By Daniel Linskey
“Have you done a drug arrest yet?” I asked the rookie as he got in the car. “No, not yet,” he replied. I assured him that he would before the end of the night.
Around 9:30 p.m. we parked a few blocks away and made our way down some alleys and through some yards into the back entrance of a building. We climbed the back steps to the roof, which overlooked Interval St. and Normandy St. I had a bag with binoculars, a telescope, a periscope and camouflage clothing. We lay down on the roof and started watching the crew on the street a block away.
It took only a few minutes to identify the kid who was working the block. In a matter of minutes he put down a half dozens deals. He was serving cars that pulled up to him as well as people on the street. We watched him go to his stash and knew we had him. The kid looked young from our view.
We called in another car and had him stopped, then came off the roof and met the other guys who were now with the suspect. We did a double take when we saw him in person. He was 9-years-old and about 60 lbs. soaking wet. It was 10 at night and here was this 9-year-old slinging crack with almost a thousand dollars in his pocket. And he had another 50 plus hits of crack in his stash. I started to treat him as a 9-year-old kid.
“Hey buddy, what’s going on? Somebody is using you. This stuff is poison. It can hurt people – I’m sure you didn’t even know. Who gave you this stuff?” I asked with a big-brotherly tone, trying to prevent scaring the boy.
“F*#% you, motherf&*%#&,” the little boy replied. “You ain’t got shit on me and I ain’t no rat, bitch.”
(Well, that wasn’t what I expected.) We took him to the station and he continued his bravado as if he was the toughest guy on the block. I went into the holding area and explained the situation to two older prisoners.
“Guys, do me a favor? When I bring him back to the juvie cell tell him he needs to change his ways. Maybe we can scare him straight.” I offered to give them extra sandwiches if they would help out.
I then processed him and as I led him by their cells they tried their best “scared straight” routine. The kid was unfazed. He told them he wasn’t afraid of them and he and his people would kill them if they stepped up to him on the street. It was as if he was 7-feet tall and already served hard time.
I told him enough was enough and put him in the juvenile holding cell. As he was going in, he stopped at the door, complaining that there was no light in the cell.
I said, “Yeah, but there’s a little window.” The light had been out for years and the cell was dark.
He started to shake and beg not to be put in the cell. He was afraid of the dark. Here was a kid who just threatened to kill guys who were in jail for doing bad things, but he was afraid of the dark. When I put him in the cell and he began to wail and cry.
The next day I was walking by the front desk when a cadet handed me the phone. “Danny, it’s Andrea from Info Services.” Info Services handled all our media. (We are prohibited from talking to the press directly, as all information had to go through them.) She continued, “Did you lock up a 9-year-old selling crack on the street last night?”
“Yes, I did.” I told her all the details, including the scared straight approach, and crying because the light was out.
“This is a great story, thank you,” she said. I figured she would edit out anything that was concerning.
24 hours later I pulled into the station ready for my shift. The sergeant was getting into his car when he saw me pulling in. He stopped and approached me. “Kid, what did you do?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Did you talk to The Herald about putting a 9-year-old in a dark cell?”
“No sir, I talked to Andrea from Info Services. She called the desk. I didn’t talk to the reporter.”
“Danny, that was the reporter. There is no Andrea from Info Services.”
“The captain received a call from the commissioner. The commissioner is pissed. The captain wants you in his office ASAP.”
You didn’t go to the captain’s office as a patrolman. If you did, you were getting transferred, suspended or fired. I knocked on the door and the captain told me to get my ass in there.
“The commissioner woke up today and got a call from the mayor who wanted to know about the front page story concerning a 9-year-old crack dealer who cried when put in a darkened cell. Apparently, Linskey, you gave an exclusive interview to The Herald and embarrassed the mayor and the police commissioner. When the commissioner is embarrassed by one of my cops, I’m embarrassed. Can you tell me who the F$%& you think you are, talking to The Herald?”
I explained that the reporter lied and pretended to be from Info Services. I apologized and explained that I was trying to save a kid going down the wrong path.
He reflected a moment and said, “So, she tricked you? You didn’t do it deliberately?”
“No, sir.”
“I hope you learned a valuable lesson. If you don’t know who is on the other end of the phone you tell them you will call back. And if it isn’t a BPD number you don’t talk to them. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The commissioner wanted me to take a piece of your ass, so if anyone asks I did and you’re on the shit list.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go out and get to work.”
The captain never mentioned it again, and I learned my lesson on dealing with the press. The kid went on to be a career criminal, and he’s currently serving life despite best efforts by his father and me to try to straighten him out.
