The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop

by Steve Osborne

  I couldn’t scare the guy off with the lights and siren, and there was no time to jump out and get a shot off. What was I going to do? I had to think fast! What happened next was more of a reaction rather than a decision. I hit on the gas pedal and nailed him with the car. I didn’t think I hit him that hard, but he bounced off and went flying, and luckily so did the knife. I just wanted to nudge the car in between them, but I guess my adrenaline was really pumping and I nudged a little harder than I wanted to. It looked much worse than it was.

  At the same time my victim, who was scrambling backward in circles trying to get away from his attacker, ran into the side of the car and bounced off with a thud. I had nudged both of them. In fact I think the victim got it a little worse than the guy with the knife but who cares, it worked and he didn’t get stabbed. After the little thuds I hit the brakes. The car came to a screeching halt with the aggressor and my victim a little stunned. The victim was staring at me with this half-smiling and half-shocked look on his face. He seemed relieved. He probably had thought he was a dead man and obviously hadn’t expected anything like this was going to happen. The perp was staring at me because I just snapped him out of his rage and back into reality.

  I jumped out of the car and ran over to the perp and slapped handcuffs on his wrists. Just because I stunned him doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous anymore. Always cuff your perp!

  I then pointed to the perp’s intended victim and growled, “Don’t move, you’re not going nowhere.” The last thing I needed was for the victim to disappear on me—because they often do. He was the reason I just ran the other guy over, and without him it would be my word against the guy with the Chrysler emblem now stamped on his ass. So before he had a chance to even think about taking off, my partner grabbed him and held on tight.

  With the victim secured and my perp in handcuffs, the excitement started to settle down and my tunnel vision faded. Everything seemed to slow back down to normal speed and I had a chance to take it all in. The sights and sounds of thousands of people having a nice day in the park started to come back into focus.

  To me it seemed like a job well done. I had just saved someone’s life. It’s not every day you get to do that. But just as I was feeling a little bit proud of myself for preventing a murder, I heard a voice from the crowd yell, “FUCK THE POLICE!”

  That was quickly followed by “The police ran the brother over!” Another voice from the other side of the crowd seemed to agree. “Yeah, he wasn’t doing nothing. They just ran the brother over!”

  The crowd outnumbered us by several hundred to one and they were getting ballsier by the second. The next thing I knew, bottles were crashing all around us. The crowd was grabbing anything they could to throw at us.

  The previously emotionless and uninterested crowd was now an angry mob. They could ignore an attempted murder but not a little police activity. And all their anger seemed to be directed at me. Plus I couldn’t believe my bad luck. A short distance away the Parks Department was doing some cement work, and there was a nice pile of bricks for the crowd to arm themselves. One of them sailed through the air and landed on the roof of my car, leaving a big dent.

  I felt the need to explain myself, but nobody wanted to listen. I wanted to tell them to relax, I just saved this guy’s life, but no one seemed interested in my side of the story. Or even a spirited debate. They were out for blood—in particular mine.

  My victim shrugged and gave me a sympathetic look that said, “I would like to help but they are not going to listen to me either.” The look also said, “Besides, it’s against my principles to help the police.”

  This was turning ugly real fast. Several hundred people who didn’t even see what actually happened believed I ran this guy over for no reason, just because one cop-hating, and probably drug-dealing, asshole said so. I was pissed. I couldn’t understand how quickly everyone wanted to believe it.

  I think what annoyed me more than anything was that so-called normal people were getting in on the action. Regular people were whipping themselves up into a misguided, self-righteous frenzy and joining in on the chants. I spent every day of my work life protecting these people and they turned on me. I expected it from the drug dealers and crackheads but not the “normal” people.

  As the chants of “FUCK THE POLICE!” became louder and more rhythmic I picked up my perp and threw him into the back of the car. He was hobbling a little but nothing seemed to be broken. I was relieved because if his legs were all fucked up and pointing in different directions it would have made matters worse.

  Plan A was to look for other witnesses to help corroborate my story, but that plan was out the window fast. Plan B was to grab my perp and victim and get out of Dodge before one of these flying bottles caved my skull in.

  As I shoved my perp into the backseat of the car, a beer bottle came crashing through the rear windshield, showering me and the perp with broken glass and stale beer. That was followed by several more crashes as bottles and bricks and anything else the crowd could find came raining down on me and my new car.

  The glass was in my hair, my ears, and even in my mouth. As I wiped beer from my face and spit out little pieces of what used to be the back window, my perp came up with a bright idea. He looked up at me and with a big grin on his face said, “Maybe you should let me go.”

  The grin on his face really pissed me off, so I told him, “Maybe you should shut the fuck up before I knock your teeth out.” And I reminded him, “This is all your fault, asshole.”

  I was a little relieved that he found it all amusing. That meant the little trip I sent him on, flying through the air, probably didn’t cause too much damage.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw this guy running at us holding a garbage can over his head. He throws the can and it lands on the hood of the car, leaving a big dent and garbage all over the car. He was smiling and laughing and jumping up and down. You could tell he was real proud of himself as the crowd cheered. I made a promise to myself I was going to find him someday and do something to him with a garbage can that he wouldn’t like very much.

  I snatched the radio off my belt and transmitted a signal “10-85 FORTHWITH”—a request for backup, now. The great thing about working in Manhattan is help is never too far away. Right away I could hear the sirens starting up in the distance. They could tell by the sound of my voice that I was in some deep shit and needed help.

  Yee-haa, motherfucker, the cavalry is coming.

  Another great thing about being a New York City cop is that there are almost forty thousand of us. If I need help, there will be cops coming from all directions. And they’ll keep coming! The hard part is trying to get them to stop coming once you call for help. They’ll be running up out of the ground—Transit. They’ll be swooping in from the air—Aviation. They’ll even be coming from the sea—Harbor—and on horses—Mounted. Whatever I need to bail me out of a bad situation, the NYPD has it.

  Another old-time instructor at the police academy told us that if you ever get shot or stabbed and need blood, instantly there will be forty thousand cops sticking out their arms and saying, “Take mine.” It’s a good feeling knowing that you belong to a family. And that family is also the biggest and baddest gang in the city.

  I yelled over to my partner to get the victim into the car. The vic didn’t want to come with us but he had no choice. I needed him to be my complainant because without him and his version of the events, it would look like I really did run the brother over for no reason. Then I really would be in some deep shit.

  As we put the victim in the car a bottle flew past my ear and bounced off the roof, leaving another dent. I couldn’t help but think about how much shit I was going to be in with the lieutenant over this one. Taking it to the car wash and filling it up with gas was not going to smooth this over. I was going to have to buy him cappuccinos from now till doomsday.

  As the mob was getting dangerously close, the first of several police cars plowed through the crowd. The flashing
lights and blaring sirens caused them to calm down a bit and back off. Several cops jumped out, nightsticks in hand, yelling at the crowd, and immediately the bottles and bricks stopped flying. The brave hearts in the crowd throwing the stuff weren’t stupid. They knew that if we caught one of them in the act of throwing something, they would end up getting a wood shampoo—a nightstick over the head.

  Some older cop I didn’t know sauntered over to me like Robert Duvall in that famous scene from Apocalypse Now where the bombs were bursting all around him, and very matter-of-factly said, “What do you have, kid?” I pointed to my perp and said, “I got a collar.” I started to tell him what happened, how I saved this guy’s life, but he wasn’t interested either! I couldn’t believe it. Nobody wanted to hear my side of the story. Not even the other cops!

  He cut me off and said, “Are you okay? You hurt?” I told him no. Then he cut me off again. “All right, get the hell out of here. We’ll take care of this.”

  I jumped into the driver’s seat and slammed the car into drive, but at the last second I realized I forgot something. The knife! I needed that knife as evidence. When I hit the brakes my partner yelled, “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!”

  I was already anticipating a couple of neighborhood liberals showing up at the precinct to make a complaint against me, so I needed all my ducks in a row and the knife was going to be important. I scrambled back out of the car trying to look for it as fast as I could. There was broken glass and garbage all over the place, and I couldn’t find the knife. Somebody must have picked it up in all the confusion. I wasn’t surprised, it happens all the time.

  I jumped back into the driver’s seat and hit the gas. I leaned on the siren and not so gently plowed my way through the crowd toward the street, and safety. I glanced over my shoulder at my partner, who was sitting in the backseat between my perp and complainant. He was making sure they didn’t try to kill each other again. He gave me a look that said, “You should have let the perp stab the guy.”

  And he was right. If I’d let the perp stab the guy I would have had a nice collar for murder, and no aggravation. The lieutenant might have even put me in for a medal.

  I parked the car in the lot behind the station house and walked this caper into the precinct. By now my perp was walking fine. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. Him flying through the air looked worse than it really was. The funny thing about these guys is their resiliency. Ask any cop. It’s like they’re made out of rubber. They get shot, stabbed, thrown off a roof, even run over with a car and they bounce right back. It’s an amazing phenomenon. A cop can get shot in the pinkie, and somehow the bullet will travel up his arm, through his armpit, into his heart, and he’ll die. These guys, the next day they’re back on the street doing the same stupidity they were doing before.

  When I marched my perp and complainant up to the desk, the lieutenant was waiting for me. Having heard the commotion on the radio he asked me what happened, and if we were okay.

  I was touched. The grumpy old guy seemed genuinely concerned about me and my partner. I was hoping he would still be that concerned when I told him about the car. I started to tell him the story about how I saved this guy’s life, but he was even less interested than the crowd was. To him it was just another war story, and he must have heard a million of them.

  My partner threw the perp in a cell and I found a chair for the victim. I actually thought about cuffing him to the chair so he wouldn’t walk out when I wasn’t looking, but you can’t do that. So I warned him that he better not do a Houdini on me.

  Now it was time to tell the lieutenant what I was dreading most, about the car. He obviously knew we had a bit of a melee on our hands, but what he didn’t know was that the crowd had been using our car for target practice.

  We walked out to the lot and I showed him what used to be a nice, shiny, new police car. I brushed some broken glass out of my hair, just so he would know what a close call I had and maybe he would feel sorry for me.

  He didn’t say a word as he eyeballed the broken back window and the dozen or so dents. I still felt the need to explain to him how I was completely justified doing what I did, but I didn’t. I decided to lighten things up a little and said, “Hey Lou…can I get you a cappuccino?” He didn’t think it was funny. He just gave me a look that said, “Fucking rookie, hope you like walking.”

  The lieutenant turned out to be a really good guy. It took a little while, about three years, to be exact, but one day he started being nice to me. He actually smiled at me once. Desk lieutenants are like that, it takes some time before they warm up to you. Before they will trust you. But after three years of me working my ass off, and bringing in some good collars, he finally decided I was an okay guy. Rookies can be a pain in the ass, and who was I to argue the point?

  I walked back into the precinct and found my complainant. He hadn’t tried to leave yet, but he looked antsy. I could tell I was going to have to keep an eye on him so he didn’t slip out the front door. I was going to have to work fast to get what I needed out of him.

  When I walked up to him I gave him a look that said, “You owe me.” I handed him a pen and a legal pad and told him to write out a statement about what happened. I knew I couldn’t count on this guy showing up to court or the Civilian Complaint Review Board, so I needed a good written statement out of him.

  When I first asked him to do this, he gave me this wiseass look and tried telling me he couldn’t write. That he wasn’t a good speller. Obviously he didn’t like being in the station house or helping the police, but tough shit. I helped him so he’s going to help me now.

  I was a little pissed thinking that I was going to be walking a foot post for a while, so I got up into his face and explained the facts of life to him. I said, “Look, motherfucker, if it wasn’t for me you’d be dead right now. You’d be laying in the park with a steak knife stuck in your heart and a sheet over your face. So don’t break my fucking balls!”

  I pointed to a desk and a chair and said, “Now sit down and write!”

  I guess the image I painted for him of the knife and the sheet worked. He sat down and put pen to paper.

  As he was writing I made myself busy. I grabbed an arrest report, fingerprint cards, and a stack of other forms. Processing an arrest is definitely time consuming.

  When he handed me back the pad he had this proud “job well done” look on his face, sort of like a kid handing in his homework. When I sat on the edge of the desk and looked it over I felt like a teacher grading a paper. I didn’t know what to expect but I was pleasantly surprised. My drug-dealing pupil could write! His penmanship wasn’t that great, but he was fairly articulate. He wrote a great statement covering my ass. He even described the knife as being twelve inches!

  I took the pad and stuffed it safely into my folder with all my other paperwork. Then I walked him out the front door of the precinct. It was time to cut him loose. I thanked him for the statement and told him he was free to go.

  But before he turned to leave I stopped him. There was one more thing I forgot. There was one last piece of the puzzle I needed. It wasn’t important but I just wanted to know. I wanted to know what the fight was about. He shrugged his shoulders and said it was no big deal. I countered and told him it must have been a little bit of a big deal because he almost got killed over it.

  Whatever it was, he seemed ashamed of it. By the look on his face I could tell he was guilty of something. Something that even the lowest of the low out on the street look down upon. He didn’t want to say it at first, but then he finally, in a very roundabout way, hinted at it. The perp had suspected him of stealing his stash and was now demanding money!

  We both knew that out in the street a crime like that is a “stabbable” offense. When one dealer steals another dealer’s stash there’s no calling the cops. There’s no suing the guy to get your shit back. You just kill him. That’s it, problem solved. It will never happen again. Plus, you make an example out of the guy. The next
time somebody eyeballs your stash he’ll think twice about it.

  If my perp had been tried by a jury of his peers—drug dealers—he would have walked on this one. He would have been found “not guilty.”

  After baring his soul about his misdeeds he turned and started walking. He was walking fine now. I had gotten him checked out by EMS, and there was nothing wrong with him either. He had a spring in his step, and I could tell he was glad to be back on the street and out of the station house. As he took a few pain-free steps toward freedom and back to drug dealing he slowed down. His feet shuffled for a moment as he seemed to be thinking about something. It was like he forgot something. Something important.

  He turned and looked back over his shoulder at me. I could tell he had something on his mind. Did he have something else to get off his chest? I didn’t know. For a second I thought he was going to ask me for a dollar or to get him onto the subway for free. But suddenly he turned, took a few steps toward me, and stuck out his hand. He was getting ready to say something to a cop that he was not used to saying. He mumbled, “Thank you.”

  I looked at his hand for a moment. It caught me by surprise. The average cop gets more “Fuck you”s than “Thank you”s in his career, and I didn’t expect this.

  After all the crap I had been through that day it was nice that someone said thank you. At least someone appreciated what I did. When we shook hands I felt really good about myself. I felt like I accomplished something. Even if only the two of us knew what I did. I felt like being a cop in this world actually means something.

  It’s not like I did the world any big favor by saving this guy. I was sure he wasn’t going to go to medical school and discover the cure for cancer. He was most likely going to continue dealing drugs until he did some real jail time or somebody did kill him. But who am I to judge? (Well, I do it all the time.)

  When I walked back to check on my prisoner I was feeling good. I had a spring in my step, but as I passed through the heavy steel door to the cell area I slowed. There was that ever-present, sweet, spicy, pungent smell that smacked me in the face. It hung in the air like a thick cloud.