June 8, 2020--I'd Rather Die Than Be Like You

Without any comment, this was forwarded to me by JJ, a Maine friend. It was a bit of a surprise in that he is quite conservative and has been a consistent Trump supporter. It is well worth reading.

I’ve had numerous people approach me and ask me my opinion regarding the police use of force in Minneapolis. I normally don’t speak out like this in such a public forum but my heart is broken with what I am witnessing across the country and right here in our own state and I feel the need to say something.

I have been a police officer for 19 years. For 16 of those years, I have taught Use of Force and Police Arrest & Control techniques at the recruit level at the Municipal Police Academy and at numerous departments throughout southern New England on an in-service level. I have trained thousands of cops. My training not only includes physical tactics and techniques to control a violent and combative individual but also the physiological, psychological and legal aspects that officers face during this type of event. I am a certified Force Analyst through the Force Science Institute and also teach a course in police diffusion and de-escalation techniques. I have conducted numerous Police Use of Force reviews throughout the state and am considered a subject matter expert by the RI Attorney General in the area of Police use of Force. I’m not saying all this to impress anyone. I really don't care what anyone thinks about me. I’m saying it because I want to establish credibility with anyone that reads this post. I know what the f**k I’m talking about.

I have watched and reviewed the George Floyd video countless times. In all my years doing this, I have never seen a more blatant disregard for human life than what I witnessed in that video. It haunts me. It made me sick to my stomach. I can’t stop thinking about it. I’ve seen plenty of suffering and death in 19 years but have never watched a man die while the people who are supposed to protect them watched it happen and did nothing.

Kneeling on someone’s neck is not a technique that is taught or accepted anywhere that I’m aware of. As a matter of fact, we specifically tell recruits and cops NOT to kneel anywhere near the spine or neck because you can paralyze or kill someone. There are countless other ways to control someone on the ground that don’t involve putting your knee into a person’s neck with all your weight for over 8 minutes. 

That is my professional opinion. Now for my personal feelings on the matter:

To “Officer” Derek Chauvin, who is the officer seen kneeling on Mr. Floyd’s neck, I have this to say to you: You Bastard. You Son of a Bitch. You and two other officers knelt on George Floyd’s neck and back and you watched him die. George Floyd was handcuffed and proned out on his stomach. Please don’t say you were holding him down because he couldn’t have pushed himself up off the ground if he wanted to. He was controlled. Once someone is controlled the use of force ends. Period. It is then the officer’s duty to check the well being of the subject to be sure he is not hurt or in distress. I don’t care how hard he fought you. I don’t care if he was on drugs. You had a duty to act! The smug look on your face said it all. You didn’t care that Mr. Floyd was begging for air and calling out for his Mother. You have no honor. And the other three officers are just as culpable. They didn’t act to stop you. You are all cowards. I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.

Now the country is burning down. And you were the spark. Your fellow officers are getting injured and killed. Even officers in your own city. Your brothers. I hope you can live with that for the rest of your life. I hope you can live with the suffering and pain you started. You have put us all in a position where we now have to defend ourselves against angry mobs with bricks and bats and other weapons who group us in with you. Well I am not like you. We are not like you. You are the 1%. I will NEVER be like you. I would rather die than be like you.

To my family and friends and those I care about who are not police officers and maybe don’t understand, please know that no one hates a dirty, piece of shit cop more than a good cop who does this job with honor and pride. I beg you, do not judge the 99% of good police officers based on the actions of an ignorant and evil few. 

If you want to protest what happened, please do. Reach out to me. I will march with you peacefully just like thousands of other cops across the nation and mourn what has happened. I will kneel and pray with you. And when I put my uniform on, I will protect your right to peacefully protest because I took an oath to do so.

To my brothers and sisters that put on this uniform every day. Do not let what you see on TV jade you into thinking that this is what it is all about. The majority of people out there are good, honest hard working people who support you and what you stand for. Remember that. We don’t want to be judged by the actions of a shameful few and neither do the people we serve. Support the people we are sworn to protect. Hold your heads high and serve with honor and integrity. 

To the rioters, I speak for all of law enforcement when I ask: PLEASE STOP. Your actions are solving nothing. You are not mourners or protesters. You are thugs and opportunists. You are cowards. You are destroying people’s lives and your behavior will not be tolerated. People are going to get hurt. Please do not test our resolve when it comes to protecting our flock. Enough is enough. This is not the legacy that George Floyd deserves. 

Thank you for listening.

July 11, 2106--Baton Rouge, Falcon Heights, Dallas . . .

There are no adequate words.

Five Dallas policemen massacred, Alton Sterling shot by police in Baton Rouge, and, streamed live on Facebook, there was the murder by a policeman of Philandro Castile in Falcon Heights, MN.

All in less than a week.

Even our eloquent president could not find anything truly meaningful to say other than express hurt and outrage.

But someone not directly involved managed to find a way to chime in--William Johnson, executive director of the National Association of Police Organizations. The national association for police labor unions.

On Fox News (where else) he said that there is "a war on cops" and that the Obama administration was to blame for what he labelled "appeasement" of those who attack the police.

I suppose in America even he is entitled to his rancid opinion.

But while he is assigning responsibility, he forget to assign blame to the shooters in Baton Rouge, Falcon Heights, and to too many other places to mention.

To the best of my knowledge in all these cases the shooters were policemen who, it might be said, are appeased by Johnson's organization.

William Johnson

June 5, 2015--Best of Behind: Midcoast--Search Dog

Here from July 20, 2009 is an early Midcoast story--

We were in town and after morning coffee wandered from store to store tracking down items we had on our shopping list. The weather was cooler than I had anticipated and since I hadn’t packed enough warm clothing I wanted to stop in Renys to see if they had any fleece vests on sale or maybe a couple of long sleeve pullovers.

Then Rona planned to make buttermilk biscuits but since the house we were renting did not have a baking sheet she thought maybe we’d find one, also at Renys. And tucked away back of the parking lot on the east side of Main Street there was a small, very personal shop that among other gourmet items and local fresh herbs carried crusty sourdough bread that we had tried late last week and since it went well with the fish dishes we had been preparing, we thought we’d buy another loaf.

And of course we needed to pick up the Times and the weekly Lincoln County News. They were available in the Maine Coast Bookstore and while Rona was paying I could rummage among books that were remaindered. Up here one could never have enough to read.

We then crossed back to the parking lot by the harbor where we had parked because I was anxious that we might be in danger of getting a ticket. We were in a two-hour zone and I had been warned that the police had stepped up their enforcement, chalking tires with abandon because, in the current economic climate, unwilling to raise taxes to pay for dwindling town services they were raising money by pouncing on any car that was parked for even a few minutes beyond the limit.

But Rona said relax, we’re on vacation, that we still have lots of time so why rush when there were a few other things we needed to get done. She had spotted a gift shop and wanted to look for birthday cards to send to friends and family members who have August birthdays. Cards appropriate for the occasion but maybe with a Midcoast theme. She wasn’t thinking about anything with lobsters embossed on them but maybe there were some nice note cards with starfish or sailboats. Salty but not too kitschy.

“Don’t worry so much about the car. It will still be there when we're done. This isn't Manhattan. They won't tow it away. We’re here to unwind after a rough May and June.”

It had been a difficult time. We were struggling along with a few people close to us who have serious illnesses. They were thankfully doing much better now, but it had been harrowing earlier. In spite of this, clearly Maine was not as yet working its wonders on me. Nonetheless I said, at least half-meaning it that I was in fact determined to seek inner peace, “I am getting there. But, you’re right. I do need to relax more.” I caught myself acknowledging that and quickly added, “But I am. I am becoming calm. Really.” Rona looked at me with understandable skepticism. And to demonstrate how I was more laid back I said, “Why don’t you look at the cards and I’ll hang out here on the street and look through the paper in the sun. The sun is good.”

“That’s fine,” Rona said, “but I don’t call reading the New York Times exactly being relaxed. Even in the sun. All you’ll find there is bad news about the economy, the Middle East, healthcare, and everything else. Of course, do what you want.”

“But,” I protested, “I’ve got the local paper and it’s full of all sorts of good community news. Like book talks and farmers’ markets.” I didn’t tell her that the lead story was about a 72 year-old man who had been killed on US 1 when he crashed his motorcycle into the back of a pickup.

“Whatever,” she said and disappeared into the shop.

I hung out there, facing the sun, thinking more about what a 72 year-old was doing riding a motorcycle on Route 1 than about tomorrow’s farmer’s market, where there was hope that the first local corn would finally be available. Should someone that age be out on a Harley? Then again, maybe that’s the way to go.

While lost in these less-than-calming thoughts I noticed, coming down the street toward me, a man with what looked like a seeing-eye dog. But as he got closer it was clear that the man was not blind—I could tell that by how he was checking out things on the street and in the stores that they were passing. Perhaps he’s training him, I then thought. Though that seemed unusual for a small town. I had only seen dogs of this kind in cities. But that’s in part why we are here—to have some new experiences. Relaxing ones, I reminded myself.

As they drew closer I could see that the dog was wearing a bright yellow plastic vest; and when they were just a few yards away I could read printed on it, on both sides--Search Dog. The New Yorker in me was immediately drawn back to 9/11 when police departments from up and down the east coast had sent dogs of this kind to help find survivors buried in the rubble and then later, after things turned even more hopeless, body parts.

But since I was trying not to allow myself to continue to be mired in thoughts of this kind, to the man who I assumed was his handler, with some awkwardness, avoiding even a hint of anything disturbing or grim, I said as brightly as I could, “Is he looking for me?”

With barely a glance and without a word they passed right by me and I was left to watch them work their way up the street. I noticed that they both had the same deliberate gate, as if practicing stepping over dangerous piles of rubble from a bombing or a . . .

But I quickly, just as was instructed to do, cut that thought short and leafed through the paper to see again what they were reporting about what would be in this week’s farmer’s market. The first black currents, I noticed. Maybe Rona would turn them into a compote that I could then use as a marinade for some nice broiled loin lamb chops with . . .

When I looked up again, still straining to stay in sunlight, I saw the policeman and the dog working their way back in my direction. Clearly training was going on, I was relieved to realize, and that they were not searching for a lost or kidnapped child, or anything tragic like that. And this time the trainer allowed the dog to come up to me and give me a good sniffing. Not in my crotch, which most non-search-dog dogs would do, but more my trouser cuffs, socks, and shoes.

“You asked if he was looking for you. Right?” I nodded. “Well, if it’s all right with you I thought I would have him search for you.”

I was confused, “But he’s found me, no?” I pointed down at him where he was giving me a good going over. “How would he search for me since he’s already found me?”

“You see how he’s sniffin’ at your pants leg? He’ll now remember that. From that he’ll remember you. And, again if you’re willin’, we’ll head back that way,” he pointed way up the street, “and then when you’re done that paper—nothin’ much good in there to tell you the truth—you can go anywhere you want in town, you can even hide if you want to. Actually, that’d be good. And then in about 15 minutes or so, I’ll have him search for you. To see how well he’s doin’ at that. We just got him and are trainin’ him. To tell you the truth, he’s not comin’ along all that well. So this would be good for him. How does that sound to you?”

I very much liked the idea and said, “Sure. Sounds like fun and maybe it will be helpful. He looks like quite a nice fella.”

I bent to pat his head but his handler stepped in to stop me. “One thing—no one who isn’t workin’ him should ever touch him. It only confuses things. Understood?”

“Yes. Sure. Sorry. My wife’s in the store and as soon as she comes out we’ll go and hide somewhere. Is that OK? I mean hiding?”

“Like I said, whatever you want. If he gets trained proper I can’t tell you the kinds of things we’ll be havin’ him doing.”

I very much wanted to know but Rona later will be proud of me for again retraining myself from asking. I was under orders to stay away from these kinds of grim matters.

“You know,” I added, half-kidding, “I’ve been trying to find myself for years. Maybe this will help with that.”

Clearly he either didn’t understand my pseudo-existentialist comment or in fact did and thought it not worthy of response. And thus, for whatever reason, without another word they headed back up the street and I folded up the paper, very eager now for Rona to finish her shopping. I thought the only things remaining on our list were the cards and that as soon as she came out we could spend the full 15 minutes hiding ourselves.

My first thought was to find a place down by the dock where they bring in all the fish. It would be full of conflicting smells and thus would be a good test for the dog. But as I thought about this I realized maybe Rona wouldn’t like what I had agreed to do, feeling that I, with my aggressive big-city ways, had imposed myself on the policeman. Her style was more to fit in by not making us too obvious, too seemingly eager to meet and befriend people. Especially local people who were welcoming to outsiders but also were clear about wanting to maintain a separation between themselves and us. At least on initial encounter. And if she felt this way about what I had agreed to, she would be more than half right.

So maybe, I thought, I wouldn’t tell Rona what happened. That I would say, “You know we never walked along the docks. Since it’s a nice morning, maybe we should do that.” And then whatever happened or didn’t happen with the dog I would deal with. After the fact. I felt that it was at best fifty-fifty that they would find us, I mean me--that the handler had said the dog wasn’t doing very well--and that if they didn’t, as I expected they wouldn’t—especially if I could find us a good hiding place--I would have nothing to explain to Rona. If they did, I would hem and haw and then eventually say wasn’t it cool. I felt sure she would come around to that. After all, she liked dogs, though she would be frustrated that she wouldn’t be allowed to pat him.

And with that Rona bounced out of the shop and rejoined me on the street, excitedly showing me a box of note cards she had bought with tasteful pictures on them of various seascapes. Very nice. Not at all tacky. Since she was in such a good mood, I suggested a walk down by the boats. She said that sounded nice and off we went.

It was midmorning and there was little activity. The fishing and lobster boats had set out much earlier and wouldn’t return for some hours. As we passed through the parking lot to get to the moorings, I had some fleeting anxiety again about our car but put that quickly aside since I was now on a mission to help with searches and rescues.

After a few minutes, Rona stated the obvious, “There’s not much going on here. Maybe we should come back one afternoon when the boats come in and we could even buy some fresh fish or lobsters.”

“That sounds like a good idea to me. But let’s walk a little further. There’s a pile of nets I wouldn’t mind checking out.” I was stalling for time and also thought that behind the smelly nets would be a good place to hide.

“I don’t know what it is with you and fishing nets,” Rona said, reminding me that whenever we are anywhere in a port, here or overseas, I seem to have this fascination with nets.

Again, seeking to buy time, I ruminated out loud about this peculiar interest of mine. “I don’t know why. I think it may be because when I was a kid my father used to like to take us to the Fulton Fish Market in New York City and Sheepshead Bay in Brooklyn, down by the fishing piers, and we would wander around among the boats and stalls. I remember fantasizing about working on one of those boats. Hauling nets or something. For some reason this always . . .”

“You know, it’s getting late. We have some things in the car that we should be putting into the refrigerator. We can come back here another time. And you can visit your nets.”

“You know how most kids like me back then dreamed about being firemen and . . .”

“You mean boys.”

“Yes, boys, and . . .”

I interrupted myself because, as Rona and I were going back and forth about my fascination with fishing nets, up toward the street, just beginning to turn down toward the docks I spotted a glint of yellow—the sun’s reflection off the search dog’s vest. He was clearly sniffing his way along, leading his handler right toward us.

I grabbed hold of Rona’s sleeve and began to pull her toward the mountain of fishing nets. “What are you doing?” Rona squealed. “You’re tugging on my sleeve.”

“I know. Sorry. I just want to get a closer look at those nets. I’ve never seen any like them.”

“I think you’re crazy. I thought Maine would have a good effect on you, a calming one; but now look at . . .”

“Please, just this once, let’s take a look at these. Trust me they’re really special.” Rolling her eyes up in her head Rona relented and followed me behind the pile. I pretended to scrutinize them while she stood aloof with her arms folded, impatiently tapping her foot.

Even though I was bent low, out of the tops of my eyes I could see her waiting, aggravated but indulgent, while I pretended to examine the floats on the nets, crouching ever lower and lower. I was trying to curl up into a ball to better hide myself.

But huddling as I was against the nets, thinking I had successfully made myself virtually invisible, as they drew even closer, I could also not fail to see the search dog and his handler.

They came to a stop a few yards from me and the dog promptly sat on his haunches. I had expected he would leap at me, growl, and then bite at my trouser cuffs. But he and the policeman remained where they were, totally still, without moving closer.

What I was really up to was about to be exposed to Rona and thus I began fumbling in my mind to concoct an explanation and also what I was certain would need to be a seemingly-sincere apology.

“Did you find yourself yet?”

“What was that?” Rona said, more confused than I. After all I at least knew what they and I had been up to.

“Oh, nothing,” I said with as much matter-of-factness as I could muster.

“Nothing? But didn’t you hear what he said?”

“Not really,” I lied.

She turned to them for conformation about what she had clearly heard, but they had already retraced most of their steps back up toward the street.

“Well, I never,” Rona said, exasperated.

I didn’t right then try to explain anything or look directly at her, but promised myself that when we were back at the house and all the groceries were safely away, I would tell her the whole story. Or at least I though I would.

May 5, 2015--Brooklyn Battery Tunnel

The traffic was heavy heading out to Brooklyn earlier in the day and now, returning hours later, was still moving at a crawl.

"Let's take the tunnel, "Rona said, "I'm exhausted and the traffic heading to the Manhattan Bridge is stop-and-go."

"But, you know I've become cheap," I said--Rona rolled her eyes, "And the tunnel costs $8.00. So . . ."

"Not if you have E-ZPass. Look at the sign. Then it's only $5.54."

"Still expensive," I said, "But I'm tired too so, OK, let's take it. Let's splurge. Though how they came up with that 54 cents I'll never know."

Ignoring that, Rona said, "Let's try to get into the extreme right lane. We keep forgetting to do that. If we do, we can take Trinity Place north, right onto Sixth Avenue, which is the most direct route to the garage. That way we can avoid the usual snarl on the Westside Highway. And," she added with a wink, "since it's shorter, save money on gas."

"That's how to do it," I pointed.

"Do what?"

"Get into the extreme right lane. There, where the sign says 'All Trucks Use this Lane.'"

"Trucks only?"

"No, look. It doesn't say trucks only which to me means it's also OK for cars. If not, there's no way to get into the tunnel lane we want."

"But why is that policeman waving his arms at us?"

"Strange," I said, "I'm not speeding or anything." I slowed down even more and crept forward toward the stop sign. It was there, another sign said, so that trucks could pull over to be inspected.

"Post-9/11," Rona said. "I get it. But watch out!" She put her hand on my chest as so to restrain me. "That cop just ran onto the road. Right in front of us. up there by the stop sign."

"He looks all agitated," I said, "I have no idea what's going on." I came to a halt well before the stop sign. By then he was racing toward us. It was a warm day and so I thought I'd be nice and creep forward to cut down on the distance he had to run.

"Roll down your window," Rona said, "And be sure to be polite."

"I'm always polite."

"Half the time you're curmudgeony."

Before I could say anything else the officer, panting and sweating, leaned in my window. Holding on to the door as if to support himself.

"Didn't you see that sign?" He was pointing back to where I had entered the extreme righthand lane.

"I did. Is there a problem?" I tried to sound as calm and innocent as possible though, as always in these situations, my heart was racing.

"Didn't you see the sign?" he repeated, this time much louder. Shouting at me.

"If you mean about the trucks, yes I did." Rona placed her hand on my arm since my voice too was raised.

"Well, that was your first violation."

"First violation?" I snapped. Rona whispered to me to calm down.

"It's for trucks, not cars."

"The sign didn't say 'trucks only' and so I thought the lane was for trucks that needed to be inspected and for cars too since there's no other way to get to that righthand unless . . ." I pointed to the tunnel lane we wanted to enter.

"And your second violation," he cut me off, "was that you didn't come to a full stop."

"Full stop?"

"Yeah, here. At this stop sign." He slapped it, right up where I had come to a halt.

"I slowed down to almost a stop, well before the stop sign, when I saw you waving at me. And when you began to run toward us I thought I'd creep forward to the stop sign--the one right here--to make it easier for you."

"License and insurance card." Rona was already fishing for the insurance card in the glove compartment. "And step out of the car please."

"For what?"

"Step out please." His voice turned to ice though his face was beet red and throbbing. Rona poked me in the back. Slowly, with my hands showing, I got out of the car.

"That's a good boy," he said to me with a snarl.

I handed over my driver's license and insurance information. He took his time scrutinizing both, turning them slowly, holding them up to the sunlight, and squinting at them.  "Zwerling, eh? What kind a name is that?"

"It's mine," I said, admittedly with attitude.

Sweat was pouring off him dripping onto the road. Cars were racing by and two trucks by then had come up behind me and the drivers were beginning to tap on their horns. He glared over at them and they stopped.

He finally finished looking over my papers and threw them contemptuously through the window onto the driver's seat. "Get back in the car," he snapped, "and get the fuck outta here." He slapped his hand on the hood.

"Next time--if there is a next time--stay out of my lane or I'll write you so many tickets they'll take away your friggin license. Though how you got one in the first place is a mystery to me. But across the river there in Manhattan I suppose anything goes." He began to sputter and, finally finished with me, swinging his nightstick, started to head toward the first truck in line.

Back in the car, now also sweating, I pulled away at no more than 3 MPH.

As we entered the tunnel in the lane that would let us to Trinity Place, Rona said, "That was unbelievable. And scary. He's so full of rage." She was struggling with her thoughts then said, "Am I ever glad we're not black."

May 4, 2015--Joy Ride

At least in Brooklyn, when I was a kid, when the cops, to teach us "respect for the law," took one of us for a joy ride, they had the guts to throw us in the back seat of their patrol car and beat us up with a rubber hose.

How different now where the cops lack the guts to do this with their own hands but rather, shackle someone, toss him in the back of a paddy wagon, and then take him for a "nickel ride," as it is referred to in Baltimore. And while on this ride they make intentional abrupt stops and starts and violent turns so the prisoner, unsecured, is thrown about in the vehicle and is sure to be slammed unprotected against the steel walls of the vans.

Most times, "to teach them a lesson," the victims wind up "just" battered, on occasion paralyzed and in a wheelchair for life, as in B'more, or as in the recent tragic case of Freddy Gray have their spinal column severed and in the process are killed.

Lesson delivered. Respect for the law.

And in Maryland, in Charm City, the cops have something else going on--the so-called "police officers' bill of rights. Passed by the state legislature there and, as reported in the New York Times, in at least a dozen other states, it gives special legal protection to cops. Maryland's is the first, passed in the early 1970s, and goes further than any other state in offering the police the most layers of protection from accountability or prosecution.

For example, the Maryland bill of rights gives officers 10 days before they are required to talk to investigators. Ten days more than any other Old Line State citizen. Common sense suggests only one reason for this week-and-a-half delay--it provides time for a potentially accused cop to consult with lawyers and colleagues who may have been involved in an abusive or felonious situation to align stories. In they words, to cover up what actually happened.

Other aspects of the Maryland law limits the amount of time officers may be questions and dramatically shortens the time an alleged victim has to press charges--90 days from the time of the incident even though the potential complainant may be in the hospital recovering from injuries.

These laws come to be put on the books as the result of police unions lobbying for them and contributing tens of thousands of dollars to local campaigns to assure the election of police-friendly officials.

In Freddy Gray's case it was only because of the pressure of protestors and the worldwide coverage his murder attracted that caused prosecutors and the police themselves to move things along so quickly.

There is understandable celebrating in Baltimore but savvy residence know how difficult it is to convict police officers of any crime, especially one this heinous. There is so much ambiguity about what happened in incidents of this kind and the police unions have limitless resources to deploy in the defense of their members that the likelihood is that all six who are charged will not be convicted. It almost never happens.

April 10, 2015--Ready for Your Closeup?

Though I hate the proliferation of surveillance cameras that make me feel that wherever I am under scrutiny--on the street, in my car, going through a red light, in my Manhattan apartment elevator, getting coffee at a 7-Eleven--I am having some second thoughts about being tracked and continuously videotaped.

All our traditional notions of privacy have been obliterated by these cameras, urban crowding, social networks, big data mining (check out the explosion of ads targeted to you on Facebook), and a youth culture that thrives on self-promotion and exhibitionism.

Then of course there are all the people whose smartphones are also video cameras, the hackers and, more than anything else, the various domestic surveillance programs of federal agencies such as the CIA, FBI, and especially the NSA. Pretty much everything that someone wants to know about you--from the sources and amounts of your income to your medical records to your shopping and reading habits--are readily available. Thus, though some may hate knowing this--and for whom the only alternative is to live in the North Woods off the grid--by now there is virtually nothing one can do to retain any shred of privacy.

And then there are the benefits that are less discussed--how these images and data enhance legitimate efforts by the police and justice system to keep us safe.

In the news in the last day or two are glaring examples.

First, in Boston, at the conclusion of the trial of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, with his brother one of the Boston Marathon bombers, we were reminded of how large a part surveillance cameras on the street where they placed their pressure-cooker bombs contributed to their being tracked down and apprehended in only days, which thwarted their plans to explode more bombs in New York City. Without the images of them walking calmly in lockstep toward the bomb site it would have likely taken many days or weeks to apprehend them.

And also a few days ago, in North Charleston, SC, a white policeman, Micahel Slager, was caught on a smartphone camera when he gunned down and murdered a black man, Walter Scott, who from the images it was clear was posing no threat to the officer. Without the video it is likely that it would have been easier than it will be at the eventual trial to cover up the truth of what occurred.

So how to think about this is complicated.

January 2, 2015--In the Line of Duty

There is movement to repair the tattered relationship between New York City mayor Bill de Blasio and the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, the police union.

The union chief savaged de Blasio even before he took office for his pledge to limit the controversial stop-and-frisk program that de Blasio and many others claimed unduly targeted minorities. And more recently, after the chocking death of Eric Garner on Staten Island, there was more invective hurled at the mayor because he took a balanced position about the incident, including, after praising the police in general, acknowledging that he counsels his bi-racial son Dante to be extra careful when encountering law enforcement officials. What parent wouldn't.

The union president went so far as to claim that there was "blood on the mayor's hands" after two officers were brutally assassinated two weeks ago. He made the invidious connection between what de Blasio said about the strangling on Staten Island and the murder of the officers.

As a result, as well as to loom large in the public eye, the PBA president has been urging members to fill out forms demanding that the mayor not attend their funerals if they are killed in the line of duty and approved of cops booing and turning their backs on the mayor when he spoke from the heart last weekend at the funeral of the first of the slain officers.

So, with the intervention of the widely-respected police commissioner, Bill Bratton, de Blasio met for two hours on Tuesday with Pat Lynch, head of the PBA in an attempt to begin to patch things up.

Little was expected to come of this and the parties to the discussion did not disappoint--they reported no progress, no meeting of the minds.

I hope (but doubt) that there was an attempt to put things in context, very much including how dangerous a job it actually is to be a member of New York's Finest.

For example, did anyone point out that "only" 324 police officers have been shot and killed in the line of duty--324 since 1806, in more than 200 years.

This is obviously too many but no one said police work was like office work nor did anyone likely point out that in New York City more people are killed in office accidents than in police work. Or that many more firefighters than police officers die on the job each year, as do many, many more construction workers, taxi drivers or, for that sad matter, school teachers.

Again, this is not to be insensitive to the sacrifices than many policemen are asked to and volunteer to make, but let's not pretend that being a patrolman on the streets of New York is as dangerous as being a Navy SEAL on a mission in Yemen.

December 29, 2014--Public Relations Jujitsu

When was the last time TV news showed the video of Eric Garner being strangled on Staten Island by police officers? A tape we saw time after harrowing time 24/7 just a week or two ago. It has disappeared from the airwaves.

What has taken its place? Live shots and video of the makeshift memorial in Brooklyn at the site where two policemen, Rafael Ramos and Wenjian Liu, were brutally assassinated nine days ago. And this weekend there was the wake and funeral of Officer Ramos that was broadcast live and then repeated on tape over and over again. Next weekend  there be another funeral for Wenjian Liu the second officer slain. It will be shown live and then during the next 24 hours replayed frequently.

And then in both officers' cases there is breaking-news and continuing reports about how Bowdoin College will cover all costs for Officer Ramos' sophomore son's tuition and how, with "America's Mayor," Rudy Giuliani in the lead, the Tunnel Foundation is raising $800,000 to pay off the mortgages of the two slain officers' homes.

In and of itself, there is nothing wrong with any of this. The two officers deserve the attention, support, and honors.

But again, what has faded from view? No longer mentioned is what happened in Ferguson, Staten Island, or Cleveland. And what has taken the place of coverage of these outrages? Stories about the shooting that occurred in Brooklyn.

Coincidence, this shift in focus? Yes and no.

No, because of the very real murders in Brooklyn. Yes, because shifting attention from the citizen victims in Ferguson, Staten Island, and Cleveland to the victims on the streets of Brooklyn, allows those disposed to side with the police in regard to the underlying reasons for what happened to Ramos and Liu, to switch their concerns to the "real" problem--from misplaced sympathy for the out-of-control criminals (who happen to be African American) who were killed by police (who happen to be white) to the vulnerability and courage of those officers in the face of these lawlessness perpetrators.

That is the transposition of what has happened.

This represents a brilliant example of public-relations jujitsu. Substituting one reality for another. In regard to this fraught situation, we are seeing a shift of attention from a systemic problem (the uneven application of justice in America) to something horrific but specific--the assassination of the two police officers, which in the process is becoming universalized: the two murdered officers now represent all police.

Demonstrations in the streets in support of equal treatment under the law have been replaced by images of the solemnity of tens of thousands of police officers gathering in a demonstration of their own at the funerals of the two slain officers.

This is a complicated situation with heat and demagoguery on all sides, but let us remember how and where it began--in Ferguson, Mo, Staten Island, NY, and Cleveland, Ohio. It did not begin in Brooklyn.

December 8, 2014--A Conversation About Race

Every time there is an outrageous example of how the justice system in America works differently for white people and people of color, political leaders, the press and clergy say that we have to have a serious, dispassionate national conversation about race so that we can at long last overcome our still fraught racial history.

This call was raised after the OJ Simpson trial when it was obvious that whites and blacks experience the justice system almost as polar opposites--the vast majority of caucasians saw him to be guilty of homicide while blacks in overwhelming numbers cheered the jury verdict.

For a week or two after the verdict a version of that national conversation occurred; but here we are again, nearly 20 years later, with two grand juries--one in Ferguson MO, another on Staten Island--failing to indicate two white police officers who killed unarmed black men. Again there are street demonstrations, 24/7 media coverage, and renewed calls for that discourse about race.

But before we can even get started talking across the racial divide, people are criticizing New York City mayor Bill de Blasio (who has a biracial son and daughter) and Barack Obama (who is obviously African American) either, as in the case of the former, for "throwing the police under the bus" (as ludicrously claimed by the president of the NYC patrolman's union) or, as in Obama's case, for not speaking out passionately or personally enough.

The Washington Post over the weekend wrote explicitly about this--"N.Y. Mayor Bill de Blasio Spoke Bluntly On Race, Policing in Ways Harder for Obama."

Yes, the mayor spoke bluntly--actually he was more compassionate than blunt--praising the vast majority of police officers who protect citizens black and white while calling for the need to retrain them in the appropriate use of force and then "spoke from the heart" as a father of a dark-skinned son who sports a huge Afro while Obama spoke more professorially, less as a black man and father of two daughters.

Obama may have tempered his remarks out of concern that they might interfere with his Department of Justice's investigations of both cases, exploring whether or not the victims' civil rights were violated though they will be difficult to press since the DJ would have to prove intent. He may have wanted to avoid the legal storm that arose after Trayvon Martin was killed when he, with emotion and truth, said Trayvon "could have been me."

Yes, any President needs to tread carefully when talking about on-going criminal investigations, but surely there must be ways, there must be appropriate words for our first African-Ameircan president to speak publicly about race in less than his usual dispassionate way. For him, if you will, to testify about what it is like, what it feels like to be a black man in America and the father of teenage children who must worry when his children are out and about, even with Secret Service protection. And how he must have residual fears about his own safety when in public. Fears exacerbated by the fact of his skin color.

I understand that during his first term, for political reasons alone, he did not want to come off sounding like a "black president." He was and is the president of all the people, even those who disagree with and even despise him. Further, considering the underlying racism so pervasive in America, he did not want to give bigoted whites the excuse to have their views confirmed that he is the proverbial boogie man (epithet intended)--a militant Angry Black Man.

But now, with the last midterm elections over (and lost) what continues to hold him back from truly speaking his mind and leading the long-overdo conversation? He has nothing significant to lose. Now more than ever we need his perspective and passion.

December 4, 2014--Chokehold On Staten Island

I need to learn more, but Staten Island, where I worked for 10 years, is more like Ferguson, MO than Manhattan. Though a brief ferry ride away it is as mired as Ferguson in anger and racism.

And now with a Staten Island grand jury concluding not to indite the police officer who in July killed unarmed, African-American Eric Garner with a chokehold, I expect this forsaken borough of New York City to erupt in protest. Hopefully, not violently, but there is a limit to what people of color can tolerate in 2014.

This was all caught on vivid videotape and should have been an easy one. Indict officer Daniel Pantaleo and then let a public jury decide to convict or not.

But, more white police officers live on SI than in any other part of New York City and so this was not unexpected.

Again, as in Ferguson, rather than a traditional grand jury review, which usually lasts for a few hours or perhaps a day or two, this one went on for months and one knows all to well what that means--a version of a trial occurred out of sight. And of course there was no indictment.

*   *   *

After I wrote this, we met friends for dinner at the Yale Club, across from Grand Central Station. We had not seen them for awhile and had a wonderful time. They are always up on the news but there was so much to catch up about that we didn't talk much about Staten Island or Ferguson.

But at about 10:30, after dinner, when we were saying goodbye at the station, we were swept into a flash-demonstartion--a few hundred young black, brown, and white people who were darting about, herded by an equal number of police, all already organized by Twitter and Facebook postings to protest the lack of an indictment on Staten Island.

We joined them as they dashed into Grand Central. For me it was evocative of others times and other causes. 

"Hands up. Don't shot. Hands up don't shoot," they, we, chanted in reference to what allegedly happened to Michael Brown in Ferguson. "No justice, no peace. No justice, no peace" from earlier days.

And, "Fuck the police. Fuck the police" from today.

One struggling middle-aged commuter, who remembered similar epithets shouted decades ago in anger at the police, the "Pigs," during the Vietnam War said, "That didn't work then and it's is not fair now. At worst, it was only one policeman in Missouri and a few here. So . . ."

Someone who heard that responded civilly, "Don't you understand the frustration, the anger? You expect everyone to be courteous?"

"Maybe you're right," the commuter said as he ran for his train to Stanford. Maybe you're right. Back then I thought we were." 

He disappeared in the crowd.

August 18, 2014--This Guy Is Getting Interesting

Senator Ted Cruz--the physical and ideological image of demagogic Senator Joseph McCarthy--is a candidate for the 2016 Republican nomination for president, but he's going nowhere. Actually, he is setting himself up for a lucrative future on the lecture, book, and Fox News circuit. So we do not have to take any shifting in his positions seriously. He is merely building his brand.

Senator Rand Paul, on the other hand, the current frontrunner for that nomination, is doing some interesting things to adjust or, to be kind, flesh out his views and image. He clearly doesn't want to be this generation's Barry Goldwater and get trounced two years from now by Hillary Clinton.

Indeed, I am beginning to get the feeling that not only is his likely to be nominated but he may have a good chance to become president. Hillary has probably already peaked and is feeling like yesterday's news, a part of the problem in Washington who, playing it safe, thus far has nothing new to say or credibly promise. She's got the gender thing going and has a talented and widely beloved husband, but there may be enough Clinton fatigue to override even that. Barbara Bush may be right--enough already with the Bushes and Clinton. We're not talking Adamses or Roosevelts.

Rand Paul is the only national Republican figure with the guts and inclination to speak at the recent NAACP convention; is comfortable with young people, gays, and people of color; is calling for sentencing reform; and last week had some fascinating things to say about the racial confrontation in Ferguson, MO.

Since 9/11 the Department of Homeland Security has been paying for the arming of the nation's local police forces, making armored vehicles, helicopters, high-capacity weapons, sniper rifles, grenade launchers, and body armor readily available. And so, when there is a confrontation between police and alleged perpetrators (the Boston bombing suspects, for example) or between police and demonstrating and rioting citizens (Ferguson, for example), the cops show up armed to the teeth in full military regalia.

Observing this, Rand Paul late last week in an op-ed piece on Time.com first made a connection between himself and the demonstrators--

If I had been told to get out of the street as a teenager, there would have been a distinct possibility that I might have smarted off. But I wouldn't have expected to be shot.

Then, in regard to the military-style arming of the police and the expansion of their powers he said--

When you couple this militarization of law enforcement with the erosion of civil liberties and due process that allows the police to become judge and jury--national security letters, no-knock searches, broad general warrants, preconviction forfeiture--we begin to have a serious problem on our hands.

Interesting, no?