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Authors: Randy Jurgensen

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BOOK: Circle of Six
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Chief Albert Seedman had already started interviewing the detained men in the basement, so, as far as Daley was concerned, he could go back up and tell the press they'd have suspects in custody shortly.

When he stepped out of the mosque about seven minutes after he'd stepped in, the crowd had swelled to more than 1,500 people—all within a one-block area. The police were outnumbered five-to-one. More reporters were being trampled, beaten, and robbed. Packs of teenagers were moving through the crowd squirting lighter fluid on reporters and igniting their saturated clothing. Garbage and bricks sailed down onto the masses of people,
through storefronts, and car windows. A stalled bus was pelted continuously with mortar and bricks from a disassembled chimney. While the passengers screamed, burning newspapers were jammed in through the windows. The police helicopter swooped down onto the rooftops. The perps defiantly turned and began throwing bottles and bricks back up at the chopper. At the mosque entrance, Daley was surrounded by a taunting mob. He tried to scream over the din to reporters—no use. It was impossible to get the news out from ground zero. There were just too many people.

That was around the time Vito and I were driving back to the scene.

Crowds had overtaken the street. Cars were at a standstill. We saw a fireball erupt about two blocks away. It was my unmarked RMP.

I drove as far as I could till we came to a wall of civilians. I removed my police-issued
street-sweeper
shotgun. We parked and ran. I was leading with the shotgun high above my head. At that moment the only difference between Pork Chop Hill and Lenox Avenue was four streetlights and a hotdog stand.

Deputy Commissioner Benjamin Ward exited a gleaming black Mercury sedan slowly ambling his way into the melee. Ward was the first man of color appointed to that high-ranking position. He was in charge of community affairs for Harlem. His job basically was to run interference between City Hall and Harlem. He was the man tasked to
keep a lid on Harlem
during Lindsay's reign as mayor.

Ward outranked Daley with tenure and, more important, political clout; that much they were clear on. The two of them were at odds on just about everything else. Daley was never a cop, but loyal to cops; Ward was a cop, but loyal to the mayor. Prior to holding the community affairs commissionership, Ward was a lawyer in the department's trial room, prosecuting cops. Daley rarely drank; Ward was known to have a drink or two. At one time he urinated into the East River out of that very helicopter now buzzing the rooftops. This riot was only going to solidify each man's hatred for the other, and the whole city would front row for the fallout.

Ward passed Daley without acknowledging him. Daley wasn't surprised but took the unprofessionalism in stride. Daley found an accessible RMP, commandeered it, and drove to St. Luke's Hospital to give statements to the press, the police commissioner, and Mayor John Lindsay.

Vito and I threaded our way toward the mosque. The crowd was beginning to loot the mom-and-pop stores. They were destroying their own food supplies.
How mad could they be
, I thought, that they were cutting and
burning themselves. Without access to those stores, they'd have to travel to get anything. But as with most riots, the principle element was not giving a shit anymore.

Things had changed drastically by the time we reached the mosque. The outer perimeter was surrounded by the NYPD and about sixteen ESU cops. The inner perimeter, including the front doors, was surrounded by para-militarized Muslim soldiers. The two groups of men stood face-to-face not five feet from one another, unflinching—a standoff of the worst kind.
What happened to the police presence and where are the cops who had taken their positions at the crime scene? Where are all the uniformed bosses?
Then I noticed Deputy Commissioner Ben Ward standing on the running boards of Big Bertha. In his hand was a bullhorn; next to him was the popular black congressman from central Harlem, Charles Rangel. They were in animated conversation when I arrived. I assumed they were the leadership on-scene.

I moved in front of the Muslims with Vito behind me. My gold shield was affixed high on my jacket so there could be no miscommunication. I tried to step past one of the FOI men at the double doors. He was about six foot six, two hundred and fifty pounds, stacked like a brickyard. He stepped in my way. It was his way now. In a clipped militant tone he said, “Only uniformed presence is allowed to walk through these doors. You...are not in uniform.”

I stepped aside, moving Vito in front of me, “He's in uniform. I suggest you let him in.”

Before Vito entered I whispered in his ear, “You point out to Seedman the shooter and anyone else you saw who was involved, you hear?”

He nodded and disappeared through the double doors. I was able to peek inside the vestibule; no longer were cops guarding the crime scene. The lobby was filled with FOI men. I turned and lost my shit on that linebacker at the door. “Who the fuck are they? This is a police investigation! That's a fucking crime scene!”

This was a fucking travesty. Who touched what, who took pictures, who recovered any evidence, who received that evidence, and so on: all that has to have a chain of command. But there was no chain of command because there was no command of the crime scene. They'd taken it over. Somebody needed to give me a fucking answer. I needed to find the superior on the scene.

Daley entered St. Luke's and immediately found Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy. He had to brief both of his bosses with all of the pertinent information first; though, they too barely acknowledged his
presence. He might have assumed both men were worried about the fallen cop, Phil Cardillo, on the operating table. He moved to them breathlessly, “It certainly was delicate out there. It came so close to a riot. So close. It was still delicate when I left five minutes ago.”

Lindsay snapped his head in Daley's direction sharply asking, “Riot? What do you mean, riot? There can't be any riot. There won't be any riot. It never came close to being a riot. How can you say such a thing?”

Daley responded quickly, “I've been around riots before. This was as close to one as I've ever seen.”

Lindsay shot back defiant and angry, “How many people were there? There weren't that many people in the street.”

Daley stepped back. Personal agendas were at play, so he treaded lightly. “Well there are at least fifteen hundred people in the streets.”

“What's a thousand people, twelve, fifteen hundred people? You can't have a riot with 1,000 people or 1,500 people,” Lindsay barked.

Daley relented. There was no winning a pissing contest with the mayor of New York City. Murphy stood and walked Daley to the corner of the small room. “We had reports it wasn't so bad there.” He mumbled this so low Daley had to lean in to hear him.

“It was pretty bad,” said Daley.

Daley began to break down the scene for Murphy, starting with the perps detained in the basement, to the blood-filled hallway, to the tidal wave of people on the streets. Murphy held up his hands like a disobedient six-year-old, closing his eyes, shaking his head, “No, we're not sure of anything yet. We'd better check into this a little further.”

Daley continued, “I interviewed most of the cops involved...”

Murphy again shook his head and moved to the other end of the room to quietly talk with Mayor John Lindsay. All Daley could do was back out of the room, unsure of what to do or say to the rabid news crews.

Vito stepped into the mosque basement. Several of the FOI men receded further into the rear of the lounge-type area. Chief of Detectives Seedman and the rest of the detectives immediately noticed this. So did Louis Farrakhan. He stepped forward and in an overly loud and preachy voice he exclaimed, “I cannot guarantee your well-being if you remain inside this house of worship. Neither guns nor police are permitted in this building.”

Farrakhan's men puffed up behind this brazen statement. Seedman blinked slowly; he was as ballsy as he was strategic. In his gruff New York accent he countered, “Everyone in this basement, including you, is suspect in the
shooting and beating of New York cops. No one other than myself will be making any decisions in regards to this case.” He looked back at Vito and cocked his head at him, “You okay?”

Vito nodded and began the task of identifying the responsible men.

Congressman Charles Rangel suddenly appeared in the basement to deliver a message. He said, “Commissioner Ward wants all police presence out of the building...now!”

Seedman turned slightly, hesitated for the briefest of moments. “You, right now, are impeding an assault-and-attempted-homicide investigation. Leave.”

Then he turned back to Navarra. Rangel lowered his voice and repeated, “Commissioner Ward wants all police presence out of the building.”

Seedman got face-to-face with Rangel. “Go upstairs and tell
Commissioner
Ward that the chief of detectives is conducting a show-up.”

“All due respect, Chief, something's gotta be done. Upstairs is going to be turned into a parking lot if a riot ensues. Lots of people are going to get hurt, including cops. Now, we worked out a deal that all of the detained men will be brought into the 2-4 Precinct later today for questioning, but right now our priority is the well-being of the cops and the people of Harlem upstairs.”

Seedman saw a phone on a desk. He called the Chief of the Department, Michael Codd, requesting that two busloads of policemen he had parked outside of the police academy respond to the scene. Codd denied the request. Seedman pleaded, but Codd hung up. Seedman called him back and Codd's assistant said that the Chief went out to lunch.


We
worked out a deal? Who's we?” asked Seedman.

Rangel grinned, “You know, myself, Commissioner Ward, Minister Farrakhan, and...”

“And?” asked Seedman.

“Well, there aren't too many people above the rank of deputy commissioner, Chief.”

Seedman was about to rip into the congressman when he heard his name over the police radio. It was Ward's voice, “Chief Seedman, ten-two the ESU truck with all units remaining in the building!”
Ten-two
meant Seedman had to go see Ward—outside.

Seedman turned to Congressman Charles Rangel and asked, “You promise that these people [the ones up against the wall) will be brought into the 2-4 Precinct for interrogation?” Rangel sa id “Yes.” Seedman shook Rangel's hand and left the mosque.

Even though Ward was never elevated above the rank of lieutenant within the NYPD, an appointed commissionership superceded and outranked any uniformed member of the service. As hard a pill as it was to swallow, Ward was Seedman's superior.

Seedman was shell-shocked. Thirty years of hardcore policing, this was a first. A shot cop took precedence over any crime. Every available police resource was utilized until all guilty parties were brought to justice. That was because when you're risking your life out on the street every day, you need that one assurance—
cops take care of their own.
Not on April 14, 1972 they didn't. Seedman hesitated. He had the men responsible in his sights.

Farrakhan was emboldened, and so were the FOI men who surrounded him. He looked at Seedman and raised his eyebrows as if to say,
Here's your hat, and there's the door.

Seedman turned to his men. Even he didn't believe what he was about to say. “Let's go.”

Not one of the men moved, not the uniformed presence, not the detectives assigned to the Chief of Detectives' office, and certainly not the detectives from the 2-8 and 2-5 Precincts. Phil Cardillo was one of their own; the other three cops who were beaten were also among their own. All these men could ever hope for was that in similar circumstances, had they been the ones beaten and shot, those men would do the same for them. As it were, Seedman knew this was the beginning of the end. He'd been around long enough to see the shitcanning a mile away.

One of the black detectives from his office looked first at Navarra, then back to Seedman. He refused to move. He said, “There's an attempted murderer down here, and he's coming out attached to my cuffs.”

Seedman looked at the FOI men. He quickly looked at Farrakhan, who was grinning, then he turned to look at Rangel for more than a few seconds. He finally turned back to the detective and slowly shook his head. He moved inches from the detective and quietly said, “Son, this is over. We leave and maybe we fight tomorrow. I promise you, you disobey that order, there'll be nothing left of you to fight. I certainly don't want to go out that way, do you?”

It was no-win. The detective would have to wait to interview each of those men at the 2-4 Precinct. He and everyone else were going to wait a very long time.

All of the cops left. The only one who didn't leave immediately was Vito Navarra. Farrakhan and the rest of his men simply stared. Navarra didn't
look away, he gaped at every man's face, placing the faces in the horrific four-minute battle that he would never forget. The one that would haunt him and 32,000 other men for the rest of their lives.

The only thing that was saving the streets from erupting into absolute bedlam was the fact that the punks on the roof were blanketing 116th Street with bricks and other skull-crushing material. The tide of people would crest into the street and then a brick would explode onto the asphalt, sending the wave of people rushing back against the buildings for safety. The tide came in; the tide went out.

Ward pulled the bullhorn to his mouth and bellowed into it, “Only block cops remain on the scene.”

I looked at the uniforms that surrounded me. The same confused look crept across all of our faces, “What in the fuck is a block cop?” I asked.

And then, unbelievably, I heard it a second time. Ward wailed into the bullhorn, “All
black
cops remain on your assigned posts. All
white
cops leave the scene. Return to your command forthwith.”

That was real fucked up. I thought to myself about how shameful and embarrassing it was. I was embarrassed not just for me and the rest of the white cops who'd heard the order, but for the black cops as well, and the rest of the cops who made up the vast majority of the NYPD, despite race or creed. See, we were no longer the men in blue. Now we were stripped bare by a high-ranking police official under orders, stripped of our brethren and stripped of our unity. I was dumbfounded and I saw the masses of cops, black and white, turn to one another, also dumbfounded. If we divided, we knew we wouldn't stand a chance, not with this crowd, not ever. We all stared at Benjamin Ward. He was now the
black
Deputy Commissioner.

BOOK: Circle of Six
5.91Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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