ABSTRACT
Danger is a poorly understood phenomenon of police work. Academicians will paint a picture of work that is rarely dangerous, characterized primarily by monotony. Police will describe a darker picture, danger and violence as an endemic hazard of their environment. Well, which is it? Part of the answer lies in how danger is measured, and part of the answer lies in the way danger is viewed through the lens of culture. Consider the following story:
I reached the doorway, peeked in, and the apartment was pitch black . . . Fear surged through me when a shot rang out in the apartment. Then I saw a flash as another shot was fired. The four housing cops came crawling out of there as fast as they could, and one dove right between my legs.
I reached with my left hand to close the door, and a shot rang out. I got hit by a bullet between my thumb and index finger, in the fleshy part. It felt like a burn. A fourth shot hit the door jamb before I got the door closed. A fifth shot passed through it and struck the metal frame on the door across the hall.
I turned to Sgt. Conroy and said,“I’ve got to get to the hospital.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I got hit,” I said, holding out my left hand, which was bleeding. When Richie Michael heard his partner had been shot, he grabbed Jake Simms, saying “You sonofabitch!” Two cops pulled Richie away . . .
156Richie got behind the wheel of Adam One, me in the passenger seat . . . He burned rubber and raced toward the FDR drive, weaving in and out of traffic like a stock-car driver.
“Easy, Richie, don’t get me killed,” I said. “I’m only shot in the hand.”
Richie got on the radio and screamed, “My partner’s got a gunshot wound and I’m taking him to Bellevue, heading north on FDR. ETA at the hospital in five minutes.” When we turned onto the FDR, we were met by some twenty police cars, which had shut down the Drive to other traffic. They escorted us, lights flashing, sirens sounding.
“Holy shit, Richie, I’m embarrassed,” I said. “With all this, I shoulda been shot in the chest or somethin’.”
Father laughed and said “Look up.” There was a police helicopter overhead.
(Later, after arrival at the hospital.) I was told that the governor’s wife, Matilda Cuomo, was on the phone to me. Mrs. Cuomo thanked me . . . and said that she was terribly sorry to hear that I’d been shot (Ragonese, 1991:200-202).
