The lawyer was a young guy who was sharply dressed and looked prepared. I didn’t know what he could possibly ask that would exonerate his clients, but that was his job. This is standard operating procedure when the police have the defendants dead to rights and I was prepared for that line of questioning. I wasn’t, however, prepared for his first question.
“Officer Friedman,” the lawyer said, waving a piece of paper. “I’ve got your arrest report here, and it doesn’t make mention of the fourth police officer in the car at the time of the arrests. Why is that?”
That “fourth officer” was my buddy. I had a problem, but I decided to try and bullshit my way out of it. “That’s because there wasn’t any fourth officer, counselor.” I made sure I worded my answer so I wasn’t perjuring myself; there wasn’t a fourth officer. My friend was there, but he wasn’t a cop.
“Well, then, we have bit of a conundrum,” the lawyer said drily. “I’m prepared to put my private investigator on the stand, who will testify that a fourth officer was in fact in the car. He has a signed statement from an independent witness to corroborate that fact.”
“Your PI is mistaken, sir,” I said. “There was no fourth officer with us when the arrests were made, just me and the two other officers I listed on the arrest report.”
I was still telling the truth, and I was hoping the attorney wasn’t sharp enough to question my choice of words. He could call his PI to the stand and even the witness, but it was the word of three police officers against a civilian. The only way my friend would get exposed as the fourth passenger was if my two partners or I confessed, and that wasn’t going to happen. If through some fluke my friend was tracked down by the lawyer’s private investigator, he’d deny everything. I figured the lawyer’s badgering would go nowhere, but I knew the attorney wouldn’t give up easily. If he could prove I’d lied on the arrest report, he could get all four of his clients off the hook.
We went back and forth for a while as to other aspects of the arrest, and he did his best to confuse the facts and trip me up.
A week after the court hearing, everything was quiet. I began to think the attorney knew he was going to get nowhere trying to establish the existence of the phantom “fourth officer.” My relief was short-lived: I got a “forthwith” to the Internal Affairs Division (IAD).
My last “forthwith” was when Gus Paulson got locked up for shaking down motorists. I was hoping that my time hadn’t come and that I wasn’t going to leave the IAD interrogation in handcuffs.
No trip to IAD is a pleasant experience. The Internal Affairs Division was housed in a foreboding-looking building on Poplar Street in downtown Brooklyn, nowhere near any other police department facility. There was a logical reason for this: IAD was supposed to be a completely autonomous unit, devoid of any political or police interference. This, of course, was bullshit. There is no such thing anywhere in this country as a police department unit that isn’t influenced by politics or headquarters’ brass. It’s the American way. I think the unspoken reason for IAD’s remote location was that they didn’t want to be located in maximum effective firing range of police-issue .38 caliber revolvers. IAD wasn’t very popular with the rank and file.
I was placed in a bare-bones interrogation room consisting of one table, two chairs, and the obligatory two-way mirror. Since I was the subject of an investigation and not a witness, I was read what boiled down to my rights and told to sit tight; an investigator would be in to talk to me “shortly.” I waited three hours, which was not unusual, and I was mentally prepared for it because I used the same tactics on prisoners I’d arrested. The excess waiting time was used to “soften up” the subject, the theory being that after all that time staring at the walls, I’d be ready to confess to killing JFK just to get the hell out of there. They did other petty things like depriving you of food and water and lying to you about the evidence they had and what was going to happen to you. “You’re gonna lose your job and your pension. THEN we’re gonna hand you over to the DA for prosecution for perjury.” At least waterboarding hadn’t been invented yet.
I was asked the same questions over and over by a not-so-sharp detective. I stuck to my story. What fourth cop? Prior to my trip to Poplar Street, I’d gotten together with the two cops that had been with me on that day, and we agreed on the same story, with some minor deviations so as not to make it sound rehearsed. We persevered; the investigation went nowhere.
I learned two things after my IAD visit: One, I was never going to put another civilian in a department auto without proper authorization. Two, if I didn’t go out and have a few drinks after the investigation was completed, I knew I’d never have a drink in my lifetime. Thoughts of booze dissipated, however, when I got back to the Bronx, but the smile on my face stayed for a few days.
* * *
Kal Unger and I were working together while Kenny Mahon was on vacation. A few weeks before Kal got shot in that darkened apartment and almost died, he and I arrested a robbery suspect. It was a standard arrest, no heroics, no gunplay, and the prisoner submitted peacefully. What was unique was what happened on the way to the station house to process the arrest.
A young Hispanic man ran up to our car, breathless. He spewed out a story of getting robbed by a group of gang members while walking down the street with his girlfriend. He knew they were gangbangers by their “colors.” A gang member could be identified by what he wore—God help you if you weren’t in the gang and were wearing their colors while passing through their turf.
“They took my girlfriend!” He was near tears.
We were familiar with the gang and knew where their clubhouse was located. “Get in the car,” Kal said to the victim. “We’re gonna take a ride.”
Kal and I both had the same unspoken thought: the kidnapped girl was going to get gang-raped at the club, then disposed of, probably by strangulation, and dumped somewhere.
We got another unit to transport our prisoner to the command.
I called for backup, but we were the first to arrive at the gang’s headquarters, the basement of a dilapidated tenement on the northern end of the precinct. Kal and I heard the sirens of the sector cars approaching but vetoed waiting for them to arrive. We had no idea what was being done to the kidnapped girl. When seconds count, the police are minutes away. We decided to go in.
We hit the door simultaneously; it literally flew off the hinges. It took less than a second for our eyes to acclimate to the semidarkness and what we saw enraged us.
A naked young woman was spread-eagle on her back on the floor, whimpering. A gangbanger with his pants around his knees was mounting her as we made our entrance, with a group of about fifteen guys standing around the victim masturbating on her. She was covered in semen. A few others were milling around the table and cheering. We assumed they’d already taken their turn at the victim.
The good news was that the rapists had discarded any weapons they normally carry; guns would have gotten in their way when it was their turn at their prey.
Kal and I waded into them, swinging away with our batons, no specific target in mind. Our goal was to put as many of these shitheads out of commission as possible. To that end, parting their hair with nightsticks was the order of the day. Most were on the floor in seconds; the guy on top of the victim was the last to go. Everyone left standing made for the door and was met by the responding sectors. They were also beaten bloody.
Many things piss off cops, but victimizing women and children top the list. All our prisoners arrived at the local hospital emergency room in a horizontal position. No one said anything. Doctors and nurses got along well with cops, and we owe our lives to their skill. All we heard from them was “good work” or a variation of that. The bosses who responded praised us for a doing a good job, and the press who covered the story never mentioned the condition of the prisoners when they reported their stories. Instant justice was sometimes called for, and the noncriminal element in the city silently agreed.
I still think ab
out that poor girl. What’s her life like forty years later? Does she have nightmares about the attack, or has time dulled her wounds and mental scars? I doubt it.
* * *
A week later Kenny came back from vacation, and he was riding with me and Kal.
“How was your vacation?” I asked.
“Vacations are overrated,” Kenny said. “Loved being home with my family, but I needed to come back.” He smiled. “What can I say? I like fighting crime, beats working for a living.”
The next few days were busy. The three of us arrested two brothers who held up a supermarket. They attempted a getaway in their car, and we leapt on the vehicle as it pulled away. I was hanging on for dear life with my arm hooked inside the open driver’s window while Kenny and Kal held the post between the front and backseat on the passenger side. No amount of screaming for the driver to stop worked, and, as the car gained speed, my adrenaline started pumping. If the car sideswiped something on either side, we’d be hurt or killed. I began beating the driver about his head with my gun, steady blows that must’ve hurt. Finally, he stopped the car and we dragged the robbers onto the street.
I was livid, my heart pounding like a jackhammer. We could’ve been killed, and now it was their turn to get tossed around. Kenny, Kal, and I used everything we had: nightsticks, gun butts, feet, elbows, fists. When we let up, it wasn’t because we felt merciful but because we were just worn out. It wasn’t the first time since I’d come on the job that I was close to getting seriously injured or killed, and it wouldn’t be the last, but any such experience is always memorable.
Both stickup men were convicted in court. They never used the police-brutality card. Back then it was rare that a criminal complained or sued about his treatment at the hands of the police. The times dictated that such complaints would go nowhere, and if any of those thugs did make an official complaint, the deposition would usually be disposed of as “unfounded” after an internal department investigation. Criminals also realized that they were going back onto the street eventually to commit more mayhem, and that being recognized as brutality complainants just might mean another trip to the ER. The police were vastly outnumbered, particularly in Fort Apache, and we needed to be in control to survive and keep the area as safe as possible for the law-abiding residents of the command.
The following day, Kenny and I made two more robbery arrests in separate incidents. Since working together we’d taken sixty guns off the street.
I was tired and feeling jumpy. The word “stress” wasn’t a word heard much in police work in the 1970s. The macho aspect of the job dictated that cops keep their feelings bottled up, never admitting to the weariness and fear that comes naturally with police work.
Currently the NYPD offers assistance through mental health professionals who are available around the clock to assist an officer who has trouble coping with the realities of the job. Back then options didn’t exist; guidelines weren’t established. If a cop was feeling depressed and was having problems functioning, he could call in sick and see a department doctor. Most cops didn’t do this, discouraged by the machismo that permeates any police department—an ailing cop didn’t want to appear weak—and by the perceived detriment that showing weakness might have on one’s career.
Only when the suicide rate among police officers began to creep up to an alarming rate did NYPD policy shift. Officers with personal problems were urged to avail themselves of newly expanded services created exclusively for such issues. The department emphasized that seeking help would have zero negative effect on a career. Alcoholism, which often triggers depression, common in police work, was treated as a disease, not a career-stifling addiction. Slowly, the revised policies took hold. Even the most skeptical of cops realized that a depressed cop with a gun is a dangerous thing and that the department genuinely wanted to help. Knowing that compassionate help was but a phone call away was reassuring, but I hoped I never needed it.
* * *
The day after Kal Unger got shot I awoke in a fog on a couch in the hospital waiting room where I and numerous other cops had spent the night. The reality of how close I came to being where Kal was now was palpable. Kal wouldn’t come off the critical list for another six days, and I’d spend quite a few days in the hospital waiting for his condition to improve.
I sat among my brother officers, most of us in silent contemplation.
I knew I needed a break from policing but fell into the cage that most active cops inhabit: I loved my job and looked forward to going to work every day. Police work was my break from a humdrum life. But the incident with Kal made me reevaluate my thinking.
My off-duty time was spent at the gym and seeing whomever I was dating a few times a week. Most women couldn’t take the hours I worked, and real relationships never got off the ground. I spent much of the time riding my Harley Sportster. To me, getting on that bike was like flying. I was living in Yonkers, and a portion of the ride home after a tour in the Four-One was on the Bronx River Parkway, where I could get up some speed, particularly after a tour ending at midnight, when the roadway was sparsely utilized. Opening up the Harley and hearing its unique rumbling exhaust reminded me of riding through an impending storm with the boom of thunder and howling wind. I could lose myself in the fantasy of traveling the winding roads somewhere out west and forget where I really was.
What I needed was a long respite—longer than the ride home—to give my body and psyche time to rejuvenate. Trouble was, not much else interested me. Sports? I loved playing ball before I became a cop, but my schedule wouldn’t allow me to commit to any organized team. Spectator sports? I never liked watching sports … odd for a cop. Most police officers live and breathe football, basketball, or baseball, mostly all three. Watching sports puts me to sleep; if I wasn’t participating, I’d get bored very quickly. And people who characterized sports figures as “heroes” really pissed me off. I worked with real heroes every day, and a guy who throws a football didn’t qualify. Bottom line: I’m not a couch potato.
Then there was golf … the unofficial sport of cops. Most police social events revolve around golf: golf outings, golf fund-raisers, golf “rackets” (a euphemism for any party that gets you out of the house). Hitting a little ball into a hole with a stick never held much allure for me—besides, most golf events revolve around drinking, which also wasn’t one of my pastimes.
How about a real vacation? An A/C cop once told me that if I went to the Caribbean for a few weeks, I’d lock up tourists for taking too much sun.
Then I met Lisa. She was the daughter of a former cop who had left the job under less than ideal circumstances, but she knew cops and understood the culture. Her mother also knew cops, having been married to one, and didn’t have a very high opinion of me. She called me a “whore master” even though she knew next to nothing about me. I think she was channeling her husband and thought all cops were like him. Personally, I liked Lisa’s dad. He always treated me with respect; her mom and I avoided each other whenever possible. Lisa moved in with me, but she would be gone in three years, the relationship a victim of my crazy hours and lack of a normal social life. I guess it’s one thing to have a father who was on the job, but having a romantic relationship with a cop was something else altogether. Also, while I liked her friends, we had nothing in common. Vacations? We went places, took trips, but I was always itching to get back to the job. How much of this can any woman take?
* * *
My younger brother, Stu, joined the Transit Police Department, those police officers responsible for keeping the peace and enforcing the law in subways. Stu had wanted to be a member of the NYPD, but back in the 1970s you could be assigned to any of New York City’s three law enforcement agencies upon graduation from the police academy. Stu got Transit, which was better than being chosen for the Housing Police Department, responsible for enforcing the law in the city’s public housing—a nightmare job by all accounts. Trying to stem the flow of crime in the low-income projects was a thankless job
. The Transit PD wasn’t the NYPD, but it was close enough. In 1995, under Police Commissioner William Bratton—who left in 1996 only to return in 2014 and make an abrupt exit in September 2016 as I write this—all three departments would combine into one department and come under the umbrella of the NYPD.
Stu and I had been very close since we were kids. He was four years my junior, so our social lives didn’t mesh when we were younger, but we often hung out together, just the two of us. Before Stu became a police officer the opportunity to get together wasn’t always that easy. Now that he was on the job, we had similar schedules and socializing became more frequent.
On one double date, Stu and I spotted three young men acting suspiciously outside a candy store. We were in a car; Stu was driving, and my date and I were in the back. We pulled over and watched the three men, who seemed to be casing the store and furtively glancing about like they were looking for cops.
Stu parked the car a safe distance away from the store to avoid involving our dates in what we were sure was going to happen.
Stu and I cautiously approached the men, using buildings and parked cars for concealment. As they were about to enter the candy store, one pulled a sawed-off rifle and the two others drew knives. Stu and I identified ourselves, and the trio took off on foot.
We caught up to them easily, but they put up a hell of a fight when we tried to handcuff them. It took a few minutes to get the robbers under control; then we escorted them to the nearest precinct, the charges being attempted robbery and weapons possesion. I was beginning to realize that some of these lowlifes don’t want to go quietly no matter how professionally they’re treated. Moral: Don’t fight the police; you’re almost sure to lose. Even if you’re arrested and consider the arrest to be unwarranted, it’s still against the law to resist arrest. Whatever beef you have with the police can be sorted out later. This is what courts and lawyers are for. I’d been in similar situations before, but never with my brother. Now, with my brother in the mix, a different concern was evident. The bad guys I’d protected him from back on the block when we were kids were now armed with more than just their big mouths.
Street Warrior Page 10