Circle of Six (8 page)

Navarra was closest to the door. After taking a serious beating, he was thrown out of the mosque's front doors and locked out. He fell on the ground dazed.

Negron was continually stomped with his back to the door. He heard a gunshot and saw a man getting up from where Phil lay bleeding. The man was holding a gun. Negron then wrestled his gun out of the holster, pulling it away from his attackers. He pointed in the direction of the man standing above Phil and fired three times. His arm was slammed against the wall, sending the rounds high in the ceiling.

After hearing the shots, another uniform, Rudy Andre who had just arrived on the scene, broke the glass on the doors with his gun and fired five times into the ceiling. Navarra said that he could identify most of the assailants he encountered when he entered the mosque; however, he only heard the gunshot that hit his partner Phil—not any by Negron.

Padilla stated that as soon as he entered the mosque, he was jumped and stripped of his gun, which was not recovered.
Later this would prove to be key in my investigation
. He remembered nothing after that.

Seedman was confident. With Navarra's testimony he would be able to develop the assault cases, and from there he'd be able to deduce who the shooter was. Line-ups would be conducted at the 2-4 Precinct, and it'd be a matter of time before justice prevailed—that is if a proper investigation ensued.

Seedman and Daley had enough information to make a statement. They convened in the temporary headquarters where Chief of the Department Michael Codd was now stationed. Codd was the highest-ranking uniformed member of the NYPD. He was the only four-star chief on the job; everyone else had three stars or less, and he was very vocal about that fact. He was the boss of all uniformed bosses. It was a glamour position awarded by Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, which meant Murphy could rescind it at any time, which meant Codd was Murphy's man.

Daley and Seedman both gave identical accounts to all the men in the
room. Lindsay and Murphy sat side-by-side. Daley insisted that all of the pertinent information be fed to the press:
no civilians were shot, the police were attacked, one gun was missing not two, and arrests were forthcoming.

Murphy stood and turned away from Daley. He spoke to Chief Inspector Codd and Mayor Lindsay, “We're not sure yet. We better check into it a little further.”

Seedman never once looked at Murphy or the higher-ranking Codd. He stood with his body sidled against the door, staring out into the hallway where injured cops kept filing in. His body language indicated who he was, a cop, and where he wanted to be, with the cops. He was somehow able to disassociate himself from these politically charged decision makers, yet remain in the mix. He'd been around long enough, thirty-five years, to know that this meeting was just for show. The press was close by, and so were the rank and file; everything that these super-chiefs did or didn't do was being clocked. If there seemed to be dissension and disorganization among the hierarchy, then that would play out on the evening news and in the papers. From there, it would distill down to the voting public and patrol. Those men riding in those patrol cars in more than 800 sectors of New York, walking thousands of dangerous foot posts had to feel the ship they sailed had dominion, command, and was on course. Seedman knew different. It was adrift, rudderless, and heading for an iceberg.

Daley stood. He needed his position on the record, though by then he must have known that everyone was going to be manipulated, from the press to the people of New York to the backbone of the NYPD—patrol. “Commissioner, most of those reporters out there were already at the mosque. They're going to write and report half-truths anyway. Let's at least break it down for them so what they report will have a grain of truth. If not, the longer we wait, the harder it's going to be to refute what they say.”

Murphy condescendingly raised his hands. Daley snapped, “Sir, all due respect, why are you placating me? I'm the one you brought in to deal with the goddamn press.”

Murphy pointed his stubby finger in Daley's direction without looking him in the eye. “That's right, I brought you in...”

Murphy's voice was barely detectible. Finally, he looked Daley in the eye. Nothing else was said. Seedman had to stifle a laugh. Murphy was a bland colorless man who was about as passionate and fiery as overdone asparagus.

Daley got the message loud and clear. A diluted insipid press release was
already being drafted, and he was going to have nothing to do with it.

Codd stood in front of the glass doors. For a second it looked like he was watching over his bloodied men, wondering how he would lead his troops out of this, how to bolster their confidence, pick up the pieces. For a second he looked like a general overseeing a battlefield, caring for his men. Then he tilted his head a little, carefully matted down an errant hair on his head, and patted around the sides of his mouth. He double-checked his reflection before turning around and straightening out his jacket. Then he walked out. The meeting was over.

Someone in the hallway said, “Ten-hut!” The wounded men in the hall stood at attention as Codd walked through. Daley lagged behind, looking at the ragged uniforms, all scattered around the halls of St. Luke's like broken and discarded blue puppets.

The bus pulled up to the ER entrance of St. Luke's. I felt Louie Delessio grab me under my arm. I tried to stand. A group of cops were waiting by a gurney. I fell to one knee and began throwing up all the bile and coffee in my stomach. I felt more arms around my midsection. “No, I have to walk in.”

The words were slurred and thick. Louie steadied me as I made it off the bus. I tried to clean the blood from my face, but all that did was smear it. “Don't let him see me Louie, don't fucking do it...”

My knees buckled, and then there was nothing but black.

Flashes of fluorescents were popping overhead,
on-off-on-off-on-off.
I was being wheeled in on the gurney. Faces appeared above me, nurses, doctors, cops from the past, the last one...dad. I tried to get up. “No, no, no, I'm okay, Dad. It's not that bad. I'm alright.”

His voice was strained, “I'm right here, Son, Dad's not leaving.”

He looked around at the staff and said, “This is my son.”

I felt his hand lift off my chest. Suddenly I was alone in a room. A bright light was switched on. Everything was eerie, quiet, and soft blue. I saw more faces above me. A lone nurse appeared. I heard myself speak, “Am I shot bad, Ma'am?”

It echoed a thousand times. I was scared. She smiled, and I remember how comforting her beautiful face was. She said in a voice so calm you'd have thought it was a summer breeze, “You're not shot. You're going to be okay.”

A pinch on my wrist, and then a warm opiate haze embraced my body, spiraling me into a world of nothingness.

The mosque was now completely encircled by no-nonsense Fruit of
Islam soldiers, spilling into the street five deep. More kept coming, from the Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, New Jersey, and Connecticut, carloads of them, mustering and waiting for orders. The entire NYPD presence was now consigned to the outer corners of 116th and 117th Street, where a total of twenty black officers stood. The rest of the NYPD was forced to remain south of 114th Street and north of 120th Street. The streets were lost to chaos.

The Nation of Islam in New York had more than 5,000 associates. Total membership in the United States was 50,000 strong. Had the Nation of Islam begun mobilizing all of its members to New York, the NYPD would've been greatly outnumbered. If that had happened, we'd have needed martial law.

Government by the army in the greatest city in the world would have been the equivalent to political suicide for more than just Lindsay. Louis Farrakhan must have known this. He had the city of New York and the Lindsay administration over a barrel. Farrakhan was going to use this tragedy as his own personal forum. He could heighten his public profile and place himself at the top of the Nation of Islam. As he got stronger, the NYPD became weaker.

Minister Farrakhan bartered with Congressman Charles Rangel and Deputy Commissioner Benjamin Ward. He would allow a lone ESU driver to enter
his
block and remove Big Bertha. At that sight every cop on the scene dropped his head in shame. NYPD's last line of defense was retreating on the orders of a self-styled zealot, whose preachings had no actual relation to the real Islamic religion. The NYPD had collapsed under threats and violence, and as a result the city of New York lost its police force.

Farrakhan stood atop a car in the middle of the chaos. These were his people, his constituents, his fans. He waved a white handkerchief that matched his long white coat as he screamed, “Brothers and sisters of Harlem, the blue-eyed devil is no longer a threat. Everyone just be cool.”

The riotous crowds listened to the leader of Mosque Number 7. They surrounded his car, cheering, hanging onto every word he accentuated and sermonized.

Traffic started to flow once again. Order had been restored. Farrakhan flexed his muscles and everyone listened, not just the masses of tempestuous people on 116th Street, but the hierarchy of the gargantuan NYPD and all of New York's top administrators. This was just the beginning of Farrakhan's love affair with his own voice and the beehive of press that followed him everywhere.

A tiny hall on the ground floor of St. Luke's was used to assemble the
hordes of press. Both Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy took turns at the lectern, denying that they knew anything as of yet. But they did know. I had told them myself. Daley and Seedman had told them. Both said that an investigation was proceeding to gather all pertinent information. But that didn't happen. One cop mortally wounded, three seriously injured, and dozens of other casualties—there was no investigation and no information gathered. You'd think they'd put out a statement to save face—
We lost the battle, but we'll win the war
type thing—but no. This was mop-up time—
Time to put all of this behind us. Let's move forward and forget the past.

All police presence was lifted from the entire area of the mosque. Other cars and units were
flown
in from different precincts all over the city to lend backup to the depleted forces of the 2-8 and 2-5 precincts. That evening a statement was released to the press with slightly more information: The names of the injured cops who were responding to
an apparently legitimate call for assistance, which later turned out to be unfounded,
and a quick summarization of Phil Cardillo who
had been operated on and was listed in critical condition at St. Luke's hospital.
Nothing else was stated. The official stance was silence. Deputy Commissioner Ward was one of the biggest pushers for that. He said to the other superior officers, “Harlem is on the edge of riot. We cannot give out any info that would invoke a reaction of violence. It's Friday, let's get through the weekend, and on Monday or some time next week we can reveal what actually happened.” Ward was allegedly an expert on all matters pertaining to Harlem, so this statement was the only one issued.

What Ward and the rest of the higher-ups didn't realize was that there were scores and scores of cops who not only wanted answers to the day's events, but also were entitled to them. Chief among them were the union leaders of the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association (PBA), NYPD's powerful patrolmen's union, the largest and richest in the country.

I had met Lynn Bucci one year prior at an oldies concert. There was an immediate mutual attraction, and from that night forward we were an inseparable couple. I'd come to learn that Lynn—though born in very rural surroundings—had much the same upbringing as my own. Her fundamental family values were critical in her life, which molded the way she lived; the Buccis were close-knit. I'd also come to understand that no one really could compare with her father, and I respected this, as no one could compare with
mine as well. We were a match.

As we began our courtship, Lynn's small town, which hugged the Hudson, was abuzz with the knowledge that she was dating an unkempt looking man. It wouldn't be long before my cop status would filter out, and I'd suddenly get tagged with an affectionate nickname:
The Narc.

It became customary for Lynn to take in a movie with her girlfriends if I worked a Friday night. She was with a lifelong friend, Susan Grande, as they approached a newsstand that particular Friday. Lynn bought the evening edition for her father every night—he liked the horses, numbers, and sport finals. Susan screamed when she noticed the front page of
The Daily News
. I appeared to have been shot, with a head wound, unconscious. The headline read:
Five cops hurt in Harlem
.

Lynn saw the end to a supposed lifelong love affair. I'm sorry for that day, Lynn.

The Manhattan North Task Force (MNTF) was a group of cops approximately 200-strong, who were kept in reserve. They had been mobilized since the ten-thirteen twenty-four hours prior.

At the same time, in a mosque-owned restaurant on 116th Street, Louis Farrakhan held his own press conference. He knew those cops were there at the wait, ready for anything new. This was his chance to become the victim. Surrounded by Fruit of Islam soldiers, Charles Rangel, Jesse Jackson, and a large contingency of press, he cried and preached for justice. He denounced the NYPD as premeditated and unprovoked attackers, demanding apologies from Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy for condoning the blatant assault against women and children inside the mosque.

“We are here to voice our anger, outrage, and bitter resentment. The police did not simply make a mistake. They said the Bay of Pigs invasion was a tragic mistake, because it didn't bring off the intended results. The two policemen came charging into our temple like criminals, and they were treated like criminals. Muslims are people without weapons, but we fight to the death when we are attacked.”