The 52Nd

Luis A. Rivera

Description

Luis A. Rivera looks back at what it was like to be a rookie Police officer and his ups and downs of his career in this memoir.
Luis A. Rivera saw NYPD as larger-than-life while growing up in the South Bronx in the late 1960s and 1970s. From the time he was seven years old, he dream to become one of them.

As a kid, he’d sneak a quick peek through the closed curtains just to see the arriving police cars—the old green, black, and white ones with a siren that seemed to go on forever. He’d notice the big Irish cops getting out of their police cars, with their hats on and nightsticks under their arms.

In 1989, he was accepted into the New York City Police Academy. Soon, he was hitting the books and navigating shooting range qualifications. The courses were intense.

As he achieved his dream, he soon realized the NYPD was not the Boy Scouts, and how unforgiving the police department can be. In this memoir, we look back at how it was like to be a rookie cop with it’s ups and downs in an officer’s career.

Sujets

• Law Enforcement
• Biography
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: iUniverse
• Date de parution: 30 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781663247384
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 4 Mo

Extrait

The 52nd
 
 
 
 
 
Luis A. Rivera
 
 
 
 

 
THE 52ND
 
 
Copyright © 2023 Luis A. Rivera.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
 
iUniverse
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.iuniverse.com
844-349-9409
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6632-4739-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6632-4738-4 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2022920370
 
 
iUniverse rev. date: 01/27/2023
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter 1The Dream
Chapter 2A Pig in Mud
Chapter 3The Police Academy
Chapter 4Forty-First Precinct
Chapter 5My First Observation
Chapter 6The Forty-Third Precinct
Chapter 7The Forty-Fifth Precinct
Chapter 8The Forty-Ninth Precinct
Chapter 9Tompkins Square Park
Chapter 10The Fifty-Second
Chapter 11The Sector
Chapter 12T. J. Hooker
Chapter 13The Crown Heights Riot
Chapter 14Fools in Love
Chapter 15The Washington Heights Riot
Chapter 16The Ugly Truth
Chapter 17Nightlife
Chapter 18Let the Games Begin
Chapter 19My Son
Chapter 20The EDP
Chapter 21Voodoo
Chapter 22DOA
Chapter 23September 11, 2001
Chapter 24Starstruck
Chapter 25Fall from Grace
Chapter 26Back to Basics
Chapter 27Departmental Kill
Chapter 28American Gangster
Chapter 29The Job Has Fallen
Chapter 30Viper Unit
Chapter 31Freedom
 
 
 
 
To my wife, Marisol Rivera, who stood by me when I was at my lowest and who encouraged me to write about my experience
To my son and daughter, Daniel and Denise Rivera, whom I showed that one can always do better, when you apply yourself. To my twin step daughters Jasmine and Crystal, keep reaching for the stars.
And to all those past, present, and future police officers of the Fifty-Second
PREFACE
My purpose in writing this book, is in the hope that someone might find inspiration to continue forward. Any issues discussed in this book are presented for the reader’s edification and are not directed at any individuals.
 
 
 
 
 
In the 1970s, a young boy of Puerto Rican descent dreamed of becoming a New York City police officer. This book is my memoir—a ride through time in my life experience as a cop, including the ups and downs of my career.

CHAPTER 1 THE DREAM
Growing up in the South Bronx in the late 1960s and 1970s, I saw police officers as larger than life—and I wanted to be one of them. I knew, from the time I was seven years old, I wanted to be a police officer. And not just any kind of police officer; I wanted to be a good and fair New York City police officer. Eventually, I became the first person in my Puerto Rican family to do something with their lives and become somebody in the community, instead of a high school dropout or a junkie or that type of person.
I came from a family in which everyone kept to themselves. No one, other than my mother and my neighborhood pastor, taught me right from wrong. As you might imagine, I learned about life the hard way. Let’s put it this way: I learned from other people’s mistakes. I was the kid watching from the sidelines, observing everything around me.
Let me take you back in time to my childhood in the early 1970s. While playing in the streets, you could always hear someone playing the bongo drums in the distance. The laughter of little girls jumping rope and playing hopscotch. Kids played around parked cars. The boys played games called Johnny-on-the-Pony and stickball. The streets were full of life. The air was filled with the aroma of Spanish cooking, as the older men drank Schaefer or Budweiser beers—it was the sweet smell of life on Simpson Street in the old South Bronx. I attended P.S.20 right across from the Forty-First Precient on Simpson Street.
My neighborhood was in the old Forty-First Precinct—a precinct that was under constant attack by the locals. It was well known, back in those days, cops did not give 100 percent to the community, and they were not well liked. The precinct had its share of burglaries, homicides, rapes, gang violence, and your friendly neighborhood junkies. Every time we saw a junkie running down the street, we knew the police were not far behind. This was enough to tell everyone who was hanging outside, enjoying the evening, that it was time to head back inside. Everyone knew that if the junkie was guilty, he was about to get an old-fashioned police beat-down, and that meant no witnesses.
Most folks felt bad for the neighborhood junkies because these guys were nice to the neighborhood folks. Whenever someone from the neighborhood needed help, a junkie you knew often was the first to help, whether it was to help an old lady with her groceries or to help in a neighborhood fight. The community also took kindly to the junkies because they could be anyone in any given family. So, whether people gave the junkies fifty cents or a dollar, it kept them happy.
The worst time was when there was a neighborhood homicide. In the Spanish communities, this meant everyone went home, and all windows and curtains were closed. The streets were clear in seconds. It also meant no school the next day, and no being outside for about two days. That way, no one was questioned. In those days, no one was genuinely protected by the police if they witnessed a crime. It was the code of the land: “See nothing, say nothing.”
As a kid, I tended to sneak a quick peek through the closed curtains at the arriving police cars—the old green, black, and white police cars, with one flashing light and that long siren that seemed to go on forever. I would notice those big Irish cops getting out of their police cars, with their hats on and nightsticks under their arms. I’d say to myself, “That is what I wanna be when I grow up.” But then, suddenly I’d felt a sharp pain across my head and realize I just got a head slap by my mother for peeking out the window once again. Still, it was worth getting the hits, just to get a look at the police car and the cops.
One thing was certain during my growing-up years in the South Bronx: No matter what day of the week, no matter what month or season, the Bronx was always burning. I remember the big fire trucks and how strong they looked. Most firemen were kind to the neighborhood children, even letting the kids play on their fire trucks. My favorite truck was the pumper truck, but the most exciting truck to see was the one with the fireman sitting on an upper carriage, steering from the back of the long fire truck. My mother didn’t allow us to play on the fire trucks. She was afraid we would fall. I didn’t mind; I enjoyed just looking at them. But I enjoyed seeing the arrival of the old police cars—they were the best.
As I grew up, I watched the Bronx slowly deteriorate, one building after another. I learned one thing for sure—it wasn’t the black people or the Puerto Ricans who ran down the Bronx. Yes, they often had I-don’t-care attitudes, and some people may had lacked moral structure or discipline to contribute to an already what it seems a normal society, but the deterioration of New York City, was not because of blacks or Hispanics. It was from the remnants of other communities throughout the city who were there before the influx of Hispanics. The Bronx had other large communities of Italian, Irish, and Jewish folks. The South Bronx was just a piece of the pie where the blacks and Hispanics settled.
Some white communities simply avoided the black and Hispanic communities altogether; they packed up and moved away for a better life, choosing either the comfort of the suburbs or moving out of state. It wasn’t easy trying to live with people who didn’t want to mingle with those who weren’t of their own kind. Even though it was hard, everyone managed somehow.
Fighting for territory within city blocks was a normal weekly occurrence. And why? Just to get another rundown neighborhood? The struggle wasn’t easy, but you always met good people along the way. Even though most white folks moved for a better life, there were still white communities in and around the South Bronx.
I remember a white kid named Paul from the neighborhood, an Irish kid who sometimes got into trouble. Paul or Pauly was one of those guys who helped other people around the neighborhood. I remember Paul being a nice guy. He hung around and palled around with my oldest brother. Paul would sometimes come around and stay for dinner at times. Boy, did Paul enjoy Spanish cooking.
One day, Paul got into some type of trouble with some guys in the neighborhood, and I saw my oldest brother go downstairs. I ran to the window to see what was happening and saw my brother running across the street. I saw the boys were talking for a while when, suddenly, my brother raised his fists and started to swing. It was my brother against another Spanish kid from the neighborhood. A crowd started to gather around. I ran and told my mother what was