NEWSLETTER

I am a street cop. I’m the guy that straps on a bullet resistant (we never say “bulletproof”) vest and gun belt every day. I am the guy in the uniform driving the car that says NYPD on the side. I am the guy that comes when you call 911. I am there after you have been robbed, when you come back to where you parked your car and it is gone, when you had a fight with your wife or kid, when you drive after having only “two beers, I swear to God.” I am there when you die alone and the neighbors call because of the bad smell. I am there when they pull the dead body out of the car wreck, or when someone decides to put more holes in the human body than it was designed for. I am there when they find dead children, crime victims or not, and their faces haunt me long after other people cluck over the headlines in the newspaper and say, “What a shame.” I am there when someone beats up his girlfriend or wife for the 20th time. I am the guy who puts the cuffs on him as the victim curses me for taking away her “baby daddy.” Every day I deal with the homeless, the drug-addicted, the crazy, the pimps, the prostitutes, the hustlers, the drug dealers, and the victims. If I do a good job, I get nothing but maybe a pat on the back from a co-worker. If I make a mistake—even an honest one—I will get vilified in the press, my name and picture there for everyone to see.

I work in a fairly busy north Manhattan precinct. Most of the time I am in uniform (“in the bag,” as we say). I work mostly in a marked car. It is my job to be proactive—not just responding to radio calls but also actively looking for street crime, be it narcotics, robbery, burglary or just illegal vending or drinking on the street.

That’s most of every workday—driving around looking for the above. The rest is spent drinking coffee, making fun of co-workers, and falling victim to practical jokes.

Vice: Can we ask you something that’s really been bothering us?

Leo Fearpini: Oh. Sure, go right ahead.

Where do you guys shit?

Good question. Whenever possible, we get back to the precinct house. Sometimes we just can’t. A guy I work with was once stuck with his partner at a crime scene in a city park. There are no bathrooms in the park, so, after trying to tough it out for a few minutes, he ended up shitting in the woods just like a bear.

Man, that would make a great photo.

One time we were coming back from an assignment out of borough. We were stuck in traffic. My buddy had to take a shit and he was giving us constant updates on his distress level. Finally, we get back to the precinct and we decide to lock the door of the car so he can’t get out. We were laughing our asses off until he pulled out his baton and said, “Open this fuckin’ door now or I’m breaking the window out and you can explain to the Lieutenant.” We open the door and he runs like a shot to the first floor bathroom, which, of course, is occupied. Up the stairs he goes, knocking people over until he finds an available bathroom. Thirty minutes later he emerges and tells us he’s not feeling well and that he’s leaving early. He never admitted it, but I’m pretty sure he went home without any underwear.

You got any more good stories?

Are you fucking kidding me? Cops have nothing BUT stories...

OFFICER LEO FEARPINI AND VICE STAFF

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