Circle of Six (28 page)

He continued eating, “No, I didn't shoot the policeman.”

“Well, then, who did? I know you know, and you want to tell me, yes?”

“Lewis shot the policeman.”

I had a name. And Foster had a face to go with the name. “Lewis who?”

“Lewis 17X Dupree; he's the dean of boys.”

“Show me exactly what happened, what you saw.”

He stood with his legs spread apart. He bent down, pantomimed grabbing at something. “He was lifting the cop off the ground, like this, pulling at his gun. Then the gun came free. He pointed it at him—fired once—boom! Then he dropped the gun.”

I held up my hand.

Everyone assumed that the missing gun was Phil's, but Foster revealed it wasn't; it was Padilla's. I was convinced he was telling the truth, and convinced that I had my witness.

A lump developed in my throat. “I need to use the bathroom, Foster. Give me a minute.”

Inside the bathroom, I turned on the faucet, and threw cold water in my face. I started to hyperventilate. I knew it was over. Three years since his death, and we'd finally avenge his murder. I saw Phil's wife, Joy, and their children.
They caught Daddy's murderer
, they'd say, and the littlest ones might say,
does that mean he'll be coming home?
I began to cry. I thought of his Uncle Frank and Aunt Tessie. I saw Bart Gorman and the men of the 2-8, Sam DeMilia, and the rest of the patrol force. They'd finally
be vindicated. Now they could go after the bosses, and then maybe they'd find their peace. Lastly, I saw them, the Muslims and the NYPD hierarchy in their illegal alliance. Our fearless leaders who'd tried their damnedest to place blame on anyone other than themselves, even on Phil. I saw Captain Josephs standing with Ben Ward. I began to laugh, saw Louis Farrakhan and Charles Rangel; I heard those words Albert Seedman uttered,
this case will never be solved.
I laughed harder. Laughing and crying, I was caught in a whirlwind of emotions.

Joe tapped on the bathroom door, “Rand, you all right?”

I straightened up, took a deep breath, “Yeah, Joe, I'll be out in a minute.”

I was going home, leaving the job in one piece. We were going to indict Dupree—we'd all breathe a little easier—that's what I thought as I walked out.

I smiled at Foster, “You did good, and I believe you've been truthful. Now I need you to continue being as truthful. We're going to talk with another man, maybe two, quite possibly three more men, and I need you to be as honest with them as you have been with me. Can you do that, Foster?”

“Yes, Sir, I will be as honest as I have been. I have nothing to hide or be shameful for.”

“No you don't, Foster, you really don't.”

I needed to make some calls. First, I needed to get Foster's statement on record with Van Lindt. It was 9 p.m. I knew he was long gone, so I'd have to call the cop who worked the security desk at the DA's office. I told the cop who I was, and to have Van Lindt—no one else—meet me back in the office immediately. I said I'd call back in ten minutes for verification. This was a mistake on my part. My name had become synonymous with this case. Every cop knew what my sole purpose was, finding the Cardillo murderer. And soon, everyone on the job would think I was coming in with a Muslim who was probably the shooter.

Then I called Lynn. I apologized to her father, and I told her I'd be home very late. As usual, she understood and hung up without further questions.

I called Vito at home. I told him. There was dead air on the line. Time passed. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank God, Randy. Now maybe he can rest in peace; now maybe everybody can.”

In the excitement, I forgot it was a Friday evening. I said, “Vito, when you go in tomorrow morning, tell Muldoon we got an eyewitness who will be giving a statement to the grand jury. Tell him I'll call him later in the day.”

I hung up and called the cop at the DA's office, who verified that Van
Lindt was on his way in.

I asked Foster if he needed to make any calls before we headed back downtown. He said he'd already made a call. Another wash of anxiety,
did he call the mosque? Did they know of his arrest, and would they be waiting at the Tombs for him?
He said he'd only called his girlfriend, and that she would tell his mother. He had told me Loretta was also a practicing Muslim. It wasn't impossible to think she might've called the Muslims as well. Needless to say, the ride downtown had a nail-biting edginess to it. I didn't want to scare him, but I knew if the Nation of Islam found out, they'd stop at nothing to keep him from talking.

The uniform sitting at the ADA's security desk gave Foster a once-over. I didn't think much of it.

Van Lindt was waiting in his office, alone. This was a first for me, seeing Van Lindt dressed in something other than a Saville Row suit. He was now the dressed-down Ivy Leaguer: polo shirt, jeans, and penny loafers. This would give a sense of casualness to the questioning. Van Lindt started the way I had, creating a personal bond. He needed to understand Foster's reasoning for being there and what his motives could be.

There was a tap at the door, a male stenographer entered with a steno machine. I looked at Van Lindt, who motioned for me to leave the room. He didn't want Foster to feel he had to duplicate answers that he might have already given to me.

I placed my hand on Foster's shoulder, “Just tell it exactly the way you told it to me. You have nothing to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.”

I sat in the hallway for what seemed like forever. I knew Van Lindt's questions were going to be thorough, in-depth, and repetitive. I was wiped-the-fuck-out, but too wired to nap. After two hours of pacing, the door finally swung open. The stenographer hurried toward the elevator, and Van Lindt and Foster stepped into the hallway. Van Lindt smiled. He too believed in Foster.

Van Lindt said to Foster, “Sit down for a few minutes. I want to speak with Detective Jurgensen.”

I followed Van Lindt back into the office. He closed the door for privacy. He wasn't smiling anymore. “What, John, what? We got him, no?”

“It's Friday night. Grand jury doesn't open till Monday, which means you have to keep him alive for two more days.”

He was right. I knew what I had to do, and that was to sequester our prized witness in a locked box deep underground.

He opened his wallet, fishing out all his cash, forty dollars. He handed it to me and said, “Run.”

I took the cash from him, trying to think of a safe house. “I guess I'll take him to—”

He held up his hands. “I don't want to know where you're going. As a matter of fact, no one should know where you are till Monday morning.” He led me out of the office, “Just keep in touch, Randy.”

As we walked off the elevator into the lobby, there were two cops at the security desk. The one who signed us in nodded to the other one. He didn't look at me, just stared daggers at Foster, “That him, Jurgensen? He the one?”

I moved closer to Foster. “No guys, nothing to do with that. This is an old case, ancient history.”

They didn't buy it. Foster was scared and rightfully so. I moved quickly into the street. The harsh yellow streetlights cast ominous shadows down the narrow backstreet. My head was jerking back and forth.
Who's out here
? Vigilante cops, murderous Muslims, or uniforms from One PP? I felt my breathing quicken, felt the sweat collect just below my collar. I held onto his elbow and moved him quickly to the car. I locked the door, double-checking it. I removed my Windbreaker and my shotgun from the trunk. His eyes were wide with fear as I laid the gun on the backseat, “Don't worry, we're gonna be okay. We're going someplace safe till Monday.” I don't know how that made him feel, but it wasn't up for debate. I had to keep him alive till Monday. Once he testified in the grand jury, he'd become property of the DA's squad.

I found a no-tell motel in a small town called Ardsley, New York. It was far enough from the thruway to be discreet for its
short-stay
clientele. It was a two-story, eight-over-eight walk up where a low overhang shielded the naughty and horny from inclement weather and prying eyes. No one was going to be too curious around there, because no one wanted to be seen there. I parked the car in the darkest part of the lot. “I'm not gonna bullshit you. Your people find out where you are, they're gonna come looking for you. No one can know where we are this weekend. Do you understand?”

He nodded, looking scared to death.

I called Jimmy Aurichio from a pay phone. He was half asleep but cleared right up when he heard my jittery voice. I explained the situation. I needed money and toiletries by the morning. I gave him the address. He knew not to get tailed.

I secured a room furthest from the exterior staircase. I'd hear anyone walking up and I'd be able to see through the peephole. The place wasn't built for comfort; one double bed sat slightly off-center. A folded up towel was jammed between the headboard and the wall. The gaudy light fixture sent ugly arrows of green and red light across the stucco walls. It looked like a Harlem gin mill way after hours. A small dresser pocked with cigarette burns sat across from the bed, and a bathroom was off somewhere to the left. I took a deep breath. It smelled like a mix of nicotine, alcohol, and after-sex.
This is going to be one very long and fucked-up weekend,
I thought.

“You take the bed.” I said, pulling the shotgun from my hip.

He moved to the other end of the room, never taking his eyes off the rifle. He pressed his back to the wall and slid down into a sitting position on the nasty carpet, “I'm going to sit over here, if you don't mind.”

I grabbed the only other piece of furniture, a rickety desk chair. I
pulled it next to the door facing Foster. I cradled the shotgun in my lap. No one was getting in; no one was getting out. He asked, “Are you going to kill me now?”

It was the kind of question that sucks the air of the room.
Is he scared enough to bolt from the room? Does he think he has to hurt me? Did he somehow get a message to Loretta, and did she call the Muslims? Am I going to die in this dirty no-tell motel?
“Why would I bring you forty miles north of the city to a motel just to kill you? I'm not gonna kill you.”

“Then why are you carrying the shotgun?”

“I don't want you to kill me, and I don't want your friends to kill us.”

“I'm a man of God, Detective Jurgensen. I would never kill another man. But the police at the district attorney's office, they know who I am. They asked you if I was the one. They want you to kill me.”

“They don't know who you are. They think you're someone different, believe me. As long as we're together, no one is going to hurt you.”

He seemed a little more at ease, but I didn't trust the fact that he might have a change of heart and get the sudden urge to run. And he probably thought he had become obsolete after giving his testimony, and that I'd kill him once he fell asleep.

No TV, no radio, it was just the two of us, kept awake by paranoia. Every hour or so, a new couple would rent the neighboring rooms. So for the next seven hours, we sat up in the dirty motel room, staring at each other, listening to the pounding, moaning, gasping, and slapping through the walls.

At first light, Foster washed his hands and face, then knelt facing the east side of the room and prayed. We'd both been up for twenty-four hours, but he found the time and energy. I found that endearing.

Inside the car, I pulled out a set of handcuffs, dangling them in front of Foster. “Do you believe I'm not going to hurt you?”

“Yes, Sir, I believe you.”

“I don't need to put these on you then, right?”

“No, Sir, you don't need restraints.”

“Good, and call me Randy.”

At 7:30, Jimmy's car rolled up next to mine. I opened the window, blinking slowly at my old partner. He started to laugh. “You guys must've had some friggin' party.”

Inside the gnarly room, I showered first. Jimmy knew if Foster was going to trust me for the duration, he'd have to trust my partners. Jimmy helped by being the easygoing guy that he was, just hanging out with
Foster and joking around with him.

While Foster showered, Jimmy and I sat on the balcony, sure to leave the room door open in a naive attempt to fumigate the stench. He had called the 2-5 before driving up to meet me. He said it was all over the police radios that I caught the shooter. Those two knucklehead uniforms from the DA's office must have played the telephone game through the night. By the time patrol heard it, I'd caught, arrested, and then after a drive-through visit to night court, had the man convicted and sentenced to life without parole. It wouldn't be long before the press grabbed hold of this misinformation, and Muldoon would be called by One PP. And of course, Muldoon would come looking for my head.

Jimmy stayed with Foster while I tried to stem the bleeding. Sam DeMilia was the first one I called. He was overjoyed to hear from me. He thought I'd collared the shooter, but after a quick explanation he came back down to earth. I explained that he had to get the message out to patrol, there was a break in the case, but no one was collared.

I called Van Lindt at his office. He was preparing the summation for the grand jury. “Randy, we got real problems. This is not a secret anymore.”

“I know, John. I was seen walking out of the building with a Muslim. Wasn't that hard to figure out.”

“Well the city, your job in particular, has been lit up. So far I've gotten ten calls from Police Plaza wanting to be briefed on the case. The newspapers haven't stopped calling, which means they called headquarters. It's fitting that it's morning.”

“How's that, John?”

“Well, the police department has egg on its face, Randy, lots of egg.”

I liked the fact that Van Lindt found this amusing. I knew Muldoon was being raked over the coals. “Randy, are you far, safe, and deep?”

“I'm, far, safe,” I took a look at the Bates Motel, “and dirty.”

“Well, stay that way. I'm trying to secure us a spot Monday morning, grand jury. I'll be here all weekend. Just keep in touch.”

I knew the call to Muldoon had to be made, but then I thought of the living hell he'd put me through for the past two years. I decided he could stew in his own shit a little while longer. I called Vito at the 2-5. I worried he wasn't in. It was a Saturday, his day off. He picked up on the first ring. “Vito, I'm sorry I made you come in today, I forgot...”