At 2:30 Monday morning, the two young police officers approaching the black sport utility vehicle on Rogers Avenue in Brooklyn knew nothing of the histories of the people inside. But if, as the police say, Dexter Bostic was one of the passengers, he would have known that the spinning light was a signal of crisis for him.
The police, at that hour, and in those circumstances, meant prison for him, most likely for life, before the first shot was fired.
Having spent most of his adulthood behind bars for acts of violence in Queens and Brooklyn, Mr. Bostic’s freedoms were rationed out by the New York State Division of Parole in minute doses.
At age 34, Mr. Bostic still had to be home by 9. He could drive only when he got permission from a parole officer, could not live within 1,000 feet of a school, and, on command, had to urinate into a cup every few weeks. He had raped and robbed a woman as a teenager, spent most of his 20s in prison, then returned to the street long enough to take part in a robbery in which a cohort fired shots. He had two convictions for violent felonies.
Over the years, four parole panels refused to grant Mr. Bostic early release. “There is a reasonable probability that you will not remain at liberty without violating the law, and your release at this time is incompatible with the welfare and safety of the community,” a panel found in September 2002.
Still, he was not in prison for life, and after serving the maximum sentence for his part in the robbery, he returned to Queens in 2004. He found a job at a car dealership on Long Island. Last Thursday, a parole officer visited his home at 11 p.m. to make sure that he was abiding by curfew, according to Mark E. Johnson, a spokesman for the parole division.
On Monday morning, Officer Russel Timoshenko, 23, and Officer Herman Yan, 26, checked the license plate on a black BMW, and found that it did not match.
If Mr. Bostic was there, the circumstances were clear.
He was out after his parole curfew.
The BMW had been stolen.
There were guns in the car.
Before a shot was fired, he was likely to return to prison for another two years on a parole violation. Any guns that were in the S.U.V. might have earned him a third violent felony conviction and a sentence of 25 years to life.
Alberto Ortiz, 30, stood outside a parole office in Midtown yesterday, on his way to report to his parole officer. He did not know Mr. Bostic, but the thought of being in a car at 2:30 a.m. made him shudder.
“Parole has rules, and you can’t do none of that,” Mr. Ortiz said. “My parole officer came to my house at 6 a.m., Sunday into Monday, to see if I was home in bed. I can’t have pets — well, not a dog — because it might go against the officer. I can’t drive, unless I get permission.”
To violate any parole rules is to risk returning to prison. The strict rules, Mr. Ortiz said, keep him a safe distance from even deeper trouble. He committed a robbery when he was young, and sold drugs in 2005 to an undercover officer, becoming one of the 7 percent of parolees in New York who commit new felonies within three years.
“I’ve got two felonies. I get another one” — he shook his head. “I won’t see daylight for a long time.”
On Monday, the police say, as Officer Timoshenko approached the passenger side of the black BMW on Rogers Avenue, someone inside opened fire and gravely wounded him. Officer Yan, who returned fire, was hit in the arm and the chest by shots from inside the car, but was spared from life-threatening injury by his protective vest.
The police say they believe Mr. Bostic and another man, Robert Ellis, fired from inside the car, and they were looking for both men last night. A third man has been arrested.
By Mr. Ortiz’s calculations, riding in a car after curfew, even for easy money, would not be worth the risk. “I’d rather stay broke, the freedom’s too good,” Mr. Ortiz said.
If Mr. Bostic was involved, Mr. Ortiz said, that meant “he loved prison, man.” And if it is true he shot the officers, Mr. Ortiz said, “now he’s going to die there.”
