By Michael Hannon, Retired White Plains Police Officer
New York General Municipal Law § 207-c was enacted to protect police officers and firefighters who are injured or become ill in the line of duty. It provides full salary continuation, medical coverage, and, where appropriate, light-duty assignments when an officer can no longer perform full police functions due to a service-related condition. The purpose of the law is straightforward. The outcomes we are seeing are not.
Among police officers, there is a term everyone understands: “three-quarters.” It refers to tax-free disability pensions awarded to officers who are injured in the performance of duty and can no longer return to work. Officers awarded accidental disability typically receive approximately 75 percent of their final average salary. Everyone in law enforcement knows the system exists. What many do not understand is how unevenly it is applied.
I learned that the hard way.
I am a retired White Plains Police Officer who was seriously injured in the line of duty. I expected my department, City Hall, and my union to do what the law requires. Instead, I encountered delay, obstruction, and silence. The PBA failed to guide or assist me with my disability retirement paperwork. City Hall avoided responsibility. I ultimately paid more than thirty-seven thousand dollars in legal fees and waited nearly ten years before standing before the State Supreme Court in Albany to receive justice.
That experience forced me to pay attention—not just to my own case, but to a pattern I have watched unfold across Westchester County.
Over the years, I observed white officers return to whole duty, work overtime to increase retirement calculations, and then go back out as “injured” to receive §207-c benefits—without resistance from leadership. I witnessed officers with pre-existing injuries receive “three-quarters” based on sympathy or internal support. These cases moved smoothly, quietly, and efficiently.
Black officers did not receive the same treatment.
They were questioned, delayed, accused of malingering, or forced to navigate procedural hurdles. What makes this pattern especially troubling is that it is now clearly visible in Mount Vernon, a city long regarded as a Black-led police department, with historically high numbers of Black officers, Black supervisors, Black commissioners, and Black mayors. Many Black officers believed Mount Vernon would be different.
I watched Detective Montika Jones face what many within law enforcement viewed as political retaliation. Her §207-c case was initially approved, and she received the medical operations she needed under that approval. But after her husband spoke out publicly against the administration, everything changed.
Her previously approved §207-c claim—accepted under the prior administration—was suddenly recharacterized as fraudulent. The city then sought her termination and dragged the matter out for nearly a year. The same law that was meant to protect her was instead weaponized and used as leverage against her.
I watched the department turn its back on Sergeant Bowvell, who turned over 28 hours of recorded tapes documenting officers witnessing white officers violate the rights of Black residents. Those tapes should have triggered investigations, accountability, and discipline. Instead, no one was charged, no one was fired, and no meaningful action was taken. The message was unmistakable: exposing misconduct would not be protected.
And now I am watching what is happening to Officer Derek Williams.
Officer Williams is a 19-year veteran who contracted COVID-19 on the job in 2020. His condition later progressed into end-stage kidney failure requiring daily dialysis. Despite being medically cleared for desk duty and being just six months away from qualifying for a reduced pension, he was left unprotected.
Under §207-c, there is a clear legal pathway for officers whose illness is incurred while performing duty. While COVID-related long-term complications do not carry an automatic presumption, the law allows for claims to be evaluated through formal application and medical evidence.
In Officer Williams’ case, that process was never initiated.
No §207-c application. No light-duty request. No disability retirement paperwork. No workers’ compensation claim. No formal accommodation request. The city repeatedly cited the absence of filings to classify his illness as non-job-related and initiate termination proceedings.
Across these cases—Jones, Bowvell, and Williams—the same law firm appears advising the PBA while Black officers are delayed, denied, or pushed toward separation. I am not alleging conspiracy. I am pointing to outcomes that are known, reported, and even in prior lawsuits. When the same actors appear, and the results are consistently the same, reasonable people are entitled to ask questions.
From a Black law enforcement perspective, the pattern is impossible to ignore. White officers are protected. Black officers are scrutinized, delayed, and shunned—even in a Black-led city government. Representation at the top has not translated into protection on the ground.
This is not an indictment of §207-c itself, nor a blanket accusation against the Mount Vernon city government or the PBA. The law functions as intended when it is applied honestly and without bias. The concern is how selective enforcement, inaction, and procedural delay can be weaponized against certain officers.
If this can happen in Mount Vernon, a city long seen as a symbol of Black leadership in policing, what hope is there for Black officers across Westchester County—or across New York State?
On Wednesday, January 28, I stand in solidarity with Officer Derek Williams at Mount Vernon City Hall. Favoritism, retaliation, and neglect must end.
Justice should not depend on politics, personalities, or public pressure. I know what it means to wait a decade for justice.
Officer Williams should not have to.
