Authors: Patrick Abbruzzi
“The rookies in the first began wearing wings over their shields, just like men in the Air Force. The wings were definitely not part of the uniform but most bosses never made an issue of it. I began to look forward to the first day of each week because I got to work in my own command. Most of the time it was a foot post but once in a while I got to ride in a patrol car with other members of the command.”
Lt. A. seemed as if he was in deep thought as he reflected on his early days as a footman.
“You know, Charlie, I truly believe that the first person you work with has a definite bearing on the kind of cop you turn out to be,” he said quietly.
Charlie was getting a little tired from driving and asked if it was okay for him to pull over for a while and rest. Thankfully, Lt. A. had no problem with his request. After finding a quiet place to park, Charlie turned off the car and took out a cigarette. He lit it and inhaled deeply as the lieutenant began describing one of the first cops he worked with.
“I will never forget one particular day in 1966 when I was assigned to a radio car in Sector D-David. This sector’s boundaries included the southern tip of the precinct, essentially South Ferry and all of Battery Park, as well as lower Broadway, Wall Street and Trinity Church.
“My partner on that tour was a ten-year veteran named Joe
Kehoeth. Joe had been dumped into the 1
st
precinct from the far reaches of the Bronx where he lived and had been assigned to a Bronx command. He had gotten himself in with the ladies and wound up being transferred to the southern tip of Manhattan as punishment. It was always reassuring to know that the majority of cops on the force considered my very first command a dumping ground. Even though Joe was still known to have a reputation with the ladies, any lady other than his wife actually, he was a good and knowledgeable street cop.
“As you know, there are certain tricks and techniques one learns from a good street cop that simply can’t be learned in the police academy. The academy can teach you to write a ticket but they can’t teach you how to control your fear when the person you are writing the ticket to says he is going to shove it up your ass when you give it to him. We really can’t go around shooting everyone who speaks nasty to us and gives us shit, now can we?” laughed the lieutenant.
Charlie laughed along with him and thanked God he had not met that person yet.
“Like it or not, Charlie, we have to learn that John Q. Citizen has a right to voice his opinion. What a good cop must learn is that the law is on his side. The good cop must learn when to write the summons and when to stop writing and place the son of a bitch under arrest. Remember, the summons is in lieu of arrest. We shouldn’t go around and lock up every one who goes through a red light but we could if we had to.
“Once we decide to make an arrest, we enter into another phase of the process and other factors come into play, giving us the right to use force if necessary. The bottom line is that a good street cop learns to be in control of his emotions and, more importantly, how to use those same emotions effectively in many different and varied situations.
“Joe Kehoeth was the type of teacher I needed at this very early stage of my career,” Lt. A. said. “He taught me about family disputes and how important it was to not trust the wife when she asked you to lock up her husband, even if you saw and heard her screaming. Most of the time that same wife or girlfriend would have a change of heart after she saw you putting cuffs on her bread-winner husband. And that,” warned Lt. A., “was when you had to be mighty careful, because that same wife or girlfriend might be coming straight at you with a frying pan.”
Joe taught Lt. A. about car stops and how being in control meant telling the person stopped to remain in the car forcefully, thereby increasing the safety area. The lieutenant then told Charlie about one particular tour he did with Joe.
It was a mild, quiet day and they were doing a four to twelve shift. They were assigned to the 1
st
precinct, also known as the financial capital of the world, and the first hours of the tour were slow moving. Several hundred thousand people work downtown in office buildings that comprise much of the 1
st
precinct and there were always hundreds of pedestrians out on the sidewalks. Patrol speed in the 1
st
was no more than 5 mph.
Joe and John had their share of assignments or “jobs,
”
as Joe taught John to call them. There were all kinds of disputes with street vendors who proliferated the area like stars filling the sky. Taxi passengers were always relying on the police to settle fare disputes with dishonest cabbies that overcharged or simply failed to turn on the taximeter. Crime in the 1
st
precinct was really unheard of except for an occasional burglary on the midnight tour or an assault stemming from fights in some of the bars down near the pier areas. However, on this night with less than one year under his belt, John was about to see some real action.
“Remember, this was in 1966 and some of the laws were different than what they are today,” Lt. A. explained. “In those days we could use deadly physical force. If necessary, we could also use our guns to shoot at fleeing felons.”
“What if the guy was unarmed? Could you still shoot at him then?” Charlie asked.
“You could shoot at any fleeing felon. It didn’t matter if he was armed or not,” Lt. A. said.
On this particular night, John and his partner Joe were on Radio Motor Patrol on Broadway near Wall Street. Most of the pedestrian traffic had dissipated and the 1
st
was starting to look like the ghost town it was noted for. They were headed down to the Battery Park area where Joe wanted to stop at the Bean Pot, a place in Lower Manhattan that waswell known for its bar fights on weekend nights. It was frequented mostly by residents of “the dog house,” which was an old seaman’s home a few blocks away that had been nicknamed by local residents who were very much aware of the squalid living conditions those old salts lived under. Even so, they could be found drinking it up on Frida
y
nights at the Bean Pot, which was not a skeljoint. When thos
e
old sailors fought, they fought hard and meant to kill, and when they wer
e
sober they were perfect gentlemen.
Although many in the area called the Bean Pot by its actual name, the 1
st
precinct old timers called it something different - they called it “a bucket of blood.”
Joe wanted to check out the new barmaid, who supposedly had huge breast
s
and was friendly to the cops. She was from Ireland and had red hair as well as
a
thick, Irish brogue.
As they were heading down Broadway, he spotted a young kid he believed was too young to be behind the wheel of a Pontiac GTO. Joh
n
was the recorder that night so Joe asked him to contact the radio dispatcher and run the plate to see if the car was stolen. The dispatche
r
responded by saying the car was hotter than the noon day sun so Joe turne
d
on the light and siren and directed the kid to pull over to the curb.
Not surprisingly, the kid took off down Broadway like a bat out of hell, trying desperately to avoid capture. As luck would have it, there wasn’t much traffic except fo
r
cab traffic and the usual amount of sightseers for that time of night was minimal. In spite of this, the kid tried to mount the curb to avoi
d
the cab traffic.
He was not a good driver.
As soon as he realized what the kid’s intentions were, Joe stressed that they had to either terminate the pursuit or stop the boy quickly before he killed someone. John thought Joe was going to end the chase and let that be the end of it, and he was right. Joe ended it by taking out his gun and letting round
s
fly while driving with one hand. Amazingly enoug
h
he got the young driver. The GTO crashed into a fence at a construction site on lower Broadway.
Joe quickly jumped out of the RMP and rushed over to th
e
completely totaled vehicle. It was leaking green antifreeze from it
s
demolished radiator and gasoline from its damaged fuel tank.
John thought there might be danger from a fire starting so he notified the dispatcher to have one piece of fire apparatus to respon
d
for a wash down. This would assure that any leaking gasoline would be washed away into the sewers and diluted.
While John called that in, Joe grabbed the kid out of the wrecked GTO. The boy was semi-conscious but Joe placed him into the rear of the squad car without calling for an ambulance.
John’s next call was for another sector to respond to safeguard the GTO, which wasn’t going anywhere. The assisting sector would await the department tow truck and hav
e
it removed to the police pound as evidence and safekeeping.
Joe wa
s
anxious to get back to the station house so he could begin his paperwork and make night court. When they arrived at the precinct they carried the kid in. He was bleeding from the shoulder as well as his wrist so the des
k
officer, an old Irish boss, directed the switchboard operator to have an ambulance respond to the station house when he saw the boy’s injuries. Th
e
desk officer directed Joe to lay the kid down on the floor, away from the desk area. The kid was conscious enough and smart enough to not answe
r
any questions without a lawyer present, which made it all the easier for Joe.
When the bus finally got there it was determined that one of Joe’
s
bullets had entered the kid’s shoulder and exited at the wrist, but absolutel
y
no one came to question Joe about the shooting. They had to send hi
s
gun to ballistics for examination but that was it. The rest went smoothly. Joe finished his paperwork and the kid went to the hospital. Joe mad
e
Manhattan night court and drew up his affidavit.
**
Eventually John was re-assigned to a foot post in Battery Park, which was an easy post. One of the last people he worked with in the 1
st
precinct befor
e
cleaning out his locker and transferring to the 120
th
was Police Office
r
Joseph Patrick MacGovern.
Joe was a twenty-year veteran and a gentl
e
giant of a man. He was 6'5" and weighed in at about 240 pounds. He ha
d
silver gray hair and spoke with a brogue. His parents had come fro
m
the old sod and he was the first in his family to enter into Civi
l
Service. He was a gentleman and a good old time cop to boot. He ha
d
entered the police force when John had been all of three years old.
One day when John was in the muster room of the precinct, Joe approached him.
“I hear that you’ve been transferred to the boondocks of Staten Island
,
kid,” said the older man.
John was surprised that Joe talked to him because most old timer
s
didn’t waste too much time with probationary officers. It was probably out of some fear that they could have been rats sent out fro
m
the Academy to uncover corruption, which was rampant in the 1
st
precinct. There were so many opportunities for cops on the take in the 1
st
precinct to make a buck. They got dirty money from the vendors, the bars, and other sho
p
keepers. John was glad he was being transferred to the ‘boondocks,
’
as Joe called Staten Island.
“I live there, Joe, so it won’t be so bad. Look at all the money I wil
l
save by not having to commute over the bridge,” John said.
“Kid, remember one thing. If you can write ‘nothing to report’ in you
r
memo book each day for the next twenty years then you’ve got the job b
y
the balls,” Joe said, smiling from one ear to the other. Then he laughed and both men shook hands. John never saw him again.
John did not realize it then but there would never be a day during the next seventeen years, while he was assigned to the 120
th
, that he woul
d
ever write ‘nothing to report’ in his memo book.
The last tour in the 1
st
was a sad one for John. He was leaving his firs
t
command as well as two of his best friends, Bruce Price and Willie Lytell.
John, Bruce and Willie had been Academy classmates and were assigned to th
e
1
st
when they graduated. They commuted together from Staten Island, al
l
being assigned to the 4
th
platoon. Bruce and Willie had not requested th
e
transfer to Staten Island, thinking they would not get it, but the
y
were wrong.