Circle of Six (7 page)

Upon hearing this command, the crowd erupted. They were going to bask in watching the NYPD break its own back. Even later Ward would never admit who gave this order, he or a superior officer but we heard it loud and clear. Back then, an order given was an order obeyed. And reluctantly, we left our remaining brother-officers to fend for themselves in the middle of a riot.

As Chief Seedman reached the lobby, he saw twenty FOI men cleansing the hallway, situating the table and chairs, mopping up the blood—Phil Cardillo's, Ivan Negron's, Victor Padilla's, Vito Navarra's, and Rudy Andre's. The crime scene was being erased with every stroke of the mop. Seedman turned to the detective and said, “This case will never be solved.”

I heard my name over the radio. It was the commanding officer of the 2-8, Inspector John Haugh, the twenty-five-year career cop, lawyer, teacher, mentor, and good friend. “Randy, I need you to
eighty-five
me Lenox between one sixteen and one seventeen forthwith.” He wanted a
face-to-face
.

Even though I was probably thirty feet from the man, I couldn't see him over the people. I pushed my way to the middle of the block. The bricks were still being lobbed off the roof, but we were a safe distance. Inspector Haugh was a cool operator. Even in the middle of battle, he never seemed out of control, which is why I respected and trusted him. When I reached him, he was bordering meltdown. He screamed over the crowd, “Randy, someone's going to get killed.”

He pointed to the roof, shook his head violently back and forth, “Get up there and take that fucking roof!”

I didn't ask questions. I searched and quickly found all the men from the Twyman Meyers stakeout. I pointed to the roof, “We're clearing that roof.”

The men followed me in a close cluster as we charged into the building. We hit the stairway and I realized that we were followed in by close to thirty civilians, all wanting to be a part of the action. I posted one of the anticrime cops at the bottom of the stairway. “Gun out, nobody comes up.”

That stopped the crowd. We moved up the stairs to the second floor and encountered the same; out of apartments, tenants were spilling into the hallway, wanting to follow us up. I positioned another cop on the second and third landings—no one was getting up.

Myself and two other cops charged the roof, barreling out onto the tar and asphalt. First thing I heard was the incredible rumbling of the helicopter. I was back in Korea. I had to catch my breath, because the rotors were so low it made it almost impossible to breathe. I looked up
and actually saw the pilot squinting at me. I ripped open my field jacket, revealing my shield. He gave me a thumbs-up and pulled back the aircraft. I checked the roof. Approximately ten teenagers, no older than fourteen, were standing in a semicircle around a dismantled chimney. I lifted the shotgun in the air and screamed “Everybody off the fucking roof.”

The kids dropped the bricks and charged off the roof, probably very happy they weren't locked up.

It was safe. I stuffed the shotgun into my hip and halfway down my pant leg. I zipped up my field jacket. With the roof completely empty, we began to clear the rest of the mortar and bricks by dropping them down into the rear courtyard.

Now that we'd stopped the hailstorm, the crowd moved into the middle of the streets, shouting like a hellish Mardi Gras. Big Bertha was pointed at an odd angle in the middle of the street, surrounded by smaller cars that led to a stranded city bus filled with screaming people. The mosque's four corners were completely ringed by FOI men dressed in suits. The police presence in front of the mosque had all but vanished.

The roof door was suddenly kicked open. The three anticrime cops emerged, followed by a very tall
black
boss in uniform, Inspector Tom Mitchelson, commander of Zone-6. We'd never met. He was a newcomer to the area. He had a uniformed driver with him, a young guy scared witless, and another black man in his late forties wearing a dashiki and two crossed saber swords over his chest. The last man wasn't a cop. He was a local rabble-rouser, Kenyatta 35X, who at the drop of a hat would stand on a soapbox preaching of the injustices inflicted upon the community by the likes of us.
Why is he with the boss of the zone,
I thought,
and more important, why was my boss with him?

Mitchelson pointed to me and yelled over the noise, “Who are you and what are you doing up here?”

The door was still open and people from the street were slowly growing in number—bats, sticks, bottles. They formed into a semicircle behind the inspector and Kenyatta 35X. I stepped to the inspector, “I'm following orders, Sir.”

He snapped back, screaming nervously, “What orders?”

“To clear this roof, Sir.” More people filed onto the roof behind Mitchelson. The situation was getting tense. They fidgeted, like they wanted to be set loose to charge. Mitchelson kept eyeing us like we were the criminals launching the airmail off the roof. Everything about that day was lopsided.

Kenyatta leaned in, whispering to Mitchelson, who in turn demanded, “We need to search you. What weapons do you have?”

He turned to the young uniform, “Search those men.”

I saw the uniform's knees buckle as he took the first step. That was as far as I was going to be pushed. I wasn't going to be searched under the authority of some neighborhood agitator. I took a step backward. “Sir, you're not searching me. I'll open my coat, but you're not searching me.”

I unzipped my field jacket and slid out the shotgun. Kenyatta had a smug, contented look on his face. He reached in and whispered to Mitchelson again, who in turn held out his hand, “Give me that weapon.”

Some embarrassing catcalls from the angry civilians, “Right on. Give up all y'all weapons mothafuckin' pigs.”

I was about to hand it to him when I quickly pulled it back. The last thing I was going to do was have that street-sweeper end up in the wrong hands. Three trigger pulls and all six of us would have been torn in half. I broke the shotgun down into pieces. I handed him the stock and butt of the gun, keeping the firing mechanism and the shells.

He accepted the pieces and demanded, “What unit are you men with?”

“The Major Case Squad, Sir. We're hunting the people who are hunting us.”

I never took my eye off the crowd. It was growing. People just kept shoving their way onto the roof. Mitchelson didn't see this. He was with Kenyatta 35X so he was safe. Us, we were the bad guys, at their mercy, to be made examples for the rest of the police.

“Let me tell you something. You, and the rest of these men, by tomorrow I promise, you'll all be back in uniform. Now, I'm ordering you off this roof!”

Was that a threat?
Honestly I didn't think we could have left if we wanted to. We were fucked. All of the NYPD was fucked. And on that day, the city of New York was fucked. And things were only going to get worse.

Mitchelson spun on his heels and the trio disappeared off the roof. The semicircle of people closed ranks after them. They formed a wall in front of the roof door, which was one way down. The other way was a header over the ledge.

The six of us moved in very tight. I yelled, “All right, don't pull your weapons whatever you do, they'll take them. Just stay close and hold onto each other.”

We dropped our heads like fullbacks, squared our shoulders, and surged
forward. I led and my men followed. A corridor of people opened as we ran through. Men, women, and children started to spit at us. This was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I was a New York City police detective, paid to protect the very citizens who were spitting at me. We made it into the building and charged down. On the stairs and on every floor were two rows of people just waiting to give us some of their saliva. We were covered in phlegm. Then someone threw a can, hitting a civilian man in the head. He bled profusely. Days later we would be accused of causing that wound—nothing new there. The man hit the floor. Upon seeing one of their own down for the count, the people went berserk. They started to punch, kick, and claw at us. I felt a horrific sting below my shoulder. Someone had bitten a chunk of skin out of my back. The pain was excruciating. That was when I ripped what was left of the shotgun out of my jacket and began to swing it wildly back and forth like I was clearing a jungle with a machete. I swung indiscriminately high and hard. If they were in front of me, they were going to get hit. I made a few solid connections before I finally saw daylight.

We charged out into the belly of the beast, 116th Street. I didn't stop swinging. We saw an RMP in the middle of the street and we charged for it. Smoke was now blanketing the area. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of us. What we did see were hands scratching and feet kicking at us.

One of my cops tripped and fell. He was surrounded by ten men. I saw a clothesline rope appear in one of their hands. They were going to string him up. Simultaneously we pulled our guns, charging the group of men, who backed away. We pulled the cop to safety. More men surrounded us. It was seconds before they'd overwhelm us, taking our guns—we were group fucked. Suddenly, Louie D'Alessio, one of the 2-8 anticrime cops, raised his gun high above and let one round go. That stopped them for the time being.

We made it to the RMP, slamming the doors and locking them. The keys weren't in the car. BOOM! The windshield exploded, covering us in a million fine pieces of glass. If that wasn't enough, burning rags soaked in gasoline were tossed in. We were choking. I kicked open the rear doors and we barely made it out, gasping for air. I saw the bus. We charged it.

BOOM! Another explosion, then another gunshot, then blackness draped over me. I felt hands wrap around my midsection. And then it all came rushing back: an incredibly piercing and constant pain in my head, loud ringing
and buzzing. I saw everything around me spinning. I heard myself talk, though it was slurred and incoherent, “I'm shot...I'm shot...”
Is this it? Is this the way I'm going out? My father. He's going to see me wheeled in, half my head missing. No, not dad, not dad...

I heard voices and screaming and more voices and more screaming. Then I felt my feet being dragged. I opened my eyes. Inspector John Haugh was holding me, pulling me somewhere. Louie D'Alessio was to my right, also dragging me. “Louie, I'm shot, Louie. Don't let them bring me to St. Luke's...My father, Louie, please.” (Louie was killed two years later in the line of duty.)

Then I felt the heels of my feet banging against steps. I was deposited onto a bus. I knew this because I saw the rear doors, but the doors had hands attached to them. Hands were trying to rip open the doors. The sides of the bus were rocking up and down. Nausea gripped me. I felt bile and that unmistakable metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I started to choke on it. The bus floor started to bend.
What's happening?
There were more hands tearing at the door. The bus was being shaken; people were trying to flip the bus. Still more people were trying to get into the bus through the rear doors. I pulled both pistols out and pointed them in the direction of all those clambering hands—
if those doors open I'm going to un-fucking-load.
People next to me screamed. I screamed back, “I'm a New York City police detective. I'm here to help. I'm...I'm...shot.”

Louie D'Alessio appeared next to me, out of breath, shirt ripped almost off his back. He had deep scratches down his soot-covered face. I asked, “Louie, is it bad? Am I hit bad?”

I felt his hand on my shoulder. Almost in a whisper he said, “No, Rand, it's not that bad.”

I was reassured by that. Or maybe I was simply comforted by the fact that there was another one of us who'd made it out alive. I was back on Pork Chop Hill with some of the lucky platoon members. Except the sad reality was that Pork Chop Hill was 116th Street and Lenox Avenue, a neighborhood street in the richest, most powerful country in the world. The very same country I almost died for, eighteen years earlier—in pursuit of the very freedom that allowed these confused protesters their right to assemble and rebel—almost killed me eighteen years later.

Chief of D's Albert Seedman arrived at St. Luke's where another mob of news reporters stuffed microphones in his face. He blew past them without making a statement. What statement could he make? “The detectives were thrown off the case. The investigation was shitcanned before it actually began.” There was nothing to say about the case because no information was gathered about the case. What he did know was that the cops were pulled off the scene to save political face. But he knew better than to speak that truth.

Daley was waiting to make contact with him before he actually sat down with Police Commissioner Murphy and Mayor John Lindsay. When Seedman told Daley he was removed from the building before he could detain anyone, let alone establish a crime scene, Daley's face turned ashen. “Who's going to interview the suspects?” Seedman shrugged his shoulders, “Rangel and Ward,” he twirled his finger in the air, “All I could do was agree to the deal that all the suspects would be brought to the 2-4 Precinct later.”

“What about the crime scene?”

Seedman looked at him stone-faced, “Crime scene? There is no crime scene. They mopped it up.”

Arguably two of the most important and influential players of the 32,000-strong NYPD were speechless; forced to the sidelines to watch the game unfold. Then Seedman said, “Listen, before
they
tell me what occurred, I'd like to hear it from someone who was actually there.”

Seedman and Daley sidestepped the temporary headquarters and began interviewing the principles who first came upon the scene—all of the injured cops. Phil Cardillo was the most seriously injured and it was his injury that would bring the charge of attempted murder. He could also give damning evidence if he actually saw the shooter—but he was on the operating table.

Navarra, Negron, and Padilla were questioned in that order. All were groggy from sedatives. Negron and Navarra's statements mirrored each other. They entered and were overwhelmed from the front and surprised from the rear. The attackers were punching and kicking at them, and were also trying to rip their guns from the holsters. They balled their bodies up into smaller targets and held onto their weapons, waiting for backup. There was nothing they could do.