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

by Steve Osborne

  I still didn’t really know what I was doing, but just like my instructor on graduation day told me, I was learning how to survive. I laugh when I hear cops say they hardly ever pulled their gun out in their entire career. In Krooklyn (gangster for Brooklyn) my gun was in my hand a couple of times a day.

  Back in the eighties, New York City was like the Wild West, all you had to do was go out on patrol and something was going to fall into your lap whether you wanted a collar or not. The Big Apple was a great place to be a cop, and if you didn’t mind rolling around out in the street and getting your hands dirty you could learn fast.

  My new life of adventure was everything I had hoped it would be. Especially when my cynical, sarcastic, and hard-to-please training sergeant would sometimes grumble, “Good job, kid.” He even put me in for a medal for my robbery collar. It wasn’t that big of a deal, it was the lowest medal there is, an EPD (Excellent Police Duty). But when I got that I was strutting around like a rooster. I couldn’t pass a mirror without stopping and looking at it. I was hooked, I wanted more.

  Ever since I was a little kid with a toy cowboy hat on my head and a plastic cap pistol in my pocket, I had known that this was the life for me. I was a couple of months into the job and I looked like a cop and felt like a cop, but really, I was far from being one yet.

  The trouble with rookies is, once you learn a little and start to get the hang of things, you get cocky. And that’s when you get into trouble. You start to take chances and sometimes do stupid things.

  About a year later I was working in Manhattan and feeling pretty good about myself. I had made more than a few collars since those first ones and was starting to think I knew what I was doing. I had a handle on all the required paperwork to process an arrest and could maneuver my way through the dingy labyrinth called Central Booking and the criminal court system, but I still had more balls than brains and was about to learn a big lesson.

  I was out on patrol with my partner taking a slow ride up Sixth Avenue. It was in the middle of the day and the streets were packed with people and cars. Manhattan is not as bad as Krooklyn, but you still have to be careful because danger comes in many forms and I wasn’t expecting this one.

  As we cruised up Sixth Avenue approaching Eighth Street, I see a guy running out of a grocery store with the manager chasing after him. The manager was waving his arms and yelling for someone to call the police.

  Okay, here we go! The adrenaline kicks in and the fun is about to start. I don’t know what he did, but he’s flying down the block like he just committed a serious crime.

  Sixth Avenue is four lanes of congested traffic going in one direction—north. And just our luck, the perp runs past us going south. There’s no way to turn the car around and go after him, so we’re a little screwed. It’s a lot easier to chase a guy with the car than on foot. Just stay with him long enough till he runs out of gas, then jump out, grab him, and slap the cuffs on him. He’s out of breath and you’re nice and fresh, just in case he wants to fight or try something else stupid.

  I turn around in my seat and see him starting to disappear into the maze of cars and pedestrians behind us, and in a few more seconds we’re going to lose him. My partner was a big Italian guy who wore size-twelve combat boots. He was good to have around in a fight, but he wasn’t much of a sprinter. So I tell him, I’ll take the guy on foot and you whip it around the block and try to cut us off.

  Splitting up with your partner is always a dumb idea. It may look good on TV, but in real life it can get you killed. We work in teams for a reason, it’s a hell of a lot safer than going it alone.

  I bail out of the car and start running after the guy. In the distance I can see he starts to slow down slightly. He obviously thinks he has gotten away. As he turns and looks over his shoulder to see if anybody is following him, there I am, a rookie, a new jack, and catching up to him in a hurry. My jacket was unzipped and waved in the breeze behind me as I sprinted after him. I’m now close enough to see that “Oh shit” expression on his face as he sees me coming and proceeds to kick it into high gear.

  He must have had his getaway planned because without hesitation he runs down into the subway station at Waverly Place with me right on his heels. Perps can really motor when they have to. I’m running hard because I want to catch him, but he’s running hard because he wants to stay out of jail.

  He jumps the turnstile like a deer over a fence and then runs down the steps and onto the platform, weaving through the crowd like OJ through an airport. This just gets me more excited. I keep thinking, this guy must have done something real bad or he wouldn’t be running this hard to get away. I figured he must have robbed the store. Only cops, and especially rookies, think this way. But I’m actually hoping he has a gun on him or at least a knife. That would be a nice collar to bring into the station house.

  He continues running down another set of steps and onto the lower platform with me right behind him breathing down his neck. Both of us are weaving through the crowd and pushing people out of our way as we go. I’m hoping to see a transit cop on the platform and maybe get a little help because I’m sure I lost my partner out in the street somewhere. And to make matters worse our radios don’t work in the subway so I can’t even call for backup.

  When he reaches the end of the platform I’m thinking, “I got you now, asshole.” But he doesn’t stop, he just keeps on going along this little catwalk, then jumps onto the tracks and runs into the tunnel. He doesn’t even hesitate one second. He just keeps on running like he knows exactly where he’s going and then disappears into the darkness.

  Two seconds later I reach the end of the platform and stop. I stand there for a moment staring into the dark tunnel, a little hesitant to follow. I knew going any farther was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

  As I tried to decide what to do next, I looked down at the catwalk and there was a scuffed-up, worn-out black loafer sitting there. He ran right out of his shoe!

  When we were in the the academy they gave us a “Track Safety” class. All day long the instructor was telling us to look out for this and look out for that. He said watch the third rail, it has six hundred volts flowing through it. He showed us how to read the traffic lights in the tunnel and tell when a train was coming. He said, don’t step on a switch along the rail because if it closes it can crush your foot. The yellow stripes on the wall mean there is no clearance between the wall and the train, and you will be squished if the train comes. He said in a worst-case scenario, if the train is going to run you over, you could duck into a cutout in the wall or lay down in the trough between the rails. Neither one seemed like fun. The cutouts were shallow and hard to fit into, and the trough was filled with garbage, rats, and stagnant water.

  Like good rookies we all took notes and tried to remember everything. The instructor, a salty old transit cop with a sadistic sense of humor, finished up the class by acknowledging he threw a lot of information at us. He said it would be difficult to recall it all in a stressful situation, so he summed it up by giving us one golden rule that would be easy to remember: “STAY OUT OF THE FUCKING TUNNEL. IT’S DANGEROUS DOWN THERE.”

  We all shook our heads in agreement. That seemed like a good idea, and it would be easy to remember.

  I stood at the end of the platform and watched my perp for a second as he ran into the darkness and started to disappear. I could hear the instructor’s voice in the back of my head telling me to stay out of the tunnel, but I could also see all the people on the platform looking and laughing at me as my perp got away. They weren’t really laughing though, it was just my pride getting the best of me. I didn’t like this guy getting away and my great robbery collar was disappearing down the tunnel while I stood there feeling like a dope.

  I thought about it for a few seconds and then decided, fuck it, I’m not giving up that easy. So I jumped down onto the tracks and trotted into the abyss. I ran down about forty or fifty yards then stopped, looking and listening. He was only a few seconds or so ahea
d of me, but I soon realized he was gone.

  There are lots of places a person can hide if you know where you are going. There are rooms and storage areas and escape routes that lead back up to the street. There were homeless people living down in the tunnels who knew their way around just as well as the transit workers. He must have been one of them because he obviously knew where he was going.

  If you have never been down a subway tunnel it’s kind of peaceful. When there is no train coming it’s very quiet and serene. I could see why homeless people would want to stay here. It’s not exactly the Waldorf Hotel, but it’s better than some cardboard box out on the cold street. Or sleeping on a cot in a dorm at the men’s shelter with a hundred other drug addicts, alcoholics, and violent mental patients.

  Most of them would explain that they chose the tunnel over the shelter because the shelter was just too dangerous. It made sense to me. I’d been in the men’s shelter plenty of times looking for perps or breaking up fights. It’s hard to sleep when you’re worried that the maniac next to you with nothing to lose and little to live for will cut your throat just to steal your half-empty pack of cigarettes.

  The tunnel was warm and peaceful, but every few minutes the ground and walls would start to shake like an earthquake. The shaking would be followed by a hurricane-like wind, as the one-hundred-ton train blasted its way from one station to the next. I guess that was easier to sleep through than all the farting, burping, and arguing you hear at the shelter.

  I shined my flashlight around but it was useless. I couldn’t figure out where this guy might be hiding. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all painted black and covered with steel dust and dirt. About fifty feet farther down the black hole the tracks curved to the right, so I couldn’t see past that. There are several trains that stop at this station: the A, C, D, E, and F trains.

  There were tracks going in different directions here as well as up on the platform above me. I was no train expert, but it was obvious I was standing in a very busy area where several tracks merged. Not a good place to be while I tried to figure out where my mystery perp disappeared to.

  I stood there for a moment catching my breath while listening to the clicking of the switches and watching the traffic lights change from red to yellow to green. As I was appreciating the tranquility of the subterranean lifestyle I felt the slightest breeze cross my face. At first I didn’t realize what it was or which direction it was coming from, but within seconds the slight wafting breeze turned into a gale-force wind. I wasn’t sure if it was me or the shaking ground below me, but instantly my body was trembling because I knew what was about to happen next.

  I looked behind me and there it was—two glaring headlights and a big letter “F” heading right for me. Bright blue sparks flew off the six-hundred-volt third rail, lighting up the tunnel in an eerie disco-like glow. In about five seconds I was going to get FUCKED big-time by the northbound F train.

  At that moment I felt scared, but more than anything I felt incredibly stupid. This was a stupid, stupid way to die. From now on I would be known as the idiot who ran down the tunnel and got run over. In every Track Safety class for all eternity I would be the example of what not to do.

  In my overenthusiasm to catch the perp and make a nice collar, I never planned on the likely event the train would come. Now, I only had a few seconds to think of something before I became a hood ornament.

  I could just barely see the face of the engineer driving the train in his darkened cab, but he looked as shocked as I was. When he came around that curve he never expected to see someone standing there.

  I had a quick choice to make. Lay down in that dirty filthy trough or try to squeeze into a small space behind me that separated the track I was on from the next one over. I chose the space—but to reach it I had to jump over the third rail.

  I jumped as quickly and carefully as I could. It wasn’t that high of a jump, but the thought of six hundred volts between my legs made it seem like I was leaping over the Grand Canyon. That death would not be any more pleasant than getting hit by a train.

  I thought about running onto the other track behind me, but with the wind, the noise, and the darkness there was no telling if a train was coming on that one also. I was literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  As I leaped over the third rail I could feel a strange tingling in my ball bag. I’m sure it wasn’t any actual electricity flowing through my testicles but it did feel that way. More likely it was the thought of six hundred volts cooking my goodie bag that made it tingle.

  Behind the third rail and between the two tracks were steel girders going up to the ceiling that were set into a cement divider. If I could somehow jump onto the divider and manage to hold on to the girder, I figured the train would probably miss me. It wouldn’t miss me by much, a few inches or maybe a foot at the most, but I was running out of options. So the divider it would be.

  I leaped up onto the divider and wedged myself between two steel girders just in time. Instantly the train was passing less than a foot in front of me. The floor and walls were shaking and the wind was hurtling past me at hurricane force. The screeching noise of the steel wheels against the steel rails was deafening and terrifying. I was scared to death and trying not to piss in my pants.

  I was holding on as tight as I could, but the wind was sucking me forward and closer to the train. I couldn’t hear myself, but I was screaming something like “Oh shit! Oh fuck!” Everything around me was dark except the inside of the train as it sped by. I could see the passengers’ faces whooshing past me inside the brightly lit cars as they passively stared out the windows. They had the thousand-yard stares of bored, tired commuters heading home after work, oblivious to me screaming and holding on for dear life just a foot away from them.

  I’m sure a couple of them must have seen my screaming face for a split second as I whizzed by right outside their window. They probably just shook it off, thinking they imagined it.

  I looked down and saw my unzipped jacket flapping furiously in the breeze. It was within inches of the speeding train, and all I could think of was, if my jacket catches on to something it’s going to pull me forward and squish me between the steel girder and the train. This was bad. This was real bad. I would rather be shot or stabbed. I couldn’t think of a worse way to die.

  I held on with everything I had. Every muscle in my body was tense and taut, holding me firmly in place. Then just as suddenly as it started, it was over. The noise, the wind, the shaking walls and floor all stopped. The train was gone, speeding down the tunnel into the station. Everything was quiet again, and the peacefulness of the subterranean lifestyle returned. The serenity was comforting and gave me a chance to gather my thoughts.

  I made it! I survived! I’m alive!!

  I jumped off the divider onto the tracks and headed for the catwalk and out of that tunnel. The bright lights on the platform seemed warm and reassuring. My clean uniform was black from steel dust and my shiny shoes were scuffed, but somehow I made it out of that fucking black hole in one piece. And I swore to myself I would never do that again.

  A few people were watching me high stepping it from the catwalk back onto the platform. I was trying to act cool, or about as cool as I could be under the circumstances. I wanted it to look like…everything went just as I had planned it.

  I wasn’t happy about the perp getting away, but I was anxious to get the hell out of there and back up into the fresh air and sunshine. I started walking down the platform toward the stairs, brushing steel dust off my jacket, and debating whether I was going to tell my partner exactly what happened, when I see him running down the steps. I could see he was a little pissed at me for running off on my own the way I did, but he was also relieved he found me. It’s never a good idea to split up the way I did, but my partner was a good cop and I knew he would find me sooner or later.

  He asked me where the perp was. I was still a little shook up and out of breath, so I just pointed over my shoulder with my
thumb toward the tunnel. My partner was a hard charger like me, but sometimes he could be a little more sensible. He took one look down that black hole and said, “Fuck it, let’s go get coffee.”

  We started up the stairs with me chalking this up to a learning experience, when I remembered the shoe. My perp lost his shoe on the catwalk and I figured he probably wouldn’t like hopping around that tunnel on one foot, so he might just come back for it.

  I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. I convinced my partner to give it a few minutes and see if the guy would come back out. When it comes to stakeouts I have the patience of a fisherman. I can wait all day and all night for some guy that I’m after. I love the thrill of the hunt. I find it exciting. I would probably be a great stalker.

  We took a position behind the stairs where I could peek through the railing and keep an eye on the shoe. We hung out for a while as nonchalant as possible, but people were watching us and wondering what we were up to.

  I was a little surprised because it didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Within a few minutes Mr. Tunnel Rat walked out, right underneath the big NO TRESPASSING sign. He picked up his shoe, put it on, and sauntered down the platform like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was like he was walking out of his bedroom and going to work. Except for the slightly ratty-looking clothes he was wearing, he looked like he belonged down there. He obviously spent a lot of time in his subterranean home and strutted around like he owned the place. The only thing he didn’t do was whistle while he walked.

  I was still eyeballing him from behind the stairs as he walked toward us, oblivious to our presence. And before he knew it we jumped him. I had no intention of chasing this asshole again, so I skipped the “Police, don’t move” part, and he went down to the ground hard and fast. Before he could even think of resisting, he had handcuffs on. He was quite surprised to see me. He obviously thought I had given up. I took that as a compliment.