Chief of D's Albert Seedman arrived at St. Luke's where another mob of news reporters stuffed microphones in his face. He blew past them without making a statement. What statement could he make? “The detectives were thrown off the case. The investigation was shitcanned before it actually began.” There was nothing to say about the case because no information was gathered about the case. What he did know was that the cops were pulled off the scene to save political face. But he knew better than to speak that truth.
Daley was waiting to make contact with him before he actually sat down with Police Commissioner Murphy and Mayor John Lindsay. When Seedman told Daley he was removed from the building before he could detain anyone, let alone establish a crime scene, Daley's face turned ashen. “Who's going to interview the suspects?” Seedman shrugged his shoulders, “Rangel and Ward,” he twirled his finger in the air, “All I could do was agree to the deal that all the suspects would be brought to the 2-4 Precinct later.”
“What about the crime scene?”
Seedman looked at him stone-faced, “Crime scene? There is no crime scene. They mopped it up.”
Arguably two of the most important and influential players of the 32,000-strong NYPD were speechless; forced to the sidelines to watch the game unfold. Then Seedman said, “Listen, before they tell me what occurred, I'd like to hear it from someone who was actually there.”
Seedman and Daley sidestepped the temporary headquarters and began interviewing the principles who first came upon the scene—all of the injured cops. Phil Cardillo was the most seriously injured and it was his injury that would bring the charge of attempted murder. He could also give damning evidence if he actually saw the shooter—but he was on the operating table.
Navarra, Negron, and Padilla were questioned in that order. All were groggy from sedatives. Negron and Navarra's statements mirrored each other. They entered and were overwhelmed from the front and surprised from the rear. The attackers were punching and kicking at them, and were also trying to rip their guns from the holsters. They balled their bodies up into smaller targets and held onto their weapons, waiting for backup. There was nothing they could do.
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.”
He raised the cadence of his voice as if he were on a pulpit. “One of these cops ran past our man at the desk and rushed up the stairs to the second floor. That act was disrespectful and provocative. The brothers had to bring the policeman back down the steps. And shortly after that, six other patrolmen tried to gain entrance.”
Farrakhan grinned into the cameras for supreme effect, “They were all expelled from the temple. And then they came with their submachine guns, automatic weapons, and every type of handgun imaginable, all the while wearing bulletproof vests.”
He held his hands suppliantly out, “A swift arrival with that much firepower had to have been a premeditated plan of attack. We demand a changing of the guard. No more of the blue-eyed devils surrounding our temples, our houses of worship, our streets, our schools. We demand a replacement of white cops and their commanding officers by strong black men in Harlem.”
The request was the equivalent, in my mind, of a kid running for class president, by promising to pump soda through the water fountains.
Throughout Farrakhan's venomous rhetoric, he never once mentioned the fact that he and his men were in possession of a stolen police revolver. He failed to mention that one cop had been mortally wounded by one of his men, and that three others were beaten to within an inch of their lives. The closest he came was saying the policemen were “expelled from the temple.” He also failed to mention that the police were well within their rights to enter the mosque in accordance with their duty, and that they were only expelled after being attacked five-to-one. Nor did the press ever question the veracity of his statements. They did, however, view the silence of the NYPD as an admission of guilt.
We—the rank and file—now viewed ourselves as simple bargaining chips, risking our lives day-in and day-out for what? Heavily armed and dedicated rubes, to be kicked and held down, tugged back and forth over politically drawn lines. Cops hurt, shot, and killed? We were nothing but collateral damage in their campaigns. But those six individuals—Lindsay, Murphy, Ward, Codd, Farrakhan, and Rangel—had made a huge miscalculation if they thought the rank and file of the NYPD was as blind as those six were politically hungry. Bottom line: cops were getting angry, watching Farrakhan glom the news cameras, spouting untruths as a cop lay dying, and not a word from the brass. Farrakhan was getting what he planned, to divide and conquer the almighty NYPD.
The street cops began to shun their bosses, looking inward for leaders and representation. Thirty thousand armed, angry, demoralized, and demilitarized cops festering in an already dangerous city was a powder keg waiting to blow. But they weren't totally powerless. The bargaining chip that every cop knew he had in his pocket was passivity. Without the cop on the corner or in the car coming when needed, the people of the city would be enraged. A police standstill would be far more damaging than anyone in that circle of six could ever imagine. That's what they'd soon find out.
I had been in a coma for the better part of twenty-four hours with a massive concussion. I was hit on the right side of my head and lost control of all bodily functions for approximately five days.
When I awoke, I was four doors down from Phil Cardillo. There was one uniformed cop guarding my door. His name was Ray Kelly of the 2-3 anticrime. He was a young cop, but would go on to become chief and then commissioner under two mayors one day. At my bedside two people were keeping vigil: my old partner, and closest friend Jimmy Aurichio, and my girlfriend, Lynn. It was comforting to open my eyes and see them there. I knew Jimmy would have found a way to get Lynn in the room. There was an immediate-family-only restriction to any visitors and for just cause—the BLA had me in their sights, and there was that little 50,000-dollar lifetime contract put out on my head by Albert Victory and company. Victory and his accomplice, Robert Bornholdt, were two vicious mob associates who committed the cold-blooded murder of a young patrolman, John Verecha, on Third Avenue outside Arthur's, an upscale disco, four years earlier. I had put them away for life by arresting them and testifying at the trial.
Lynn wasn't immediate family, but Jimmy snuck her in anyway.
There was a pile of newspapers at the base of my bed. The first one I picked up was The Daily News. The front page had a picture of me, bloody and unconscious, being dragged to safety by my boss, Inspector John Haugh. I can't explain it, how eerie it felt to see myself in that prone position. I felt anger roaring through my body.
I rifled through the rest of the papers, becoming more and more agitated. No arrests had been made, and according to the press, two patrolmen entered the mosque “under circumstances that are still unclear.”
But here was the kick in the ass: “Cardillo might have been shot by another cop.” Why wasn't anyone refuting them? Hadn't they done paraffin and ballistic tests by then? More papers read more of the same: lots of Louis Farrakhan, Jesse Jackson, Charles Rangel, and another Harlem clergyman, Reverend Dr. Henry Dudley Rucker, all of whom declared that the black community was rallying support for the Muslims against the police.
Where in the hell were the facts of the case? It was our responsibility—our job—to provide a truthful outline of the case to the press without tainting the investigatory process. But then, there was no mention of any investigation by the NYPD either.
This Reverend Rucker continued the demand for an apology from Lindsay and Murphy for the, “reckless, disrespectful, anti-religious manner in which one of our religious temples and groups were rudely and crudely shot up.”
Farrakhan again insinuated that the cops had entered the mosque as a purposeful and premeditated attack on the Muslims. I knew what was happening. The public was being fed disinformation in an effort to manipulate a potential jury. If you tell a lie enough times it becomes the truth. I was starting to feel a cold uneasy prickle up my spine. I needed to get out and do something, go back to work, anything other than lying in bed. I stood. My legs were weak. I almost collapsed, and then I realized there was a catheter attached to me. I wasn't going anywhere.
Jimmy grabbed me and helped me back in the bed. I asked, “What the hell is going on, Jimmy?”
He just shook his head. Jimmy was never at a loss for words, but that Saturday morning, he, like the rest of the NYPD, was staggering on the ropes, hopelessly waiting for someone to speak up for us. That would only happen days later, however, with Benjamin Ward and Commissioner Murphy.
I awoke to the smell of barbecue and cigars. Cops were surrounding my bed. These were the men who I entrusted my life to, my partners, the men I'd die for, who'd die for me. And now when I looked at them, I couldn't help noticing that not one of them was white. It hadn't been an issue before. But now, after Ward's announcement, we were different. Now it wasn't us cops; it was black cops, white cops, Hispanic cops, whatever. Thanks to Ben Ward, we weren't brothers, because we weren't the same color.
They were the big guns of the 2-8 squad and the sixth division. Jerry Leon, Elwood Ambrose, the 2-8 squad boss or whip, Sergeant Walter Kirkland, and a 2-8 uniform, Jerry Harvey. Walter McCafferty of the adjoining 3-2 Precinct was running interference with a cute nurse who was trying her damndest to regain control of the room. Detective Cyrus Bartley, also from the 2-8, was an impossibly large man with a large personality. He leaned onto my bed and hugged me. In his uniquely low voice he bellowed, “How you doing, little brotha?” His laugh shook my bed up and down. He took the newspaper, pointed to a picture of me and said, “We gonna make this come out right.”
As far as I was concerned, these were some of the best cops on the force. We had all ridden together, closed out many homicides together. There was zero bullshit or pretense with any of us. And I knew exactly why they were there. They wanted me to know that we were still a team, stacked deep with respect for one another, regardless of what was force-fed to the media. Commissioner Murphy wasn't there and no one else from the porcelain palace had shown face either. These guys were my support—the gumshoes who faced death every day—the same men who were indiscriminant of any color but blue—my partners, my brothers.
Jerry Leon laughed as he unfolded a clipping from The Daily News. I recognized the scene: rioting men, Inspector Haugh, and me after I was hit and out cold. He looked around the hospital room where the men were smoking and eating chicken and ribs from Sherman's, and said, “No good deed goes unpunished, ain't that the way it is, fellas?” All of the men laughed, that made me less nervous. The fact that all the men still had a camaraderie, even after everything. We were just a bunch of cops trying to make the best out of a situation. It was nice to think we could, but it just didn't seem possible.
Before the nurse finally wrestled the men out of the room, Amby turned to me and said, “Hey, Randy, Mitchelson wanted to know if he can come up and apologize.” I nodded. After a series of short good-byes and hands on my shoulder, I was alone again. I saw the police department no longer as a whole entity, but as a department suddenly halved. It wasn't good guys and bad guys anymore. Now it was split between the bosses and the cops—the black cops and the white cops. In one afternoon the job had become as polarized as the city itself.
While I and the rest of the NYPD absorbed all of this duplicity, all the king's men were high atop Manhattan strategizing. These were the power brokers of the job. But they weren't sitting down with detectives, poring over suspect photos, deciding who was to be arrested. No, these super chiefs and commissioners were deciphering what their press statement was going to be and how best to pacify the snapping racial tensions that had developed over the years under Lindsay's tenure. And the injured cops and their families? Well, who really gives a fuck?
In attendance was First Deputy Police Commissioner William Smith who was Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy's first in charge, in the event of his absence or untimely passing. Deputy Commissioners Benjamin Ward and Robert Daley, Chief Inspector Michael Codd, Chief of Patrol Michael Cawley, and Chief of Detectives Albert Seedman were also present.
According to Robert Daley, Benjamin Ward came out swinging against the cops. His stance was that they were without merit to enter the temple. He saw the cops as unprofessional from the time the thirteen was called in, till the time he pulled them off their posts. “Those cops were shooting through the glass to kill at point blank range, and the bullets went into the ceiling because they were scared. Their hands were shaking so hard the bullets went into the ceiling. The uniform was shot by another cop, not one of the FOI soldiers.”
According to Seedman, it was all he could do to contain his rage and contempt toward Ward, who didn't even have the decency to call the mortally wounded cop by his name: Phil Cardillo. In that room he saw the future of the NYPD. The whole of the job had been distilled down to a bogus press release covering everyone's ass at the expense of the people, who in his estimation, meant the most—the cops.
Seedman shook his head “no,” lifting up the ballistics report as he read. “Powder burns prove that,” Seedman made sure to over-accentuate the name, “Phil Cardillo, was shot at close range, the gun four to six inches from his jacket. Phil Cardillo was not shot by one of us, Commissioner.”
Undeterred, Ward fought over every word that was to be released. He screamed, “The cops had no legal right to enter that mosque, none whatsoever. I can understand why the people up there think this was a deliberate attack. That mosque is a place of worship. Cops would have never entered a synagogue or Saint Patrick's Cathedral in the same manner. They had no legal right, ya hear?!”
None of the yelling mattered. Whatever these men decided to release need to be signed off by Murphy and then by Lindsay himself. Everything else was moot. The only thing that mattered was what Lindsay and his people said mattered. That was the bottom line.
And so it went, more hours of backbiting and tooth-and-nail fighting, all for a doctored half-statement that wouldn't be released for another two days—five days too late.
The only statement made to the bosses by the mayor's office was terse and scarily to the point: When the cop dies, let us know immediately so the mayor can get up to the hospital. Phil Cardillo was no longer Patrolman Cardillo. He was just a piece of meat on a slab, ready to be bagged up and dropped in the ground. According to these men, he was just another almost-dead cop.
Murphy hadn't been to the hospital since the day of occurrence, nor had he been up to the 2-8, nor any of the precincts located in Zone-6 to offer condolences. This had Inspector John Haugh and the rest of his men fuming—at least show some support for the man's wife and children—but nothing that civil would transpire.
The 2-8 PBA delegate, Bart Gorman, called for a meeting in Astoria Park, Queens. Every cop who wasn't working showed up. And many of the 3-0, 3-2, and 2-5 cops showed up too. The point of the meeting was to vent and to get answers. It was unanimously decided that the job would be done by-the-book until something was done to investigate these crimes.
Harlem was always moving on eight pistons. The by-the-book made it a beaureaucratic mess. This was just the beginning of the internal war within the NYPD.
While this meeting was taking place, Commissioner Murphy was having a meeting of his own. It wasn't with any of the injured cops, their family members, or their superiors. No, Murphy wanted a sit-down with Minister Louis Farrakhan.
Murphy had somehow secretly gotten word to Farrakhan, requesting his presence at One Police Plaza—headquarters. Later, I would come to understand how easy it was for Murphy or any one of his minions to get word (or evidence for that matter) in and out of that mosque. But before I took on the case, I was on the outside looking in, just like everyone else.
Farrakhan jumped at the chance for a meeting with the head of the NYPD. This was going to give him great credibility within the Muslim community and on the streets of Harlem. It also raised up another blinking neon sign to the public at large: If you scream loud enough, you can get away with anything.
The meeting was attended by Farrakhan's inner circle, which included his ever recalcitrant FOI men. In reality, one of those men sitting across from Murphy and Chief of the Department Codd, could have been the man who shot a policeman. According to Murphy's later writings, Farrakhan was a man of, “clear conviction, speaking in tones of deep resonance, whose larger style was not entirely confrontational.”
What in the fuck was Murphy thinking? Wasn't this the same man who harbored criminals wanted in connection with the beatings of the officers who Murphy allegedly commanded? Wasn't Farrakhan the same individual whose followers were in possession of a stolen police revolver? Did Murphy think that the rank and file wouldn't find out about this meeting, and see it as the ultimate betrayal? Farrakhan and Murphy sat side by side. As Farrakhan made his demands to switch all white police personnel in Harlem to black members of the service, Murphy was further awed by Farrakhan's delivery, and how he spoke so powerfully and directly to the point. Murphy later recalled that Farrakhan seemed like a “cool-tempered poker player with a large pot in front of him.”
Sitting across from these two was none other than Chief of the Department Michael Codd. Being a career cop, you might think this meeting might have offended him, given the fact that he was directly in charge of the injured cops. But as he later recalled, he found Farrakhan to be “a charismatic man, urbane, and intelligent.”
Had these men stopped looking themselves in the mirror? What happened? Weren't they cops? They had the meeting without so much as a nod to the injured cops. They had not only emasculated themselves in the eyes of the rank and file, but also lopped off the balls of every cop on patrol, rendering them incapable of commanding the very streets they were paid to protect. And all this, in full view of the salivating public who distrusted cops in the first place.
So Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, once a street cop who rose through the uniformed ranks of the NYPD to captain of police, looked straight into Farrakhan's eyes, and apologized for police blunder. He stated he was “aware of a standing order or a secret agreement or pact that prohibited cops from entering a mosque with firearms, and that the cops arriving on the scene on that particular day were maleficent in their duties and had violated this pact.” He further admitted that he knew the cops had “broken this promise and that his people were entitled to just that admission and this heartfelt apology” from the police commissioner himself.
Message to Murphy: If you want cops to adhere to some “secret pact,” then you can't keep it secret from the cops. Not one police commander who has ever worked in any precinct that housed mosques could ever recall reading any interim orders stating any such pact existed. If there was such a pact, no one knew of its existence. Shame on Murphy, and shame on Codd.
The couple's counseling meeting had done more damage to the NYPD than a thousand riots. Murphy and the rest in the circle of six were going to find out that no one was going to forget what happened on April 14, 1972. Patrol would see to that.