Visit to BCB

I decided to find out just how things work at BCB last night. So I ordered my protective detail to drive me to the 67, where we picked out a prisoner who was ready to go.

I proceeded to cuff up my prisoner and get him ready for transport to BCB. Of course, I knew full well that I'd get put into the express line at BCB if I showed up as myself to lodge this clown. Luckily though, Dave, my deputy commissioner of Intelligence, is an ex-CIA man. He was able to get me one of those Mission Impossible-style realistic face masks. I threw on a uniform along with an old white shield to complete the disguise.

Time: 1905 hrs - Arriving at BCB

When we finally got to BCB, we couldn't find any parking. We had to park on the sidewalk. Some old lady walking her dog complained about "that damned police department, always blocking my sidewalk!" She shuffled off, loudly proclaiming that she was headed straight to the nearest precinct to file a CCRB.

I was dumbfounded that I had to walk this guy down a long ramp. Seems awfully insecure. I got to the entrance and pressed the buzzer. The Corrections Officer inside must have been on a coffee break or something, because it took several minutes before the door was buzzed open. Almost as soon as I stepped inside, an unpleasant voice barked that I should "shut off that damned radio, we don't want to hear that crap in here." I nearly punched that prick in the face as he sat behind his stupid little photo computer, but my detail detective who was playing the role of my partner for the night gently nudged me to remind me not to blow my cover. After securing my weapons, I stepped back out only to see a vacant chair behind the photo computer.

Time: 1910 hrs - Photo station

"Where the hell did he go?" I asked. "He went 63," one of the numerous officers waiting around informed me. I sighed and filled out the log book with my information and lock number. We stood around like a bunch of idiots for a half hour before another photo "expert" arrived to start the processing. I still don't understand why one needs special training to be qualified to click a couple of buttons on a computer screen. Anyway, our prisoner got his photo taken and a fresh movement slip was printed out. I looked at it and noticed the barcode. "So we just scan this barcode here at the next processing area?" I asked. It made sense to me at the time, but everybody turned and looked at me like I was mentally retarded. "Rookie, this is the NYPD," laughed the rubber gun clown sitting next to the "photographer."

Time: 1940 hrs - Prisoner search area

Moving on to the search area, I discovered that I have to once again fill out a log book. This time, with the prisoner's information. The search desk was occupied by some civilian wearing a white shirt that looked like it hadn't been washed in 30 years. He barked at me to "hurry up, I don't have all day!" Apparently he didn't appreciate my suggestion that he might "relax for a few seconds," as he then announced he was going on meal and walked out.

A full hour and five minutes later, the civilian with the dirty shirt returned. (I made a mental note to have some green paper sent his way on Monday for overextending his meal time.) The search itself took less than five minutes.

Time: 2050 hrs - EMS interview

With the search completed, I escorted my prisoner down to the EMS area. I had asked him on the trip to BCB if he had any medical conditions. He said he didn't. There were quite a few guys ahead of us, so we ended up waiting around for a half hour before we went to EMS. After what seemed like an eternity, my prisoner finally emerged, bearing his paperwork with "walk-thru" written all over it. I was starting to get irritated. "WTF is this?" The perp shrugged. I snatched up the paperwork and went into the EMS office. Some ugly lady with blond hair informed me that since my prisoner had stubbed his toe when he was 5 years old, he was now designated as a "walk-thru." I screamed "bullshit" at her and accused her of inventing reasons to make our lives harder. I then slammed the door as she was wailing something about "informing" my "supervisor" about my "behavior."

I'll have to give Mike a call and see if we can't do something about transferring this bitch back out into the field.

Time: 2130 hrs - CJA interview

Anyway, on to this "CJA" interview. There was nobody there. After standing around for twenty minutes, I got tired of waiting. I walked into their little office in the back. Some asshat was sitting in a chair with his feet up on the table, chatting on the cell phone. He looked at me and said he'd be out "in a minute." Whatever. He finally came out and talked to my perp for ten minutes. I got my paperwork back after he dispensed the "CJA" stamp of approval on it.

Time: 2200 hrs - Walk-thru procedure

So, yeah, there's not really a "procedure" as I found out. Not a sensible one, anyway. It actually involved escorting the crook upstairs, where I was promptly greeted by a bunch of unfriendly old civilian hags. One of them snatched my paperwork and mumbled something about putting "him in cell #2." I dutifully did so and asked if that was all. She smirked and said "now you have to wait for him to see the judge."

So I waited around in this cramped little space with 8 other cops, all the while getting bitched at by civilians who kept whining that we were "obstructing the halls." They didn't particularly appreciate my question as to where they suggest I might alternately wait.

Time: 0100 hrs - Court closes

Hmph. Court closed without my prisoner being seen by the judge. "Now what?" "Take him back to your command," the unfriendly civilian lady said. I took my prisoner and we returned him to the 67.

Back at my office

Well, it turns out I wasted over six hours of my life last night. For absolutely no reason. I called Joe into my office and asked him why we utilize such an idiotic procedure for "walk-thrus." "Joe, why is there one body assigned to each walk-thru prisoner?" "Well, commish, we do that in case he has to go to the hospital." "How many of these clowns actually end up needing medical treatment before they see the judge?" "I don't know." "Give me a ballpark estimate, Joe. Because when I was there last night, there were 9 of us standing around like morons, and not one of the prisoners needed any treatment." "Uhh, I'd say, maybe 10%?" "So, why are we assigning cops to 100% of the prisoners if we really only need 10%?"

Joe was getting visibly embarrassed, so I decided to drop the matter for the time being. Maybe we need to establish BCBStat to clean this place up.