Circle of Six (10 page)

Farrakhan jumped at the chance for a meeting with the head of the NYPD. This was going to give him great credibility within the Muslim community and on the streets of Harlem. It also raised up another blinking neon sign to the public at large: If you scream loud enough, you can get away with
anything.

The meeting was attended by Farrakhan's inner circle, which included his ever recalcitrant FOI men. In reality, one of those men sitting across from Murphy and Chief of the Department Codd, could have been the man who shot a policeman. According to Murphy's later writings, Farrakhan was a man of, “clear conviction, speaking in tones of deep resonance, whose larger style was not entirely confrontational.”

What in the fuck was Murphy thinking?
Wasn't this the same man who harbored criminals wanted in connection with the beatings of the officers who Murphy allegedly commanded? Wasn't Farrakhan the same individual whose followers were in possession of a stolen police revolver? Did Murphy think that the rank and file wouldn't find out about this meeting, and see it as the ultimate betrayal? Farrakhan and Murphy sat side by side. As Farrakhan made his demands to switch all white police personnel in Harlem to black members of the service, Murphy was further awed by Farrakhan's delivery, and how he spoke so powerfully and directly to the point. Murphy later
recalled that Farrakhan seemed like a “cool-tempered poker player with a large pot in front of him.”

Sitting across from these two was none other than Chief of the Department Michael Codd. Being a career cop, you might think this meeting might have offended him, given the fact that he was directly in charge of the injured cops. But as he later recalled, he found Farrakhan to be “a charismatic man, urbane, and intelligent.”

Had these men stopped looking themselves in the mirror? What happened? Weren't they cops? They had the meeting without so much as a nod to the injured cops. They had not only emasculated themselves in the eyes of the rank and file, but also lopped off the balls of every cop on patrol, rendering them incapable of commanding the very streets they were paid to protect. And all this, in full view of the salivating public who distrusted cops in the first place.

So Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, once a street cop who rose through the uniformed ranks of the NYPD to captain of police, looked straight into Farrakhan's eyes, and apologized for
police blunder.
He stated he was “aware of a standing order or a secret agreement or pact that prohibited cops from entering a mosque with firearms, and that the cops arriving on the scene on that particular day were maleficent in their duties and had violated this pact.” He further admitted that he knew the cops had “broken this promise and that his people were entitled to just that admission and this heartfelt apology” from the police commissioner himself.

Message to Murphy: If you want cops to adhere to some “secret pact,” then you can't keep it
secret
from the cops. Not one police commander who has ever worked in any precinct that housed mosques could ever recall reading any interim orders stating any such pact existed. If there was such a pact, no one knew of its existence. Shame on Murphy, and shame on Codd.

The couple's counseling meeting had done more damage to the NYPD than a thousand riots. Murphy and the rest in the circle of six were going to find out that no one was going to forget what happened on April 14, 1972. Patrol would see to that.

Five days had passed and still no word of an investigation. MNTF was still at the ready at the 2-4 Precinct. The bosses were no longer in fear of a potential riot. They were now in fear of their own—the men of Zone-6. They had heard about the potential slowdown by patrol, and we had heard about the meeting between Murphy and Farrakhan.

That same day doctors removed my catheter. I was wobbly on my feet. My vision was impaired, and my head still felt as though it was in a vice. What was really bothering me was the fact that I was so damn helpless, lying in that bed. I was receiving visits day and night by cops and detectives and every morning by Joy Cardillo. I got credible firsthand information on the case—the case that never was—and how the Zone-6 cops were handling the public slap in the face. Most of my information came from the 2-8 PBA delegate, Bart Gorman. Bart was an old friend. He was a good cop and an especially good confidante to the younger guys in the precinct.

PBA delegates are a breed of their own. Every precinct has two, sometimes three, depending on the size of the house. The primary function of these elected delegates was to field grievances made by their peers and to voice those grievances at monthly meetings with other union delegates. These grievances varied in degree and severity, ranging from the poor parking conditions, to cops having been unfairly relieved of their duties. If a cop is accused of any wrongdoing on or off the job or in cop-speak—if he or she
gets jammed up
—it is up to the PBA delegate to get to them before they're able to make any detrimental or incriminating statements in a court of law, or worse, the department's trial room—or in cop-speak,
kangaroo court
.

Most of the precinct delegates were veteran foot soldiers whose aspirations ran anywhere from helping out their fellow cops to heading the powerful police union. Bart Gorman was a nice mix of both. He was smart, had balls,
and above all else, he was a street cop who had had more than his share of run-ins with precinct commanders on our behalf. On this incident, he was siding with the 2-8 Precinct commander, John Haugh. On separate visits to the hospital, both men said how twisted they'd become over what they both called a
betrayal and scumbagging of the worst kind
.

The 2-8 commander, John Haugh, had become something of a father figure to his men, even though at 43 he was one of the youngest inspectors on the job. Haugh, a lawyer, was considered one of the rising stars of the NYPD. However deep his loyalties were toward the job and his very bright future,
his children
—the cops of the 2-8—took precedence. Haugh was a twenty-year veteran who had a reputation of being stand-up. He never talked down to his troops, and he led by experience. Haugh was the type of leader who wouldn't ask anything that he himself wouldn't do. He treated every one of his subordinates with respect, from the stationhouse broom to his executive officer. On occasion I had the pleasure of watching him at roll call. Most precinct commanders used that time to enforce their leadership over the men. Haugh didn't have to do that. He used those, as he called them
valuable moments,
when the troops were assembled as a whole, to bond with his cops. The boys of the 2-8 were battle weary, weren't easily
gamed,
but they liked, admired, and above all else, trusted John Haugh.

Haugh knew he was on the fast track to the mahogany paneled, blue-carpeted office of the police commissioner itself. He was the NYPD's new breed of cops, smart and built to last. But at my bedside his luster had faded, even his gait was slower, his posture less erect. When he spoke he had to stop to avoid breaking down.

“On the roof, Randy...this Mitchelson, he wants to give you back some shotgun?” He was busying himself with his eyeglasses, cleaning the lenses. He was avoiding the question, “Was the gun legit, Randy?”

He still hadn't looked at me because the last thing he wanted to do was question anyone's legitimacy on the day of the occurrence. I had already read in the newspaper that Phil's recovered gun was loaded with hollow-point bullets, which at the time were outlawed by the NYPD. Why that piece of information was newsworthy, and how the press received it was beyond me. But the brass was now trying to distance itself from the real facts of a politically charged case,
a cop was shot and three others beaten at a militant mosque
. I understood how this must've caused Haugh great shame, because the hierarchy was going to start looking for someone to take the blame.

Mayor Lindsay wanted to pretend that these acts of violence never
occurred. Well, he had the right set of supervisors to make it all go away. They weren't cops; they were administrative support, politicos hiding behind their desks high above the city, so quick to judge without actually having walked in a real cop's shoes.

I placed my hand on Haugh's sagging shoulder, “John, it was police-issued. I'd never put you in a position like that, never, John.”

He lifted his head and smiled. “I know Randy, I know.” He stood and placed his blue eight-point hat on his head. Through it all, he still seemed proud to wear that uniform. Through all his successes, he was still a street cop. That was why he was connected to his men. However high his rank, he still served the men under him, protected and put his back against the wall for them. Well, now he was at the wall, and there was nothing that he could do to protect us.

He turned to walk out, then he looked back at me sadly, “I'm still at the 2-8, Randy. Anything you need, just pick up the phone, Kid. Stay well, and see ya soon.” He turned and walked out.

I was confused—
still at the 2-8
? Did he think he was going to take the fall?

A while later, I awoke and found my father sitting at the base of my bed. This wasn't going to be good news. I lifted myself up and asked, “What, Dad? What happened?”

“It's Phil, Randy. The doctors can't do anything for him. His spleen, gallbladder, and part of his liver have all been removed...It's just a matter of time, Son.”

The hospital that had never lost a cop. Well, they couldn't say that anymore. I felt my throat seize up. I knew Phil. And I liked Phil. I knew his Uncle Frank and Aunt Tessie, who were florists in the area and who also lived in the confines of the 2-5 Precinct. I'd met his first love and wife, Joy, at rackets thrown by the cops of the 2-8. I knew they had just had their third baby and named him Todd. Phil was a good man, husband, and father, and now his children were going to be devoid of all of that. I felt some of the loss that they were going to feel for the rest of their lives. I felt the tears in my eyes welling into pools.

I didn't want my father to see me in any more pain. I swung my feet off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I ran the faucets, splashed water on my face, and then I cried. I don't know for how long, but when I came out, my dad was gone.

I couldn't stay in the hospital any longer. I was off all antibiotics and was
able to relieve myself without the help of any tubes or bags. I'm not proud to admit this even after thirty-five years, but I also couldn't bare to witness the sight of Joy when she found out Phil wouldn't be coming home. He had fallen victim to a senseless murder that he himself was being demonized for. I stuffed my clothes in a brown paper bag and called Jimmy Aurichio to meet me at the service entrance. Then I called the young uniform who was guarding my door. I explained the situation to him cop to cop. I wasn't doing any good in that room. If the hospital administrators and the job had it their way, I'd be confined to that bed for at least a month. He understood my position, signed himself out for a meal break, and when he returned, I was gone.

Before I left, I made my way down the hall. It wasn't hard to find Phil's bed—two uniforms at the base, two more at the nurse's station, keeping a watchful eye. No one was getting near that bed unless it was an immediate family member known to those cops.

I wasn't looking at the cops as I walked to Phil. He had a tangle of tubes running from his lower extremities up and across his body, intravenous bags, a heart monitor that beeped continuously, an inhalator taped to the side of his face, leading down his throat. I don't know how long I stood under those ugly fluorescents, in the middle of the ICU surrounded by death, where multitudes of heart monitors and inhalators were pulsing, bleeping, and wheezing in non-rhythmic uncertain beats. I was a homicide detective for the better part of my adult life. I had seen death daily, and on more than one occasion faced it head on. I had made peace with God. I also understood that I was in a business where people were going to die. And through it all, I was able to compartmentalize every emotion. But shelving the emotions wasn't working here. I was a shocked civilian bystander, pressed up against yellow police tape, not wanting to watch. I wanted to move to him and apologize for the injustice. I wanted to tell him that he was on his way to a much better place. And I wanted to say that there would be some redemption, that the job wasn't going to allow for this to go without punishment. But I couldn't move any further. I was stuck halfway in the hall, halfway to his bed. The one thought I was sure about: I wasn't going to forget Phil Cardillo.

I looked at the four cops now standing at attention at the base of Phil's bed. They must've recognized who I was and were giving me the chance to say good-bye. I wiped the tears from my eyes, turned, and disappeared down the stairway.

That afternoon, One Police Plaza received a call from the hospital administrator:
Phil Cardillo is in grave condition and probably won't last another twenty-four hours.
The NYPD chaplain was immediately dispatched. Phil was given his last rights in the presence of his wife, mother, and father. His immediate family members sat vigil at his bedside for the duration. The next evening, as predicted, Phil Cardillo succumbed to his wounds.

At that very moment from his home in Staten Island, Police Commissioner Murphy called in a statement to the press:

“While all the facts concerning the shooting have yet to be determined by our investigation, it is clear that this officer responded to a call for assistance, which was later found to be an anonymous and unfounded call. Shortly after entering the location, the officers encountered resistance, and a struggle ensued. While there is considerable discussion concerning the struggle itself, the fact remains that the officer, responding in uniform and in the performance of his duty, sustained a gunshot wound resulting in death.”

Before Murphy disconnected the call, he stated that he didn't feel well and would not be making it to the hospital. That same evening Mayor Lindsay received news of Phil's death. He, too, had other pressing plans. I went home and slept for the better part of two days. That Monday was Phil Cardillo's funeral.