Nothing to Report (10 page)

“Charlie, are you ready to work tonight?” asked the boss.

“Yes sir.”

“Good. We’re going to have the borough Task Force meet us at those kiddie bars down on Bay Street,” Lt. A. explained.

The kiddie bars were a series of bars along Bay Street as well as certain side streets. In the early seventies the United States Navy decided that Staten Island’s north shore ports, with its easy access to the Atlantic Ocean, were perfect for harboring parts of the North Atlantic fleet. Much effort and money were put into dredging efforts to make the existing ports deep enough to sustain and berth the naval armada that soon would call Stapleton, New York, home. The United States Army had moved out of Fort Wadsworth at the southernmost tip of Bay Street and the United States Navy had moved in. Millions of dollars were spent building homes and quarters for all the naval personnel soon to arrive and businesses of all kinds began to pop up along the waterfront and the adjacent neighborhoods. Bars and restaurants, such as delis and grocery stores, sprang up and proliferated. Where there used to be one Chinese restaurant in the space of two miles there were now a dozen. Stapleton,
Rosebank, Fort Wadsworth, Tompkinsville and Saint George all wanted the Navy’s business before they made it into Manhattan and the great white way.

After a few years of dredging and around-the-clock construction, the Navy families moved in and, wouldn’t you know it, the Navy changed its mind and went elsewhere. The families moved away and their housing became quiet, abandoned shells. As a result, the bars that would have become havens for dry-throated naval personnel transformed into asylums for teens from Brooklyn and New Jersey. They became drug emporiums and soon were the base of operations for gangs, such as the Bloods and the Crips, to exercise their will and muscle. It was not uncommon to have one or two
shootings each and every weekend in one of these bars.

Lt. A. made it crystal clear to the officers at roll call that he was going to make collars and check I.D.’s. He enlisted the assistance of the Patrol Borough Staten Island Street Crime Suppression Unit, which would be working at least until 2:00 A.M., as well as the Borough Task Force. They would all remain there until needed.

Lt. A. knew and had worked previously with the commanding officers of those units who were also lieutenants. He had worked under them as a police officer but, after making Sergeant quickly, had risen to Lieutenant and now relished calling his previous boss’ by their first names.

At approximately 1:00 A.M. and after all units had consumed at least one cup of coffee, they met in the parking lot of the Western Beef supermarket on Bay Street. This location was several blocks away from the main drag of bars.

One bar in particular, the
Wavecrest, was known for allowing its rowdier patrons to fight with weapons as well underage patrons to both enter and consume alcohol.

The Lieutenant’s plan was simple enough. First, the unmarked cars would pull up and the plainclothes officers would enter and strategically position themselves inside. At a given signal within a given time frame the interior lights would be turned on by those officers and the uniformed officers outside would enter the location and block the exists, allowing no one to exit or enter.

At 1:15 A.M. the plainclothes officers entered the Wavecrest and at 1:20 A.M. the uniformed force went in. The lieutenants of all three units entered together.

“Nobody move a fucking muscle!” shouted Lt. A.

People tried to shove their way past the three bosses but were quickly stopped by the officers guarding the doors. The sound of metal hitting the floor was so obvious it was almost funny. The plainclothes officers who had entered first arrested everyone who discarded a weapon. There were knives, guns and even brass knuckles. Patrons who seemed underage were asked for I.D. and several arrests were made for forged driver’s licenses.

The Lieutenant personally gave the bartender a summons for operating a disorderly premise, which hopefully would lead to its
closure by the State Liquor Authority. The arresting officers who made the collars at the Wavecrest removed their prisoners to the 120
th
and began their paperwork in the 2
nd
floor arrest processing office. Any and all arrests made on Staten Island were taken to the A.P.O., which served as the borough’s central booking location.

The lieutenant and other bosses grouped outside the bar and, after a brief conversation, dismissed several units to return back to their commands to either sign out or finish up the remainder of their tour. Lt. A. had several of the 120
th
precinct units remain behind on a side street, which really threw Charlie for a loop. After several minutes the units waiting with the lieutenant heard what sounded like gunfire and saw several youths running down Bay Street. Lt. A. had all those waiting converge from all sides and the rowdy teens were grabbed and placed under arrest without incident.

Upset that some of their fellow gang members had been arrested in the earlier raid, the disgruntled teens decided to shoot out store windows in the area. During the arrests, several guns were confiscated. Naturally, the store owners were elated and, as a show of thanks, they often invited the officers and their families to come to dinner. However, the borough Commander would have personally lynched the first cop who partook of a free meal or handout.

One might often wonder what the difference is between all the testimonial awards and dinners that top officers receive for the work the beat cop does for them as well as the free cup of coffee that same beat cop has to hide from the brass. It was no secret that the borough Commanding Officer, Assistant Chief Carmine
Dragonetti, didn’t want anyone to make waves in his borough or upset his apple cart of ruling with an iron fist. He was dead set against vehicle pursuits and emphatically stated there would be none in his borough, intentionally forgetting the fact that they were allowed in other boroughs as well as the written guidelines for those pursuits. Dragonetti didn’t care if the pursuit was to apprehend a traffic violator or a cop killer. He threatened every single officer and supervisor with a transfer out of Patrol Borough Staten Island, which meant a transfer off of Staten Island. He frowned on unorthodox police work and actually called men on the carpet for reducing crime and removing guns of the street.

The man had no balls and everyone knew it. As a result, they ignored his ranting. Lt. A. and the other bosses had no doubt that they would eventually have to face the chief, but they didn’t care.

Dragonetti was a little man with a hook nose who smoked a cigar that was as big as his ego. He used too much black hair coloring in a vain attempt to appear youthful, but it didn’t work. There was also a rumor that he had lied about his age to remain on the force. He spoke a language called profanity because every other word out of his mouth was fuck and cocksucker. He belittled men and supervisors without care of their rank. He had no shame. It had been more than one cop on the late tours in the 120
th
and 122
nd
who had chased a speeding, dark Chevy over the Verrazano Bridge in the wee hours of the morning only to sadly find out that they were chasing a speeding Chief Dragonetti coming home from a late night poker game at Police Headquarters in Manhattan. No one dared to pull him over once they realized it was a department car with the chief inside.

Dragonetti had been a sergeant during the time that Lt. A. was a rookie cop in the 120
th
and he broke Lt. A’s balls at every opportunity. In spite of his lesser rank, Lt. A. wasn’t afraid of the chief and Dragonetti knew it.

**

It all came to a head one night when Lt. A. practically accused the Chief of being a liar. The men in the precinct had not heard much about it but Lt. A. filled Charlie in later with many of the sordid details. It was a long story that began with one of the late tour sergeants, who frequented Harry’s place while off duty, with his squad of men. The rule book emphatically stated that a supervisor should never socialize with his men because he might find himself in a work situation where he would have to discipline them.

It’s the old saying that warns how familiarity breeds contempt. Sergeant
Kellin always stopped at Harry’s after work with the guys and seemed to be well liked by them. He wasn’t a rookie sergeant but a veteran cop with good supervision time under his belt.

“One day while Sergeant
Kellin was working his late tour in Zone 1, which covers Jersey Street, he saw one of the men in his squad who had reported in sick. As you know, the rule book says if you are out on sick report, you must remain in your residence,” Lt. A. explained to Charlie. “The cop took his chances but was observed by his squad sergeant in his very own precinct. He had been visiting his girlfriend on Jersey Street and should have been more careful.
”


“What did
Kellindo?
”
asked Charlie.

“Well, the Sergeant had several options available to him. He could have ignored it, chosen to quietly speak in private to the offender at a later time, or written him up. Sergeant Kellin chose the latter.”

The offending man was an officer who was off duty as well as a cop in the sergeant’s own squad. He had never been called in on the carpet for any infractions and was considered a good producer. He was also someone the sergeant hung out and drank with on occasion.

“Sergeant Kellin became a rat to each and every man on the late tour, Charlie.”

The Lieutenant could not and would not outwardly agree with the men but Charlie knew the boss would have never written up one of the guys who wasn’t even working the tour and had not interfered with any police operations of the night. The offending officer eventually got transferred out of the borough, but for the men of the late tour it meant that headquarters brass would now turn on the heat and increase outside supervision.

At one of our roll call meetings, with Sergeant
Kellin present, Lt. A. addressed the troops and explained how he was concerned about the situation. He reiterated that he was not one to pull punches or to draw things out, and that, for whatever reason, the heat was being turned on and it was going to feel like hell out there for a while. He also stressed that, for what it was worth, he would be the target. He was the late tour Platoon Commander and the buck stopped there. The bosses from the ivory tower in headquarters would be looking for the smallest infractions, so he emphasized to the troops to have their memo books up-to-date and be careful with their radio dispositions. He said to them, “If they get you, they’ve got me.” He reiterated that Sergeant Kellin had made a decision and, right or wrong, it was his job to make decisions, like it or not. Now they had to stick together until they were out of the spotlight.

“The majority of the men knew it had been their own Sergeant who had brought down the oncoming wave of supervision that might get even more of them in trouble,” Lt. A. explained. “They also knew that this same Sergeant, the one they had broken bread and drank with, had first come to me for my opinion. Scuttlebutt had it that I had explained how to handle the incident in a positive way and with minor discipline but with nothing that would have included outside brass from headquarters.”

Charlie knew the Sergeant had not taken the Lt. A.’s wise advice and now all the late tour had to suffer, especially the lieutenant, who would be directly responsible and held accountable for any violations uncovered by the brass. The men knew they would all have to play by the book for a while.

All except Officer Jack Donnelly.

Nine

Police Officer Jack Donnelly had been best friends with Officer Jamal Green, the officer who had been visiting his girlfriend on Jersey Street after calling out sick and who was subsequently transferred because of Kellin’s action.

Donnelly took it one step further. Most of the men heard him making threats about
Kellin, saying he vowed to get him, but everyone thought it was just careless talk. No one thought he would ever follow through with any of those threats, but he did.

It was the cell attendant’s responsibility on payday to maintain control over the little metal strongbox which held the entire command’s paychecks that had been delivered earlier in the day by messenger for the borough command. Also included in this box were the sign off sheets. Each member of the command had to sign next to his name to validate that their check had been received.

On the following payday Sergeant Kellin arrived for work at his normal time, which was approximately 11:00 P.M. As was usual custom for a payday, he made his way over to the cell block to get his paycheck from the cell attendant, but the cell attendant could not find it. When checking the sign off sheet, they quickly realized a signature was affixed next to Kellin’s name, albeit forged.

The sergeant was livid! Now the precinct had an internal theft to investigate, which meant Internal Affairs would have to be brought into it. As a result, the precinct went from the frying pan right into the burning fires of hell.

Lt. A. went bug fuck and spoke to the troops that very night.