Circle of Six (37 page)

“Nick, I need the biggest favor you're ever gonna do...” was how I began my request. “Can you get him on the court docket?”

He asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I explained that it was my last move. And I explained the favor would never come back to bite him in the ass. If need be, I'd say I forged the court document to get Dupree in.

A number of days passed. Then, while I was sitting in Harmon's office with Foster, Cirillo stuck his head in. He said, “Rand, those promotion orders you asked me about, well, they're coming down on March 23, and that's totally confirmed.”

Now all Dupree had to do was show.

I had eleven days to think about the ramifications of collaring him. I agonized over it, but my gut told me to stay on course and bring Dupree to justice.

The morning of the 23rd, I was in one hour before court opened. I kept the impending arrest completely compartmentalized from everyone accept Nick Cirillo, trying to keep as many men insulated as possible. First man I called was Vito. I told him I needed him in Harmon's office before nine and gave him no other information. Then, I called Sam DeMilia. I told him what I planned to do. He was stunned. I asked him for his cooperation to get the word out to the rank and file that they shouldn't appear jubilant and taunting in the public eye, and he understood why. I lay in wait outside the criminal court building. I had a clear view of the elevators and the courtroom. It was exactly 9:10 in the morning when Dupree walked off the elevator and entered the courtroom. I called Cirillo, telling him to bring Vito down with him. They arrived in a matter of seconds. Vito was still unaware of what was happening. When I told him, he was speechless. This was four years in the making. The three of us huddled in a corner. Vito was visibly nervous. Nick Cirillo had ice in his veins. I was as focused as I ever was and ever would be. The barn doors were flung open. This collar was going to happen regardless. The cuffs that I had were Phil Cardillo's cuffs—I'd removed them from Harmon's property locker that morning.

If you saw Dupree walking, you'd have thought he didn't have a care in the world. All of that was about to change. I didn't look back to see if my
partners were following. Dupree was all I saw. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw me approach. He tried to sidestep, moving quickly toward the elevator. I stood in front of him; he had nowhere to go. He was still pretending not to see me, avoiding eye contact. I said, “Look at me.” He did. “Do you know who I am?”

After a moment, he nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Good,” I handed the cuffs to Vito and said, “Go ahead, partner.”

It had to have been a surreal moment for Vito, face-to-face with Phil's killer. I can only imagine the flood of emotions rushing through him. Vito couldn't find the words. I grabbed his shoulder and said, “It's okay.” I took the cuffs back, looked into Dupree's eyes and said, “I'm Detective Jurgensen. Lewis 17X Dupree, you're under arrest,” I jerked my thumb back at Vito, “for the murder of his partner, Patrolman Phillip Cardillo. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Dupree meekly complied. He was six foot four, and well over 240 pounds. The handcuffs just made the connection onto both of his wrists. As we led him toward the elevators, up the stairs came a group of NYPD photographers. They surrounded the four of us, rabidly snapping pictures. Sam DeMilia was nearing the end of his career. He and his men had weathered this storm, championing the case from the very beginning. I assumed photos of the arrest were the next best thing to actually collaring Dupree themselves. Harmon was shocked when I called him to meet me at Dupree's arraignment. With the nervous excitement of a man who wasn't quite sure if he'd just won the lottery, he said, “Thank you, but I hope you know what you've just done, Randy.”

Throughout the day, news reports flooded the city. The Police Department was back, and in true New York fashion, with its great anticlimactic flair, it was business as usual.

Upon learning of Dupree's arrest, the Nation of Islam sent out its
best
attorney, Alton Maddox, whose name might ring some bells among others. He was to become the counsel alongside Al Sharpton in the infamous Tawana Brawley case. Other attorneys retained and financed by the World Community of Islam in the West were Mustafa Muhammad, Robert Reed (former New York ADA), Saad El-Amin, and Counselor Edward Jacko.

After arraignment, Dupree was given a 100,000-dollar bail. But the defense attorneys made a special visit to Judge Andrew Tyler's
home,
and not in the presence of the prosecution, where Tyler reduced Dupree's bail to a measly 15,000-dollars. It was paid for on the spot in cash. Judge Tyler
would later be censured and eventually disbarred for this course of action along with other dealings with
Spanish Raymond
, a recidivist criminal who was in charge of a notorious Harlem gambling operation.

It took a number of weeks, but we were finally given a trial date. Newspaper headlines read:
Indict Muslim in Cop Killing, The case the NYPD swore they'd never forget has been broken, New York's Police Commissioner stayed the course and got his man.
The news bites ran for days. Suddenly, the brass was touting its never-ending quest for justice. As far as the job was concerned, the case was closed. They were out of the picture, looking heroic in carefully placed headlines. They even sent Muldoon to head up the
Son of Sam
case. As for Vito Navarra, he was finally made detective third grade. The bag of shit case now had the NYPD smelling like roses.

Harmon followed many cases all over the world. The one he was particularly intrigued with was the Charles Manson case. The lead prosecutor for the Los Angeles district attorney's office was Vincent Bugliosi. Jim would talk with him into the wee hours of the morning. How was it that he was able to convict Manson for the murders, when he wasn't even at the scene? How did he handle the press, and more important, the jurors? If Jim could glean one piece of strategy from Bugliosi that he might be able to apply to our case, we'd be better off than we were. As it were, the case caught national and international attention. Cops from all over the country, and other countries, including London, Canada, and Ireland were calling to congratulate all of us. One time in particular, two Brooklyn uniformed officers nervously entered Harmon's office, which was always abuzz with activity. One of the cops had a hot cup of coffee in his hand. The other cop was carrying a bag of chocolate covered doughnuts—my favorite. They both approached me cautiously, handing me the goods. One of the cops said, “Detective Jurgensen, we're Hernandez and Morrow. We flew in from Brooklyn. You probably don't remember us. We were the cops who helped you distribute those forty-nines a couple of years ago throughout the borough.”

The other cop, Morrow, smiling ear to ear, said, “We heard through the grapevine you liked your coffee with chocolate covered doughnuts. We wanted to show you our appreciation. We figured this is a good way of doing it.”

The other cop moved in close; he stuck out his hand. He said, “Thanks, Detective Jurgensen. Thanks for giving us the job back. It feels good to wear the uniform again.”

I sheepishly shook his hand. What could I say? Cirillo was at the door,
watching the encounter. He broke the tension. “You know, I drink coffee too for Christ's sake. What about me?”

“Well, we brought it for this legend over here, but anyone who works out of this office deserves whatever he asks for. We'll be right back.”

The cops, so happy to be a part of anything involving this case, even to go on a coffee run, took off almost running to the elevator to retrieve more coffee and doughnuts for men they'd never met. Maybe we had accomplished what none of us had set out to do originally, and that was to give the job back to the men. If I had been a part of that, then everything that I'd been through up to that point was worth it.

After the arrest, before the trial started, there had been a number of dinners and testimonials for all of the men involved in the case. Neither Harmon nor I went to any of them. We were still on the clock. Anything we said at one of these rackets could be picked up by a news organization, misprinted, and then used against us at the trial. But when Joy Cardillo called both Harmon and me, inviting us to a dinner at a hall in Astoria, Queens, we accepted. It was more a rally, than a sit down. As each man was called up to the dais, his name would be chanted along with Phil's. Harmon, even though he wore his emotions on his sleeve, was very reserved and humble when it came time to talk about himself. Not that it mattered, because the hundreds of men in the hall continuously chanted his name. I felt a shiver run up my back as Joy squeezed my hand. She too began to chant Harmon's name over and over. It was hard to hold in my emotions. The job really was given back to the men. Phil Cardillo saw to that.

Ground rules were set up before we even entered the courtroom. No cops were allowed to watch the proceedings, including plainclothesmen or uniforms. The only uniform presence was the two to three uniformed escorts of the Cardillo family. The Muslims were allowed in the court proceedings, as many as they wished. To the public, they were coming in ready for war, militant and yes, militarized if need be. We were there for one reason, to present the case, not to go to war, nor to show our massive strength. But a wartime analogy did stick with me. When you, as a unit on the field of battle, are forced to retreat, the unit loses colors. The NYPD lost its colors on April 14, 1972. The only way to retrieve those colors was to go back into the field of battle and win them back—we had to win back the colors for the NYPD.

When paratroopers are jumping into hostile territory, there's an old mantra that they say before leaving the plane. They look at their partners and say, “
All the way.
” Once you jump, there's no turning back, no halfway, or part of the way. You're going all the way, and you're landing and coming out of it victorious. Every morning before we walked out of Jim's office, we'd look at one another, nod our heads and say, “All the way.” Then we'd head into the battle of our careers.

Almost immediately, we started getting death threats, bomb scares, and threats of dismemberment. Like everything else, we took it in stride, making the proper phone calls to the security division, now in charge of the witnesses, the property of the case, the jurors, and the interior and exterior of the court house. This time, we received only the best detectives that New York City bred—we were all going to be very safe. The first morning of the case, as Jim and I were trading notes, ideas, and strategies, Lieutenant Francis walked into the office. He shut the door behind him. “I am sorry.
After this trial, you are going to go directly into trial number two, which will be
your
trial, Jurgensen. Again, I am sorry.”

Inspector Haugh was at his desk. He dropped his glasses onto the table. Without saying a word he stood and moved slowly to the IAD man. Harmon did the same. They stood inches from Francis, Haugh to his left, Harmon to his right. After a few seconds, Harmon pointed in his face, “If anyone, and I mean anyone, from your office, or the office of the Department of Sanitation, or the office of the New York City Pest Control, steps foot into this office ever again without a subpoena, they will be locked up for what will be a very unpleasant end to their career. Do you understand me?”

Francis nodded, “Understood, but just let your client know that his prosecutor will be Sergeant William Smith, now Commissioner William Smith.” He leaned over Harmon's shoulder and said to me, “I am sorry.”

We all knew who William Smith was. He was the once cop, and present cop-hating prosecutor who tried, and beat, Detective Eddie Egan in court. First Smith had him fired, then after Egan sued for reinstatement, he busted Egan all the way down to uniform patrolman in the 7-9 Precinct in Brooklyn's notorious Bedford Stuyvesant neighborhood. That precinct's little motto, which remains to this day is, “To live and to die, in Bed Stuy,” meaning: Once you're there, you ain't getting out till the almighty pulls you out and either up, or in most of the 7-9 cops' cases, down. Poor Eddie Egan, of
French Connection
fame, hundreds if not thousands of drug arrests, one of the smartest street cops to ever carry the shield. A little footnote and to add some irony to all of this: the only cop who testified at his departmental kangaroo court trial? Detective Randy Jurgensen. I had nothing to hide, and only glowing things to say about a man who certainly policed in his own unique way, but was a man who gave his life to the job and received nothing in return. I saw how the men treated Eddie
Popeye Doyle
Egan then. I didn't expect any different. I'd be pleasantly surprised at the very least.

I was now a witness, and I completely and wholeheartedly deferred this case to the captain of the ship, Jim Harmon. We knew we had a shitty case, at the very best, and there was no hiding the fact that the bosses of the NYPD fucked the case from day one. What we weren't going to do was deny it, not one word of it, and the defense certainly wasn't expecting that. What we said was simple, the Muslims of the Nation of Islam are not on trial here; one man who belongs to the Nation of Islam is on trial, Lewis 17X Dupree. The rest of the Muslims did nothing other than stand up for their brother. They stuck together and they denied that he had anything to
do with it. It was our job to disprove that. It was the NYPD that disallowed us to collar that man within the first forty-eight hours of the case—we were going, “all the way.”

The trial, as expected, was nothing less than a circus. The Muslims, dressed impeccably, entered the courtroom as if they were marching to cadence. They all stood in formation at their benches, and only when Captain Josephs sat, the rest of the contingency sat in perfect unison. It was quite the impressive spectacle to observe. Poor Joy Cardillo, with her in-laws in tow, had to walk past these militant stone-faced supporters of the defense. Every morning as I entered the courtroom I immediately moved to Joy and her in-laws, greeting them warmly. Then I stood, smiled at the defense table, not missing the morning ritual of glaring at the by now terrified Dupree. Then I'd stroll over to Muhammad Ali, who was there now and then with his three-year-old daughter, Myra. I'd shake his hand, then try and make my way to the Reverend Jesse Jackson, but he was too insulated with his own contingency of bodyguards, so I was unable to greet him properly. This was done for no other reason than to alleviate the impossible tension in the courtroom. I also didn't want to appear hostile to anyone other than my target, Dupree. And believe me, he got the message. From the first day, I placed my eyes on him at the courthouse, it got back to me that he told one of the other Muslims, “That detective had pure evil and murder in his eyes.” Watching him fidget at the defense desk every morning upon my arrival was as close to foreplay as I was ever going to get. I was thrilled with the fact that he knew he was dirty, and we knew it too. The big question was, did the jury see it in his eyes, and body language? We certainly hoped so.