I looked at the gun, then at that dopey grin on his face, and I thought, this guy is going to try and shoot me—and he’s pretty fucking happy about it.
All that thinking took about one second. Then I dropped the radio, grabbed my gun, yanked the door handle, and shoved it open with my shoulder—all in one move.
I jumped out of the car, pointed my gun right in his face, and yelled, “PUT ’EM UP! PUT ’EM UP, MOTHERFUCKER, OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!” Now his dopey grin was replaced by an “Oh shit” look.
Again, much to my surprise, he threw his hands right up and did exactly what I told him to. When I threw him onto the trunk of his car, he was trying to say something, but I couldn’t really hear him. I was wound up, and all I could hear was my heart pounding in my ears. I had him spread-eagled on the car with my gun screwed into the back of his head while I reached into his waistband and grabbed his gun.
While dealing with him, I had to keep one eye on the female in the car. I didn’t want her getting out and jumping on my back, or trying something else crazy because she wanted to help her man. Out in the street, a woman can be just as nasty and vicious as any guy can be, and a lot of times they’re worse.
Then I heard him say it again, but this time he yelled it, “I’m on the job.” That caught my attention. He was trying to tell me he was a cop.
“I’m on the job” is the universal NYPD jargon for “I’m a cop.” If he had said, “I’m a police officer,” I would have known he was full of shit. But in a situation like this, this was the correct—and the only—response.
I looked at the gun I just pulled off him, and saw it was a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber five-shot revolver—the standard NYPD off-duty gun. That’s when he mumbled, “My ID is in my back pocket.”
I shoved his gun into my pocket, then reached for his wallet, and when I opened it, there was an NYPD shield and ID card. That’s when he turned and said, “Can I take my hands off the car now?”
I unscrewed my gun from the back of his head, and we all started to relax. Turned out he really was a cop and worked in the Ninth, and the woman in the car was his girlfriend. He went on to tell me that the shitheads over on Third Street didn’t like the fact that a neighborhood girl was dating a white cop, so sometimes they would call 911, just to break his balls.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been pissed at him for getting out of the car the way he did, but he thought he was getting pulled over by one of his buddies. He apologized profusely and said he didn’t even know there was a new sergeant working midnights. After he explained everything, it all made perfect sense, so there was no need to make any more out of this than it was.
I took a peek into the car and very casually said, “How you doing?” The girl was petrified. She just sat there staring straight ahead, afraid to move an inch. She mumbled back a very soft, petite “Hellooooo.”
Just then Nine Adam pulls up, and now they have that “Oh shit” look on their faces. The new sergeant has one of their buddies pulled over, and this can’t be good. I explained to them what happened, and we all had a good laugh over it—cop humor. I told them to give back the gun run as a 10-90Y (Unnecessary), and I would do the same for the car stop.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and he said, “Welcome to the Ninth.” A year later he would be working in my squad, and we would become good friends. And a few years after that at their wedding, we would all laugh about how the wedding almost didn’t happen because the new sergeant almost shot the groom.
We all went on our way and I raced back to the park, and just as I feared, on my first lap around I caught one of the anarchists climbing the fence. He almost shit himself when he heard my tires screech to a halt behind him. He must have figured I was gone for the night. The jerk-off figured wrong.
I yanked him down and threw him onto the hood of the car, and when I did he was clutching something inside his jacket. I reached in and pulled out a large white bedsheet, and when I opened it up, spray-painted in big red letters was FREE REPUBLIC and SQUATTERS RIGHTS.
I really just wanted to kick this guy in the ass and send him on his way. Locking this guy up was a waste of manpower also, but this was a big collar to the police department, so I slapped cuffs on him and notified the dispatcher that I had “one under.”
I gave the collar to one of the cops and went back to riding in circles—and getting dizzy again. The Mexican standoff continued.
—
It was after five in the morning, and things were starting to settle down. The radio was getting quiet, and the creatures of the night, watching me from across the street, had faded away. Where they went, I do not know. They probably found some abandoned building or an empty lot to squat in.
I hadn’t eaten in a while, and I was starting to get tired. I needed coffee and a bagel. I knew it was a bad idea to leave the park, but my stomach was growling and I needed a caffeine fix. I was new to the command and didn’t have a regular coffee spot I trusted, so I decided to go to a joint I liked over in the next precinct. Leaving the park was a little risky, but I hate bad coffee, and my stomach was telling me, “Fuck it, let’s go.”
I was driving as quick as I could, and I figured I could get there and be back in ten, maybe fifteen minutes, tops. When I got there I ordered my regular—a large coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. The counter guy knows me and likes me, so he really lays on the cream cheese, but when I feel how heavy the bagel is, I start to think, maybe he really doesn’t like me, maybe he’s just trying to clog my arteries and kill me slowly.
I jumped back into the car and started racing back to where I belonged, when all of a sudden, I saw two guys “high stepping” it down Houston Street. They were’t running, but they were walking fast and had “guilty” written all over their faces. I looked back in the direction they just came from, but I didn’t see anything. I knew these guys were fleeing from something—I could feel it. By this time in my career I had been involved in a lot of collars, put handcuffs on a lot of perps, and I knew what I was looking for. And these guys looked good.
My old partners and I had a long-running joke, if I saw somebody that I thought looked good, my Spidey sense would start tingling. But my Spidey sense was located in my ball bag, and right now, my nut sack was buzzing like a cell phone on vibrate.
And it’s not racial profiling—it’s called good police work.
Houston Street is wide, six lanes across, and I was on the opposite side from them, and these guys were so zoned out in their own little world, they didn’t even notice me watching them. What I should be doing now is calling for another car to back me up and then grabbing them—what people refer to as a “stop and frisk.” Obviously I didn’t know for sure these guys did anything—just a gut feeling. Or in my case, a tingling in my ball bag. Try explaining that to a judge.
But my problem is I’m a little off base. I’m on the other side of the precinct, when I should be in the park. All I need is for the Duty Captain to hear me on the radio, ten blocks from where I’m supposed to be, getting involved in who knows what. He’d cut my nuts off, and where would I be then without my Spidey sense? So I decide to make a quick U-turn and take a look down the block to see if anything is going on before I let the whole world know what I’m up to. Besides, the streets are quiet, and I know I can find these guys in a hurry if I have to.
I made the U-turn, and it only took about thirty seconds for me to figure this caper out. Standing on the corner was what used to be a well-dressed businessman in an expensive suit. His jacket and shirt were ripped, and his tie was yanked up around his neck from when he was being choked. He was dirty all over from being thrown on the ground, and blood was shooting out of his wrist. As soon as he sees me, he runs over and starts crying about how two guys just stabbed him and stole his watch. He started to tell me what they looked like and which way they went, but I didn’t need to hear it, it was my two high steppers—no doubt about it. I told him to stay where he’s at, and that I’ll be right
back. The guy was drunk and looked like a typical Wall Street overachiever who partied too much tonight and stayed out a little too late. Somebody like him is an easy meal for a couple of hungry bad guys at five in the morning.
I turn around and race down the block, and I’m back on these guys in no time. I’m driving fast, but not too fast. There are no screeching tires or flashing red lights and siren. There’s no need to spook these guys just yet. If I do, I’ll only end up in a foot chase.
As I pull up behind them, I grab my radio to call for another car, but suddenly I have another problem: they just looked over their shoulders, and they now see me coming. And if they see me sneaking up behind them and talking on the radio, they’re going to start running in two different directions, which means I can only catch one.
I love making robbery collars. I’ve made lots of them over the years. It’s always been my favorite collar to make, and I’m good at it, but also I’m greedy. I don’t want only one—I want two. I want both these fucks.
We were now about two blocks away from the scene, and I could tell they had calmed down a bit. The high stepping had slowed to a brisk walk, and the guilty look had eased into a “job well done” happy face. They obviously started to relax because they thought they got away with it—and if that’s what they think, great, there’s no sense making them think any different. I figure I can play it real cool, grab them, then call for another car, and I can get both of them.
Besides, they only have a knife—I have a gun. Sounds like a fair fight to me, if there is one.
I pull up next to them, roll down the window real calm, and say, “What’s up, guys? How you doing tonight?” Suddenly their happy look is replaced by panic and quivering lips. Their eyes are popping out of their heads. They don’t know whether to shit or go blind.
Then I say, “Where you going?” I can tell by the dopey looks on their faces that they are thinking fast, trying to come up with just the right answer. That’s when they both point in different directions and say, “That way.” They obviously haven’t had a chance to get their story together.
I get out of the car, all smiles, and follow it up with some calm reassuring words, like “I got to ask you a question. Do you mind? It will only take a second.”
I could tell they were all confused right now, they didn’t know what to do. Every other time they got stopped—and I’m sure this wasn’t their first or their tenth—the cops jumped out real fast, threw them up against the wall, and probably weren’t very nice about it. But not all stop and frisks are done that way, this time we were doing things a little different. This time I had my “Officer Friendly” face on, and they were giving me their best “We’re not doing nothing” look. This time, we were all playing poker.
I get out, grab the first guy, and throw him onto the hood of the car. It goes smooth, no problem, so I start thinking, “Good, I’m halfway there, the nice-guy routine must be working.” But when I go for the second guy, he tries to back away from me, so I reach out, grab him by the shirt, and throw him onto the hood. But as soon as he goes down, he bounces right back up again, and when he does, he’s reaching into his waistband trying to grab something. Suddenly my ball bag is on fire.
I know he’s got something, so right away it’s a race, I go for whatever he’s going for, and when I reach into his waistband, there it is—a gun! I try to get it first, but it’s too late, he’s already got it in his hand, and he’s pulling it out.
Now I’m in some deep shit. I’m up against two guys, one armed with a gun, and the other probably has the knife. And they just did a stickup, and obviously have no intention of going to jail. To make matters worse, I’m alone.
In about a half a second, a simple stop and frisk turns into a life-and-death struggle. Most people go to the gym because they want buns of steel, or rock-hard abs. A cop goes to the gym because one day, when he least expects it, he might be fighting for his life.
The bell has rung, and the fight is now on, so I have no way of grabbing my radio and calling for help. I’ll have to deal with these guys myself. To make matters worse, the guy with the gun is tall, real tall—six four at least. I’m barely five nine when I’m lying, and I can’t see over his shoulders. I have him from behind in a bear hug with my arms wrapped around his waist. My face is buried in his back, and his shoulders are over my head, so I can’t even see what I’m doing or what his partner is doing. I can’t see the gun—I can only feel it. I’m definitely in some hot water.
We’re both struggling for the gun, but he got to it first, and now he has a pretty good grip on it. All I could get was a little bit of the barrel, and a small part of the grip. He’s pulling one way, and I’m pulling the other, but he’s got more gun to hold on to.
My first thought now was, if I can’t get the gun away from him, maybe I could get my finger inside the trigger guard and try to squeeze off a shot. All I needed was one shot and I figured I could give him a tingling in his ball bag that he would never forget, but it wasn’t working. He had these big hands and really long fingers, and he had them wrapped around the gun pretty good.
I remember thinking how dry and scaly his hands were. Funny the stupid things you think about at a time like this.
I always liked going to the gym, lifting weights, and hitting the heavy bag, but anybody who’s been in a real street fight will tell you, they don’t last very long, thirty seconds, maybe a minute, tops. Then somebody wins and somebody loses. Somebody goes to the hospital and somebody goes to jail. But in this case I figured somebody was going to the cemetery.
I don’t know how long we were fighting, but it seemed like a long time. He was trying to get off the car, and I was slamming him back down—trying to keep him from turning around on me. He was pulling one way on the gun, and I was pulling the other way, and I knew I had to end this thing quick, before I ran out of steam.
For a second I thought about letting go of the gun, then jumping back and going for mine. Try and turn this thing into a quick-draw contest, and whoever got the first shot off would be the winner, but that wasn’t going to work either. The NYPD had been using the same old-fashioned leather holster for the past fifty years. It was made more for retention than for quick draw. Even if your holster was well broken in, it would still take you a couple of seconds to get your gun out. His gun was already in his hand. I was going to lose this quick-draw competition, no doubt about it.
We were right in the middle of the street and cars were whizzing by, driving around us. I was hoping a sector car might pass by and see me, but no such luck. There’s never a cop around when you need one.
Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the second shithead jumps off the car and maneuvers around behind me. I can tell he wants to jump on my back, or maybe try to stab me. If one guy has the gun, then most likely the other one has the knife.
Not calling for another car to back me up was turning out to be a huge fucking mistake, and it was getting worse by the second.
I’m not a very tall guy, but I’m strong, and the only thing I could think of was to lift the first guy up off his feet and swing him around, and use him as a shield. I needed to keep number two off me, so when he moved left, I swung the big guy left, when he tried to go right, I swung right. It was working, sort of, but my problem was, my face was buried in the big guy’s sweaty, smelly back. My eyes were right between his shoulder blades and I couldn’t see. Number two was jumping back and forth trying to get behind me, and I’m struggling to see exactly where he’s at.
While all this swinging was going on, me and the big guy were both yelling, not at each other, but at number two. I was yelling for him to “Back the fuck up.” And the tall guy was yelling, “Do it! Come on, do it!”
It was dark out, and I could barely see around number one’s shoulders, but when I did, I could see on the other guy’s face a look of indecision. As number two jumped back and forth, trying to get behind me, I could tell in his movements he was hesitating a little. He knew exactly
where this was going. They were going to kill a cop, and he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he wanted to be a part of it. This whole encounter happened just as fast for them as it did for me, and it was spinning out of control for all of us.
This was the moment of truth for the three of us, there was no undoing what had just begun, and I was starting to run out of energy. I had to think of something fast or I was going to be the one going to the cemetery.
Our four hands and the gun were balled up into a giant fist right in the middle of the big guy’s stomach, he was trying to rip the gun out of my hand, and I was trying to rip it out of his. I was running out of energy and options, and the only thing I could think of was to start squeezing. Not his hand, but his stomach. So I started yanking harder and harder, as hard as I could. I was giving him some kind of crazy Heimlich maneuver—trying to knock the wind out of him. I didn’t know what else to do, it was the only thing I could think of. I couldn’t let go of the gun and I couldn’t let go of him, and number two was quickly working up the courage to jump in and stab me in the back.
So I yanked and squeezed so hard I thought I was going to break his ribs. I pulled that big four-handed fist deep into his stomach, and when it couldn’t go any farther I pulled and squeezed some more.
I would later find out that these guys were high on crack, but I was wound up on adrenaline and fighting for my life. And to see my family again. So I was yanking, squeezing, and swinging for all I was worth.
And after a few hard yanks it started working! As I pulled that giant four-handed fist up through his stomach and into his diaphragm, he was making this kind of yelping and gurgling noise. I could tell he was in a lot of pain, and I was knocking the wind out of him. And the first rule of fighting is, if you can’t breathe, you can’t fight.
I squeezed and squeezed, and when he gasped for air and tried to catch his breath, I squeezed even harder. Then all of a sudden I could feel it, it was starting to happen—he was loosening his grip on the gun. So I yanked and pulled some more, and as soon as the gun loosened enough, I ripped it out of his hand.
The Job: True Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop Page 13
