When Cindy Villarreal became the first Latina officer at the Dallas Police Department back in 1975, her family was worried. “I broke away from the norm. It was a really big deal. It wasn’t what my parents had planned for me,” says Villarreal, who is now deputy chief of patrol in Northwest Dallas. It wasn’t easy for Villarreal at first. The department did not have a women’s locker room, so she had to put on her uniform in the public restroom. No one thought she could shoot a gun—until she proved it. Even when she became a senior patrol officer, her partner didn’t want her to drive the car. But word got around: Villarreal, at 5’2 and just 98 pounds, might not have been as big or strong as the male officers, but she could do the job. She now supervises 300 other officers.

Cindy Villarreal

Law enforcement is still a nontraditional career for Latinas. Nationwide, women make up about 13 percent of the sworn positions in large law-enforcement agencies, and women of color make up just 4.8 percent, according to a 2001 survey by the National Center for Women and Policing. The numbers of Latinas are even lower. Less than 3 percent of the Dallas police force is Latina. Women comprise 16.9 percent of New York City police officers, but just 5.1 percent of them are Latina. The Los Angeles Police Department is 36.1 percent Latino, including 2,688 men and 616 women.

LAPD Detective/Sergeant Art Placencia, president of the Latin American Law Enforcement Association (LA LEY), the powerful advocacy group for Latinos on the LAPD, saw few women 37 years ago when he started on the force. Women only worked at the front desk or in the jails and didn’t rise higher than a sergeant’s rank. “Women now can do the same things as men, from riding patrol cars to chief of police,” says Placencia. Still, he says, few Latinos, men or women, have reached command positions at the LAPD. Four Latinas are lieutenants, but none are captains or above.

Nevertheless, Latinas have found that law enforcement offers a solid career with good opportunities, say Villarreal and others. The work can be dangerous and stressful, yet it provides job security, advancement opportunities, good benefits, and the satisfaction that comes from helping people. Latinas bring special strengths to the job, particularly in diverse communities where Spanish fluency can make all the difference in a crisis. In fact, women officers learn one thing fast: They may not be able to wrestle a 200-pound suspect to the ground, but they can use a calm voice and negotiating skills in crisis situations. Villarreal has often helped male officers avoid violent confrontations by talking things out.

The chance to give back to the community is a common thread. Sandra Castillo saw many familiar faces when she was assigned as a rookie police officer in 1997 to the Polytechnic area of Fort Worth, where she had lived as a child. Castillo, who worked as a jail matron and a secretary at the DA’s office before joining the force, cared about the neighborhood. She wanted to make it safer. Working the midnight shift, she volunteered for every call she could. “I’d work every day trying to see what I could do to make it better,” she says.

Her dedication paid off. For her work in locating a missing first-grader, Castillo was named twice as Fort Worth Police Officer of the Year, by the Awards Foundation and the Fort Worth Association of Insurance & Financial Advisors. She received another award for helping to close drug houses in the Polytechnic area. Castillo, 41, is now a background investigator at the police academy, making sure applicants for police officer trainees are fit for the job.

The promise of job security brought Jacqueline Ortiz to the force. At age 19, Ortiz was working in accounting in an electronics company in Connecticut, and supporting her three-year-old daughter. One day, her brother, a Waterbury, Conn., police officer, brought her an application for the police department. The pay and benefits would give her family security, he urged.

In fact, Ortiz found that the blue uniform gave her not just financial security but new skills and confidence. She had a knack for dealing with people, especially those in her old neighborhood. They were suspicious of police and welcomed a Spanish-speaking officer. But during her first months on the job, Ortiz had to prove herself. “When you first come on, they watch you to see if you can handle the job and if you’re going to be there when they need you to back them up,” she says of her fellow officers. “It’s like a test period they put you through.”

After several years on the force, Ortiz was handpicked for the sexual-assault unit. She investigated child abuse, domestic violence, rape, and other serious crimes. Ortiz saw the dark underside of her city, and worked with victims from infants to adults. “It was challenging, heartbreaking—and satisfying when everything went well,” she says.

In 1998, Ortiz became the first Latino detective in Waterbury—and the only detective to speak fluent Spanish in a city that’s 21.7 percent Latino. After 15 and a half years on the job, she took an early retirement in 2005, due to a back injury. Ortiz, now 37, looks forward to the next chapter in her life. She plans to use her experience on the force to work with children. One young person, her 19-year-old daughter, Jessica Gutierrez, is already her biggest fan. “She’s always been very proud,” says Ortiz

A career in law enforcement is full of challenges, but it is also full of rewards. Looking back on her 30-year career, Villarreal treasures the “small victories.” She says, “If you can help a couple of people here, and a couple of people there, you’ve got to take that home with you.”

A New Sheriff’s in Town In January, Lupe Valdez became the first woman to put on the sheriff’s badge in Dallas County. She is also Dallas County’s first Hispanic, first openly lesbian, and in 20 years its first Democratic sheriff. As such, she oversees a budget of $90 million, manages some 1,800 employees, and runs six county jails with 7,000 inmates. During the law-enforcement career leading up to her election as sheriff, Valdez encountered her share of hesitation. She would get comments like “I’ve never worked with a woman before. I don’t know how to treat you.” Surprisingly, as sheriff, Valdez has gotten a different reception. “Everybody was ready for a change. People were tired of the good ol’ boy system,” she says. Now, she just wants to do her job—and pave the way for other Latinas. “Everywhere I go, people want to take my picture and shake my hand. They tell their children, ‘See, it can be done!’ And I’m thrilled to death,” she says. “The reason to break the glass ceiling is to make it possible for others to come through.”