There's something unique about the relationship between
cops and their partners because of the need they have to rely on each other for
their safety. Having a partner who can handle himself in a crisis situation is
vital, since our imminent demise could depend on it. During 20 years as a cop
in New York City, I was often in situations that required a skilled partner to
back me up. Just as often, I was the guy doing the backup. Before being
assigned to plainclothes undercover work, I spent a few years in uniform. One
of my partners was a guy named Ronnie. Ronnie was handsome, well-built and
meticulously neat in his tailored blue uniform and hat, which he wore slightly
cocked to one side, like a beret. His muscular, athletic good looks and
perpetual tan drew women to him like bees to a patch of honeysuckle. We couldn't
have a cup of coffee in a diner without being surrounded by the female wait
staff, repudiating his obvious wedding ring as they shoved phone numbers in his
direction.
Yes, Ronnie was what women would call a “hunk.” In
addition to his looks, he had a sparkling personality and an infectious sense
of humor. He was also a good guy to have around when violence erupted. We
fought our way out of more than a few circumstances that could have ended badly
for us.
Yet, with all of his good points, he had a serious flaw in his judgment when it
came to his gun, or, more specifically his holster. We used to have a
department issued holster with a prominent ridge inside that kept the gun
locked tightly so it couldn't be easily taken away during a struggle. In order
to release the weapon, you would have to grab the stock and twist it sharply
before lifting it from its casing. After a couple of years of use, especially
in high crime areas where the gun would often be drawn, if seldom fired, the
ridge would begin to get worn down.
On several occasions, I mentioned to Ronnie that he
needed to spring for a new holster, but he always maintained that it wasn't
necessary. “Ronnie, with that ragged leather sheath on your hip, you may as
well just shove the gun in your waistband,” I'd say, trying to shame him into a
new purchase. “C'mon Bob, do you really think anyone is going to be able
to take my gun from me,” he'd laugh confidently. It always amazed me that a guy
who was so careful about his looks, could be so careless about his life.
Well, as sure as God makes little green apples, Ronnie's carelessness was about
to be challenged. One night we were called to a small apartment to handle a
tumultuous family dispute. Although such an assignment seems a lot less
dangerous than a robbery in progress, or a report of shots fired at a location,
experienced cops realize that family disputes are among the most violent jobs
to deal with because of the hostile passions involved. When we arrived on the
scene, the raucous commotion was our guide to the apartment in question. As was
customary, we would separate the parties and try to get to the root of the
problem. The man was yelling bitterly about something the woman had done and
she was vociferously denying it, while dabbing at a cut on her lip.
Every few seconds, the emotionally distraught man would
lunge at the frightened woman, only to be restrained by my partner, as I kept
her at a safe distance. Suddenly, as Ronnie was holding the man back and
turning toward the woman to say something, I noticed the batterer reach for
Ronnie's gun. He wrenched it from the worn-out leather casing, bringing the
muzzle to just about Ronnie's chest level, before I dived across the room and
crashed into the wild-eyed lunatic.
I was probably no more than 10 feet away, but it seemed like I had traversed a
football field to reach him. The impact sent both of us over a couch and onto a
linoleum floor as I grasped his wrist with one hand and punched at his face
with the other. My partner leapt over the furniture and stomped on the gunman’s
hand, crushing his grip to force the release of the weapon.
I'd like to tell you that we simply cuffed the guy and
arrested him, but I'd be lying. The fear of death is always present in the mind
of a cop; it's just the nature of the job. However, to think that you were
almost killed with your own gun, is, strangely, even scarier. Hence, our fear
turned to anger and retribution toward someone who almost made widows of our
wives, and orphans of our kids. Besides, after seeing what he did to the
bloodied woman, we felt little regret when he tripped and fell a few times
on his way to the station house. Incidentally, without any further urging from
me, Ronnie purchased a new holster the next day.
