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

by Steve Osborne

  All night long we ride around searching for bad guys who are looking to commit a crime. Our job is to find them before they commit the act, and be there when the crime happens. There’s nothing better than spotting a guy who you know is looking to do a stickup. You can almost see the lightbulb go on over his head—he has a great idea. It’s in his eyes, he’s on a mission, he’s looking to make money. Then you follow him, sometimes for hours, while he looks for just the right victim, and then you jump him when he’s in the middle of doing his deed.

  If we’re good at what we do, and we usually are, he never knew we were there. He never had a clue he was being followed. Then when he attacks—we attack. The predator suddenly becomes the prey.

  I often equate it to a submarine. The only time anybody sees us is when we surface to attack. The perp only knows he was being followed after it’s too late. Over time you become an expert at following people through crowds and busy streets, but it’s not as easy as you might think. It takes patience, and I have the patience of a fisherman.

  And when you go to court and tell the ADA (assistant district attorney) you followed the perp for a few hours and then watched him do the robbery, the guy almost always pleads out. He has no choice. He’ll never win at trial.

  Most of the time we ride around in a yellow taxicab that is actually a police car. We have other unmarked cars, but the cab is always my favorite. Most of the precinct anti-crime teams in Manhattan South use cabs because there are approximately thirteen thousand yellow cabs in New York City and ours is identical to the rest. Everywhere you look, you can see a yellow cab. You can look over your shoulder till your head falls off trying to figure out which cab is ours, trying to figure out if you’re being followed.

  I had just come down from the locker room after taking off my vest and switching to my little .38-caliber off-duty revolver. Hanging out behind the desk with me were two of my cops. They hadn’t changed yet. I guess they were hoping someone might get robbed in front of the station house, which wasn’t all that unusual in this neighborhood. So I nudged them along—“Come on, I’m thirsty, let’s go get a beer.”

  The desk in every precinct is the center of all activity. This is where the desk officer runs his mighty ship, and everything that occurs in a precinct flows through this five-foot-high by fifteen-foot-wide wooden helm.

  Behind me the wall was lined with several plaques bearing the faces of police officers followed by the words Killed in the Line of Duty. It’s a constant reminder for everyone, cop or civilian, who stands before the desk of the sacrifices that have been made. It is a constant yet subtle reminder of how dangerous police work can be. All cops convince themselves, “It won’t be me,” myself included.

  I was starting to get a little antsy and told my guys when they were done dicking around to meet me at the bar down the block. As I turned to leave, the cop on the telephone switchboard said, “Hey Sarge, I got a girl on the phone who says she was raped and she knows where the perp is. Do you want to talk to her?”

  I looked over to my two cops and said, “You guys still looking?” Both heads enthusiastically nodded in the affirmative.

  I took the phone, identified myself, and asked the girl what happened. From the tone of her voice she sounded upset, but she had it together enough to give me a brief story. I told her to stay where she was and we would be right over. It was now 2:00 a.m. The Detective Squad was already gone, and it was too late to call the Special Victims Unit, so this caper was ours to handle.

  As I was interviewing the victim on the phone, she said the perp was a millionaire stockbroker and he would be leaving the country in the morning. She warned us if we didn’t get him tonight she didn’t know when he was coming back, so we had to grab him now. She also said he lived in some really expensive loft apartment on the Bowery. This was starting to sound like a breeze. Most guys we lock up are hard-core career criminals, savages who would do anything to keep from going back to jail. Locking up some Wall Street suit-and-tie type in his fancy apartment would be easy.

  My plan was to meet the complainant, reinterview her in person, then hurry over to the perp’s apartment and grab him before he had a chance to flee the country. If everything went good we could scoop this guy up, bang out some paperwork, and I might have enough time left over to grab a beer before the bar closed.

  Nice and simple, so I skipped running back up to my locker to get my vest and my much larger duty gun.

  We found the girl’s apartment easy enough. She lived in a nice building not too far from Riverside Park. When we walked in we introduced ourselves and she did the same. She had a girlfriend with her and asked if she could stay while we talked. She wanted the female support and I had no problem with it.

  As soon as I looked at these girls I knew they were not your ordinary run-of-the-mill secretaries or soccer moms. I would later find out my complainant had been a topless dancer in her not-too-distant past. Not that it makes a difference, topless dancers can get raped also. But it can throw some added bullshit into the mix that doesn’t help the case. Making the collar is one thing, going to trial is another.

  I went through the story with her one more time but in much more detail. There are elements of the crime that I want to satisfy myself about before I go and kick some guy’s door down in the middle of the night and throw handcuffs on him.

  After hearing the story again I was sure we had a collar. She was upset but also very articulate. She seemed like a savvy no-nonsense girl who could take care of herself, but it was obvious something very traumatic had happened to her.

  She explained to me she met the perp not long ago and decided to go out on a date with him. He spared no expense to impress her and treat her right. She explained that he seemed like a “nice guy.” During their first date he told her that he had recently separated from some supermodel he had been dating. At first I thought that was bullshit, but believe it or not, I later checked it out, and it was true. It was also true he was a millionaire stockbroker. The guy was fucking loaded. She thought she had a real catch on her hands.

  The second time he asked her out she didn’t hesitate. Why would she? The first date went very well. Again he spared no expense and sent a limo over to her apartment to pick her up and bring her over to his place. But instead of meeting her downstairs and going out to dinner like they had planned, he told the limo driver to send her up to his apartment and then leave.

  When she got upstairs he wasn’t wearing the nice clothes and expensive loafers he did on their last date. In fact he wasn’t prepared to go out at all. The next thing she knows he throws her on the sofa and rapes and sodomizes her. She screamed for help, but the loft apartment, which was probably a factory fifty years ago, had thick cement walls, so the neighbors heard nothing.

  The details were a little brutal. She found out the hard way rapists don’t always hide in the shadows and drag you off the street into the bushes. Sometimes they’re good-looking and have nice loft apartments.

  After he was finished he threw her a twenty-dollar bill for cab money and that was it. That was her second date. Not even a limo ride home.

  Rape is not always as black-and-white as you might think. There’s several shades of gray in the middle. This is what we would classify as an “acquaintance rape” or what most people call a date rape. She knew her attacker, as opposed to a “stranger rape.”

  I’m sure that when I catch this guy he will have a different version of the events. In most he said/she said cases they do. He will most likely admit to having sex with her but insist it was consensual so there will be no DNA issues. He’ll probably say she was drinking or smoking weed and her recollection shouldn’t be trusted. Acquaintance rapes often boil down to who is more believable. But after hearing her story I was inclined to believe what she said.

  The bottom line is, when a woman says no, that’s it, it’s over. If the act continues, that’s when it becomes a crime, a very serious crime. And in this case, she repeatedly screamed NO.

&nb
sp; I interviewed her for a few minutes until I had heard enough. I was ready to go and lock this guy up. I asked her if she had his phone number and she said yes. I wanted her to call him and have him meet her outside of his building so they could “talk.” I wanted to scoop him up off the street if possible and not have to deal with him locking himself inside the apartment and not letting us in. I figured we were dealing with some nerdy little stockbroker who might panic and barricade himself inside. I wanted this to be a nice, quick, easy collar. Plus I wanted to get a statement out of him before his team of high-priced lawyers marched into the station house.

  I had her call him to try to arrange a meeting outside somewhere so they could talk, but he wasn’t picking up. I had her call him several more times just to annoy him into answering the phone, and after a few more calls it worked. The problem was he was in no mood to talk, so meeting somewhere was out of the question.

  He finished their brief, tense conversation by adding he was leaving the country for a while and didn’t want to be bothered while he was trying to pack. I didn’t like this little prick already.

  I looked over to my two cops and said, “Come on, let’s go get this guy.” I looked over to my complainant next and said, “You’re coming too.” I don’t think she expected this, but I needed her at the scene of the arrest to identify him once we grabbed him. She asked if her friend could come along. She still needed or wanted the female moral support, so I agreed. My guys didn’t mind either, the girlfriend was very pretty. I’m not sure if the friend was a pole dancer also, but she definitely could have been.

  I didn’t want to waste any more time just in case we spooked this guy with the phone calls. I knew where he was and wanted to go and get him, now.

  We jumped into the unmarked car and headed for the perp’s apartment. I threw the flashing red light on the dashboard and stomped on the gas. As the engine roared and everybody was pushed back in their seats, I could see in the rearview mirror that my already stressed-out complainant was starting to tense up. The reality of the situation was sinking in. She was the victim of a serious crime, and the police were about to do something about it. The wheels of justice were now in motion.

  It was almost 3:00 a.m. and the streets were quiet. We pulled over down the block from the perp’s apartment and walked the rest of the way, just in case he was looking out the window.

  The building was old and simple. A glass front door opening to a nonexistent lobby, with stairs and a small elevator leading up to several very expensive loft apartments. Even by New York standards, this was big bucks. By now I was figuring he wasn’t bullshitting about being a millionaire stockbroker.

  I still wanted to take him on the street if possible, it would make things a hell of a lot simpler, so I told our victim to ring his bell and ask him to come down. I told her to tell him that she needed to see him face-to-face so they could “talk.”

  My guys positioned themselves on one side of the glass door, and I was on the other while our victim rang the bell. She rang it several times but no answer. It was an expensive building so I was pretty sure the bell worked. I leaned over and whispered into her ear, “Keep ringing it till he can’t stand it anymore.”

  While she leaned on the buzzer with gusto, we waited. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, a male voice came through the intercom. “Who is it? What do you want?” I whispered in her ear again telling her what to say, “Tell him to come down, you need to see him. You just want to talk.” She pushed the transmit button and repeated what I had said. I was proud of her, she seemed good under pressure. I was sure she would make a solid witness if we ever had to put her on the stand.

  She got him to answer again, but the guy’s tone was cold and terse. “Go away, I don’t have time for this shit right now.”

  I made a pushing motion with my index finger and smiled. She understood exactly what I wanted and leaned on the buzzer again with everything she had. I was hoping the volume on the speaker in his apartment was turned up loud and this was annoying the shit out of him.

  My guys stood ready on the other side of the door. Shields hung from chains around their necks. Guns perched in unsnapped holsters stuck out from under their jackets. Something was going to happen soon, I could feel it. The excitement level was rising.

  The gruff male voice answered again, “I told you go away, I don’t have time for this shit.” I whispered into her ear again, telling her what to say. “Tell him you only want to talk about what happened, but if he doesn’t come down you are going to call the police.” She repeated what I said and again she played her part well.

  We waited, but no answer. I whispered to her again, “Keep ringing that buzzer till he can’t stand it anymore.” She leaned on the buzzer for a long time while we stayed ready and waited. I was starting to think I was going to have to come up with a plan B, and this time it didn’t include going for a beer.

  After what seemed like a long time, her eyes opened wide and a frightened look came over her face. As she looked into the tiny lobby she suddenly blurted out, “Here he comes.”

  My shield was hanging from a chain around my neck. I held it in my left hand and prepared to shove it in his face as soon as he opened the door. I knew we were going to startle him, so I wanted him to know we were the police and not some of the complainant’s friends coming to beat him up.

  I looked over to my guys, who were pressed up against the wall, knees bent, ready to pounce as soon as the door opened. The metallic click coming from the dead-bolt lock was thunderous. I thought, “Here we go—we got him.”

  As the door inched open I spun around and shoved it into his face. I wanted to get my foot inside before he had a chance to close it on us. As I did so I held up my gold NYPD sergeant’s shield and yelled as loud as I could, “POLICE!”

  He seemed shocked to see us, but not as shocked as I was to see him. The wimpy little stockbroker I was expecting to see was standing there wearing Kevlar body armor and holding a loaded .380 automatic pistol in his hand. He had no shirt on, just the vest, and he was pretty cut up. It was obvious this guy spent a lot of time in the gym.

  For just the briefest moment, as I looked at his vest, then looked at the gun in his hand, I couldn’t help but think what an asshole I was. He had his vest on and mine was hanging in my locker because I was too lazy to put it back on. At stressful times like this your mind goes into hyperdrive. You have the ability think full, complete thoughts in just a fraction of a second. Right now I was thinking, “I can’t believe my vest is hanging in my locker.” Goes to show you there is no such thing as a “ground-ball” collar.

  I was charging forward as he was trying to back up. He was raising his pistol to take a shot as I reached for my holstered .38 revolver. Time seemed to stand still. My mind was still in hyperdrive and my body was trying to keep up. I remember my thumb just barely touching the snap on my holster, and all of a sudden what sounded like a loud, clear voice in my head said, “Forget it, you’re never going to make it.” I’m not sure if it was a voice or just a thought that was shouting in my head, but the message was clear—there was no time to go for my gun. And it was no time to start arguing with the little voice or the thought in my head so I just continued charging forward.

  I pushed the door into his face, knocking him backward and slightly off balance. The only thing I could do was go for the gun so I reached out with both hands, grabbing his wrist, and shoved the gun into his chest. There’s not much to talk about at a time like this and communication between partners is short and simple. I yelled, “GUN!”

  It’s times like this, when your whole world turns to shit, that you are glad you work with good cops, and my guys were great cops. You don’t go out on patrol night after night and do the things we do unless you have one hundred percent confidence that the guys you’re working with are going to have your back. And as soon as I yelled “GUN!” these guys had my back. They were right on my heels, and were literally climbing up my back to get at the perp. I love t
hese guys.

  We all tumbled to the floor of the tiny lobby, rolling around, kicking, punching, yelling, and fighting for our lives. I could hear the girls behind us screaming, which just added to the confusion. I don’t think they felt sorry for the perp, it was just that most normal people are not used to witnessing real violence.

  I held on to his gun hand, trying to twist the pistol from his grip, while my cops were all over him trying to subdue him. The guy had a good grip on the gun and I was having a hard time trying to twist it out of his hand. I thought about yelling, “Shoot him,” but the lobby was so small chances were one of us might get hit.

  Just when I was thinking how strong this guy was, a big meaty fist flew over my shoulder and landed with thud right in the perp’s face, stunning him. The punch took a little of the wind out of his sails and I managed to rip the gun from his hand. I rolled over and away from him, clutching the gun in a two-hand hold like a football player who just recovered a fumble.

  With me and the gun out of the way, my guys overpowered the perp and slapped handcuffs on him. It was over just as quick as it started. Things settled down and the girls finally stopped screaming and waking up the entire neighborhood.

  People often ask me if I ever get afraid at times like this, and the answer is not really. It’s not because I’m exceptionally brave but because in police work things happen fast. They start fast and they’re over quickly. You don’t usually get much time to think. You have a split second to react.

  Most normal people go to the gym because they want to lose a few pounds and look good at the beach, but cops go to the gym because some day when you least expect it you may have to fight for your life.

  We lifted the perp to his feet and gave the complainant a chance to “view” him before putting him in the car. After a quick “show up” she identified him as the person who raped her. We needed her to identify him to make sure we didn’t just roll around with some nut who lived in the building and liked to answer the door in the middle of the night with a gun and a bulletproof vest on. That would have been pretty funny.