I gulped down my shot of Cutty Sark whiskey and allowed the final sip of my Palmetto Ale to wash away its remnants. The cold beer mingled with the burn from the more potent libation to create a pleasant feeling at the base of my throat. I wasn’t hammered by a long shot, but I had the sort of buzz that fills one full of false hope, if not bravado. I walked past a sea of sequin clad “dancers” and out the swinging double doors that separated the entrance of Diamond Dolls from the main smoke filled parlor inside. Is parlor the right word? I’m not sure. Perhaps, performance area or meat market would make for a more accurate description. Immediately the intoxicating aroma that had filled the interior room began to dissipate. I’m always amazed at how strip clubs are able to maintain that alluring aroma that smells like a mingling of strawberry gelato and Chanel No. 5 – and this despite the poor hygiene amongst some of the clientele, the mildewing booze spillage seeping into the carpets, and that thick cloud of smoke wafting from the cigarettes clinched nervously by those in the audience. I passed the bouncer, an enormous Caucasian male with a shaved head and patchy goatee that made him resemble what Mr. Clean might look like if forced to enter the Witness Protection Program.
“Do you want me to stamp your hand?” Grumbled the enormous Balco poster-boy as I scooted past him into the oppressively humid South Carolina night.
I didn’t need a stamp. I wouldn’t be returning inside on that evening. I hadn’t even bothered to carry out the typical strip club patron mechanizations – lap dances, tall tale weaving, flashing a wad of cash lined mostly with $1 bills on the inner portion of the bankroll – while I had been inside. Instead, the majority of the evening had been spent in introspection, sipping my spirits, and keeping to myself as I pondered my next move. Sure, I made small talk with the dancers, played some video blackjack, and occasionally checked the ESPN ticker on the television above my head at the bar; but mostly I was trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life.
I’m certain that most people would probably find a strip club, littered with half-naked coeds, and engulfed by a strange mix of Techno Pop, Gangsta Rap, and Metal Rock thumping across amped up loud speakers to be the last place to get any thinking done. Diamond Dolls was however, a gentleman’s club with a pretty laid back vibe and though I wasn’t a regular, it was a place that I’d go with friends from time to time to escape from the pressures of daily existence. I believe that this was my first ever solo visit to the “Double-D”, but oddly enough, it seemed like as good a place as any to get some thinking done. I did after all, have a great deal that I was trying to work out in my mind. I would be turning 26 years-old and had a big decision to make. I had spent the last several years living in Charleston, SC and working in a variety of forms of employment that ranged from being a deckhand at a jet ski rental outpost, to writing film reviews for The Charleston City Paper, to running a Manhattan Bagel deli briefly owned by my family, to my latest incarnation – teaching English and coaching football at a small private high school. The current job was one I enjoyed and certainly it had merit, but the meager pay and poor prospects for any future increase of significance because of the school’s diminutive size, made it somewhat impractical as a long term career. I guess I’d always figured that a career would somehow find me but I was beginning to realize what a naive and childish notion that was.
I felt like much of what I’d done since graduating from college at Kutztown University had been productive, but my future was no more certain than it had been on that spring day in May almost five years earlier. I could tell that my family was beginning to worry about my future prospects and I was certain that my wife had had enough of this scraping by phase in our lives, even if she was too saintly to express it in so many words. My 94 year-old grandmother would say to me whenever I’d call her up to chat, which I did often (we were very close), and asked her how she was doing, “Oh, I’m just knocking around.” Here I was roughly seventy years her junior, and I also felt like I was just “knocking around”. My grandmother had earned that right over a period of nine-plus decades and through some pretty difficult periods in history. I didn’t feel like I’d earned the right to take an extended nap, never mind to spend my days knocking around. I needed to find a new direction, a career, and I felt that I needed to do so in a hurry.
What first triggered the notion to join the New York City Police Department is to this very day not exactly clear in my mind’s eye. I know that I never had any interest in wedging myself day after day into a suit & tie, or in sitting behind a desk tied to tedious paperwork that defined my daily existence. I couldn’t see myself returning to school in the quest for an advanced or professional degree because I’d always pretty much hated that side of the classroom. Though I managed to attain solid, if unspectacular, grades in college, I always considered it a minor miracle that I’d graduated at all. Many people I knew were joining the Wall Street game but that whole racquet always seemed to me nothing more than a bunch of overly competitive egomaniacs with too much money and not enough time on their hands. I had then, and maintain now, a tremendous appreciation and knowledge of sports and thought that I might make a good broadcaster or sports writer but it occurred to me that many of those positions are occupied by former professional athletes or coaches, and that if I’d ever hoped to break into that industry I probably should have begun pursuing such a path years earlier. My current position, on the opposite side of the educational lectern, as a teacher, was a noble endeavor that I enjoyed but I had no formal teaching certification (my college degree was in English) and to teach in most schools that was either required or preferred, and would mean returning to the classroom as a student. Some private schools, like the one I was teaching at, didn’t require a certificate but they offered little in the way of financial compensation.
Joining a police department was a thought that had never really entered into my mind until very recently. In fact, growing up I’d always kind of despised the police. Weren’t they the brutes who issued arbitrary tickets for minor infractions and could take away your freedom on a whim? In time I would come to learn through personal experience, once I’d been a cop, that these tickets were actually the result (at least in the NYPD) of strict summons quotas forced upon the officers, and that arrests were only rarely carried out on a capricious whim. Over the years and as I gained some life experience, I came to respect the police and understood that they had a job to do. Many law enforcement officers even seemed fair and good-natured in my limited interactions with them as I got older. I had always been a great admirer of the military men and women working to protect our freedom and I started to see local law enforcement officers as an offshoot of the military. The police were protecting our way of life here at home just as the military does on a grander scale abroad. Furthermore, it seemed on the surface like an exciting career choice and the image presented in Hollywood films, or on television in my favorite shows like NYPD Blue or Law & Order only served to cement this notion. I began to feel as though I’d lived a fairly privileged upper middle-class existence and that instead of continuing to cruise along life’s highway abusing that niche, I should start giving something back to society. I couldn’t see any better way to do exactly that than to become a police officer and where better to do it than the most exciting, fast paced city in the world – my birthplace, New York City?
I suppose that I’d made up my mind some time before I actually said the words aloud to most of the people who knew me. In fact, I know that I’d discussed it with my wife on more than one occasion in the previous days, if not weeks. I had even gone so far as to do an internet search in pursuit of some details on what the process of becoming an NYPD officer might involve. It was a much simpler process than I’d ever imagined and it seemed on the surface that the compensation and opportunity to learn many different skills and get involved with a variety of specialized units was plentiful. When I coupled these illusionary enticements with the fact that I thought my personality was well suited to the job’s demands, it was a no brainer. I knew that my family would be both shocked to hear me express any interest in becoming a police officer (in NYC or anywhere else) and also apprehensive about me going into a career that they viewed as a realm for the uneducated blue collar sect. My parents had always taught me to be respectful of police officers but I don’t think the idea of their sons joining a police department had ever entered into their minds. My father is a well respected doctor and my mother has always worked more out of desire to contribute than any real financial need to seek gainful employment. As I mentioned previously, I’d attended a college preparatory high school and my going on to a university had always been compulsory rather than encouraged. My parents never put pressure on me to be anything in particular but I certainly felt pressure to be “something” of merit. I knew that my wife would stand alongside me no matter what I decided, but I wasn’t so sure that the rest of my family would be quite so supportive. They’d never pressured me to be a physician like my dad and his brothers; nor a lawyer, a banker, or a politician but I was more than a little certain that a cop was not what they’d had in mind. I was not confident that this was the successful life they’d envisioned me leading and I was sure they’d have a boat full of questions that I was not properly schooled enough on the subject to answer with any level of intelligence.
When I began my night of booze fueled soul searching inside the Charleston flesh factory Diamond Dolls, I may have been looking as much for a way to tell my parents that I’d decided to join the NYPD as I was trying to convince myself once and for all that this was the move to make. The career choice that would enable me to leave my drifter mentality in the past and cross over into a life of stability, with a blossoming new career anchoring my identity. Not just another job mind you, but an actual career like all productive members of society are supposed to embrace as part of their growth from adolescence into adulthood. All of my cousins, allegedly each and every one of my parents’ friends’ children, many of my own friends, and even my little brother who was attending NYU’s prestigious Stern Business School had seemingly found their career paths; but I had spent the time since graduating college adrift in a sea of blind alley jobs. It was time to grow-up and the NYPD seemed like just the thing to hasten my ascent into mature adulthood. My mind was finally made up and once I gulped down my whiskey and swilled the last sip of my beer, I’d have the liquid courage I needed to make the call to my parents and tell them of my decision to spend the next twenty or so years strapping a gun to my hip as I headed off to work each day.
I had only recently purchased my first cellular telephone and as I slipped past the Diamond Dolls' overgrown bouncer, I removed the brick-like object that bulged out of my right front jean pocket. Man, the phones were so much bigger less than a decade ago. The warm, thick Charleston night air hit me all at once like an unanticipated face slap and I briefly teetered on my pivot heel as I wondered if I should turn right around and go back inside for one more bottle of Palmetto Ale. I knew it was merely my nerves that triggered the impulse to turn back, and I resisted the urge. I began to dial apprehensively. Suddenly my buzz was seemingly gone, sapped of its powers to instill false bravado, and I sort of half wished that my cheap cellular service would fail to connect the call to a tower in New Jersey where my folks lived. The line rang once. It rang a second time. Three times. “Maybe they’re not home,” I half hoped.
Just before the fourth ring, “Hello?” It was my father, and the tone in his voice told me straight off that he was not in the very best of moods.
“Uh, hi . . . Dad . . . it’s Jay. You got a minute?” I inquired timidly.
I proceeded to outline for him, trying mightily to avoid slurring my words, my still barely fleshed out plan to move back North and join the NYPD as a police officer. Just as expected, my father was stunned by this seemingly out-of-the-blue revelation and the idea was met with the skepticism I had anticipated. He had a million questions, and for most of them I had either dubious answers or no answer at all. He reminded me of how as a kid, I’d always expressed disdain for the police, and how he and my mother had needed to convince me growing-up that the police were the good guys. I acknowledged this, but tried to explain how my views had done a 180-degree turn through the years. I told him about my new found respect for law enforcement and of the epiphany I’d underwent that it was time to grow-up. Never did I mention that I’d completed the final step of this great awakening surrounded by silicone enhanced pole dancers.
When the conversation ended – I don’t have any idea of how long it actually went on, but it was quite some time – I knew that I hadn’t yet convinced him (and I hadn’t even broached the subject with my mother yet) but I had laid the groundwork, and I hoped made a somewhat compelling argument for why it wasn’t a “harebrained idea” as my father often refers to things which he believes to be ill-conceived, off the wall, and doomed to failure. I hung up the phone full of the false hope and shameless bluster that alcohol so often stimulates. The conversation had made me cautiously optimistic that I might be able to garner some support for my new direction in life and certain that soon I would be an NYPD officer. I handed the valet out front of the club a $5 bill and he hailed me a taxi. I climbed inside, my sense of optimism reinvigorating the remaining booze in my bloodstream, and I was once again feeling the perfect balance in my alcohol induced high. The taxi sped out of the Diamond Dolls' parking lot carrying me forward to my new life as a productive adult contributor of society . . . or so I believed.
18 November 2009
07 September 2009
Chapter 1 - Lets Begin at the End
I’ve often heard it said that being a cop in New York City is like having a front row seat to the greatest show on earth. A regular Barnum & Bailey Circus for the blue collar set is the image that the expression always conjures up in my mind. I imagine the Police Commissioner, be it Howard Safir, Bernard Kerik, or Ray Kelly, dressed in a black felt top hat and decked out in a long, red suede coat complete with canary-yellow stitching and shiny brass buttons. His pants tucked squarely into a pair of sparkling black patent leather boots as he snaps his whip at the legions of shabbily attired NYPD officers who dance around him in the ring, much like trained circus bears. I’m quite certain that this is not the image that the expression is meant to evoke. I think what people mean is that a police officer in New York City has the rare opportunity to peek behind the curtain of everyday life and glimpse the extraordinary, the extremes which exist on society’s periphery. That NYPD officers have a chance to experience things that most people only experience in a very recycled way. I suppose this interpretation is also not inaccurate. During my nearly seven year career as a law enforcement officer with the NYPD, I did indeed have experiences, both horrifying and wonderful, that many people only read about in books, or see on the 11 o’clock news, or at the movies. This was not however the norm. In fact, most days were chock-full of boredom and monotony. Probably not much different in terms of stimulation than a day in the life of a postal clerk, a chambermaid, or an assembly plant worker. Sure there were moments of adrenaline infused exhilaration but they were few and far between. For the most part, the glorified image of a police officer conjured up by Hollywood on television or in cinema is just that – a puffed up creation. It exists in the overly active imaginations of cinephiles, T.V. addicted couch potatoes, young boys playing cops and robbers in their backyards, and naive young police recruits.
February 26th, 2008 started out for me just like any other ordinary day in the life of an NYPD uniformed police officer assigned to the Manhattan South Task Force (MSTF). I was scheduled to work a 1730X0205 patrol tour (a 5:30PM to 2:05AM shift in laymen’s terms) but had been ordered in early for pre-tour overtime so that I could work an anti-terrorism initiative detail within the confines of Penn Station. Special assignments, whether they are a daily overtime assignment or a cop’s placement within a special unit, are referred to by the job as details. I recall that it was unseasonably warm for February but each officer was still adorned in either a turtleneck or long sleeve patrol shirt, and some, even a jacket. This was typical in a department that allowed for a wide array of acceptable uniform items but still mandated that winter garb be worn on a warm February day. There was the slightest bit of wiggle room in this incongruous edict but only if the almighty platoon commander anointed us worthy of donning short sleeves. On this day, his pea sized brain did not feel the temperature warranted the authorizing of such an exception. Probably because he’d spend most of the day in an air conditioned office, while the rest of us scurried around underground waiting for the Taliban to detonate a dirty bomb on a Washington D.C. bound Amtrak platform. It wasn’t long before my wool blend cargo pants created a convection oven-like sensation in my boxers and I remember thinking that it was going to take a half can of Lotrimin anti-fungal spray to relieve the resultant effect beginning to fester below my waist line. The air conditioner in the van, into which no less than eight officers (including myself) had been crammed, was typically on the fritz and when we reached Penn Station it seemed that they had the heat pumping as oppose to the AC. We were all a tad on the cranky side, and more than a few of us had been ordered in against our will; but no matter, at least we were on overtime and besides we had a job to do.
The job was simple, sort of. We were to split up into pairs and stand around Penn Station looking as sharp as we possibly could. Now mind you, this in and of itself is no small task for some NYPD cops. Unlike most police departments throughout our great nation, the New York City Police Department, allegedly the “greatest police department” in the world, does not provide its members with department issued uniforms. Instead each officer must purchase his or her own uniform items from a variety of different sources. This accounts for the varying spectrum in the shades of blue you’ll see amongst the garb of the NYPD’s foot soldiers, if you look closely. Likewise, unlike many other police agencies, the NYPD offers no tailoring or laundry services for its ranks. So there we were – rumpled, crumpled, disheveled, and in one case even mustard stained – wearing our diverse items of mismatched clothing (a turtleneck here, a long sleeve shirt with clip on tie there) representing a vast prism of blues. The NYPD refers to this assignment officially as an anti-terrorism detail but in fact the officers are present only to make the travelers feel more comfortable about traveling. We were merely omnipresence and nothing more. The fact is that officers working this detail have been given little special instruction, even less adequate training, absolutely no up-to-date intel, and can do nothing more to prevent a terrorist attack from occurring at that very moment than can the homeless guy in the corner rummaging through the trash and ranting about how the Brooklyn Dodgers enslaved Jackie Robinson back in 1947. At regular intervals we would descend to the train platform below for the Washington D.C. bound Amtrak line (strangely, instructed to ignore all other train lines), clutter up the narrow walkway, and smile and nod at passengers as they boarded their D.C. bound train in a spellbound trance brought on by the doldrums of daily life. When the train pulled out of the station, we would go back upstairs, rinse and repeat.
Occasionally, a waiting passenger would inquire, “Why are there so many officers in the train station?”
To which I would dutifully respond, “We’re here to make sure you’re safe and to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior that could be indicative of potential terrorism. But there is no need for concern, it’s all just a precaution.”
This usually seemed to satisfy their query and put them at ease. However, some seemed to see through the charade and would press for further information. If they pressed long enough, inevitably I’d blurt out the truth, that it was little more than a show of force, as the job likes to call it. This usually brought the conversation to an abrupt close. Over time I learned to just walk away when people pressed too hard for answers to questions they really didn’t want to know the answers to. After all, why shatter the illusion of safety? If our presence made people feel better, I suppose that was a closer facsimile to helping the public than many of the other tasks the City of NY forces its officers to carry out on a daily basis.
The fact that the NYPD hierarchy (the brass as like to refer to them, in part because of their shiny gold brass collar insignias) and the City of NY does next to nothing in their “effort” to properly train officers for this anti-terrorism detail is merely indicative of a much larger problem. You see, the NYPD as a whole demonstrates no real concern or compassion for the lives of its officers. Sure they’ll host a fancy funeral complete with bagpipes, God forbid an officer passes on, but that’s easy – it’s a one day event. And, if there is one thing the NYPD hierarchy is good at, it’s staging a show. Unfortunately, they do absolutely nothing to show that they have genuine concern for their officers on a day in and day out basis. The City would rather present an image of security, than take the time to properly train its officers and implement any real measures of true security. After all, cops are expendable and the city views them as a dime a dozen commodity. They’d just assume replace each and every top-pay cop with a cheaper, less opinionated version for half the salary who will follow orders, no matter how absurd those orders might be.
On this particular February day, we were going through the standard motions associated with the anti-terrorism detail. My partner, Police Officer Repanski, and I stood around Penn Station observing the Amtrak passengers, trying to look the part, and being as cognizant of suspicious behavior as we possibly could. We fielded questions, some absurd – “Did we know when the Spice Girls reunion tour would be appearing at Madison Square Garden?” While others were quite reasonable – “Which train was the best to take to Columbus Circle?”
The heat of the day persisted to shroud each of us in a sweaty cocoon, and the day dragged along in typical fashion. In another ten hours or so it would all be over and I could grab a beer with the boys before returning home to my family; as long as Lieutenant Karnyhuxster (Lt. K as he was not so affectionately known) didn’t stick us with a flaked collar so that he could collect overtime at the end of his tour. Collar is a slang cop term that means to make an arrest. I was trying to concentrate on the task at hand but also wondering, as I often did, how the hell my life had ended up like this? I had a college education. I had attended one of the Tri-State Area’s best college preparatory academies. I was a personable and well mannered guy. Some people even told me I was funny and had a good sense of humor. I had once been so full of promise, or so I’ve been told. Now here I was – a glorified security guard but with an uglier uniform than most security companies would ever permit --- standing around Penn Station like a lab rat in some bizarre Al Qaeda experiment and contributing almost nothing to society’s greater good. Isn’t that why I’d become a police officer? To help people? To give something back to the community? How had I ended up like this?
Then from across the crowded station, I heard the words, “10-85, lets go, 10-85!”
The words seemed to come from out of nowhere, “Ah shit! This ain’t good,” I thought out loud.
I caught a glimpse of one of my fellow officers streaking from his assigned post toward the other end of Penn Station. 10-85 is one of two codes used when a police officer is in need of immediate help and to hear it shouted across a crowded station as oppose to crackling across the radio airwaves was both unusual and unsettling. It created a sensation in the pit of my core that literally caused my stomach to turn over. When 10-85 is transmitted over the radio there is always a chance that it could be a false alarm called in by an overly cautious civilian or a gang-banger hoping to see the police take off on a wild fart hunt. The fact that our fellow officer was yelling the call code across a crowded station meant it was undoubtedly for real, and that he had information which confirmed such. As it turned out he had received a garbled cellular call (the police radios often don’t work in train stations) from the officer in need of help moments before. Before he could get all the details the line went dead. My partner and I took off on foot, as did others, following the officer who had shouted into the crowded masses. It seemed like we were running forever. It always seems like an eternity no matter the mode of transport, when you know a fellow officer is in need of help. Help is not after all something any cop admits to needing readily, so when they do ask, you can usually be pretty certain that the shit has hit the fan. When we finally arrived on the scene, we discovered that one of our rookie officers, P. O. Sanchez, had been engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a perpetrator. A perp as they are referred to in cop jargon. Just as we joined the fracas, Sanchez had cuffed him and taken control of the situation. The perp continued to spew foul language at us and writhe about in an ill-fated attempt to get free but he was in handcuffs and for all intensive purposes under our control and custody. On the ground I observed a razorblade and in the corner I caught a glimpse of Emergency Medical Services (EMS) whisking away a young African-American woman with blood pumping from an open laceration on her brow, dangerously close to her eye. I immediately deduced that it was all the work of the perp in our custody, a depraved coward who also sucker punched our rookie officer as he answered the young woman’s cries for help. Apparently, Officer Sanchez, had been on a personal (an informal break to take care of one’s personal necessities) and all alone when he heard the woman’s blood curdling shrieks for assistance. He arrived on the scene moments after the woman had been savagely attacked with a razor and attempted to take the assailant into custody. After being unexpectedly sucker punched by this low-life, the brave officer kept his wits, engaged the perp in hand-to-hand combat, and bravely executed an arrest. In the process he suffered an injury to his jaw which required medical attention and later caused him to miss work with a line of duty injury. A line of duty injury (or LOD) is an injury sustained by a member of the NYPD while taking police action on behalf of the NYC public. This is where things really began to get interesting.
At this juncture, my partner and I assumed control of the perpetrator for transport, and drove back to Mid-Town South (14th pct.), which was the precinct of occurrence. We brought the slasher before the Mid-Town South Desk and started the laborious task of filling out arrest paperwork and pedigree information. It is probably worth noting that many of the cops and almost all of the bosses (the rank of sergeant and above) who work in Mid-Town South (14th pct.) are connected. The precinct is called a hook house which means that you either have to be of NYPD lineage bloodlines with a family member who has some clout, a female with big boobs and a willingness to accommodate your superiors, or someone who they fear saying “no” to if you hope to be assigned to the 14th precinct. In other words, you need a hook. It’s like a bizarro mafia set-up and Mid-Town South & Mid-Town North (18th pct.) are the two biggest hook houses on the whole job. As a result, these cops and supervisors truly believe that their bowel movements smell like roses and that their breath is minty fresh even when they wake up first thing in the morning. Most of the cops, not all but most, in the Mid-Town precincts look down their noses at other NYPD cops and the vast majority of the bosses from these commands don’t want to know that you exist at all unless your indentifying collar brass insignia matches the numbers outside on the building’s facade.
Moments after we arrived and began the process of booking the slasher, a busty female emerged from the 124 room. The 124 room is a room inside of each precinct where paperwork is input into computer systems, typically by civilian workers (PAA’s), but also occasionally by injured police officers on limited duty capacity or by what street cops call housemouses. Housemouses are inside cops assigned to administrative duty because they are either afraid or incapable of performing even the most rudimentary street patrol duties. So here comes what appears to be a very chesty housemouse and the first words out of her mouth are, “What have you guys got?”
At first I’m a bit taken back by the question but I figured that this was just another housemouse or PAA whose ample bosom had given her enough clout with the bosses that she could pretty much do and say as she pleased. Since I’m no fool, I’d been to the rodeo before, and seeing as to how Task Force cops are essentially mercenaries without a home; thereby, making me a guest on unequal footing – I decided to play along and answer her questions. I started to explain the horrific situation as it went down but before I could finish, she started telling me that the crimes were to be charged as two counts of Assault in the 3rd degree. Assault 3?!? My head nearly exploded! Assault 3 is the lowest possible assault charge and it certainly didn’t apply to this case. Hell, it isn’t even a felony. We had a woman razor slashed on her way home from work, and a cop injured coming to her aid. What was with the resistance to charging the perp correctly? Who was this housemouse and what was her angle? Why was she trying to fudge the arrest? I decided to pay her no mind, after all we were both white shields (meaning we were both street cops with silver or “white” shields instead of the brass badges worn by bosses), and continued to fill out the pedigree and arrest information on the perp. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the housemouse was now talking with a sergeant from the 14th Precinct who’d shown up on the scene long after the incident was over and who had just entered the station house.
I thought to myself, “I’m sure this guy will straighten things out.”
Before I even finished the thought, the housemouse was addressing me again, “Officer, did you see blood on the victim?”
“Yes, and I saw a razorblade as well. He obviously slashed the victim’s face wide open,” I responded.
She then asked if I saw blood dripping from the razor. I responded that I didn’t but that in a slashing there would be no blood remnants on the blade because of the quick nature of the strike.
“Assault 2 on your victim but that’s final, and it’s still Assault 3 on your cop,” she continued, “Sorry but this doesn’t come from me, it’s a decision made by people much higher up than you or me.”
I expressed my disbelief and questioned the prudence of such decision making. Clearly we were dealing with a minimum of two counts of Assault 2, and more properly Assault 1 on the woman (who required a plastic surgeon to stitch her face closed and was only inches from losing an eye) and Assault 2 on our injured police officer. The NY State Penal Law reads that Assault in the 1st degree is committed when with intent to cause serious physical injury to another person, the perpetrator causes such injury by means of a deadly weapon or dangerous instrument; or when with intent to disfigure another person seriously and permanently, the perpetrator causes such injury. The NY State Penal Law further reads that Assault in the 2nd degree is committed when with intent to prevent a peace officer or police officer from performing a lawful duty the perpetrator causes injury to said peace officer or police officer. The appropriate charges were glaringly clear to me and should have been clear to anyone with even half a brain. At that moment, I knew it was just another example in a long line of the systematic altering and downgrading of crime statistics in order to hide the truth from the public and the media. It’s a product of the NYPD’s Comstat System which puts the crime numbers above the interests of the public and ahead of the importance of locking up the bad guys for as long as the law allows. If the Comstat numbers go up, the precinct’s Commanding Officer looks bad and none of the bosses in the precinct are going to allow that because as the NYPD’s favorite expression goes – “shit rolls downhill”. Well, I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut, particularly when I feel a gross injustice is being carried out, so I continued to express my disbelief and displeasure with the situation. I was especially upset because I knew it was all in the name of Comstat and not the best interest of the law. The NYPD brass believes that the best way, or at least most convenient way, to “protect” the public of NYC is to lie to them and keep them in the dark about crime being on the rise throughout the five boroughs of the city. Obviously nothing could be further from the truth. How can the public protect itself if it doesn’t know what is going on right under their own noses?
I also feared that this psychotic who committed this heinous attack, and later told me he did it because, “I’m a married man and all women want to have sex with me, so I gotta’ cut them,” would be back on the street far too soon if he was allowed to skate over a numbers crunching game. Maybe next time he’d attack my wife . . . my mother . . . my daughter . . . your daughter . . . or even worse kill a woman! The whole thing made me sick then and it disgusts me to the core to this very day.
I continued to plead my case, all the while wondering who this female with no displayed shield or identifying markings was. Then I finally got my first real clue. Though she still hadn’t identified herself, she started screaming at me and demanding that I leave the Desk Area and go stand in the hallway by the Mid-Town South Captain’s Office. It quickly became clear that this wasn’t just another housemouse, but a numbers-cruncher with some rank behind those double D’s. I did as I was told and removed myself to the corridor. Shortly thereafter, I exchanged verbal barbs with both Sgt. Vigliacco (the sergeant who I’d earlier hoped would set the record straight) and the well-endowed female from the 124 room who turned out to be Lt. O’Connors. They both informed me that my opinion “counted for shit” and that they were solely responsible for determining all charges and had no interest in any input from cops on the scene, especially if they weren’t Mid-Town South officers. They also both pointed out that they were “following orders” and suggested that I learn to do the same. When I expressed that I thought the whole thing was a travesty and directly linked to the Comstat Statistics Reporting, they both flew into obscenity laced tirades. Apparently, they had difficulty accepting that an officer sworn to uphold the law and protect the city’s citizens would question the motivation of such irresponsible, and borderline criminal decision making. I explained that I was appalled that they would manipulate crime statistics in the face of such a ghastly crime but this only enraged them further and they eventually had me expelled from the station house before I could be heard any further. I can only surmise that the truth was too much for them to endure. I never knew exactly what charges were ultimately filed but I know the intentions of Lt. O’Connors and Sgt. Vigliacco and it has left a taste in my mouth so foul that I can never rinse it away. Sadly this goes on everyday in precincts, housing bureaus, and transit districts throughout the New York City Police Department. The brass is always looking for a way to classify offenses by the lesser charge – stolen wallets become “lost property”, assaults become “harassment”, burglaries become “trespass”, and so on and so forth. It is a direct product of Comstat and it puts the city’s civilian population at great peril.
When I went home that night and trudged up the stairs of my modest single family Staten Island home, I looked in first upon my baby daughter and then my wife. A feeling of helpless despair washed over me. Despite my best efforts, despite committing to a life in the field of law enforcement, I was as powerless to stem the evil lurking around every corner of NYC’s five boroughs as any other citizen of the city. Worse, I had become as much a part of the problem as I had an agent in seeking a solution. The NYPD was a machine, and I was merely another cog in the machine’s constantly grinding wheel. As that wheel accumulated rust, so did my soul. I’d realized for quite some time that I would have to break free and make a life away from the organization which at one time I thought would be my life for at least twenty years. Twenty years is the time required by the City of NY in order to receive a full pension stipend, though early retirement is available beginning at the 5-year service mark. At one time early in my career, I had been certain I’d “do my twenty” with the NYPD before moving on. Not any more, the end was near. The events of that February day had all but sealed the deal. I couldn’t imagine going on for much longer. If I did, what would be left of me? What would be left of my family? Who would I become? Could I even live with myself? I feared that I’d end up alone staring down the wrong end of my own 9-millimeter pistol.
I had three choices: One, I could abandon my pride and integrity and carry on as if the corrupt ways of the NYPD hierarchy were acceptable in my quest for a bigger pension. Two, I could continue along the current course until it destroyed me. Three, I could break free of the cycle and strike out for a fresh start. My choice was simple. It would have to be the latter, I just needed one more push and in a couple of weeks I’d get it.
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For a brief period after my confrontation over the fraudulent downgrading of criminal charges as they related to the attack of February 26th, 2008, my life as a New York City cop lingered on. I was still deeply troubled by the events of that day but I’d allowed my partner, P.O. Repanski, and family to convince me to carry on. I was acutely aware that it was no longer the life I desired but I tried my best to fake it. In my own mind it was an easy decision to leave the NYPD behind, but I was haunted by the nagging feeling that others wouldn’t approve or understand. I needed to muster the courage to move on and though I stood at the precipice of change, I still needed a nudge.
On an afternoon in early March, I received the phone call that I’d been transferred from the Manhattan South Task Force to the 10th Precinct. It was retaliation for not knowing when to keep my mouth shut in the face of gross immorality. If I couldn’t get on board with the agenda, they’d teach me a lesson by shipping me to a different command. Do not misunderstand, the 10th Precinct is actually a nice place to work. They can’t just transfer you to a shithole because it raises a red flag and makes them vulnerable to EEO complaints. I’d certainly have landed on my feet quickly in the 10th, but that was hardly the point. I had been a capable and well respected officer who received solid evaluations during my entire tenure at the Manhattan South Task Force and now I was being exiled and split up from my partner of several years, taken out of my command, and having my life turned upside down as vengeance for having spoken up against wrongdoing. The NYPD brass always has a way of strong arming the rank and file, or so they thought. Little did they know that this was that final little nudge I was seeking. My excuse to break free, take early vested retirement, and begin a life removed from an organization for which I could no longer compromise myself. My life had been given over to the NYPD and I’d contributed to the defrauding of the public for long enough. I had become so far removed from the person who first joined the police force so full of hope and optimism that I barely knew myself anymore. The NYPD had caused me to lose sight of my identity and it was time to go find myself again.
February 26th, 2008 started out for me just like any other ordinary day in the life of an NYPD uniformed police officer assigned to the Manhattan South Task Force (MSTF). I was scheduled to work a 1730X0205 patrol tour (a 5:30PM to 2:05AM shift in laymen’s terms) but had been ordered in early for pre-tour overtime so that I could work an anti-terrorism initiative detail within the confines of Penn Station. Special assignments, whether they are a daily overtime assignment or a cop’s placement within a special unit, are referred to by the job as details. I recall that it was unseasonably warm for February but each officer was still adorned in either a turtleneck or long sleeve patrol shirt, and some, even a jacket. This was typical in a department that allowed for a wide array of acceptable uniform items but still mandated that winter garb be worn on a warm February day. There was the slightest bit of wiggle room in this incongruous edict but only if the almighty platoon commander anointed us worthy of donning short sleeves. On this day, his pea sized brain did not feel the temperature warranted the authorizing of such an exception. Probably because he’d spend most of the day in an air conditioned office, while the rest of us scurried around underground waiting for the Taliban to detonate a dirty bomb on a Washington D.C. bound Amtrak platform. It wasn’t long before my wool blend cargo pants created a convection oven-like sensation in my boxers and I remember thinking that it was going to take a half can of Lotrimin anti-fungal spray to relieve the resultant effect beginning to fester below my waist line. The air conditioner in the van, into which no less than eight officers (including myself) had been crammed, was typically on the fritz and when we reached Penn Station it seemed that they had the heat pumping as oppose to the AC. We were all a tad on the cranky side, and more than a few of us had been ordered in against our will; but no matter, at least we were on overtime and besides we had a job to do.
The job was simple, sort of. We were to split up into pairs and stand around Penn Station looking as sharp as we possibly could. Now mind you, this in and of itself is no small task for some NYPD cops. Unlike most police departments throughout our great nation, the New York City Police Department, allegedly the “greatest police department” in the world, does not provide its members with department issued uniforms. Instead each officer must purchase his or her own uniform items from a variety of different sources. This accounts for the varying spectrum in the shades of blue you’ll see amongst the garb of the NYPD’s foot soldiers, if you look closely. Likewise, unlike many other police agencies, the NYPD offers no tailoring or laundry services for its ranks. So there we were – rumpled, crumpled, disheveled, and in one case even mustard stained – wearing our diverse items of mismatched clothing (a turtleneck here, a long sleeve shirt with clip on tie there) representing a vast prism of blues. The NYPD refers to this assignment officially as an anti-terrorism detail but in fact the officers are present only to make the travelers feel more comfortable about traveling. We were merely omnipresence and nothing more. The fact is that officers working this detail have been given little special instruction, even less adequate training, absolutely no up-to-date intel, and can do nothing more to prevent a terrorist attack from occurring at that very moment than can the homeless guy in the corner rummaging through the trash and ranting about how the Brooklyn Dodgers enslaved Jackie Robinson back in 1947. At regular intervals we would descend to the train platform below for the Washington D.C. bound Amtrak line (strangely, instructed to ignore all other train lines), clutter up the narrow walkway, and smile and nod at passengers as they boarded their D.C. bound train in a spellbound trance brought on by the doldrums of daily life. When the train pulled out of the station, we would go back upstairs, rinse and repeat.
Occasionally, a waiting passenger would inquire, “Why are there so many officers in the train station?”
To which I would dutifully respond, “We’re here to make sure you’re safe and to be on the lookout for suspicious behavior that could be indicative of potential terrorism. But there is no need for concern, it’s all just a precaution.”
This usually seemed to satisfy their query and put them at ease. However, some seemed to see through the charade and would press for further information. If they pressed long enough, inevitably I’d blurt out the truth, that it was little more than a show of force, as the job likes to call it. This usually brought the conversation to an abrupt close. Over time I learned to just walk away when people pressed too hard for answers to questions they really didn’t want to know the answers to. After all, why shatter the illusion of safety? If our presence made people feel better, I suppose that was a closer facsimile to helping the public than many of the other tasks the City of NY forces its officers to carry out on a daily basis.
The fact that the NYPD hierarchy (the brass as like to refer to them, in part because of their shiny gold brass collar insignias) and the City of NY does next to nothing in their “effort” to properly train officers for this anti-terrorism detail is merely indicative of a much larger problem. You see, the NYPD as a whole demonstrates no real concern or compassion for the lives of its officers. Sure they’ll host a fancy funeral complete with bagpipes, God forbid an officer passes on, but that’s easy – it’s a one day event. And, if there is one thing the NYPD hierarchy is good at, it’s staging a show. Unfortunately, they do absolutely nothing to show that they have genuine concern for their officers on a day in and day out basis. The City would rather present an image of security, than take the time to properly train its officers and implement any real measures of true security. After all, cops are expendable and the city views them as a dime a dozen commodity. They’d just assume replace each and every top-pay cop with a cheaper, less opinionated version for half the salary who will follow orders, no matter how absurd those orders might be.
On this particular February day, we were going through the standard motions associated with the anti-terrorism detail. My partner, Police Officer Repanski, and I stood around Penn Station observing the Amtrak passengers, trying to look the part, and being as cognizant of suspicious behavior as we possibly could. We fielded questions, some absurd – “Did we know when the Spice Girls reunion tour would be appearing at Madison Square Garden?” While others were quite reasonable – “Which train was the best to take to Columbus Circle?”
The heat of the day persisted to shroud each of us in a sweaty cocoon, and the day dragged along in typical fashion. In another ten hours or so it would all be over and I could grab a beer with the boys before returning home to my family; as long as Lieutenant Karnyhuxster (Lt. K as he was not so affectionately known) didn’t stick us with a flaked collar so that he could collect overtime at the end of his tour. Collar is a slang cop term that means to make an arrest. I was trying to concentrate on the task at hand but also wondering, as I often did, how the hell my life had ended up like this? I had a college education. I had attended one of the Tri-State Area’s best college preparatory academies. I was a personable and well mannered guy. Some people even told me I was funny and had a good sense of humor. I had once been so full of promise, or so I’ve been told. Now here I was – a glorified security guard but with an uglier uniform than most security companies would ever permit --- standing around Penn Station like a lab rat in some bizarre Al Qaeda experiment and contributing almost nothing to society’s greater good. Isn’t that why I’d become a police officer? To help people? To give something back to the community? How had I ended up like this?
Then from across the crowded station, I heard the words, “10-85, lets go, 10-85!”
The words seemed to come from out of nowhere, “Ah shit! This ain’t good,” I thought out loud.
I caught a glimpse of one of my fellow officers streaking from his assigned post toward the other end of Penn Station. 10-85 is one of two codes used when a police officer is in need of immediate help and to hear it shouted across a crowded station as oppose to crackling across the radio airwaves was both unusual and unsettling. It created a sensation in the pit of my core that literally caused my stomach to turn over. When 10-85 is transmitted over the radio there is always a chance that it could be a false alarm called in by an overly cautious civilian or a gang-banger hoping to see the police take off on a wild fart hunt. The fact that our fellow officer was yelling the call code across a crowded station meant it was undoubtedly for real, and that he had information which confirmed such. As it turned out he had received a garbled cellular call (the police radios often don’t work in train stations) from the officer in need of help moments before. Before he could get all the details the line went dead. My partner and I took off on foot, as did others, following the officer who had shouted into the crowded masses. It seemed like we were running forever. It always seems like an eternity no matter the mode of transport, when you know a fellow officer is in need of help. Help is not after all something any cop admits to needing readily, so when they do ask, you can usually be pretty certain that the shit has hit the fan. When we finally arrived on the scene, we discovered that one of our rookie officers, P. O. Sanchez, had been engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a perpetrator. A perp as they are referred to in cop jargon. Just as we joined the fracas, Sanchez had cuffed him and taken control of the situation. The perp continued to spew foul language at us and writhe about in an ill-fated attempt to get free but he was in handcuffs and for all intensive purposes under our control and custody. On the ground I observed a razorblade and in the corner I caught a glimpse of Emergency Medical Services (EMS) whisking away a young African-American woman with blood pumping from an open laceration on her brow, dangerously close to her eye. I immediately deduced that it was all the work of the perp in our custody, a depraved coward who also sucker punched our rookie officer as he answered the young woman’s cries for help. Apparently, Officer Sanchez, had been on a personal (an informal break to take care of one’s personal necessities) and all alone when he heard the woman’s blood curdling shrieks for assistance. He arrived on the scene moments after the woman had been savagely attacked with a razor and attempted to take the assailant into custody. After being unexpectedly sucker punched by this low-life, the brave officer kept his wits, engaged the perp in hand-to-hand combat, and bravely executed an arrest. In the process he suffered an injury to his jaw which required medical attention and later caused him to miss work with a line of duty injury. A line of duty injury (or LOD) is an injury sustained by a member of the NYPD while taking police action on behalf of the NYC public. This is where things really began to get interesting.
At this juncture, my partner and I assumed control of the perpetrator for transport, and drove back to Mid-Town South (14th pct.), which was the precinct of occurrence. We brought the slasher before the Mid-Town South Desk and started the laborious task of filling out arrest paperwork and pedigree information. It is probably worth noting that many of the cops and almost all of the bosses (the rank of sergeant and above) who work in Mid-Town South (14th pct.) are connected. The precinct is called a hook house which means that you either have to be of NYPD lineage bloodlines with a family member who has some clout, a female with big boobs and a willingness to accommodate your superiors, or someone who they fear saying “no” to if you hope to be assigned to the 14th precinct. In other words, you need a hook. It’s like a bizarro mafia set-up and Mid-Town South & Mid-Town North (18th pct.) are the two biggest hook houses on the whole job. As a result, these cops and supervisors truly believe that their bowel movements smell like roses and that their breath is minty fresh even when they wake up first thing in the morning. Most of the cops, not all but most, in the Mid-Town precincts look down their noses at other NYPD cops and the vast majority of the bosses from these commands don’t want to know that you exist at all unless your indentifying collar brass insignia matches the numbers outside on the building’s facade.
Moments after we arrived and began the process of booking the slasher, a busty female emerged from the 124 room. The 124 room is a room inside of each precinct where paperwork is input into computer systems, typically by civilian workers (PAA’s), but also occasionally by injured police officers on limited duty capacity or by what street cops call housemouses. Housemouses are inside cops assigned to administrative duty because they are either afraid or incapable of performing even the most rudimentary street patrol duties. So here comes what appears to be a very chesty housemouse and the first words out of her mouth are, “What have you guys got?”
At first I’m a bit taken back by the question but I figured that this was just another housemouse or PAA whose ample bosom had given her enough clout with the bosses that she could pretty much do and say as she pleased. Since I’m no fool, I’d been to the rodeo before, and seeing as to how Task Force cops are essentially mercenaries without a home; thereby, making me a guest on unequal footing – I decided to play along and answer her questions. I started to explain the horrific situation as it went down but before I could finish, she started telling me that the crimes were to be charged as two counts of Assault in the 3rd degree. Assault 3?!? My head nearly exploded! Assault 3 is the lowest possible assault charge and it certainly didn’t apply to this case. Hell, it isn’t even a felony. We had a woman razor slashed on her way home from work, and a cop injured coming to her aid. What was with the resistance to charging the perp correctly? Who was this housemouse and what was her angle? Why was she trying to fudge the arrest? I decided to pay her no mind, after all we were both white shields (meaning we were both street cops with silver or “white” shields instead of the brass badges worn by bosses), and continued to fill out the pedigree and arrest information on the perp. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the housemouse was now talking with a sergeant from the 14th Precinct who’d shown up on the scene long after the incident was over and who had just entered the station house.
I thought to myself, “I’m sure this guy will straighten things out.”
Before I even finished the thought, the housemouse was addressing me again, “Officer, did you see blood on the victim?”
“Yes, and I saw a razorblade as well. He obviously slashed the victim’s face wide open,” I responded.
She then asked if I saw blood dripping from the razor. I responded that I didn’t but that in a slashing there would be no blood remnants on the blade because of the quick nature of the strike.
“Assault 2 on your victim but that’s final, and it’s still Assault 3 on your cop,” she continued, “Sorry but this doesn’t come from me, it’s a decision made by people much higher up than you or me.”
I expressed my disbelief and questioned the prudence of such decision making. Clearly we were dealing with a minimum of two counts of Assault 2, and more properly Assault 1 on the woman (who required a plastic surgeon to stitch her face closed and was only inches from losing an eye) and Assault 2 on our injured police officer. The NY State Penal Law reads that Assault in the 1st degree is committed when with intent to cause serious physical injury to another person, the perpetrator causes such injury by means of a deadly weapon or dangerous instrument; or when with intent to disfigure another person seriously and permanently, the perpetrator causes such injury. The NY State Penal Law further reads that Assault in the 2nd degree is committed when with intent to prevent a peace officer or police officer from performing a lawful duty the perpetrator causes injury to said peace officer or police officer. The appropriate charges were glaringly clear to me and should have been clear to anyone with even half a brain. At that moment, I knew it was just another example in a long line of the systematic altering and downgrading of crime statistics in order to hide the truth from the public and the media. It’s a product of the NYPD’s Comstat System which puts the crime numbers above the interests of the public and ahead of the importance of locking up the bad guys for as long as the law allows. If the Comstat numbers go up, the precinct’s Commanding Officer looks bad and none of the bosses in the precinct are going to allow that because as the NYPD’s favorite expression goes – “shit rolls downhill”. Well, I’ve never been one to keep my mouth shut, particularly when I feel a gross injustice is being carried out, so I continued to express my disbelief and displeasure with the situation. I was especially upset because I knew it was all in the name of Comstat and not the best interest of the law. The NYPD brass believes that the best way, or at least most convenient way, to “protect” the public of NYC is to lie to them and keep them in the dark about crime being on the rise throughout the five boroughs of the city. Obviously nothing could be further from the truth. How can the public protect itself if it doesn’t know what is going on right under their own noses?
I also feared that this psychotic who committed this heinous attack, and later told me he did it because, “I’m a married man and all women want to have sex with me, so I gotta’ cut them,” would be back on the street far too soon if he was allowed to skate over a numbers crunching game. Maybe next time he’d attack my wife . . . my mother . . . my daughter . . . your daughter . . . or even worse kill a woman! The whole thing made me sick then and it disgusts me to the core to this very day.
I continued to plead my case, all the while wondering who this female with no displayed shield or identifying markings was. Then I finally got my first real clue. Though she still hadn’t identified herself, she started screaming at me and demanding that I leave the Desk Area and go stand in the hallway by the Mid-Town South Captain’s Office. It quickly became clear that this wasn’t just another housemouse, but a numbers-cruncher with some rank behind those double D’s. I did as I was told and removed myself to the corridor. Shortly thereafter, I exchanged verbal barbs with both Sgt. Vigliacco (the sergeant who I’d earlier hoped would set the record straight) and the well-endowed female from the 124 room who turned out to be Lt. O’Connors. They both informed me that my opinion “counted for shit” and that they were solely responsible for determining all charges and had no interest in any input from cops on the scene, especially if they weren’t Mid-Town South officers. They also both pointed out that they were “following orders” and suggested that I learn to do the same. When I expressed that I thought the whole thing was a travesty and directly linked to the Comstat Statistics Reporting, they both flew into obscenity laced tirades. Apparently, they had difficulty accepting that an officer sworn to uphold the law and protect the city’s citizens would question the motivation of such irresponsible, and borderline criminal decision making. I explained that I was appalled that they would manipulate crime statistics in the face of such a ghastly crime but this only enraged them further and they eventually had me expelled from the station house before I could be heard any further. I can only surmise that the truth was too much for them to endure. I never knew exactly what charges were ultimately filed but I know the intentions of Lt. O’Connors and Sgt. Vigliacco and it has left a taste in my mouth so foul that I can never rinse it away. Sadly this goes on everyday in precincts, housing bureaus, and transit districts throughout the New York City Police Department. The brass is always looking for a way to classify offenses by the lesser charge – stolen wallets become “lost property”, assaults become “harassment”, burglaries become “trespass”, and so on and so forth. It is a direct product of Comstat and it puts the city’s civilian population at great peril.
When I went home that night and trudged up the stairs of my modest single family Staten Island home, I looked in first upon my baby daughter and then my wife. A feeling of helpless despair washed over me. Despite my best efforts, despite committing to a life in the field of law enforcement, I was as powerless to stem the evil lurking around every corner of NYC’s five boroughs as any other citizen of the city. Worse, I had become as much a part of the problem as I had an agent in seeking a solution. The NYPD was a machine, and I was merely another cog in the machine’s constantly grinding wheel. As that wheel accumulated rust, so did my soul. I’d realized for quite some time that I would have to break free and make a life away from the organization which at one time I thought would be my life for at least twenty years. Twenty years is the time required by the City of NY in order to receive a full pension stipend, though early retirement is available beginning at the 5-year service mark. At one time early in my career, I had been certain I’d “do my twenty” with the NYPD before moving on. Not any more, the end was near. The events of that February day had all but sealed the deal. I couldn’t imagine going on for much longer. If I did, what would be left of me? What would be left of my family? Who would I become? Could I even live with myself? I feared that I’d end up alone staring down the wrong end of my own 9-millimeter pistol.
I had three choices: One, I could abandon my pride and integrity and carry on as if the corrupt ways of the NYPD hierarchy were acceptable in my quest for a bigger pension. Two, I could continue along the current course until it destroyed me. Three, I could break free of the cycle and strike out for a fresh start. My choice was simple. It would have to be the latter, I just needed one more push and in a couple of weeks I’d get it.
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For a brief period after my confrontation over the fraudulent downgrading of criminal charges as they related to the attack of February 26th, 2008, my life as a New York City cop lingered on. I was still deeply troubled by the events of that day but I’d allowed my partner, P.O. Repanski, and family to convince me to carry on. I was acutely aware that it was no longer the life I desired but I tried my best to fake it. In my own mind it was an easy decision to leave the NYPD behind, but I was haunted by the nagging feeling that others wouldn’t approve or understand. I needed to muster the courage to move on and though I stood at the precipice of change, I still needed a nudge.
On an afternoon in early March, I received the phone call that I’d been transferred from the Manhattan South Task Force to the 10th Precinct. It was retaliation for not knowing when to keep my mouth shut in the face of gross immorality. If I couldn’t get on board with the agenda, they’d teach me a lesson by shipping me to a different command. Do not misunderstand, the 10th Precinct is actually a nice place to work. They can’t just transfer you to a shithole because it raises a red flag and makes them vulnerable to EEO complaints. I’d certainly have landed on my feet quickly in the 10th, but that was hardly the point. I had been a capable and well respected officer who received solid evaluations during my entire tenure at the Manhattan South Task Force and now I was being exiled and split up from my partner of several years, taken out of my command, and having my life turned upside down as vengeance for having spoken up against wrongdoing. The NYPD brass always has a way of strong arming the rank and file, or so they thought. Little did they know that this was that final little nudge I was seeking. My excuse to break free, take early vested retirement, and begin a life removed from an organization for which I could no longer compromise myself. My life had been given over to the NYPD and I’d contributed to the defrauding of the public for long enough. I had become so far removed from the person who first joined the police force so full of hope and optimism that I barely knew myself anymore. The NYPD had caused me to lose sight of my identity and it was time to go find myself again.
02 August 2009
Foreword
Global interest in the world of policing has led to the success of countless television programs, such as NYPD Blue and Law & Order, films, the likes of The Departed and Training Day, and books, which include Blue Blood and Cop in the Hood. This book which I will roll out in the form of a blog (and which I hope to eventually find a publisher for), The Blue Hoax: An Insider's Truth About the NYPD, is based on my seven year tenure as a law enforcement officer with the New York City Police Department. It will serve as a tell-all memoir that pulls no punches in recounting my experiences, working within the most famous police agency of all. The non-fiction work will include observations from my career inside this publicly deceptive organization, which presents an image to the masses quite different from the reality at its core. The public has long been fascinated with American policing and cop culture, and the NYPD has always carried a particular element of magnetism. This blog will hopefully help to satiate that fascination while simultaneously blowing the doors off many misunderstood notions about "the job". The first chapter will kick things off by chronicling my decision to leave the NYPD following the savage attack of a woman and the subsequent attempt by the NYPD brass to downplay and cover-up the event. Future chapters will then go back in time to recall my career from its genesis through vested retirement in April of 2008.
The stories from this blog/book will satisfy cop buffs by providing a privileged look at the unique experiences of being a police officer in a major city, but it will delve further into the cop culture's underbelly than any writing on the NYPD ever has before, exposing the immoral practices imposed upon officers by the department's hierarchy. These are practices that need to be eliminated because they produce a strained relationship between the well-meaning, good intentioned officers of the NYPD and the public they are supposed to serve and protect. The blog will be at times humorous, at times self-deprecating, and at times disturbing -- but always honest. The Blue Hoax will hopefully draw its audience and a loyal readership from a public that hungers for police based entertainment, as well as the police officer community at large, which has gone so long without a truthful and honest voice. This will be much different from the very well known and rightfully acclaimed Blue Blood, because that work, though groundbreaking, failed to be honest and forthright about the darker side of the NYPD. Understandably so, since its author was an active member of the New York City Police Department who needed to be able to co-exist within its constrictive rank and file even after the book hit the shelves. I am beholden to no such restrictions. While I'm certain that some of what I have to say will anger those who read it, especially if they wear NYPD uniforms with gold collar brass signifying their membership in the hierarchy -- I care not, as it must be said. I will change the names of several of the players; both out of fear of retribution and because I believe it to be the morally upstanding thing to do, but all else will be presented unaltered and precisely as I recall it.
As for my background, I joined the NYPD in July of 2001 and worked with the agency until my retirement in April of 2008. During that stretch, I spent time in the 6th Precinct, the Grand Larceny Division, and with the Manhattan South Task Force. I exercised my early retirement option for a variety of reasons, which included the longing for a more "normal" life, a desire to spend more time with my family, and a core value system that wouldn't permit me to reconcile the way the NYPD operates with what I believe a police officer should be. During my law enforcement career, I was a well-respected and highly competent officer who excelled at my job. I was certainly not a superstar in the eyes of the top brass, because I often resisted inundating the public with excessive summonses and questioned protocols that I believed made no sense or might place me unnecessarily in harms way or a legal bind. I was however esteemed amongst my peers as a cop with a good head on my shoulders, an ability to perform solid police work, and someone you wanted watching your back. I am also a previously published writer who used to write for The Charleston City Paper in Charleston, SC. Additionally, I have taught English/Language Arts at St. Paul's Country Day Academy in Hollywood, SC. Today I co-own and operate a search and recruitment agency for pharmacists and other health care professionals. I received my education while attending the Peddie School, a renowned college preparatory school in NJ, and Kutztown State University in Pennsylvania, where I received a BA in English.
I thank you greatly for checking out my blog and hope that you will return in the coming weeks and months as I roll out new chapters one-by-one. I intend to publish Chapter 1 within the next week or so. If you like what you read please spread the word and share information on my blog with others that you believe will also enjoy it. Thank you.
The stories from this blog/book will satisfy cop buffs by providing a privileged look at the unique experiences of being a police officer in a major city, but it will delve further into the cop culture's underbelly than any writing on the NYPD ever has before, exposing the immoral practices imposed upon officers by the department's hierarchy. These are practices that need to be eliminated because they produce a strained relationship between the well-meaning, good intentioned officers of the NYPD and the public they are supposed to serve and protect. The blog will be at times humorous, at times self-deprecating, and at times disturbing -- but always honest. The Blue Hoax will hopefully draw its audience and a loyal readership from a public that hungers for police based entertainment, as well as the police officer community at large, which has gone so long without a truthful and honest voice. This will be much different from the very well known and rightfully acclaimed Blue Blood, because that work, though groundbreaking, failed to be honest and forthright about the darker side of the NYPD. Understandably so, since its author was an active member of the New York City Police Department who needed to be able to co-exist within its constrictive rank and file even after the book hit the shelves. I am beholden to no such restrictions. While I'm certain that some of what I have to say will anger those who read it, especially if they wear NYPD uniforms with gold collar brass signifying their membership in the hierarchy -- I care not, as it must be said. I will change the names of several of the players; both out of fear of retribution and because I believe it to be the morally upstanding thing to do, but all else will be presented unaltered and precisely as I recall it.
As for my background, I joined the NYPD in July of 2001 and worked with the agency until my retirement in April of 2008. During that stretch, I spent time in the 6th Precinct, the Grand Larceny Division, and with the Manhattan South Task Force. I exercised my early retirement option for a variety of reasons, which included the longing for a more "normal" life, a desire to spend more time with my family, and a core value system that wouldn't permit me to reconcile the way the NYPD operates with what I believe a police officer should be. During my law enforcement career, I was a well-respected and highly competent officer who excelled at my job. I was certainly not a superstar in the eyes of the top brass, because I often resisted inundating the public with excessive summonses and questioned protocols that I believed made no sense or might place me unnecessarily in harms way or a legal bind. I was however esteemed amongst my peers as a cop with a good head on my shoulders, an ability to perform solid police work, and someone you wanted watching your back. I am also a previously published writer who used to write for The Charleston City Paper in Charleston, SC. Additionally, I have taught English/Language Arts at St. Paul's Country Day Academy in Hollywood, SC. Today I co-own and operate a search and recruitment agency for pharmacists and other health care professionals. I received my education while attending the Peddie School, a renowned college preparatory school in NJ, and Kutztown State University in Pennsylvania, where I received a BA in English.
I thank you greatly for checking out my blog and hope that you will return in the coming weeks and months as I roll out new chapters one-by-one. I intend to publish Chapter 1 within the next week or so. If you like what you read please spread the word and share information on my blog with others that you believe will also enjoy it. Thank you.
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