the steel gate of the corner bodega. “Yes, officer, mon, yes.”
Chr istopher Tatum couldn’t understand the lack of respect that the police get. He walked his steady foot post every day that he came to work on Linden Boulevard in the vicinity of Utica Avenue. Yet, some of the guys out on the corners would simply disrespect him by drinking an open beer or smoking a joint right in front of him, just as the Rastafarian he was searching had done.
Tatum pulled a brown folding knife from the Rastafarian’s pocket and placed it into his own back pocket. He carefully checked the man’s waistband and swept his hands across the man’s legs, from his waist to his ankles. He ran a hand across the man’s back and then grabbed the red, yellow and green knit cap from the man’s head and tossed it to the ground. The man’s three foot long dread locks which had been contained within the hat sprang free. Nasty , thought Tatum.
After completing his search and knowing that the man didn’t have anything on him that could be harmful, Tatum asked the man for his identification. The man handed him his New York State benefit card, Tatum then ordered the man to sit on the curb. A welfare card; what a shock. He probably bought his weed with it.
Tatum stood under the awning of the bodega, turning his body in such a way that the reflection of the street lamp off of the yellow and red awning provided enough light for Tatum to examine the man’s identification. Tatum took his cell phone from his pocket and called the precinct SP9 operator to run the man for warrants. Once the computer check was complete, Tatum began to write the man a summons, noting the time—it was already eleven-thirty.
As Tatum asked the man questions which he needed to fill out the universal summons, the Rastafarian informed Tatum that he was six feet tall and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds. Tatum looked the man up and down agreeing with the man’s depiction as Tatum was the exact same height and weight. Only Tatum felt that he was in much better shape and that his hair was certainly much better groomed. Tatum tore out the pink copy of the summons and handed it to the man, explaining that he had to appear in court next month to answer to the charge or a warrant would be issued for his arrest.
“Next time, be a little smarter. If you see me coming, get rid of the joint.” Tatum continued to lecture the male. “Respect is a two way street out here.”
“Yes, mon, I’m sorry, officer,” the man said as he began to walk away. Then he stopped in his tracks turning back to Officer Tatum. “Officer mon, can I have my knife back?”
Tatum withdrew the knife from his back pocket and threw it at the man’s feet. Traffic was pretty light this time of night; even for a busy intersection like Linden and Utica. There were a decent amount of people and vehicles at the fast food chicken restaurant and some intermittent pedestrian traffic going into the all night bodega on the opposite corner but other than that, there were not a lot of people around. Most of the stores were closed.
Tatum started to walk away when he noticed what looked like a dark blue unmarked department auto parked in front of an apartment building on Linden Boulevard about fifty feet from Utica Avenue. He knew it wasn’t the Precinct’s Anti-Crime team; they didn’t have any dark blue unmarked cars. He strained to see who was in it. There seemed to be only one man inside; a white man. Since this area was less than one percent white, he decided that it may be Internal Affairs. Tatum would make sure that he didn’t leave his post early tonight. It’s a beautiful night anyway. I don’t mind being out here .
In truth, he didn’t mind being on a foot post—and he knew that Linden Boulevard was his. He also knew that he had to be careful because he wasn’t liked by the local drug dealers—he must have arrested close to a hundred dealers and
Chr istopher Tatum couldn’t understand the lack of respect that the police get. He walked his steady foot post every day that he came to work on Linden Boulevard in the vicinity of Utica Avenue. Yet, some of the guys out on the corners would simply disrespect him by drinking an open beer or smoking a joint right in front of him, just as the Rastafarian he was searching had done.
Tatum pulled a brown folding knife from the Rastafarian’s pocket and placed it into his own back pocket. He carefully checked the man’s waistband and swept his hands across the man’s legs, from his waist to his ankles. He ran a hand across the man’s back and then grabbed the red, yellow and green knit cap from the man’s head and tossed it to the ground. The man’s three foot long dread locks which had been contained within the hat sprang free. Nasty , thought Tatum.
After completing his search and knowing that the man didn’t have anything on him that could be harmful, Tatum asked the man for his identification. The man handed him his New York State benefit card, Tatum then ordered the man to sit on the curb. A welfare card; what a shock. He probably bought his weed with it.
Tatum stood under the awning of the bodega, turning his body in such a way that the reflection of the street lamp off of the yellow and red awning provided enough light for Tatum to examine the man’s identification. Tatum took his cell phone from his pocket and called the precinct SP9 operator to run the man for warrants. Once the computer check was complete, Tatum began to write the man a summons, noting the time—it was already eleven-thirty.
As Tatum asked the man questions which he needed to fill out the universal summons, the Rastafarian informed Tatum that he was six feet tall and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds. Tatum looked the man up and down agreeing with the man’s depiction as Tatum was the exact same height and weight. Only Tatum felt that he was in much better shape and that his hair was certainly much better groomed. Tatum tore out the pink copy of the summons and handed it to the man, explaining that he had to appear in court next month to answer to the charge or a warrant would be issued for his arrest.
“Next time, be a little smarter. If you see me coming, get rid of the joint.” Tatum continued to lecture the male. “Respect is a two way street out here.”
“Yes, mon, I’m sorry, officer,” the man said as he began to walk away. Then he stopped in his tracks turning back to Officer Tatum. “Officer mon, can I have my knife back?”
Tatum withdrew the knife from his back pocket and threw it at the man’s feet. Traffic was pretty light this time of night; even for a busy intersection like Linden and Utica. There were a decent amount of people and vehicles at the fast food chicken restaurant and some intermittent pedestrian traffic going into the all night bodega on the opposite corner but other than that, there were not a lot of people around. Most of the stores were closed.
Tatum started to walk away when he noticed what looked like a dark blue unmarked department auto parked in front of an apartment building on Linden Boulevard about fifty feet from Utica Avenue. He knew it wasn’t the Precinct’s Anti-Crime team; they didn’t have any dark blue unmarked cars. He strained to see who was in it. There seemed to be only one man inside; a white man. Since this area was less than one percent white, he decided that it may be Internal Affairs. Tatum would make sure that he didn’t leave his post early tonight. It’s a beautiful night anyway. I don’t mind being out here .
In truth, he didn’t mind being on a foot post—and he knew that Linden Boulevard was his. He also knew that he had to be careful because he wasn’t liked by the local drug dealers—he must have arrested close to a hundred dealers and
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