Paul Bacon by Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All Page A
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in and out of the main facility three times. With each rehearsal, we’d gotten further from achieving
our goal, which was to fill in every seat on the Garden floor before the end of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” The
official NYPD graduation song ran a little over three minutes, which, on our final try, was about five minutes too short.
The long periods after the song ended had been awkward and tense. Walking past empty bleachers, all I’d heard was the aimless
patter of unsynchronized footsteps. That, and the ranting of our graduation choreographer, Officer Skinhead. The man who’d
tormented me at orientation in Brooklyn six months ago was back. Like before, he stood on a stage and shouted absurdities.
Only now, he spoke through a sound system designed to overpower eighteen thousand screaming hockey fans. He seemed to think
he could speed us up by micromanaging our every step and turn. “Not so wide! Pivot!” I heard him tell someone. “Shave off
that corner, recruit! This ain’t no barbershop!”
Our fourth run-through was the real deal. When the familiar Ba-ba bada-da started to play, I heard the crowd screaming like Ol’ Blue Eyes himself was waiting in the wings. Our line started moving
up the ramp with newfound vigor. I reached the Garden floor halfway through the song and stared around in wonder. There wasn’t
an empty seat in the place. It was 360 degrees of pure joy: flashbulbs, waving hands, and people jumping up and down in the
aisles. When the music ended, no one in the audience seemed to care. They kept cheering as the white-gloved recruits marched
to their seats, faces glowing with pride and relief. I tried to hold back the first few tears that welled up in my eyes. The
next fifty or sixty, I didn’t bother.
CHAPTER 13
T HE DAY AFTER GRADUATION, I was sitting on an uptown C train with a garment bag draped across my legs. A duffel bag sat between
my feet, which I could not stop tapping on the floor. No longer a recruit, I could commute to work in my civilian clothes,
but I was feeling more self-conscious than ever. Above my head, an electronic station map charted my path into the unknown.
As the numbers went higher—Seventy-second Street, Eighty-sixth Street, Ninety-sixth Street—so did my pulse. At 110th Street,
all the other white people got off the train, and I swallowed hard. I was in Harlem now. I looked around at the remaining
passengers, all of them African-Americans, and forced a smile. An elder ly woman sitting on the other side of the car smiled
back. Of course the old people are nice, I told myself.
I got off the subway at 135th Street and walked briskly to the Three-two station house. I watched the passing cars closely
for signs of an ambush. A silver sedan with tinted windows drove by me, then slowed down for no apparent reason. Its shiny
rims kept spinning even as the wheels came to a stop. Custom-made rims were common where I’d grown up in California, but in
New York City they were gangster accessories. I imagined a machine gun pointed at me on the other side of the dark glass.
Was I being paranoid? Maybe. Would it kill me to pick up the pace? No. I tried to jog away from the blingmobile. With my hands
full of gear, the best I could do was gallop. I turned down a side street while looking over my shoulder and bumped into a
man about my age who was coming the other way.
We both fell to the sidewalk, and I apologized profusely as I helped him back to his feet. He didn’t say a word as he brushed
himself off, so I gathered up my bags and walked away. Then, he yelled, “Yo, officer!” How presumptuous, I thought. Just because
I’m white, that means I’m a cop? I turned around and saw him waving a small, shiny object over his head. “You dropped your
badge!” he shouted.
Two blocks from the precinct, I started to realize that Harlem wasn’t so scary, at least not this part. It didn’t look all
that
our goal, which was to fill in every seat on the Garden floor before the end of Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” The
official NYPD graduation song ran a little over three minutes, which, on our final try, was about five minutes too short.
The long periods after the song ended had been awkward and tense. Walking past empty bleachers, all I’d heard was the aimless
patter of unsynchronized footsteps. That, and the ranting of our graduation choreographer, Officer Skinhead. The man who’d
tormented me at orientation in Brooklyn six months ago was back. Like before, he stood on a stage and shouted absurdities.
Only now, he spoke through a sound system designed to overpower eighteen thousand screaming hockey fans. He seemed to think
he could speed us up by micromanaging our every step and turn. “Not so wide! Pivot!” I heard him tell someone. “Shave off
that corner, recruit! This ain’t no barbershop!”
Our fourth run-through was the real deal. When the familiar Ba-ba bada-da started to play, I heard the crowd screaming like Ol’ Blue Eyes himself was waiting in the wings. Our line started moving
up the ramp with newfound vigor. I reached the Garden floor halfway through the song and stared around in wonder. There wasn’t
an empty seat in the place. It was 360 degrees of pure joy: flashbulbs, waving hands, and people jumping up and down in the
aisles. When the music ended, no one in the audience seemed to care. They kept cheering as the white-gloved recruits marched
to their seats, faces glowing with pride and relief. I tried to hold back the first few tears that welled up in my eyes. The
next fifty or sixty, I didn’t bother.
CHAPTER 13
T HE DAY AFTER GRADUATION, I was sitting on an uptown C train with a garment bag draped across my legs. A duffel bag sat between
my feet, which I could not stop tapping on the floor. No longer a recruit, I could commute to work in my civilian clothes,
but I was feeling more self-conscious than ever. Above my head, an electronic station map charted my path into the unknown.
As the numbers went higher—Seventy-second Street, Eighty-sixth Street, Ninety-sixth Street—so did my pulse. At 110th Street,
all the other white people got off the train, and I swallowed hard. I was in Harlem now. I looked around at the remaining
passengers, all of them African-Americans, and forced a smile. An elder ly woman sitting on the other side of the car smiled
back. Of course the old people are nice, I told myself.
I got off the subway at 135th Street and walked briskly to the Three-two station house. I watched the passing cars closely
for signs of an ambush. A silver sedan with tinted windows drove by me, then slowed down for no apparent reason. Its shiny
rims kept spinning even as the wheels came to a stop. Custom-made rims were common where I’d grown up in California, but in
New York City they were gangster accessories. I imagined a machine gun pointed at me on the other side of the dark glass.
Was I being paranoid? Maybe. Would it kill me to pick up the pace? No. I tried to jog away from the blingmobile. With my hands
full of gear, the best I could do was gallop. I turned down a side street while looking over my shoulder and bumped into a
man about my age who was coming the other way.
We both fell to the sidewalk, and I apologized profusely as I helped him back to his feet. He didn’t say a word as he brushed
himself off, so I gathered up my bags and walked away. Then, he yelled, “Yo, officer!” How presumptuous, I thought. Just because
I’m white, that means I’m a cop? I turned around and saw him waving a small, shiny object over his head. “You dropped your
badge!” he shouted.
Two blocks from the precinct, I started to realize that Harlem wasn’t so scary, at least not this part. It didn’t look all
that
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