HAGAN'S WATCH

The motorists in the heavy traffic were startled to see a city bus on the parkway, let alone one being escorted by a police car with its lights and siren. The heavy drone of the bus’ speeding tires became a roar as it drove under the United Nations Building.  It was as if the FDR was saying “get off the road, you don’t belong here” when an explosion sent a bang that bounced off the walls and ceiling of the underpass and echoed into the East River.  The bus began to bump and swerve.  Those who were seated were lifted into the air while those who were standing were jostled about while trying to hold on.  The bus wobbled then slowed and finally stopped.  As the whole busload of cops breathed once more in relief, many wondered for a moment or two if they weren’t attacked until the word spread that a tire had blown.

Most of the men on the bus were foot cops who were used to meeting the job and its dangers single handedly on their own turf, and were uneasy traveling like a load of combat troops going into the middle of a battle.  They sat and waited in a dark bus for the sergeants and bus driver to evaluate the situation.  Since the rear axle of the bus had two tires on each side they were soon on their way, but at a much slower pace, toward a police chief waiting for them at a predetermined destination point.

Shortly after the bus exited the FDR Drive, Mat began to get his first glimpse of Harlem.  The most striking difference was that all the faces were black or Puerto Rican and there were so many of them.  As they rolled into the center of Harlem the streets were so full of people that the bus and its escort were having difficulty passing.  Mat thought of a word he had just recently added to his vocabulary and he was witnessing a living example of it as his lips formed the word, “Mayhem.”

There were sounds of glass breaking amidst the blare of sirens and hordes of people screaming and shouting.  There were groups of Blacks on the corners and in the streets.  Some began to run toward the shattered storefronts on the corner.  Out-numbered helmeted police wielding sticks attacked the crowd.  Protests from hundreds of onlookers milling around added to the confusion and disorder.  All of this theatre of chaos was being observed by an audience that looked like it was hanging out of sold-out box seats in every window and doorway of the four and five story tenements that lined the streets.

Sean Hagan and his partner Jack Miller looked at the world through the windshield of their brown non-descript Chevy that only the Police Department would place on the street and think it would conceal its true identity.

If the thin veneer of civilization, which took thousands of years to cloak a savage humanity, were scratched away, the two men would be part of a tribe of people instead of citizens of a big city and members of a modern police department. In that tribal community they would be the hunters, the warriors; probably, the best the tribe had.

From where Sean and Jack sat, that same savagery of ancient times often pushed through that veneer and showed itself with the same intensity and ferocity as it did back in the days before there were buildings of concrete and steel, boom boxes and automatic weapons.

These two men applied their trade using many of the same tactics as the ancients.  Sometimes they would wait quietly and watch, and become one with the environment.  As an ancient might listen and watch the living forest waiting for his prey to step out from a bush or from behind a tree, so Sean and Jack would wait for a subtle change in the hundred sounds and sights on a city street and look for their prey to step out of a gypsy cab or from a doorway.

The ancient hunter/warrior was there for the kill.  The kill was necessary, for it would become the food that was the sustenance for the tribe. For Jack and his partner the culmination of the hunt was the capture.  The capture of the dangerous prey was supposed to be for the benefit of the community.  The two cops’ motivation and subsequent satisfaction came from the good they did for the community, very much like the ancient’s satisfaction of feeding his tribe or killing the enemy.  “Get the bad guys off the street.”  That’s what the task of the two cops was, and for them it was a mission.

Indeed, all hunter/warrior societies are cloaked in ceremonies and rules that elevate the hunt and the kill to the level of a ministry.  The ancient carried with him his sacred weapon, a warrior’s mythology and the blessings of the Shaman.  Many cops could identify with the ancient warriors.  Why else were their badges called a shield, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was dipped in ancient symbolism?  Few would say it aloud, but most cops believe that they have a sacred trust to defend the Constitution and protect life and property.