Paul Bacon
Authors: Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All
Tags: #Biography & Autobiography, #Personal Memoirs
BAD COP
BAD COP
New York’s Least Likely Police Officer Tells All
PAUL BACON
This book is based on a true story. To protect identities, some incidents have been combined, and all criminal suspects and
NYPD members of service are depicted as composite characters, except the narrator and the cat.
Copyright © 2009 by Paul Bacon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from
the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Bloomsbury
USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Published by Bloomsbury USA, New York
All papers used by Bloomsbury USA are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in well-managed forests. The manufacturing
pro cesses conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
LIBRARYOFCONGRESSCATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Bacon, Paul.
Bad cop : New York’s least likely police officer tells all / Paul Bacon.—
1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-1-60819-195-6
1. Bacon, Paul. 2. Police—New York (State)—New York—Biography. I. Title.
HV7911.B25A3 2009
363.2092—dc22
[B]
2008034856
First U.S. Edition 2009
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Typeset by Westchester Book Group
Printed in the United States of America by Quebecor World Fairfield
For Beth
CHAPTER 1
Y
OU LEARN A LOT of things in three years with the New York City Police Department. Some of these things are indispensable
bits of wisdom and tactical knowledge, the kind that impress the hell out of first dates and job interviewers for the rest
of your life. But most are along the lines of this pearl of NYPD wisdom: “Pepper spray only works on cops and innocent bystanders.”
I’d heard this particular saying many times, but I never wanted to believe it. It sounded like just another depressing thing
to mutter about our jobs between snack breaks, another excuse to sit back and not try anything too risky.
So it came as a shock when my partner, Officer Clarabel Suarez, took aim at a suspect one night in Harlem and pepper-sprayed
me right in the mouth. In that instant, years of good intentions went up in flames, along with my lips and taste buds. It
wasn’t the most brilliant move on her part—opening a can of liquid whoop-ass in a small, windowless room—but I didn’t fault
her. The situation had called for it. We’d been wrestling this muscle-bound, coked-up shoplifter around the Old Navy security
office floor for almost a minute, and we still hadn’t handcuffed him. (If a minute doesn’t seem long enough to break out a
chemical weapon, consider how you might feel after trying to bring down a grizzly bear high on crack for the same period of
time.)
“Watch out, Bacon!” Clarabel had shouted. “I’m using my spray!”
I froze in position—that is, with my head stuck between the shoplifter’s steamy armpit and the cold cement floor. With 250
pounds of perp between me and the coming onslaught, I figured I’d be safe.
Alas, as Clarabel shot off her spray, the supernatural magnetism of my cop face pulled the stream toward me, bending it around
body parts and funneling it between my lips. The perp, naturally, was totally unfazed and kept gyrating on top of me.
The electrifying pain in my mouth sent me into a kind of seizure, firing every muscle in my body until I broke free of the
shoplifter’s massive frame. I wiggled my way out from under him on my elbows, then rose to my feet and leaned against the
door to catch my breath. Gazing down at the perp, I watched him flopping around like a deranged elephant seal, his hands pressed
behind his back to prevent us from cuffing him.
“
Shoot me, officer! Shoot me!
” he began shrieking. “
I wanna die! I
wanna die!
”
He had a surprisingly high-pitched voice, I noticed, especially for a man his size. He kept screaming like a ten-year-old
girl while banging his thirty-five-year-old head very hard against the wall. He recoiled in pain after each impact, then pounded
away again.
I should have done something to stop him, but I just stood there thinking,
All this because he’d tried to steal a couple of ugly sweaters
. Now he wanted us to give him the death penalty on the spot rather than take him to court. Knowing that we’d be babysitting
this basket case for the next twelve hours if we put him through the system, I was tempted to grant his request.
Getting a better look at him, I noticed some unusual contours beneath his billowy white dress shirt. They looked like . .
. no. Were they
breasts
? The possibility brought to mind a strange comment the Old Navy security guard made when Clarabel and I’d first responded
to the call.
“He, she, whatever,” the security guard had chuckled to himself while leading us to the back of the store. “
It
seems more appropriate.”
I remembered the security guard had given me the perp’s welfare card, so I took it out of my pocket and looked at it carefully.
I saw a picture of a bemused individual with a thick neck and a wide, flat brow. Next to this prizefighter’s mug was the perp’s
name: “Geraldine Harris.”
Geraldine?
I hadn’t heard that name since
The Flip Wilson
Show
. Judging by the perp’s date of birth, he was about the same age as I was. That meant that, like me, he would have been a
pubescent boy when Flip Wilson was playing a woman on television. Three decades and an apparent sex change later, he was a
she. And, just as unlikely, I was a cop.
The fact that I’d been on the receiving end of Clarabel’s mace, and not the other way around, was no coincidence. She wore
the pants in our partnership out of necessity. Perps and crazy people were smarter than they got credit for, having a sixth
sense about which cops were willing to use force. I tried to act mean when I had to, but I was sure my suspects knew that
if they resisted, I wouldn’t give them a beating like some officers might. This may sound noble (or at least law-abiding),
but in fact it was often against my professional interest. Instead of looking like a serious authority figure, I came off
more like a tackling dummy.
So I maintained a safe distance while Clarabel squatted down by my assailant’s body and tried to flip her over. She grunted
and heaved to no avail, then widened her stance for better leverage and tried again. Finally Clarabel looked up to see if
I was going to help her. It was only then that she realized she’d just sprayed me down like a patch of Kentucky bluegrass.
“Oh, shit,” she said, her eyes widening. “Did I get you?”
I wanted to swoon, but I never admitted weakness to Clarabel, especially when she was in a zone. When she was high on adrenaline,
she expected Herculean efforts from everyone around her. Even though I was having some trouble breathing, I shook my head
and said stoically, “No. I’m good.”
It seemed my act was a bit too convincing. Clarabel, holding her manacles in one hand, wrinkled her nose and lost what remained
of her composure.
“Well,” she snapped, “you mind helping me get these goddamn cuffs on?”
Why bother? I thought, certain that I had lost all sense of humanity. Three years earlier, I would have done almost anything
to stop people from hurting themselves. But now, another cynical cop milking the city payroll, I just wished Geraldine would
hit her head hard enough to knock herself out.
CHAPTER 2
B
EFORE I JOINED THE FORCE, I was the last guy you’d expect to become a cop. Guns made me queasy, and I’d never been in a fight.
I’d never won an argument or even tried to. Nor was I all that concerned about battling crime, since it didn’t seem to be
battling me. As a child, I was raised on military bases and in cushy bedroom communities, where the most violent offense was
ignoring a speed bump. Later I lived in Japan, the land of conformity, and I moved to New York City after its dramatic shift
toward safer streets. Sometimes, walking blissfully home from a bar at two in the morning, I wondered if criminals existed
at all.
So if you’d asked me as a kid what I wanted to be when I grew up, cop would have been well down the list—somewhere after snake
charmer and go-go dancer. I rarely watched cop movies or cop TV shows, and I’d never read a detective novel. These types of
entertainment were all about bad guys, and I had a weird aversion to this concept. I’d been raised partly in Christian Science,
a religion that didn’t believe in bad guys, or anything bad for that matter. To dwell in badness was a form of sin—“mental
malpractice,” they called it.
Before I became a cop, I’d spent five years working from my Manhattan apartment, describing Web sites for a major online directory—essentially
blowing little puffs of air into the great Internet bubble. I made my entire living working about three hours a day in my
underwear. I had to pinch myself sometimes, I was so happy. The pay was great, the uniform was comfortable, and I had no boss
looking over my shoulder.
I had, in fact, never met my boss, and I never would. The first time I heard my editor’s voice was in early 2001, after the
Internet bubble had burst. Her phone call came while I was getting out of the shower, and I was still in my birthday suit.
I didn’t actually feel naked until I picked up the phone and heard street noises in the background: engines revving, horns
honking, people shouting.
“I’m afraid I have bad news, Paul. There’s going to be some big . . .” my editor told me before she interrupted herself to
talk to someone else. “Penn Station, please,” she said, presumably to a cab driver. I heard a door slam, the noise disappeared,
and she continued. “Sorry. There’s going to be some big cutbacks because of the economy, and they’re letting you go.”
My wet hair still dripping into my lap, I took a few seconds to process this news. “Are you firing me from the backseat of
a taxi?” I said.
“The office is like a funeral today,” she explained. “I had to get out of there.”
“They’re not letting you go, too, are they?” I said.
“Oh, no, I’m getting promoted,” she said. “Anyway, I’m really sorry. You did a great job for us. Call me anytime you need
a recommendation.”
My first thought was to ask if she could recommend somewhere for me to find another job. My virtual workplace meant I had
a virtual network of colleagues, which meant I had no network at all. I’d gone five years without adding a single business
card to my Rolodex. Luckily, all the time I’d spent tapping away at my computer keyboard had left me with at least one marketable
skill: I could type faster than most people talk. So I interviewed with a temp agency and got a clerical job right away. It
was a long-term assignment with a company based in the Wall Street area, a neighborhood I usually only visited on Rollerblades.
Back when I was a cyber commuter, I used to enjoy skating through the densely packed Financial District during business hours.
The traffic was always slowed to a crawl, making it relatively safe to weave between cars, and the glum look on everyone’s
faces made me feel young and alive in comparison. I used to mock the people who worked on Wall Street. Now I was one of them.
I worked there for a few months, filing, answering phones, showing off my superhuman word processing, and keeping up my hobbies
on the side. I had settled into the new job nicely. The money was steady, the work wasn’t taxing, and my colleagues were no
less pleasant to me on foot than they had been on skates. I couldn’t work in my underwear, but even in the mandatory business
casual it was a lot easier to meet girls than it had been in my apartment.
Then, one early autumn morning on my way to work, I was walking down a subway staircase when I was stopped cold by the loudest
sound I’d ever heard in New York: the deafening roar of a low-flying jet. After six years here, I’d grown used to extremes
of noise, so I just figured that planes were flying lower now, and I would eventually stop noticing. I did look up, out of
curiosity, but all I saw was an empty sliver of clear blue sky between the buildings on West Fourteenth Street. I continued
down into the station.
After a mysteriously long ride with many unannounced stops, I emerged downtown at Rector Street to a scene of mass curiosity.
Instead of staring at their feet and brushing past each other, people were talking to strangers and pointing at rooflines.
I followed their fingers to a column of thick black smoke high above my head. I couldn’t see where it was coming from, so
I thought: Big deal, a fire. I stopped in at a deli to buy coffee and a chocolate croissant, then walked the two short blocks
to my employer’s building on Broadway.
Reaching our office on the twenty-sixth floor, I went to the empty corner conference room, as I normally did to eat my breakfast
in peace. When I sat down and looked out the window, I noticed that the smoke was pouring out of the south tower of the World
Trade Center, so close to our building that it blocked out most of the sky. It was a shocking thing to see, but it wasn’t
all that upsetting. I hadn’t been in New York for the first terrorist attack on the Twin Towers in 1993, and all I could think
was how a big spectacle like this might make my boring day in the salt mines a little more interesting. The fact that thousands
of people were trapped inside didn’t even occur to me.
I hustled out of the conference room in search of coworkers who might know what was going on. I was surprised to find the
normally bustling office totally deserted. I went back into the conference room to continue gaping out the window by myself.
When helicopters started buzzing around the Financial District, it dawned on me that a fire in the World Trade Center would
be a major media event. I didn’t have a television nearby, so I called a friend in Washington, D.C., a news junkie named John
who kept his TV tuned to CNN every waking minute.
When John picked up, I said, “Guess what
I’m
looking at.”
He guessed correctly on the first try. Then he gave me the whole story, including news that the north tower, which lay hidden
from my vantage point, had also been hit. Sounding worried, John said, “So, you think maybe it’s time to get out of there?”
“Out of the city?” I said. “I’ve been thinking about it.”
“I mean out of your building,” he said.
“No way,” I said. I’d survived countless earthquakes while living in Northern California and in Japan, and I’d made it back
from places like Beirut and Azerbaijan despite the warnings of my friends. I had a front-row seat to something big here. I
wasn’t going to leave until someone dragged me off.
“You sure you want to stick around?” John asked me.
“They already hit both towers,” I said. “What more could they want?”
“Well, the Pentagon just blew up, and there’s another plane missing somewhere over Pennsylvania that may be heading your way.”
“Oh,” I said.
“What floor are you on?”
“The twenty-sixth.”
“That’s pretty high up,” he said.
“Not by New York standards,” I told him, clinging to denial.
“Still,” he said.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
As I said this, the hole in the side of the building suddenly grew from about three stories high to five or six. The change
was nearly imperceptible from forty-odd floors below, and I wasn’t sure if I even saw it. Then came the unmistakable sign:
The black smoke pouring out of the hole changed directions, getting sucked inward, as if the fire were taking a breath. It
didn’t last long, but it made me realize in a horrible flash that things were bad and going to get worse.
The floors beneath the point of impact collapsed onto each other so fast it seemed as though nothing but air had ever separated
them. As they cascaded downward, they created a roar ten times louder than the jet flying over my head that morning, and caused
the floor beneath me to shake like no earthquake I’d ever felt. A sudden increase in outside air pressure pushed open a few
of the windows in the conference room, allowing me to hear what sounded like a few thousand people screaming on the street
below.
Just then, my boss burst into the room and shouted, “Goddammit, Paul. What the FUCK are you doing?” like this was all
my
fault. I dropped the phone without saying good-bye to John, then ran into the hallway and slammed the conference room door
behind me.
I decided to make myself useful, to find something to do other than freak out. The phone on the receptionist’s desk began
ringing off the hook, so I slid into her empty seat and started taking calls from hysterical friends and relatives of our
staff. But since nobody else was in the office, I couldn’t answer anyone’s questions. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” was all I could
say, and I kept saying it, over and over.
The only caller to whom I could give a firm answer was a fellow temp named Cliff.
“What’s going on?” Cliff whined over the phone. “The subway’s not running.”
“The World Trade Center,” I panted. “It’s under attack!”
“It’s what?” An aspiring opera singer, Cliff often bragged about not owning a tele vision.
“It’s under attack.
We’re
under attack!”
“Very funny,” said Cliff. “Listen, I’m gonna have to ride my bike in today, so just tell Bob I’ll be a little late.”
“No!” I said. “Don’t ride your bike in! Don’t come in at all. You have the day off. Trust me on this.”
About ten minutes after the second tower fell, a security guard walked into our office and ordered Bob and me to the basement,
insisting that we take the elevator. It was reassuring to see that someone was taking charge, but while we were waiting for
the lift, I noticed a sign on the wall.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, the sign said, DO NOT RIDE ELEVATOR.
“Um, shouldn’t we take the stairs?” I asked the security guard.
The guard shook his head as though he’d grown tired of answering this question. He waved me toward the emergency staircase
with a condescending smile and said, “Be my guest.”
I walked over to the stairs and opened the door. Peering inside, I saw that smoke and ash from the fallen towers had reached
up inside our building as high as the twenty-sixth floor and beyond. I closed the door and waited in front of the elevator.
After sitting in the basement for thirty minutes, the security guard gave us the all-clear to go home. Out on the street,
tawny brown dust covered every surface like a layer of fresh snow, and a dome of metal-colored smoke closed the horizon to
about ten yards away. For all I could tell, every skyscraper in the city could have fallen in the last half hour. The Financial
District was scattered around my feet in heaps of ashes, with scraps of charred memos and newspapers littering the ground
like confetti.
I joined an exodus of thousands leaving the Financial District on foot. Ambling up the FDR Drive, I happened to witness my
first friendly exchange between a New Yorker and a member of the police department.
The young male officer was very calmly keeping watch over the crowd as we made our quiet and cooperative march up the drive.
A middle-aged woman walking beside me seemed overcome with joy that he was still on his post.
“Thank you,” she said, grasping his hand and shaking it. “Thank you, thank you. Thank you.”
The cop nodded and winked as we passed by, as if it were just another day at the office.
Prior to this encounter, I had only seen cops at odds with the citizens of New York, either shouting or being shouted at.
I didn’t know civilians could share a moment like this with the hated men in blue.
Like a lot of my neighbors, I woke up the morning of September 12 completely scrambled, but also aware that many people were
much worse off than me. So I joined the hordes of sudden philanthropists who lined up in front of Saint Vincent’s Hospital
to donate blood. But because few of the victims survived the attacks, there was little need for blood. I moved on to the next
places I thought I could be useful: the makeshift emergency headquarters at Chelsea Piers and the Javits Center, where I’d
been told people were signing up to volunteer in the cleanup efforts.
Late that afternoon, I was waiting with a long-faced group outside the Javits Center when a call came for “laborers” to be
transported to the Trade Center site. The crowd—a handful of youngish men, desk jockeys like myself, from the looks of it—instantly
came to life. Sure, we could labor. We’d come to do something, and now we were going to do it.
After about fifteen minutes, a city bus rolled up and six of us strode to the doors, charged with purpose. The guy at the
front rolled up the sleeves of his French-blue dress shirt, and in the back, I wished I hadn’t worn a T-shirt so I could do
the same. But as our line of faux foot soldiers started to penetrate the vehicle, we seemed to be losing momentum. When I
got inside and turned toward the back of the bus, I could see why. Except for the six of us, straight out of the pages of
Maximum Golf
magazine, the bus was packed with burly, suntanned men who looked as if they spent a lot of their work time outdoors. They
had tool belts. They had hard hats. We did not. We were weekend warriors, and we knew it. Making my way down the aisle, I
looked only one of these laborers in the eye, to apologize for stepping on the steel-reinforced toe of his work boot. He didn’t
seem to have noticed. None of the men I had boarded with acknowledged each other for the rest of the ride. I assumed this
was for fear of being kicked off the bus.
