Beat Cop to Top Cop. John F. Timoney

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ so I was pretty certain of getting promoted. Unfortunately, with the police layoffs in 1976, there was obviously less of a need for sergeants, and so I “died” on that list.

      In 1978, I took a new sergeant's exam and scored much higher. I was in the first group of sergeants to be promoted from that list two years later. The NYPD conducts a three-week orientation course that is meant to assist police officers in their transition from cop to supervisor. New sergeants are exposed to a variety of challenging situations, from conducting roll call to overseeing an internal investigation for a minor violation by a member of his or her squad. The real eye-opener of the course is a series of reality-based scenarios where a sergeant is placed in a situation in which he or she will have to make a tough decision. It is usually a confrontational situation, maybe with racial or gender overtones, maybe with a serious violation of the rules and procedures, maybe even a criminal act. Each scenario ends with the admonition phrased as a challenge: “It's your move, Sergeant.” I didn't realize that I would get to play in my own real-life scenario less than a month after being assigned as a patrol sergeant to the 32nd Precinct in Central Harlem.

      The 32nd Precinct is one of the most revered of the seventy-six police precincts in New York City. More police officers have been killed in that precinct than in any other. As you come through the double glass doors, you are greeted by the pictures of those officers who paid the ultimate sacrifice. The precinct commander was a deputy inspector, a tough little Italian American who had spent most of his career in Brooklyn. He was a no-nonsense commander and would remind you often: “I don't put up with that bullshit.” He and I seemed to hit it off right away, and I enjoyed his fatherly advice.

      Every two weeks, on payday, a supervisors’ meeting was held in his office, and every sergeant and lieutenant was required to attend, even if it was their day off. At one particular meeting he informed us that the Inspections Division from headquarters had been visiting some of the hospitals throughout the city, checking on hospitalized prisoners who were guarded by police officers from the local precinct. As you might expect, the Inspections Division always found numerous violations, including situations where guarded prisoners remained uncuffed for hours on end. This was a serious breach of protocol that would not be tolerated by the fair-haired boys at One Police Plaza. The city-run Harlem Hospital was just three blocks from the precinct house and always had two or three prisoners under guard at any one time. At the supervisors’ meeting the commander reminded us of our duties to check on the cops and the prisoners at least once during each shift. While doing so, we were to ensure that each and every prisoner was handcuffed, “no exceptions, no bullshit.” A few days later, as part of my regular patrol duties, I visited the three police officers guarding the prisoners at Harlem Hospital. The three officers were all well groomed and fully attentive. Unfortunately, only two of the three prisoners were handcuffed. The prisoner who was not handcuffed was the most dangerous of the three by virtue of the fact that he had received his wounds in a shootout with detectives from the nearby 28th Precinct.

      When I questioned the officer as to why this prisoner was not handcuffed, he replied, “He's not going anywhere. I have my eye on him. And besides,” he added, “it's inhumane.” I reminded him that he was not in the humane business, and I then directed him to handcuff the prisoner. He refused. I had an immediate flashback to the training session at the academy: “It's your move, Sarge.”

      The two other officers whose prisoners were handcuffed sat watching me with the obvious question on their mind: What are you gonna do, Sarge? I instructed the police officer to keep the prisoner in constant sight and I would be right back. I went downstairs, brought my driver back upstairs with me, and directed my driver to handcuff the prisoner. I indicated that he would remain guarding the prisoner for the rest of the shift. I told the original guarding officer to get the car keys and drive me back to the station, where we would address the matter. As we were driving across 135th Street to the station, the guarding police officer didn't say much except one statement, which unnerved me a little: “You know, Sarge, if I don't want you here, I can just make you disappear.” That was the extent of the conversation.

      At the station, I went in to see the commanding officer, told him what happened, and explained that I was taking disciplinary action against the police officer, recommending two weeks’ suspension for failure to follow a direct order. The commander seemed satisfied with my actions, exclaiming, “At least somebody has got some balls around here to do what they're told.” I took that as a compliment and began the paperwork process. I was soon brought to reality when two fellow sergeants confronted me, saying, “Timoney, what the fuck is wrong with you? Don't you know that cop's a psycho? That's why he's guarding prisoners!” “Oh,” I replied.

      A couple of weeks later, while working the late tour on a cold February night, I was reading through department directives and bulletins when I came across an announcement from the NYPD Scholarship Unit for a series of college scholarships, including one to Hunter College for a master's degree in urban planning. It seemed too good to be true: a year's leave of absence with pay to obtain a master's degree. As I look back on that cold February night, finding that scholarship announcement was probably the turning point in my career.

      There was one minor problem. I had already received a master's degree five years prior on my own time. The next day I called the Scholarship Unit at the police academy to inquire if my master's degree would disqualify me from applying. The woman said, “No. That's not a problem.” “But I don't have a rabbi,” I replied. (In NYPD parlance, a rabbi is someone who can get favors done for you.) “You don't need a rabbi,” she replied. “This is legit. It's an open, competitive process, and the winner is chosen by committee. The only thing you need to do is retake the Graduate Record Examinations.” I took the GREs a few months later, scored well, and was awarded the scholarship to study urban planning at Hunter College later that year.

      My first master's was in American history, as had been my bachelor's. The next year at Hunter College a whole new horizon was opened up for me. I began to mingle with professors and others who introduced me to this whole new notion of public policy. It was at Hunter where I met Donna Shalala for the first time. She had come from the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development to be the president of Hunter. She would later go on to become the president of the University of Wisconsin, serve for eight years in the Clinton administration, and then become the president of the University of Miami. Professor Peter Salins, a market-oriented housing expert, was affiliated with the Manhattan Institute, a think-tank policy group that would have huge influence on the so-called “new mayors” of the 1990s. Professor Eugenie Birch, a historian by training but one of the forerunners of “mapping” housing patterns—including abandoned areas and their relationship to social ills, such as crime—was working with early computer programs that examined the relationship between housing, abandonment, poverty rates, and a whole host of quality-of-life issues. It was Genie who, in 1993, shared with me a new computer program that looked at the correlation between housing abandonment, poverty, and unemployment rates. (Years later, when I became the police commissioner of Philadelphia, Genie played a critical role in providing the Philadelphia Police Department with young, talented computer mappers from the University of Pennsylvania, where she is now a professor.) And there was Professor Donald Sullivan, a great housing advocate and policy wonk who proved that he could still have fun in the sterile atmosphere of academia. Donald unfortunately died of AIDS much too young.

      In September 1982, I returned to Harlem, this time to the 25th Precinct. I had my new master's degree, but I was wondering, What happens next? It was clear to me that past recipients of these scholarships were eventually brought to headquarters, usually sooner rather than later. I was ambivalent regarding working at headquarters. I wanted to return to the Narcotics Division as a sergeant. Narcotics had been so much fun the first time around.

      My first day back on patrol in the 25th Precinct was a Sunday. I was the patrol sergeant on the 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. shift. My driver was a young, good-looking, six-foot-three-inch-tall Italian American named Michael Verde. Verde filled me in on his career to date. He had gone through the academy and had arrived at the 25th Precinct while I was away on СКАЧАТЬ