Circle of Six (40 page)

I passed the prosecution's table, our entire crime scene lay on it, Phil's uniform. I looked at the bullet holes and the brown stain that was once his blood. As I left the courtroom, I said quietly, “Sorry, Phil. I'm so damn sorry.”

In Harmon's office, we had the somber task of boxing up the case. That uniform was one of the pieces of evidence that had to be tagged and
sealed. It hurt to place finality on the case this way, with such a devastating loss. The phone rang. Harmon picked it up, mumbled a couple of aha's and yeah's, then hung up. After a second in thought, he said, “Rand, that was notification. Your trial is set for one week from today, 9 a.m.,
General Order 15
in effect.”

I called Sam DeMilia, relayed the not guilty verdict to him, along with my impending trial date. DeMilia said, “Don't you worry about nothing, Randy. This is far from over. It's just the beginning.”

I wasn't looking forward to this third trial, the one that had absolutely nothing to do with a homicide. This trial was payback; it was going to be the job's way of flexing its own muscles. I was going to be made an example of. But I wasn't going down without one last fight.

Jack Haugh's response was basically the same as DeMilia's, “We are going to burn that building and each one of those cowards down to the ground, and we're not going to lose, Randy!”

Every gun in his and the PBA's arsenal were amassed and were now pointing at One PP. I was a representation, or should I say, misrepresentation, of Phil Cardillo. The job turned its back on him; the rank and file were going to see to it that it would not happen again. I knew I was going to be used as the poster boy for everything that was once right with the job, and everything that had suddenly gone wrong. There was nothing pretty about Harlem at four in the morning, and this trial was going to get early-morning-ghetto ugly.

That evening I went to dinner with Foster and Loretta. We talked about everything, the past four years, how our lives had changed and evolved, some for the better and some for the worse. We discussed the Witness Protection Program, which they'd be placed into the next morning. We talked about our children. Once upon a time, nothing would have made me happier or more proud than to have them become New York City cops. Now, there was no job or career that I'd dissuade them from more than that of the NYPD.

It was 4:30 in the morning when I finally got home. On my night table a note in Lynn's handwriting read:
Meet Tom tomorrow, nine sharp, you know where.
Of course I knew where, third floor shitter, One PP. I assumed he was going to give me some last-minute advice as to what to say, how to act, and what to prepare for. He was probably going to soften the blow. Truth was, I knew what I was walking into a firestorm. All I wanted was a chance to clear my name. That may have been asking for too much. They had me,
and there wasn't a damn thing I, or all the Jim Harmons, Jack Haughs, and Sam DeMilias in the world could do about it.

I didn't sleep. At 9 a.m. I entered the bathroom and Tom was waiting for
me
. That was a first. He smiled and hugged me. “The people that count in this building are proud of you, Randy, and there are a lot of us left.”

I was completely out of gas. “This is going to do nobody any good, this trial. You know this, yes?”

“I'm not taking myself to trial, Tom. I'd gladly walk away from all of this if I could.”

“There's a deal on the table. They'll drop all the charges, criminal and departmental, but you have to plead nolo contendere to everything, and you have to resign immediately.”

Pleading
nolo contendere
meant that I was pleading no contest to the charges. It was a sort of kangaroo court term that allowed neither them nor me to actually admit anything in court. Both of us, myself and the job, could walk away with our heads up. They get rid of me without losing face. I get to leave the job with my pension benefits and pride intact,
more or less.

I was stunned. I walked past him to the window. There they were, Chinatown, the Tombs, that snaking black ribbon, the Hudson River. I was once a part of all of it, never above it, just a part of it. I was a fixer of sorts, placing the broken pieces of an intricate puzzle back together. Now I was just another piece of that puzzle, jammed back into its place, regardless of fit. If I walked away, everything would go away. They win, we lose, Phil and I lose. It doesn't matter to them, as long as the puzzle seems somewhat in tact, after all is said and done.

Tom had to have known how the irony of all of this had slowly squeezed the life out of me. In a harsh desperate whisper he said, “You get to keep your pension, and believe me, those bastards who allowed this to happen
are going to get their due. This is from someone in this building with a very high pay-grade. What happened to Phil, it's not over yet, Rand.”

I turned, looked into my old friend's eyes for more than a moment. I knew we were nearing the end, inching forward to the closure the department so desperately wanted. As I walked past him, I said, “Thanks for everything, Tom. I mean that. I know you were never behind any of the ugliness. Just give me time. Give me some time to think about it.”

I did think about it, a lot. But I still had the everyday gray business of police work to finish up. Foster and Loretta had to be placed into the Witness Protection Program, and the mountain of case files on the murder had to be boxed. More forty-nines and fives had to be written up to add legal finality and closure to the case. Imagine that, a murdered cop's case was officially closed because his murderer was never fully brought to justice. I drove around lower Manhattan in an endless circle, doing exactly what I told Tom I needed to do, think about it. Everything seemed a blur to me, all of it, the last five years. My head was swimming, faces of the past appearing before me in no discernable order: Bart Gorman, my mother, Foster, Twyman Meyers, Farrakhan, Muldoon, Ward, Harmon, Van Lindt, Josephs, San-San, Lynn, my son Randy, Frank Cardillo, Tessie Cardillo, Vito, my father, Rudy Andre, Victor Padilla, Ivan Negron, Muhammad Ali, the court stenographer, Joe Pistone, Loretta, the Bunch brothers, the faces of Phil Cardillo's young children, Joy Cardillo, and Phil. I jerked the car to the curb on Broadway at some backstreet in the financial wing of the city. I ripped open my collar. Sweat poured down my back. I needed to breathe, needed the air of the city that once gave me such life. I steadied myself on the side of my car; I looked up and saw the massive exterior of the New York Stock Exchange. The sculpture on the façade read:
Integrity Protecting the Works of Man.
I realized I had given it all to protect Phil beyond his life, and now, as a consolation, I was being offered a similar gesture of protection, but from who and why? Was it true integrity? Or was this just another sham to cover over the tarnished shield of the NYPD?

I met Foster and Loretta in Harmon's office. They were happy they were still a part of some kind of truth. I also assume they were happy to finally move on, anywhere but here. The process of placing them into the custody of the federal marshal service was tough to do. After all, they, especially Foster, had been mine for five years. But it was time for all of us to move on. The paper on the transfer was easy enough, but I took my time. I didn't want our partnership to end so sudden and harsh. Once they
were in the program, they'd be erased, never to be seen or heard from again, and that was a hard pill to swallow.

The three of us moved down the spiral staircase in the back of 100 Centre Street. A man was walking up. His hair was long and he walked with a limp. I kept my eyes on him. Just as we passed each other on the stairs, I realized it was Frank Serpico. He smiled and nodded at me in recognition. I smiled back, but had absolutely nothing to say to the man.

The marshals were waiting at the bottom of the steps for us. I officially handed both—formerly named—Foster 2X Thomas and Loretta Harris over to the men. We hugged and I made some wisecrack, looking for a painless exit. “Go easy,” I whispered to Foster, “Go easy and enjoy your lives.” I turned and didn't look back.

I walked briskly out the front of the building, no longer in fear of reprisal, no longer charged with the well-being of my partner, Foster 2X Thomas, though the air didn't smell any sweeter. The next part of my life—the trial—was going to be an all-consuming ball of rage, accusations and firings; the casualties of this war were going to get hit and get hit hard. Quite possibly, I would be one of the wounded.

I turned the corner onto Leonard Street where my car was parked. I felt the hair on my back rise, the way it did when static ozone hung low in the air. Something wasn't right; it was the petite Hispanic woman, walking quickly around a car, something clutched in her hand. As I reached the side entrance of the building, she had made it to the front of the car, moving in my direction. Her eyes were glazed, wild, filled with rage. I saw her hand rise; she was holding a snub-nose .38. Her eyes, thankfully, weren't trained on me. They were fixed just beyond me, a man standing at a hotdog stand. Suddenly, she fired three quick shots, boom-boom-boom! I turned. She'd hit the man in the leg, severing arterial vessels. As he ran away from the madwoman, his blood shot across the sidewalk like a hose. He tried to get away, boom-boom! Two more shots, one hit the man in the buttocks. He went down hard, screaming. The street quickly turned from New York business-as-usual to total pandemonium. Cops from inside the building rushed out to the sounds of the gunfire and screaming. She was almost directly in front of me. This happened so quick, I was in simple survival mode. I grabbed her by the back of her head, trying to bring her down from behind. She was so enraged, filled with venomous adrenalin. She ripped free of my grip, spinning on me, pointing the gun right at my face. I reached out and
grabbed it, but I was too late. She squeezed the trigger. I was waiting for the hot projectile to rip through my forehead, waiting for the cold darkness to finally envelope me, click! No more bullets! The gun was hot as I ripped it from her hand. Suddenly, the rush of cops forced everyone back into the building. Once inside, the woman was apprehended, screaming wildly that her victim was sleeping with her nine-year-old daughter. Her screams tore through the interior lobby, the wails of a madwoman, like something you'd hear late at night in an asylum. She was covered in blood. The cordite hung low in the air. I felt myself shivering, realizing I was scared. This was no longer for me. I was tired of it all. Someone behind me said into my ear, “It never fucking ends, does it?”

I turned. It was Frank Serpico. Again, I chose not to talk to the man. Inside, I was feeling just the opposite. It
had
just ended for me. I handed the first uniformed cop I saw the gun. I didn't want to stay there; it was all over for me. I had the answer to my questions, and the answer for the court.

The first person I called was Lynn. I said, “Honey, it's me. I'm done. I'm quitting the job. To hell with the trial and everything else, it's all over. I wanted you to be the first who heard it from me.”

In her soft calming voice she said, “Come home, Randy. Come home.” I'd later find out that this was the happiest day of her life.

I called Jack Haugh. I knew he wanted to take the NYPD to town, not only for what they'd done to me and Phil, but also to him. My trial was going to be his chance at redemption, and I understood that, but I just didn't have the inner strength or resolve to go through it all over again. After I told him, he said, “I understand, Randy. But we're not through with those bastards yet. Go with God, Son.”

I called up Sam DeMilia, thanking him for everything he had done for me over the years. He too understood, and said the same cryptic message to me, “This is just the beginning, Randy. We've got a blanket party all set for those bastards.” I hung up and went home.

The day had come that I'd been dreading for nineteen years, the moment I'd be saying good-bye to everything that I held so dear—the job.

Jimmy Aurichio drove Lynn and me to the puzzle palace, the porcelain palace, One PP, headquarters. As I entered the building for the very last time as a working cop, I affixed my shield to my blazer, signed in, and we
all made our way to the trial room. The room's gallery was packed with cops, some I knew, and others I'd never met but were there for support: John Van Lindt, who started the case and Jim Harmon, who finished it. Bart Gorman was there, and next to him Sam DeMilia, behind him, dozens of men in suits—the upper echelon of the PBA. I saw Rudy Andre, whose heroics saved the lives of two other cops. Jim Kenney was there, the man who drove Phil to the hospital, giving him five more days of life. Many others were in the room. Detectives who worked the Foster Thomas detail with me were there. Frank and Tessie Cardillo were there, as was Nick Cirillo, the rock. I watched as Lynn and Jimmy sat next to Nick in the front row. Over in the corner, wearing sunglasses, sat Joe—now
Donnie Brasco
—Pistone. Everyone in the room had to have known how much the job meant to me, but there was an air of celebration in the room. Maybe these men were celebrating the camaraderie that had formed because of all this?

I moved to the table to my right. This was the prosecution's table. I'd been in court so many times as a witness for the prosecution, that I hadn't realized I was a defendant now, and at the wrong table. I noticed everyone in the courtroom nervously shuffling, looking away, not wanting to be the one to tell me. I was no longer the arresting officer, the one carrying gold in his pocket; I was suddenly the defendant. A court clerk walked to my table, quietly informing me of this. It was a blow. I asked myself,
Jesus when did this happen to me, when did I become the perp?

Jack Haugh was at the defendant's table. He nodded sadly at me. I got up and moved. He grabbed hold of my arm, whispering, “You sure you want to do it this way? We still have plenty of time to reverse our plea.” I nodded in the affirmative.

Two detectives filed into the back of the courtroom, proceeding to my table. Behind them was the same black cop that I'd handed the gun to the day before. The first detective looked confused. He asked, “This bullshit is for you?”