Justice Denied (42 page)

Tanenbaum shooting during a basketball game his junior year of high school. He wore the number 14 throughout high school and college.

Tanenbaum's senior portrait. In addition to basketball, he also played first base for his school's baseball team.

Standing outside a courthouse in downtown Manhattan are Tanenbaum, James Woods, NYPD detective Cliff Fenton, and Yaphet Kotto. Woods and Kotto played Tanenbaum and Fenton in the 1985 movie
Badge of the Assassin
, based on Tanenbaum's book of the same name about a real-life murder mystery in 1971 Harlem.

Seen here in the late 1980s, Mayor Tanenbaum poses with Ed Koch, then mayor of New York City, while Tanenbaum's son Billy stands in front wearing a hat given to him by Koch. The two mayors were meeting to discuss a tourist exchange program between Beverly Hills and New York City.

While mayor of Beverly Hills, Tanenbaum awarded Jimmy Stewart, seen here, with this proclamation of Outstanding Citizen of Beverly Hills in the late 1980s.

Tanenbaum and his wife, Patti.

Tanenbaum with Patti and their children Roger, Rachael, and Billy at home in California.

Tanenbaum's author photo, which has graced the covers of many of his books.

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Bad Faith
. . .

T
HE HANDSOME YOUNG
FDNY
PARAMEDIC JUMPED
from the back of the ambulance with his gear bag and looked up at the old four-story walk-up on the Upper West Side. Once a haven for junkies, including the infamous Needle Park, much of the neighborhood had been gentrified and cleaned up. However, the West 88th Street building, located between Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues, had fallen into disrepair. The steps leading up to the building's entrance, like the sidewalks along the narrow, tree-lined street, were cracked and uneven; a rusted fire escape climbed the faded red bricks of the façade; what paint remained around the windows was peeling away.

There was certainly nothing charming about the bitter November evening air, nor the three large white men standing in front of the stoop who moved to block the paramedic. “False alarm,” said the man on the left, the words coming out from his bearded lips in puffs of condensation that hung briefly in the chill breeze before dissipating.

“Sorry, but we got a 911 call about a child in medical distress, and I have to check it out,” the paramedic replied. He tried to step past, but the man in the middle—the tallest of the three and ruggedly handsome with long, wavy gray hair swept back from his tan face—placed a hand on the young man's shoulder and stopped him.

“Sorry, brother, but as Brother Frank just told you, your services are not needed here,” the man said, fixing the paramedic with his intense blue eyes. He was smiling wide, his big, white teeth flashing in the dusk, but there was nothing friendly about his demeanor.

The paramedic scowled and brushed the larger man's hand off of his shoulder. “I'm not your brother, Mac, so keep your mitts to yourself.”

“What's the problem, Raskov?”

Justin Raskov turned at the sound of his partner's voice. “Yo, Bails, these jokers won't let me in the building,” the young man replied to the other paramedic coming up behind him.

“Well, it ain't up to them,” Donald “Bails” Bailey Sr. growled as he moved ahead of his partner to glare at the big men confronting them. “We got an emergency call for this address and we legally have to check it out. And you, my friend,” he added, thrusting his jaw at his opponent's face, “are breaking the law and I'm maybe two seconds from sic-ing New York's finest on your ass.”

In his experience, Raskov was used to seeing even the most recalcitrant people move out of the way when stared down by his pugnacious partner, a muscular middle-aged black man who'd been a staff sergeant in the army and still carried himself like one. But the three other men closed ranks, two behind the third, who was obviously the leader and who now raised his hand, palm outward, and thundered,
“‘YOU SHALL NOT PASS THROUGH, LEST I COME OUT WITH THE SWORD AGAINST YOU!'”

At the unexpected outburst, Raskov took a step back but Bailey stood his ground and rolled his eyes. “Frickin' great,” he sighed. “We got us a Bible thumper. Numbers 20:18, right? Yeah, I know the Good Book, too, and I'll take that as a threat.” He looked back at the ambulance whose driver had his head out of the window listening to the exchange.

“Hey, Dougy, call the cops and tell them we got three morons preventing us from responding to a 911 medical emergency, and one of them just said he was going to attack us with a sword.”

When he finished, Bailey looked back at the three men and tilted his head with a slight smile on his face.

“Tell you what, asshole. If there's somebody in that building who needs our help and doesn't get it on time because of your cute little antics, it'll be on your head.”

Disconcertingly, the big man smiled back. “The true believers of this household are under the protection of the Lord.”

“Yeah, we'll see how that works when the cops show up,” Raskov said.

As if on cue, a patrol car swung around the corner and pulled over to the curb behind the ambulance. Two officers got out and hurried up to the knot of men. “What seems to be the problem here?” the older officer asked.

“Hey, Sergeant Sadler, how ya doin'?” Raskov said to the cop. “We got a 911 call that a child has a medical emergency in Apartment 3C. But these jokers won't let us check it out.”

Sadler nodded at the paramedics. “Evening, Justin, Don,” he said before frowning and turning to the three men on the stoop. “One of you want to explain?” he asked.

The man who'd shouted the Biblical verse stepped forward. “I am the Reverend C. G. Westlund and God's emissary at the End of Days Reformation Church of Jesus Christ Resurrected. I speak for the family in Apartment 3C. The call was in error and any intervention by these gentlemen would be against the family's religious beliefs.”

“Well . . . Reverend . . . is it true there's a sick kid in there?” the sergeant asked, his voice indicating that his patience was not going to last long.

“The child's infirmities of the body are being healed by the power of prayer,” Westlund answered. “God's will and compassion are the only medicine the child needs.”

 “Then with all due respect . . . get your ass out of the way, and let the paramedics do their job,” Sadler barked. “That or you, me, and your pals here are all going to take a little ride down to the precinct house where I'll toss your butts in the pokey for obstructing these fine officers of the FDNY in the performance of their lawful duties.”

Westlund turned his head slightly to his right, and the man he'd identified earlier as “Brother Frank” suddenly rushed forward with a growl as though to attack the sergeant. But Trent Sadler, a grizzled old veteran who'd been dealing with street thugs and violent criminals for more than twenty-five years, was ready. He stepped neatly to the side, and in one swift motion pulled a Taser stun device from the holster on his belt and applied it to the neck of the would-be assailant.