The Turnaround: How America's Top Cop Reversed the Crime Epidemic (14 page)

Rules and regulations are what drive a bureaucracy, and di Grazia and his team went to work rewriting everything. One of di Grazia's basic policing philosophies was that the police workers themselves should be involved in the creation of the system, and to that end he opened the committees reviewing the rules and regulations and invited officers to help work on them. I volunteered. The Boston Police Department had never had a planning unit. What was there to plan? You go out and do your job. All of a sudden, a unit of forty-five cops and civilians was literally replanning the BPD. Newsletters began to go out, specialized training in areas such as hostage negotiation, supervisory practices, and modern management techniques were instituted. The BPD was on the move.

But it wasn't all rosy. The police union, which had been formed recently because officers had been abused by management for generations, was strong and militant. Even before he came to town, di Grazia had made a grave mistake in dealing with them. Commenting on a specific officer who had done an honorable job, he had said words to the effect that if he had fifty cops like this guy he could clean up Boston once and for all. The union took this and other early missteps as a slap at the other 2,800 officers on the force and immediately cooled to the new commissioner. Rather than making an effort to include the union, di Grazia had created an incredibly powerful enemy that was looking to flex its muscles.

Because di Grazia's new committees were dealing with changes in working conditions, the union held that union delegates should be appointed to these committees. Cops knew the rules and regs; through the decades, they had learned how to manipulate them, and the union brass didn't want all that changed. The union didn't want anything changed at all unless they could get something in their contract in return. When di Grazia didn't consult the union immediately, its leaders felt left out all over again. It was a classic confrontation over who was going to run the show, and neither was willing to bend. Di Grazia was, in fact, trying to eliminate exactly this kind of mindless resistance.

Di Grazia himself was a strapping guy in his early forties, six foot three, Italian, handsome, and a very imposing presence. He set an example. The entire system of corruption was going to be addressed, starting with the smallest details. That sent out a message right away.

Di Grazia's predecessor used to ride around Boston in a chauffeured black Buick limousine with the distinctive three-digit plate “386.” Di Grazia requisitioned a baby-blue Dodge and drove it himself. He very quickly became a celebrity, a darling of Boston society, appearing at all types of charitable events and society functions. At the same time, unlike his predecessors, he attended community meetings throughout the city. Di Grazia understood he had many audiences to play to and moved gracefully through all strata of Boston society.

We had never seen his predecessor in the field and most community groups had never seen him in their school basements. A cop in the district station never saw anybody with stars on their shoulders; the brass never got out of headquarters. Di Grazia went out and did roll calls. He wanted to listen to cops, to find out what was on our minds. One afternoon at the four o'clock roll call at District 3 in Mattapan, the commissioner came striding in with the captain of the districts and some of the sergeants.

There were about twenty of us local officers lined up, and di Grazia addressed us from the podium.

He spoke for about five minutes. He talked about his plans for the Boston police, the advances he was putting through, his vision of the department and its future. We stood at attention and listened. This was not a normal day at work.

The commissioner concluded by saying, “I need to hear from you. I want to know the things you need in order to do your job. Tell me, and I'll try and get them for you. Now, do you have any questions?”

Dead silence. Between the union suppression and the fact that all these bosses were standing behind him staring at us, no one was going to stick his neck out. So up goes my hand.

Commissioner di Grazia was delighted. You always want an icebreaker. He brightened and pointed to me.

“Yes, Officer?”

“How do I get out of here?”

I could see the bosses stiffen. Was this some third-year patrolman busting the commissioner's chops?

“What do you mean, ‘How do I get out of here,’ Officer?”

“How do I transfer out of here, sir?”

The roll call was getting a little uneasy. A few of the guys chuckled, the brass started fidgeting.

Di Grazia turned to the bosses behind him. “Isn't there a blue form …?”

I was very familiar with the notorious blue forms. They were the sheets of blue paper on which you requested a transfer, but if you didn't have a hook they ended up in the circular file. I had turned a few of them in, and nothing ever happened.

I don't know whether di Grazia thought I was busting his chops or not. I wasn't. I had heard many good things about the man that had made me rethink leaving the department, but I was desperate to get out of Mattapan, and I didn't know how. Whatever he thought, di Grazia didn't engage me in much of a dialogue. I figured my chances were nil when, after the event, a sergeant brushed by me and muttered, “Smart-ass.”

A few days later, I was walking my beat in Mattapan Square when I ran into a cop I had become friends with at the academy, Frank Corbosiero. Di Grazia had just organized a Special Investigation Unit (SIU) to investigate police corruption. The police union had gone nuts, of course, at the thought of cops investigating cops, but the commissioner knew there was
corruption in the department and had put together a small squad of volunteer officers. Corbosiero and I had worked together in District 3. He was a very moral guy, as frustrated as I was with what he had seen on the force, and when he heard about the SIU, he had volunteered and gone over.

“So,” I asked him, “how's it going?”

“It's tough. A lot of cops turn their backs. You're kind of a pariah. But, you know, I'm kind of liking the work.”

I told Corbosiero about the commissioner's visit. We had a few chuckles about that. I told him I was considering leaving the job and working in Quincy. He knew what I was talking about.

Two weeks later, I came into the precinct at four o'clock and saluted the desk sergeant, an old-timer named Danny Green.

“What are you doing here, Bratton?”

“Reporting for duty, Sarge.”

“You don't work here anymore.”

“What do you mean, Sarge?”

“You been transferred. The orders come down today. Report out to District 14.”

District 14 was in Brighton. Boston College was out there, a lot of nightclubs, a lot of paid details. It was a very nice area. I cleaned out my locker, got into my car, and reported to my new post.

I assumed that di Grazia had taken note of my transfer request and moved it through the bureaucracy, but I found out years later that Corbosiero had been responsible. He had told his superiors, “We're about to lose a good cop,” and asked that they move me. If I had not received that transfer, I would probably have gone to Quincy and disappeared. I owe Frank a great debt.

WHEN I GOT TO DISTRICT 14 IN SEPTEMBER 1973, I FOUND THEY DIDN'T HAVE
much use for cops who were going to Boston State College on the department's release program. Most of the leadership hadn't gone to college, and there was a certain amount of resentment toward the dozen District 14 officers in the program. Whenever possible, the sergeants gave us the crummy assignments, the “fixers,” which involved standing at a fixed post for eight hours at a time, usually from six in the evening till two in the morning. I'd be placed on some corner in a residential neighborhood, and all they wanted me to do was stand there so some rowdy kids couldn't stand in the same place and make noise. They went out of their way to supervise us and came by regularly to make sure we were on post. I spent so much time on Appian Way, I felt I owned the place.

Two blocks away, another college guy was standing on his private corner. His name was Mickey Roache, and when a two-man sector car became available, he and I partnered up and rode together. Roache was in his thirties, married with several kids. He was a staunch Catholic who went to church every day. He was honest, sincere, respectful, and somewhat naive.

Roache and I worked well together. I liked to drive and hated doing reports; Mickey was an awful driver and didn't mind doing the writing. I was a gung-ho, conscientious young cop; Mickey didn't mind working.

Mickey was among the most honest men I've ever met. One particularly small corrupt practice was commonplace at the time: At the scene of every accident or towing violation, cops would accept two dollars from the tow-truck operator. Mickey did not take the two bucks. Most cops thought, “What's the harm?” We didn't control which company was called; there was a list of authorized tow companies that the district called in sequence; we had nothing to do with it. Two bucks wasn't a lot of money, just a sign of good will from the tow companies, kind of a tip. People thought of cops like waiters and taxi drivers and doormen; you tipped them. There was also a pie company in our district, and every cop who showed up at their bakery got two pies for Christmas. Mickey did not participate. He felt that we were being paid a salary to do a job, and we should neither solicit favors to do that job nor accept gratuities for doing what we were supposed to do. I hadn't thought much of it before, but these values made sense to me, and when I partnered up with Roache, I didn't accept gifts or tips either. These were exactly the values that di Grazia was attempting to ingrain in the department as a whole.

Mickey was having a tough time making ends meet. He drove an old, dilapidated car and was always short of money, but he was very committed to getting his education, and he did not take time away from his studies to take paid details, which only compounded his money problems. I finally convinced him to take a paid detail with me down at Sammy White's bowling alley in Brighton. Sammy White's had a lounge adjacent to it that featured live entertainment. It had so much activity, they put two officers on paid detail. The job paid twenty-seven dollars cash at the end of the night, which was big money when you were making $150 a week; a day's pay for four hours of hanging around, watching the crowd, and having some fun yourself.

The night went along without incident till two o'clock, closing time, when one drunken woman didn't want to leave. As nice as we could be, we tried to get her out, but sooner or later it ended up in a major donnybrook, with Mickey and me and this woman screaming and wrestling on the floor. It was an incredible scene—they had to call the wagon. It was also the last detail Roache ever worked. This was exactly the kind of encounter he wanted to avoid on the job, and he certainly didn't want to go through it during off-hours.

On New Year's Eve 1975, in the whole Brighton area with its 70,000 residents—one of the largest police districts in the city—the total police presence was two cars and a patrol wagon. Mickey and I were teamed up along with a couple of old-timers in the wagon and two young cops in the
other car. The first call of the night was a family fight in a housing development. As we were coming out of that, we heard an outrageous noise, like a train throwing on its brakes. The screeching got louder and louder. It sounded like a tank. We stepped away from the brick building and saw a car plowing down the street with sparks flying from all four wheels like a fireworks show. We got closer and saw it had no tires! The drunk behind the wheel had burned them off completely—God knows how long he'd been driving this way—and was speeding on the hubs.

We chased him for a little while and finally pulled him over. We got him to the station, booked him, then had to take him downtown to police headquarters for a Breathalyzer test. Commonwealth Avenue is a four-lane road separated by trolley tracks, and as we cruised down it we passed the City Club, a large nightclub packed with 1,500 young people. From across the street, we saw a big battle going on outside. We had our prisoner in the backseat, but these people were whacking away at each other. We put out the call for assistance, swung around, and tried to break things up.

At least fifty people must have been fighting on the sidewalk, all these different brawls going on up and down the block. The two bastards in the patrol wagon drove by the other way and kept on going. The other car showed up with Tommy Clifford and his partner, but cars from other districts had to be brought in: The Metropolitan Police arrived, and the state police headquarters down the street sent some cars in.

I was breaking up fights and scanning the mob for my partner. I looked up the street and saw Mickey facing off with about four guys. He had his arms around one of them in a bear hug—evidently this kid had a knife and had attempted to stab another. Roache had wrapped him up tightly, chest to chest, and the kid was struggling, trying to punch him in the ribs.

Clifford ran up with me, and we finally got that crew under control. Now we had another set of arrests. It was only one o'clock—the night was just starting.

Down at headquarters, Roache took off his jacket. He was black and blue from this kid using him like a heavy bag. Mickey had accepted that punishment; he refused to carry a club. He had been a boxer, and he couldn't bring himself to smack the guy. It was his own code of honor.

As much as di Grazia tried to clean up the pockets of alleged corruption and inefficiency, in some places the word didn't get out. District 14 still had some old-timers in their supervisory leadership who had been around the department for twenty-five years and weren't going anywhere.

They had all the power, and they ruled the roost. Many of them were intent on waiting di Grazia out. You came in, saluted them, went out, and did your job. They sat inside.

One night, Roache and I had a major jam, a
West Side Story
–type knives-and-fists gang fight at nearby Ringer Park and playground. Forty kids were going at it, and when we put out the word, all the cruisers responded. But even with twelve or fourteen cops on the scene, we were still having a hard time getting it under control. We kept calling for the sergeants—they had the experience and ability to put this scene in order right away, and we needed all of it. The station was only a half mile from the playground, but these two bastards, the patrol supervisor and the desk sergeant, did not come out. They didn't want to get into anything, and they left us on our own.