Paul Bacon by Bad Cop: New York's Least Likely Police Officer Tells All

“What?” he said five times
     louder than necessary. “Is it illegal to listen to Rage Against the Machine now?”
    Rage Against the Machine was a fiercely antiauthoritarian rock group, hated by cops and government figures everywhere. I had
     several of their albums. I thought I could disarm the situation by pointing out how we shared a common taste in music, so
     I began telling him, “Not at all. As a matter of fact . . .”
    Before I could finish, Clarabel elbowed her way through the crowd and cut me off. “What’s illegal,” she said, pointing at
     the man, “is taking up two seats on the bus.”
    I just wanted to ride home in peace, so I tried to stifle my classmate with a stern look. She ignored me.
    The young man flared his nostrils at Clarabel and said, “My ass it is.”
    “That’s what I’m saying,” Clarabel shot back, “your ass is taking up two seats.”
    When the man wouldn’t budge, Clarabel threatened to write him a summons for disorderly conduct. He called her bluff by rightly
     pointing out that she had no authority to do so as a recruit. Undeterred, Clarabel took a practice summons out of her duffel
     bag and a pen from her breast pocket. This was serious. Even though it was a practice summons, she was using it like the real
     thing, which could get her fired, thrown in jail, and possibly sued. I imagined her going to court. Then I imagined myself
     going to court to testify against her. I quickly turned away so as not to be a witness. I knew better than to try to stop
     her, so I just kept an eye on the man and hoped I didn’t have to restrain him.
    Clarabel asked the man for his identification, and he seemed very pleased to tell her, “I didn’t bring my ID today, all right?
     That’s not a crime either, in case they haven’t taught you that yet.”
    Clarabel replied by mimicking our latest Police Science lesson. “But a summons is issued in lieu of arrest,” she said, “and
     I can’t write you a summons without an ID. You know what I’m saying?”
    “Yeah, I do. I know what you’re saying. And I think you’re full of shit, lady.” He stretched both arms toward Clarabel and
     presented his wrists, ready to be cuffed. “Go ahead, lock me up. I dare you.”
    I looked over, expecting to see Clarabel flinch at last. No such luck. Instead, she was fishing a pair of handcuffs from her
     front pants pocket, where they had no business being in the first place. Everyone in the bus gasped, including me. It was
     a provocative move, even by her standards. What was she thinking? What if this guy didn’t go quietly? Where would we take
     him if he did? We had no authority to arrest anyone, much less for taking up two seats on the bus.
    While Clarabel was still holding the cuffs at her side, the man grudgingly pulled his hands back and said, “All right, all
     right. I’ll fucking move.” He slid as close to the window as his girth would allow, leaving an open seat, or most of one,
     beside him.
    “Thank you, sir,” Clarabel said in a crisp, businesslike tone and put her handcuffs back into her pocket. Then she sat down
     on the newly vacated seat and made herself comfortable.
    I continued gawking at Clarabel. She’d just risked everything for a seat on the bus next to a possible lunatic. More important
     to our romantic future, she’d emerged the victor in a battle of wills, proving beyond any doubt that she was as tough as she
     made herself out to be.
    When she noticed me staring at her, she said, “What? I’m not standing all the way home.”

CHAPTER 7
    D AYS AT THE ACADEMY began with “morning muster,” our routine dose of inspection and humiliation. During muster, we stood in
     our company formations on the gymnasium roof, which was laid out like a miniature parade ground, while academy instructors
     went from one recruit to the next, berating our appearance. The really tough ones would scream about any imperfection they
     could find, from unshined shoes and ragged