On a summer day in 1986, in need of a cigarette, I emerged from the 59th Street subway station in Brooklyn with my K-9 partner, Sarge. I was a 24-year-old police officer with four years experience under my belt.
Standing on the corner of Fourth Avenue was another young cop covering a foot post. He gestured to several males loitering on a stoop down the block and warned me not to wander too close. “It’s a crack house,” he said. I was shocked that a police officer would think such a thing, let alone say it out loud. “We’re the police,” I responded. “If we don’t walk down there who the hell will?” His answer was simple: ”Not me.” As I watched him walk away, I couldn’t help but feel angry.
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