by F. P. Lione
The day tour was more crowded than the midnight, and parking was nil. Street Crime and the evidence collection teams now park at my command, making it almost impossible to find a spot. I finally angle parked on the sidewalk and threw my parking plaque in the windshield. I tossed two bucks to the skells hanging out there to watch my truck and got to the precinct by 7:15. Believe it or not, the skells really will watch your car if you ask. It gives them a place to hang out that doesn’t interfere with us or with any pedestrian traffic. It also makes them feel like they’re doing something important.
I told the desk officer I was there and signed the court sheet. I went downstairs to the locker room to change. The lockers had a lot of colorful pictures and stickers, but most of it was X-rated and pretty foul. I used to have two lockers but someone got wind of it and clipped one. Now I have stuff piled two feet high in my locker and nowhere to put it. A lot of people have two lockers. One for everyday stuff—toiletries, uniform, baton, gun belt, pants belt, and hat. The second locker is for your dress uniform, dress coat, winter coat, riot helmet, sleeping bag, and alarm clock. The sleeping bag and alarm clock are for when you work overtime and don’t bother going home. We have a dorm on the third floor that sleeps about fifteen guys, but it’s so disgusting I rarely slept there. If I do sleep there I zip myself in my sleeping bag and jump on the mattress without touching anything.
I changed into my uniform and went across the street for a cup of coffee. I grabbed a fresh bagel, still warm with butter. I met Fiore by the front door on my way back in. He was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeveed shirt and sweating from his walk from 35th Street. Despite the heat he was as bouncy as ever, giving me a big good morning. It was contagious—I smiled back.
Fiore signed in and let the boss know that we would both be heading down to court. I waited for him to change, teasing Clarice, our nicest PAA, about her new hairdo. Then we walked in the suffocative heat to catch the C train downtown. The train had emptied some at 34th Street but was still crowded with rush hour commuters. I leaned up against the door at the end of the car, bracing my foot against it while I held the pole next to the door. This gave me a view of what was going on in the train and kept me from bumping and swaying the entire time. Fiore stood across from me doing the same.
The train we were on had the new PBA posters taking up half the subway car. PBA stood for Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association, our union. The new president had launched a campaign to get us higher salaries. Statistically we are one of the lowest paid police departments in the country, even with the legislation passed on the perb bill, a bill introduced into legislature to give the NYPD similar salaries to those of the surrounding police departments.
The posters were controversial because of their graphic content: an officer facedown next to his RMP with blood spilling from a gunshot wound. The flashing red lights on the car cast an eerie shadow over his face and upper body while the blood trickled down the sidewalk from a chest wound. The caption was about how most people wouldn’t do this job for a million bucks, but we do it for a lot less. The poster bothered me; I guess that’s what it was supposed to do. As I rode downtown I found myself stealing glances at the faceless dead cop, wondering what others thought when they saw the picture.
We got off at Canal Street and headed upstairs. We walked east toward Lafayette Street and passed a bar with a sixties theme. Peace signs and hippie collector’s items decorated the restaurant, and on the front window was a painting of a flower child smoking a joint. Trucks were loading and unloading at this time of the morning, double-parked along the street. We passed a lumberyard, a shop selling ceramic dragons and other Asian images, and a store full of women’s pocketbooks and accessories. Even at this hour of the morning the area looked dark and dingy.
As we approached Lafayette Street we could see that traffic was bumper-to-bumper on Canal Street, spilling over to Lafayette Street up to the courthouses. We walked two blocks south, cutting across the Civil Municipal Court building and Court Park, where sleeping skells were sprawled out on benches and in cardboard boxes.
We spotted the coffee vendor in front of the courthouse; the line was ten deep with suits and ties, so we waited for ten minutes and got coffee and bagels. The Asians were out, doing their Miyagi-style crane moves slowly as they faced the morning sun in Columbus Park. Some looked more than eighty years old and were there every time I came to court. We saw an early basketball game going on with a blasting of rap music from a boom box by the fence. We went down the ramp into 60 Centre Street to punch in with our ID cards and went across to the criminal court building and rode the elevator upstairs to the seventh floor to the assistant district attorney’s office.
ADA Rachel Katz was handling the case. Both Fiore and I had worked with her before. She’s in the special prosecutor’s section dealing with felony arrests in burglary, robbery, gun possession, and assault one. We caught her as she was coming in, and she addressed both Fiore and me from memory.
“Good morning, Officer Cavalucci.” Her face lit up when she saw Fiore. “Officer Fiore, it’s good to see you again.”
The ADA was heavyset, late thirties with frizzy brown hair, green eyes, and a big smile. She wore a maroon skirt with a white silk blouse. She hadn’t changed into her work shoes and still wore socks and sneakers over her pantyhose. She was easy to work with, competent and pleasant. Whenever I’d dealt with her she tried to move the case along or at least let me know when we would be testifying so I could come back later in the day.
We sat down outside her office with our coffee and bagels. I had the New York Post, and Fiore had brought a book. The DA’s office was chaotic, phones ringing, faxes beeping, people coming in and out from every direction. I tuned it out and opened my paper. There wasn’t much going on in the city, just a lot of hype about the Fourth of July. The paper gave a schedule of activities around the city: the South Street Seaport had a free concert; the Intrepid Museum had exhibits and hands-on nautical crafts for children; the fireworks display in the harbor would start at 9:15 and continue until 10:00. I had a view of the harbor and I was sure my party would be in full swing by then.
I turned to the sports section. We had a good night in sports. The Mets beat the Braves 10–2. The Yankees beat the Orioles 9–8 with the Orioles giving up five walks and sixteen hits. Then I read the crime report. The city put out its crime report for the first half of the year, and apparently every crime but murder was down in the city. I would love to know who does those numbers and how much their nose grows each time they calculate the statistics.
Nick Caputo, who used to work with us, stopped to say hello to us outside the ADA’s office. He was in a plainclothes unit now and was there on a gun collar, working with another ADA. After he left, Fiore and I went back to our reading until I got bored with the paper. I looked over to see what he was so interested in.
“Whatcha reading?” I asked.
He looked startled. “Oh, it’s a daily devotional.”
“What’s that?”
“Every day it gives you a Scripture and then talks about that Scripture. Then at the end it gives you a Scripture reference. Today’s is interesting,” he said. “I think it’s something you’d understand.”
I took the bait. “So, what’s it say for today?” I asked casually.
“You really want to know?” He looked skeptical.
I shrugged. “Sure, tell me what the word is for today.”
“It’s about protection.”
I must have looked confused, because he chuckled. Actually, I almost asked him if he meant birth control.
“The verse is from Psalm 91, which is all about God’s protection. It says in verse 11: ‘For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.’ Do you understand what that means?”
“Like a guardian angel? My grandmother gave me a pin like that.”
He thought for a second. “Kind of. You know how we’re assigned to South David to protect it?”
I no
dded.
“Well, the angel has an assignment to protect us.”
“How do you know that?”
“I read it, just listen to what it says.” He smiled.
He went on to tell me something about wings, feathers, arrows, and pestilence, along with other stuff I had no idea about. Then he came to the part about the reference verse. “Listen up, Tony, this is from Ephesians 6. I think you’ll be able to relate to it. It’s about protecting yourself.”
I took his word for it, whatever it was he was talking about.
“Verse 13 tells us to put on the whole armor of God. Think about our uniform. ‘Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth.’”
Loins?
“Which is like putting on my gun belt,” Fiore continued, “except it’s my integrity and faithfulness to Jesus. Then it says: ‘And having on the breastplate of righteousness.’”
I could have guessed this one.
“Which is like our vests. Except that righteousness is what Jesus went to the cross for. He died to make us righteous with God even though we were sinners. The breastplate of righteousness protects our hearts from the enemy’s attack, just like our bulletproof vest protects our vital organs from gunshot. You still with me?”
I nodded.
“‘And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace.’ This means that the strength I get from the gospel gives me peace so I can stand in battle. Just like the academy and intac training and all the other stuff we learn prepare us for when we’re out there.
“This next part is good, ‘Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.’ The Roman soldiers used to have a shield made of wood, and it was covered with linen and leather to absorb fiery arrows. So what Paul was saying is that the shield actually consists of faith, and our faith in the Lord can stop all the flaming arrows that the evil one is throwing at us. Our shield is what stops the arrow. Our shield goes over our heart too; it may not give us power, but it gives us authority.”
“How do you know Roman soldiers wore shields like that?” I asked, interested.
“I learned about it in church, but it’s not anything you couldn’t find in a history book.” He checked again to see if I was following this. I guess I looked okay because he continued.
“‘And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.’ Think hats and bats—if we’re in a riot situation, that helmet is hot and uncomfortable, but if someone tosses something off a building, our head is protected. At first salvation is uncomfortable. We’re used to—”
“Joe?” I asked quietly.
“What?”
“Is this really what you do when you get dressed for work? Put on your gear and get ready to battle evil forces?” I could see a psych pension coming here.
“It’s an analogy, Tony,” he said patiently. “I’m giving you something to compare it to so you have a visual idea of what I’m talking about. Anyway, the sword is like our gun, used to combat the enemy’s assault. The sword is the Word of God. This is the last part: ‘Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints.’ Prayer is communication. While we’re out there, we have constant communication with Central with our radio, and prayer is our constant communication with God.”
I just nodded.
He squinted at me. “Are you getting any of this?”
“Oh, I understand completely now,” I said seriously. “Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader.”
He smiled. “Sure, the force against the dark side.”
“You’re a meatball.” I laughed. “Have you always been like this? With God, I mean.”
He nodded. “I was raised going to my church. I gave my life to Christ when I was a little kid, never lived any other way.”
Just then Carl Hansen, the complainant for our robbery collar, walked up. He was sober and dressed in a conservative suit. I had a hard time forgetting about his ripped shorts and underwear but managed to shake his hand without laughing. He told us he postponed his trip home two extra days so he could testify before the grand jury.
He was nervous and asked a lot of questions about testifying. We assured him not to worry, that the defendant and his attorney wouldn’t be in the courtroom. Just ADA Katz asking him questions. He asked if we found the other perp who robbed him, and I told him no, but we were searching for him constantly.
ADA Katz came out of her office, and the three of us went in one at a time to talk about the case. Fortunately the case wasn’t complicated, so the whole thing took only about a half hour. After that we took the elevator up to the grand jury room on the twelfth floor while Katz gave her paperwork to the court clerk. The clerk catalogued the order of cases to go before the grand jury, and because it was the day before the Fourth of July, the schedule was crowded. Katz told us we wouldn’t go on until after lunch. The grand jury recessed from 12:00 to 1:00 so we wouldn’t have to be back before 12:45. She was using only Fiore to testify since he was the one who handcuffed the perp and heard him place himself at the crime scene, and he was the one who recovered the money and knife.
We stayed in the courthouse until 11:30 then walked in the heat up to Mulberry Street to get some lunch. There’s an Italian deli called Luciano’s where we eat whenever we’re at court. It’s pretty expensive, but the special of the day is usually reasonable. Today’s special was turkey pastrami with smoked mozzarella and sun-dried tomatoes on a hero for six bucks. We waited in line for fifteen minutes, then took our sandwiches and ate in Columbus Park. The park was packed—even the midday heat couldn’t keep everyone out of the sunshine. Music was blasting from a parked car with a guy and girl sunbathing on the hood. I envied their lack of clothes while I sweltered in my uniform.
The sandwich was incredible but salty. I drank a twenty-ounce Coke but was still thirsty. The conversation over lunch was mostly about fishing. Fiore was going out this weekend on his father’s boat. I told him I was going down the shore and would probably do some fishing myself. The crabbing was good down there, but it was too early in the season for crabs. I didn’t mention that I would be doing a lot of partying too. I didn’t think he would lecture me, but I wasn’t sure how much I wanted him to know about me.
We walked back to the courthouse at 12:40, and I spent five minutes trying to suck water from the water fountain. I hate the water fountain there; you never know what kind of germs were on it. If I wasn’t so thirsty I wouldn’t go near it. We waited until 1:15 for the grand jury to reconvene, and then our case went on. The complainant went in to testify first, and Fiore went in about 1:30. We waited for the count, and Katz let us know the perp was indicted. We said good-bye to Hansen and ADA Katz, went to punch out, and walked back toward Canal Street to catch the train uptown.
We passed Columbus Park again. Some guys were playing softball on the asphalt field, and we stopped to watch for a few minutes. There were still a lot of people around, dog walkers, roller skaters, but not any cops. A woman came up to ask us where the Department of Motor Vehicles was located, and we told her. Then a man asked us what would happen if he didn’t show up for an arrest for urinating in public. Fiore told him that a judge would issue a warrant, which he wasn’t too happy about but thanked us anyway as he walked away mumbling. We left after that. This wasn’t our command, and we didn’t know a lot about the area.
A hot dog vendor known to have clean hands replaced the morning coffee vendor outside the courthouse. Even though I wasn’t hungry I couldn’t pass up a dirty water dog. I ordered one with mustard and sauerkraut, paid a buck and a half for it, and ate it as we walked back to the train. You can’t get hot dogs like that working midnight. It was delicious—soft roll, salty thin dog, with just the right bite from the mustard.
There are certain foods I will eat only in New York—hot dogs, pizza, and bagels. I traveled a lot when I was a carpenter, working jobs all
over the country, and I’ve never found anyplace that comes close. You can get good Italian or even Chinese food in Chicago, L.A., or other big cities. But never bagels, pizza, or hot dogs. It’s in the water; nothing tastes like New York tap.
The train ride back was less crowded than it had been in the morning. Rush hour wouldn’t start until about 4:00. There were seats on the train, but we stood by the doors again at the end of the car. Without the crowds you could hear the conductor announcing the stops, and the screech of the train was more noticeable. A guy came through the doors from the car ahead of us, announcing that he was selling pencils. He was a skell but had cleaned himself up a little. He wore a short-sleeved white dress shirt and dark blue pants with sneakers. As he passed people he told them his sob story—he was out of work with children to support, down on his luck, blah blah blah. When someone gave him money he would loudly bless him or her while he walked almost drunkenly to the sway of the train.
I smirked when he saw us. He paused, and for a minute I thought he would run, but he went to walk past us so he could cut through the doors to the next car. Fiore threw him a buck. The skell looked as surprised as I was. I would never give a skell money. There were times when I wanted to, but if word got out that I was an easy target, skells would be lining up around the precinct for a handout.
“God bless you, Officer,” he said.
“God bless you too, guy,” Fiore answered.
6
The subway was air-conditioned, but when we stepped out onto the platform at our stop, the air felt like a sauna. We walked up onto the street in sunshine so strong it made me squint. The smell of roasting peanuts and pretzels drifted over from the vendors’ carts on the corner. We crossed the street and went into Starbucks where Fiore bought us each an iced cap-puccino. We drank them as we walked back to the precinct.
We went inside to notify the desk sergeant that we were back from court. I didn’t have paperwork to do, so I went downstairs to the lounge.
