a deal to that effect was struck, but subsequently nixed. At the time, he told City Pages that Mayor Sayles Belton had torpedoed the plan; now he says he's not sure how it got killed. In any case, the officers who were passed over were promoted within several months; the court file does not say when, and city officials refused to disclose the information.

Still, Berryman says, it was this episode that prompted him to publish the lawsuit threat in the Show-Up. Back then he said the union's hand had been forced by uncompromising city officials. "We don't want to make the people who got promoted uncomfortable," he explained. "It offends me that I have to have anything to do with this. I've been called, recently, a lot of names. It sticks in my craw."

But whatever people were saying to Berryman's face, what they said outside his earshot was worse.

 

When many of the MPD's black cops first saw the story about the lawsuit in the union newspaper, they wondered whether the whole thing was a red herring. In addition to heading the federation, Berryman was one of the directors of the Minneapolis Police Relief Association. During his tenure, the pension fund invested nearly $16 million (a little more than four percent of its total portfolio) in Technimar, a northern Minnesota start-up that ended up filing for bankruptcy. The federation itself invested some $450,000. Berryman is currently a defendant in one of several lawsuits arising from the situation.

When Berryman published his lawsuit threat, Charlie Adams figured the two developments were connected. "This is a smoke screen put up by Al Berryman--because he knows what ticks off cops on the street--to divert attention from Technimar," he said then. "He wants to make it a race war on the streets."

Banham concedes he had similar suspicions: "It came around times when there were a lot of things going on with the federation," he maintains. "It kind of created something for Berryman to rally around."

Berryman says there was no connection between Technimar and his saber-rattling on expanded certification. "I said in 1997 that I wasn't running," he points out. "This is not the kind of thing you want to put employees on either end through. It's not something you want to subject people who have to work together to."

In March last year, Berryman relinquished his post to Sgt. John Delmonico, a 12-year department veteran. In June another round of officers were promoted to sergeant--again using expanded certification. Barely a month later, with no fanfare whatsoever, Delmonico filed the long-threatened suit. Delmonico says the decision was made by the federation's nine-member board before he took office; he says he was "aware of but not privy to" the deliberations, and that he fully supports the outcome.

Delmonico acknowledges that all the officers passed over through expanded certification eventually got promoted. But, he says, the federation hopes to stop the city from using the controversial method in future promotions, at least until officials prove that it's needed. He'd prefer to settle the suit out of court, Delmonico adds. "I wish cooler heads could prevail, that the people who make decisions on the city's side and us could sit down and see whether we can work this out. I really believe we're not that far apart."

That's something the federation should have thought of sooner, Banham says. Whenever expanded certification was discussed over the years, he charges, the union ducked the issue. "It's too bad the federation didn't get involved at the front end, when it would have been possible for everyone to create a system they'd be happy with," he says. "I'm not aware of any approach they've taken to be proactive."

Other labor unions representing public-sector workers have chosen to address affirmative-action programs through contract negotiations. City council member Jim Niland, a former organizer for the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees, says the trend has been to let officials go beyond the Rule of Three when there's a good justification. Many departments now observe the Rule of the List, under which anyone who passes a hiring or promotional test is eligible for an interview.

Delmonico says the federation has told the city it would support the use of that rule for recruiting purposes. The problem in this case, he says, is that officials never explained why they applied it to promotions. "The numbers were never in terms myself or [federation attorney Mark] Gehan could decipher," he says. "The numbers changed between the first time the city came to us and later times."

 

Mark Gehan's downtown St. Paul office is reached via a bustling skyway. Turn right off of one of the main corridors bisecting the First National Bank building, and gone is the smell of caramel corn, the chatter of workers taking a second-story walk on their lunch hour. Suddenly it's quiet except for the hushed opening and closing of a phalanx of brass-trimmed elevators.

Ten flights up at the firm of Collins, Buckley, Sauntry & Haugh, things are just as genteel. The glassed-in conference room is lined with law books, many of them old enough to warrant a spot on the stacks at the Minnesota History Center. Down the hall the ivory-hued meeting rooms are appointed with wildlife prints in heavy frames. Tall and thin, Gehan himself looks expensive, though his cords and crewneck signal that it's not a courtroom day.

Gehan is known as one of St. Paul's go-to guys, someone who knows everyone and can get things done. He was the court-appointed special master in the state's tobacco trial--the person charged with reviewing tens of thousands of industry documents to determine whether they should be released to the public.

He has also made a name for himself as one of a handful of local attorneys who have fought for white plaintiffs against affirmative-action policies. He has represented the Police Officers Federation of St. Paul for years, and has taken on several minority hiring suits on behalf of its members and others.

In 1991 Gehan won a $75,000 jury verdict in federal court in favor of a white man who was passed over for a St. Paul police job at the same time as the department hired three minority officers. The jury determined that the man had been denied the job because of his race.

Gehan also handled the closest local parallel to the current Minneapolis suit. In 1993 he filed a complaint in federal court on behalf of Dan Vanelli, the head of the St. Paul federation, and three white men who had applied for jobs on the force but were passed over because expanded certification was used. The suit was dismissed when a judge ruled that the plaintiffs had no legal basis for bringing it; two had been offered jobs within months, while the third had opted out of the running. The judge also found that there was no reason to believe that officers selected through expanded certification would not make good cops.

Gehan hates the term "reverse discrimination": When white men lose jobs because of their race, he says, that's just plain old discrimination. And legally, he's right. In general, courts have acknowledged that affirmative action calls for treating people differently based on factors such as race, gender, or disability--in other words, that it is a form of bias.

They have also held--most notably in high-profile U.S. Supreme Court cases such as University of California Regents v. Bakke and Richmond v. Croson--that sometimes "subtle preferences" are the only way to redress a history of injustice. Exactly what the limits of those preferences should be is still being hashed out in courts throughout the nation. But a few basic principles have emerged.

The first is that affirmative-action programs such as expanded certification can be used only when members of a particular minority group are underrepresented in a given field or job category. "In other words, if you want to take race into account, you have to show me you have a compelling reason," explains Michael Jordan, who teaches employment law at William Mitchell College of Law in St. Paul.

Gehan argues that Minneapolis failed the first test in terms of raw numbers: When expanded certification was introduced into the promotions system, he says, blacks were not underrepresented in the rank of sergeant at the MPD compared to their overall employment on the force. Gehan wouldn't produce numbers to prove his point, but the personnel data obtained by City Pages indicate that in November, the department had 17 black sergeants, including the 4 promoted through expanded certification. That put the share of African Americans in the sergeant rank at 7 percent, compared to 6.23 percent in the department as a whole.

City officials refused to discuss Gehan's argument, or anything else about the lawsuit. But the Civil Service Commission's rule on expanded certification says the number of minorities in a given job category should reflect their share of the overall labor market. By those numbers, African Americans--who make up 13.25 of Minneapolis's population, according to city documents--would qualify as underrepresented both in the MPD and in the sergeant's rank.

But that argument, even if a judge accepts it, may not get the city off the hook. The second test the courts have usually applied to affirmative-action programs is whether the lack of minorities in a particular job is a result of past discrimination. Some courts have gone even further, ruling that the bias must have been intentional. Minneapolis's civil-service rules state that discrimination can be a result of past practices "elsewhere in society," not just in the city bureaucracy.

But that expansive view, says Gehan, is inappropriate: "The remedy has to fix the existing injustice rather than the historic injustice," he insists. "There's simply nothing we can do to make reparations for prior discrimination."

If all of this seems confusing, that's because it is. Law professor Michael Jordan says current affirmative-action rules set up a dilemma for employers: If bosses want to increase opportunities for disadvantaged groups, they must first prove that they have not eliminated discrimination so far. Add the reams of paperwork and statistical analysis involved, and some employers simply throw up their hands in disgust.

It doesn't have to be that way, Jordan hastens to add. "[The law] creates whatever incentive you want it to create. If you're not really committed to the ideals of affirmative action and you've created a program out of political expediency, it creates a legal disincentive. If you are committed, it creates an incentive to do your homework."

Which of those two propositions applies to Minneapolis is hard to tell: City officials, critics point out, have staked out firm positions on both sides of the affirmative-action argument. Jim Michaels, a labor attorney who represents the police federation as well as a number of other public-sector unions, cites a recent case involving the Minneapolis Department of Public Works. The way Michaels tells it, several years ago women engineers complained that they were discriminated against in the promotions system. They sued, and the city--pointing to its existing affirmative-action plan--maintained that they weren't victims of bias. In 1995 the city settled with the women, paying out $1.2 million but admitting no liability.

The issue popped back up last year when there were openings for two engineers to be promoted. The list prepared using the Rule of Three had no women on it, so the city notified the engineers' union that it planned to use expanded certification. The union, Michaels says, asked for statistics to justify the move, but never got them. "Rather than go ahead and risk suit," he explains, "the director of [Personnel] went to Civil Service and asked them to find that there was a past history of intentional discrimination."

When he learned about the request, he says, he told the commission that the city seemed to be speaking out of both sides of its mouth. "If you make a finding now, in 1999, [of something] that you maintained in 1995 was not the case, does that mean you're making a material misrepresentation of the facts in a federal court?"

The system forces employers to contradict themselves on a regular basis, he adds: "Affirmative Action is the only area I've ever seen that runs on the theory that two wrongs make a right"--that discrimination against one class of people can be fixed by discriminating against another.

All of this has led some to wonder whether city officials are getting tired of defending their programs. "A lot of things that the city does--whether it's an employment issue, whether it's expanded certification--sometimes it seems they hope we will challenge them," says union head Delmonico. "I've been told off the record by city people that their use of expanded certification was probably bad, but that it was the thing they wanted to do."

One thing federation and black officers association members agree on--albeit for different reasons--is that the city probably would be relieved if a court overturned their right to use expanded certification. "It was certainly a way to drive a wedge into the federation if they wanted to pit our members against each other," observes Delmonico. The unrest would keep the cops off the administration's back, he surmises.

This particular conspiracy theory doesn't sound far-fetched to Don Banham. "Expanded certification has existed for 17 years," he says. "They've only used it in these two cases, with the last two sergeants promotions. I find it curious that the city decided to institute the program now, when it's always been available to them."

 

Back before the now-infamous promotions, a group of black cops got together at north Minneapolis's Riverview Supper Club at the behest of then-director of Affirmative Action Larry Blackwell. According to Ron Edwards, a longtime civil-rights advocate who has represented the officers at Civil Service proceedings, Blackwell wanted to know how the group felt about expanded certification.

Usually, minority officers answer that kind of question by saying they don't want any special consideration. But Edwards's recollection is that this particular group of cops was pissed. They were not getting the promotions they deserved, they said, but if they complained they were accused of sour grapes. And on those rare occasions when they did get their stripes they had to fend off grumbling that they only got ahead because of some special quota system. So, the cops told Edwards and Blackwell, they supported expanded certification: If they were going to be stigmatized anyway, they might as well take the promotions.

As Adams would find out later, however, that didn't mean they wanted to pick a fight: When he went to battle it out with federation and department brass, he said at the time, black cops refused to show up. He soon quit his position as vice president of the association in disgust. "There I am at federation meetings fighting for minority officers who are getting harassed, who are the people who should have been there," he explained. "Sometimes it just takes a couple of knocks on the head to make me see."

Edwards says Adams shouldn't have been surprised. "One of the things that's happened is that younger black officers who've come onto the force have been brainwashed to think that officers hired under expanded certification are somehow lesser officers," he says. "They unfortunately don't have anything close to an accurate recollection of history. They don't understand that everything that's been won in terms of advances has been at the cost of a legal or political battle."

Banham says he can see why many black cops have kept quiet. "At the time this was occurring, it was a hot issue," he recalls. "I had white officers come up to me and ask me how I felt about this. It was of great concern to a lot of people.

"We've never had a battle within the rank and file," he adds. "The majority of our scrapes have been with the system. So when this did occur, I can understand some reluctance to make waves."

Banham says he, like Adams, has complained to Delmonico that the union was not acting in all of its members' interest. "I respect the rights of the [individual] officers to challenge this through the legal process," he says. "The thing that's unsettling is that when the federation decided to take a stand, it was our money being used to make an adverse impact on us. We're card-carrying, dues-paying members, too."

Delmonico says he understands the black cops' irritation. But, he adds, one of the federation's purposes is legal representation of cops on labor issues, and that often means taking on unpopular cases.

At this point, says Banham, the Black Police Officers Association is not contemplating legal action of its own. "Obviously, we're watching to see how things progress," he adds.

How the suit progresses will probably depend on the kinds of details the city refused to discuss with City Pages--matters such as the numbers officials used to justify their use of expanded certification. It's even possible, federation attorney Gehan says, that when both sides have prepared their cases it will turn out that there's no factual dispute, just a question of interpreting the law. If that's true, the case could be decided without ever going to trial. (Right now, according to court documents, the earliest such a trial could possibly occur is January 2001.)

Whichever way it shakes out, says William Mitchell's Jordan, the case--and the hundreds like it around the nation--is likely to set standards for minority hiring, firing, and promotions for years to come. "It's going to become a test of wills, both moral and political," he explains. "Do we really want [affirmative action]? Why do we want it? Are we willing to put the work in to make it a program that will withstand legal challenge? Diversity is expensive, and whatever good is going to come in the workplace, it's not going to come cheap."

 

Interns Claire Adamsick and Chris Jones contributed research to this story.

 

Correction published 2/2/2000:
This story contained two reporting errors: Minneapolis Police Federation president Al Berryman is currently assigned to the Child Abuse Unit, not Sex Crimes; and Black Police Officers Association vice president Charlie Adams holds the rank of patrol officer, not sergeant. The story reflects the corrected text. Additionally, the comment that was attributed to Deputy Chief Gregory Hestness of the Minneapolis Police Department failed to note that the source of the statement was the Star Tribune, not Hestness himself. (Hestness denies having made the comment.) City Pages regrets the errors.

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