by Robert Daley
The police commissioner's office is on the top floor underneath his helicopter pad. Actually it's a suite of offices housing about twenty secretaries in addition to himself. Most of the secretaries are sergeants and detectives, and most of them work the voluminous mail that pours in unsolicited day after day, opening and scanning each letter, stapling it to its envelope in case the postmark or the envelope itself should ever have to be entered into evidence, and routing it somewhere for action--or inaction as the case may be.
The PC's personal office is a big room but plain. The walls are plain, as is the ceiling, as is the floor--again all adornment has been left out. An institutional, undistinguished room. From his windows the PC has a nice view over Brooklyn and the East River, but cops, even those of exalted rank, know their city rather too intimately, and are not deluded by views. The room does contain two ornate and gracious touches: the big desk at which Teddy Roosevelt sat when he was PC at the end of the last century, only three years before he went to the White House; and his portrait, painted at about that time, hanging in its heavy frame on the wall opposite. Headquarters has been moved twice since Teddy's day; he never worked here, and his desk and portrait do not seem to fit such a bland, low-ceilinged room. In any case, one PC after another has sat at his desk and gazed at his face, first in the other buildings, now here, for almost a hundred years, and perhaps this has caused some of them to think deep thoughts.
The incumbent PC, whose name was Charles Malloy, was sitting at that desk today as his principal secretary, a deputy inspector in uniform, announced the arrival of the chief of internal affairs, Sydney Pommer. Pommer, who entered in uniform, wore three stars on each shoulder.
"Yes, Syd?" Commissioner Malloy said, looking up. But he did not get up, and he did not invite Pommer to sit down. He did not like him, considering him pompous and self important. Slow, too. Pommer had been investigating that mess up in the Three-Two for too long a time. If whatever he had discovered was dire, then the PC should have been told long ago--the other reports were all in. Most likely this morning's meeting was a waste of the PC's time.
"I have that information you wanted, Commissioner." said Chief Pommer and he glanced meaningfully in the direction of the secretary. This was supposed to signify that his "information" was too sensitive to be divulged in the presence of a third party.
Pompous, thought Malloy.
But he counted himself too experienced a commander to display his true feelings, at least not yet, and with a nod he sent the secretary out of the room.
"What do you have, Syd?"
The two men were very different. Commissioner Malloy was a big florid faced man. He represented the traditional New York Police Department which, beginning in the middle of the last century, had always been dominated from patrolman level to headquarters by men of Irish-Catholic origin. It was true that in recent years the Irish-Catholic strain had run a bit thin. The lawsuits had forced the department to hire and promote more minorities, and even women. But now, in the person of Charlie Malloy and in ninety percent of the new commanders he had promoted out of the ranks and was continuing to promote, the old Irish-Catholic ethos was back.
Malloy was in fact a throwback to the men who had bossed the department in the old days, and he had been chosen for this reason. His immediate predecessors had included a former judge, a former prosecutor, a former corrections commissioner and a black police chief from out of town, all of them determined innovators. Malloy, when the mayor named him PC, was fifty eight years old and unlike these immediate predecessors, had worked for the same employer, meaning the NYPD, for his entire adult life. He had been, it was said, a cop's cop, a man other cops could depend upon. The principal accomplishment of the innovators, as he saw it, and as the mayor saw it too, had been to further poison department morale. Crime was up, response time was up, sick leave and retirements were up. The department simply didn't work as well as it should. The mayor had decided innovations had to stop for a while, and in addition he was a man who didn't like surprises. He had appointed Charles Malloy.
Pommer was smaller in stature than Malloy, darker in complexion, and he was a Jew. As commander of internal affairs it was his job to investigate other cops. Of course he had been pleased to reach three-star rank, but he was under no illusions, not then, not now. He knew Malloy didn't like him. The PC, to Pommer, was a closet anti-Semite. He knew why Malloy had appointed him to IAD: because it was good politics to have a Jew in the police hierarchy; and because internal affairs was a job none of the department's Irishmen wanted.
The religion and racial origin of New York cops was never very far from any cop's mind. Years ago the department had broken itself down into the so-called line organizations, or fraternal organizations, along strictly racial lines, and in a country that had lately become extremely sensitive to racial issues it sometimes seemed odd to outsiders that these organizations still existed, still had weight. There was the Columbian Society for cops of Italian extraction, the Steuben Society for Germans, the Shomrim Society for Jews, and so forth. There was the Guardian Society for blacks, and even the newly formed Jade Society for Asian cops, of whom there were almost none. The biggest and most important of these organizations was the Emerald Society for cops who still thought of themselves as Irish, who still called themselves Irish. The society had an insurance fund for widows, a scholarship fund for kids, and a bagpipe band that played its mournful dirges at the funerals of Irish cops slain in the line of duty. On St. Patrick's day Emerald Society cops, meaning the bulk of the department, marched up Fifth Avenue as a group in the parade. Invitations to speak at Emerald Society communion breakfasts were prized by politicians. Detective Muldoon of the Three-Two squad was of course a member of the Emerald Society; so was the police commissioner.
Like most old time PCs, unlike most recent ones, Malloy had never attended college, and he was sensitive about it, being careful to allude whenever possible to the time "when I was at Fordham.” He had in fact audited some classes there when he made captain and first came into headquarters. He had imagined he might try for a degree, which supposedly would help his career, but when he was promoted to deputy inspector without it, he did not go back.
He had a strong New York street accent, useful when commanding cops, which he had been careful over the years never to lose. "So where are we with those yo-yos up in the Three-Two?" he said to Pommer.
Syd Pommer, on the other hand, had a law degree and a masters in business administration from NYU, both earned at night as he worked his way up in the department. He spoke like the educated man he was. "I've got a pretty good book on them, Commissioner."
"I told you to be discrete. Were you?”
"No one could have been more so, Commissioner.” If Pommer resented such a question, this did not show. When in the presence of Malloy, he was careful that nothing showed.
"How many of your men worked on this?"
"Two."
"You can trust them?"
"The Three-Two never knew we were there, Commissioner."
The PC doubted this. "Go on."
Pommer opened his notebook. "This fat guy, Muldoon, 26 years on the job, was apparently the instigator. Third grade detective.”
The PC knew about Muldoon from the other reports he had seen. "Twenty six years on the job and he's still a third grade," he commented.
"He was a first grade some years ago. Got flopped back to third for being drunk on duty."
The PC knew this too. "Great," he said. "Wait till that comes out in court."
"It may not," said Pommer, studying his notebook. "The record doesn't refer to it. The record says insubordination. I mean, the guy was a drunk, still is."
"What else?"
"We worked hard digging that up."
"I'm sure," said the PC dryly.
"Took us about a dozen interviews to run it down. It was only a rumor at first."
The PC was not interested in gossip of this nature.
"But we nailed it."
"Used to be married. Lots of very loud fights with the wife, by the way. Liked to knock her around, apparently."
The PC was not interested in this either.
"Cops from the precinct where he lived were always being called to intervene. The department chaplains took him in hand but it was too late, she divorced him."
Malloy stared impatiently into a corner of the room.
"Sounds like he should have been fired off the job years ago," Pommer said. He was aware of the commissioner's impatience and in a sense was stalling for time. He was trying to figure out what Malloy meant to do with today's or any subsequent information that Pommer brought him.
"He made some good arrests over the years," Pommer said, studying his notes again. "You remember the subway token clerk murdered last year? He broke that case. Remember about ten years ago, the black councilman found in the trunk of a car--he worked that one on his own time and finally broke it. He's got a number of Excellent Police Duties, citations for bravery."
"How many civilian complaints?"
"You work Harlem you get those. The fastest way to the civilian complaint review board is as well known in Harlem as the fastest way to the welfare office."
"Corruption?"
"Allegations, Commissioner. Nothing proven."
"I want to know what relates to the current mess. The rest is a waste of my time. What about the other guy, the Italian?"
"Barone. He's a third grade also. Twelve years on the job. Went from the Police Academy to the Seven-Seven in Brooklyn."
The two men nodded at each other, but for a moment nothing was said. The department's biggest recent corruption scandal had occurred in the Seven-Seven. More than twenty cops were known to be involved. Six were convicted, one shot himself. To Malloy and Pommer both this meant the whole precinct was rotten, 250 men. Because policemen saw other men at their worst, they became cynics from a young age. Suspicion and conviction were the same.
"I know what you're thinking, Commissioner."
"Do you?" said Malloy dryly.
Nearly every officer in the 77th Precinct had been transferred elsewhere, and new men brought in. And after that Charlie Malloy was brought in, the PC reflected. He did not want any more corruption scandals. Not on his watch.
"Barone was already gone by then," said Pommer. "Went into Narcotics, got the gold shield, asked for the Three-Two and got it."
Most of this Malloy already knew, but he mused about it. "Learned to steal in Brooklyn," he said, "perfected his techniques in Narcotics, and is now ripping them off in the Three-Two. That's what you're thinking. What do you have to back it up?"
"Not a thing, Commissioner.” Pommer was an expert at accepting rebukes and slights without showing emotion. Which was not to say he enjoyed it.
"All right," the PC said, "you got nothing solid on either of them. What have you found out about the shootout I don't already know?"
"As I said, Commissioner, this Muldoon was the instigator. The other guy was just along for the ride, you might say."
"Get to the point as quickly as possible.”
"Detective Muldoon was told the whereabouts of the perpetrator, Lionel Epps, by a confidential informant.” Pommer looked up. "An unregistered informant, I might add.”
This might be significant and it might not. In any case it was a detail, and someone else's job, not the Police Commissioner's.
"They're supposed to register them," Pommer said, as if this were something the PC did not know.
"A lot of them don't bother," Pommer added.
"What else do you have?" said the PC impatiently.
"If he paid the guy he used his own money," persisted Pommer. "There's no record of him putting in for department money."
Though the PC began drumming his fingers on the desk, Pommer only studied his notes.
"That's enough to hang him on right there," Pommer said, looking up. "Both of them, if you want."
He was fishing for a reaction, but the PC gave none. He was in no mood to reveal his thoughts to Pommer, who seemed to have no idea of what this case represented in the large sense. All cases involving Harlem or blacks, if they reached the news media were potential problems. Malloy had to know everything, be ready to brief the mayor if asked, be ready to respond to the press, if asked. He had to be seen to be on top of it. He didn't need to know about unregistered informants or cops beating up their wives.
Apart from that, five cops had been shot, and the morale of the department was paramount. He wanted cops to see him as a man who stood up for his men.
"By the way, Commissioner," Pommer said, "we ought to consider raising the amount of informant money we give the precinct detective squads. At present it's only a couple of hundred dollars a month. In a precinct like the Three-Two with many arrests, most of that money goes to paying citizens to stand in lineups with perps. They have to pay people off the street five bucks a head to stand in lineups. They could put detectives in the lineups of course, if they were black, but most of them are not."
The PC felt like asking Pommer what his name was originally. Pommowski? Something like that.
"There's no money left over to pay informants with," Pommer continued.
And spelling his first name Sydney, not Sidney. A total affectation. Probably so people wouldn't think he was Jewish.
"Get back to the shootout," said Malloy.
"The informant directs Muldoon to an abandoned building where the perpetrator, Epps, is holed up. This Epps is a real bad apple, by the way."
The PC waited impatiently.
"He and Barone decide they can't take him by themselves, they need reinforcements. The abandoned building is in the Two-Five, so they go to the Two-Five stationhouse and up the stairs to the squad room. It's late. They find five detectives there about to go home. They don't know them, but they ask them to serve as backup."
This was possibly important. Why had no one else informed him about it already?
"The five detectives say: who the fuck are you? You're not a boss. We're not moving without a boss. Get a boss."
Malloy the ex street cop knew what this meant. The detectives had refused to move without a sergeant or lieutenant to lay it on, if it went bad.
"Unfortunately," Pommer said, "there were no detective superior officers on duty in the Two-Five at that hour. Nor at the Three-Two either, by the way.” He nodded several times. "The Three-Two squad has got only one lieutenant, only one sergeant, and they were both off that night."
"Get on with it," the PC said.
"They go back to their own precinct and they enlist every detective who's there, six in all, counting themselves. The uniformed shift is just changing, so they go out and wait by the cars and as the uniformed guys come out of the stationhouse they enlist them too. They're not going to go directly out on patrol after all, they're going to back up the two hotshots. They all agree."
For Pommer's benefit the PC decided to look pained, though as a young cop he might have done the same, probably would have. He was reasonably certain Pommer would not have, because Pommer had never been a street cop like himself, Pommer was a book guy. But to real cops the prospect of action was sometimes--meaning usually--irresistible.
"Five cars, Commissioner. Ten men."
"There should have been at least a sergeant there," the PC conceded. He said this principally for Pommer's benefit. But in fact crime and criminals did not operate on schedule. Cops could not always wait until the sergeant was there and everything had been completely thought out. The difference between him as PC and the idiots who preceded him was that he had been a real cop. He saw things from the cop's point of view, from the point of view of the street. In addition, he understood the importance of police morale.
Pommer said: "Muldoon tells them that all they have to do is surround the building, and watch the fire escape and the roof. He and Barone will make the arrest, it will only take a minute."
Pommer was practically ch
ortling, as if he had again caught cops--any cops--with their hands out or their pants down.
Pommer said: "This plan, which is no plan at all by the way, sounds terrific to everybody, and they all get in their cars and descend on the abandoned building. But during this time, unknown to them, the detectives back at the Two-Five have been having second thoughts."
"I can imagine," said the PC.
Pommer said: "The Two-Five detectives have figured it out that they can go arrest Epps by themselves, why the fuck not, it's their precinct, why do they need those fucks from the Three-Two?"
As Malloy saw it, the cops involved had only behaved like cops. What else did anyone expect? So far, Malloy approved. It was only later that the thing turned into a shambles. The eventual outcome was unfortunate and could cause problems in the future if he was not careful, but basically cops were cops and you knew that and accepted it.
"So what you have," Pommer continued, "is two groups of cops trying to make a dangerous arrest in the middle of the night. They're not only not helping each other, they're in competition. They're trying to screw each other."
The PC nodded. Most of this had never appeared in print and it would not sound very well in court, but if he were careful there was no reason it should reach either place. His object was to protect himself and protect his men. If anyone was to be disciplined it should be only Muldoon and Barone. But not much and not now. Not until after the trial.
Pommer said: "The Three-Two cars and the Two-Five cars pull up almost nose to nose. Suddenly there's no time to elaborate on the plan--what there was of a plan. They see each other and they all start running toward the doorway to be first to arrest this violent sonuva bitch Epps who's waiting for them armed to the teeth. There are guys rushing in the front door long before anyone is in position in the back or on the roof."
Pommer fell silent. The PC, as he turned this information over in his head, was silent also.
"You know the rest, Commissioner."
"Yeah, five cops in the hospital.” It was a big case, that was the danger. Someone was liable to try to make it into something it wasn't.
