Two days later we were summoned to police headquarters to meet with the commanding officer of the Narcotics Division to review the shootout. I assumed we would get all sorts of accolades and pats on the back. Not so. The police inspector leading the discussion was Joe Flynn, a well-liked and well-respected narcotics commander. He was always kind and gracious in his dealings with us. However, this time was different. He said, “You guys will probably get a medal for bravery. And you deserve it. You also deserve a smack in the head for stupidity! Who the fuck do you think you are? Executing a search warrant without first calling Emergency Service cops? You guys are too ballsy for your own good. And what was it all for? A fucking pound of white powder? You got your partner shot for a pound of white powder? You guys are lucky to be alive, and don't ever let that happen again!”
With our tails between our legs, we left his office. The point here is that, even when cops do brave things or make an outstanding arrest, if they use poor tactics or violate policy in the process, they need to be instructed accordingly. And we were.
An interesting side note to the shootout was the impact it had on the use of bulletproof vests by police officers. Each Narcotics Office usually had a half dozen bulletproof vests available for officers to wear, at their option, while executing a search warrant. While Chago was an undercover officer on this night, he was not acting in a true undercover capacity (buying drugs), so before leaving the office, he had put on a vest underneath his bulky, green army jacket. It was a decision that saved his life. The vest stopped the copper-rounded bullet from penetrating his chest. There was a deep contusion with a lot of blood, but that was the extent of the damage. That night, the vest was held up in front of the TV cameras for all to see. This incident became the cause célèbre to rally the private sector to purchase vests for police officers.
In the early years, private individuals contributed thousands of dollars to buy vests for the officers, which eventually embarrassed the city administration into accepting that as its responsibility. In the early 1980s, vests became part of the general issue equipment for all police officers. And an ironic note: one of the early contributors to the vest campaign was John Lennon, who was reported to have donated enough money to purchase a hundred vests. Years later he would be assassinated by a delusional fan in front of his Upper West Side apartment building across the street from Central Park.
3
From Sergeant to Management
I'm in the New York Times; I'm dead in the water.
—PATRICK MURPHY, CHIEF OF OPERATIONS
I had passed the police sergeant's exam in 1973 with a decent score. However, with little seniority and no veteran's preference points, I wound up ranked between eight hundred and nine hundred on a two-thousand-person list. Historically, the NYPD would have promoted up to fifteen hundred sergeants on that list, 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