Circle of Six (22 page)

The
New York Post
headline demonstrates PBA President Sam DeMilia's feelings about the case.

Above:
Randy Jurgensen (far left) is presented with the Isaac Bell Medal for Bravery for capturing cop killers Albert Victory and Robert Bornholdt by Sgt. Walter Kirkland (far right), having refused to accept it from Mayor John Lindsay (second from left) or Police Commissioner Patrick Murphy (second from right), May 1971.

Left:
Detective Jurgensen and ADA Jim Harmon retrieve bullets from the ceiling of Mosque No. 7. Holding partition is Detective Richie Wrase; standing on stairs is Detective Jurgensen; leaning against wall is defense lawyer Saad El Amin and standing at the bottom of the stairs is defense lawyer Edward Jacko.

Above:
Randy Jurgensen and Jim Harmon (right) return to Mosque No. 7, 25 years on, April 14, 1997.

Right:
The helmet worn by 18-year old Randy Jurgensen when wounded on Pork Chop Hill, Korea. It is now on display at the West Point Museum.

Above:
Randy Jurgensen reconnects with New York City Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly, June 2006.

Left:
Randy meets Joe “Donnie Brasco” Pistone at their old rendezvous, the Saint George Hotel in Brooklyn, NY, August 2006.

My wedding went off without a hitch. Lynn and I had a very small ceremony. We took a relaxing boat cruise down the East Coast. The time spent away from the job was a much-needed rest for both of us. What I had gone through in the last couple of years, so had Lynn. It was just the two of us, and I made it a point to be there with her 100 percent. I can't say that my mind didn't wander back to the case, because it did. I knew that the next part of the investigation was either going to make or break the case. And this time away allowed me to clear all the thoughts of the betrayal, and backbiting among the cops, and to completely concentrate on the next plan of attack. I knew I had to become proactive in the case, and not actually being able to knock on the front door of the mosque was going to make this task difficult. So on my fabulously relaxing honeymoon, I planned the second part of my investigation: bringing the Muslims to the cops.

I knew I had Muldoon painted into a corner. The brass knew my investigation was focused solely on a Muslim, not on them. They also knew that I was given strict orders to stay away from the mosque. So in the eyes of the job, I was a harmless antidote to the angry cops. There was no way they were going to give Lieutenant Muldoon the power to bounce me off the case. I knew this, and Muldoon knew I knew this.

First day back, I met Vito in the 2-5. Our snazzy new office wasn't really an office at all. We were banished to the men's locker room where broken, discarded lockers were used to construct two walls. The good news was that it was situated right next to the men's bathroom, bad news, faucets leaked and toilets never really flushed; the stench was unbearable. For a second I was furious. But then I saw the upside. No one, including Muldoon, would show his face in this sewer. We were alone, nomads of the job, and this suited me just fine.

Vito gave me the lowdown on the past week. Muldoon didn't believe that I was on my honeymoon. He assumed I was out in the field working the case, off the short leash he had me on. I had to laugh.

My batteries were recharged, and I knew how to handle the rest of the case. Anything I needed, I was going to ask for. Surveillance equipment, extra undercovers, unmarked cars; I knew I wasn't going to get them, but there had to be a paper trail, showing that my requests had been denied. If I was the fall guy for the brass, Muldoon was going to be my fall guy.

I brought to Muldoon the five on the missing gun, which had to be answered. It was a part of the case, and as long as that cop's gun was still missing, there'd be an alarm on it, and the catching detective—me—was going to have to address it.

I didn't say “hello.” Those days were over. I laid the five on his desk. “That's the five on Padilla's gun. I have to do a follow-up on it.”

He slid the paper to the edge of the desk without looking at it. “So, do the follow-up on it.”

“Okay. I'll go to the mosque and inquire whether it's turned up since the day of occurrence.” I snatched up the five and turned to walk out.

He yelled, “Woah, woah, woah, hold up, Jurgensen.”

I turned. “Yeah, Lieutenant?”

“What do you mean, you're going to the mosque? You can't go to the mosque. We've already been through this.”

Again, his demeanor wasn't as forthright. He almost seemed to be deferring to me. I didn't want to overplay my hand.

“Well, Sir, for me to address the alarm on the gun properly, I have to go to the location where it was stolen. That would be the mosque, no?”

He held up his forefinger as he moved quickly to the door. He gently closed it, pressing his back firmly against it. Now both forefingers were pointed at me like little pink pistols. “You wanna start another riot, Jurgensen? Or you wanna get yourself killed? Or better yet, you wanna get killed, and have me thrown to the wolves. That's it, isn't it? Am I speaking in Swahili or are you simply pretending that your ears are flapping over. You are not allowed to go near the fucking mosque, period.”

I blinked at him a number of times. He moved back to his desk, sitting heavily in the chair. “Okay, Lieutenant. So you dictate to me exactly what it is you want me to write on the five. The five, mind you, that has to be addressed relatively soon.”

He looked confused. I asked, “Do you want me to write that I made the
request to go to the mosque, which would be the proper procedure, but you denied me that request?”

I received the same blank stare. He couldn't say anything, because he wasn't going to put his name on the five saying he forbade me access to the mosque.
No one
was going to put a name on a court document illuminating the fact that they'd impeded this investigation. If the cops knew about this, the job would implode. And that was my bargaining chip with him and the rest of the hierarchy on the job. I now had a weapon called
plausible deniability
in my arsenal, and I was going to use it every chance I got. What Muldoon and the rest of the brass didn't know wasn't going to get them censured for nonfeasance of duty.
They weren't going to ask me anything, because they didn't want to know anything.

He remained quiet, hands resting on his belly, surrendering to the impasse I had presented. I folded the five, placed it in my pocket, and walked out of his office. Muldoon had become as docile as a puppy. Now it was time to work the case.

I prepared a list of the equipment I'd need: 35mm camera, lots of film, and an unmarked truck with an undercover operator. Then I drew up the five on the missing gun. Every one of these requests was dispatched through the proper channels, eventually ending up at One PP. Now there was a paper trail, and it would only get larger as the case dragged on.

The denials were inevitable. I didn't wait. Vito and I drove up to the Manhattan North Narcotics Division. The unit was housed in a nondescript factory way up in the confines of the 3-4 Precinct. I knew most of the guys assigned to the unit, and when I walked in with Vito, they knew exactly why I was there.

José Acevedo was a skinny Hispanic UC, who at thirty-eight looked like a senior in high school. He was an excellent undercover who had worked narcotics with me ten years prior. “Oh shit, if it ain't the Kid! To what we owe this honor?” he said as he approached and hugged me.

I laughed sarcastically, “You either doing something very right, or very wrong, José. I mean ten years narcotics? C'mon, Son.”

“You know how it goes. What you up to? We hear you as hot as a pistol, Kid.”

Hot as a pistol
meant I was under a microscope and other cops would do well to stay far the fuck away, and that sucked because all I was doing was working the case of a dead cop.

“What, you here for a package?” he asked.

“Camera, film, and a vehicle, José.”

“You got it, Kid.”

We followed him through double security doors to a large windowless room with cinderblock walls. It looked like a hardware and electronics emporium. Metal shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, containing dozens of 35mm cameras, lenses of every size and dimension, rolls of film,
Kel
wire sets, walkie-talkies, flashlights, shotguns, ammunition, gas-powered generators, sledgehammers, bolt cutters, and chain saws. I hadn't worked narcotics for more than ten years. The upgrade was impressive. I playfully elbowed Vito; we both smiled.