Rappin' with the 5-0

By Allen Francis

Before I decided to do this story, I'd never in my life had any dealings with the police and that was OK with me. I had heard too many stories from family and friends about the brutal nature of cops and seen too many examples of it on the news.

It was all too easy for me to imagine being stopped by a cop one day and hearing those deadly words, "You fit the description of..." The scene would end with the cop beating me over the head with his nightstick while humming his favorite song.

I decided I needed to lighten up a bit. A lot of cops may be brutal or crooked, but not all of them, right? I wanted to find out for myself what cops are really like and experience some of what they have to do on the job. So I set out for my neighborhood precinct, the 42nd.

As I got ready to leave the house, my mother told me to put a hat on to cover my braids. I usually wear a bandana, but she says it makes me look like a "hoodlum."

My mom was nervous about me entering police territory but I wasn't. All I was going to do was ask to talk to the youth affairs officer about teen programs in the precinct and the tensions that exist between cops and teenagers. No problem.

My First Attempt

As I was walking to the precinct, my enthusiasm started to drain out of me. With each step I thought of better things I could be doing—reading a comic, watching TV, sleeping,  lion taming, anything but this.

As I stopped in front of the station house I was glad I had my hat on. I didn't want to be fighting off cops because I fit the description of some guy with braids who had just robbed a bank or something.

I could see it now, one cop in riot gear yelling, "We need backup, repeat backup, there's a black guy on the premises!" Swarms of cops busting out of windows and doors, wielding batons that have my name on them, and not a video camera in sight. Man, I really needed to relax.

The first thing I saw when I walked in was a long bench with about four cops sitting on it—just waiting for me. I asked to see the youth affairs officer. They all looked at each other and finally one of them said she was in a conference.

I asked how long she would be busy and was told, "For an hour or two." Oh fiddlesticks, I thought, I wasn't going to get to sit in a police station and interview cops. I was so disappointed, gosh darn the luck.

I wrote out a note asking for an interview. I left my phone number and a copy of our magazine, NYC, with the officer behind the desk and asked him to make sure the youth officer got it. He said, "Sure," but something about the way he put the message and magazine down gave me the feeling that the youth officer would never see it.

Braids in my Hair, Sweat on My Brow

A few days later I was at it again, trying to find the 10th precinct in Manhattan. (I picked it because it was close to NYC's office.) When I saw the cruisers parked out front, I wiped my brow because I was sweating and took a couple of breaths.

I walked in and saw another long bench—it looked like the kind a judge sits on. Three officers were sitting there. I twisted my tongue in knots trying to explain that I was a reporter and wanted to talk to the youth affairs officer.

I was acting all nervous so I tried to cool out. I got into a stance that suggested I felt totally alright standing in a police station, with braids in my hair, wearing an earring and baggy pants.

One of the cops got on the phone for a minute and then gestured for me to go into the room behind him. "Fitzgerald will answer your questions," he said with a smile.

I walked in like a zombie, saying "Uh, Officer Fitzgerald?" It was a small room with three people in it. Fitzgerald pulled up a chair for me and I sat down, going through my robotic routine of explaining my name and what my business was.

The other cops left the office and Fitzgerald stood up. This guy was big. He closed the door with his nightstick and we were alone in this small room. This was it. I imagined NYC printing an issue with my face on the cover, with the headline, "In Memory of Allen."

Cracking Jokes

But instead of hitting me with the nightstick, Officer Fitzgerald asked me if I was in high school. When I told him I lived in the Bronx, he told me that his father lived there, too—you know, small talk.

As we got into the interview we would crack a joke here and there. It was amazing. I was relaxing in a squadhouse with the five-o, the fuzz, the boys in blue. Before I left, Fitzgerald gave me his number and said to call him if he could be of any more help.

Before leaving the precinct, I also met Officer Karen Delancey of youth affairs. She was a beautiful young woman (she told me she had been a model before becoming a cop) who sat down and started talking to me about rap. We were actually rapping RUN D.M.C.'s "Down with the King" in the middle of the police station and I almost broke into a verse of "My Adidas" before remembering I had an interview to do.

I asked her about the tensions between teens and cops and Officer Delancey talked about how some teens have to show off in front of their friends. They do something wrong, she said, and then they can look cool struggling with the cops or saying they got picked on.

Not All Bad

I thought she made a point there, but it wasn't the whole story. Sure there are problem teens but there are also problem cops.

I realized that I was uncomfortable around all cops because of the actions of the ones who think they're above the law, the ones who harass or brutalize citizens. I had gotten the idea that all cops are like the ones in the headlines.

But my experience at the 10th precinct showed me that not every cop is that way. Some like to joke around, like Officer Fitzgerald; others are beautiful ex-models like Officer Delancey. Eventually I got to do my interview at the 42nd precinct and that went smoothly too.

Before doing this story, my image of a cop was a bad cop, the kind that abuses power. I'd never run into a "good" cop, the kind who stops every once in a while from walking the beat to talk to you. But I know now that there are some out there.

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