By Steve Osborne, Washington Post, May 5, 2015
Steve Osborne is a retired NYPD officer and the author of The Job: Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop
It was dark out, the middle of the night. That’s when these things usually happen. In the glow of my high beams and flashing red lights, I could see the gun in his waistband–I had no doubt about it.
Backup is on the way–I think–but probably not for another minute or two. This confrontation is going to be over in the next few seconds. All I can focus on is the threat in front of me. I have tunnel vision, and I can hear my heart pounding.
The man with the gun is coming toward me and I have to make a decision and I have to make it now: shoot or don’t shoot, take someone’s life or don’t. Wait too long and my family may get that “call” in the middle of the night. Act too quickly and I’ll have to live with the consequences, and the sleepless nights, for the rest of my life.
The gun in my hand was anything but a comfort. It felt big, heavy, even burdensome, but it was the only thing standing between and him and me, and I was fully prepared to use it. This is a cop’s life.
Just a couple of minutes before, I’d been on call when a “gun run” at East Third St. and Avenue B, in New York, came over the air. The dispatcher stated that there was a male white and a Hispanic female in a blue auto, and that the male was armed with a gun.
I heard someone pick up the job, but nobody was answering to back them up. The dispatcher called out again, “Any available Nine unit to back Adam on a report of a man with a gun?”
No answer.
I decided the hell with it, I’m going.
I had driven only about a block when a blue car with a white male and a Hispanic female flew past me going the other way. I figured it had to be them, so I started to follow. The car was moving a little fast, and by the time I made the turn they were about two blocks ahead of me, so I hit the gas and tried to catch up. I snatched the radio off my belt and told the dispatcher, “I’m following a possible from the gun run at Three and B.”
They made the left on Seventh Street, and I was having a bit of a tough time catching up because he was hitting green lights all the way. I couldn’t use my red lights and siren, because if he saw me coming, the chase would be on. The best way to do this was to get behind him and try to grab him when he’s stuck in traffic. We always try to avoid a car chase, but it was 4 in the morning and there wasn’t much traffic.
He made a right on First Avenue and stopped at a red light on St. Mark’s Place. This was it, I couldn’t wait for another car to back me up because when the light turned green, he would be off again, and I’d be following him to the Bronx before he hit another red light.
So when the light turned green, I flipped on my flashing red lights and bleeped the siren, and much to my surprise he pulled right over. That was easy enough, I thought. I pulled in behind him and waited a moment. I figured I could stall for a few seconds and give one of the sectors a chance to swing by, but when I grabbed the radio to tell the dispatcher that I had the vehicle stopped, the driver’s door on the blue car swung open. Then a big white guy with a goofy grin stepped out and started walking toward me.
It was dark out, but it was easy to see, and I had no doubt about it. In the glow of my high beams and flashing lights, I could see the butt of a gun sticking out of his waistband. When he got out of the car his shirt lifted a little, and there it was right in front of me–and getting closer.
This is it–this is a cop’s life. Every minute of every day, this is what you wait for. This is what you think about, and this is what you prepare for: The Man with the Gun.
I looked at the gun, then at that dopey grin on his face, and I thought, “This guy is going to try and shoot me–and he’s pretty happy about it.”
All that thinking took about one second. Then I dropped the radio, grabbed my gun, yanked the door handle, and shoved it open with my shoulder–all in one move.
I jumped out of the car, pointed my gun right in his face, and yelled, “PUT ‘EM UP! PUT ‘EM UP, OR I’LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!” Now his dopey grin was replaced by an “Oh s–” look.
Again, much to my surprise, he threw his hands right up and did exactly what I told him to. When I threw him onto the trunk of his car, he was trying to say something, but I couldn’t really hear him. I was wound up. I had him spread-eagle on the car with my gun screwed into the back of his head while I reached into his waistband and grabbed his gun.
While dealing with him, I had to keep one eye on the female in the car. I didn’t want her getting out and jumping on my back, or trying something else crazy because she wanted to help her man. Out in the street, a woman can be just as nasty and vicious as any guy can be, and a lot of times they’re worse.
Then I heard him say it again, but this time he yelled it, “I’m on the job.” That caught my attention. He was trying to tell me he was a cop.
“I’m on the job” is the universal NYPD jargon for “I’m a cop.” If he had said, “I’m a police officer,” I would have known he was full of s–. But in a situation like this, this was the correct–and the only–response.
I looked at the gun I just pulled off him, and saw it was a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber five-shot revolver–the standard NYPD off-duty gun. That’s when he mumbled, “My ID is in my back pocket.”
I shoved his gun into my pocket, then reached for his wallet, and when I opened it, there was an NYPD shield and ID card. That’s when he turned and said, “Can I take my hands off the car now?”
I unscrewed my gun from the back of his head, and we all started to relax. Turned out he really was a cop and worked in the Ninth, and the woman in the car was his girlfriend. He went on to tell me that some people over on Third Street didn’t like the fact that a neighborhood girl was dating a white cop, so sometimes they would call 911.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been pissed at him for getting out of the car the way he did, but he thought he was getting pulled over by one of his buddies. He apologized profusely and said he didn’t even know there was a new sergeant working midnights. After he explained everything, it all made perfect sense, so there was no need to make any more out of this than it was.
I took a peek into the car and very casually said, “How you doing?” The girl was petrified. She just sat there staring straight ahead, afraid to move an inch. She mumbled back a very soft, petite, “Hellooooo.”
Just then, Nine Adam pulls up, and now they have that “Oh s–” look on their faces. The new sergeant has one of their buddies pulled over, and this can’t be good. I explained what happened, and we all had a good laugh over it–cop humor. I told them to give back the gun run as a 10-90Y (Unnecessary), and I would do the same for the car stop.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and he said, “Welcome to the Ninth.” A year later, he would be working in my squad, and we would become good friends. And a few years after that at their wedding, we would all laugh about how the wedding almost didn’t happen because the new sergeant almost shot the groom.
Confrontations like this are all too common for police officers in America. You have a few seconds to make a life-or-death decision. Get it right and nobody hears about it, get it wrong and the whole world knows your name. Make 1,000 stops and everything goes smoothly, the exchange is handled with courtesy and respect by all parties concerned but then when you least expect it–it happens.
A short time after this, I stopped two males who had just committed a robbery and stabbed their victim in the process. This was nothing unusual, just another night on the job, just another stop, but suddenly without warning one of them pulled a gun on me, and in the middle of a dark street, I was in a fight for my life. It would be quite some time before someone pulled a gun and tried to shoot me again but in between there had been many stops, many decisions and much uncertainty.
Steve Osborne is a retired NYPD officer and the author of The Job: Tales from the Life of a New York City Cop
It was dark out, the middle of the night. That’s when these things usually happen. In the glow of my high beams and flashing red lights, I could see the gun in his waistband–I had no doubt about it.
Backup is on the way–I think–but probably not for another minute or two. This confrontation is going to be over in the next few seconds. All I can focus on is the threat in front of me. I have tunnel vision, and I can hear my heart pounding.
The man with the gun is coming toward me and I have to make a decision and I have to make it now: shoot or don’t shoot, take someone’s life or don’t. Wait too long and my family may get that “call” in the middle of the night. Act too quickly and I’ll have to live with the consequences, and the sleepless nights, for the rest of my life.
The gun in my hand was anything but a comfort. It felt big, heavy, even burdensome, but it was the only thing standing between and him and me, and I was fully prepared to use it. This is a cop’s life.
Just a couple of minutes before, I’d been on call when a “gun run” at East Third St. and Avenue B, in New York, came over the air. The dispatcher stated that there was a male white and a Hispanic female in a blue auto, and that the male was armed with a gun.
I heard someone pick up the job, but nobody was answering to back them up. The dispatcher called out again, “Any available Nine unit to back Adam on a report of a man with a gun?”
No answer.
I decided the hell with it, I’m going.
I had driven only about a block when a blue car with a white male and a Hispanic female flew past me going the other way. I figured it had to be them, so I started to follow. The car was moving a little fast, and by the time I made the turn they were about two blocks ahead of me, so I hit the gas and tried to catch up. I snatched the radio off my belt and told the dispatcher, “I’m following a possible from the gun run at Three and B.”
They made the left on Seventh Street, and I was having a bit of a tough time catching up because he was hitting green lights all the way. I couldn’t use my red lights and siren, because if he saw me coming, the chase would be on. The best way to do this was to get behind him and try to grab him when he’s stuck in traffic. We always try to avoid a car chase, but it was 4 in the morning and there wasn’t much traffic.
He made a right on First Avenue and stopped at a red light on St. Mark’s Place. This was it, I couldn’t wait for another car to back me up because when the light turned green, he would be off again, and I’d be following him to the Bronx before he hit another red light.
So when the light turned green, I flipped on my flashing red lights and bleeped the siren, and much to my surprise he pulled right over. That was easy enough, I thought. I pulled in behind him and waited a moment. I figured I could stall for a few seconds and give one of the sectors a chance to swing by, but when I grabbed the radio to tell the dispatcher that I had the vehicle stopped, the driver’s door on the blue car swung open. Then a big white guy with a goofy grin stepped out and started walking toward me.
It was dark out, but it was easy to see, and I had no doubt about it. In the glow of my high beams and flashing lights, I could see the butt of a gun sticking out of his waistband. When he got out of the car his shirt lifted a little, and there it was right in front of me–and getting closer.
This is it–this is a cop’s life. Every minute of every day, this is what you wait for. This is what you think about, and this is what you prepare for: The Man with the Gun.
I looked at the gun, then at that dopey grin on his face, and I thought, “This guy is going to try and shoot me–and he’s pretty happy about it.”
All that thinking took about one second. Then I dropped the radio, grabbed my gun, yanked the door handle, and shoved it open with my shoulder–all in one move.
I jumped out of the car, pointed my gun right in his face, and yelled, “PUT ‘EM UP! PUT ‘EM UP, OR I’LL BLOW YOUR HEAD OFF!” Now his dopey grin was replaced by an “Oh s–” look.
Again, much to my surprise, he threw his hands right up and did exactly what I told him to. When I threw him onto the trunk of his car, he was trying to say something, but I couldn’t really hear him. I was wound up. I had him spread-eagle on the car with my gun screwed into the back of his head while I reached into his waistband and grabbed his gun.
While dealing with him, I had to keep one eye on the female in the car. I didn’t want her getting out and jumping on my back, or trying something else crazy because she wanted to help her man. Out in the street, a woman can be just as nasty and vicious as any guy can be, and a lot of times they’re worse.
Then I heard him say it again, but this time he yelled it, “I’m on the job.” That caught my attention. He was trying to tell me he was a cop.
“I’m on the job” is the universal NYPD jargon for “I’m a cop.” If he had said, “I’m a police officer,” I would have known he was full of s–. But in a situation like this, this was the correct–and the only–response.
I looked at the gun I just pulled off him, and saw it was a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber five-shot revolver–the standard NYPD off-duty gun. That’s when he mumbled, “My ID is in my back pocket.”
I shoved his gun into my pocket, then reached for his wallet, and when I opened it, there was an NYPD shield and ID card. That’s when he turned and said, “Can I take my hands off the car now?”
I unscrewed my gun from the back of his head, and we all started to relax. Turned out he really was a cop and worked in the Ninth, and the woman in the car was his girlfriend. He went on to tell me that some people over on Third Street didn’t like the fact that a neighborhood girl was dating a white cop, so sometimes they would call 911.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been pissed at him for getting out of the car the way he did, but he thought he was getting pulled over by one of his buddies. He apologized profusely and said he didn’t even know there was a new sergeant working midnights. After he explained everything, it all made perfect sense, so there was no need to make any more out of this than it was.
I took a peek into the car and very casually said, “How you doing?” The girl was petrified. She just sat there staring straight ahead, afraid to move an inch. She mumbled back a very soft, petite, “Hellooooo.”
Just then, Nine Adam pulls up, and now they have that “Oh s–” look on their faces. The new sergeant has one of their buddies pulled over, and this can’t be good. I explained what happened, and we all had a good laugh over it–cop humor. I told them to give back the gun run as a 10-90Y (Unnecessary), and I would do the same for the car stop.
We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and he said, “Welcome to the Ninth.” A year later, he would be working in my squad, and we would become good friends. And a few years after that at their wedding, we would all laugh about how the wedding almost didn’t happen because the new sergeant almost shot the groom.
Confrontations like this are all too common for police officers in America. You have a few seconds to make a life-or-death decision. Get it right and nobody hears about it, get it wrong and the whole world knows your name. Make 1,000 stops and everything goes smoothly, the exchange is handled with courtesy and respect by all parties concerned but then when you least expect it–it happens.
A short time after this, I stopped two males who had just committed a robbery and stabbed their victim in the process. This was nothing unusual, just another night on the job, just another stop, but suddenly without warning one of them pulled a gun on me, and in the middle of a dark street, I was in a fight for my life. It would be quite some time before someone pulled a gun and tried to shoot me again but in between there had been many stops, many decisions and much uncertainty.
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