I get a call. There was a problem at his house. He was inside, wouldn’t come out, had been drinking, and obviously has multiple firearms. I know this guy has a high potential for violence. I call in the response team, but I want him to trust me. They agree that the bulk of the tactical team will be in a parking lot a couple blocks away.

So I have the flak vest on and am walking up to his door, thinking to myself, He’s going to shoot me. I was thinking about the time I was married, about my family, my parents, my friends. I was thinking, I can’t believe that I just can’t turn around and go back. I’m going to get shot.

I get up to the door, swallow, turn around and wave to these guys. I knock on the door.

He opens. My heart is pounding. He opens the door and looks totally normal.

“Scott, I’m glad to see you. You’ve got to help me. Come on in.”

Ha. Meanwhile I’ve got my vest on.

He immediately see that and goes, “God, you know, I’m really sorry that you thought I was going to hurt you.”

“Well, you know George, with your temper.” I’m laughing, probably manic, silly at this point.

He’s huge with two sons bigger than he is, college football linemen, who would get in brawls in the front yard.

Jimmy Murphy, the guy who hit the door, jammed her into a closet with the fucking ram in her stomach. The towel wrapped around the ram. Now she’s got no clothes on. The cup is in mid air. There’s two guys coming off the bed with guns.

Jimmy couldn’t get his gun out; he had this 300 pound ram in his hands. He was screaming, “Gun, gun, gun, gun, gun!”

People are screaming and yelling. She’s fucking crying because she’s just lost her whole life here, right. One guy was coming up off the bed with a 44 magnum revolver. I pulled the triggers on the double barrel shotgun, and i had it on safety. I ended up hitting him over the head with the fucking shotgun.

When we do the search, that brings us down.