News

The Biggest Brother

Meet the affable madman protecting the police.

By Joe P. Tone 

It's a warm Wednesday in March, a few days before St. Patrick's Day, but the celebration in this West 58th cop bar is well underway. Plastic clovers dangle from the low-slung ceiling. Beers and shots are guzzled with professional determination. A few stray bagpipers must be right outside, because whenever the door swings open, a lumbering shriek fills up the dark basement pub.

But at one corner of the bar, a different celebration is underway. It has the same basic elements: a cluster of plainclothed officers and the occasional appearance of shots on the bar, lined up like 80-proof dominoes. Yet eyes are fixed on a TV. The news is on. Grainy images of a young black boy fill the screen, followed by the round, ruddy face of a burly policeman.

Earlier today, a grand jury cleared two of their own -- Detectives Phil Habeeb and John Kraynik -- in the killing of teenaged robber Brandon McCloud. In some places, the shooting sparked cries of racism and calls for justice. McCloud was in his bedroom during the small hours of September 1, 2005, when the detectives came calling. He didn't have a gun, but he wound up with 10 rounds buried in his bony frame. To much of Cleveland, it was yet another example of a police department in chaos.

It's hard to blame people for their skepticism. For years, corrupt and inept mayors have paraded a series of chiefs, safety directors, and commanders through the department's upper reaches, then trashed them as soon as their political born-on dates expired. The present chief, Mike McGrath, is the eighth in just 12 years.

Violent crime rates are rising. Response times are too. Political corruption is conducted with impunity. Nearly every bust of complexity is done by the feds, not Cleveland Police.

In the poorest city in America, this is a department that doesn't even have a gang unit.

Meanwhile, officers have been accused of racial profiling, stealing overtime, routinely ignoring or botching rape cases, and unleashing their frustration on young black men like Brandon McCloud.

But down here, in the Zone Car Lounge -- the bar owned and enjoyed by the Cleveland Patrolmen's Association -- McCloud's death was a tragedy of a different brand. The boy had been wanted in the robbery of a pizza delivery guy, one of 10 knife-wielding heists he's believed to have pulled off. When Habeeb and Kraynik tried to arrest him that morning, they say, McCloud lunged at them with a knife.

Down in this bar, the tragedy isn't that an armed robber died; it's that two detectives were off the job for nine months, vilified as racist murderers.

It's a delicate argument to make, that the killing of Brandon McCloud was "justified."

Now the man charged with making that argument -- the round, ruddy face that fills up the evening news when chaos besieges cops -- sits at the corner of the bar, watching himself on TV. He can't hear his words over the bar's escalating chorus, but it's probably a watered-down version of something he said earlier in the week.

"Thankfully, I've never killed anybody," Steve Loomis, the union's 42-year-old president, said at the time. "If it's a choice between you or I, or between you and my partner, or between you and a little old lady, I wouldn't hesitate for a micro-second to take someone's life."

It's not a pretty case to make, but that's his job. It was a little over a year ago when he replaced longtime union president Bob Beck, a stone-faced Officer of the Year, whose legend among cops had grown larger than a dead rock idol's. Thus far it's been a rocky road. Loomis' election divided the union between veterans and newer cops. His happy-go-lucky personality has led to some embarrassing missteps -- even sparked calls for his resignation. But for the moment, with his face on the TV, friends at his side, and somewhere, two detectives breathing much deeper, the president is ready to celebrate.

He's been slugging down Diet Pepsi for much of the night -- trying out a new rule that forbids him from drinking at the Zone Car -- but now a round of celebratory shots has appeared magically on the bar.

Down they go, with sighs of relief all around.

Loomis' office sits a short flight of stairs up from the bar. It's a monument to his passions: an Indians team-autographed bat and a clutter of memorabilia picked up at police auctions, including an Ocean's 11 poster autographed by the cast. It cost him $475. "I waited until my fiancée was in the bathroom," he says.

Loomis doesn't patrol these days. The presidency is full-time. So today he's doing one of his very favorite things: talking. An hour turns into three without his once checking his watch -- or himself. His mouth and mind jog happily astride one another.

He describes his divorce as "a blessing," his daughters beginning to menstruate "a fun time." He launches into a 20-minute play-by-play of the first time he bought them tampons -- "I ended up dropping 50 bucks at Rite Aid" -- and the joys of teaching his fiancée's son "how to pee outside!"

It's a mix of power and playfulness that led him from a Navy tour in the first Gulf War to becoming a cop. When he returned from the Gulf in 1992, he heard Cleveland was offering a test. He drove in to take it. "I had no clue there was a residency requirement," he says. "I had no clue what the pay was." He just wanted a uniform.

Loomis started in the Fourth District, patrolling the southeast side, and later joined the Strike Force, which handles violent and high-profile crimes. Over the years, he developed an approach tailored to his strengths. "Steve screws with everybody," says Patrolman Carl Perkins.

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