Baker A Warmer Shade of Blue

Stories About Good Things Cops Do
1. Auflage 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62488-984-4
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 121 Seiten

Today's headlines will sometimes all too often sensationalize stories involving cops to enhance their ratings or readership. Unfortunately many of those stories portray police in a negative light. But there is another side to police work that does not get reported. The side of police work that only a small part of the public gets to see. Scott Baker, former NYPD officer, describes in A Warmer Shade of Blue. Stories About Good Things Cops Do, the thing that cops want most is to help people in simple, everyday ways. These true life heartwarming stories show the real reasons cops become cops.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Baker, Scott

Leseproben

Something I Had to Do In 1985 I was on a 4 x 12 tour (4 pm to 12 midnight) in the Eight-three, and we got a call about 10 p.m. to check out a domestic dispute. Car stops and domestic disputes are the most unpredictable situations a cop is involved in, and they can become dangerous very quickly. A domestic dispute can be really volatile and turn bad very fast if we are not careful. Many times when we go to a domestic dispute, the house is a mess and so are the people, each one trying to skin the other alive with anger and obscenities, often fueled by alcohol. But this time, when we went to the residence and were let into the apartment, we got a surprise An intense argument was going on between a man and his wife, but it was sort of low key—intense, but with no obscenities. The place was neat and well kept, and we quickly determined there had been no physical violence. We told them to stop fighting, and they did. The man was tipsy, but he was just standing there, and the mother sat on a couch with her little boy on one side and her daughter on the other. She was weeping quietly, and the little boy was stroking her hair, trying to make her feel better. We wondered what was going on. These were not bad people like so many we met. There was something wrong, but we didn’t know what it was yet. We were determined not to leave until we found out what was going on so, the father took us aside and very sheepishly told us what the problem was. “I was feeling a lot of pressure. I got drunk and gambled away the supper money I had. We weren’t able to eat dinner. We started to argue.” Sometimes as a cop you are half social worker and half referee. We listened, nodded, and then I had an idea. “We’re going out for a little while,” I said to the family, “But we’ll be back.” We left and went out onto Knickerbocker Avenue. We found an all night pizza joint and got a pie and some soda and went back to the residence. The little boy was waiting for us. To this day, I can remember him framed in a window, so excited that we came back. We stayed awhile, talking, having a sort of good time because now we knew they wouldn’t go to bed hungry and nobody would get locked up. I remember thinking they were all just good people trapped in a tough life. We had another 4 x 12 tour the next night and had another idea. We bought a dozen donuts and some chocolate milk and brought them to the house. The family was so surprised to see us, and again, we lit up that little boy’s eyes. I could see that he kept looking at me. The years went by, and I got reassigned and did what we all do in our lives. I became a lieutenant, and one day in 1997, I was in my office, and there was a knock on the door. “C’mon in,” I said. The door opened and it was a rookie. He was really sharp. Clean, pressed uniform, spit-shined shoes, polished brass, trimmed hair—the works “You probably don’t remember me, “ he said, “But I remember you. You’re the reason I became a cop.” You guessed it. It was the little boy from the domestic dispute. “You and your partner helped me and my family out so much then. To me you seemed like Superman, so I decided the best way to help people was to become a cop, like you. My family always talked about those two cops who helped us.” “You know,” I said, “I remember now. You lived around Putnam Ave.” “That’s right.” “So how’s the family?” “Good. Very good. We moved to Queens awhile ago, and my younger sister is going to graduate from high school this year.” And then he showed me a picture of him and his folks at his graduation from the Academy. “How’d you find me?” “I never forgot your name, and when I was in the academy I tracked you down. I found out you were a lieutenant, and I knew there was something I had to do.” “What’s that?” He stood up straight as an arrow and saluted me. I gave him a hug, and I noticed that he had a tear in his eye. I did too. After he was gone, I thought about it. A pizza, some soda, a box of donuts—a little kindness—and a life gets changed forever.   The Greatest Thing of All Back in 1995, I was assigned to run a detail at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Pope John Paul II was coming to America, and he was going to visit St. Pat’s. I was thrilled. We practiced our security procedures, and one day about a week before the visit we were at the church when a young, neatly dressed man approached me and asked if he could talk to me about the Pope’s visit. I figured he wanted tickets—everyone who would be in the church needed a ticket. I suggested that, and he said, “No, it’s not about tickets. I have them.” “You do? What then?” “I was wondering if you could arrange for us to meet the Pope.” I’m thinking, this is the Pope, and I’m just a cop. I don’t have that kind of pull. So I said, “That’s practically impossible.” With a look of desperation on his face, he said, “My three year-old daughter Mary was given the wrong medication by a doctor, and it paralyzed her. She’s going to be that way for life. It would mean so much to us if she could meet him.” I didn’t think it was possible for me to help, so I did nothing for the next few days. But the man showed up the day before the Pope’s arrival, found me, and introduced me to his family—his wife, a little boy and adorable little Mary who was in a wheelchair. I have kids of my own, so I could only imagine what this man was feeling. I didn’t know what I could do, but it really got to me, so I had to try something. I wrote a note to Cardinal O’Connor telling him about the family’s request and that I would put them in the front line right behind the roped off area in case he and the Pope could make it there. I figured there wasn’t much hope, and when Cardinal O’Connor didn’t reply, I thought that’s that. The Pope arrived, and I was set up near the front door. He started toward us with the Cardinal, and I was still holding out a little hope. I really wanted him to pass by that guy and his family. As he approached, I was very impressed. He was not a big man, but there was an air about him that really made him seem magnificent. Unfortunately, he was oblivious to the family; his body language gave no indication that he’d pass near them. And the way the church was set up, he’d really have to go out of his way to do it. Just as he was almost past, he looked their way. I was stunned. He and the Cardinal made a quick left and a right, and then they were there. They stopped. Immediately, the family started to cry, and the Pope reached down and lifted the little girl out of her wheelchair, gave her a hug and a kiss, and then holding her in one arm, he blessed the family with his other hand. I had to fight back the tears welling up in my eyes. I know he was a great man who did great things, but to me that will always be the greatest.   The Only Way They Knew My partner and I were dispatched to an apartment building on Kissena Boulevard, a middle-class section of Queens. We got a report that a man had called in and said his grown son was going berserk, though he wasn’t assaulting anyone. Just to be on the safe side, we called for backup from another unit. We took the elevator to the fourth floor, but before going in--just as a precaution—we put our ears to the door to see if we could tell what was going on inside. We couldn’t hear anything. We rang the bell and the father, who appeared to be in his mid-sixties, opened the door. He looked down and out—his eyes were red, his hair was mussed, and he had a kind of gray look, just tired and defeated. “Hi sir, you guys call us?” “Yeah, come on in.” We stepped into the foyer, and as if on signal, we heard someone—obviously the EDP (cop lingo for emotionally disturbed person)—yelling from another room. “Noooooo,” he yells, “I don’t wanna go to the hospital. Tell them I’m not here! Tell them to go away. I’ll be goooooood. I won’t be bad any more.” The voice was deep and obviously came from an adult. But it sounded like a little boy talking. “That’s my son,” the father said. “He’s been acting up all day. My wife and I just can’t take him any more.” The man’s eyes filled with tears. “We think he belongs in the hospital. He’s beyond what we can do, but he won’t go there with us. “ “All right sir,”I said, “We’ll talk to him, but let me clear up one thing. He doesn’t have any weapons in the room or a history of violence?” “No,” the father said, looking a little embarrassed. “He’s only violent to himself. Sometimes he bangs his head against the wall.” “What’s his name?” “Marty.” “Thanks, and how old is he?” “He’s thirty-five, but he has the mental capacity of a twelve-year-old.” We nodded and headed for the back room. As we went through the hall, we passed an arch leading into the living room, and I looked in. The only light in the room was from a TV showing the video without any audio. A woman, obviously...