Washington, D.C., May 1969
I worked in the Fifteenth Precinct in the northwest part of the city, a short block from Georgia Avenue, a principal urban corridor. After a year of cajoling, my friend Mike had signed up with the Metropolitan Police Department (MPDC), completed “Rookie School,” and was assigned to my precinct. A converted old brick colonial, the station house’s gray slate roof had seen a half-century of winters. On the main floor, cheap partitions replaced walls, and government furniture made in federal prisons was dropped everywhere. Painters, apparently, had been told to use light green or brown on every non-moving thing. The building stank of fast food, cigarette smoke and, during hot spells, sweat. Telephones rang from everywhere, and both emergency and non-emergency calls came into the desk sergeant’s area. Across from there was a space for paperwork and informal interviews, full of metal desks facing each other and never enough wooden chairs.
Walking toward the back of the station, a right turn led you to a cellblock for short-term detentions. A standard prank was to lure a rookie into one of the cells and lock him in for at least an hour. A left turn in the precinct brought you to a circular staircase, perhaps reminiscent of a grander time, which led upstairs to the roll-call room.
The basement—cluttered with desks, mechanical typewriters, and government-issue ballpoint pens—featured one table with stacks of forms for all necessary reports. Officers interviewed and processed prisoners here, including, for example, a standard Form 252 for each misdemeanor or felony arrest. The most coveted desk sat by a rusting cold-water pipe that ran vertically near the corner of the room‘s entry. One cuff fit around the pipe and the other around a wrist, while the officer completed the paperwork.
Officers with dangerous or agitated prisoners got priority. Out the back center door was an overhang where police brought in prisoners, and cruisers rolled in to be “hot-seated” during shift changes. The motor kept idling; the radio turned up loud; and the relieving officers were often handed a clipboard with new radio runs that the prior crew was unable or unwilling to take. Squabbles about fast-food trash in the back, or shoved under the seat, were common.
An eight-foot cyclone fence enclosed the area around the building, including a parking lot and a gas pump.
The workload was intense during late afternoons and night. The “power shift” ran from 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. Roll call for each shift started one-half before. Therefore, day work began at 5:30 a.m.; the evening at 3:30 p.m.; and midnights at 11:30 p.m. (As a paramilitary organization, they use the 24-hour time system.)
Coming late was never an option, and tonight we worked 3:30 p.m. to midnight. Outside the room hung a grease board with the “uniform of the day” written on it. The official uniform could be short sleeves, long sleeves, blouses, or heavy jackets. Beefs about short sleeves in fifty-degree weather or blouses in ninety-degree heat were common. Nevertheless, changing was not negotiable. In fact, nothing was changeable. Uttering the word union would cause lightning to strike your cruiser. The brothers shuffled into roll call alone, in pairs, or small groups, at least fifteen minutes early.
The banter and bravado often boiled down to, “I got more testosterone than you do.” The room was self-segregated, with black officers on the right and white on the left.
“Hey, Brinson,” came the taunt from the left, “you are one seriously ugly motherfucker.” Brinson’s voice on the radio was one of several that you wanted to hear when you needed serious backup, fast. Brinson swaggered up to the podium and addressed the room. “I’m the biggest, blackest, and meanest, nigger in this room. Anybody got a problem with that?” Hearing no objections, he returned to his seat, only for the usual buzz to resume. Footsteps pounding up the stairs signaled the beginning of work.
Sergeant Townsen and Lieutenant Dominik scanned the room for missing faces in the platoon. As usual, the next thirty minutes followed an orderly sequence of assignments (partners, special details); teletype (who has been robbed, shot, or flimflammed in the last sixteen hours); and the distribution of auto “hot sheets.”
Today, he circulated an artist’s sketch of a man wanted for the murder of a Maryland state trooper. The look-out-for was a red Ford model 110 with Maryland tags. Everybody memorized the information not only to avoid being the next victim of a shotgun clamped to the inside of a driver’s door, but also to acknowledge how often the fraternity of police crossed jurisdictional and racial boundaries. It could happen to anyone. In this case, as the trooper approached, the killer opened the door to the correct angle and shot him. All listened to assignments with anticipation, because the chemistry between you and your partner (if you had one) would color the next eight hours.
“Rip and Country in 64; O’Day, you’re alone in 65; Preacher, you’re also 10-99 in 66; 67 is out for brakes. If you assholes don’t stop riding the brakes with your left foot, I’m going to put you on permanent midnights, on foot beats eight and nine, and you can eat that biker-bar food. Grabowski and Crash in the wagon. Grab, you drive; Flyboy, you got Jansen the rookie, three and four beats, pull on the half; PT, take one and two beats on the hour.”
“Shit, Sarge,” said PT with a huge smile radiating across the room. “Let’s make it interesting,” he pulled five new twenties from his pocket and spread them apart, like a poker hand. “I got a hundred dollars here that says, with a half-hour head start, I can pull every box, and you’ll never find me.”
Grabowski farted his approval of the proposed wager as laughter replaced the momentary silence.
This was a familiar jibe by PT, but Townsen was in no mood for it.
“Let’s make it more interesting. You will pull every box, and I will see you on the street working your beat. If I don’t, I keep the money, and you don’t need directions to the Trial Board because you’ve been there before.”
“Sure, Sarge,” now with wild laughter. “You can blindfold me on the front steps of headquarters, and I’ll still find the right room.”
The litany of assignments continued. Roll call ended with an inspection of uniforms and revolvers.
Lieutenant Dominik looked at Grab’s filthy pants. “When is the last time you changed the oil in your pants?”
“Huh?”
“For Christ’s sake, Grab, take your uniforms to the cleaners before I see you again.”
The lieutenant concluded with, “Take your beats, men.”