WHEN he takes off the uniform, puts down the badge, and goes out for the evening, the young Brooklyn cop faces an identity crisis:
“What am I going to be today?” he wonders.
“Today, maybe I’ll be a sanitation guy.”
Eight years ago, when he first went on “the job,” as cops call their line of work – as if there is no other line of work – he was chest-swelling proud and downright giddy.
These days, telling folks what he does for a living is an effective way to empty a room.
“Myself, being single, I can’t tell anyone what I do. You get a bad rap,” said the 29-year-old sergeant from the 84th Precinct.
“So, when I go out, it’s like – today I’ll be a shoe clerk.
“There’s a lot of people leaving the job now. Every cop’s dream is to get off the job and get into the Fire Department.
“They’d rather run into a fire than be on the job.”
It comes as little surprise that in Brooklyn, homicide is sharply on the rise.
It comes with great disgust that in Brooklyn, Al Sharpton is sharply on the offensive.
The connection isn’t lost on my friend the cop, who asked not to be identified by name.
“Anything you do, you have to worry about someone staging a march. It’s very unpopular what we’re doing.”
So unpopular, the armchair agitators are winning. Their prize is increasingly deadly streets.
On Friday, a drug abuser with a long rap sheet named Donaldo Delano Maloney was pursued by police in Brooklyn. Displeased with the prospect of wearing handcuffs, Maloney ran. As he did, he apparently swallowed evidence – a number of cellophane bags loaded with drugs.
As they caught up with Maloney, police tried to deter him from ingesting the contraband – going as far as holding open his jaw. Ironically, had the cops succeeded, they might have saved Maloney’s life.They probably regret even trying.
According to NYPD spokeswoman Marilyn Mode, it wasn’t long before Maloney’s meal disagreed with him.
“He gets into the van, he goes into a seizure-type thing. He throws up, and in the vomit is cellophane.
“We get him out of the car and try to treat him. He throws up, and, again, there’s cellophane.”
Maloney was put into a fire truck. “He throws up again,” said Mode, “and there’s cellophane.”
Maloney was taken to a hospital, where he died. Preliminary medical evidence suggests Maloney threw away his life to spare himself arrest.
Not according to the Rev. Al Sharpton.
Whizzing in from New Jersey for the weekend, The Rev was demanding a federal probe into the death of Maloney, who, he claimed, was beaten to death.
He said two suspects in custody witnessed an alleged beating.
Mode said another woman in custody saw no such thing.
As Sharpton whizzed back to New Jersey, where, presumably, the cops are not intimidated from protecting his children, our cops are running scared.
The cop at the 84th told me that, not long ago, he stopped a teen suspected of slashing store owners in the Fulton Mall in downtown Brooklyn.
“He should have been locked up. But there were too many people around. It was the height of the Louima thing” – when all cops were assumed to be sadists.
“He started yelling, fighting, threatening. I had to think, ‘Will people misconstrue what I’m doing?’ I had to just walk away.” And let the suspect go.
Today, Sharpton is emboldened by the torture of Abner Louima – one bad cop makes him feel entitled to run roughshod over a department that is, on balance, the finest in the land.
How many people have to be killed before the agitators stop shooting off their mouths first, asking questions later?
How many cops do we have to lose to the Fire Department?
Fortunately, my friend is staying put.
“I’m afraid of fire,” he said. “I’d rather get shot than burn up.”
* This article appeared on page 12 of the Metro Edition.