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.