Five days had passed and still no word of an investigation. MNTF was still at the ready at the 2-4 Precinct. The bosses were no longer in fear of a potential riot. They were now in fear of their own—the men of Zone-6. They had heard about the potential slowdown by patrol, and we had heard about the meeting between Murphy and Farrakhan.
That same day doctors removed my catheter. I was wobbly on my feet. My vision was impaired, and my head still felt as though it was in a vice. What was really bothering me was the fact that I was so damn helpless, lying in that bed. I was receiving visits day and night by cops and detectives and every morning by Joy Cardillo. I got credible firsthand information on the case—the case that never was—and how the Zone-6 cops were handling the public slap in the face. Most of my information came from the 2-8 PBA delegate, Bart Gorman. Bart was an old friend. He was a good cop and an especially good confidante to the younger guys in the precinct.
PBA delegates are a breed of their own. Every precinct has two, sometimes three, depending on the size of the house. The primary function of these elected delegates was to field grievances made by their peers and to voice those grievances at monthly meetings with other union delegates. These grievances varied in degree and severity, ranging from the poor parking conditions, to cops having been unfairly relieved of their duties. If a cop is accused of any wrongdoing on or off the job or in cop-speak—if he or she gets jammed up—it is up to the PBA delegate to get to them before they're able to make any detrimental or incriminating statements in a court of law, or worse, the department's trial room—or in cop-speak, kangaroo court.
Most of the precinct delegates were veteran foot soldiers whose aspirations ran anywhere from helping out their fellow cops to heading the powerful police union. Bart Gorman was a nice mix of both. He was smart, had balls, and above all else, he was a street cop who had had more than his share of run-ins with precinct commanders on our behalf. On this incident, he was siding with the 2-8 Precinct commander, John Haugh. On separate visits to the hospital, both men said how twisted they'd become over what they both called a betrayal and scumbagging of the worst kind.
The 2-8 commander, John Haugh, had become something of a father figure to his men, even though at 43 he was one of the youngest inspectors on the job. Haugh, a lawyer, was considered one of the rising stars of the NYPD. However deep his loyalties were toward the job and his very bright future, his children—the cops of the 2-8—took precedence. Haugh was a twenty-year veteran who had a reputation of being stand-up. He never talked down to his troops, and he led by experience. Haugh was the type of leader who wouldn't ask anything that he himself wouldn't do. He treated every one of his subordinates with respect, from the stationhouse broom to his executive officer. On occasion I had the pleasure of watching him at roll call. Most precinct commanders used that time to enforce their leadership over the men. Haugh didn't have to do that. He used those, as he called them valuable moments, when the troops were assembled as a whole, to bond with his cops. The boys of the 2-8 were battle weary, weren't easily gamed, but they liked, admired, and above all else, trusted John Haugh.
Haugh knew he was on the fast track to the mahogany paneled, blue-carpeted office of the police commissioner itself. He was the NYPD's new breed of cops, smart and built to last. But at my bedside his luster had faded, even his gait was slower, his posture less erect. When he spoke he had to stop to avoid breaking down.
“On the roof, Randy...this Mitchelson, he wants to give you back some shotgun?” He was busying himself with his eyeglasses, cleaning the lenses. He was avoiding the question, “Was the gun legit, Randy?”
He still hadn't looked at me because the last thing he wanted to do was question anyone's legitimacy on the day of the occurrence. I had already read in the newspaper that Phil's recovered gun was loaded with hollow-point bullets, which at the time were outlawed by the NYPD. Why that piece of information was newsworthy, and how the press received it was beyond me. But the brass was now trying to distance itself from the real facts of a politically charged case, a cop was shot and three others beaten at a militant mosque. I understood how this must've caused Haugh great shame, because the hierarchy was going to start looking for someone to take the blame.
Mayor Lindsay wanted to pretend that these acts of violence never occurred. Well, he had the right set of supervisors to make it all go away. They weren't cops; they were administrative support, politicos hiding behind their desks high above the city, so quick to judge without actually having walked in a real cop's shoes.
I placed my hand on Haugh's sagging shoulder, “John, it was police-issued. I'd never put you in a position like that, never, John.”
He lifted his head and smiled. “I know Randy, I know.” He stood and placed his blue eight-point hat on his head. Through it all, he still seemed proud to wear that uniform. Through all his successes, he was still a street cop. That was why he was connected to his men. However high his rank, he still served the men under him, protected and put his back against the wall for them. Well, now he was at the wall, and there was nothing that he could do to protect us.
He turned to walk out, then he looked back at me sadly, “I'm still at the 2-8, Randy. Anything you need, just pick up the phone, Kid. Stay well, and see ya soon.” He turned and walked out.
I was confused—still at the 2-8? Did he think he was going to take the fall?
A while later, I awoke and found my father sitting at the base of my bed. This wasn't going to be good news. I lifted myself up and asked, “What, Dad? What happened?”
“It's Phil, Randy. The doctors can't do anything for him. His spleen, gallbladder, and part of his liver have all been removed...It's just a matter of time, Son.”
The hospital that had never lost a cop. Well, they couldn't say that anymore. I felt my throat seize up. I knew Phil. And I liked Phil. I knew his Uncle Frank and Aunt Tessie, who were florists in the area and who also lived in the confines of the 2-5 Precinct. I'd met his first love and wife, Joy, at rackets thrown by the cops of the 2-8. I knew they had just had their third baby and named him Todd. Phil was a good man, husband, and father, and now his children were going to be devoid of all of that. I felt some of the loss that they were going to feel for the rest of their lives. I felt the tears in my eyes welling into pools.
I didn't want my father to see me in any more pain. I swung my feet off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I ran the faucets, splashed water on my face, and then I cried. I don't know for how long, but when I came out, my dad was gone.
I couldn't stay in the hospital any longer. I was off all antibiotics and was able to relieve myself without the help of any tubes or bags. I'm not proud to admit this even after thirty-five years, but I also couldn't bare to witness the sight of Joy when she found out Phil wouldn't be coming home. He had fallen victim to a senseless murder that he himself was being demonized for. I stuffed my clothes in a brown paper bag and called Jimmy Aurichio to meet me at the service entrance. Then I called the young uniform who was guarding my door. I explained the situation to him cop to cop. I wasn't doing any good in that room. If the hospital administrators and the job had it their way, I'd be confined to that bed for at least a month. He understood my position, signed himself out for a meal break, and when he returned, I was gone.
Before I left, I made my way down the hall. It wasn't hard to find Phil's bed—two uniforms at the base, two more at the nurse's station, keeping a watchful eye. No one was getting near that bed unless it was an immediate family member known to those cops.
I wasn't looking at the cops as I walked to Phil. He had a tangle of tubes running from his lower extremities up and across his body, intravenous bags, a heart monitor that beeped continuously, an inhalator taped to the side of his face, leading down his throat. I don't know how long I stood under those ugly fluorescents, in the middle of the ICU surrounded by death, where multitudes of heart monitors and inhalators were pulsing, bleeping, and wheezing in non-rhythmic uncertain beats. I was a homicide detective for the better part of my adult life. I had seen death daily, and on more than one occasion faced it head on. I had made peace with God. I also understood that I was in a business where people were going to die. And through it all, I was able to compartmentalize every emotion. But shelving the emotions wasn't working here. I was a shocked civilian bystander, pressed up against yellow police tape, not wanting to watch. I wanted to move to him and apologize for the injustice. I wanted to tell him that he was on his way to a much better place. And I wanted to say that there would be some redemption, that the job wasn't going to allow for this to go without punishment. But I couldn't move any further. I was stuck halfway in the hall, halfway to his bed. The one thought I was sure about: I wasn't going to forget Phil Cardillo.
I looked at the four cops now standing at attention at the base of Phil's bed. They must've recognized who I was and were giving me the chance to say good-bye. I wiped the tears from my eyes, turned, and disappeared down the stairway.
That afternoon, One Police Plaza received a call from the hospital administrator: Phil Cardillo is in grave condition and probably won't last another twenty-four hours. The NYPD chaplain was immediately dispatched. Phil was given his last rights in the presence of his wife, mother, and father. His immediate family members sat vigil at his bedside for the duration. The next evening, as predicted, Phil Cardillo succumbed to his wounds.
At that very moment from his home in Staten Island, Police Commissioner Murphy called in a statement to the press:
“While all the facts concerning the shooting have yet to be determined by our investigation, it is clear that this officer responded to a call for assistance, which was later found to be an anonymous and unfounded call. Shortly after entering the location, the officers encountered resistance, and a struggle ensued. While there is considerable discussion concerning the struggle itself, the fact remains that the officer, responding in uniform and in the performance of his duty, sustained a gunshot wound resulting in death.”
Before Murphy disconnected the call, he stated that he didn't feel well and would not be making it to the hospital. That same evening Mayor Lindsay received news of Phil's death. He, too, had other pressing plans. I went home and slept for the better part of two days. That Monday was Phil Cardillo's funeral.
I generally tried to be at as many police funerals as I could—it was the least we cops could do for one another—and in the forty or so funerals that I had attended, Phil's, by far, had the largest turnout of police personnel I had ever witnessed. There were cops from as far away as California. The church was smallish so it was impossible to seat the thousands in attendance. There were two aisles of cops standing at attention from the church's first row of pews to the last row, down the steps, running into the middle of the street, and continuing in both directions. Three NYPD helicopters hovered in the distance. Across the street from the church, twenty white-gloved mounted cops sat stoically atop horses. Behind the hearse were twenty highway patrol cops, idling their gleaming NYPD Harleys. It was an amazing show of support—except for one thing. Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy weren't there. It was the first time in the history of the police department. The unwritten tradition that mayors and police commissioners attended the funerals of officers fallen in the line of duty had been upheld for more than 400 deaths up to that point. The day after Phil passed, Lindsay had flown out to Utah for a ski trip; Murphy and his wife flew to London “on a business meeting.” Instead, Lindsay sent his wife, Mary, and his Chief of Staff Edward Hamilton. Sitting in for Murphy: acting Police Commissioner, Benjamin Ward.
Ward arrived indecently late, because he had to walk past the long line of enraged New York cops leading up to the church. Many of the officers on the steps and in the aisles of the church were 2-8 cops. He was smart, keeping his head down as he walked. The uniforms—black and white—cursed him and spat on the ground as he passed. Just before he entered the church, a 2-8 cop screamed, “You won't get away with it!”
Another yelled, “You're not welcome here!”
Those words were too kind for this man, who truly had no right to attend the funeral of a fallen hero cop, the same cop he was trying to vilify and place in the ground under a disgraceful investigation.
As Phil's coffin was led out of the church, we snapped one last salute. The only noise was the occasional whimper and sniffle. Grown men, hardened and battle-tested cops all wept openly. I'm sure they wept for Phil, and for the Cardillo family, and they wept for the rest of us, the cops of the New York City Police Department. We, the men and women of the NYPD, were embarrassed, beaten, murdered, and left out in the cold by our leaders. These were sad times.
More than 150 men from the 2-8 formed a tight semicircle around Phil's casket as it was lowered into the ground. I watched as John Haugh—front and center—pulled off his glasses to clean the lenses. His chin began to shake. He broke down and wept.
Joy Cardillo sat at the foot of the casket with her immediate family members. I can only imagine what she was thinking. I knew what I was thinking. I damn well knew what the rest of the cops were thinking. As the casket was lowered into its final resting place, the police chaplain held out his white-gloved hand for Joy. She gave the chaplain her hand, stood, and fell heavily back into the chair, crying. Bart Gorman immediately rushed to her side, kneeling down next to her, whispering in her ear. She nodded a number of times, composed herself, stood, moved to the casket, and blew a kiss goodbye. She turned and walked away, followed by her family and friends. The uniformed members of the 2-8 Precinct stood at attention and saluted as Joy and her procession walked to their waiting limousines. I was one of those men. We did not complete the salute until every car was long out of sight.
Bart Gorman knelt down next to Phil's coffin. He openly wept. “On my soul, Phil, we will never forget you, Brother, never. We will get every last boss who had anything to do with this, and we will crucify them as they crucified you, on my soul, Phil, on my soul!”
He stood, weeping, turned to the contingency of cops, all of whom were crying as well, and said, “We will never forget Phil Cardillo. We are not going to let these bastards get away with putting Phil in the ground an orphan. We will remember Cardillo! Remember Cardillo!”
He turned one last time, sobbing, “They'll pay for this, Phil. They are going to pay.”
Chief Seedman was a respectful distance away, watching as the 2-8 cops disassembled. As I approached, he stuck his hand out for me to shake, which I did. He asked, “You feeling better?”
“Physically...yes.”
“Listen to me, these disappearing acts, like the one you pulled in the hospital, they end. You understand?”
He didn't wait for an answer, “There was a guy at your door for a reason, and the last thing I need is to think you got clipped by some militant radicals. I had twenty detectives doin' floor-to-floors in that hospital.”
He pointed in my face and grinned, “Your father is a good man.”
I was embarrassed at having had my father explain away my absence. “This Inspector Mitchelson, he gonna shit on my head? I need to wear a helmet?”
Seedman pulled a cigar out of an expensive leather holder. He lit it and dramatically blew out a column of thick gray smoke. “One of Ward's. He's harmless. Forget him. You, you're going back to the BLA. You need men, you call my office and I'll assign them to you.”
I was confused. I had already assembled a bunch of shields from central Harlem, all solid cops already asses-and-elbows into all of the BLA's players. “What about the guys I already have?”
Seedman started to walk toward his car. I followed. “It's just you, Randy. Those guys are going back to their old units, and some are coming into the bureau.”
He stopped. I stopped. He said, “They wanna fuckin' clean house. You know what this administration thinks of the BLA.”
He walked up and stopped short of his car and looked directly into my eyes. They pierced like bullets. I suddenly felt all of Seedman's power. “And you know what I think of the BLA. If you need detectives I'll try to pull the ones you already had working with you.”
“Where do I turn out of?”
“Where you belong, the 2-8. Any fives you write, any intelligence you gather, any potential collars you're gonna make, come through my office.”
He pulled the car door open, “How many days you need?”
“A week, Sir.”
He shook my hand once again and got in the car. As his sedan pulled away, I reflected on the last time I had a one-on-one like that with him—1968, the 1-7 Precinct, midtown Manhattan—the irony of it all was that that meeting was over a murdered cop as well—John Verecha. After the Albert Victory and Robert Bornholdt case, Seedman met me at the precinct, and on the spot elevated me to the rank of detective, second grade, just like that. He turned and disappeared out of the detective squad, nothing else said. Some things never change.
I was now alone in the cemetery, and alone on the job—no partners, no backup. Haugh had told everyone to return to the precinct. He had an announcement to make. Back at the 2-8, there was already a large contingency of news crews. Inspector John Haugh stepped out onto the precinct steps. He was composed, but he had a glazed-over look in his eyes. He unfolded a piece of plain white paper, and read.
“When Patrolman Cardillo was killed, he was doing his job properly. That is the only issue here. All we wanted was a clear unequivocal statement during the week, as he lay in the hospital, or when we were waking him, saying that he was in the mosque.” He pulled his glasses off quickly and wiped them down with a handkerchief, “in that mosque doing his job, and doing it properly. I don't like leaving this job and the men. My father was a cop for thirty-two years, and my father-in-law was a patrolman for twenty-seven years. The job has always been in my family. The most important thing isn't if we catch Patrolman Cardillo's killer. What is important is that his wife and his children firmly believe that he was doing the right thing, and he was.”
He slowly folded up the paper, placing it in his parade jacket. He leaned in and said, “Somebody had to say it, and I did. That's it.”
He turned and walked back into the 2-8 Precinct. Bart Gorman then yelled from the top of the precinct steps, “If the brass won't stand behind you, if you know that you're not going to be supported afterward by the brass, then you can't take any action in the street whatsoever.”
He then went into the precinct, followed by the rest of the 2-8 uniform presence. I was stunned. It was widely known that John Haugh was a career cop. Seeing the golden boy of the NYPD retire because of the job's treachery was going to hit the guys hard, especially the men in the 2-8. They'd lost a brother, been betrayed, and now they lost a father. Where was their guidance going to come from? And who'd be able to make this atrocity right? Gorman had just thrown down the gauntlet in a not-so-veiled threat. By saying “no action can be taken in the street whatsoever,” he basically stated to the job that the cops were going to run themselves.
Ward and Rangel demanded the police turn a blind eye to predatory behavior at the scene—assaults and subsequent murder—well, that's exactly what they were going to get. Zone-6 was about to explode.