Barely Bronx: December 2011

Jordan examined the face across the table and saw the tired edges around Williams’ eyes. They appeared deeper set than he recalled. The half smile was forced, and not a smile at all really, just another face made to look like a smiling one. What held the face was a pair of slumped, defeated shoulders. It made him think of Kline for some reason. They shared the same sober expression. Promotion hadn’t been all that it was cracked up to be, all they expected. After 20 years they got used to being told what to expect. Opinions weren’t welcome. The years of compromise and listening for the next “new” imported directive to “sell” the troops had eroded all their credibility long ago. The things people said behind a Sergeant’s back reminded Jordan daily that he had made the right choices with regard to “promotion.” It had become a loyalty contest above all; above fact, reality, and what was right. He wondered if he would have caved or if he would have been strong enough to resist the urge to remain ever grateful for the promotion that in time would deafen him, paralyze him to resist what he knew to be unhealthy for him and more important to the department.

He’d seen five Chiefs come and go in his career. Three were “imports” after the obligatory “world-wide search” and two were “sabras” who had come up through the ranks. Most were dull-faced figures, whose “personality” only came out when addressing the press or the city council, the uniform shrinking on them with every year, the brass buttons and badge still perfectly shiny beneath another new chin. Most left the same way, declaring it was “time” to move on and find a place to fish. The smart ones declared a past injury just before their decision was cropping up to interfere with duties. The disability claims for Chiefs were nearly 90%. Never challenged, they retired with nearly all their salary and benefits intact—tax free in many cases. The instances of miracles among Chiefs are nearly as high as the rate of disability retirements. They nearly all had complete recoveries—remarkable cures invariably finding them all shortly after the brass-buttoned shirts had been hung in an extra closet, their tanned faces only showing up for someone else’s retirement where the conversation is handicaps and the steelhead that got away.

These non-surprises barely made Starbucks conversations; a few years into a new Chief meant you had already forgotten the last one. The important part was remembering his name should anyone ask. You were relieved of having to worry when you ran into him in the hall, though they still always felt it was a sign of respect to be called “Chief” in such an official manner. Half the time it was really because no one cared to retain his name—always the first thing to study when putting in for promotion, however.

By far the worst Chief experience came at the cost of one of their own. Officers who strive for promotion have to get on what was known as “the northbound train.” A type of courting, being “on the train” meant that you smiled while the brass button spoke and slapped your knees at every joke, funny or not. The rules for riding on the train were simple enough: if it had potential for conflict, embarrassment, or bad press, it was bad. If it was racial or had potential for lawsuits, it was very bad. It was the shadowy world Jordan couldn’t imagine being a part of. He always knew he couldn’t be a citizen of that world. He feared it from time to time, but only when he thought about promotion. It never failed to frighten him away. Like the characters in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers, he feared he’d fall asleep and wake up someone else,

something else.

The horror visit, as they came to know it, arrived at the hands of one of younger stars—because rising too fast means you don’t own the time that matures, that builds confidence. You avoid the tough decisions and anything that smacks of challenge, especially anything that might fail, as failure is to be avoided at all costs. You begin to micro-manage, and mistakes of any kind are a threat to a reputation that is built primarily on a false cloud. It can’t be stood on, only pointed at. The safety comes from its distance and unknown depth. In order to survive you have to surround yourself with subordinates who will be eternally grateful to you for their promotion. Which means you can’t promote anyone who might actually have earned it, as their gratitude only lasts as long as it takes to apply the fresh stripes. No, far better to promote those who haven’t earned it, haven’t risked, dared, failed and risen again to succeed. The circle is then secure from anyone who might offer a difference of opinion. Lacking the true experience has its advantages. You can automatically rely on what you’re told, killing both birds—the burden of example and the burden of thought. There is of course a dangerous lag time involved. In a profession that requires split-second decisions you have to rely on “your answer” not being on the phone, or out of town, or applying his second wipe. But even then you had the comfort of knowing Monday morning was always an alternative.

The distance in reality between a cop and his immediate supervisor began to lengthen. The chain of echoes going in both directions created distance and mistrust. Small issues in the field with performance and personalities weren’t monitored. Patrol became a secret place where behaviors went unchecked and the occasional abuse went without record. By the time the behavior was detected—and this usually arrived only by accident—the egregious nature was treated with amputation. While the terminations rose it was automatically attributed to “raising the bar” or “getting rid of the dead wood.” When the retention level, the benchmark for healthy departments, was finally examined and found to be wanting, the house of cards came down in a heap. The head was finally cut, and suddenly no one had answers, except, “I was just following orders …”

The irony was that the next Chief was cut from the same skein as the exiting Chief. And while she knew her old boss had done some things wrong, she wasn’t exactly sure what they were. Rather than raze the past she insisted on mining the strategies that she perceived were successful yesterday. She decided loyalty was one of them. Her immediate subordinates all agreed.

Jordan was so near retirement he didn’t really care anymore, save for those poor bastards he was leaving behind. Dues are dues are dues. They told him nearly 25 years ago in the Academy that his real stress would come from the inside out. It was the first thing a rookie came to understand, and the first thing a retiring cop would be grateful to leave—all the rest was a wonderful chronicle: decades of adventures, personalities and close calls. When Jordon looked Williams was smiling. " I didn't want to interrupt you, you looked in a serious place" Jordan took a long breath and let it sift out slowly, " not for long"-