Nypd Sayings And Quotes

They will.” Sharp sighed. “Morgan really broke his wrist?” “She did.” Unable to sit still, Lance got up and paced the floor in front of Sharp’s desk. “I don’t know why everything she does always comes as a surprise. Her father and grandfather were both cops. Her sister is a detective. Her brother is NYPD SWAT.” “The pearls and heels throw you off.

They say New York is the city that never sleeps. But at a quarter to three on a moonlit Tuesday morning in May, the stretch of Central Park West that we were driving on was crapped out like a cat on a porch swing.

There’s an old saying,” retired NYPD cop turned author Steve Osborne once told me, “that in police work, a cop ` s mouth is his greatest weapon. To go into a chaotic situation where everybody is yelling and screaming, sometimes there ` s alcohol, there ` s drugs involved—to be able to talk everybody down. When you see a real experienced cop do that, it’s a magical thing.” But as true as that is, the fact is that most cops are going to encounter these scenarios with little more training than I did—and I talk for a living! The typical cadet training involves sixty hours on how to use a gun and fifty-one hours on defensive tactics, but just eight hours on how to calm situations without force.

The sea is wide, and I can't swim over, and neither have I wings to fly" A line such as this one, from Carrickfergus, a traditional ballad Shane admired, says more about state of mind than any sentence loaded with adjectives and adverbs. Shane understood the power of simple words placed in order carefully. "The boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay" (Fairytale of New York)

was as surprised to hear me say it as I was. “Where have

Although the NYPD frequently attempts to justify stop-and-frisk operations in poor communities of color on the grounds that such tactics are necessary to get guns off the streets, less than 1 percent of stops (0.15 percent) resulted in guns being found, and guns and other contraband were seized less often in stops of African Americans and Latinos than of whites.112 As Darius Charney, a lawyer for the Center for Constitutional Rights, observed, these studies “confirm what we have been saying for the last 10 or 11 years, which is that with stop-and-frisk patterns—it is really race, not crime, that is driving this.”113

Fruits-&-nuts payout 131 words THIS WOULD be a definite no-no under the new federal guidelines for the NYPD. The city has agreed to pay $8,500 to a Queens man who says a cop squeezed his testicles and referred to him as "fruity.

His phone rang just as he was tucking it back into his coat. He saw that it was his brother, Matt, and answered. “I had a feeling you’d call.” “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a douchebag?” Nick grinned at the inside joke. Back when he and his brothers were younger, they’d once gotten carried away and “accidentally” tossed three footballs through Tommy Angolini’s second-floor apartment windows after he’d claimed during recess that Scottish douchebags couldn’t throw for shit. Tommy had been wrong on two counts: first, in not knowing that they were only half-Scottish douchebags, and second, in doubting the athletic prowess of the McCall brothers. Not surprisingly, that bit of good-natured fun had put an end to any trash talk from Tommy Angolini, but also had royally pissed off their father. A sergeant on the NYPD at the time, he had rounded up Nick and his brothers, brought them down to the Sixty-third Precinct, and locked them up in an empty jail cell. For six hours. Needless to say, after that the McCall brothers had all developed a healthy appreciation for the benefits of being lawabiding ten-, nine-, and seven-year-olds. The only person more traumatized by the lockup had been their mother, who’d spent the six hours crying, refusing to speak to their father, and making lasagna and cannoli—three helpings of which she’d practically force-fed each of her sons immediately upon their homecoming from the Big House

Because, as we used to say in the NYPD: A single death is a tragedy; multiple deaths are a sanitation problem.

In 2004, the NYPD arrested twenty-four-year-old Pakistani immigrant Shahawar Matin Siraj for plotting to bomb the Herald Square subway station in Manhattan. Lawyers say Siraj was entrapped by a paid police informant facing drug charges, who spent months hatching the plot and pushing the idea of a bombing. Siraj had “no explosives, no timetable for an attack, and little understanding about explosives.” According to Human Rights Watch, the NYPD’s own records showed that he was unstable and “extremely impressionable due to severe intellectual limitations.” When asked to participate in the plot, Siraj replied that he had to ask his mother first and never actually agreed to participate, according the NYPD’s own assessment. Nevertheless, he was convicted and sentenced to thirty years in prison.

Then I heard a voice—a booming, commanding voice. I recognized it immediately. It may not have been God, but it was the best I could hope for right now. It was just a simple “Everyone freeze.” And they did. My lieutenant, Harry Grissom, stepped out of a black, unmarked NYPD Suburban. The tall, lean, twenty-six-year veteran of the force looked like an Old West gunfighter, his mustache creeping along the sides of his mouth. He was toying with the NYPD grooming policy, but so far no one had the balls to say anything to him about it. A gold badge dangled from a chain around his neck. His tan suit had some creases but gave him an air of authority. As if he needed something extra. He kept marching toward the crowd without any hesitation. As he got closer, he said in a very even voice, “What’s the problem here?” The pudgy leader yelled, “He shot an unarmed man.” Someone in the back of the crowd added, “For no reason.” Other people started to crowd in around Harry to tell him why they were so angry. And he listened. At least to the people not shouting obscenities. Harry was an old-school pragmatist. He’d been part of the enforcement effort that helped clean up New York City. He didn’t need to knock heads. He could talk. He engaged the heavyset guy. “Who is an actual eyewitness?” No one answered. Harry kept a calm tone. “What do you say I give you my card and we talk in a couple of days? That way you can see what we find out. The shooting will be investigated thoroughly. Just give it forty-eight hours. Is that too much to ask?” The heavyset man had a hard time ignoring such a reasonable request. He tentatively accepted Harry’s card. The crowd wasn’t nearly as discerning. That’s how it always is. In sports and politics and real life. A rowdy crowd drives the conversation and clouds the issues.