The biggest thing to learn about police work is not the laws, not police procedures, it's not how to fire a gun (case in point - I've only fired mine twice a year at the NYPD Firing Range for the last 16 years), it isn't boxing or wrestling moves... all of that doesn't mean shit if you can't deal with people. Or, maybe even more importantly, by knowing how to deal with people, how to relate to them, you need to rely on the other stuff less. You learn to correct a situation before action needs to be taken.
It was late spring and we had one of those warm spring nights. The advantage to those types of nights when you have a foot post is that you know won't be freezing your ass off, like you tend to do on the cold spring nights. The disadvantage is that every skell and their mother is out on the streets, enjoying the same beautiful weather you are.
This night in particular went bad shortly after sunset. Two young wanna be gangsters decided to stick up the Taco Bell on the 44 Precinct side of Webster Avenue. I think I previously mentioned the dearth of fast food establishments in and around the 42 Precinct, my command at the time. We had a White Castle / Church's Chicken on our side of Webster, the 44 had the only Taco Bell in miles. At the same time these two knuckleheads were holding up the cashier, one of the South Bronx Narcotics Modules were entering Taco Bell in order to get dinner. Needless to say, things went downhill from there.
Apparently, the proper response to "Police! Don't Move!" is to fire in the direction of the voice while simultaneously attempting to flee the location. The gun battle proceeded to the street, and ended with one perp dead and one perp fleeing the scene to be apprehended later. No cops were inured, score one for the good guys. Except they couldn't find the shooter's gun.
This is where me and my fellow rookies came in. There were two of us walking the 42 side of Webster Ave and another two walking Park Ave as their posts. Our sergeant rounded us up to assist with the crime scene, as all shootings become such. The other three rookies were assigned to assist in the search of the missing fire arm. My job? Crowd control, as a bunch of curious onlookers and other assorted locals were milling about in the street on the 42 side of Webster Ave.
At this point, I need to paint a picture. The picture is this: Webster Ave at the location we were was approximately seven lanes wide. One parking lane and two lanes of traffic going north and the same going south. In between was a marked off area of pavement just about a lane wide giving us a total of seven lanes. My gawkers on the 42 side, the lanes going north, were not just standing in the parking lane, they weren't just blocking the right lane of traffic, but a handful were wandering into the left lane of traffic. I counted easily over 30 people when I glanced over after being given my assignment and the numbers were increasing even as I walked over.
I approached the crowd, which wasn't hard, as the fringe was basically meeting me nearly halfway.
"Folks, I need you to get back onto the sidewalk." Calm, polite, respectful... I was all that and more. The fringe backed up to clear one lane of traffic, the right lane, but there seemed to be a constant stream of people to add to the mass in front of me. I turned back to look at my sergeant. He had a shooing motion with his hands. Obviously my single lane of victory was not enough.
"Excuse me! Folks, i really need you to step back onto the sidewalk! Please!" A few heads glanced in my direction, but the events going on across the street were more exciting. Crime scene tape, big trucks with huge lights, lots of cops scrambling around looking for something. It all meant more then the lone rookie cop in front of them. I was being ignored.
I was getting frustrated. I was doing everything by the book, engaging the populace in a polite yet authoritative tone, and it was getting me nowhere. A simple assignment, and I was fucking it to pieces.
In a panic, I tried something that was against every bit of academy training I had received. I improvised.
"Yo! I needs you to get off the street! The street belongs to the PoPo! The sidewalks belongs to you'se! Gets off my street! I won't step on your sidewalk and you don't step on my street!" And they did it. Slowly at first, but with further words of encouragement reminding them who the street belonged to, and who the sidewalk belonged to, they actually cleared the street in less than a minute. Parking lane too! I was dumbfounded. What shouldn't have worked not only worked, it worked beyond my greatest hope.
I was still a bit stunned when an even more surprising event happened. Four young male blacks (as was 90% of the crowd) came upon the crowd, and desiring to see what was transpiring across the street, stepped in front of the crowd that was now wholly on the sidewalk.
Before I could say a word I heard from the front of the crowd: "Yo! Get off the street! It belong to the PoPo. We got's the sidewalk." The newcomers obeyed the instructions and joined the crowd on the sidewalk.
Policing was never the same for me after that. I had learned that to talk to people, you had to talk their language... even if you both technically spoke the same language.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
A Simple Cup of Coffee
I'm not a coffee drinker. Never have been, never will be. I can count the cups of coffee I've drunk in my lifetime in one hand. Strange, I know, with the stereotype of cops, coffee and dounuts.
It was a cold night in March of '97. My partner and I had a footpost on Fulton Street and it was cold and we were underdressed.
The Job, in it's infinite wisdom, had changed the approved uniformed winter jacket. They went from a longer, heavier jacket to what was referred to as an RMP jacket, that had elastic at the waist. If you came on before my academy class, you were grandfathered in for the old jacket, but for new jacks like us, this POS didn't keep us very warm, so we improvised.
Temperatures were in the low teens, and we both were wearing thermals, a turtleneck, a commando sweater and a neck warmer. We had the rain cover for our hats inside the uniform cap to keep some semblance of warmth on our heads, small ear muffs so our ears wouldn't drop off and we wore our white dress gloves inside our black leather gloves. We were still fucking cold.
Our beat was about 5 blocks long, running North to South along Fulton. To break up the monotony, we would go a block East or West of our post. There is only so much to see in a 5 block stretch.
By the time it hit 1130 at nite, the temperature was down to the single digits, and the thin snot from my runny nose was freezing at the tip. We stood in doorways where we could, but there wasn't a single store front on the stretch of our post.
Then we met out angel. Looking like a church lady taken from any movie's stereotypical Black Southern Baptist Church, she came out of one of the private houses from one of the side streets we were patrolling for the umpteenth time that night. If she was a day under 80 I'd be very surprised.
"Officers, that's my house over there. I seen you walking and I'm so happy to see you. The neighborhood needs folks like you."
My partner grunted something in embarrassment, and I said something to the effect of "that's why we are here", but to tell the truth, all I could think of was the bitter cold and how much worse it felt when we were standing still talking when we should have been walking.
"I'm up late every night. When you are out here, ring my doorbell and I'll buzz you in. I'll have a pot of coffee and some cups for you in the hallway. Warm yourselves. Don't worry about locking the door, it closes and locks on its own."
I must have given her a queer look, as she called me on it real quick.
"Don't look like that. It's the least I can do. We're happy your here. We need you here."
With that, she said her goodnites and walked back to her home across the street.
"Don't be expecting me to serve you. Now help yourselves to coffee."
So we did. It was good and hot. I put way too much sugar in it, but that helped me forget it was coffee. The woman, our angel, said goodnite again and walked upstairs, locking a door behind her.
There are good people everywhere, and if I ever doubted why I did the work I did, faced the dangers and dealt with angry members of the community, I remembered this woman. This angel.
With a cup of coffee she opened my eyes, and allowed me to see. The cold never seemed so bad after that.
It was a cold night in March of '97. My partner and I had a footpost on Fulton Street and it was cold and we were underdressed.
The Job, in it's infinite wisdom, had changed the approved uniformed winter jacket. They went from a longer, heavier jacket to what was referred to as an RMP jacket, that had elastic at the waist. If you came on before my academy class, you were grandfathered in for the old jacket, but for new jacks like us, this POS didn't keep us very warm, so we improvised.
Temperatures were in the low teens, and we both were wearing thermals, a turtleneck, a commando sweater and a neck warmer. We had the rain cover for our hats inside the uniform cap to keep some semblance of warmth on our heads, small ear muffs so our ears wouldn't drop off and we wore our white dress gloves inside our black leather gloves. We were still fucking cold.
Our beat was about 5 blocks long, running North to South along Fulton. To break up the monotony, we would go a block East or West of our post. There is only so much to see in a 5 block stretch.
By the time it hit 1130 at nite, the temperature was down to the single digits, and the thin snot from my runny nose was freezing at the tip. We stood in doorways where we could, but there wasn't a single store front on the stretch of our post.
Then we met out angel. Looking like a church lady taken from any movie's stereotypical Black Southern Baptist Church, she came out of one of the private houses from one of the side streets we were patrolling for the umpteenth time that night. If she was a day under 80 I'd be very surprised.
"Officers, that's my house over there. I seen you walking and I'm so happy to see you. The neighborhood needs folks like you."
My partner grunted something in embarrassment, and I said something to the effect of "that's why we are here", but to tell the truth, all I could think of was the bitter cold and how much worse it felt when we were standing still talking when we should have been walking.
"I'm up late every night. When you are out here, ring my doorbell and I'll buzz you in. I'll have a pot of coffee and some cups for you in the hallway. Warm yourselves. Don't worry about locking the door, it closes and locks on its own."
I must have given her a queer look, as she called me on it real quick.
"Don't look like that. It's the least I can do. We're happy your here. We need you here."
With that, she said her goodnites and walked back to her home across the street.
"Don't be expecting me to serve you. Now help yourselves to coffee."
So we did. It was good and hot. I put way too much sugar in it, but that helped me forget it was coffee. The woman, our angel, said goodnite again and walked upstairs, locking a door behind her.
There are good people everywhere, and if I ever doubted why I did the work I did, faced the dangers and dealt with angry members of the community, I remembered this woman. This angel.
With a cup of coffee she opened my eyes, and allowed me to see. The cold never seemed so bad after that.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Getting Out From Under
After washing my hands (yes, were are still at the apartment with the guy with a discolored grapefruit sized ball sack) my Sergeant explained to me the rest of the process for dealing with the recently deceased.
The deceased's family had arrived (they were waiting in the living room) and I was to bring one into the deceased's bedroom to remove his ring (because we knew where his hands had been, but they didn't need to know). After the family left, and if they didn't leave fairly promptly I was to encourage them to do so, I was to await the "Meat Wagon". The guy from the Medical Examiner's Office that takes away the recently deceased. That wait could be hours, as in a city of over 8 million people, folks are constantly dying and the "Meat Wagons" rolls 24/7.
The Sergeant mentioned on his way out that one of the CPOP Cops (a Police Officer that walks a Community Beat) was going to drop off the "Toe Tag". That's the piece of paper you see in movies and the occasional cop show, tied to some dead guy in the morgue's big toe. The body can't be moved without a "Toes Tag", and after filling it and having the guy from the "Meat Wagon" sign it, I was to tear off the end and return it to the desk officer at the station house upon my return. Oh, and he'd also be bringing me a door seal, which I would attach to the door frame and door after the body was removed from the bedroom.
I was beginning to learn that dead folks were a heck of a lot of work.
The family ushered themselves out fairly quickly. They were pleasant and apologetic, which made me feel guilty, as it wasn't really anyones fault that the guy had died. I told them the EMTs had unclothed him in an attempt to save him, but he was already gone. The sheet was to ensure his modesty. They didn't need the image of his self gratification as their last sight of him. Come to think of it, neither did I, but at least he wasn't a relative of mine.
I settled in on the couch, watching TV. As South Bronx apartments went, it was fairly clean and wasn't totally roach infested. Not to say there weren't roaches, but unlike the worst offending apartments, whatever roaches there were avoided light and open spaces.
About an hour or so the cop came with the "Toe Tag" and the door seal arrived. He had about 10 years on and genuinely enjoyed his job. He also had no problem giving a rookie free advice, and I am ever glad that he did.
"Just to let you know, he's gonna ask you to take the bottom. Don't!" he told me.
I made a face, not quite sure what he was referring to.
"When the ghoul from the M.E.'s Office gets here, he's going to tell you he needs help carrying the body out. Don't worry, he'll body bag it on his own, but he'll ask for help carrying. He'll suggest you take the bottom, as it's lighter. Don't do it."
"But if it's lighter, he's doing me a favor..." I let myself trail off, as I observed a head shaking no.
"If you take the bottom, he's going to let the body slip and the shit's gonna take you down a flight of stairs and he'll just laugh his ass off as you try and crawl out from under."
I thought this was probably bullshit just to get the rookie paranoid. But then maybe not. I figured I'd await the M.E.'s Office and decide then.
The "Meat Wagon" actually came about 15 minutes after the other cop left. I guess not too many folks were dying in The Bronx that day.
The ghoul (and he was a ghoul if you ask me) was about 5' 5" and all neck. Seriously, he reminded me of a wide fire plug. All business as he came in, I showed him the bedroom and he quickly went to bagging the deceased. It seems like he was done in less then 2 minutes. It really was that fast.
He wheeled him out of the bedroom on one of those collapsible gurneys you see on ambulances. I sealed the door with the seal and gave the ghoul the "Toe Tag", which he stuck into a pocket on the body bag and gave me my receipt. Then the moment came.
"Listen, I can't use the gurney to take this guy down the stairs, so we are going to have to carry him. You can take the bottom, it's lighter."
Holy shit! The CPOP guy was right! This fucker wanted to see me go backwards down a flight of stairs with "Mr I Jerked Myself to Death" on top of me! Wasn't going to happen.
"It's okay, I've been sitting around for hours, I'm pretty rested. I'll take the top."
"You sure? The top can get kind of tricky. The bottoms better." If he was a cat, he'd have had that "I just ate the canary" kinda sheepish look.
"I've got the top. Just don't go too fast, I wouldn't want to drop him."
The deceased's family had arrived (they were waiting in the living room) and I was to bring one into the deceased's bedroom to remove his ring (because we knew where his hands had been, but they didn't need to know). After the family left, and if they didn't leave fairly promptly I was to encourage them to do so, I was to await the "Meat Wagon". The guy from the Medical Examiner's Office that takes away the recently deceased. That wait could be hours, as in a city of over 8 million people, folks are constantly dying and the "Meat Wagons" rolls 24/7.
The Sergeant mentioned on his way out that one of the CPOP Cops (a Police Officer that walks a Community Beat) was going to drop off the "Toe Tag". That's the piece of paper you see in movies and the occasional cop show, tied to some dead guy in the morgue's big toe. The body can't be moved without a "Toes Tag", and after filling it and having the guy from the "Meat Wagon" sign it, I was to tear off the end and return it to the desk officer at the station house upon my return. Oh, and he'd also be bringing me a door seal, which I would attach to the door frame and door after the body was removed from the bedroom.
I was beginning to learn that dead folks were a heck of a lot of work.
The family ushered themselves out fairly quickly. They were pleasant and apologetic, which made me feel guilty, as it wasn't really anyones fault that the guy had died. I told them the EMTs had unclothed him in an attempt to save him, but he was already gone. The sheet was to ensure his modesty. They didn't need the image of his self gratification as their last sight of him. Come to think of it, neither did I, but at least he wasn't a relative of mine.
I settled in on the couch, watching TV. As South Bronx apartments went, it was fairly clean and wasn't totally roach infested. Not to say there weren't roaches, but unlike the worst offending apartments, whatever roaches there were avoided light and open spaces.
About an hour or so the cop came with the "Toe Tag" and the door seal arrived. He had about 10 years on and genuinely enjoyed his job. He also had no problem giving a rookie free advice, and I am ever glad that he did.
"Just to let you know, he's gonna ask you to take the bottom. Don't!" he told me.
I made a face, not quite sure what he was referring to.
"When the ghoul from the M.E.'s Office gets here, he's going to tell you he needs help carrying the body out. Don't worry, he'll body bag it on his own, but he'll ask for help carrying. He'll suggest you take the bottom, as it's lighter. Don't do it."
"But if it's lighter, he's doing me a favor..." I let myself trail off, as I observed a head shaking no.
"If you take the bottom, he's going to let the body slip and the shit's gonna take you down a flight of stairs and he'll just laugh his ass off as you try and crawl out from under."
I thought this was probably bullshit just to get the rookie paranoid. But then maybe not. I figured I'd await the M.E.'s Office and decide then.
The "Meat Wagon" actually came about 15 minutes after the other cop left. I guess not too many folks were dying in The Bronx that day.
The ghoul (and he was a ghoul if you ask me) was about 5' 5" and all neck. Seriously, he reminded me of a wide fire plug. All business as he came in, I showed him the bedroom and he quickly went to bagging the deceased. It seems like he was done in less then 2 minutes. It really was that fast.
He wheeled him out of the bedroom on one of those collapsible gurneys you see on ambulances. I sealed the door with the seal and gave the ghoul the "Toe Tag", which he stuck into a pocket on the body bag and gave me my receipt. Then the moment came.
"Listen, I can't use the gurney to take this guy down the stairs, so we are going to have to carry him. You can take the bottom, it's lighter."
Holy shit! The CPOP guy was right! This fucker wanted to see me go backwards down a flight of stairs with "Mr I Jerked Myself to Death" on top of me! Wasn't going to happen.
"It's okay, I've been sitting around for hours, I'm pretty rested. I'll take the top."
"You sure? The top can get kind of tricky. The bottoms better." If he was a cat, he'd have had that "I just ate the canary" kinda sheepish look.
"I've got the top. Just don't go too fast, I wouldn't want to drop him."
More Posts Forthcoming
Yeah, I was kinda laid out since the 5th. Not totally, tho I did take 3 days off from work (and the weekend in between). It's just that you need to be in the right mindset to write these pieces, and being on antibiotics and fighting off an illness certainly isn't the right mindset.
I'm feeling more like myself, so hopefully later today or tomorrow I'll have another piece up. The Tavern might also get a new Dragon video today. I'll see how far I can push myself ;)
I'm feeling more like myself, so hopefully later today or tomorrow I'll have another piece up. The Tavern might also get a new Dragon video today. I'll see how far I can push myself ;)
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Friday, December 30, 2011
52 Year Old Prostitute Still Working the Point (I Collared Her Back in the Day)
52, and Still Working the Streets
Julie Glassberg for The New York Times
Barbara Terry, 52, has worked nearly her entire adult life as a prostitute in the Hunts Point section of the Bronx. She hopes to retire in a year or so to a house she bought upstate.
By COREY KILGANNON
Published: December 30, 2011
LIKE many single mothers, Barbara Terry, 52, scrounged for baby sitters and leaned on her own mother while raising her four children and working the night shift.
But Ms. Terry is a prostitute who has worked nearly her entire adult life on the streets of Hunts Point, in the Bronx..
Yes, she said, she was arrested more than 100 times, sometimes landing at Rikers Island for several days or weeks — but that never deterred her from returning to this area of industrial warehouses and repair shops off the Bruckner Expressway.
By day, heavy industrial traffic fills the streets. By night, the traffic comes for other reasons. Years back, this prostitutes’ “track” bustled with working women, and Ms. Terry was front and center in garter belts and high heels and fur coats.
“It was beautiful out here then,” she said. “There was so much money out here, you wouldn’t believe it.”
The area is less active now than in the 1990s, when HBO made its “Hookers at the Point” documentaries, in which Ms. Terry appeared under a street name, Cleo, and flashed a youthful, toothy smile.
Those great teeth are gone, lost to diabetes, Ms. Terry said. She mostly works days now and dresses more conservatively. “Most women don’t make it to my age out here,” she said. “I call myself the last of the survivors.”
While it is impossible to corroborate all the details of an eventful life in a profession often synonymous with drug abuse, violence and tragic outcomes, the Correction Department confirmed that Ms. Terry had been jailed many times for prostitution over her career.
Today, Ms. Terry lives nearby in the Bronx, but she hopes to retire in a year or so to a house she bought upstate, she said on Tuesday at her usual spot on Whittier Street. She had a supply of condoms in her purse, a plastic cup of vodka and orange juice in her hand and a cellphone for steady customers.
Those customers, dates or tricks, can be lawyers, city workers, husbands, fathers or truckers heading in and out of the sprawling Hunts Point food markets.
Then there are the psychos. All the women out here have had friends attacked or cut or dumped dead somewhere. Last year, a man was arrested, and recently sentenced, for terrorizing prostitutes in the Bronx with a razor.
“I’ve survived because God was with me,” Ms. Terry said. “Every Sunday, my mother and grandmother prayed for me out here.”
She has shown younger workers the ropes: how to jump in a Dumpster to hide from the police, and how to stay alive. First, never enter a car with more than one person in it, and never let someone drive you out of the area. Get your money up front — Ms. Terry charges $50 or $100 — and try to work with a buddy.
“You look for weapons, you check the back seat, and you go by your vibes,” she said. “If they look strange, you stay away.”
There have been close calls, like the time a trucker locked her in and tried to rape her.
“I never did drugs and never worked for a pimp for protection,” she said. “What protection? If I’m in someone’s car, about to die, ain’t no pimp in there helping me.”
“I never carried a blade,” said Ms. Terry, who grew up in the Red Hook Houses in Brooklyn before her family moved to North Carolina for her teenage years. “My fists were my weapons. I learned to fight growing up with nine younger brothers.”
Ms. Terry said she completed two years of college, training to be a medical lab technician, but by the time she was 21, her husband had left her and she had two children to support. All she knew about prostitutes was what she saw on “Starsky & Hutch,” but she knew about the Hunts Point action and came out on her own. She admits she became addicted to the stimulation of the street life.
“I love the excitement of coming out here and seeing all these beautiful people I know,” she said. “Even my dates are a comfort. This place has made me strong. It keeps you young.”
But she has slowed down. A year ago, she was in a bad accident and was hospitalized with a broken jaw and neck injuries. Her children, two of whom she says she put through college, beg her to get off the street.
“I’m the mother, so they can’t say anything,” she said. “When I’m ready to get off, I’ll get off.”
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/01/01/nyregion/at-52-a-prostitute-still-working-the-streets.html?src=me&ref=nyregion
Thursday, December 29, 2011
It's Just a Numbers Game
The job is a numbers game. I know, because the end of the year is when all the numbers get tallied up. It's a busy time, and I've been busy getting my unit's numbers together to present at the beginning of the new year (just in case you are wondering why there have been no new posts in the last week).
The numbers game starts the moment you hit the streets. They expect a book (20) or more parking summonses per month per rookie, a handful of moving violations and one or two Criminal Court ( C ) summonses. Oh, and an arrest a month. Get on the sheet early kid, or you'll be hunting for that collar (arrest) as the month winds down.
As a rookie, I had a day where I wrote a book of parking summonses before meal time. There was a spot that was a ticket well of sorts - an automotive parts store without a parking lot. It had a bus stop and a fire hydrant in front of it. Both were places that you weren't allowed to park. It's not a secret. Everybody knew, they just didn't care. They paid it so little mind, they would see me standing near the bus stop sign, park right in front of me and walk into the store. It wasn't fishing in a barrel. It was the fish taking the hook in the own fins and piercing their own lips.
Easy numbers. Rookies rarely got in trouble for making or exceeding their numbers. Senior guys understood the rooks were on probation and they had to produce. If I had 2 years or more on and pulled a book of parkers in 3 hours, my locker would have found its way into the shower, upside down. Cops police themselves.
The job is always a struggle between management, that has "productivity goals" (because a quota would be against the law) and the rank and file, that tend to rebel against the idea that in addition to answering jobs, making reports, assisting EMS and whatnot, they are expected to write summonses / tickets.
What management sees as a tool to evaluate productivity, the cop sees as a turning him from his role as a police officer to one of a revenue generator. Most cops see a ticket as a way to correct a poor action by another, and in many cases would rather not issue it (although I hear things may be different in the Commonwealth of Virginia).
Still, in the end, it's just another number. Crimes, arrests, summonses issued, stop/question/frisk reports written, vertical patrols, checkpoints (and the summonses written), traffic court cases won and lost, days on patrol, days in court, days out sick, overtime earned (cash and time separately counted) - all these and more define both the department and it's employees. Heck, you are even identified by two numbers: your shield number and a six digit tax number.
You are just a number, made up of other numbers - at least, that's how it seems you are looked upon as the higher ranks look down. The higher the rank, the more you look like a number. Except for the handful of bosses that rise through the ranks, and still see their cops for what they are. Not just numbers but names.
Ah well, I need to go back to my numbers. ;)
The numbers game starts the moment you hit the streets. They expect a book (20) or more parking summonses per month per rookie, a handful of moving violations and one or two Criminal Court ( C ) summonses. Oh, and an arrest a month. Get on the sheet early kid, or you'll be hunting for that collar (arrest) as the month winds down.
As a rookie, I had a day where I wrote a book of parking summonses before meal time. There was a spot that was a ticket well of sorts - an automotive parts store without a parking lot. It had a bus stop and a fire hydrant in front of it. Both were places that you weren't allowed to park. It's not a secret. Everybody knew, they just didn't care. They paid it so little mind, they would see me standing near the bus stop sign, park right in front of me and walk into the store. It wasn't fishing in a barrel. It was the fish taking the hook in the own fins and piercing their own lips.
Easy numbers. Rookies rarely got in trouble for making or exceeding their numbers. Senior guys understood the rooks were on probation and they had to produce. If I had 2 years or more on and pulled a book of parkers in 3 hours, my locker would have found its way into the shower, upside down. Cops police themselves.
The job is always a struggle between management, that has "productivity goals" (because a quota would be against the law) and the rank and file, that tend to rebel against the idea that in addition to answering jobs, making reports, assisting EMS and whatnot, they are expected to write summonses / tickets.
What management sees as a tool to evaluate productivity, the cop sees as a turning him from his role as a police officer to one of a revenue generator. Most cops see a ticket as a way to correct a poor action by another, and in many cases would rather not issue it (although I hear things may be different in the Commonwealth of Virginia).
Still, in the end, it's just another number. Crimes, arrests, summonses issued, stop/question/frisk reports written, vertical patrols, checkpoints (and the summonses written), traffic court cases won and lost, days on patrol, days in court, days out sick, overtime earned (cash and time separately counted) - all these and more define both the department and it's employees. Heck, you are even identified by two numbers: your shield number and a six digit tax number.
You are just a number, made up of other numbers - at least, that's how it seems you are looked upon as the higher ranks look down. The higher the rank, the more you look like a number. Except for the handful of bosses that rise through the ranks, and still see their cops for what they are. Not just numbers but names.
Ah well, I need to go back to my numbers. ;)
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