Читать книгу LIFE AFTER RUSSIAN ROULETTE: REDEMPTION - Michael Kaminski - Страница 9

The first week of July was very uneasy, not only in Western, but throughout the entire police department and the city. While most people were celebrating Independence Day, many police officers were openly talking about a different revolution. The Baltimore City Police Department was about to make history. Although most of us would pay a costly price for our actions, unfortunately so would the city of Baltimore.

On Thursday, July 11, our squad just came off a three-day break after a week of nightshift patrol. I drove through Southwestern District with a very uneasy feeling. The strike had begun. Southwest walked off first. I knew Western would follow.

It was July but the sky was grey and overcast. A storm was brewing but not violent weather formations. The storm that was about to hit Baltimore was the tempest of human emotions, feelings and reactions to a breakdown in relations. The tension and anger of a failure of collective bargaining finally reached the boiling point.

As I walked into the Western District station house, the usual activity of police officers walking in all directions pursued. However, this time was different. Some were in deep conversations. Others were in deep personal thoughts. The topics were not focused on, or concerned with, routine police work or what happened on the previous shift. The center of conversation was on the strike and what to do now. Western had not walked out, yet.

Roll call this morning also held a different atmosphere. No jokes, no light humor, no sarcastic comments were made. The climate was basically very somber. Sergeant Florey called us together and gave us the latest information on the strike. Southwest voted to walk out shortly after midnight. Pigtown was always a very active sector, which bordered the southern area of Western. Our sector cars were responding to calls in that area as backup units.

Southwestern was our sister district and we all knew Western would walk in sympathy and support. The departmental civil war had begun. The Baltimore City Police Department was making history. This was not going to be just a partial walkout or work slowdown. It would be the first major municipal police department to go on strike since 1912.

“Each one of you must make a personal decision today,” Sergeant Florey said to us in a very painful and emotional voice. “You have to decide what side to take. You have to think about yourselves, your futures and your families. You have to understand the risks in either decision. And you have to make a personal choice based on what you believe to be the right thing to do.”

As our Sergeant, our leader, our mentor talked to us, Russo remained quiet, very uncharacteristic of him. Neither Sergeant Florey nor Glenn Russo wanted to influence us in any way.

“Remember,” Sergeant Florey continued. “You are all on probation. If you choose to honor the strike, you could face disciplinary charges. If you remain on the job and cross the picket line, you might not have backup or support. The decision is up to each one of you personally. I cannot tell you what to do.”

As Sergeant Florey spoke to us, sadness resonated in his voice, like a captain talking to his crew as the ship was sinking.

“Just think about it,” he said as he ended roll call.

We sat in the squad room; none of us spoke out loud. We all dealt with the inner conflicts – within our minds, our souls, and that cave of our conscience.

If we chose to honor the strike and cross the picket line, we would be walking our posts without potential support if something went wrong. Nevertheless, if we honored the strike, we would also lose friends. And we would face the possibility of disciplinary action and termination if the strike failed.

Each one of us held the highest respect for our Sergeant who also struggled with his own personal decision. Neither he nor Russo influenced us or even told us what decision they made.

“Why did you want to be a cop?” I pondered, weighing the consequences, the moral and ethical decision, and the right personal choice. Again, I could not answer. I had no acceptable reason or response in my mind.

Most of us possessed higher ambitions of future career goals as police officers. One of the guys was a helicopter pilot in Vietnam. His goal was to fly helicopters for the department. Most of us wanted to go into detective assignments. My goal was a transfer to the Narcotics division some day. Yet, we all felt a loyalty to Western. This was where we learned our trade.

Eventually each one of us took our turn in the voting. It was unanimous. We all chose to honor the strike. As we made our individual decisions, we saw the pain and sadness in Sergeant Florey’s eyes. It was like looking at a parent who was losing his children.

We went off duty and left Western to go home. None of us spoke. We all were aware of the uncertainty and possible consequences of our decision if the strike ended in failure. In a couple hours, we would be back at Western but in a different role. We would be walking the picket line. We would be the ones yelling obscenities at the officers who crossed the lines and reported for duty. We would be the ones throwing objects at the patrol cars as they entered and left the district parking lot.

In the days that followed, we protested. We carried signs with sayings such as, “I Will Not Die for 5.5.” If we were not on the picket lines at Western, we joined part of the larger group of strikers and family members downtown at city hall.

I walked the lines around city hall. I intentionally carried a small plastic baggie filled with pipe tobacco and parsley in my back pocket. From a distance, it appeared to be Marijuana. I was pulled out of the lines twice and requested to submit the contents. My goal was that the police persecuted me so I could file a complaint. Unfortunately, I was never really harassed.

Most of us were very radical on the strike, more like a mob mentality. In reality, we were fighting ourselves. The officers we backed up, or who backed us up, so many times in the past were the same police officers we now insulted as they did their job, our job.

For the next three days and nights the chaos continued. The number of arsons and fires increased throughout the city every night. Looting was citywide and almost out of control. Police and emergency sirens cried out as we maintained our picket lines.

I believe that most of us had mixed emotions, thoughts and feelings about what was happening and what we were doing. The city suffered and we allowed the violence to continue. We knew where we should be, but we also understood where we chose to be.

Finally, the governor and the city government requested assistance from the state police. Now we yelled obscenities at state police officers that were only doing their duty, our duty. We resented them because they were on our territory, our streets. They did not know city street patrol.

Most of us still believed that our bargaining representatives would fight for us. We still believed that the city government understood our demands and the seriousness of limited police protection, especially in the districts of Western, Southwest, Central and Southern.

We also believed that it would be a short strike and Baltimore City would agree to most of our requests and we would be back on the job soon. In the end, it was a short strike but the outcome was not what we expected.

We could not understand that we were losing the fight. We were losing power and support from the citizens of Baltimore. We were even losing faith in our bargaining representatives. Except for the looters and arsonists, most of the city residents now opposed our actions.

In just five days, it was over. The organizers of the strike action conceded defeat or faced arrest. There was no settlement, no amnesty for the strikers. There was not even a partial victory. July 15 felt like a death to those of us who sacrificed our futures for a cause. We were defeated. The civil war was over.

The next day I drove through the streets of Western for the last time as a Baltimore City police officer. So many emotions and feelings surfaced, like nerve endings that came alive with uncertainty, fear, anxiety, anger and sadness. It was like going to a funeral, or at least a viewing. I felt like I had lost a friend, the department. I began the grieving process – denial, anger, depression, and acceptance. I also knew that there was no bargaining.

In the past five days, I lost what I hoped to find in life – meaning, purpose, and security. Now I was on my way to Western again. This time it was not for roll call. It was for resignation.

As I drove through those familiar streets, like so many times in the past six months, I revisited my first day in Western. It really was not that long ago when I thought about it: that first day in January when I walked through the front door and the detectives escorted the district captain out after he was charged with gambling payoffs; meeting Sergeant Tim Florey and Glenn Russo for the first time. I learned so much from them and the streets in such a short period of time. I learned how to survive. I also learned how to manipulate the law.

Now it was over. What had we accomplished? What had we lost? What had we become? Who was right? Who was wrong?

I guess it was all about perceptions. How would the people of Baltimore City perceive our reasons for going on strike? How would the police officers that stayed on the job and kept their oath accept us? Do you become a police officer for the money? On the other hand, should there be a more humanitarian reason?

I walked through the front door to the district station for the last time. For the first time I felt like I really did not belong. Ironically, when I approached the desk sergeant that day, I asked, “Where do I go to resign?”

A loss of power washed over me as I turned in my badge, gun and uniforms. I was a civilian again. No one from my foot patrol squad was in the building, not even Sergeant Florey or Russo.

We made history but at what price? We made a statement but it was very costly. We sacrificed in the process of fighting for a cause we believed in. There were 82 probationary police officers fired. Ninety other police officers were forced to resign. There was no amnesty for any police officer that took part in this action and remained on the force.

My wife and two small daughters did not change that much in the past six months but I knew I was different. It is difficult to explain but once you are a cop, it stays in your blood. I already missed the adrenaline rush and the power. I knew I must get back in the game.