I found a no-tell motel in a small town called Ardsley, New York. It was far enough from the thruway to be discreet for its short-stay clientele. It was a two-story, eight-over-eight walk up where a low overhang shielded the naughty and horny from inclement weather and prying eyes. No one was going to be too curious around there, because no one wanted to be seen there. I parked the car in the darkest part of the lot. “I'm not gonna bullshit you. Your people find out where you are, they're gonna come looking for you. No one can know where we are this weekend. Do you understand?”
He nodded, looking scared to death.
I called Jimmy Aurichio from a pay phone. He was half asleep but cleared right up when he heard my jittery voice. I explained the situation. I needed money and toiletries by the morning. I gave him the address. He knew not to get tailed.
I secured a room furthest from the exterior staircase. I'd hear anyone walking up and I'd be able to see through the peephole. The place wasn't built for comfort; one double bed sat slightly off-center. A folded up towel was jammed between the headboard and the wall. The gaudy light fixture sent ugly arrows of green and red light across the stucco walls. It looked like a Harlem gin mill way after hours. A small dresser pocked with cigarette burns sat across from the bed, and a bathroom was off somewhere to the left. I took a deep breath. It smelled like a mix of nicotine, alcohol, and after-sex. This is going to be one very long and fucked-up weekend, I thought.
“You take the bed.” I said, pulling the shotgun from my hip.
He moved to the other end of the room, never taking his eyes off the rifle. He pressed his back to the wall and slid down into a sitting position on the nasty carpet, “I'm going to sit over here, if you don't mind.”
I grabbed the only other piece of furniture, a rickety desk chair. I pulled it next to the door facing Foster. I cradled the shotgun in my lap. No one was getting in; no one was getting out. He asked, “Are you going to kill me now?”
It was the kind of question that sucks the air of the room. Is he scared enough to bolt from the room? Does he think he has to hurt me? Did he somehow get a message to Loretta, and did she call the Muslims? Am I going to die in this dirty no-tell motel? “Why would I bring you forty miles north of the city to a motel just to kill you? I'm not gonna kill you.”
“Then why are you carrying the shotgun?”
“I don't want you to kill me, and I don't want your friends to kill us.”
“I'm a man of God, Detective Jurgensen. I would never kill another man. But the police at the district attorney's office, they know who I am. They asked you if I was the one. They want you to kill me.”
“They don't know who you are. They think you're someone different, believe me. As long as we're together, no one is going to hurt you.”
He seemed a little more at ease, but I didn't trust the fact that he might have a change of heart and get the sudden urge to run. And he probably thought he had become obsolete after giving his testimony, and that I'd kill him once he fell asleep.
No TV, no radio, it was just the two of us, kept awake by paranoia. Every hour or so, a new couple would rent the neighboring rooms. So for the next seven hours, we sat up in the dirty motel room, staring at each other, listening to the pounding, moaning, gasping, and slapping through the walls.
At first light, Foster washed his hands and face, then knelt facing the east side of the room and prayed. We'd both been up for twenty-four hours, but he found the time and energy. I found that endearing.
Inside the car, I pulled out a set of handcuffs, dangling them in front of Foster. “Do you believe I'm not going to hurt you?”
“Yes, Sir, I believe you.”
“I don't need to put these on you then, right?”
“No, Sir, you don't need restraints.”
“Good, and call me Randy.”
At 7:30, Jimmy's car rolled up next to mine. I opened the window, blinking slowly at my old partner. He started to laugh. “You guys must've had some friggin' party.”
Inside the gnarly room, I showered first. Jimmy knew if Foster was going to trust me for the duration, he'd have to trust my partners. Jimmy helped by being the easygoing guy that he was, just hanging out with Foster and joking around with him.
While Foster showered, Jimmy and I sat on the balcony, sure to leave the room door open in a naive attempt to fumigate the stench. He had called the 2-5 before driving up to meet me. He said it was all over the police radios that I caught the shooter. Those two knucklehead uniforms from the DA's office must have played the telephone game through the night. By the time patrol heard it, I'd caught, arrested, and then after a drive-through visit to night court, had the man convicted and sentenced to life without parole. It wouldn't be long before the press grabbed hold of this misinformation, and Muldoon would be called by One PP. And of course, Muldoon would come looking for my head.
Jimmy stayed with Foster while I tried to stem the bleeding. Sam DeMilia was the first one I called. He was overjoyed to hear from me. He thought I'd collared the shooter, but after a quick explanation he came back down to earth. I explained that he had to get the message out to patrol, there was a break in the case, but no one was collared.
I called Van Lindt at his office. He was preparing the summation for the grand jury. “Randy, we got real problems. This is not a secret anymore.”
“I know, John. I was seen walking out of the building with a Muslim. Wasn't that hard to figure out.”
“Well the city, your job in particular, has been lit up. So far I've gotten ten calls from Police Plaza wanting to be briefed on the case. The newspapers haven't stopped calling, which means they called headquarters. It's fitting that it's morning.”
“How's that, John?”
“Well, the police department has egg on its face, Randy, lots of egg.”
I liked the fact that Van Lindt found this amusing. I knew Muldoon was being raked over the coals. “Randy, are you far, safe, and deep?”
“I'm, far, safe,” I took a look at the Bates Motel, “and dirty.”
“Well, stay that way. I'm trying to secure us a spot Monday morning, grand jury. I'll be here all weekend. Just keep in touch.”
I knew the call to Muldoon had to be made, but then I thought of the living hell he'd put me through for the past two years. I decided he could stew in his own shit a little while longer. I called Vito at the 2-5. I worried he wasn't in. It was a Saturday, his day off. He picked up on the first ring. “Vito, I'm sorry I made you come in today, I forgot...”
He cut me off. He was thrilled, so anxious to talk, almost hyperventilating. I heard cops in the background, laughing, cheering. He began to whisper. “Guys haven't left from the midnight yet. They're going fucking crazy, congratulating one another. We're like friggin' heroes, Randy. They're going nuts. And Muldoon, Randy, I swear to God headquarters is looking to throw gasoline on him and light him on fire. He's been here since seven this morning. Headquarters called him at home. He's on the fucking warpath. Do you know he actually came into the locker room looking for you? First time in two years!”
This was the first time I'd heard Vito's enthusiasm, and it was contagious. It was also the first time I'd ever heard him laugh, and that was especially nice. “Vito, whatever you do, don't tell him we spoke. Guy will push pins through your eyeballs if he thought you knew where I was.”
“Well, what are you gonna do?” he asked.
“I'm going to call Phil's family. Then I'm gonna go have breakfast. Then I'm gonna take a dump, and then maybe, just maybe, I'll call the good lieutenant.”
Before we hung up, I said, “Vito, good work, partner.”
We found a decent out-of-the-way diner. Foster was relaxed, but I was more nervous. If the job knew about Foster, then Ben Ward knew. If Ben Ward knew, the Muslims knew. And once they knew, both Foster and I were at risk.
I learned a lot about Foster over breakfast. He honestly didn't feel threatened by the Nation of Islam. He was a true believer in the Islamic teachings of the Koran, and felt the rest of the Muslims he studied with were also true believers. The Koran forbade lying, adultery, and murder. He told us the belief of Islam is that life on earth is a period of testing and preparation for the life to come, and that death is a simple gateway to eternal life, provided Muslims abide by the Islamic code of ethics. When breakfast came, we also learned that the Koran forbade gambling and the consumption of alcohol and pork. Both Jimmy and I sent our bacon back for home fries.
Jimmy asked, as only a New York cop could ask, “What's with the X's in your names? Malcolm X, Joe blow double X, Supreme triple X. I don't get it.”
In his soft matter-of-fact way, Foster broke it down for us while devouring his eggs. “In mathematics the X represents an unknown variable. Followers of the Nation of Islam accept this X as a symbol of the rejection of their slave names and the absence of a proper Muslim name. Eventually, the X is replaced with an Arabic name more descriptive of a person's character.”
I wondered what Lewis Dupree's name would be become in Arabic.
After breakfast, it was time to go and pay the piper. I called Muldoon at his office.
“Lieutenant Muldoon, its Jurgensen.”
There was a moment of silence, then a gasp, and then a breath, long exhale, and then he spoke at a moderate tone, accentuating every word in a run-on monotone fashion. “You-get-your-ass-in-here-right-now-and-maybe-I'll-see-if-you-still-have-a-job-when-you-get-here.”
His head must've looked like a big red balloon, ready to pop. As far as One PP was concerned, his whole existence was to contain this case, keep it from the press, and place a rubber band around me. Today's morning news must've been a rude awakening. I could have done cartwheels. The chickens were finally coming home to roost. Good. Fuck you, Lieutenant, you and the rest of your cronies. “Sir, I haven't done anything wrong.” I said. Now his voice was rising, starting to crack like a boy. “Did you go to the mosque? I told you not to go to the fucking mosque.”
“I didn't go to the mosque.”
More silence, then back to his monotone. I assumed a higher rank was close by. Poor little Muldoon, couldn't have a hissy fit in front of the boss. “Do you know how embarrassed the job is to have received this information from the fucking press?”
I was too tired for this. “Oh, stop the bullshitting, Lieutenant. You, you're embarrassed, and they're embarrassed by you, and there's gonna be further embarrassment when I don't come in, so just stop all this nonsense. Prepare a fucking statement for them. Tell them with some pride that the police have a break in the three-year-old murder of Patrolman Phillip Cardillo. You can handle it.”
“Statement? What fuckin' statement? How's this one: the detective on the case has proven his insubordinate behavior, has become a liability to the job, and has been relieved of his fuckin' duties. How's that for a statement, Jurgensen?”
“I've done nothing wrong, Lieutenant. I have been directed by the DA's office to sequester and protect the witness, and that's exactly what I'm doing.”
“Really, well let's see if you have a job when you come back down to earth.”
“Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”
The line went dead.
That night, with the trust Foster and I had established, we were able to sleep, even through the banging against the walls.
I awoke at sunup to find Foster quietly kneeling and praying. He was showered and dressed already. While he prayed, I wondered what type of cop he'd be. He was neat, paid attention to detail, and good habits. Foster 2X Thomas wasn't just a witness, he was becoming a friend; and I didn't know it, but he'd soon become my most trustworthy partner.
Jimmy met us at the same diner. After breakfast, he agreed to stay with Foster while I went home to square this all away with Lynn. Jimmy had briefed her, but I had to reassure her that everything was all right. I also missed her.
I found Lynn in a middle pew at church. When she saw me, her hand lifted to her mouth, probably half from joy, half from my ragged beat-to-shit appearance. I worked my way in between the parishioners, sat next to her, placed my arm around her, and I didn't let go.
After church, we went home and I told her what had happened. I promised her after the grand jury testimony it would just be a matter of time before the shooter was picked up. Then the case and this part of our lives would become a thing of the past. After a nap, shower, shave, and change of clothes, I headed back to the Bates Motel.
I didn't want to use my home phone, so I called Van Lindt from the first pay phone I could find. He told me we couldn't secure a spot in the grand jury until Tuesday, which meant I'd be on the run for another day and night. I agreed to see him at 9 a.m. on Tuesday.
I was out of money. Back then, like most cops, I was living paycheck to paycheck. Not claiming any overtime was squeezing the life out of me. Muldoon hadn't given me my check on Friday, something he did a lot, holding it so I'd have to go see him. I assumed it was just another way he could retain some kind of control over me.
I called Sam DeMilia at home. He told me at eight the next morning a cop would meet me at the intersection of the Hutchinson River Parkway and Route 287, in Westchester County. He'd give me cash.
Jimmy took the day off to help watch Foster. As promised, a nondescript company car was awaiting my arrival. It was a quick exchange with the well-dressed PBA representative. Phil Cardillo was a cop, a member of the PBA, and that is why I went and would continue to go to Sam DeMilia for help.
After the cop handed me a thick manila envelope with what I assumed was cash, he said, “Good work, and thanks.”
That courtesy meant a lot. It was cop-to-cop, extending gratitude for looking out. That was what this was all about, looking out for one another.
I waited for him to fall into the flow of traffic on the parkway. I discreetly followed him. He wasn't tailed, and I wasn't tailed as I headed back.
The day was incident-free. As opposed to listening to another full day of muffled pornography, we decided to go to the movies at nearby Greenburgh. Foster was totally comfortable with me by then. After the movie, we had dinner and I explained what the next day would be like. He wasn't nervous or overly inquisitive. I took this as a sign that he felt it was his obligation to offer his testimony, because of his beliefs.
I called Van Lindt. He told me that Muldoon would be in charge of the security detail that would bring us to the DA's office. I was to meet Muldoon, 7 a.m. in the Bronx, at 241st Street and Boston Post Road for my escort down. I would've preferred to not raise any flags coming in, but I had no choice. If Muldoon wanted to escort us in, I was sure it had come from One PP.
That Tuesday morning we were well rested, and both Foster and I were looking forward to a relatively normal life after his testimony.
As I pulled onto Boston Post Road, it looked like half the NYPD, TPF, and ESU were standing ready to escort the president of the United States into hostile territory. There were at least ten RMPs, two ESU trucks, an assortment of highway patrol cars, and four motorcycle cops. The only attachments that weren't there was the aviation unit and the Emerald Society's bagpipe band. This wasn't a quiet covert escort; this was the charge of the light brigade. When Foster saw this I noticed his body language change and stiffen. Right then I decided to keep driving. I called Van Lindt and told him the change in plans. I told him to give me a twenty-minute head start and then to get a message to Muldoon that I was going in solo. I appreciated what Muldoon was trying to do. At this point he had to believe the Nation of Islam would stop at nothing to derail us, but this was overkill, and would telegraph our arrival. Plus we'd expose Foster to everyone waiting.
As opposed to pulling directly in front of the DA's office—jumping out with guns blazing—I led Foster to a little known side entrance on Leonard Street used by judges, their clerks, and court officers. With my shotgun strapped on, and Foster close to my side, we casually made it to the side entrance unaccosted. Van Lindt was smart enough not to pull a Muldoon, but prudent enough to have cops from the DA's squad stationed inside at the ready. The moment I entered, we were whisked into an elevator by three detectives from the DA's squad, one of them an old friend, Nick Cirillo.
Once in the elevator he slapped me on the back, whispering, “You did it, you son of a bitch, you friggin' did it.”
The elevator opened to Van Lindt's floor where five armed court officers were waiting. They formed a circle around us as we moved to his office. They had sealed off the floors to all pedestrian traffic. We were in a safe seamless bubble.
Harmon was smiling as we entered Van Lindt's office. He wore his emotions on his sleeve. Van Lindt, on the contrary, was completely cool. Once inside, Harmon introduced himself to Foster, pumping his hand, clapping him on the shoulder. I noticed Foster trying to suppress a smile. He was proud to be a part of the process, the painstaking slow revelation of the truth. His motives were unimportant, whether for self-preservation or religious belief; he dared tell the truth when no one else would. He dropped his head as he broke into a wide smile.
Van Lindt briefed Foster with the questions they would ask, and in a matter of moments we were following the detectives and court officers to a rear stairway, which had also been cordoned off, and was stationed with more uniform court officers. Foster stayed close by my side, but it didn't seem to come out of fear or trepidation, but out of a sense of camaraderie, loyalty almost. We had gone through a lot that weekend. We had bonded, not only as friends, but also as teammates in a high stakes game of truth or dare.
The grand jury is a court of law that is overseen by a court-appointed referee and twenty-five jurors who collectively decide whether there is enough evidence to arrest an individual and bring a case to trial. The grand jury is a hearing of evidence. It's different from a Supreme Court trial because you only need a majority vote and not a unanimous vote. If you get it, it's called a true bill, and the person has been indicted and an arrest can be made. This was our job today: to reveal the facts of the case to these twenty-five men and women. And hopefully, they'd vote for a true bill.
Harmon stood off to the side as the referee swore me in. Chairs were scattered throughout the room, newspapers and magazines were used as fans. This case was just another case to the jurors. Dead cop, the Nation of Islam, Harlem riots, Louis Farrakhan, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, all those in favor for a true bill raise your hands. Of course, I'd have to leave the room after my testimony.
I sat in the hall with my hands in my lap while Foster testified for a long twenty minutes. If we didn't get that true bill, the case was dead, and Phil's murderer would get away.
The door opened; Foster stepped out alone. I looked at him, waiting. He smiled, nodding his head. Like a proud father, I grabbed him by his shoulders, pulling him close to me. We hugged. Finally justice would be served. This was now a matter of court record. Lewis 17X Dupree had been witnessed murdering Phil Cardillo and all the Farrakhans, Ben Wards, and blue-blooded fuckers at the porcelain palace couldn't whitewash it. This was the last stop on a never-ending local train. We had our bumps, blips, and fuckups, but somehow this twenty-four-year-old kid defied the odds, and made me and every skeptical cop a true believer. “Foster, I hope one day I have the fortitude to do what you have done.”
“You already have, Randy.”
I liked and appreciated his recognition.
“You're a man of respect, and I'll never forget what you have put yourself through and what you have done for Phil Cardillo, his family, and the men of the NYPD who never let this die.”
Van Lindt and Harmon somberly exited the chamber. On the side of the door were two lights set up side-by-side, a red one and a green one. A buzzer pulses when the jury has decided. The red light flashed if the case wasn't presented with enough facts for a true bill. We wanted the green one.
The lights and buzzer hadn't come on yet. As the time wore on, I felt myself moving closer to the ADAs, felt my ass pucker. My mind began to wander, did the jurors see through that? Did they think that evidence had been bought, conjured, stolen, or manufactured? Did they think we were paying for Foster's testimony, and he testified under duress? Was all this for nothing? Did I let the thousands of men, and the family of Phil Cardillo down? I edged closer and closer to the lights, willing that buzzer to ring, willing the green light to turn on. And then it happened, the buzzer rang like an old wind-up alarm clock. But there was no light, just the annoying buzzing. I turned to Van Lindt. His hand was raised, never taking his eyes off of the light panel. And then the green light flashed—on-off-on-off-on-off—true bill! Harmon said, “I need a drink.”
We stepped off the elevator at the ADA's floor. Movement was once again permitted. As we stepped toward Van Lindt's office, the door of the back stairway was kicked opened. It was him, all 225 pounds of twisted molten anger wrapped in a lieutenant's uniform—Muldoon had come for my head.
Go ahead, Lieutenant, say what you want, because I'm done, going to Disneyland, out there on the West Coast. I'll make it easy for you. I'll hand you my shield in front of everyone. I felt Van Lindt and Harmon step close to my side.
Muldoon stood in front of the three of us, livid. He didn't look at either man at my side. He didn't care what they thought.
He said, in an even tone, “Whether you believe it or not, we all have a job to do. Today, my job was to protect you and the subject, to bring you both in unharmed. You don't show up, I assume you were in trouble. If we are going to make this work for the duration, however long that might be, you've got to follow the tact plans, which have been laid out and prepared by men who do this for a living.”
He still hadn't acknowledged Harmon or Van Lindt. All of the piss and vinegar suddenly evaporated from within. Could this guy actually have meant all that? I nodded slowly, “You're right, Lieutenant, and I apologize.”
He dropped his head shuffling his feet slightly, “Well, just wanted to say...good job.”
He turned, heading back down the stairway, accompanied by a dozen ESU and TPF cops, most of whom smiled, winked, and gave me a thumbs-up. It felt good being a New York City cop that afternoon. But the afternoon wouldn't last till tomorrow.