In my detective days in the South Bronx nearly two decades ago, you had to go to the Complaint Room to write up an arrest with an assistant district attorney, ordinarily with the victim in tow. It was a high-volume operation in a low-rent venue, a wide expanse of cubicles and industrial carpet, with lots of familiar faces among the cops and prosecutors. One night, I ran into someone I didn’t expect to see: my cousin Brian, a New York City firefighter.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him. Brian’s engine company had gone out on a routine medical run at an apartment building, followed by an ambulance. One of the residents decided that the vehicle exhaust posed both a health hazard and a personal affront, and he decided to try to smash the fire truck’s window. Brian caught him, and a scuffle ensued. The perp was cuffed, hauled off by cops, and arrested for assault in the second degree, a felony punishable by up to seven years in prison.
Some cases are complicated, factually messy, or legally tricky. This wasn’t one of them. Assault 2 covers attacks on firefighters and other public servants that prevent them from doing their jobs. It didn’t matter. The prosecutor decided to downgrade the charge to misdemeanor assault. I was told that Brian’s injuries—a few cuts and bruises—weren’t really serious. The plain language of the law didn’t matter.
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