Street Warrior

by Ralph Friedman

  I remember one off-duty arrest vividly. It was a blisteringly hot August day and I was with a date at Orchard Beach, otherwise known as the Bronx Riviera. While the Bronx had quite a few beaches abutting Long Island Sound, Orchard Beach was the only one where you could enter the water and come out pretty confident you didn’t contract typhoid. It was crowded, noisy, and not the cleanest beach in America, but it belonged to us denizens of the Bronx and I went there often.

  I was never off duty, as the term is defined. Constantly looking for bad guys, I didn’t care whether I was on a date, as I was that day, or in a gym, or on my motorcycle; I was always looking for something out of place. When I watch boxing on television, I’m looking more at the spectators than I am at the fighters. Same goes for everywhere else people congregate: movies, subways, funerals—you name it.

  Station houses have wanted posters in a big-ring binder behind the desk. I didn’t know many cops who perused these posters. I did, although I was beginning to view this as an exercise in futility, because after months of sifting through them, the pictures and names were beginning to blur and I doubted I’d ever apprehend a wanted felon based on a wanted poster. There are literally thousands of wanted criminals in New York City; what are the odds that I’d ever remember a specific poster?

  On that hot summer day at the beach, I was walking with my date on the boardwalk when I spotted a guy wanted for a burglary in Brooklyn. I’d seen a poster the previous week, and the picture displayed looked exactly like the man I’d almost bumped into, who was walking in the opposite direction.

  I was going to go up against this guy without a weapon or handcuffs and no way to call for backup, so my normal policy of “don’t hurt me, I won’t hurt you” was on the back burner. If I were armed, my approach would have been to draw my weapon, identify myself, get him on the ground, and cuff him before he had a chance to run or retaliate.

  I whirled and got up behind him. “Yo, bro,” I said, and tapped him on the shoulder. I didn’t recall his name from the poster. He turned with a pleasant expression on his face, which was quickly erased when I punched him in the jaw with everything I had. He hit the ground like a load of wet laundry.

  People began screaming, running, falling over each other. The woman I was with stood wide-eyed. Someone yelled for the police. There was a summer police detail at Orchard Beach, and it didn’t take long before two cops came running over. I identified myself and explained what I had. They called for an ambulance for my still-comatose prisoner.

  One cop, an old-timer, looked at me skeptically. “You recognized this guy from a wanted poster? You sure it’s him?”

  Doubt engulfed me. What if this guy wasn’t who I thought he was? Had I seriously injured a look-alike? The bad guy’s twin brother?

  There is a happy ending to this story: he was the guy on the wanted poster and the arrest earned yet another medal recommendation to be added to the several I already had pending. And in an unpredictable twist of fate, it turned out to be a happy ending for the perp, too.

  About five years later, a man approached me as I was leaving the station house and asked me if I was Officer Friedman. I was immediately wary, as any cop would’ve been, particularly because I wasn’t in uniform and I had no idea who this guy was. How did he know me? I casually turned sideways to avoid that unpleasant kick to the testicles. My hand rested on my gun. “Yeah, that’s me. I know you?” This man could’ve been someone I’d arrested, now out of prison and looking for revenge.

  I was half right. I had locked him up, and he was fresh out of the joint, but he didn’t have revenge on his mind.

  He introduced himself and extended a hand for me to shake. I was still leery, but I shifted my weight and shook his hand. I had leverage if I needed to defend myself, though my gut told me I wasn’t going to have a problem.

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” he said.

  I had no idea who he was and told him so.

  Now he broke into a wide grin. “I’m the guy you knocked out at Orchard Beach. I was wanted on the burglary beef in Brooklyn, remember? I just wanted to thank you. I needed to get that shit behind me, but most of all I needed a real lot of dental work, and I got it for free in prison.” He smiled again, flashing a nice set of choppers.

  We bullshitted awhile; he said he went straight, had a great job in construction. We parted with another handshake.

  And people ask me why I love police work.

  * * *

  I was spending an inordinate amount of time in court because I was making arrests in record numbers, the arrest process being long and frustrating. It isn’t rare to spend an entire tour in criminal court preparing paperwork and being interviewed by an assistant district attorney.

  A few other active cops and I came up with a streamlined system that would get us in and out of court in under an hour. We would type up the ADA’s criminal complaints in the station house, using court forms. This saved us hours since the ADA interview process was the chokepoint in the system. Sometimes ADAs would be backed up for hours with a line of very antsy cops waiting their turns to get their criminal complaints prepared. We’d just present the prepared complaint to the ADA without the wait. Initially, the ADAs balked: we never went to law school, what the hell did we know about legalese and the accepted formatting of a criminal complaint? Turns out we knew plenty from our numerous arrests and could write these things in our sleep. The overwhelmed ADA’s original skepticism morphed into gratitude; we were doing their work for them, and they knew it. After a while, they just skimmed through and signed them.

  With the accepted system of processing arrests, cops were only permitted one arrest at a time. With our new take on speeding up the process, we could now take multiple arrests through the system because all the paperwork was prepared before getting to court. All we did was plop the paper in front of an ADA, and we were good to go. I would later make three separate gun collars in one night, and I was back out on the street in as little time as it took to walk one arrest through the system.

  If the Guinness World Records book had a category for quickest prep time for a criminal case in the Bronx, we would’ve won. Our goal was to get back on the street as quickly as possible, and we accomplished that. So what if we broke some administrative rules? It gave the term “revolving-door justice” a whole new meaning; we were the ones out on the street in record time rather than the bad guys.

  * * *

  It may seem odd to anyone who’s not a cop, but I was having the time of my life. I was doing a good job and being recognized for it. I loved going to work every day. In retrospect, I was living in a cocoon, because I hadn’t yet felt loss or very much stress. I felt as if I could handle anything, but I would soon emerge from my reverie when two tragedies woke me up to the realities of police work and how uncertain life really is.

  2

  Police work isn’t all one big mind-blowing rush. Mostly it’s hours of tedium, interrupted by a few minutes of adrenaline-pumping, heart-pounding, gut-wrenching excitement. Even in high-crime commands like Fort Apache, there’s plenty of boredom.

  One post where nothing much happens is station-house security. A uniformed police officer is assigned to the front of a precinct station house around the clock. The cop’s job is to direct civilians who have business in the house, as well as to apprehend the occasional anarchist looking to blow up the building.

  There have been incidents throughout the city in the past where mentally disturbed individuals, criminals, and domestic terrorists have attempted to breach precinct security and kill cops. The most famous incident occurred in the 1970s when snipers positioned themselves across the Harlem River in Manhattan from the 44th Precinct station house in the Bronx, waiting to pick off the outgoing platoon as they left to start their tour. A sharp cop spotted light reflecting off telescopic sights and the plot was thwarted. So the post is not without its hazards, but for the most part it’s an exercise in tedium.

  I was assigned to station-house security on
a midnight-to-8 AM tour once and took my post pretty much expecting to be counting the hours until dawn. What could possibly go wrong?

  An hour in, I was going crazy. I must’ve answered twenty inane questions and been harassed by the usual assortment of eccentrics who are attracted to cops. One nut asked me for directions to Texas. I told him to go to Chicago and turn left.

  Cops and detectives came and went, most with prisoners. I envied these guys out doing real police work. I never imagined it would occur behind me.

  Four and a half hours into the tour (it felt like ten), two gunshots, followed by a fusillade of many more, echoed from inside the station house. I froze for a second, trying to process, then ran inside. The first thing I noticed was the fresh odor of cordite (residue from fired bullets). The shots had come from the precinct detective unit, which was located on the second floor. I was the first cop racing up the stairs, followed by a herd of other cops. A sickening sensation overwhelmed me. I dreaded the moment I would reach the top of the stairs.

  A gunpowder cloud hung over the detective squad room. On the floor in front of the fingerprinting station lay the body of Detective Joe Picciano. He was on his back, blood pooling around his torso. No question, he was dead. A few feet away from him lay a Hispanic man who looked to be in his thirties, also very dead, numerous gunshot wounds to his side and chest. A lone snub-nosed revolver was on the ground between both bodies. I halted in the doorway, other cops piling up behind me. This was a crime scene, and we knew we couldn’t go any farther.

  Detectives were openly weeping. A frazzled boss—I think he was a lieutenant—was on the phone calling for an ambulance, even though it could do no good. He was adhering to department procedure; only a doctor can pronounce someone dead.

  Detective Picciano had been fingerprinting a prisoner who was under arrest for abducting a thirteen-year-old boy. A struggle ensued over the detective’s holstered revolver, and the bad guy wrestled it away and shot Picciano twice, and in a bid for freedom bolted for the door. He must’ve been very desperate because there were five other detectives present, plus an entire building of armed cops, not to mention that he would have to navigate the stairs and make it through the front door. If he had made it that far, he would’ve run right into me on my security post, or perhaps caught me coming inside in response to the shots fired. Either way, I wouldn’t have expected him and maybe I’d be that night’s second cop killed.

  Detective Picciano was married and had three kids. I knew him from turning over prisoners from the arrests I’d made, and he was a good cop. There were no rules for securing your personal weapon while fingerprinting a prisoner until this incident. Detective Picciano’s death lead to a rule mandating that all members of the department lock up their guns prior to fingerprinting anyone. We all want to leave a lasting legacy on the job once we’re gone, but nobody wants to be remembered as the guy who died creating a new rule.

  Detective Picciano’s murder was the first line-of-duty death I’d experienced firsthand, and because it occurred right in our “home,” it was especially devastating. For the first time in my short career I realized that I was vulnerable and that literally any police officer might not make it through his tour. Blazing gun battles notwithstanding, to die while performing the mundane task of fingerprinting someone seems ironic; inside the station house, surrounded by other armed cops, the last thing you’re concerned about is your safety.

  Detective Picciano’s funeral was gut-wrenching. Thousands of police officers attended, their shields banded with black mourning tape, dressed right and covered down in military formation, standing ramrod straight and silent. It was my first experience of an officer being murdered, but it wouldn’t be my last.

  I stopped counting at thirty-two.

  * * *

  Every line-of-duty death is tragic, but it’s also a fact of the job. We’re shocked by it, go through the grieving process, and then get back to work. Every ensuing death gives us a heightened sense of our own mortality and makes us sharper, more aware. The police officer who dies sacrifices his life for his job, but his death may save the lives of the officers who survive him and who are reminded with every funeral how cautious they must be. We can deal with it; we must because we have no other choice.

  But when a cop takes his own life, the logic and learning process isn’t part of the equation.

  Nicky Costa and I were good friends. We grew up together, went to the same schools, hung out, doubled-dated. Toward our later teenage years, we talked about our plans for the future, which were uncertain. Oddly enough, we both became cops; Nicky was in the academy class after mine, but we both worked in the Bronx. We stayed in touch but didn’t get together as much as we used to when we were kids. Both of us were active cops and single, but we traveled in different social circles.

  Nicky committed suicide in his parents’ home. He shot himself in the head with his service gun. He didn’t leave a note—I never heard of a cop who killed himself who did. I was devastated, confused, and had a sense of foreboding. I had just over a year on the job, and Nicky’s suicide was the latest addition to an already-long list of cops who had taken their own lives. He was a happy guy, well adjusted and popular. His suicide came out of nowhere; his funeral was attended by many friends and family, all with the same dumbfounded look on their faces, as if to say, “What the hell just happened here?”

  I think that when most cops hear of a fellow officer’s suicide, an icy finger of dread runs down their spine. If these other cops killed themselves, what’s to stop me from doing the same? Dwelling on this is terrifying. But the thought always remains: will I ever reach the point where I eat my own gun?

  Nicky was the first cop I knew personally who killed himself. He seemed so goddamn normal. Something came over him that was so overwhelming he could imagine no alternative. I remember him often.

  Without getting into the psychology of why cops kill themselves, which I am not qualified to discuss, I have my own theory about what pushes people in my profession to take their own lives: the availability of the gun. In a moment of despair, sometimes fueled by alcohol, a self-destructive police officer will go to the most expedient means to an end: his gun, which is always nearby, if not on his hip. A cop might reach for it in a sudden and fatal moment of decision making. Too late to take it back once the trigger is pulled. I believe most cop suicides are spur-of-the-moment decisions, which could be why suicide notes are rarely written.

  In a short period of time I came to grasp the realities of the job. The deaths of two cops who were my friends forever changed me, adding a layer of stress that would increase over the years.

  A police officer, much like a member of the military, is struck by an uncomfortable feeling of relief when someone close to them is killed. We try to push back the feeling that haunts us, and the unfathomable mantra forces itself into our minds, “I’m relieved it was him and not me.” We fight the thought, but it visits all of us. We’re torn by our grief as well as our reprieve from the death sentence that took our brother in arms.

  So we’re hammered by guilt; for some of us, it can be devastating. There are many factors that can put a police officer on a self-destructive path to alcoholism, domestic problems … and suicide. Stress is the universal cause, and it transcends an occupation. But cops get assaulted by it on a daily basis. Lives lost, a public that doesn’t care unless they need us, abused children, victimized women and the elderly—it all comes home to roost.

  Staying away from alcohol and concentrating on being in top shape certainly helped me, but stress is a train wreck that leaves no one immune. It’s just a matter of time before most police officers burn out and turn to self-destructive behavior. I’d fight it over the years, but it would take its toll on me too. Police officers should never let down their guard, even while performing the most trivial tasks. I became hypervigilant that day and remained so for the rest of my career, but I would eventually find that being aware of one’s surroundings constantly causes stress. And s
tress can be its own death sentence. Not many people talked about PTSD back then, but they did talk about heart disease. The NYPD recognizes heart disease as job-related, and thus allows a cop with heart issues to retire on a disability, tax-free pension. Stress has been known to exacerbate the onset of heart disease, and the NYPD is a stress magnet.

  * * *

  I had two years on the job and thought it was time for me to choose a career path. I could stay on patrol, which I loved, or move on to something else. The NYPD offers a broad range of assignments, too numerous to list here. Any cop has the opportunity to request a transfer to an assignment of their choice. But while the opportunity is there, most positions in plum units are highly sought after. As in private industry, the best jobs go to the people who are most qualified. There were many superb cops working in uniform in the command who chose to stay on patrol; they loved it. This was good for them, but I wanted to see what else the job had to offer.

  I was thinking of two details, the Motorcycle Unit or the Detective Division. I loved riding motorcycles, and the thought of riding a bike for the job was alluring. The Motorcycle Unit was a specialized outfit that worked security for dignitaries, parades, and other special assignments, in addition to patrolling the city’s highways. Conversely, to be a member of the Detective Division would make me part of a legendary elite organization of the best investigators on the planet.

  I mulled over my choices and decided that, while the Motorcycle Unit might be exhilarating, I came on the job for more than thrills. I wanted excitement, sure, but mostly I was motivated by locking up bad—very bad—people. I’d have to be satisfied riding my Harley on my own time. I set my sights on being a detective.

  My arrest record would give me an entrée, I hoped, into the 41st Precinct’s Anti-Crime (A/C) Unit, a good prerequisite for the coveted gold shield of an NYPD detective. There were other pathways; I could apply for Narcotics, Vice (Public Morals Division), or the Organized Crime Control Bureau, but I didn’t know anyone in those units, and the last time I’d worked with a stranger—Gus Paulson—he wound up getting arrested. I cast no aspersion on those units or the personnel in them; it was just the natural discomfort of venturing into the unknown.