The Turnaround: How America's Top Cop Reversed the Crime Epidemic (51 page)

“This isn't the way we do policy. It's a leak, and I want the people responsible found, and I want them dealt with.”

The Hall was telling us, “It's a great plan, it's just not the time for it.” But there wasn't anyone in my command staff who wasn't convinced that if the
Daily News
headline had read “Rudy's Juggernaut,” the plan would
have been in place immediately, and we would have been well on our way to historic crime decreases and a much safer city much sooner.

We could not move forward with the plan on our own; it required coordination with other city agencies, including corrections, the courts, and the district attorney's office. Without mayoral support, the plan was effectively dead.

(We continued to lobby for it, and some fifteen months later, on April 1, 1996, a modified version of Juggernaut was finally authorized as the Brooklyn North Drug Initiative. This time there were no leaks, and the mayor officiated at its announcement. As anticipated in the original plan, shootings and homicides in that zone were quickly reduced by 40 percent, an effect, but for politics, that we could have had eighteen months earlier. My one great regret is that the benefits we experienced in 1996 were not felt in 1995. The decline in crime for Brooklyn North in 1996 was 50 percent greater than in the rest of the city.)

As 1994 ended, Dave Scott and Joe Borrelli retired. I moved Charlie Reuther over from OCCB into Borrelli's spot and named Timoney my first deputy. Marty O'Boyle moved from chief of narcotics to head up OCCB. Louis Anemone moved up to chief of department.

First deputy commissioner is a civilian job, and I didn't know whether Timoney wanted to take the uniform off. I told him I was perfectly willing to change the organization and have everyone report to the chief of department, if that's what he wanted. Timoney's career goal was to become commissioner. He made no bones about it, and I supported him; he would make a great commissioner. (I couldn't help thinking back to 1982 and the
Boston
magazine article.) First deputy is the stepping-stone, and Timoney told me, “If I want to be number one, I have to be number two.”

The announcement of Timoney's promotion was a proud moment. Here was an Irish immigrant, tough as nails, who had risen in the ranks to become the number two man in the department. Timoney and a half dozen of us went to the mayor's office, Timoney thanked him profusely, had a photo taken, then had the promotion announced in the Blue Room, where the mayor usually meets the press. The mayor spoke, then I spoke. Afterward, in answer to a question from a reporter, Timoney thanked me for the confidence I had shown in him. Timoney went back to the mayor's office and again thanked the mayor personally.

Peter LaPorte felt an edge in the air. Cristyne Lategano, he noticed, did not seem happy. I can't say I noticed.

Timoney was in the shower when he got beeped. Go to Gracie Mansion. No reason given. He was scheduled to be the keynote speaker that evening at the black-tie Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick's founders meeting. He put on a tuxedo with a red bow tie and cummerbund. He called me. I didn't appreciate their summoning my first deputy without notifying me first. I went to Gracie Mansion with him, uninvited.

We arrived and were ushered to the basement conference room by the mayor's security detail. Miller, Maple, Timoney, and I used to joke about this room being Rudy's Star Chamber. It was where one Sunday evening they had brought Schools Chancellor Ramon Cortines, who had made the mistake of arriving by himself and shortly thereafter was forced out of office. Presently, Denny Young and Peter Powers entered. They were not happy to see me. We sat across the table from one another. Powers said to Timoney, “You didn't thank the guy who gave you the job.”

“I thanked him and shook his hand before the press conference, I thanked him and shook his hand after the press conference.”

“Yes, but when the TV cameras were on, you didn't do it.”

“What are you, nuts?”

“Look, we all owe our jobs to him.”

“Are you kidding me?” Timoney was incredulous. Why was I not surprised?

I had sat there and watched my second in command get raked over the coals long enough. “I resent you reaching out to my first deputy and bringing him up here behind my back. Who do you people think you are?”

Powers snapped back, “Don't you try and change the subject. We'll talk about that later on.”

“No, we won't.” The idea that they would try to intimidate my most powerful aide was more than a little troubling. This was clearly a broadside at my authority, as well as an abuse of one of my men. Powers and I went at each other for a while. Powers had a choirboy public image, soft-spoken and almost deferential. In reality he was the mayor's hatchet man: assertive, demanding, and one of the toughest people I'd ever encountered in government.

Finally, playing good cop/bad cop in front of two cops—who did they think they were kidding?—Denny Young tried to act as peacemaker. “I'm glad we got together and got to iron this out.”

“Iron what out?” said Timoney. “You're crazy!”

This had happened because John Timoney had not thanked Rudolph
Giuliani
publicly.
No matter how well you did your job, in this administration that one act could get you added to the enemies list and eventually fired. If you were not part of the cultlike following, willing to drink Kool-Aid at a moment's notice, you were suspect.

Timoney was an excellent first deputy. He had a realistic view of police work and a great and sympathetic understanding of the rigors of the job. He knew the difference between the book and the real world; he was both a throwback and a progressive, a unique crime fighter with respect for both the letter and the spirit of the law. And he was always looking out for the cops. Maybe that's what did him in with the Hall; his allegiance was focused in the wrong direction. Giuliani and Powers had vowed to break the NYPD and bring it under their control and that effort was clearly continuing.

Our 1994 crime numbers came out. Overall crime was down 12.3 percent. Shooting incidents fell by 16.4 percent. Murders were down by 18.8 percent, 385 fewer murder victims. Our strategic intent had worked, we had surpassed our goals. It was time to set new ones. In 1995, I told the department we wanted a decrease of 15 percent; nothing less would be acceptable.

Our numbers startled the media. As it began to look like we had a new and effective way of handling this seemingly insolvable problem, we started to get noticed. The press office was deluged with calls.

Because the reporting on crime shapes fear, from day one I had intended to marry
The New York Times.
I wanted the paper of record to tell our story, and I went out of my way to make the
Times
understand what we were doing. Like Babe Ruth, we were predicting where and when we were going to hit the home run. Unlike the tabloids, which would gen-erate great headlines and public support, the
Times
would reach the decision and influence shapers, nationally and internationally. In one of our first interviews, I encouraged Clifford Krauss, the
Times
police bureau chief, to pay close attention to what went on here; we were going to deliver on our promises, but the larger story would be how we did it. In November, Krauss had written a front-page story under the headline “Bratton Builds His Image as He Rebuilds the Police,” which ran for almost a full page inside and was both a profile of me and my team and an overview of our techniques. Once again, City Hall was not happy.

As far as the Hall was concerned, Miller's office had become nothing
more than a fifth column, undermining all the efforts to Giuliani-ize the city. They thought that office was my own publicity machine generating stories about me personally. In fact, the public-information office spent a significant part of its time fielding reporters’ questions about the daily incidents of crime and special events in New York City, which is the lifeblood of the local television and papers: How many people were at the demonstration? When was the suspect arrested? Where was the shooter? They didn't go out of their way to create a media frenzy, they responded to news stories in an effort to help the many reporters who covered the crime beat, both in New York City and around the world. They also answered hundreds of questions from average citizens each day. It was one of the busiest offices of its type in America and, like the rest of New York, it ran seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day.

By keeping to accurate information, the media could also deliver our message to the public, the cops, the bad guys, the politicians, and the country, and we made it our policy to take every opportunity to have the message delivered properly. We encouraged ride-alongs, in which reporters rode with cops during their shifts. We trusted that when most reporters saw the conditions and pressures a police officer works under, they would identify with the cops and write their stories accordingly. Every ride-along had the potential to be a mini–
NYPD Blue
, get great ratings, and help tell our story. Nevertheless, City Hall felt threatened. In February 1995, they told Miller to cut his staff. It was the first broadside by the Hall in what was to become an unrelenting effort to micromanage the Police Department.

There were thirty-nine people in the DCPI's office, twenty-nine cops and ten civilians. Miller was told he could keep seventeen. (The mayor's press office employed eighteen.) LaPorte received that message from Denny Young. Then the message changed. Not only would the staff be cut in half, but all Miller's people would be reassigned, and an entire new staff, chosen by City Hall, put in place. They were attempting to take over the operation. I sent Timoney to City Hall with Deputy Commissioner of the Office of Management and Budget Joe Wuensch and his aide Mike Butler. They met with Giuliani's chief of staff, Randy Mastro.

Mastro was pasty-faced and not very diplomatic. “The mayor wants the staff cut in half,” he told my guys. “We've got an operation to run.”

Timoney is not an extremely politic man. “Who the hell do you think you're talking to?” John has what's known in our circle as the “Timoney look,” the visual equivalent of his jumping over a desk and choking
someone. Mastro said, basically, “Please, leave me alone. This is what the mayor wants.” The mayor's staff at all times seemed very scared of their boss. “There's nothing further to talk about.”

The next day, Mastro called Timoney. “We want that list of the people you're redeploying. We want to know where they're going.”

“Fine,” Timoney told him, “I'll talk to Miller.”

“We want it in ten minutes.” He sounded as if Giuliani were standing next to him, terrifying him with what Timoney called “Rudy rage.”

“Get real. We're talking about people's careers here. We've got to find places for them to land. These are loyal cops, you're not going to just dump them out somewhere, that's not how we do business.”

“We want it done in ten minutes!”

“Slow down. I'll get back to you.” Of course, Timoney didn't get back to him.

An hour later: “I want this thing now!”

“Calm down.”

I called Denny Young. “Denny, what's going on here? You want something done, we'll do it. We will carry out the mission to reduce crime and disorder, that's what we're hired to do. But why are we getting this kind of interference?” Young didn't have a satisfactory answer. We knew without having to be told. This was the latest in the continuing effort to bend the police department to total submission under their control.

Miller, Timoney, Maple, LaPorte, and I huddled in my office for several hours to discuss our options and didn't return calls from the mayor's staff. I had scheduled a meeting with the mayor for four o'clock. I'd say what I had to say then. People knocked on the door and called through, “City Hall says, ‘Call immediately!’” Timoney piped up, “Tell them to screw themselves!” You can imagine the rage the Hall was in by then.

I said, “If they push this Miller thing, I'm going to resign. I'm not going to take this; this is getting crazy.”

Up to that point, Timoney and I had had a good professional relationship. This made it personal. He said, “We should all resign. All of us. We should go over en masse and resign.” I was taken aback. Why would this man be willing to give up his twenty-five-year career for my battle? But he was. Timoney was a moralist, and he was offended that the department was being usurped and treated with such disrespect. Maple and LaPorte followed suit, though more reluctantly. We all had tremendous financial issues at stake; none of us had money. To lose a good job with little possibility of immediate reemployment would have been very difficult.

LaPorte's intelligence sources were working overtime. Word came to us that the Hall would accept our resignations. “If you're thinking of resigning,” he was told, “don't worry, your resignations will be accepted.” We were giving the thought serious consideration.

Cheryl came into the office. Miller had called her and told her he was going to resign. She had then called me, and I told her I and the others were contemplating resigning also. “Don't do anything,” she'd said, “I'm coming down.” Cheryl was one of my most trusted advisors. She walked in with a tin of homemade cookies. We were sitting around, cursing and looking for a magic solution that would make City Hall act reasonably. She asked, “Are there any adults here? The testosterone level seems really high.”