I was lucky enough to have National Public Radio feature a couple of my stories. Afterward I would get fan letters from young people from across the country who were thinking about a career in law enforcement, and they would tell me how my story made them realize they were making the right choice. Dog lovers told me how much they enjoyed the story about my dog Griffin, and how much it made them cry. One guy told me after listening to the story about the deathbed experience I had with my father, it made him rethink, and appreciate, the relationship he had with his dad. It seemed my stories were affecting people on a much deeper level than I ever thought possible.
One day, after he heard one of my stories on The Moth Radio Hour on NPR, I got an e-mail from an editor at Doubleday publishing. He thought it was imperative that I put my stories in a book. I have to admit that, for a solid C student, it seemed like a daunting task. My eighth-grade English teacher, Sister Kathleen, used to beat the crap out of me on a regular basis and remind me that I was never going to amount to anything in life. Her wicked left hook to the side of the head and her humiliating and dire predictions still haunt me to this day. But it didn’t stop me from being a wiseass in class.
For a guy who started out in life with a high school diploma and a driver’s license, I wasn’t sure I could pull this off. But my editor, another person who reminded me of a cranky old desk lieutenant, gave me the same advice my trusted circle of friends and relatives did: Shut up and write. And as usual, it was good advice, so I shut up and continued writing.
I went on the job—that’s what we cops call it, “the job,” because for guys like us, it’s the only job in the world—in the early eighties when the crack epidemic hit like one of Sister Kathleen’s left hooks, so looking back at them, the bad old days gave me plenty to write about. At the time crime was going through the roof in New York City and nobody was safe—even the cops. There were over two thousand homicides a year, and even in the good neighborhoods, you took your life in your hands walking down the street late at night. I was recently at a cop Christmas party at my old precinct. A good way to check the barometer of a neighborhood is how many street robberies are occurring. I asked one of the cops how many they were doing a month these days, and with a seriousness I found amusing, she said, “Oh, about twelve.”
Twelve! You gotta be shitting me! That blew my mind. When I was there we were doing a minimum of 120 a month. And those were only the ones that were reported. Back then people figured it was useless to make a report, so half the time they took their lumps and just went home. If they weren’t shot, or stabbed, or didn’t have the shit beat out of them, they chalked it up to a bad New York experience. One night we had eight robberies on a four-to-twelve tour—and that was during a blizzard!
I’m proud to say that I and the cops I worked with played a part in turning the city around. Now when I walk around in some of the neighborhoods I used to work in, I hardly recognize the place. Those same streets where I would only walk around with a gun clutched in my hand inside my coat pocket are now trendy little enclaves. People sit around at outdoor cafés sipping their lattes, without a care in the world. Some of my new liberal friends might think we were a little aggressive enforcing the law—and maybe we were sometimes—but at least now you can go out at night without getting robbed or caught in the cross fire of two assholes shooting it out. Parks that were only inhabited by junkies, drug dealers, and any other type of savage criminal you could think of are now filled with moms pushing baby strollers and kids enjoying the playgrounds. New York is quite a different place from when I walked my first foot post.
The stories you are about to read take place over a twenty-year career—from my first day on patrol as a rookie in uniform to my last, as commanding officer of the Manhattan Gang Squad. Not too many cops can say they made a collar on their first day on patrol, and their last. The first one I was happy about, but the last one I definitely could have done without.
If you’ve ever looked at a cop standing on a corner and wondered what goes on behind that tough-guy persona, I want to take you there. I definitely don’t speak for all police officers, because these are my stories, and my experiences. I also realize that I’m nothing special. I’m just an average guy who decided to pin on a shield and strap on a gun and do one of the most difficult, dangerous, and interesting jobs you could think of.
1.
Think Fast
I stopped the car under the giant arch at the Fifth Avenue entrance of Washington Square Park. I took the lid off my coffee and nestled in. When I was in the police academy, an old-time instructor once told me, “Congratulations kid, you just bought yourself a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.”
At the time I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but sitting here was the perfect example. The park on a sunny Saturday summer afternoon is packed with all kinds of people: drug dealers, NYU students, hippies, street performers, tourists, and the ever-present cop-hating liberals.
The park is only about two square blocks, but today there had to be a few thousand people hanging around watching or participating in the show. And if you’re a people watcher like me, there’s no better place to sit and have your coffee.
I was a rookie at the time and didn’t get a chance to see the inside of a radio car too much. But today was such a nice day I guess a few of the senior cops had “banged in” (taken off). The desk lieutenant was a cranky old bastard who had no use for rookies. He didn’t trust them and didn’t like them. The only way to get on his good side was to stay out of trouble and buy him a cappuccino once in a while. But today he was shorthanded, so he grabbed me and another rookie and assigned us as Sector Adam-Boy.
I was excited, this was starting out to be a great day. Unlike most normal people, I didn’t want to be home on a beautiful summer weekend barbecuing or swimming at the beach. I wanted to be working. The radio was jumping. There was excitement in the air and I wanted to be a part of it. This was cops and robbers time!
After roll call my new partner and I decided I would drive first. I hustled over to the desk, grabbed the car keys, and went out to the parking lot to find my home and office for the next eight hours. Much to my surprise the car was practically new. RMP 2297 only had a few hundred miles on it.
Most of the cars in the precinct were beat-up pieces of shit with dents, missing hubcaps, and worn-out seats. The last car I had was so bad I had to wedge a milk crate between the front and back just to hold the seat upright. On the dashboard, scribbled in ink, somebody wrote, “This job sucks!” Obviously the last cop to use the car was a fat-ass, disgruntled individual who didn’t like the job very much. I didn’t feel that way just yet and hoped I never would.
This car obviously belonged to one of the senior cops, so I had better be careful with it. I reminded myself to bring it back at the end of the tour clean and with a full tank of gas or I wouldn’t see the inside of a car again for a very long time.
The cop I was working with today wasn’t exactly a go-getter. He seemed content to do as little as possible in life. Not a bad guy, but some cops are like that. Do as little as possible and just get through the next eight hours. I had only worked with him a few times in the past, so we were still feeling each other out.
I took a sip of my coffee, settled back in my nice new firm seat, and watched the world go by. A Japanese tourist with a map in his hand stopped and asked for directions. I took the map, pointed to the little arch, and informed him, “You are here.” He looked at the map, then at the fifty-foot arch over his head, and in machine-gun broken English said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you very much. Thank, thank you.” He kept on smiling and waving as he walked away.
I liked helping tourists because they were always so polite and grateful. I just wished the people of New York whom I protected every day were a little more grateful, then maybe I would not have become so cynical at such an early age.
Everybody loves a fireman. When the fire department comes to your house they’re coming to save you. But wh
en the police come that usually means somebody’s leaving in handcuffs. Somebody they care about, usually a husband, boyfriend, son, or baby’s daddy is going to jail. So most of the time people aren’t too happy to see you.
Sitting in the park is like watching a nonstop parade. People are constantly coming and going. And some never seem to go anywhere. They’re always walking, but they never seem to get anyplace. Those are the drug dealers. If they did all that walking in a straight line, they would probably end up in Philadelphia before the night was over—but they don’t. They walk in circles from one end of the park to the other, looking for buyers, watching out for the cops, and keeping an eye on their stash.
Occasionally I would stare them down. Even when we were in plainclothes, they knew who we were, and we knew who they were. Nobody was fooling anyone. The same forty or fifty dealers were working the park every day, and the same handful of cops were breaking their balls and locking them up.
The obvious question is, why didn’t I just go and slap handcuffs on them, haul them off to jail, and end this silly game of cat and mouse we always seem to be playing? It’s not that simple. I wish it was. First, you need probable cause to arrest someone. You need to see him do a “hand-to-hand” with some buyer or you need to see him with the drugs on him. The hand-to-hands happen very fast and the stash is never on their person, it’s always hidden somewhere close by until they need it.
They usually hide it in the bushes or in a garbage can, or under the bumper of a car. I’ve seen a pregnant girl pushing a toddler in a baby carriage holding the stash. She kept it in the baby’s diaper.
They need to keep it someplace where they can keep an eye on it because dealers and junkies will steal from each other. There really is no honor among thieves. Especially when it comes to drugs.
Making a collar is not as easy as you think, and if you don’t have all your ducks in a row the district attorney’s office will downgrade your charges and let the perp plead out to almost nothing. Or worse, throw you and your case out the door, leaving you and the city open to a lawsuit. It’s kind of a game, but the game has rules and the consequences are serious, so we play by the rules. Criminals have rights whether we like it or not. No cop likes getting sued or having to face charges at the Civilian Complaint Review Board for excessive force. Unfortunately the people who suffer the consequences are the parents and their kids who want to enjoy the park.
Another obvious question is why we don’t just throw all the dealers out of the park. A handful of cops could clean this park up in five minutes, but you can’t do that either. Some liberal lawyer would be all too willing to sue the city and us on their behalf for violating their rights.
But sometimes we do throw guys out of the park when they do something stupid—like fighting or mouthing off to us. It’s a good way to enforce some discipline without having to make an arrest. They hate losing their “park privileges” for the day because they can’t hang out with their buddies. But especially because they can’t make money.
At any given time there are ten times more drug dealers out on the street than there are cops. We could all collar up the first five minutes of the tour, but then there wouldn’t be any cops left out on the street. Couple that with the fact these guys get very little jail time, and you have another reason why cops become cynical. Sometimes I can’t blame my partner for wanting to do as little as possible and just go home after eight hours, safe and in one piece.
As I was watching the parade a small commotion caught my attention. A couple of Jersey guys with brown paper bags in their hands were walking into the park whooping and howling. Watching them through my rearview mirror, I could just tell they were from New Jersey. They were white muscle-head jock types and had the look that said “instant asshole; just add alcohol.”
As they passed I called them over to the car, pointed to the brown paper bags, and said, “Dump it out.” One of them, the alpha male of the group, thought about protesting but then thought better of it.
I don’t do it to be mean. I like a beer or two myself. I do it to keep them from getting drunk, then stupid, then arrested. I had better things to do than deal with a couple of drunk morons.
As I sat making small talk with my partner, sipping my coffee and watching the world go by, a woman in her early fifties walked past my half-open window and said in an excited whisper, “Officer, you better get over there, they’re fighting.”
And as discreetly as she could she pointed over her shoulder to the other side of the park. It was obvious she did not want to be seen talking to the cops and labeled a rat, but she obviously thought it was important enough to tell me.
The park was thick with bodies. People were walking, biking, and roller blading in every direction. I could hardly see fifty feet in front of me. Looking at the crowd, I debated driving around the outside of the park but decided it would take too long, so I put the car in drive and began to nudge my way through the crowd.
I drove past a guy sitting on the grass playing a guitar surrounded by four good-looking girls. They sat staring at him, enchanted by his half-assed musical ability. The guy sucked but the girls seemed mesmerized. I wanted to kick myself for not learning to play the guitar.
As I pushed through the crowd some people had this annoyed look on their faces like I was bothering them. I put the flashing red lights on to let everybody know I had somewhere to go and maybe something important to do. It just seemed to annoy them even more.
I made my way around the fountain which is the focal point of the park and scanned the crowd looking for the fight, but there was no yelling, no screaming, and no bottles breaking. Nobody seemed to be alarmed, which is a good thing. How bad could the fight be if nobody was watching or seemed to even notice?
As I finally reached the other side of the fountain I spotted them. Two black guys were in a heated dispute. I recognized both of them. They were park regulars and weren’t virgins when it came to being arrested or to the criminal justice system.
From a distance I could tell one of them was in a crazed, wild rage. He was yelling and pointing his finger at the other. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he seemed to be accusing the other guy of something. The second guy was backing up, with his hands out in front of him in the surrender position. He had a very scared look on his face and seemed to be trying to say something, but the first guy was hearing none of it. It was easy to tell which one was the aggressor.
As I drove closer I was getting a little pissed because both were ignoring me and the flashing red lights on the roof of my car. The lights should have been warning enough to stop their silly bullshit and start walking. I decided that if they didn’t start walking in about two seconds they would be losing their “park privileges” for the day.
New York can be an emotionless city sometimes. Not many people seemed to be paying any attention to these guys. Were they all too busy doing their own thing? Or was it the “don’t get involved” survival instinct most New Yorkers have? I don’t know, but no one seemed to give a rat’s ass that these guys were at each other’s throat.
Maybe they didn’t see my lights because it was such a sunny day, so I tapped the siren to get their attention. I was hoping to break this up without having to get out of the car. But I got nothing! They didn’t even look in my direction.
I was surprised and slightly annoyed that they were still ignoring me and the one-hundred-decibel siren I was blaring in their direction. But as I inched closer I could see why: the aggressor was in an all-consuming rage. His eyes were bulging and his nostrils were flared. The veins in his neck were popping, and spit flew out of his mouth as he screamed and threatened his intended victim. There was literally murder in his eyes.
The second guy was obviously scared to death and totally focused on the maniac in front of him. It was early in my tour and I had most of the night in front of me, so I wasn’t happy about making a collar just yet, but I could tell calmer heads might not prevail here.
As I moved in clos
er it happened! Right in front of me, and a thousand uninterested park revelers, suddenly the aggressor lifted up his shirt, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out what looked like a ten-inch steak knife. It literally took a split second to turn from a yelling match to a knife fight.
I was shocked! I couldn’t believe this was happening right in front of me. And both of them were so focused on each other neither one noticed I was even there.
As the aggressor whipped out the knife, he took two steps forward and cocked his arm. There was no doubt he was preparing to stab his victim right in the chest. I could tell he didn’t pull this thing out just for show. He intended to use it.
As the perp stepped forward, the soon-to-be-dead victim tried to backpedal a few steps, but he wasn’t fast enough. He was a bit too clumsy and stumbled. He was dead and he knew it.
My police academy instructor was right, I had a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth and today’s show was “Murder in the Park.”
I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Now I was totally and completely focused. The sights and sounds of a thousand people were gone. My partner was saying something, but I couldn’t hear him either. I was riveted by these two guys. All I could see was a hand holding a ten-inch steak knife. I had tunnel vision!
I had to do something, but what? I would have been completely justified in jumping out of the car and shooting this guy, but there was no time. In about a half a second he was going to plunge that knife into this guy’s chest.
In police work there is an old saying about how we have a split second to make a life-and-death decision. And it’s absolutely true. I’m not an accountant with an eraser on my pencil or an actor who films the same scene twenty times until he gets it right. I have one chance to make a life-and-death decision and a half a second to do it in.
The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop Page 2
