Feature

Captain Midnight

Marino's harrowing days at the 73rd were gone like smoke on the wind: the anonymous accusations that threatened his future, the Internal Affairs investigators camped at his curb, the blackball that denied him a command. Three days later at the promotion ceremony at One Police Plaza, hundreds of assembled cops greet Marino's name with an explosive ovation, the loudest of the day. A line of high-ranking blue-uniformed well-wishers forms near him. A swarthy chief kisses both of Marino's cheeks; a red-faced inspector pumps his hand.

Back in his office at the 77, with four weeks to go in the year, Marino has a cushion of 53 index crimes. Thirteen more a week and he'll stay under his 1999 number. Gradually, throughout the month, the numbers dip until it's a sure bet Marino and his officers will "save the 77."

While Marino was traveling from doubt to vindication, Broughton and his Anti-Crime team were scouring Crown Heights for the suspect. They did vertical searches up and down the stairways of apartment buildings where he had been seen, sat for hours on corners where he had been busted in the past for drug sales. They looked for his face on crowded sidewalks and in passing cars until they were dizzy. Then, on December 14, at 8 p.m., they spotted him in a doorway.

After the arrest, Broughton grabs his cell phone to call Marino. "Boss," he hollers. "We got your guy."

It's the evening of February 27, and Mike and Kim Marino are standing close together in the brilliantly lit lobby of One Police Plaza for the Annual Police Foundation Gala. Kim is wearing heels and a black velvet evening gown; Mike is squeezed into a rented tuxedo, the collar of his stiff white shirt pressing in on him. Marino is here to receive the Chuck Barris Foundation Cop of the Year, a Stanley Cup-size trophy given to an officer admired by others as the hardest-core cop in the department. Right behind the Marinos stand Jack Maple, Bill Bratton, and John Timoney, now police commissioner of Philadelphia. Three of the most influential men in law enforcement within spitting distance, three potential contenders to be the next police commissioner of New York, and Marino doesn't introduce himself. "I don't know them," he tells Kim.

Even as he makes small talk with his wife, Marino looks preoccupied. The stickups have stopped, but he stands to lose some of his best men: Lemite has been moved to a "shooting response team," Mihnovich is thinking about retiring by the end of the year, and Broughton has been making noise about transferring to a specialized unit. And though Marino tells his troops to forget the numbers, he can't shake the habit himself. He awakens every morning at five and sits in his living room thinking and calling the precinct for updates. Burglaries are up and radio-call response time has been slowing.

Inside the first-floor auditorium, transformed for the night into a ballroom, emcee Dennis Franz introduces Chuck Barris, of Gong Show fame. "Twelve years of midnights in Brownsville and Mike Marino was first through the door on every job," Barris begins. "His precinct leads the city in gun collars because Mike Marino leads by example. That's why his cops named him after a part of the elephant's private anatomy." As the room explodes in laughter, Marino barely smiles.

On the drive home, Marino picks up a report on his police radio: There's been a double shooting in the 77. As Kim purses her lips in silent protest, he throws his police light on the dashboard and stomps on the accelerator.