Notorious C.O.P.

But, he added, NYPD didn't have much to go on, and furthermore, witnesses weren't cooperating. Surprise, surprise, I thought to myself. I told Bernie if he needed my help to give me a call. He never did, but I could already feel myself getting pulled in. For me, as the NYPD's original hip-hop cop, as I became known first to my law enforcement colleagues and eventually by the media, it was worse than a nightmare. Hip-hop is in a state of crisis, yet nobody on either side is making the right moves to squash it. Due to its tragic legacy of violence, hip-hop supremacy could end at any time. Just let one well-placed AK-47 spray at an award show and it's all over. And considering what's gone down at these award shows, it's a pretty fucking likely scenario. So when I got the call about Jam Master Jay's abrupt death that fateful night in 2002, it felt particularly bittersweet. His murder seemed so symbolic to me. If a tree is already dying, how can it survive when you remove the roots? In fact, I was no longer a homicide detective when I first heard the tragic news that hip-hop legend Jam Master Jay, the innovative DJ for rap's first worldwide superstars Run-D.M.C., had been shot and killed in his recording studio on October 30, 2002. I had actually retired from the New York Police Department, NYPD, nine months prior, but I was having trouble suppressing my investigative instincts. After spending 20 years on the force, they kicked in like a reflex. I started as a 20-year-old beat cop walking seedy Times Square streets during Ed Koch's infamous mayoralty, before moving on to the Bronx run to cover narcotics, ending up straight out of Brooklyn as a first-grade homicide detective with a gold shield under Rudy Giuliani's iron-fisted administration. Working homicide, I had investigated well over 300 murder cases. On the job, I saw more dead people than that little kid in the sixth sense. I've seen bodies chopped up in sections and then neatly disposed of in little plastic bags. I found one victim's bones tossed on the Van Wick Expressway. In another case, I saw a man's face blown clear off by a shotgun, his eyeballs blown out their sockets, leaving a hole in his head like a window. Through that window, I could see the dude's brain membrane. Yep, just another day on the job. Talk to any big city detective and you'll probably hear similar stories, but that's not why you're listening to this. Ultimately, what I became most known for inside the NYPD and in the media was my status as the first hip-hop cop. The NYPD would have liked to keep my existence as the hip-hop cop secret. If it wasn't for a particular newspaper article, I probably wouldn't even be saying these words today. That article was the shot heard round the world, reprinted as far as Australia, and bounced all over the internet. On March 9, 2004, the Miami Herald published a story by Evelyn McDonald and Nicole White headlining police secretly watching hip-hop artists. In it, McDonald and White revealed that Miami law enforcement were secretly watching and keeping dossiers on hip-hop celebrities, even photographing rappers as they arrived at Miami International Airport. According to Evelyn McDonald, she became aware of Miami law enforcement's covert hip-hop surveillance through a not-so-covert human screw-up. After that, McDonald, the Miami Herald's chief music reviewer, wrote an article profiling local Miami rapper, Jackie O. She then received an email from a Miami Beach-based police detective named Rosa Ridge-Rulio, asking her for information. I collect intelligence on all current rappers and record companies in the South Beach area, Ridge-Rulio explained in the note. McDonald was taken aback. It was pretty shocking, she explains in hindsight. When I realized it was from a police officer, I knew this was a big deal. I emailed the woman back and said, sorry, I can't divulge my sources, but I'd love to hear more about what you do. That's right. Miami law enforcement's clandestine hip-hop surveillance wasn't discovered via an intense investigative expose, no. A detective made it easy and sent a fucking email. The first rule of law enforcement is the same as the code of the streets. Keep your mouth shut, especially when talking to a journalist. Covert activity in any police department is kept undercover for two reasons. One, so those under surveillance don't realize they're being watched. Two, exposure of such surveillance usually results in a public relations disaster. As such, McDonald and White's article exploded Miami's tensions like a volcano. Racial profiling was already a hot-button topic for law enforcement across the nation. To many, the revelation that major urban police departments were targeting rappers and the hip-hop industry was further evidence of this practice. But racial profiling was an especially huge issue in Miami, according to McDonald's collaborator, Nicole White. Black lawmakers were concerned by the profiling element, White explains today. A lot of money was at stake, and that was the main concern. The fallout from the Miami Herald piece was immediate. In particular, local tourism was threatened, and Miami was already walking on thin ice where race issues were concerned. After the city had refused to officially welcome South African activist leader Nelson Mandela in 1990, Miami suffered a debilitating three-year tourism boycott by African Americans. In later years, racial tensions exploded over incidents that occurred when hundreds of thousands of Black revelers descended upon Miami for Memorial Day celebrations. Since then, however, Miami has become a tourism mecca for hip-hop artists and their fans, with South Beach's glitzy upscale clubs, hotels, and recording studios all catering to the blinged-out rap pack. Rappers were spending big money in Miami and showing off the city's high life in music videos, and as a result, its luster as a glamorous A-list vacation spot has been restored. But now, that was threatened. Following McDonald's and White's article, the American Civil Liberties Union, ACLU, and other civil rights groups immediately threatened major lawsuits, and music industry insiders were pissed. Russell Simmons was very upset, McDonald says. Damon Dash went on record. He was very upset that incidents from his past were still haunting him. Luther Campbell was very upset. Fat Joe found it all depressing because he thought in Miami he was getting away from that kind of surveillance. The hip-hop community in general was like, we knew it was going on. Quickly, I found myself in the eye of this hip-hop hurricane. Eventually, it came out that members of Miami PD had attended training sessions in hip-hop crime from NYPD detectives. I directed those training sessions. But what caused even greater controversy was the admission that Miami had in its possession a dossier known as the Binder, which I also had created in my tenure in the NYPD's hip-hop squad. We knew there was a guy in New York who had retired who was responsible for the Binder, McDonald explains. But the police wouldn't give us Derek's name. It didn't take them long to put two and two together, though, as all the evidence that was never meant to get into the public's hands led directly to me. As the NYPD's rap expert, I was commissioned in 2001 to create the Binder, a printable database detailing the associations and background of every rapper with a known criminal arrest. It would grow to be numbingly complete, numbering over a thousand pages. The Binder covered everyone from bold-faced hip-hop stars like Puff Daddy, 50 Cent, and Jay-Z to obscure wannabes like E-Moneybags. It listed every case each rapper ever caught, every felon they ran with, every beef they had with rival rap crews, along with personal information like photos, social security numbers, record company affiliations, and last known addresses. Not surprisingly, the Binder caused a great outcry when it was leaked. And I ended up taking the hits. The resulting episode reminded me of that scene in Scarface, where Al Pacino's Tony Montana character states, You need people like me so you can point your fuckin' fingers and say, That's the bad guy. So what that make you? Good? You're not good. You just know how to hide. After the Binder surfaced, I was that bad guy. Everyone else was hiding. Like the name of Tupac's best-selling album, all eyes were on me, ready to throw blame my way for one of the biggest law enforcement controversies in decades. To the American Civil Liberties Union, ACLU, I was suddenly public enemy number one. Additionally, I found myself in the crosshairs of rappers as well. I got the Rap Patrol on the Gap Patrol. Jay-Z rhymes on his hit, 99 Problems. My own people, though.