COPS : What happens when they become celebrities

Darkness had descended on Sunset Boulevard hours ago, and the Saturday night ritual of the Strip People was revving up to full, nerve-jangling gear. The neon-lit air was choked with heavy--heavy music, heavy sounds and heavy traffic.

On the littered sidewalk, punkers in torn shirts maneuvered past young rockers in buckled boots conversing in large groups or waiting to get into Gazzarri’s. The informal dress code of the street was black-and-blue anything.

Into the masses marched two men who drew admiring glances, smiles and even a few delighted shrieks. Their matching green khaki outfits clashed with the sea of blackness and blueness. Those who came forward to shake their hands were not put off by the badges on their chests or the guns on their hips.

Despite their good looks, Sean Collinsworth and Paul Terrusa are not movie stars or rock idols. They are deputies with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. The pair are assigned to the West Hollywood substation, and on this night, they were working the foot beat.

But those approaching Collinsworth and Terrusa recognized them as two of the real-life stars of “Cops,” the controversial Fox television “docu-series” that shows law enforcement officers in action as they solve murders, bust into drug houses, intervene in noisy domestic squabbles and write traffic tickets.

The current batch of “Cops” shows, airing Saturdays at 8 p.m. through March, focuses on several L.A. deputies and sergeants with whom the “Cops” camera crews tagged along for several weeks in order to capture the grittiness and monotony of police work.

Other deputies include Sgt. Rey Verdugo, a homicide detective with a shaved head and a burly build; Jill Beach of the Lennox substation, who exhibits a stern professionalism during her patrols, and an undercover narcotics detective who sings “Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It’s off to work we go” on his way to bust a cocaine dealer known for having a particular dislike for police.

Like other officers and deputies spotlighted in previous “Cops” episodes in Broward County, Fla., Portland, Ore. and San Diego, the Los Angeles deputies are now grappling with a force they didn’t learn how to handle at the academy--the power and the pitfalls of being a celebrity.

The show’s fans have surprised the police and deputies with numerous requests for autographs, pictures, shoulder patches and crime-prevention information. Bolder admirers have proposed marriage, forwarded invitations for dinners or jotted down flirtatious messages on cocktail napkins.

Though the sudden attention initially bewildered and overwhelmed them, several “Cops” say they now take the adulation in stride. They find it flattering. They are teased by fellow officers about their “sex symbol” status. A few have benefited professionally from the exposure and have moved on to better jobs.

But others feel the publicity has put them under the gun.

They complain that “starring” on the show has resulted in bad raps, bitter jealousies and conflicts, not only with colleagues, but also with other law enforcement agencies. They claim they have been subjected to more scrutiny and criticism than non-”Cops.” They have been accused by fellow officers of having large egos, and of “playing to the camera” with inappropriate appearance and actions.

“There are most definite jealousies that resulted from me being on the show,” said Collinsworth, 34, a 12-year-veteran of the department. He said some in the department have commented in a less-than-positive fashion about his bleached-blond hair, his conduct on the job and how he looks in a bicycle suit when he arrives at work.

“This has become a very bitter experience,” he said angrily. “The whole thing has become so petty, it’s really dampened my enthusiasm for doing the show.”

Broward County Sheriff’s Detective Jerry Wurms, a three-year veteran of the department, said he also met with problems. “Some of my co-workers were jealous,” he said. “It was like, ‘Well, who are you? You’re new, and I’ve been here for 15 years. How come they’re not filming me?’ ”

Linda Canada, a deputy in Broward County, said her career goals were temporarily derailed soon after the “Cops” shows. (See accompanying story.)

“Cops,” which premiered in January, 1989, is filmed in a cinema verite style, with no host, no narration and no re-enactments. Segments are presented from different points of view. Some utilize hidden cameras and microphones to show suspects in the process of committing crimes. Others make viewers part of the action as the camera eavesdrops on conversations in police cars, raids and vehicle chases.

Some of the sequences are bloody and violent, and the dialogue during arrests is riddled with bleeped-out obscenities.

Family members, close friends and neighbors of the officers involved have cringed and laughed as they watched them at work.

“We’ve known all along that Paul was in a dangerous job, and it’s scary to watch him,” said Mary Terrusa, the mother of Paul Terrusa. “But we thought he handled himself very well.”

Collinsworth’s father, Evan, felt that the series showed his son to be “a really cool character under pressure. That impressed me.” He said he had always wondered what had attracted his son to the job, especially since Sean Collinsworth holds degrees in economics and philosophy.

The officers featured on the shows have mostly high praise for “Cops,” its concept and the conduct of the crews filming the action. They said that the show offers viewers a more realistic portrait of police work than “Dragnet,” “Adam-12” or other television police dramas.

Most of all, the officers have gained an insightful--and sometimes uncomfortable--glimpse into the responsibilities and drawbacks of being thrust into the public eye. Although they said it hasn’t significantly affected their ability to do their jobs, the effect has been unsettling, the loss of privacy disorienting.

Broward Lt. Vicki Cutcliffe, who was shown during the show’s pilot being shoved by a muscular suspect whom she was arresting for possession of cocaine, said she is no longer a face in the crowd.

“I thrive on privacy, and being on this show has really been an intrusion,” Cutcliffe said. “I’m not sure I want everyone to know how I feel about things. Had this show not been a positive thing for law enforcement, I never would have done it.”

Sgt. John Bunnell, who heads a narcotics task force in Multnomah County, Ore., said he receives at least six fan letters a day, mostly from women.

“I’ve always operated in a clandestine manner, and have made it a point to keep my life and what I do socially a secret,” said Bunnell, 44, who has wavy, salt-and-pepper hair and bears a resemblance to “Hawaii Five-O’s” Jack Lord. “Then, in a flash, all sorts of people were coming up to me in supermarkets, in restaurants, wanting to know more about me.”

John Langley, the co-creator and co-executive producer of “Cops” (with Malcolm Barbour), shook his head when asked about the negative personal and professional effects experienced by those featured on his show.

“I don’t deal in the aftermath and I don’t get involved in departmental policies,” Langley said as he sat in his Marina del Rey office. “I don’t let the departments tell me how to do my job, and I don’t tell them how to do their job.”

But he added: “We’ve always gone back to the people we’ve filmed to ask their opinions on what we’ve done, and if they would ever do it again if we came back. Every one of them said they would do it again.”

Not everyone on “Cops” becomes a celebrity. L.A deputy Beach said she is often recognized on duty, but never off-duty.

“When I’m working, I wear my hair completely up and in a braid tied at the back,” the 24-year-old deputy said. “But I look completely different when I get off work and let my hair down. It goes to the middle of my back. I’m also a lot more carefree than I am at work, so I just look different. Maybe that’s why no one has recognized me in the supermarket.”

When setting up shop in a particular city, Langley and Barbour ask law enforcement officials for recommendations on the most “pro-active” officers. Langley said physical appearance or photogenic qualities are not a factor in the selection process. The candidates are given a “screen test” with 8-millimeter cameras to determine how comfortable they are with being filmed and how they deal with other officers.

“I’m interested in getting interesting people and a good mix,” Langley said. “I don’t care what they look like--although it’s nice if they have that star quality.”

The star quality and photogenic features of some of the “Cops” have proved appealing to some viewers.

Bunnell said he has received letters from viewers “who are fixated on me, commenting on my style and my performance. These are borderline infatuations. I suspect these are from women who don’t have anything better to do.”

His wife initially found the fan letters humorous, “but she has instructed me not to write back any of them,” he said.

Still, the officers say they are aware how some celebrities can become the objects of deadly obsession or a target of someone less than pleased with their crime-fighting philosophy. Some of them made reference to the shooting deaths of John Lennon and actress Rebecca Schaeffer, who was slain at her West Hollywood apartment last year by an admirer.

But they are not concerned about becoming targets of fatal fan attraction.

“Rebecca Schaeffer didn’t have a gun,” Collinsworth said. “I do.”

A recent show featured Collinsworth and Terrusa as they rushed to the aid of a shirtless young man in an apartment building who had tried to kill himself by slashing his wrists after a disagreement with a girlfriend. The man was uncooperative and refused to give the deputies any information about his identity. As paramedics treated him in the hallway, Collins-worth stood nearby, chomping on an apple as he watched the paramedics bandage the man’s bloody wrists.

The following day, Collinsworth’s mailbox at the station was filled with apples.

The episode also earned him a reprimand from his supervisors, which he felt was unjustified.

“I regret doing that,” he said. “But it wasn’t done out of insensitivity. This person was not asking for any sympathy. It was just the opposite.

“Because of the job, we have to grab lunch whenever and wherever we can. There are homicide scenes where everyone orders food or coffee because the investigation is going on so long. There aren’t any cameras at those scenes, but I was filmed. I was told I made the department look bad.”

He knocked the editing of the segment: “It made it look like I was standing right over the guy. The camera would zoom in on him, then show me. But I really was not that close. It was a very regrettable experience.”

Collinsworth and Terrusa, 26, a three-year veteran, seem to be the most colorful of the L.A “Cops.” As they sat at the station during an interview, they displayed an easy, joking rapport similar to numerous television police teams, such as Starsky and Hutch or Crockett and Tubbs. During the filming period, Collinsworth was training the rookie deputy.

The pair was filmed when they wore Groucho Marx noses and mustaches as they picked up their laundry on Halloween, took their pictures with men dressed in women’s costumes, and made a $1 bet on whether an informant had correctly tipped them off about a drug suspect.

Collinsworth felt that “Cops” offered “a superb opportunity to illustrate the professionalism of the department,” especially in the wake of recent controversies over the shooting of a man during a confrontation with Nation of Islam members and indictments of 10 narcotics officers accused of stealing $1.4 million seized in drug raids. But many of the notices he has received from colleagues have focused on what they call his unprofessionalism. And that has made Collinsworth mad.

“My supervisor received calls from other personnel, saying that what we did on Halloween was inappropriate,” he said. “They were saying, ‘Why is he on foot? Why is he taking pictures with those people? Why is he wearing a fake nose?’ ”

Collinsworth was obviously irritated as he discussed the reaction.

“What we did that night was community involvement, which is supposed to be part of our job,” he said. “West Hollywood is a very dynamic community. There are tensions in this area between the gays and police, and we’ve got to show there’s no line between us and them. We should be service-oriented policemen, yet we get calls about our professionalism. I mean, we didn’t wear the noses on the street .”

A segment that aired March 3 showed Collinsworth and several other deputies arresting two overzealous employees at the Whisky nightclub on Sunset for kicking a patron in the face. An unsigned note appeared the next day on the West Hollywood bulletin board, saying that he had “disgraced the department on national TV” for carrying his flashlight in his “gun hand” instead of keeping the hand free.

Collinsworth, who had never owned a television until a few months ago, touched his blond hair, which was combed upward.

“I bleach my hair,” he said. “Cops don’t do that. But why do I have to explain what I do? The bleach doesn’t go down in my brain and affect my thinking. It’s a fashion statement.

“I’ve been riding my bike to work for years, and I wear a bicycle suit. One show showed me coming to work. Some person at the station asked me, ‘Is this your way of getting attention?’ I said (expletive) and walked out of the room.”

Terrusa added, “Unless I’m having a good time at work, I don’t want to do it. Damn anyone who doesn’t think that’s right.”

Other segments of the L.A. “Cops” show basically routine police work that lacks some of the grittiness and drama of the series’ earlier episodes. The deputies appear to be less personal in their approach to performing their duties than those in Broward County or Portland.

Critics said that the first segments of the show, filmed in the Ft. Lauderdale and Hollywood areas of Florida, were rich in character and emotion--almost like a soap opera. The cameras not only followed the officers during their shifts but also went home with them.

Then-Sgt. Cutcliffe would be shown cornering drug suspects, punctuating her arrest with lines like, “Do something stupid, and you’re gonna die.” The next sequence would show her playing with her two infant sons at home. One sequence showed her standing in the kitchen in her bullet-proof vest, clutching one of her children.

The pilot episode showed Capt. Ron Cacciatore, the head of the Organized Crime Division, and his wife, Karen, arguing in the living room over his refusal to talk about his work. Cacciatore, who just wanted to relax, stared blankly at a television screen.

Karen: I hear something happened at the train station last night.

Ron: We made a bust.

Karen (pause): TV more important than you talking to me right now?

Ron (turns): I’m watching “Superman.”

Karen: I know, but you always watch “Superman.” You always watch TV.

Ron: What is this, “20 Questions”?

During recent interviews, the Cacciatores both said they were so engrossed in the disagreement that they forgot they were being filmed. A “Cops” crew had come over earlier in the evening for dinner, and had obtained permission from the couple to film their after-dinner interaction.

“My wife really got a bad rap because of that,” Cacciatore said as he recalled the episode. “People came up to me and said, ‘How can you live with that bitch?’ A school board member raked her over the coals.

“But she was right. She works all day and she wants to have conversation when she gets home. I want to clear my mind out. It’s my fault. It showed me how insensitive I was being. I didn’t like to see that.”

Producer Langley said that after the Broward County shows, “Cops” steered away from showing the personal lives of the officers.

“No matter how dramatic those sequences were, it just doesn’t play realistically to the audience,” he said. “It seemed unreal. Viewers would say, ‘Surely they know the cameras are there and they’re being filmed.’ But they do forget they’re being filmed.”

What the “Cops” see now when they watch the show is an accurate depiction of how they do their job. For a few, it was a rude awakening.

“When I saw myself, I scared myself to death,” former Portland Bureau of Police Sgt. Loren Caddy said. “I didn’t see myself as this 55-year-old guy, chasing down crooks and jumping over fences. I feel like 35 years old behind my eyes.

“After I watched myself, I requested a transfer. I saw I was doing my job, but I realized that it was time for me to move on.”

Caddy became an investigator with the Portland District Attorney’s office. “This is a much-sought-after position,” he said. “Being on ‘Cops’ didn’t hurt me in getting this job.”