#derek have a child

[dejwrites]

heard the teen wolf movie trash and that’s what they get for not paying arden cho her rightful coins!

[ef-1]

Sending this to you specifically because I feel like you understand it best and you never shy away from calling Daniel out. Not an apologist for rich men, every single one of them is fucked up and has done fucked up shit. Would never defend Daniel from things he deserves to be criticized for, but so much of the uhhh 'dialogue' right now is just hate wanking lol. There is this blog who genuinely made a post celebrating that she would have never been able to tag Daniel hate in the past because he was too popular and she willingly (?!) admitted she regularly searches him up to look for hate and 'smile' LMAO? We're not even doing the ole' moralising our hatred thing now? Allow it 😭

1. where are you fucking finding these people I just screamed.

2. That one derek pope lyric

[green-fifteen]

Day 7: Kiss it Better

Prompt: Recovery Fandom: Teen Wolf Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Summary: Even a magical dad needs backup sometimes. Word count: 1,793 read on ao3 instead

written for @fluffyfebruary

The McCall house was full of people. They packed in together on the living room rug, leaned against the walls in the hallways, slid around each other in the kitchen to grab this or that. They spilled out of the door to the backyard, where John Stilinski and Chris Argent were not-so -passive aggressively fighting for control of the grilling spatula. Stiles couldn't believe they knew this many people, but he did recognize almost everyone he saw, with a few Argent exceptions.

His favorite (former) Argent was currently scrubbing a horrifically caked-on serving dish, muttering to herself about something he couldn't hear in the all of the party noise. Stiles, his hands and arms full of hot dog and hamburger buns, took pity on her. As Allison held the platter underwater, as if to drown it and be rid of it for good, he focused his gaze. It didn't take long for his magic to find the source of her problem and it scoured the baked-on food in an instant, as if it had never been there. She turned around to face him and almost grabbed him up in a hug before she noticed he was carrying bread. Thank you, you're amazing she mouthed instead.

These days, Stiles' magic was literally the ultimate household problem-solver. It seemed to have changed over the years as he settled and aged and now the things it did best basically amounted to chores. Cooking? Cleaning? Mysterious underwear stains? All he needed was a few seconds of focus and his magic could do it all.

Stiles waved away her thanks and continued outside to the patio, where the grill sat beside a pair of long white tables. There wasn't really any room for all the buns he held, so he just dropped them on top of some of the toppings, trusting the gathering of assorted mythical and/or magical beings to be able to open and use them for themselves. As he stood back, a shape darted out at his legs from beneath the tablecloth. Years of practice had honed his reflexes and he bent down to catch the beast just before it collided with his kneecaps.

"Grargh!" it cried, but its roaring dissolved into laughter as Stiles tucked it under one arm and began walking toward the woods that bordered the house on one side.

"I can't believe these creatures keep getting past my wards," he grumbled, letting out a frustrated huff. "Oh well." He set it down in the grass and nudged it with his foot. "Back to the woods with you, beast."

This time, the little thing jumped to tackle him, and Stiles let himself fall to the ground. "Oh no! Somebody, help!"

"Rarg! Graah!"

"I'm being mauled by a creature of the night!"

He continued wailing and being afraid for several moments, after which he seemed to find a second wind and pinned the little monster.

"I won't let you hurt any more innocent people," he cried, voice desperate and determined. "This is a birthday party!" And he reached down to tickle the creature's belly. It writhed in place, shrieking with laughter until suddenly it stopped. Stiles stopped too, watching its little face.

"Daddy," it said seriously. "I actually need to use the bathroom."

"Oh." Stiles climbed back to his feet and then lifted the little boy into his arms. Dry leaves and bits of grass clippings fell from their hair and clothes as they stood up.

"Do you need any help?" he asked.

"No. I can do it by myself," his son replied and then darted into the house.

"Patrick! No running on the patio," he called after him.

When he turned, his father was standing at his shoulder with a paper plate. "Grub time," he grunted. "Where's your husband? I bought cheddar dogs just for him and they're no good cold."

He shrugged and sighed. "He's supposed to be getting the cake but I think he got held up. He'll be here soon, just keep his food in the grill with the lid closed."

"Like I wasn't gonna do that anyway."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Dad."

At that moment, two things happened at once. Stiles heard glass break and turned his body toward the pool, where everyone seemed to have frozen in shock. Just as they started moving, everyone hurrying out of the water, he heard a second noise, one that kicked up his parental instincts the instant it hit his eardrums. Whirling around, he saw his kid sobbing on the concrete patio just in front of the sliding screen door, knee scraped up and beginning to bleed.

Without hesitation, he strode over to his son and hefted him into his arms. He was almost getting too heavy to be held like this and the screaming crying was happening way too close to his ear, but Stiles held on to him as he walked back over to the pool, trying to comfort him with soft words and rubbing his back.

Melissa McCall was pulling little kids out of the water, reassuring them gently that they'd be able to get back in soon. "You can't see shards of glass in the water," she said, voice gentle but firm. "You might really hurt yourself." As Stiles approached with his son, the kids looked up at him crying in pain and scrambled out as fast as they could.

Melissa met his eyes with a small smile, as if to say, Oh boy, what a mess.

Stiles could get the glass out of the pool. Without calling in a specialist or draining the pool, which would take too long, his magic was the only option if anyone wanted to use it again during the party. He looked at his son, gasping for breath where he was perched on his hip. Maybe he could calm him down and then come back to fix the pool? There was no way he'd be able to focus with him bleeding onto his jeans.

One thing at a time he told himself. He crouched down and pulled the little boy into his lap, rocking and shushing. "Really hurts, huh?" he murmured.

Patrick only wailed, tears and snot dripping down his face. Stiles heard another child start to cry somewhere nearby, likely startled by the glass breaking and only further upset by the sobbing Stiles had brought over the them. He was really starting to think, Those damn wolf powers would be pretty handy right about now and cursing his magic for being selectively useful, when a hand landed on his shoulder.

Derek was crouched on the balls of his feet just next to him, eyes fixed on Patrick's red face. To Stiles, he looked like an angel sent to rescue the both of them. He squeezed Stiles' shoulder lightly and then reached out for the boy.

"Hey, Pat," Derek said, gently. "Look, Pat, Papa's here."

Patrick's eyes flew open and he lunged forward into Derek's arms. Stiles fell back onto his hands and patted his husband's thigh in thanks. He could see black lines tracing their way up Derek's forearms, beginning with the little knee he held in one hand and traveling up under his sleeves. The pained wailing was already dropping off, replaced by Patrick's normal, more familiar fussing. Even that faded into the background as Derek walked them both over to the food table, kissing and soothing the little guy as he went.

Stiles turned back to the pool. It was the work of a few heartbeats to make it safe again-- he stared into the water and imagined he could hear the tinkling of the shards as molecules of water brushed over them. He imagined he saw their jagged edges glinting beneath the brighter gleam of the water's surface. Then-- blink-- suddenly he could see the fragmented pieces and he could hear the barely-there tinkling of water on glass. Focus came easily with something to fix it to and he let his magic free to find the problem. The pieces were gone in seconds.

"Alright!" he shouted. "Open swim!" The splashing started up again immediately and he had to scurry away to avoid being hit. Smiling, he made his way to the grill. His father was holding Patrick while Derek stood at the start of the condiment line with two paper plates, a burger on one and a cheddar-filled hot dog on the other.

Stiles stepped in close to him and kissed his bristly cheek. "You never stop saving my life," he chirped. Then, "Is that for me?"

"Yes." He handed Stiles the plate with the burger. "Sorry I was late, there was an issue at the bakery and then traffic was pretty bad on the way back."

Stiles tsked. "That's what we get for going to the bougie place for a five year old's birthday cake. Grocery store sheet cake next time."

"Agreed."

When they finished filling their plates and returned to their son, he was staring raptly at the sheriff, who was telling a story in big, exaggerated motions.

"And that's why you never peel off your band-aids, son," he was saying as they came within earshot.

When Patrick saw them, he squirmed out of John's hold to the ground and ran up to Stiles.

"Daddy," he said. "Papa made my leg feel better, but it still hurts. You have to kiss it so it heals and I don't get a bacterial infection." Stiles shot a bewildered look at his father, who only smiled serenely.

"Of course," he said, smiling when he looked back at his son, then planted a loud kiss to the skin just below the open wound. "Now it will heal all better in no time. No infections."

Patrick stood up and dashed away before Stiles could even process it, screeching and chasing one of his little playmates.

"Has he eaten yet?" Derek asked him. Stiles stood up cracked his back.

"He can eat later. Or maybe he'll just have cake for dinner. It's his birthday, who cares?"

Derek sighed but smiled and tugged Stiles into a hug. "I cares. You cares. We all cares when the birthday boy doesn't fall asleep tonight. And Daddy and Papa and Patrick all stay up doing jigsaw puzzles until midnight again."

"You love family puzzle time," Stiles counters, poking him in the ribs.

"Is there really nothing else you would rather do tonight?" He pushed his nose into the space behind Stiles' ear. "I haven't seen you all day." He breathed in a huge inhale.

"Quit sniffing me, my dad is standing right there." Stiles smacked him and pulled out of the embrace. "Fine, I'll go track down the beast. Make a plate for him?"

Derek hummed an agreement and Stiles took off after their kid.

[bonefall]

The really sad thing about the narrative of DOTCs is I can legit see Bumble and Grey Wing becoming Friends. Instead the authors put Grey against her because in the distance future Firestar has to be the special lil guy and break the kittypet bloodline weakness curse or something (still love ya Fire.)

I'm not sure... I think the Gray Wing they wrote is so nasty and spiteful that he was always going to hate Bumble, because she "took" his romantic interest from him. I think to like Gray Wing, you have to like a completely new character.

He isn't wise, at all. He's actually completely oblivious. To Clear Sky, to his partners, to his adopted children's feelings. He has a couple nice interactions with Pebble Heart and that's about it.

His emotions are constantly clouding his judgement. Spite towards Bumble, adoration for Clear Sky, frustration at Turtle Tail coming down from heaven because she can't stay (???)

Complete misogynist. Judges female characters much more harshly than male characters around him, even going so far as to feel happy that Wind Runner has no ambition while she's nursing her kittens.

Tried to "comfort" her when her baby passed away by telling her "we can't save everyone and maybe it's for the best it died. Anyway it would be easier for you if you believed in Jesus."

This isn't even getting into the constant ridiculing of fat people and Chelford cats.

He's everything that sucks about male WC protags in a little bundle. Sad boy who has to get rewarded for all his "romantic suffering" with a womb to incubate his 'real' children after being a moron at best and a jackass at worst for 6 books.

I just can't see the character they wrote maintaining a friendship with Bumble. He seems like he'd come up with some stupid reason to dislike her and smugly cap it off with, "and that's that!" like he did when he was berating Turtle Tail for even thinking about going to live with her. And then the writers make everyone clap.

[aq2003]

when he greets the "young lady and mistress" actor he makes his voice crack when going "pray god your voice be not cracked within the ring" lol

[heavensenthale]

us Derek girlies (gn) have been living on crumbs for so many years... y’all couldn’t do it

[capricornsicle]

"I'm going to tell you a story. Maybe it will sound familiar." Visionary x Insatiable x Status Asthmaticus x The Wolves of War

[philtatosbuck]

"the teen wolf movie is insane to think peter and cora wouldn't fight scott for custody!" be absolutely serious. derek hale would have never left eli in peter's custody and cora does not WANT him left in hers. you people hate scott so bad

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

[wolf-with-moxie]

How crazy would it have been if Teen Wolf had a group completely opposite of the hunters?

Like I mean opposite Gerald and Kate level crazy too, a group that believes that werewolves need to be protected because clearly they can't protect themselves anymore. Just like an endangered species, they need to be captured and put in a safe environment were humans can't harm them.

Imagine what Allison would go through with her family being seen absolute scum in this groups eyes. Especially after what Kate did to Derek and the Hales.

Or how Derek and the other werewolves would react, because here's a group of humans that don't see them as monsters, but they don't see them as people either. Just animals that need protection.

Like if your a werewolf in a rough situation, would you risk the hunters? They have a code but not all hunters fallow it. You could go to this group, you'll have protection but at the cost of your freedom.

[laurelwinchester]

jeff davis has been desperately trying to kill derek hale since the first season so i’m disappointed and irritated but not necessarily surprised that he finally followed through on that one. i am kinda surprised that he accidentally gave derek and stiles an inexplicable child though. that was a plot twist i did not see coming.

[multishipper-baby]

Also random thought but I absolutely love that trope where a bunch of characters are all sharing a bed and cuddling (whether platonic or romantic) because I'm a sucker for fluff

[copperbadge]

When I was in college, round about 2002 or so, I did a paper on hate groups that necessitated a couple of visits to Stormfront, a white supremacist website and message board. One of the pages on the site was a "children's page" operated by the child of Storrmfront's founder, which was a unique form of horrifying. But I also remember looking at a photo of the kid on the site and thinking, that poor fuckin' kid, what kind of chance did he ever have?

But it was just a paper and that was just a photo of a child I didn't know, so I turned in the paper and graduated and got on with life.

In 2016, @archwrites posted a link to an article by the Washington Post titled "The White Flight of Derek Black" (sorry about the paywall, Arch's post quotes some relevant parts here). I thought it looked like an interesting read: it was about a white supremacist named Derek Black and a group of campus activists at the school Black eventually attended, who set out to see if they could change his mind about race with radical kindness. In large part because of their work, Black eventually renounced white supremacy and became an antiracist.

And then I hit a photo in the article and gasped, because I recognized it. I'd seen the same photo on the Stormfront children's website. The kid I'd seen and pitied was grown up and had gotten out. Immensely satisfying to see.

But it was just a news story about someone I didn't even know, so I posted about how pleased I was to see it, and I got on with life again.

This morning, I woke to the news (sorry, it's the Daily Fail) that R. Derek Black, now 35, has just published a memoir, The Klansman's Son: My Journey from White Nationalism to Antiracism. And in the epilogue, they come out as trans.

I can't imagine better news I could have heard about them -- that they're out, they're thriving, and they're embracing themself.

Congratulations, kid. It's a great new photo.

[ID: A recent photograph of R. Derek Black, with long curly red hair, wearing a floral collared shirt and a red cardigan, smiling for the camera.]

[januaryembrs]

BLACK CAT GIRLFRIEND | Spencer Reid x reader

request: Hey Congratulations on the 2K! Do you think you could write something with Spencer Reid and a Reader who has lots of tattoos and/or piercings? Like she's the whole "bad girl" stereotype but Spencer and her complement each other so well and have a very sweet and mature relationship. I would love something like that.

description: the team meet Spencer's new girlfriend and she doesn't look quite like they'd imagined

word count: 1.1k

main masterlist

authors note: I officially hit 2k followers this morning!! see my post here for requesting but lets start this milestone off with a bang!! thankyou so much :))))))

Morgan had to admit, you weren’t exactly what he’d envisioned when Pretty Boy had been talking his ear off for months about the girl in his apartment building that had slipped him your number. He wasn’t judgemental, not by a longshot, but Spencer had always seemed like the type to date the preppy, library geek, or even the cutesy geneticist if Maeve had been anything to go off of. 

It’s not like you weren’t hot, he could see that you were a mile away, but you looked like you’d sooner break someone’s wrist for so much as talking to you than fall for their resident genius. 

You smiled tightly, shaking Derek’s hand with a crushing grip, as Spencer introduced you to his team, the obnoxiously loud bass almost drowning out his words as the six of you stood in the bar. 

“Nice to meet you, Spencer talks about you all the time,” You said politely, and no sooner had you let go of the man’s warm hand, two arms were thrown over your shoulders and you were tugged into a hug. 

“I’m Penelope- oh you’re so pretty, Morgan isn’t she so pretty? You should marry Spencer then you can be boyfriend girlfriend for, like, life-” The perky voice was all a jumble as the blonde pulled away, cupping your face, rubbing down your arms kindly, sweetly, like you were swallowing a warm spoon of honey. 

“Penelope, newbie rules, remember,” Emily chimed in, seeing your eyes widen at the sudden intrusion of personal space. She could see this ending with the pretty pink bows Garcia had plaited her hair in torn to shreds on the sticky floor, right next to her long barbie locks if your intimidating figure was anything to go off, “Not everyone likes hugs,”

“No, no,” You replied, smiling gently at the woman who was softer than cotton candy, “Hugs are nice,” 

“We’re going to be very best friends, I can feel it, which is funny because my tarot actually said I’d meet a strong Taurus woman- or are you a Scorpio-” Penny’s smile was dazzling, but she was soon ushered to let go of the bear like grip she had on your shoulders by a chuckling Morgan.

“Let the other kids play with her, babygirl,” He said, and you were pulled in another direction towards Emily who gave a polite handshake. 

“Nice ink,” She said with raised brows as she saw the intricate sketches that covered the back of your hands, trailing up your arm and under the band tee you wore. She knew who they were, though they only dragged up memories of her own days of thick eyeliner and rebelling against her mother. “They must have hurt like a bitch, I got one on my hip and could barely sit for one hour,” 

You snickered, nodding, seeing her eyes trailing over the ones on your ankles and knees where your ripped jeans flashed them all. 

“Bones hurt the most, though the one on my ass is up there for the worst ones,” You replied, and Penny’s brows shot into her hairline, though she giggled like a schoolgirl being told a secret.

“I think we’re gonna need to see the proof on that one,” Morgan teased flirtily, the way he always did, the way he did even with JJ who had a whole child and partner, because it was his natural state of being. 

Spencer smiled as his team warmed to you, though he was quick to pull you to him with a gentle arm around the waist. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Derek, that man was practically his brother, he’d taken bullets for the guy, but he liked having you close, even if to just remind himself that you were all his, including said tattoo on your buttcheek that he’d seen plenty of times. 

The team didn’t need to know that, but you could tell your words had reminded him of it as he pressed a shy kiss behind your ear.

He was careful to avoid the studs and links that glittered from your ear lobe, wrapping over the cartilage on your helix, though he loved to stare at them on nights where you tied your hair up and he could count every one of them. To him you were a work of art, complex and detailed with every glance he stole. You were an illustration in one of his many books, everything he imagined for himself times a million. 

“I’m going to go get a drink, do you want one?” You said, looking up at him with puppy eyes, like a lovestruck teenager, fat adoration in your gaze. It oozed out of every inch of you, and JJ thought for a moment that you looked nothing like the scary doberman woman that Spence had originally brought over to meet them. You looked in love, the saccharine, soft and dazed kind of in love. 

“Let me get it for you,” Spencer rooted around his pocket for his wallet, turning to see Morgan’s beer bottle running low, “You having another one?”

“I’m good, my man, you just sort yourself and your lady out,” Derek flashed him a thousand watt smile and clapped him on the shoulder as you entwined your fingers with his, pulling him through the cluster of people and towards the bar, “What a stud,” 

Penelope giggled again, leaning towards her adonis best friend with honeyglow cheeks, watching their genius get led like a dog on a leash. 

“Oh lover boy had got it bad,” She drawled, watching Reid, their Reid, develop an uncharacteristically protective stance as a few men at the bar shot looks up and down your body. She couldn’t blame them either, you were a sight for sore eyes. “Okay, so do I have to be the first one to point out how hot she is or have I maybe had one too many margaritas?” 

“She seems nice,” JJ chose her words carefully, still not entirely sure she would have ever put the two of you together but she saw the way Spence’s eyes got round and longing when he looked over you. He’d clearly said something to make you laugh, and an inked hand raised up to brush his chocolate curls out of his face lovingly, “She seems good for him,”

A murmur of agreement ran through the four of them, Emily taking one more sip of her martini as her eyes roved over your figure returning with something fruity and colourful, “Anyone else dying to know what’s on her ass?” 

-

[pathologicalreid]

nicknames | S.R.

in which you meet the team for the first time, and receive your first nickname

who? spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

category: fluff

content warnings: reader is referred to as a girl. i have this headcanon where when reid's IQ gets slashed to 60, he'd get so distracted that he'd run on autopilot, hence the willingness to handshake.

word count: 591

a/n: happy finals szn! this fic has been rotting in my brain for weeks and i finally decided to flesh it out. and maybe you should like and reblog this if you enjoy it (no pressure tho)

You were still filtering through your entry paperwork when the rest of the team filtered into the bullpen. David Rossi, who had helped you land this job in the first place, nodded in your direction before disappearing into his office. “Hey!” Someone called from across the bullpen, “Y/N, right?” Emily asked, setting her go bag in the chair at her desk before making her way over to your desk.

Smiling in response, “It’s nice to finally meet you,” you responded, reaching your hand out for her to shake. It was nice to be in the BAU, complete with a promotion from Special Agent to Supervisory Special Agent.

JJ walked over next, waving, and introducing herself as the communications liaison. “I’ve heard a lot of great things from your old CARD team,” she said, “I’m sure your skillset will come in handy here.”

You nodded in affirmation, “That’s the hope!” You answered, smiling at the prospect of your old team singing your praises.

Next, Derek approached, reaching out his hand for you to shake. Of course, you obliged and grinned at him. Part of you felt like you were meeting celebrities, the BAU was a big deal in the bureau. “Derek Morgan,” he introduced himself, “How long were you with CARD?”

“Five years,” you responded, it was a long time for anyone to deal solely with child abduction, but your team had the best rate in the bureau. Besides, you found the work rewarding.

Morgan’s eyebrows raised in surprise, “that’s impressive.”

You nodded, “Thank you. I’m really looking forward to working with you all.”

JJ looked behind her, “Oh, have you met Garcia?” She asked, peeking around the corner to where the technical analyst's office was.

Glancing down at the cat-shaped stress toy that she had given you when you arrived this morning, you smiled, “Yes, she was the first to greet me this morning. I think I’m just missing Dr. Reid.”

As if on cue, the young doctor walked into the bullpen, he had a worn leather satchel over his shoulder and looked like he might be talking to himself, “Reid!” Emily called over, getting his attention, and causing him to change course, approaching your desk. “Come meet, Y/N.”

He adjusted the strap of his satchel over his sweater before you reached out your hand for him to shake. “Oh, he doesn’t…” JJ began, but her voice trailed off when Dr. Reid shook your hand.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Dr. Reid,” you said, smiling at him. It felt good to know you had finally met the entire team.

He gave a close-lipped smile in return, “Reid is fine, or Spencer.” He said as you each dropped your hands to your sides.

Noticing everyone looking back and forth between the two of you as if you had already managed to do something wrong, you gathered all of your paperwork in your hands, “I should get this to Hotch.”

The rest of the team got the message and started to disperse to their respective desks, Reid’s being adjacent to yours. “Welcome to the team, pretty girl,” Morgan said to you before turning to his own paperwork.

You hugged your paperwork to your chest as if you were protecting it. Quietly, you muttered, “I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick.”

Across from you, there was a short laugh, almost a scoff. “It will,” Spencer responded in the same reverent tone. For a second, you thought it might be a joke, but you could tell by his facial expression that he was serious.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How the NYPD defeated bodycams

Anything that can't go on forever will eventually stop. When American patience for racial profiling in traffic stops reached a breaking point, cops rolled out dashcams. Dashcam footage went AWOL, or just recorded lots of racist, pretextual stops. Racial profiling continued.

Tasers and pepper spray were supposed to curb the undue use of force by giving cops an alternative to shooting dangerous-seeming people. Instead, we got cops who tasered and sprayed unarmed people and then shot them to pieces.

Next came bodycams: by indelibly recording cops' interactions with the public, body-worn cameras were pitched as a way to bring accountability to American law-enforcement. Finally, police leadership would be able to sort officers' claims from eyewitness accounts and figure out who was lying. Bad cops could be disciplined. Repeat offenders could be fired.

Police boosters insist that police violence and corruption are the result of "a few bad apples." As the saying goes, "a few bad apples spoil the bushel." If you think there are just a few bad cops on the force, then you should want to get rid of them before they wreck the whole institution. Bodycams could empirically identify the bad apples, right?

Well, hypothetically. But what if police leadership don't want to get rid of the bad apples? What if the reason that dashcams, tasers, and pepper spray failed is that police leadership are fine with them? If that were the case, then bodycams would turn into just another expensive prop for an off-Broadway accountability theater.

What if?

In "How Police Have Undermined the Promise of Body Cameras," Propublica's Eric Umansky and Umar Farooq deliver a characteristically thorough, deep, and fascinating account of the failure of NYPD bodycams to create the accountability that New York's political and police leadership promised:

https://www.propublica.org/article/how-police-undermined-promise-body-cameras

Topline: NYPD's bodycam rollout was sabotaged by police leadership and top NYC politicians. Rather than turning over bodycam footage to oversight boards following violent incidents, the NYPD suppresses it. When overseers are allowed to see the footage, they get fragmentary access. When those fragments reveal misconduct, they are forbidden to speak of it. When the revealed misconduct is separate from the main incident, it can't be used to discipline officers. When footage is made available to the public, it is selectively edited to omit evidence of misconduct.

NYPD policy contains loopholes that allow them to withhold footage. Where those loopholes don't apply, the NYPD routinely suppresses footage anyway, violating its own policies. When the NYPD violates its policies, it faces no consequences. When overseers complain, they are fired.

Bodycams could be a source of accountability for cops, but for that to be true, control over bodycams would have to vest with institutions that want to improve policing. If control over bodycams is given to institutions that want to shield cops from accountability, that's exactly what will happen. There is nothing about bodycams that makes them more resistant to capture than dashcams, tasers or pepper spray.

This is a problem across multiple police departments. Minneapolis, for example, has policies from before and after the George Floyd uprisings that require bodycam disclosure, and those policies are routinely flouted. Derek Chauvin, George Floyd's murderer, was a repeat offender and had been caught on bodycam kneeling on other Black peoples' necks. Chauvin once clubbed a 14 year old child into unconsciousness and then knelt on his neck for 15 minutes as his mother begged for her child's life. Chauvin faced no discipline for this and the footage was suppressed.

In Montgomery, Alabama, it took five years of hard wrangling to get access to bodycam footage after an officer sicced his attack dog on an unarmed Black man without warning. The dog severed the man's femoral artery and he died. Montgomery PD suppressed the footage, citing the risk of officers facing "embarrassment."

In Memphis, the notoriously racist police department was able to suppress bodycam disclosures until the murder of Tyre Nichols. The behavior of the officers who beat Nichols to death are a testament to their belief in their own impunity. Some officers illegally switched off their cameras; others participated in the beating in full view of the cameras, fearing no consequences.

In South Carolina, the police murder of Walter Scott was captured on a bystander's phone camera. That footage made it clear that Scott's uniformed killers lied, prompting then-governor Nikki Haley to sign a law giving the public access to bodycam footage. But the law contained a glaring loophole: it made bodycam footage "not a public record subject to disclosure." Nothing changed.

Bodycam footage does often reveal that killer cops lie about their actions. When a Cincinnati cop killed a Black man during a 2015 traffic-stop, his bodycam footage revealed that the officer lied about his victim "lunging at him" before he shot. Last summer, a Philadelphia cop was caught lying about the circumstances that led to him murdering a member of the public. Again, the officer claimed the man had "lunged at him." The cop's camera showed the man sitting peacefully in his own car.

Police departments across the country struggle with violent, lying officers, but few can rival the NYPD for corruption, violence, scale and impunity. The NYPD has its own "goon squad," the Strategic Response Group, whose leaked manual reveals how the secret unit spends about $100m/year training and deploying ultraviolent, illegal tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/07/cruelty-by-design/#blam-blam-blam

The NYPD's disciplinary records – published despite a panicked scramble to suppress them – reveal the NYPD's infestation with criminal cops who repeatedly break the law in meting out violence against the public:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/27/ip/#nypd-who

These cops are the proverbial bad apples, and they do indeed spoil the barrel. A 2019 empirical analysis of police disciplinary records show that corruption is contagious: when crooked cops are paired with partners who have clean disciplinary records, those partners become crooked, too, and the effect lasts even after the partnership ends:

https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/full/10.1177/2378023119879798

Despite the risk of harboring criminals in police ranks, the NYPD goes to extreme lengths to keep its worst officers on the street. New York City's police "union"'s deal with the city requires NYC to divert millions to a (once) secret slushfund used to pay high-priced lawyers to defend cops whose conduct is so egregious that the city's own attorneys refuse to defend them:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/03/26/overfitness-factor/#heads-you-lose-tails-they-win

This is a good place for your periodic reminder that police unions are not unions:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/28/afterland/#selective-solidarity

Indeed, despite rhetoric to the contrary, policing is a relatively safe occupation, with death rates well below the risks to roofers, loggers, or pizza delivery drivers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/27/extraordinary-popular-delusions/#onshore-havana-syndrome

The biggest risk to police officers – the single factor that significantly increased death rates among cops – is police unions themselves. Police unions successfully pressured cities across American to reject covid risk mitigation, from masking to vaccinations, leading to a wave of police deaths. "Suicide by cop" is very rare, but US officers committed "mass suicide by cop union":

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/12/us/police-covid-vaccines.html

But the story that policing is much more dangerous than it really is a useful one. It has a business-model. Military contractors who turn local Barney Fifes into Judge Dredd cosplayers with assault rifles, tanks and other "excess" military gear make billions from the tale:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/10/flintstone-delano-roosevelt/#1033-1022

It's not just beltway bandits who love this story. For cops to be shielded from consequences for murdering the public, they need to tell themselves and the rest of us that they are a "thin blue line," and not mere armed bureaucrats. The myth that cops are in constant danger from the public justifies hair-trigger killings.

Consider the use of "civilian" to describe the public. Police are civilians. The only kind of police officer who isn't a civilian is a military policeman. Places where "civilians" interact with non-civilian law enforcement are, by definition, under military occupation. Calling the public "civilians" is a cheap rhetorical trick that converts a police officer to a patrolling soldier in hostile territory. Calling us "civilians" justifies killing us, because if we're civilians, then they are soldiers and we are at war.

The NYPD clearly conceives of itself as an occupying force and considers its "civilian" oversight to be the enemy. When New York's Civilian Complaint Review Board gained independence in 1993, thousands of off-duty cops joined Rudy Giuliani in a mass protest at City Hall and an occupation of the Brooklyn Bridge. This mass freakout is a measure of police intolerance for oversight – after all, the CCRB isn't even allowed to discipline officers, only make (routinely ignored) recommendations.

Kerry Sweet was the NYPD lawyer who oversaw the department's bodycam rollout. He once joked that the NYPD missed a chance to "bomb the room" where the NYPD's CCRB was meeting (when Propublica asked him to confirm this, he said he couldn't remember those remarks, but "on reflection, it should have been an airstrike").

Obvious defects in the NYPD's bodycam policy go beyond the ability to suppress disclosure of the footage. The department has no official tracking system for its bodycam files. They aren't geotagged, only marked by officer badge-number and name. So if a member of the public comes forward to complain that an unknown officer committed a crime at a specific place and time, there's no way to retrieve that footage. Even where footage can be found, the NYPD often hides the ball: in 20% of cases where the Department told the CCRB footage didn't exist, they were lying.

Figuring out how to make bodycam footage work better is complex, but there are some obvious first steps. Other cities have no problem geotagging their footage. In Chicago, the CCRB can directly access the servers where bodycam footage is stored (when the NYPD CCRB members proposed this, they were fired).

Meanwhile, the NYPD keeps protecting its killers. The Propublica story opens with the police killing of Miguel Richards. Richards' parents hadn't heard from him in a while, so they asked his Bronx landlord to check on him (the Richards live in Jamaica). The landlord called the cops. The cops killed Richards.

The cops claimed he had a gun and they were acting in self-defense. They released a highly edited reel of bodycam footage to support that claim. When the full video was eventually extracted, it revealed that Richards had a tiny plastic toy guy and a small folding knife. The officers involved believed he was suffering an acute mental health incident and stated that policy demanded that they close his bedroom door and wait for specialists. Instead, they barked orders at him and then fired 16 rounds at him. Seven hit him. One ruptured his aorta. As he lay dying on his bedroom floor, one officer roughly tossed him around and cuffed him. He died.

New York's Police Benevolent Association – the largest police "union" in NYC – awarded the officers involved its "Finest of the Finest" prize for their conduct in the killing.

This isn't an isolated incident. A month after the NYPD decided not to punish the cops who killed Richards, NYPD officers murdered Kawaski Trawick in his Bronx apartment:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#Kawaski-Trawick

The officers lied about it, suppressed release of the bodycam footage that would reveal their lies, and then escaped any justice when the footage and the lies were revealed.

None of this means that bodycams are useless. It just means that bodycams will only help bring accountability to police forces when they are directed by parties who have the will and power to make the police accountable.

When police leaders and city governments support police corruption, adding bodycams won't change that fact.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/13/i-want-a-roof-over-my-head/#and-bread-on-the-table

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