Pranzo: Behind the Shield / Pages 194 through 207

(EXCERPT / BEHIND THE SHIELD)

Harlem cops being fired upon from every which angle was an every day occurrence in the three-two, nicknamed Dodge City. And so it was with my Narcotics Team. One of those team members and good friend and hero in the true sense of the word was Bob Smith. He was one of the black officers, one of the original eight, and one of the best. In this day to day war against drugs, Bobby was always there, willing, strong, professional, and tough. Very tough! If you were a good guy, okay, if not, look out. Bobby literally saved my life on more than a few occasions.

By this time, the late seventies, the NYPD had supplied us with bulletproof vests, but as you moved about the streets and abandoned buildings in Harlem, you still felt like a target. Like one of those little metal ducks at the local carnival, moving back and forth. The toughest time was always around the Fourth of July. Mid-summer, the heat, it was always the busiest. It was hard to distinguish between fireworks and gunshots. A lot of flinching. Always scrambling for cover and searching out where the shots came from. The division radio crackled all day long, "Shots fired! Shots fired!" Always lights and sirens, day in and day out, twenty-four hours a day, and never stopping for a rest. It was hard to imagine working in such conditions. But, worse was the thought of the Harlem community residents living their lives this way. Frightening, and  sad. But, as far as my team and I, we could never exhibit any fear or let our guard down. 

We continually banged away. Scouting a few locations first, making observations, recording them, taking photos, then mobilizing the team and hitting hard. On any given day, anywhere between thirty and one hundred people were taken. Taken one way or another. The bottom line, everybody goes. Always! Some days went easy and some days went hard. July 14, 1982 was a tough one. 

We just finished hitting a couple of narc spots. It was about three in the afternoon. Hot and sweaty, especially vested up. We had about twenty prisoners piled in our prison van. One more hit to go, the corner of West 142nd Street and Edgecomb Avenue, always a hot spot. We always scored big. We pulled quickly onto the block. Surprise was always our best weapon. One team headed by Nick Marrazzo and Ed Hass covered the side. Smitty (Bobby Smith) and myself took the front entry. As we jumped from our cars, we undoubtedly caught the sellers, buyers, and bodyguards off guard, right on the front stoop. They all scrambled. Ed and Nick took off to cover the sides, and Bobby and I pursued the main group inside. The chase was on. As we ran through the building constantly shouting, "Police! Freeze," the perps only ran faster. We were crashing through the rubble of a semi-demolished building, with broken walls and floors. You had to be ever so careful for trap-floor holes, purposely covered, hoping that a cop would fall through down into the basement. As we neared the back of the building, one of the mutts jumped out of an old broken-down doorway into the garbage filled alleyway below. He fell. Hard! As he scrambled to his feet, he came up with a gun in hand. Instinctively, Bobby moved across, in front of me, with his body protecting me. As he was about to leap out of the doorway onto the guy, the perp opened fire, about three or four rounds, point blank at Bobby. Bobby retaliated. He quickly pushed off four or five of his own rounds from his revolver. I could see fire flash coming from the perp's gun barrel, but there was nothing I could do. Bobby remained full-bodied in the doorway opening. I felt inhibited. I had my gun ready to go, but couldn't get off any clear shots at the perp without hitting Bobby. 

But, suddenly, and without warning, I saw something unexplainable. Something I had never experienced before or mentioned to anyone except Rachela, and not to her until days later. As the rounds were being fired, a large, dark shadow appeared that took up the entire doorway between Bobby and the shooter. This image took the form of a man, but much larger. With his outstretched arms, I could now see the resemblance of this person, who faced and stood directly in front of Bobby as he was firing away. I believe this shadow was my father, who somehow, someway, appeared to obstruct death. Bobby and I, and even this would-be killer, would not die this day. 

This all took place in about three or four seconds, this glimpse of my father, and the bullets passing around his image, none of which struck their intended targets. Maybe it was the trauma and shock of the moment. I believed differently, but of course would never even whisper of it to the department. They would have said, "yank that guy, he's had enough." But this whole encounter was like slow motion, like it was never going to end. The plaster walls and ceiling began coming apart from the rounds hitting inside the building where we were standing. It was like a snowy dust storm coming down on us. I grabbed for Bobby and yelled, "Are you hit?" He yelled back, "No. Let's get this mother f--ker, Sarge!" 

The mutt turned and ran. Unbelievably he wasn't hit either. It was like he and Bobby were shooting blanks, a few feet apart, muzzle to muzzle. At least eight rounds fired, and no one hit. There had to be an answer. The perp moved like a rabbit, down through the alleyway to the street, leaping over and across the remains of what was once an inhabited group of buildings. Over sinks, tubs, garbage, glass, metal, and wood debris. 

Bobby was by far the fastest guy in my team. He raced right after him. I was a bit slower, but kept pace just a few feet behind. Bobby was pissed, like I never saw or heard him before, yelling, "Freeze, mother f-- ker, or you're dead!" The perp, followed by Bobby, ran through an open schoolyard carrying his gun, dodging through young kids at summer play. He made a turn up west 140th Street towards 8th Avenue, with Bobby right on his tail. I now saw my chance to make up some time and head off the perp. I ran up West 141st Street and was praying to get to 8th Avenue ahead of them. I did! Here they came. The perp, followed by Bobby just about ten feet behind. I saw Bobby trying, feebly, in vain, to reload while he was running. He couldn't do it. He knew he was either out or very low on ammo. The perp knew it, too. As he came to the corner of West 140th and 8th Avenue, the perp quickly stopped in his tracks and caught Bobby off . guard, now just a mere few feet behind. The perp turned and pointed his gun at Bobby's head, point blank, and yelled, "Your time to die, pig mother f--ker!" 

I was now just off to the perp's right. I crouched, combat stance, two-handed grip, tight! I felt my heart pounding as I squeezed off four quick rounds at the perp. One caught him in the right shoulder. It knocked him to the ground. Gun flash and smoke blocked my vision for a couple of seconds. As it cleared, I realized that I had now paid Bobby back for saving my life just a minute before. I returned the honor. The honor of keeping one of the most decorated and heroic cops in the NYPD alive. Bobby Smith was black, and I was white. We were brothers united by not only the NYPD, but by combat and a comradeship that is unparalleled in any line of work or profession in modern America. We high-fived. We hugged and later we wept. We were f--king alive!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Fear - the apprehension of danger. As a police officer's wife, this feeling is one that is lived with each day. Fear for his life every time he goes out the door. But, fear cannot be escaped. It must be faced and dealt with. Watching as he gets dressed, taking his gun from the safe and placing it on his gun belt, was an every day occurrence. An occurrence that would send chills through you if you stopped to think what it's actually there for. What can really happen if that weapon had to be used? Thinking about those who wouldn't give a second thought on taking aim and firing at a man in blue. 

You learn to live with the fear that surrounds you. Learn to look beyond the bad and hope to hear the sounds familiar to you after as he arrives home safely from his tour. The sounds of his car coming up the driveway, his key in the door, his footsteps echoing through the house, his words, "I'm home." As he leaves each day you say a prayer hoping you'll hear those sounds once more. Day by day. Night by night. That's all you can hope for. 

One incident remains clearest in my mind and makes my body shiver with each recollection. For some unknown reason, my thoughts and Pete's always seem to mesh with each other. I guess you would call it some kind of ESP. A lot of married couples experience it. Always knowing what the other was thinking or going to say. Whether it was about the kids, the job, or what we were planning to do, it's as if our thoughts just bounced off each other. At first it was a little frightening, but then it became fun and very special. 

These feelings came in full force one afternoon as Pete was doing a tour of 7 AM to 7 PM. It was July 14, 1982. Our children, Anthony, nine at the time, and Lorinda, who was seven, were both at summer recreation at the elementary school down the road. The afternoon was warm, and I thought I'd vacuum the pool before Pete got home so we could have some extra time together. After setting all the equipment up, I began what was supposed to be a simple task. I was going about my chore. Peace and serenity were abundant. I was enjoying the tranquility. 

At about three o'clock, I was almost done. All of a sudden my head began to spin. I became disoriented. My body heated up with fright. The once quiet surroundings became clogged with noise that came out of nowhere. Undecipherable sounds. Unexplainable! I closed my eyes trying to regain my strength, but it didn't help. The darkness was filled with flickering lights, a warning. Trying to tell me something. I was barely able to get away from the edge of the pool fast enough. And when I did, the dizziness did not subside. All I could think about was Pete. Something must have happened! This was crazy. But, crazy as it seemed. I knew for a fact that something was very wrong. 

Being a police officer's wife for thirteen years at that time, I knew I could not call Pete at work. I just never did unless it was an emergency. That's the way Pete wanted it, and I knew it was best. Now my fear was overwhelming. I couldn't help but think the worst. God forbid. I thought, "Please make this be a dream."  But, with our past encounters, somehow I just knew it was real. 

About half an hour later the phone rang. The ring was deafening. I froze for a few seconds then picked up the receiver. It was Pete. I was already crying. My first words to him were. "Are you alright? Did something happen?" He could not believe what he heard. He asked how I knew because he said something did happen a little while ago. I explained I didn't know exactly what it was, I only knew that something was wrong. He was shocked. He told me that he was in a shootout and shot the perpetrator. He didn't have time to go into full details, but assured me he was all right. He just wanted to call before it got on the news or before I heard it from another source. I kept on drilling him, "Are you okay? Don't lie to me, please." He promised me he was safe and said he wouldn't be able to call for quite a while. Lots of paperwork and notifications had to be made. I understood. I had to, I had no choice. I was relieved just to have heard his voice. 

Fear was now taken over by a bit of relief and a feeling of exhaustion. My children returned home from summer recreation to find me out of my bubbly, "how you guys doing?" theme. They saw my eyes all swollen from tears not shed too long ago. They asked what happened, as the tears once more traced the same path they had taken before. Now they knew this was not like me - they knew something was wrong. When I told them what happened, that Daddy went after a bad guy and had to shoot his gun, their faces showed the fear that is usually hidden within. Both looking quite confused, I could not believe my son's words, "Daddy's dead!" 

"No, he's not," I said as strongly as I could. "Daddy just called me. He's fine." 

"Then why are you crying? You wouldn't be crying if he was okay." 

My daughter stood there, listening. I promised them both that their father was fine, and for the first time I realized how strong they have been all this time as well. They did understand what was going on, the danger of the job. They worried about their Dad just as I had. I felt so sad and helpless. I could not prove to them that their father was fine. They would have to wait until he called. 

The next morning, neither of the kids wanted to go to recreation until they talked to their Dad. I told them that would be fine, and that their father would call as soon as he got a chance. Knowing Pete, I could depend on him for doing the right thing. He always let me know what was going on, even if it meant a phone call for a few seconds. 

Finally, the call came. Pete spoke with the kids, telling them he was a hero! That was Pete - always making light of things. That's what got us through all the rough times. The phone call was over and everyone was relieved. Pete told me he wouldn't be home for some time. Seems I've heard that phrase before. 

The kids went off to summer recreation a little late that day, and I went back to my daily routine. Pete continued with his work on the incident throughout the day. Life seemed to be getting back in order very quickly, but it would be a long time, a very long time, before fear would take a back seat once again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Next stop - police headquarters. June 1, 1983, Medal Day Ceremony. Bobby and I stood at attention, shoulder to shoulder, as Mayor Edward Koch and Police Commissioner Robert McGuire personally presented us with the NYPD's Combat Cross. With Rachela and my son and daughter present, it was a day for recognition, reflection, and prayer, with a special prayer to my father.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Pranzo: Behind the Shield, Page 205

Pranzo: Behind the Shield, Page 206

Pranzo: Behind the Shield, Page 207

Peter Pranzo is a retired New York City Police Department Lieutenant, with over 21 years of service.  He has worked in all of the boroughs of New York, and is one of the most highly decorated Superior Officers in the history of the NYPD, receiving over 60 awards, department commendations, and community awards, including some of the Police Department's highest:  The Police Combat Cross, the Award for Valor, and the Honor Legion Medal for Valor.