No Lights, No Sirens: The Corruption and Redemption of an Inner City Cop

by Robert Cea

  Cho was good to us, giving us primo collars. He led us to gun after gun and guys wanted for shootings and murders, but there is a price attached to those great collars and Cho was very clear on what that price would be. He wanted to keep his ever-growing heroin habit going without having to pay for it. That meant that I would have to supply him with it. Now the last thing I was about to do was keep another scumbag drug dealer’s business going with my money paying for Cho’s habit, which would in turn feed my habit of getting excellent collars. So here’s how I created a nice streetwise balance. If I caught a person with nothing on him but a few bags of boy, I would adjudicate his menial crime on the spot. I’d fine him and give him a “time served” sentence. The fine would be to take half his junk; the time served would allow him to go free without a three-day sentence in central booking, which would accomplish nothing other than tying up the system and putting more of a strain on taxpayers like you and me. This, of course, is 100 percent illegal, but I was looking at the bigger picture. This junkie was still going to be a junkie when he got out of central booking, and he’d probably be completely jonesing, looking for smack as soon as he hit the street. He has no job, so what’s the first thing he’s going to do? He’s going to rob the first old lady he sees to feed his smack habit.

  Anyone can say how wrong or immoral this type of deal was, but guess what, that is the way it was in the Badlands. So I’d find Cholito at a predetermined area, give him the junk, let him slam it, and then he’d give us everyone and their mothers too. This went on month after month. Cho was the bomb for us, informing even on cops in the precinct who were fucking some project “skeezit,” or playing both sides of the fence for their own financial gain, in other words, cops who were ripping street mopes off. This we were uninterested in, but it did alert us to the possibility that Cho would roll on us as quickly as he rolled on them. This worried Billy, but in my mind the reward far outweighed the risk. It was all about results. I knew these were crimes I was committing daily. But I’d do it again and again. I’d learned in those two years on the streets that it’s the only way to get things done.

  We knew all of the mopes working for Shah or Cho, so when we saw an unfamiliar character, we’d be “cocksure” curious. One was a short, light-skinned Hispanic, a chubby cat with lots of jailhouse tattoos, and he wore a stocking cap even though it was humid and in the eighties. He was obviously steering for Cholito, as he would nod to where Cho was hidden whenever a buyer for TKO—the very potent smack Shah King pumped through these projects— neared him. Cho had not yet fed us the fact that there was someone new on Shah’s payroll, so we had to toss this one, let him know who we were and what we were about.

  The second we opened the doors on the unmarked Chevy, he pulled off his stocking cap. Suddenly all the potential buyers quickly veered away, and the walls of passersby seemed to evaporate. This was a great way of seeing who was carrying out there; go for the one who was moving away the quickest, they were generally the dirtiest. We approached this short, dirty-looking street urchin, and to our surprise he did not run. His shoulders sagged and he waited for us, almost like he was expecting us.

  I grabbed him by the arm and walked him out of sight, behind one of the buildings; he went right along with the program, as docile as a puppy. “Who you working for?” I asked.

  He had a Newyorican accent, so I figured him to be an outsider from Brooklyn North somewhere. “Yo, Officer, I’m straight, not with that now, just chillin’.”

  “Are you fucking kidding? We been watching you steer for twenty minutes, so stop jerking us off. Who you working for?”

  I could see Billy was in a pissy mood and I did not want to scare this guy into submission. I wanted to let him know we weren’t looking to break his balls for steering, I just wanted to know who was who; however, I did want him to know that he certainly could be collared very easily if he did not comply. I also did not want him to think we were running some nonsense good cop–bad cop thing on him, which real perps think is a joke anyway. I wanted him to know we were of the same place he was. “We’re cool, friend, but just so you know, we can collar you right now just for doing what you’re doing.” He tried to talk; I held my hand up calmly. “Trust me, we really don’t give a fuck that you’re steering, but we can. So please, let’s just cable-cut right through the bullshit: Who you working for?”

  He nodded his head softly and smiled in compliance. “You right, Officer, you right”—he tapped his heart with his fist three times—“thing is, yo, I just got out, you know what I’m sayin’, and last motherfuckin’ thing a nigga needs is some heat, yo, know what I’m sayin’. Truth is, I needed a job, son. Some cat I knew from back in the day offered me seventy-five to look out, yo, and that’s it.”

  We knew the cat he was referring to. “When did you get out?” I asked.

  He was quick. “Two weeks ago, did some hard ma’fuckin’ time too, you can believe that.” He laughed, I smiled, Billy stared. Our new friend pulled out a crushed cigarette. He was about to light it, then he offered it to us; we declined. I was amused by the jailhouse gesture.

  “Where was that?” I asked calmly.

  “Ahh shit, all ma’fuckin’ over, son. Year in Danamora, nickel in Clinton, some up there in Fishkill.”

  “Hard time indeed, kid.” I laughed, because those prisons were in fact maximum security; the hardest state criminals were residing up there in northern New York; it was filled with every bottom-feeder we could offer them, lifers on down.

  “You damn right, had to cut ma’fuckers all day long there, some big nigga’s looking for some pretty Spanish ass. I’m not about that, son.” He slapped his ass and laughed. “This shit’s an exit homey, not an entrance, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “How much time you owe?” I asked.

  “Not gonna lie to you, cool, I owe a deuce.”

  “Bro, you get hooked up out here, you’ve gotta finish that up, fuck you doin’?” I asked. He nodded his head then dropped it, going back to that jailhouse game every perp plays when needed, compliance without really meaning it.

  “Oh yeah, you right, but you know how this shit go out here, who gonna hire an ex-con behind my shit? C’mon now, I got some kids, just trying to provide properly for them, shit, you know what I’m saying?” He rolled up his arm sleeves in a sudden flurry of excitement, showing me his forearms. “And check it out, yo, clean for five years, son, clean as a ma’fuckin’ whistle, yo!” “Whistle” sounded like “wis-oh,” he was damn proud of the fact that he hadn’t slammed any boy. I guess that is an accomplishment from where he was standing, so I understood. It was cool that he was proud of that.

  I was curious as to why he’d done so much time; he definitely did not look like the murdering type. “What’d you get knocked for?”

  “I was in a spot with a lot of, you know, material.” He dropped his head when he said the word, which he split into two, “mah-terial.”

  I didn’t feel like asking any more, because three quarters of what he was telling us was probably bullshit anyway. I knew we’d get more of the truth from Cholito, who was sitting on a bench smoking a Kool, enjoying his hiatus. Before we moved away, Billy asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Angel, yo. Angel Borges.” He stuck out his hand to shake; Billy just turned and moved to Cholito; I pounded his fist gently.

  If I’d known then what a scumbag he would be, I would’ve capped him then and there. Instead, I just said, “See you around, Angel Borges.” Billy and I turned our attention to Cholito. He saw us walking toward him and BOOM, he took off like a rabbit. We chased him across the atrium and into a building, burst through the rusted metal door, then slowed down, calmly walking to the elevator, catching our breath. We stepped into the elevator and were pulled up to the top floor in the urine-laden iron box. It always amazed me how every project in the city spawned some animals who didn’t mind peeing in their own elevators; they had to know that the housing-authority janitors were certainly not going to mop it up. I
figured they just liked living in piss. I had been in and out of these elevators for quite some time so, unfortunately, I’d gotten used to the smell.

  We reached the top floor, got out of the nasty four-byfour box, and moved to the stairway. We opened the door and climbed one flight up, to the roof landing where Cholito was sitting casually, just starting to boot up some smack. He was tying off at his ankle. He tapped just below the ball of his foot to check for a vein. Billy looked away, but I was fascinated by it.

  “Yo, Tatico, C, slow the fuck down, you almost caught my shit this time, poppa.”

  “Start working out.” Billy said this without looking at him, disgusted. I could see that Billy’s eyes were sad. It just didn’t seem like this was where he wanted to be anymore.

  Cholito didn’t look at Billy. He didn’t care for him much anyway. Not once did Billy hand him a glassine of boy; it was always me, and always me he talked to. “I work my dick out, poppa.” He laughed, though it was a preoccupied snicker; he was intent on slamming some love, and that was what he was going to do.

  He looked up at me after he pulled his hypodermic, or “works,” out of his dirty sock. “Bro, I don’t have anything for you today, I’m sorry,” I said.

  He sucked his teeth and dropped his head, “Shit, C, what the fuck, yo?” Then, as if nothing had occurred, he pulled a bundle of heroin from his pants pocket, slid one packet out from its rubber-band wrap, unfolded the tiny envelope, which was stamped “TKO,” and poured it into a dirty fortyounce beer cap. He climbed up the stairs toward the roof, moved one of the bags of garbage, pulled out a small container of cloudy water, squeezed it into the cap, and proceeded to cook up.

  “All the comforts of home.” Again Billy sneered. I looked at him and shook my head slightly; I wanted him to ease up on our prized CI. Billy just blinked at me slowly. This was a serious inconvenience, having to witness this, but he did because he knew it was a necessary means to an end. That didn’t mean he was going to like it or embrace it, and I certainly was not asking for that.

  “Who’s this new cat you got working for you?” I asked.

  “Old school ma’fucker, good people, we go way back.”

  That was good enough for us; Cholito never lied about his people. Why should he? It would garner him no more or no less favor with us unless of course the cat was wanted, then Cho would give him to us in good time, after he busted him out, or after the worker was no longer of any use to him. Everyone was using everyone for something out there; the trick was to use them before they used you. “How much you slinging an hour, Cho?” I wanted to know how high Shah’s profits were.

  An angry-looking dark vein popped on his ankle; it appeared ready to explode. I watched the needle push through his scabby skin and the plunger ease down, sending the warm liquid on its hunt. He pulled up on the plunger slightly, drawing some blood into the tube, then he pushed down gently on the plunger again. He shook his head slightly, his eyes closing and opening slowly, his nose dripping a clear fluid. He didn’t even bother to wipe it. This was sex for him. He did not even pull the syringe out of his ankle, he just laid back on the stairs, then focused on us. Only now did he acknowledge Billy, all smiles, in a hazy sort of way. “My niggas, what you need today, son?” He smiled, then shook his head, remembering my last question. “Oh yeah, boss man, yeah, yeah, that nigga’s makin’ much money behind the fruit of my shit out there, yo.”

  I was getting impatient because Billy woke up impatient, and I knew it was just a matter of time before he was going to spit on Cholito, so I wanted to move this along. “How much, Cho, how many bags?”

  “Shit. A hour? Let me get my calculator out.” He laughed at his drug-induced attempt at humor. “I say in a good hour, hmmm, six bundles.”

  I was blown away; I knew he was doing great business, but, in every bundle there are fifty decks, or envelopes, of smack; that’s three hundred bags an hour at roughly twenty a bag, which translates into six thousand an hour, and that’s just Cholito. Shah had Cholitos all over the projects, shit, he had them all over the city. The numbers were astronomical.

  “What, that’s a lot, Tatico? You know how I do out here, C. I’m the slamminest motherfucker up in here, son, you know how I do.” He reached out with his fist; I tapped it. “And how could he not, you ma’fucker’s is lettin’ him ride for free out here, ’cept that crazy ma’fucker Con, he gots to pay up to Con, yeah, and everybody know it too.” He wasn’t telling us anything we didn’t already know. Shah had a pass because he was Conroy’s bitch.

  He started to nod but snapped out of it quickly; he pointed at the needle in his lower ankle. “Yeah, this shit here is off the chart, son, I’m down to twelve bags a day behind this TKO.” What he was saying was that the smack was so potent, he was using less; what Shah and company were doing was selling Ferraris to car enthusiasts, and at a really fair price.

  “You know what’s going to happen he catches you dipping into his supply, Cho, yes?” He looked up at me; he knew that I now had something on him; he smiled, playing the game.

  “C’mon, C, I’m just dippin’ a little. I put it back, or I pay for it. No one know the difference. When you think you get me a little taste, Tatico?”

  Billy started to walk down the stairs; this meeting was over as far as he was concerned, and Billy hated the fact that I traded him smack for info.

  “Anybody out here with a strap today, Cho?”

  “I ain’t seen nothin’ yet, C, but you know this motherfuck out here, C, it like cell-block D, yo, I’m a hook you up, C, you know that.” He tapped his ankle, which still held the syringe. “But you know, poppa, don’t forget your main German out here. You roll up on some punks, you know, break me off a piece, son.”

  The homegrown Puerto Ricans proudly referred to themselves as Germans. Don’t know why, I guess the reasoning was the same as homegrown blacks referring to themselves as niggas, but then again, we were in the Badlands and nothing made sense there. I smiled at him as he nodded off. For some reason, I liked him. He was harmless, and went far beyond the call of duty for us. I guess, at the time, I saw him as a survivor, surviving in unthinkable squalor. Maybe I saw a little of myself in Cho; how right I was. I turned and followed Billy out.

  In the unmarked RMP, Billy’s mood did not change. I knew exactly what was bothering him though, having known him long enough; I waited for the other shoe to drop. Sure enough, after a few minutes of absolute silence in the car, he slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He jerked the car down a deserted street, pulled over, and slammed it into park.

  “Rob, I hate working with that little junkie. I hate what we’re doing, I gotta tell ya, I hate who we’re becoming.”

  The last thing I needed was for him to start whining, I would rather have settled this with a friendly stick fight than do what I now had to do, and that was coddle him. He was a good and trusted partner though, and I did not want to break up the team. I had to navigate this carefully.

  “Billy, just calm down, bro, just relax.” I said this in an even tone. “We’re the same cops we were when we came on, just further educated. Listen, man, we didn’t know that this was the way things were done, it wasn’t required reading in the patrol guide, if you know what I’m saying. But out here, you and I both know it’s the only way. Maybe in Midtown South it’s different, or somewhere in Queens, but you know where we are, Billy, and we have to stay one step ahead of these mopes. If I have to throw them a couple of bucks—”

  He snapped his head at me; there was fire in his eyes. “Bucks?”

  “What, you want to stop throwing him some boy bags? Okay, we’ll stop throwing him the bags, but let me ask you this, Billy: What do we do with the bags that we get on these junkies?” He shrugged his shoulders. I understood his dilemma, but it wasn’t as black and white as he was painting it.

  “Because I got news for you, pal, I ain’t collaring some animal for a few bags of smack or coke, taking me off the streets for two days, and behind what? A misdemeanor drug co
llar? I don’t think so. Do you wanna take the collar? Billy, we aren’t here for drug collars, we’re here to make gun arrests and bring the numbers of violent felonies down, bringing up the number of arrests, period. What do you think the captain is going to say if we go off the reservation on his dime? What do you think he’ll say when we stop making quality collars? Tell you what he’s gonna say: ‘You guys had a nice run, but it’s time you went back to patrol, in the bag.’ ” Billy did not answer. He had to know I was right. Back to patrol in uniform would’ve been a major setback for both of us. While I was willing to cross the bridge into the netherworld, though, he was not. I also was willing to swing for it; in my mind, the means justified the end. “Just answer me this, Billy, are you willing to collar some disgusting junkie for a few bags a dope?”

  “No, I don’t want to do that either, that’s just tying up the system and keeping us down.”

  “So what do we do when we grab someone and that’s all he’s got?”

  “We toss it down the sewer.”

  “Then what’s the fucking difference between that felony and the felony that’s being committed by throwing it into Cho’s ankles? You know what, Billy, fuck this, stop with all this delusional bullshit and don’t play high and mighty with me. We are here on my dime, and yeah, my duplicity, but you knew the game I played on Bully, you knew if I got away with it, we were out of uniform and off patrol, and that is exactly where we are today. You and me, we practice the same hypocrisy; difference is, I’m honest about it. It’s okay to lie to me, just don’t lie to yourself, bro.” Billy did not answer; he was too smart to think there was an easy way to navigate these not-so-black-and-white issues that arose in the street every twenty minutes. Every aggressive cop worth his salt in New York City knew this was one of those job hazards that was never talked about but was practiced daily, “discretionary power.” Collar him for nonsense or let him go and try to get the real bad guys. This was the way I saw things, and honestly, there was nothing that Billy could say that would change that fact; a crime would be committed any way you cut it, whether it was tossed down a sewer or tossed to Cho. Same crime, different outcome, but once that crime was committed, why not make something good come of it?