Circle of Six (32 page)

Foster sat in the back, San-San to my right. I leaned across San-San's chest, dangerously close, locking the door. I keyed the ignition and revved the car four or five times before slamming it into gear. As we landed back on all four wheels in the middle of Centre Street, both of them secured their seatbelts. Canal Street was coming up on us fast, a yellow light about fifty yards out. By the time we crossed the four lanes, it was dead red. I was a man possessed—really, I was a man exhausted. I reached under the seat, pulling out the recorder. I snapped it on. Foster and San-San's voices were nearly drowned out by the car horns shooting past us in the night. I didn't wait for him to speak. I snapped the recorder off, jamming it back under the seat. I saw my destination approaching, an all-night grocery store at the next big intersection, Fourteenth Street. As we neared the red lights at the intersection, I noticed San-San's mouth hanging open, as if he wanted to scream, but couldn't muster any action without peeing in his pants. He grabbed hold of the metal dashboard. Just before the intersection, I yanked the wheel hard to the left. Both of them bounced hard off the side panels. And then, for added effect, I hit the brakes, lurching them forward and back into the headrests. I put the car into park. The show hadn't even begun yet. I dug into the small of my back, ripping out my handcuffs. I grabbed his wrist, snapped one on him, the other on the steering wheel. I pulled the keys from the ignition, kicked open the door, and headed into the grocery store without saying a word.

Minutes later I emerged from the store with a brown paper bag tucked under my arm. Inside the car, I unhooked San-San and dropped the bag into the backseat. Both of them couldn't stop staring at it. I spun in the seat, pointing in Foster's face, “Don't go near that bag!”

I took the corner on two wheels, heading for my next destination. I saw San-San nervously eyeing the bag.

I turned onto the southbound lane of the FDR Drive. There it was, the Brooklyn Bridge. I gunned the engine, heading for the off-ramp. At that time
of night the bridge was desolate. I came to a stop, not quite on the bridge, not quite on the ramp. I turned the ignition off, reached into the backseat for the bag, and casually walked to San-San's door. Opening it, I coldly said, “Get out.”

San-San turned to Foster. “Randy, c'mon Man, please, this isn't the way. He's going to tell you what you want to know. Aren't you, Mitchell?”

San-San was about to speak. I didn't let him. I grabbed his wrist, pulling him onto the overpass. I dragged him to the side of the road. We looked down; 100 feet below was the off-ramp to the FDR Drive. He was stammering. I still wouldn't let him speak, “Shut up and watch!”

I opened the brown paper bag and pulled out a cantaloupe. I held it over the thin metal railing, “Look down, Mitchell.”

He did. I let go of the melon. It took a few seconds before it exploded onto the pavement. Next I pulled out a large tomato. Then a head of lettuce. All to the same effect. He was almost crying with fear. I looked into his eyes and said, “We're going back to the DA's office, and you're going to do what?”

He stammered, “Tell them what I was told to do.”

I put my finger in front of his face. No other words were necessary.

Back at Harmon's office, the stenographer was unhappy. When he saw me walking in I must have still looked crazy, because he swallowed whatever comments he'd rehearsed. Harmon didn't say a word, probably for fear at what he might become aware of. The three men disappeared into his office to begin his Q-and-A, which would last about three hours, just in time for the grand jury.

Harmon stepped out of the grand jury beaming. San-San not only told the jurors what he had done, but he gave up what he knew on Josephs and Minister Farrakhan. He said that Josephs inquired about the cop's gun. He told San-San that Minister Farrakhan wanted the gun out of the building, which is when he took it upon himself to take the service revolver home, where it remained for a number of days. About one week later, Josephs approached him again with more questions from Minister Farrakhan, who was beginning to insulate himself behind Josephs. San-San told Josephs he had thrown the gun off the 138th Street Bridge into the Harlem River.

This established a number of crimes against Josephs and Minister Farrakhan—top five: larceny, possession of stolen property, hindrance, obstruction of justice, and impeding a police investigation. I knew that neither of those men murdered Phil Cardillo, but they were covering for the
shooter—Dupree. My objective was to use those crimes against them. I was going to the mosque to either confront Josephs or Farrakhan, didn't make a difference who I grabbed up first. I was going to break it down for them in the language that they both inherently understood—street language.

They could either give up Dupree for the murder or get collared themselves. I saw the case finally starting to take form. The house of cards was beginning to cave in on Dupree, and I was going to be there when it did. Harmon, however, didn't quite see it as black-and-white as I did. He felt that once I sent a flare over their heads, both of those men would vehemently deny the charges to the press, making martyrs of themselves. It would let them know what San-San had given up in the grand jury. No doubt Josephs would coerce San-San into changing his testimony. That would taint his prior testimony. What we had at that moment was a uncoerced witness to a cover-up by members of the mosque. He was given to us by our star witness, Foster 2X Thomas, which only strengthened Foster's credibility, which is what our whole case was based on. I agreed and let it go—for the time being. If only we had been allowed to do our jobs on April 14, we wouldn't have been in this fucked position.

After the grand jury, Foster and San-San were brought to a midtown hotel by Nick Cirillo, who was charged with their well-being while I went home for some sleep.

When I got home, Lynn rushed to me, her eyes red, appearing as sleep-deprived as I was. I realized that what I was going through, she was going through as well. She hugged me and said, “Randy, thank God. I was so worried.”

She didn't let go, not for a while. Her grip was tight, too tight. She was scared, scared for me, scared for us, and scared for our unborn baby. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I didn't recognize the man who, with a confused look, stared back at me. He was old, haggard, skinny, and pale. I wondered,
how can she love this man?
She released her grip. I felt such sorrow for her, such guilt at turning her life into a series of sleepless weeks strung together by terror and angst.

“When was the last time you slept?” she asked. I shook my head, not really having any conception of time. She pulled my field jacket off, rolling it up into a ball. She unhooked my shotgun and placed it on a high shelf in a closet. She guided me to the couch, sat me down, and removed my shoes and socks, throwing them into the growing ball of dirty discarded clothing. Lynn, when it came right down to it, was as maternal and nurturing
a woman as one could ever find.
I married well,
I thought. In a matter of minutes, I was in the shower; sweat, and street soot made the water brown. I scrubbed as hard as I could, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the dirt and guilt that had overtaken my body and mind. I was living on my last nerve. I didn't know how much more I could take.

After the shower, Lynn heated up a dinner for me. Though it was probably day-old food, it tasted fresh and delicious. We didn't talk at all during dinner. Lynn quietly sat next to me, gently rubbing the back of my hand. I needed this time-out, needed to put my brain on pause, and just feel Lynn breathing next to me. Then she placed the dishes in the sink and led me into the bedroom. We lay on the bed, and remained in that same prone position, holding onto each other tightly for the better part of ten hours. And when I awoke, life seemed so much better.

I whispered, “The end is near, Lynn. We are so close, so close to ending this, and then it will all be better. This I promise you.”

She whispered back, though it was more a plea than an affirmation, “Before the baby is born, Randy.”

I squeezed my eyes closed, because I knew what I was about to say was probably a lie. “Yes, Lynn, I promise, before the baby is born.”

Both Foster and San-San were at Harmon's office when I arrived. My plan was to retrieve the gun from wherever it was hidden. San-San did say he threw it off the bridge, but he may have said it out of fear. I believed he may still have been in possession of the firearm. I wanted to give him every chance to come clean without the fear of arrest.

After pulling another summons off my windshield, I headed up to the Bronx with San-San in hopes of finding the gun in his apartment. On the ride up, I asked him repeatedly where and when he threw the gun, but he didn't cave in. He remained stoic, as usual, and stuck to his story. I needed to be 100 percent sure. I was going to toss his apartment for my own peace of mind anyway.

His apartment was as sparse and neat as Loretta's. After a thorough once-over, I was convinced the gun wasn't there. I was also willing to believe his story that he tossed it into the river. I used his phone to call the NYPD Harbor Unit. We drove to the location, and to my surprise there was already an attachment of vessels from Harbor standing fast. And along with Harbor were members of the PBA, and along with them came members of the press, namely,
The Daily News
. I was bombarded with questions, none of which I answered. Then the photographer began snapping shots of the boats, divers, and me. But more important, they were able to get a photo of San-San. I knew where this was headed, and it wasn't a good place to be. Once the story broke, San-San was as good as dead. But as usual, San-San didn't show any wear. The search lasted three full tours. Four guns were recovered. Unfortunately, none of them was Padilla's service revolver. However, one of the recovered weapons was found to have been used in a triple homicide in Brooklyn. Ballistics on the weapon came back to the detective's number one suspect, solidifying and closing the case. The head
of the Brooklyn detective squad called me to say I was included in the department's write-up for a medal. I requested that the medal be written for a different recipient. The chief agreed and it was awarded posthumously to Patrolman Phillip Cardillo.

My next tour of duty, I received a call at Harmon's office. It was Muldoon. “Where in the fuck do you get the balls to call in the Harbor Unit without notifying me?”

I tried to talk. He wasn't having it. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am? I get a phone call at seven in the morning by some chief telling me to call him back after I read the newspaper.”

He was calm, which scared me. This was an indication that he'd surpassed his threshold of pain and could stand it no more. He knew his threats weren't going to deter me from doing what I thought was right. I knew I was all out of moves with him and the job. I'd accomplished what I set out to do, and that was to make the case as strong as possible against Dupree. Muldoon continued. “The men up at the motel tell me you and the witness haven't been there in three days. Why in the fuck am I wasting the manpower if you aren't in need of them? All this shit is over, Jurgensen. You hear me? From now on you will bring the witness to the motel. You will be on with him one tour, then you will be relieved for two. You will also give me your exact location, your mode of transport, and your expected ETAs for wherever the fuck it is you're going. If any of this isn't followed to the letter, you will be suspended on the spot. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Sir, I am clear. Is there anything—” But before I was able to hit him with it, he severed the line. I gently laid the phone in its cradle and realized that Harmon, Foster, and San-San were listening to that whole ass-reaming I'd just received. Harmon was grinning. His pat line after every new lecture I got was, “Don't they know Phil was a New York City cop?”

I did as I was told. I took Foster back up to the motel, stayed with him until I was relieved by two other DTs. Foster wasn't a fan of this, because while under the other detectives' charge, he was basically a prisoner. No phone calls were allowed, and he was only allowed out of their sight when he was going to the bathroom. That made my time with him all the more stressful. Each tour was like his last eight hours on earth. Everything was done to the max. If we went to the movies, we had to see two movies. If we went for ice cream, he had to get three cones. And with Loretta, now they spent every second in bed—great for Foster, horrible for me. The motel had one room, so I was sexiled to the outside steps. What I needed was a safe
house, preferably one with separate bedrooms. Doing the math, it would work out cheaper in the long run for the NYPD, and it would offer us more stability. I called Vito and sent him on the hunt.

Vito found us a small bungalow-type house in the hamlet community of Peekskill, New York. Peekskill is approximately thirty miles north of the city. It's a bedroom community where people commute into the city early morning by railway and don't come back till after 6 p.m.

During the daytime tours, I started bringing Lynn to the safe house with me. This also made it a little less uncomfortable when Loretta was around, which at this point was almost every day. We'd cook and eat together, go to movies together, go for walks, watch television; we had become a tight-knit family. Foster and Loretta were extremely respectful of Lynn, since she was eight months pregnant. Foster insisted on rubbing her belly, calling the baby
Haziz
, which means “dearest one.” We still weren't sure of a name for the baby, not even sure if it was a boy or girl, but we decided not to go with Haziz, even though Foster lobbied hard for it.

The newspapers began running stories on the case, falsely stating that we recovered the murder weapon of Phil Cardillo, and that Minister Farrakhan and a number of other Muslims were about to be arrested because of a secret witness that we had holed up. They weren't right, but they weren't wrong either.

Farrakhan, never one to miss an opportunity presented by the press, staged peaceful marches by Muslims around the DA's offices. This wasn't going to stop me, and it sure as hell wasn't going to slow Harmon down either. But Harmon was beginning to worry about the case, not because of Farrakhan's tactics or his potential defense; Harmon had completely shut their defense down. What he was worried about was the strength of our case. If Foster was seen as coerced or manipulated, we were sunk. His believability was the foundation of our case. Harmon needed something more.