The 1st Deadly Sin

recognize its truth. But Monica wasn’t aware that between a criminal’s complete freedom and formal charges against him existed a halfworld of documentation: of charges dismissed, of arrests never made because of lack of adequate evidence, of suits settled out of court, of complaints dropped because of dollar bribery or physical threats, of trials delayed or rejected simply because of the horrific backlog of court cases and the shortage of personnel.

But most of these judicial abortions had a history, a written record that existed somewhere. And part of it was in detectives’ paperwork: the squeals and beef sheets and diaries and records of “Charge dropped,”

“Refused to press charges,”

“Agreed to make restitution,”

“Let off with warning,”-all the circumlocutions to indicate that the over-worked detective, using patient persuasion in most cases, with or without the approval of his superior officer, had kept a case off the court calendar.

Most judicial adjustments were of a minor nature, and a product of the investigating officer’s experience and common sense. Two men in a bar, both liquored up, begin beating on each others’ faces with their fists. The police are called. Each antagonist wants the other arrested on charges of assault. What is the cop to do? If he’s smart, he gives both a tongue-lashing, threatens to arrest both for disturbing the peace, and sends them off in opposite directions. No pain, no strain, no paperwork with formal charges, warrants, time lost in court-an ache in the ass to everyone. And the judge would probably listen incredulously for all of five minutes and then throw both plaintiff and defendant out of his court.

But if the matter is a little more serious than a barroom squabble, if damage has been done to property or someone has suffered obvious injury, then the investigating officer might move more circumspectly. It can still be settled out of court, with the cop acting as judge and jury. It can be settled by voluntary withdrawal of charges, by immediate payment of money to the aggrieved party by the man who has wronged him, by mutual consent of both parties when threatened with more substantial charges by the investigating officer, or by a bribe to the cop.

This is “street justice,” and for every case that comes to trial in a walnut-paneled courtroom, a hundred street trials are held every hour of every day in every city in the country, and the presiding magistrate is a cop- plainclothes detective or uniformed patrolman. And honest or venal, he is the kingpin of the whole ramshackle, tottering, ridiculous, working system of “street justice,” and without him the already overclogged formal courts of the nation would be inundated, drowned in a sea of pettifoggery, and unable to function.

The conscientious investigating officer will or will not make a written report of the case, depending on his judgement of its importance. But if the investigating officer is a plainclothes detective, and if the case involves people of an obviously higher social status than sidewalk brawlers, and if formal charges have been made by anyone, and one or more visits to the precinct house have been made, then the detective will almost certainly make a written report of what happened, who did what, who said what, how much injury or damage resulted. Even if the confrontation simply dissolves-charges withdrawn, no warrants issued, no trial-the detective, sighing, fills out the forms, writes his report, and stuffs all the paper in the slush heap, to be thrown out when the file is overflowing.

Knowing all this, knowing how slim his chances were of finding anything meaningful in the detritus left behind by the Precinct’s detective squad when it was disbanded, Delaney followed his cop’s instinct and phoned Lt. Marty Dorfman at the 251st Precinct, next door.

Their preliminary conversation was friendly but cool. Delaney asked after the well-being of Dorfman’s family, and the lieutenant inquired as to Mrs. Delaney’s health. It was only when the Captain inquired about conditions in the Precinct that Dorfman’s voice took on a tone of anguish and anger.

It developed that Operation Lombard was using the 251st Precinct house as command headquarters. Deputy Commissioner Broughton had taken over Lt. Dorfman’s office, and his men were filling the second floor offices and bull pen formerly occupied by the Precinct detective squad. Dorfman himself was stuck at a desk in a corner of the sergeants’ room.

He could have endured this ignominy, he suggested to Delaney, and even endured Broughton’s slights that included ignoring him completely when they met in the hallway and commandeering the Precinct’s vehicles without prior consultation with Dorfman. But what really rankled was that apparently residents of the Precinct were blaming him, Dorfman, personally for not finding the killer. In spite of what they read in the papers and saw on television about Operation Lombard, headed by Deputy Commissioner Broughton, they knew Dorfman was commander of their precinct, and they blamed him for failing to make their streets safe.

“I know,” Delaney said sympathetically. “They feel it’s your neighborhood and your responsibility.”

“Oh yes,” Dorfman sighed. “Well, I’m learning. Learning what you had to put up with. I guess it’s good experience.”

“It is,” Delaney said definitely. “The best experience of all-being on the firing line. Are you going to take the exam for captain?”

“I don’t know what to do. My wife says no. She wants me to get out, get into something else.”

“Don’t do that,” Delaney said quickly. “Hang in there. A little while longer anyway. Things might change before you know it.”

“Oh?” Dorfman asked, interested now, curious, but not wanting to pin Delaney down. “You think there may be changes?”

“Yes. Maybe sooner than you think. Don’t make any decisions now. Wait. Just wait.”

“All right, Captain. If you say so.”

“Lieutenant, the reason I called-I want to come into the Precinct house around eight or nine tomorrow morning. I want to go down to that storage room in the basement. It’s off the hallway to the back door. You know, when you pass the pens and drunk tank and turn right. I want to go through some old files stored in there. It’s slush left by the detective squad. It’ll probably take me all day, and I may remove some of the files. I want your permission.”

There was silence, and Delaney thought the connection might have been cut.

“Hello? Hello?” he said.

“I’m still here,” Dorfman said finally in a soft voice. “Yes, you have my permission. Thank you for calling first, Captain. You didn’t have to do that.”

“It’s your precinct.”

“So I’ve been learning. Captain…”

“What?”

“I think I know what you’ve been doing. Are you getting anywhere?”

“Nothing definite. Yet. Coming along.”

“Will the files help?”

“Maybe.”

“Take whatever you need.”

“Thank you. If I meet you, just nod and pass by. Don’t stop to talk. Broughton’s men don’t have to-”

“I understand.”

“Dorfman…”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Don’t stop studying for the captain’s exam”

“All right. I won’t.”

“I know you’ll do fine on the written, but on the oral they ask some tricky questions. One they ask every year, but it takes different forms. It goes something like this: You’re a captain with a lieutenant, three sergeants, and maybe twenty or thirty men. There’s this riot. Hippies or drunks off a Hudson River cruise or some kind of nutty mob. Maybe a hundred people hollering and breaking windows and raising hell. How do you handle it?”

There was silence. Then Dorfman said, not sure of himself, “I’d have the men form a wedge. Then, if I had a bullhorn, I’d tell the mob to disperse. If that didn’t work, I’d tell the men to-”

“No,” Delaney said. “That isn’t the answer they want. The right answer is this: you turn to your lieutenant and say. ‘Break ’em up.’ Then you turn your back on the mob and walk away. It might not be the right way. You understand? But it’s the right answer to the question. They want to make sure you know how to use command. Watch out for a question like that.”