That’s not to imply that a retired police officer is ostracized by active cops. We still get treated with respect by those on the job. For example, a retired officer or his family can pretty much count on receiving special treatment if there’s a family emergency.
But things change, subtle as they may be. You feel as if the secret handshake was changed the minute you pulled the pin.
Then, of course, there’s the huge turnover that all police departments encounter. People get promoted, get transferred, retire … die. In a relatively short period of time, most of a precinct’s manpower is flipped and those familiar faces are gone.
So your visits become more and more infrequent.
After three decades, there wouldn’t be a soul in the Four-One who would recognize me, except perhaps the rats. They seem to live forever.
While I had had strong ties to the Five-Two detective squad, most police officers’ allegiances belong to their first command, where they learned the job. My heart belonged to the Four-One; that was where I cut my teeth.
As the years passed, I had fleeting thoughts of returning to check in on the Four-One but dismissed them for all the reasons I’ve mentioned. Recently, those thoughts started recurring with greater frequency. At first I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t have asked for a more fulfilled life with Grace; I was back to bodybuilding and was in top physical shape. I had great friends and maintained good relations with my family. I also hadn’t lost my detective’s instinct. I was still constantly aware of my surroundings, so the sense of policing was always there. There were times when I’d pull up behind a lone state trooper or local cop conducting a car stop, get out and ID myself, offering to stand by as a backup. The officers appreciated these actions, and I’d get immense satisfaction making myself available in case something went wrong.
After some honest self-evaluation I understood why I was thinking more and more about the Four-One. As much as I’d been fighting approaching old age, it was creeping up, slowly and insidiously. I feel that the fewer regrets we have when we’re old or when the end is near, the more peaceable the passing. We all have regrets, but never returning to the place that had the most impact on my life would definitely be a mistake.
* * *
I made the drive at midnight on a warm June night in 2013. I had never shaken my weird hours; I was still up most of the night and slept during the day. So, with Grace asleep, I made the decision in an instant. I was going to the Four-One.
I lived in the city and made the short drive with some anxiety. So many years had passed. Would I still feel like a cop when I walked through those massive station house doors? I didn’t want to go into the beehive and not feel like a bee.
I parked across the street from the station house in a spot designated for cops and tossed my Detective’s Endowment Association membership card on the dashboard.
The exterior of the fortress-like structure still looked the same; just as grimy and battle-scarred as when I’d last seen it. The tenements adjacent on both sides were gone, as were other dilapidated housing structures in the neighborhood. Some of the buildings had been replaced by attached private homes, built with federal funds to pretty up the appearance of urban blight. These small houses actually had miniscule yards with grass and immature trees—talk about culture shock! The last time I was in the neighborhood, the only type of grass you’d find was the kind you smoked. Fort Apache was now a lone oasis in a vast wasteland of mostly empty lots, and it would soon acquire a new nickname: Little House on the Prairie, after the TV series of the same name. Barren, flattened surroundings abounded, much like a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
I identified myself as a retired detective to the lone cop on station house security and he let me pass. The interior of the building had been almost entirely refurbished, and I hardly recognized it. The only familiar sight was the massive desk from which a boss would direct precinct operations, the same one that was there when the house was opened in 1914. It had been moved about twenty feet closer to the entrance, but other than that, the throwback to another era was still intimidating.
Instead of a boss manning the desk, there was a police officer. Following protocol, I approached the desk and identified myself, and the desk officer, Police Officer Curtis Chambers, welcomed me warmly after I told him I’d worked there back in the day.
We talked for almost an hour, he telling me all about the changes in the area. We traded war stories, as cops do, and I wasn’t too surprised to learn that crime had taken a significant drop. There was no housing in the area, and therefore hardly anyone around to raise hell. The newly built homes, Chambers told me, were occupied by law-abiding families.
I went upstairs to the second floor, where the Anti-Crime office and the detective squad room were when I worked there. The floor was now subdivided into offices—several offices: Precinct Detectives, Major Case Squad, Latent Print, the Grand Larceny Unit, and an administrative office—each with impressive etched-glass doors and polished floors. I felt like I’d stepped into the future, and in a way I had. It was unnerving to realize that what once was would never be again. The grime and cigarette smoke carried a lot of personality; now everything seemed so sterile. Try smoking in a city building these days and you’ll get castrated.
I went into the detective squad room. Five detectives were hunched over computer keyboards and didn’t immediately look up. I fixated on the spot where Detective Picciano had been murdered while fingerprinting a prisoner, which was now desk space where a young detective sat.
The young detective looked up, and I snapped out of my reverie. “Can I help you?”
“My name’s Ralph Friedman. I used to be a cop in this command.” We shook hands. I will not identify him for reasons that will shortly become evident.
He eyed me carefully. “Not the Ralph Friedman? The guy with all the medals?”
I smiled. “You got me.”
That broke the ice. We spoke for hours, about the changes in the command, changes in the job, lack of political leadership with balls … the usual cop rant.
At one point he appeared wistful. “I bet those were the days. Not everyone just obsessed with political correctness.”
“The term hadn’t been invented yet. We had bosses who backed us up. City Hall stayed away. Making a lot of good-quality arrests was a good thing. They liked proactive cops. Now…” I let myself trail off.
“Not like that anymore, Ralph. Precinct-level bosses are good, but when you get to borough and Puzzle Palace level, they get a ball-ectomy before they get their rank.”
The Puzzle Palace was better known as One Police Plaza, aka headquarters, and his complaint was valid if I can believe most every cop I’ve talked to over the years. According to a recent survey conducted by the Patrolman’s Benevolent Association (PBA), morale is at its lowest point in the history of the NYPD. The survey showed that the “dangers officers face are greater despite an influx of new cops and an increase in technology.”
The PBA membership online survey, which six thousand responded to, found that 87 percent of the cops surveyed considered the city to be “less safe” since Mayor de Blasio was voted into office and that 97 percent say the mayor has created an environment “where criminals feel emboldened to carry guns and use them against civilians.” A remarkable 96 percent of cops felt that the relationship between the job and the public had deteriorated in recent years. The most unsettling response was that 97 percent of police officers “are reluctant to take action for fear of lawsuits or complaints by the public.”
City Hall responded by citing lowered crime statistics. Crime stats being down are indicative of police officers doing their jobs despite the fact that a huge number of them have astoundingly low morale.
High morale is extremely crucial in hazardous occupations where the safety of citizens relies on motivated employees. If police officers feel they’re being treated unfairly, their job performance will suffer. In today’s climate, many police officers are more concern
ed that doing their jobs will lead to lawsuits, firings, and possible jail time because they get little (if any) support from elected officials. Couple all that with the real dangers that exist every time a police officer goes to work and what you have is an ineffective police force.
I loved being a cop and was very good at what I did. However, it pains me to say that I’d never want to be a cop in the atmosphere that’s prevalent today. There was a time when I felt that if I had kids I’d urge them to become police officers because there’s no greater reward than keeping the peace. I wouldn’t do that today.
I spoke to a few uniformed officers before I left. Despite the difference in our ages, we made an immediate connection based on the fact that we were all cops. Once you put on that uniform, no matter how many years have passed, it seems as if you’ve known all other cops forever. The eagerness in their manner, their willingness to serve and make a difference brought me back to when I was their age. It made me proud to be in their company. My loyalty to the NYPD remains undiminished, and I bleed blue in my heart whenever a cop is injured or killed.
Before I went home, I made a detour to 500 Southern Boulevard. The building was still there, and the neighborhood eerily quiet, as if out of respect. It was on the night of December 28, 1974, that Police Officer Kenny Mahon was murdered inside that building. I sat in my car for a few moments, engine running, and thought I could still see Kenny, eager, determined, going into that tenement to meet his death.
Tears came for Kenny and every cop who gave his life for this city. I hoped some of its citizens still cared about its police officers.
* * *
Grace and I bought a house in another state, some distance from New York City, and are happy in our new home. We have a black Labrador puppy that enjoys the suburban lifestyle as much as we do. I still have my memories. It’s not solely about me anymore, as it was when I was a cop with a mission; it’s about my relationship with Grace and our combined outlook for the future.
I’ve designed an homage to the NYPD and my awards on the first floor of our home; part museum, part legacy, part office and den. It took almost a year of painstaking, loving work with master craftsman Billy Butterfield to complete the project. It was worth the expense and hours of labor. It faces the driveway so I have a clear, unobstructed view of anyone approaching the house. Old habits die hard. Late at night when a silence permeates the house and the neighborhood, I go there. It’s my best place to unwind. There’s a lot of history adorning those walls; a lot of pain, a lot of joy. If, as some say, we’re all destined to find peace in our past, then I’ve found mine.
1971. Gearing up for patrol during Black Liberation Army years.
1971. Ready for patrol.
1973. Front of 41st Precinct station house, Simpson Street.
1974. Employing stop and frisk of gang members while on patrol.
April 28, 1975. Being promoted to detective.
Promotion picture taken at Big Joe’s Tattoo Parlor. Photo by Big Joe
May 19, 1975. Mayor Abe Beam awarding me the Combat Cross for actions taken on November 19, 1974.
1979. Me with my German Shepherd, Timba.
Upstate with friends, shooting my .30-caliber carbine M-1 Enforcer that was also taken on patrol on many occasions.
1981. On my 1980 Harley that was used many times on patrol.
1970. In the gym on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx.
August 31, 1982. With Timmy Kennedy and evidence taken from arrest of Jamaican gang members.
July 1983. Grace and me on a bike trip to Virginia Beach on my 1983 Harley.
August 1, 1983. NYPD radio car that collided with my unmarked car, ending my career.
1984. With my 1975 Corvette.
2016. Me and my Lab, Chase.
June 2016. In my office, still in fighting shape at 68 years old.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Throughout my career I was extremely fortunate to have had the privilege and honor of working with the best officers in the NYPD, who were unrivaled by any police officers anywhere. I was immediately impressed by the officers in the 41st Precinct. True professionals, they made a huge impression on me, and I was inspired by their dedication, commitment, and courage.
Among the best of the best were George Widicka (RIP), Richard Biller (RIP), and Stanley Gamb, to name a few who stood out. These were men I was in awe of and who served as inspirations. I was lucky to serve with these men and honored to have had them as partners.
During the course of my career I was also quite fortunate to have had some incredible supervisors: bosses who recognized and encouraged my commitment and dedication to the job. Thomas Walker, whom I had the great privilege to work under when he was a lieutenant and again when he was a captain and returned as commanding officer of the Four-One, was by far the best boss anyone could wish for. There were two other bosses who stood out among the best: Sergeant William “Wild Bill” Taylor and Sergeant John Battaglia, may they both rest in peace. I want to thank the dedicated and brave officers I had the privilege and honor to have partnered with: Kenny Mahon (RIP), Billy Rath, Mike DePalma, Eddie Fennell, Robert DeMatas, Davy Cohen, Lester Rudnick, and Nat McCain.
I also wish to thank Sergeant Stephen Cantor and Sergeant Michael Harris, who were excellent detective squad bosses. Special thanks to Roger Cortes (RIP) and Timmy Kennedy, my partners with whom I worked for most of the years I spent on the squad; they should have been given the rank of first-grade detectives.
All these men should have the undying gratitude of New York City and its citizens for the selfless work they performed and the sacrifices they made in protecting and keeping the city’s residents safe.
I would also like to thank my agent, Frank Weimann, the dedicated and professional staff at Thomas Dunne Books/St. Martin’s Press, and, most of all, my coauthor, Patrick Picciarelli, who got inside my head and put my life on paper better than I could have imagined. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Harry Schott, who introduced me and Patrick and brought us together to write my story. I’m indeed lucky to have such a team on my side.
This book would not be complete or have been possible without the undying love of Grace Rossi, who has stood by me through the worst time of my life, the accident that ended my career and almost ended my life.
Detective Ralph Friedman, NYPD (ret.)
January 1, 2017
Praise for Street Warrior
“I’ve known Ralph Friedman for almost forty years, since the first day he walked into Big Joe’s Tattoo Shop. He looked more like a biker than a cop. We were on opposite sides of the fence, but we always respected each other! He’s the toughest Jew I know, who has more tattoos than I do.”
—Chuck Zito, actor/stuntman/bodyguard and former Hells Angel
“Fugeddabutitt! If I knew about Detective Ralph Friedman when I was raising hell in New York during the ’70s and ’80s, I may have dialed back my lifestyle. Friedman’s memoir is a rapid-fire page-turner, told with compassion and gut-wrenching reality. It’s a walk through the South Bronx in an era that some people would like to forget.”
—Gianni Russo, actor, The Godfather
“Friedman used his fists, guns, and other available weapons to arrest, wound, and sometimes kill suspects, winning a host of medals for valor in the process.… His restlessness for action never abated, to the point where he placed himself in personal peril multiple times. A swashbuckling book that is likely to elicit extreme reactions of applause or disapproval depending on the reader’s personal opinions about law enforcement.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The toughest crime fighter in the history of NYC didn’t leap tall buildings or drive a Batmobile. He was a real-life, tough-as-nails detective, the closest thing to a caped crusader New York ever had. Meet Ralph Friedman, Super-Cop.”
—Steven Jay Griffel, bestselling author of the David Grossman series
“It was a different job and a turbulent time, and Ralph Friedman defined the word Detective. Street Warrio
r should be required reading for anyone who wants to understand the real world of street policing. Read this book and be awed. An amazing story told by a legendary NYPD detective.”
—Joseph D. Pistone, author of Donnie Brasco: My Undercover Life in the Mafia
“The explosive, riveting, and incredible street action of a legendary crime fighter—who is also the most highly decorated NYPD detective in New York City history.”
—Captain Tom Walker (Ret.), author of Fort Apache
“All the violence, crime, and chaos of 1970s New York City instantly come to life in this gripping detective story. Street Warrior is a true-crime rarity. This gritty firsthand account of an unstoppable NYPD cop will have you rooting for the good guys the whole time!”
—Pat Dixon, host of NYC Crime Report
“This book is as fearless as the cop who wrote it and the cops he worked with. Readers will be grateful such men exist. It should be required reading for judges, mayors, and their police chiefs who handcuff our police.”
—Charles Brandt, bestselling author of I Heard You Paint Houses
“Detective Friedman took me to a place in New York that I had only heard of, either from the newspapers or television news. He told the real story. Great book, a cop’s cop and truly a hero.”
—Bill Katzing, U.S. Department of Justice (Ret.)
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