Paul Bacon (24 page)

I walked four blocks to the Two-eight station house and headed straight for the sign-out sheet. It was almost the end of our
tour, but the roster was not in its usual place across from the sergeant’s desk. This usually meant the boss was holding on
to it, because she needed to talk to someone in our squad before the end of the night. Either they were in trouble for something,
or they’d gotten stuck with a last-minute tour change for the following day.

I prayed it wasn’t me as I approached Sergeant Ramirez, who was sitting behind the desk and talking on the phone. When she
looked up, I quietly pointed to the sign-out sheet with a minimum of body language, hoping to go unnoticed.

The sergeant’s eyes bugged out at the sight of my face. She told her caller good-bye and hung up the phone. “What happened?”
she said. “You look like you just came from a funeral.”

I said, “You hear that big eighty-five go over?”

“Was that you?” she said.

“Basically,” I said. I made another dainty gesture toward the roster sheet on her desk. “Can I just get that for just a quick
second?”

“Oh, right,” the sergeant said uncomfortably. “I’ve got something for you.”

I watched her open her middle drawer and pull out a slip of paper that I recognized all too well. “Sorry,” she said, handing
it to me.

The print seemed smaller than usual, or maybe the pepper spray was still working on my eyes a little. I held the paper closer
and the type got blurrier, so I extended my arm and made out the following remarks:

Member
: PO BACON, P.

Notification
: COUNTERTERRORISM SECURITY DETAIL

Location
: ONE POLICE PLAZA

Report
: 4/7/05 (0000—0835 Hours)

Something about the time and date didn’t compute. I looked at my watch, then back at the slip. “That’s thirty-three minutes
from now.” “I know,” said Sergeant Ramirez. “You better get going.”

“I can’t believe this,” I said.

“It’s not as serious as it sounds,” she said. “You just sit in a booth all night. Most of them are heated.”

CHAPTER 30

I
TOOK A TWO-EIGHT PATROL CAR and reached One Police Plaza just before midnight. I would have signed in on time, except it
took me about twenty minutes to find somewhere to park. Even though the streets were deserted, NYPD headquarters was a maze
of restricted roadways, buffer zones, checkpoints, and barricades. Heightened security mea sures since 9/11 had turned the
already beefy compound into a small military base that looked and felt nothing like the city surrounding it.

I checked in with the 1PP desk sergeant and received my post, a remote security booth on the farthest edge of the facility.
I walked fifteen minutes to the booth, which sat next to a driveway leading into an underground parking garage at the foot
of the Brooklyn Bridge. Brightly lit with no signage, it looked like a back entrance for VIPs.

My partner for the night, a young midnight cop named Lawrence, was sympathetic about my getting stuck with a last-minute double
shift. “All we do is check IDs,” he told me, “so we can switch up our meals if you want to sleep first.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m parked in another precinct, I think. I doubt I’ll be sleeping tonight.”

“You can use my car,” Lawrence said. He pointed at his patrol car, which was sitting beneath a streetlight about ten feet
away.

“Thanks, but I don’t even know where I’d hide in this part of town.”

“You don’t have to hide it. Just sleep in it right there.”

“Right there,” I said. “Under the light, facing the checkpoint.”

“Sure,” he said. “I do it all the time.”

Sleeping on the clock, even during meal, was a cardinal sin in our profession. Cooping, as it was known, was punishable by
one of the worst possible penalties: the revoking of vacation days.

I declined Lawrence’s offer, and a couple hours later he showed me something I’ll never forget. He got behind the wheel of
his car and closed the door, then pulled the bill of his patrolman’s cap just below his eyes and stopped moving for an hour.
Sitting ramrod straight beneath a bright light, he looked like a mannequin in a police museum. It was the gutsiest hairbag
move I’d ever seen.

When Lawrence came back into the booth at three o’clock, I asked him, “Don’t you worry about someone coming up to you?”

“There’s no bosses this time of night,” he said.

“What about someone with a gun, or a suicide bomber?”

“A suicide bomber’s gonna get me anyway, but nobody’s shootin’ through my windows. Them shits is bulletproof.”

“I thought we didn’t have bulletproof windows. They’re too heavy or too expensive or something.”

“This is One-P-P. You don’t believe me? Take a shot.”

“I
am
tired.”

“Get some sleep then.”

“But there must be somewhere better than right here,” I said, looking out the windows of the booth.

Beyond the glare of our security checkpoint, I saw only darkness, so I stepped outside and took a short walk. Slowly my night
vision returned, and I spotted a small department parking lot only about fifty yards away. Tucked around a curve in the bridge
off-ramp, a single row of patrol cars was lined up down a gentle slope, between a high stone wall and a chain-link fence.
It was unlit, with only one way in and out, and there were a couple spots open near the end. It was perfect. I went back and
asked Lawrence if I could park his vehicle in the lot, and he said, “Yeah, if you wanna go all the way down there.”

“All the way?” I said. “I could
push
your car that far.”

I parked his vehicle in one of the open spots and turned off the engine. Just past the windshield on the other side of the
fence, I saw a sprawling multistreet intersection with no traffic. I was totally exhausted and nestled in a cooper’s paradise,
so I should have been snoring within seconds, but the front seat didn’t recline because of the partition behind it. I didn’t
think I could sleep sitting up—I’d never been able to sleep on airplanes—but there was the whole backseat, deliciously horizontal
and inviting as a feather bed. Knowing I’d want to lie on my side, I unholstered my gun and radio and laid them both on the
passenger seat. I slipped out of the front door and into the back, then assumed the fetal position. I set my watch alarm for
four A.M. and fell deeply asleep.

My alarm roused me after what seemed like a few seconds, and I sat up again feeling more tired than I had an hour before.
I tried to look out the windshield, but the scratched-up Plexiglas partition between the front and back compartments obscured
the view. Still, I could see that little had changed; the city that supposedly never sleeps was still in a coma. I had to
be on post, though, so I reached for the door handle. Pulling it once, I got no response. I pulled again harder, putting my
shoulder into the door. Still nothing.

No
, I thought,
I did not just . . .

I slid across the seat and tried the other handle. Also locked. Back to the first side. Still locked, of course. I hung my
head. I’d forgotten to turn off the inside back-door locks while I was in the front seat.

No problem, no problem, I told myself. I could see the security booth out my back window, and I could use my flashlight to
get Lawrence’s attention. I tried a discreet swirl, with no response. Then some bigger loops; still nothing. Finally I shined
it directly at his head. No reaction. He was sitting perfectly still inside the booth, hat pulled down neatly over his eyes.

“Fuck!” I shouted. My radio was on the other side of the partition, and even if I hadn’t left my gun up there, too, it wouldn’t
have helped me; the windows were bulletproof.

Sliding across the backseat in a rising panic, I scanned the empty Financial District for anyone to do the simple favor of
lifting my outside door handle. That was all I needed, but no one was around. I collapsed onto the backseat. Kicking open
a door seemed like my last good option, though I wondered what chance I had against a cage I’d once seen contain an ex-heavyweight
boxer high on angel dust. With no choice but to try, I laid on my side again and pounded away at the door with all my might.
The door pounded back just as hard.

I did have one more tool at my disposal. My cell phone was hanging on my belt. But whom to call? I didn’t know the number
to the security booth, and Clarabel was probably still dealing with her collar. I wasn’t going to reach out to anyone else
in our command. They’d come help me, sure—but I’d be a laughingstock for the rest of my career. Calling 911 was a possibility,
too. I just didn’t think I’d ever have to do that as a cop. It seemed unprofessional somehow. No, I told myself, I’ll wait
for someone to come by.

A few minutes later, a Pepsi distributor truck happened to park on the street right in front of my car. Salvation! I screamed
and waved at the driver when he got out, but he didn’t seem to notice. Banging on the window finally got his attention, and
I could see him peering in from about fifteen feet away.

I got as close as I could to the window, then shined my flashlight up at my face and yelled, “Help! Help!” The man’s mouth
fell open like he’d seen a ghost, and then he fled. He jumped right back in his truck and drove off. I thought he was just
a cop hater at first, but it occurred to me: Who’s gonna help some maniac locked in the back of a police car? I should have
pressed my shield or my arm patch against the window, not my face.

It was merely a problem of perception, I thought. So I used my finger to write,
HELP, I’M A COP,
on the steamy window, just in case someone else came along. I wrote the message backward so it could be read from the other
side of the glass. After ten minutes of staring at the message on the window, it started to look embarrassingly like an admission
of a personal problem—like I needed a therapist, not a Samaritan. Still in denial that I was in the wrong line of work, I
erased the latest evidence with a wipe of my jacket sleeve, then stared out the window for another savior to come along. A
few breaths later, my view of the outside world went all fuzzy again, except the faint outline of my distress call, which
had returned to haunt me:

HELP,
I’M A COP

“What am I doing?” I said to the glass. I grabbed my cell phone and flipped it open, then took a deep breath. After dialing
9-1-1-SEND, I waited a few rings and reached an operator.

“911,” said a woman’s voice. “What’s the emergency?”

“It’s not an emergency,” I began. “I’m an NYPD officer posted on a security detail near One Police Plaza, and I just need
one unit to come to my location. I don’t have my radio, so will you reach Central Dispatch for me?”

“No problem, officer,” she said. “Do you have a partner she can raise?”

“I do, but he’s inside a security booth.”

“Where is the security booth?”

It dawned on me that I didn’t even know where I was, other than near the Brooklyn Bridge, which was like being near Cleveland.
I also didn’t know Lawrence’s post ID, and I couldn’t use his name, because we never put names over the air. I looked out
my windshield for a landmark. I spotted some large red letters on a faraway building and squinted until I could make them
out.

“It’s near . . . Pace University,” I told her. “Or a billboard for Pace University, I’m not sure.”

“That should be fine,” she said. “I’ll contact your dispatcher right away. Just for my rec ords, what is your condition?”

“I was kinda hoping I wouldn’t have to tell you,” I said.

“Oh-ho,” she tittered. “Are you locked out of your car?”

“Actually, I’m locked
in
my car.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

She burst out laughing, and then the line fell silent without going dead. I thought it was polite of her to put me on hold
while she chuckled, but when she came back on the line about ten seconds later, I could hear a room full of people hooting
and hollering in the background.

“No problem, off—officer,” she said, trying to control herself. “Someone will be there. If not, you call us back, okay?”

“I will. Thanks,” I said meekly.

“Thank you for calling the city of New Yo—” she said, probably laughing too hard to finish the sentence with a straight face.

I sat back and relaxed. The hard part was over. I’d look like a moron to whomever came to open my door, but at least they
wouldn’t be from my home command. I might survive unscathed.

A few minutes passed, and I sat up again to look around, expecting Lawrence to walk up or a police car to come by. A few minutes
after that, I heard a siren. Then a second siren, and a third. The first patrol car entered my view from the west, streaking
across the intersection with flashing roof lights, then disappeared behind a foot of the Brooklyn Bridge. A second unit sped
in from the east and made a quick turn to the north, where it encountered two more incoming vehicles and swerved around them.
Everyone was driving around like maniacs. Why all this fuss for a low-priority assistance call?

I called 911 again with a sick feeling in my gut. At any moment, one of the careening vehicles could get in an accident, hurting
or killing some innocent bystander. I had a horrible vision of the next day’s
New York Post
. My department ID picture would be on the cover next to a picture of the civilian or fellow officer who’d fallen victim to
my unauthorized nap. The papers would call me the Backseat Cop, and I’d be guilty as charged, facing a life of shame and civil
litigation.

When an operator came on, it wasn’t the same person as before, so I had to explain myself all over again and then wait while
she put me on hold a while longer. Returning to the line, the operator told me that my original call for light assistance
had gone over the air as a ten-thirteen, which meant “officer down,” as in officer dead or officer dying.

“Call it off, please! Call it off immediately!” I begged the operator, who said she’d do what she could and then hung up.

I gazed out the windshield at the mounting catastrophe until I couldn’t bear watching any longer. Staring down at the floor
of the prisoner compartment, I realized that Bill Peters had been right: I was a danger to myself and others. He wasn’t the
only one who’d felt this way. Family members and close friends who’d seen me contorting myself into the shape of a police
officer over the last three years had all expressed their doubts. There was no arguing with them anymore. If I made it out
of this hermetically sealed cage before I ran out of air, I would never wear a police uniform again.

Outside, the ten-thirteen had caused such a stir that it finally roused my sleepy partner Lawrence from the security booth.
I saw him walking slowly down the hill into the parking lot. I shined my flashlight at him, again making loops with the beam
to catch his eye. He stopped walking about thirty yards away and pulled out his own flashlight. After making a few loops of
his own, he started walking back up the hill.

“Come back! Come back!” I screamed, pounding on the window hard enough to cut the skin on my knuckles.

Lawrence got the message and walked down to the car. He lifted my outside door handle, and, just like that, I was free.

“You all right?” he asked me.

Squinting through his flashlight beam, I looked up at him and said, “Would you accept my resignation?”

After I was sprung, Lawrence and I hurried back up to the booth and played dumb when the response team came roaring up—him
out of natural obliviousness and me in silent solidarity with the roughly seven thousand people who had false-alarmed me in
my years on the force. Luckily, no one had been hurt, and by some miracle, nobody at the Two-eight ever heard about it, except
Clarabel.

I told her the story a few days later at the station house, shortly after I’d turned in my gun and shield. I’d taken the weekend
to think about quitting, and nothing had changed my mind. When I came back to work, I gave two weeks’ notice and learned that
it wasn’t required. In fact, I was told, it was illegal for me to even put on an NYPD uniform once I’d announced my resignation.
This severe job came with severe rules, making my last day more bitter than sweet. I was ready to leave, but once I’d made
the decision, I was looking forward to my last two weeks as a cop.