Both Foster and San-San were at Harmon's office when I arrived. My plan was to retrieve the gun from wherever it was hidden. San-San did say he threw it off the bridge, but he may have said it out of fear. I believed he may still have been in possession of the firearm. I wanted to give him every chance to come clean without the fear of arrest.
After pulling another summons off my windshield, I headed up to the Bronx with San-San in hopes of finding the gun in his apartment. On the ride up, I asked him repeatedly where and when he threw the gun, but he didn't cave in. He remained stoic, as usual, and stuck to his story. I needed to be 100 percent sure. I was going to toss his apartment for my own peace of mind anyway.
His apartment was as sparse and neat as Loretta's. After a thorough once-over, I was convinced the gun wasn't there. I was also willing to believe his story that he tossed it into the river. I used his phone to call the NYPD Harbor Unit. We drove to the location, and to my surprise there was already an attachment of vessels from Harbor standing fast. And along with Harbor were members of the PBA, and along with them came members of the press, namely, The Daily News. I was bombarded with questions, none of which I answered. Then the photographer began snapping shots of the boats, divers, and me. But more important, they were able to get a photo of San-San. I knew where this was headed, and it wasn't a good place to be. Once the story broke, San-San was as good as dead. But as usual, San-San didn't show any wear. The search lasted three full tours. Four guns were recovered. Unfortunately, none of them was Padilla's service revolver. However, one of the recovered weapons was found to have been used in a triple homicide in Brooklyn. Ballistics on the weapon came back to the detective's number one suspect, solidifying and closing the case. The head of the Brooklyn detective squad called me to say I was included in the department's write-up for a medal. I requested that the medal be written for a different recipient. The chief agreed and it was awarded posthumously to Patrolman Phillip Cardillo.
My next tour of duty, I received a call at Harmon's office. It was Muldoon. “Where in the fuck do you get the balls to call in the Harbor Unit without notifying me?”
I tried to talk. He wasn't having it. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I am? I get a phone call at seven in the morning by some chief telling me to call him back after I read the newspaper.”
He was calm, which scared me. This was an indication that he'd surpassed his threshold of pain and could stand it no more. He knew his threats weren't going to deter me from doing what I thought was right. I knew I was all out of moves with him and the job. I'd accomplished what I set out to do, and that was to make the case as strong as possible against Dupree. Muldoon continued. “The men up at the motel tell me you and the witness haven't been there in three days. Why in the fuck am I wasting the manpower if you aren't in need of them? All this shit is over, Jurgensen. You hear me? From now on you will bring the witness to the motel. You will be on with him one tour, then you will be relieved for two. You will also give me your exact location, your mode of transport, and your expected ETAs for wherever the fuck it is you're going. If any of this isn't followed to the letter, you will be suspended on the spot. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Sir, I am clear. Is there anything—” But before I was able to hit him with it, he severed the line. I gently laid the phone in its cradle and realized that Harmon, Foster, and San-San were listening to that whole ass-reaming I'd just received. Harmon was grinning. His pat line after every new lecture I got was, “Don't they know Phil was a New York City cop?”
I did as I was told. I took Foster back up to the motel, stayed with him until I was relieved by two other DTs. Foster wasn't a fan of this, because while under the other detectives' charge, he was basically a prisoner. No phone calls were allowed, and he was only allowed out of their sight when he was going to the bathroom. That made my time with him all the more stressful. Each tour was like his last eight hours on earth. Everything was done to the max. If we went to the movies, we had to see two movies. If we went for ice cream, he had to get three cones. And with Loretta, now they spent every second in bed—great for Foster, horrible for me. The motel had one room, so I was sexiled to the outside steps. What I needed was a safe house, preferably one with separate bedrooms. Doing the math, it would work out cheaper in the long run for the NYPD, and it would offer us more stability. I called Vito and sent him on the hunt.
Vito found us a small bungalow-type house in the hamlet community of Peekskill, New York. Peekskill is approximately thirty miles north of the city. It's a bedroom community where people commute into the city early morning by railway and don't come back till after 6 p.m.
During the daytime tours, I started bringing Lynn to the safe house with me. This also made it a little less uncomfortable when Loretta was around, which at this point was almost every day. We'd cook and eat together, go to movies together, go for walks, watch television; we had become a tight-knit family. Foster and Loretta were extremely respectful of Lynn, since she was eight months pregnant. Foster insisted on rubbing her belly, calling the baby Haziz, which means “dearest one.” We still weren't sure of a name for the baby, not even sure if it was a boy or girl, but we decided not to go with Haziz, even though Foster lobbied hard for it.
The newspapers began running stories on the case, falsely stating that we recovered the murder weapon of Phil Cardillo, and that Minister Farrakhan and a number of other Muslims were about to be arrested because of a secret witness that we had holed up. They weren't right, but they weren't wrong either.
Farrakhan, never one to miss an opportunity presented by the press, staged peaceful marches by Muslims around the DA's offices. This wasn't going to stop me, and it sure as hell wasn't going to slow Harmon down either. But Harmon was beginning to worry about the case, not because of Farrakhan's tactics or his potential defense; Harmon had completely shut their defense down. What he was worried about was the strength of our case. If Foster was seen as coerced or manipulated, we were sunk. His believability was the foundation of our case. Harmon needed something more.
I was called in to his office, alone. I was under the false assumption that we were ready to go to trial, and my work was complete. “We have completely shut down their case, Randy. The problem is our presentation of the physicality.”
“What do you mean, physicality?” I asked, preoccupied with his edginess. Muldoon was never calm, and Jim Harmon was never anxious.
“We have no bullets from the scene, no photos of the crime scene, no fingerprints, no blood spatter. We have no physical evidence to connect all the dots back to Dupree. And without connecting those dots, we have no case. We have to explain to the jury why we don't have these essentials to convict.”
My head was swimming. I'd assumed that with the testimony of Foster, and San-San's corroborating testimony, it'd be enough. But if any one of those pieces of physical evidence couldn't be linked back to Dupree, then this was just a garden-variety case of one man's word against another's. Then it comes down to believability. The defense would have a field day discrediting Foster. The jury would have to acquit. “What's the solution, Jim?” I wasn't expecting his answer.
“We have to come out asserting that the detectives on the scene could not gather the trace evidence or talk to any witnesses or detain prisoners, because they were removed from the scene by the NYPD. They didn't let the cops properly investigate the assaults and shooting. It wasn't our fault. It was their fault, the superior officers, thus allowing for no evidence to be collected and no statements to be given.”
Harmon moved from behind his desk to the window. He jabbed his finger repeatedly on the glass, as if it were the chest of a bully. I didn't have to look; I knew he was pointing at One PP in the distance. “Them, we have to tell the court exactly what they did, and more important, didn't do, on April 14, 1972.”
He turned to me, eyes deadly focused. “And we need names. These...” He had trouble saying, “cops, have to explain away their actions. Once the jury understands why the investigation was shut down, it will be easier for them to believe our exhibition of the case as to what really happened.”
This is it. The rank and file are finally getting their shot at the bosses, I thought. I was now going toe-to-toe with the job. Harmon asked, “Are you okay with all this? Do you have a plan?”
Was I okay with it? Did I really have a choice? And as far as a plan, I'd have to acquire the bosses on the scene the same way I acquired the cops on the scene: roll calls, radio transcripts, and above all else, the incident book. The incident book was the temporary command log of the day's events. Anything that pertained to the case, phone calls, commands given by superior officers, who did what and where on the day of occurrence, and thereafter if it pertained to the Phil Cardillo murder, it was in that book. That book was either going to save or sink a lot of men, starting right at the top. I looked up at Harmon. It was a suicide mission. I said as calmly as I could, “Yes, I have a plan.”
“Good, and understand this: If they try to fuck with you, I'm going to show them the almighty power of the subpoena.”
I walked out, feeling condemned to death. I knew once bosses started to get subpoenaed to the DA's office, heads were going to roll, mine included. I could clearly see the end of my road.
I wasted no time. I knew the incident book was secured in one of two locations, Manhattan North Borough Command—the 2-4 Precinct—or the Zone-6 command—the 2-5 Precinct. I hit the 2-5 first. Thankfully, Muldoon wasn't working. He'd find out about the request for the incident book eventually, preferably after it was secured at the DA's office. I requested the book from his 124 man, or clerical man. The cop behind the desk couldn't move fast enough. He knew the aggravation and heartache that was attached to me, and anyone who was unlucky enough to cross paths with me. He came back and said, “Detective, the incident book isn't here. I've been working the 124 for more than three years, and honestly, I've never seen it before.”
I wasn't too nervous. I assumed it was kept under lock-and-key by the Chief of Manhattan North, whose office was in the borough command at the 2-4. I thanked the cop and headed to borough command.
I had no problem with requisitioning the book from the 124 man at the borough command. What cop in his right mind would walk into the second most powerful building in the city after One PP and have the balls to ask for something without actually having permission to get it? I was lucky, because this 124 man was the same guy who had shuffled his feet when I tried to get Phil's uniform. He wanted no part of me or this investigation. I asked him for the book, authority of Assistant District Attorney James Harmon. Before I finished my sentence, he moved to an overflowing file cabinet, which he pulled open then slammed shut. He briskly approached me, not looking in my eyes, “The incident book was signed out by a Sergeant Jones of the Records Section on February 13, 1975.”
“The Records Section at headquarters?” I asked with great hope that there was a records section other than the one at the porcelain palace. He verified my fear. I'd have to go to the puzzle palace to get the book.
I didn't realize that I was on a wild goose chase until I ventured into the Records Section at headquarters. I asked for the incident book. The man looked at me like I had testicles for ears. He asked, “What incident book is it you're looking for?”
“You know, the one where the cop was murdered inside the mosque on 116th Street. Surely you've heard of it?” He scratched his chin as though he was trying to decide if the socks should match the pants or the shoes. He turned and disappeared into the back office. He returned in five minutes seemingly—if at all possible—more confused. “Gotta tell ya, Detective, not only do we not have that incident book, but there is no Sergeant Jones assigned here.”
He tilted his head and shrugged his shoulders.
I felt the blood rushing through my veins, saw the involuntary motion of my fingers drumming violently on the ugly Plexiglas counter. I was now at the threshold of my pain, tolerance level maxed-the-fuck-out. I slammed my hand over and over on the counter. The cop jumped back. I pointed at him, spit shooting from my mouth. “You go back there and either get me that book or Sergeant Jones, I ain't leaving without one or the other.”
He held up both his hands as though he was saying, okay, just don't shoot. He rushed into the back office. Almost immediately, a uniformed lieutenant stepped out, moving defiantly to the counter. “Who are you, and what is the purpose of your business here?”
I pulled out my shield and coldly said, “I'm here on the Cardillo murder. I was at the 2-5 in search of the incident book, where I was directed to the 2-4, where it was allegedly being secured. They told me it was signed out by one of your men, Sergeant Jones. I saw his signature and his command. Now I am here on authority of the Manhattan DA's office. I want the incident book, and by God I ain't leaving this building till I get it.”
He was calm but projected authority in his tone. “Now listen to me, I can tell you right now, there is no Sergeant Jones working in this unit, but I will go and see if I can't find that book. Just have a seat.”
“I'll stand.”
He turned on his heels, “As you will.”
I stood at the counter, same position, for the better part of an hour. The lieutenant returned, no more helpful than before. His news was the same: There was no Sergeant Jones ever assigned to One PP's Records Section, and there was never a requisition of the incident book.
I dropped my head in defeat. The last piece of evidence had been sabotaged and probably destroyed. The lieutenant was rambling on. He was midsentence when I looked at him and said, “A cop killer. That's who these scumbags, your partners upstairs, are protecting. Bunch of ball-less cowards running this job, you know that?”
He tried to save face. “Now listen, I am not a part of any cover-up. You came in and—”
“I know what the fuck I came in here asking for, and I should've known better.”
“You're bordering on insubordination, Detective.”
I made a face as if I'd just bitten into a lemon and said, “Fuck this place.”
I walked out, livid with the thought that a group of men were now collectively committing premeditated crimes. Someone had stolen official police documents—the incident book—and was continually impeding an investigation, and also committing hindrance, just the way Minister Farrakhan and Josephs had done. If I found out who stole that incident book, I was going to arrest him, and I didn't give a rat's ass if it was the police commissioner himself.
I went back to my car. It was papered with another parking ticket. Now they were just pouring salt into the wound. I'd had enough. I drove uptown to the 6th division and I liberated an official police parking permit or plate. I drove to the Hollywood office, where Larry Marinelli did what he did best, suspended disbelief. He used his artistic and mechanical skills to imprint an exact duplicate of the parking permit. Then he laminated it, and to the untrained eye, I was good to go. I brought the original plate back up to the 2-5, then headed back down to Harmon to deliver the bad news.
Harmon was relatively nonplussed with what I saw as damning news. In my absence, he had had the wherewithal to calm down and regroup. Any hasty decisions would be detrimental, and I agreed. He said, “Well, you now have to go back to your cops and get all of the names of the bosses who they saw on the day of occurrence. Get their statements as to what the superiors commanded them to do. Once we have the cops' statements, we'll bring in these...bosses.”
The bosses and the mosque may have had the NYPD behind them, secretly pulling the strings, but Harmon had the United States judicial system behind him, and he knew how to use it. His first objective was to let them know he was aware of the disposal of the incident book. He drew up a letter stating that subpoenas would be acquired for every superior officer who commanded a cop during the incident, made a phone call in regard to the incident, said anything on the police radio about the incident, wrote a report in response to the incident, or had any conversations with any members of the mosque on the day of the incident. The letter also stated that he would bring in any man who sat down with Minister Farrakhan to offer apologies for their actions, including the police commissioner.
Harmon sent the letter to the PC himself. By doing so, he had officially declared war on the NYPD.
As I drove to Fifty-fourth Street, I dreaded pulling in those sixty-seven cops all over again, not because it was busywork, but because so much time had elapsed. It would be too easy for cops to start pulling names out of the air on guys they didn't like or didn't see firsthand. I decided to call two of the biggest players on the day of occurrence. I knew I'd get everything I asked for, because they had absolutely nothing to hide: former Chief of Detectives Albert Seedman, and the former 2-8 Precinct Commander, Inspector Jack Haugh—both happily retired, and doing quite well in private industry. Within two hours, both men had given up every man they witnessed on the scene. Haugh had more interaction with the peripheral men, as he was the commander of the precinct of occurrence, the 2-8. Seedman had more knowledge of the men inside the mosque, in particular the men who unscrupulously brokered the deal that never transpired—all detainees would be brought in for questioning that afternoon, including Minister Farrakhan, Congressman Charles Rangel, Ben Ward, and Captain Josephs of the FOI. They were the core of men who illegally separated cops by race, completely eradicated the crime scene, and shut down the subsequent murder investigation. That was what changed police policy and structure and was the defining moment when the NYPD walked away from its responsibilities as a law enforcement entity. This was not only allowed, but also asserted by Mayor John Lindsay and Police Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy. All this was perpetrated while a cop lay dying fifty feet away.
Because of that miserable fucked-up brokered deal, Harmon's back was to the wall, and he didn't have a case to bring to court. Harmon had to overachieve as he had never done before.
I made a list of the men who should surely be subpoenaed and delivered it to Harmon's office. While there, I received a call from Vito. An official teletype had been sent to the 2-5 and then circulated throughout the entire department's teletype, meaning everyone in all seventy-five precincts would be privy to this command: Detective Randy Jurgensen is hereby duly commanded to report to the office of the Manhattan North borough commander at 0900 hours on the immediate day tour regardless of tour status. I was being led to the gallows. After reading the teletype, Vito offered his condolences, and said he'd be there with me all the way. I placed the phone in its cradle and walked out without saying a word to Harmon.
I finally saw the end, not only to my career, but to the case as well. I assumed this was the job's way of delivering its coup de grâce, its final play. By throwing me to the wolves—suspending or firing me—they'd succeed in discrediting me, further weakening an already iffy case. They had Farrakhan's people going after Foster and probably San-San. Now they were coming after me. We would surely be viewed as three loose cannons with axes to grind, not to be believed or trusted. I had come to terms with my eventuality with the job, but I never believed that the job would use me, a cop trying to solve another cop's murder, to cover up their own, and their predecessors' nonfeasance, along with further criminal and cowardly acts. And in doing so, they were letting a cop killer—Lewis 17X Dupree—walk free. The guilt I felt was suffocating. Dupree was getting a pass because of me.
I was cleaned up when I walked into the 2-4 that morning, beard trimmed, suit and tie. I was nervous because I didn't know what to expect. Were they going to suspend me, or had they developed enough of a case on me to actually hit me with criminal charges? I assumed they'd found out about the impending subpoenas and were preemptively setting up their own defense. I never felt so alone in all my life.
I stepped into the muster room of the 2-4 Precinct—the borough command—and was surprised to find a group of allies awaiting me. Vito, Bart Gorman, a representative from Sam DeMilia's office, and a PBA attorney. The men moved to me as if I was an anchorman with five seconds to be caught up on the day's topics and events; papers were thrust at me, phone numbers, etc. Vito reiterated his loyalty. Bart Gorman told me the entire patrol force was standing strong alongside me. The attorney yammered some legalese at me, telling me not to talk if I received charges. He also said if I was going to be arrested, it would stay in-house and they were sure I wouldn't be brought to the Tombs in cuffs. These men surrounded and circled me like soldiers protecting their wounded. When I heard the Tombs with the word cuffs, I became nauseated. The ugly reality of where I was and what I had become—a criminal—was almost too much handle. We collectively moved up the stairs like a self-contained atomic ball of anger, completely fueled by my fear.
I sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair, resembling the ones I'd sat on as a child in grammar school, while the men, who meant no harm, continued their tirade of support and developed of an exit strategy. I heard nothing. I found Vito staring at me. I said, “Vito, you're not a part of this. They see you here, they're gonna come after you next. I want you to leave, now.”
I had tried my damnedest to insulate as many people from my criminal activities as best I could, and he was at the top of that list. I didn't want Vito to receive the same treatment I would.
He shook his head, smiling, “I don't go nowhere without my partner.” This helped, because these last four years had been all about that, loyalty to each other, even in the face of death.
The door opened, revealing a spit-and-polished uniformed lieutenant. He looked directly at me, though we'd never met. “Only Jurgensen is allowed at the meeting.”
Gorman, God bless him, denied the lieutenant's authority by saying, “Don't you fucking worry, Rand. We're right fucking here, and we ain't leaving till you walk back out that door.”
The polished boss didn't trade barbs or even raise his eyes at the pointed statement, which was directed at him and his colleagues. He just moved aside, allowing me to enter. After the door closed behind me, I realized the noise in the room had stopped. It was a large room filled with desks, approximately twenty in all. Some men sat at these desks in uniform, others in suits and ties, and still others were dressed casually but neat. It was like any large secretary pool at say, an accounting firm; the difference was all of these secretaries were armed and dangerous. Across the room were three separate offices partitioned by the same wall of half metal half smoked glass. Each door was stenciled in paint. One read, Borough Commander, Manhattan North; another read, Manhattan North Executive Officer; and the last one read, Manhattan North Integrity Control Officer. Any one of those offices had the trapdoor to hell. The borough commander's door swung open. Muldoon, dressed in a neatly pressed uniform, looked at me. He jerked his head at me, indicating that I should enter the office.
The lieutenant closed the door behind me, remaining outside, and I realized why; he was the lowest-ranking uniformed member in the room—by far. In the large office, one desk was toward the back, a small couch was situated next to a window, and another door led into a small cabinet-style bathroom. The highest-ranking uniformed member, a two-star chief, sat behind the desk. I would come to learn that he was the borough commander. The other four uniforms sat in chairs around the desk. And two other men, in leisure suits, and the most worrisome of the bunch, sat on the couch. The only man I recognized was Muldoon, who also happened to be the lowest-ranking man in the room, barring me of course.
The borough commander was a big handsome man with wavy salt and pepper hair. As I entered, he immediately stood, cordially smiling, producing perfectly capped, bright white teeth. He extended his hand; there was a whiff of good cologne. I noticed a gold signet ring, containing a huge blue stone encircled by diamonds; it read, Harvard University. He had a strong grip; I was sure not to return a wet fish. “Detective Jurgensen, nice to meet you.”
He extended his other hand, indicating the only chair in front of his desk, where I sat. I gave the men in the room a quick once-over. It seemed no one was as happy as the chief; the uniforms looked at me, then, after sizing me up, busied themselves with more important matters, such as lint removal, or fingernail inspection. The two suits, however, never removed their eyes from me. I didn't know what their rank was, though I have to assume it was above that of deputy inspector, and I also assumed they were from the Internal Affairs Division (IAD). I didn't want to project an appearance of weakness or guilt, and since they were the hatchet men, I adjusted my chair in their direction. I didn't want there to be any miscommunication between any of us.
The chief sat down. His smile faded. “So before we start, I just want to say that you've done outstanding work on this investigation.”
I breathed easier. If I were on the chopping block, he would've come at me guns blazing. He continued, “As you know, this is no ordinary homicide, and not to make light of any other fallen brother, but this is no ordinary cop murder either.”
The IAD guys were boring holes into me. Before I answered I looked at them smugly, hesitating, just long enough so that they understood that I wasn't in the least bit intimidated by either of them. “Yes, Sir, I'm aware that certain people are angling for a defense.”
“Well, I don't think you know how far-reaching this case has gotten. Both Iraq and Iran have sent word to the State Department, expressing their concern over the way Muslims are treated by our police department, unfairly I might add.”
This was no longer about Phil or about who said what and who did what. This was now about maintaining international diplomacy. It was beyond the men who sat in judgment before me, and beyond anyone at the porcelain palace. “You following me, Detective?”
I decided against playing defense with these guys, because no matter what I said they had a predetermined plan of attack, so why not tell it like it was? “Well, Sir, to be completely honest, I hadn't realized that foreign diplomacy would ever stand in the way of solving a homicide, especially that of a cop, but your point is well taken.”
He sat up in his chair slightly; I'm sure, toying with the idea of torturing me before slaughtering me. “Well, I'm sure you can grasp how delicate a situation this has turned out to be. If we appear to be...prejudicial, or if we seem to be covering up anything, I'm sure you understand, the eyes of the world are watching.”
He sat back in the chair, assuming that I was reading between the lines. I was. I remained silent; I knew there was more. “What happened at headquarters yesterday?”
I looked directly at the IAD men. “Well, it seems as though someone, going by the name of Sergeant Jones, signed out the incident book, failing to return it. There is no such man with that name assigned to the Records Section. I'm putting an alarm out for that incident book, and then we'll let the chips fall where they may.”
His voice didn't rise at all; he didn't miss a beat. He calmly asked, “You're not threatening me are you, Detective?”
“Absolutely not, Sir.” I noticed Muldoon drop his head, slightly shaking it. I looked back at the IAD humps; they were both grinning. I knew I had just made it to the top of their hit list.
“You're also not suggesting that any superior officers had anything to do with this, are you?”
“Well, Sir, I'm no longer in a front seat position on this. I've done nothing but hit walls since I caught this case.” I shot Muldoon a look and said, “Everything is now in the hands of the district attorney's office.”
“Just answer my question...”
“Which is what, Sir?”
“Are any superior officers going to appear suspect?”
“Probably, yes, Sir.”
“Well, who has to come in off these alleged subpoenas that this Harmon guy is drawing up?”
I looked back at Muldoon. I wanted everyone in the room to understand that he was completely aware of my investigation from the start. “I'm going to do exactly what I did with the cops who were on the scene. I'm gonna investigate the radio transcripts, phone transcripts, and the unusuals of the day. From that material, I'll start bringing these men in. First up is Albert Seedman, then Jack Haugh, both of whom have already been cooperating with my investigation.”
Only then did the chief's voice rise. “You spoke with Seedman and Haugh?”
“Yes, Sir, I did.”
There was a long silence. His eyes never moved from mine, and I knew the IAD men hadn't looked away since I entered. They had to have felt the walls closing in, and it was about time. “And what about the shooter, have you been investigating what it was you were originally brought on this case for? Or have you simply turned this into a witch hunt?”
I wanted to jump across the desk. I calmed myself, respectful of the man's rank. “Well, Sir, as a matter of fact, the next part of my investigation is going to bring me back to the mosque. First guy I'm calling in is Captain Josephs. You know who he is?”
I didn't wait for any of them to answer, “He's the head of the FOI, just below Farrakhan. What I'm gonna do is question this Josephs, and if I'm not satisfied with what he has to give me, I'm going to bring Farrakhan down to the district attorney's office, and if I'm not satisfied with what he gives me, then I'm gonna go to 116th Street and knock on the door. I'm gonna walk inside, grab that fuck Dupree, and place Phil Cardillo's cuffs on him in the exact spot where he fired the shot that killed him. That's what I'm gonna do. That's where my investigation has led me, Sir.”
At that moment one of the other uniforms slammed his hand on the desk and stood. He pointed in my face and screamed, “What the fuck good is any of that going to do? What do you think? It's gonna bring back the dead cop?”
The ugly statement immediately silenced and sucked the air out of the room. Suddenly all of the men turned to this assistant chief. It was obvious the meeting was over; their intentions were clear, as were mine. I looked at Muldoon, disgusted. “Is there anything else, Sir?”
He looked at the chief, who didn't say a word. Muldoon slowly shook his head. I stood and walked out.
The same men were in the hallway as I exited. The PBA attorney handed me his card as we left the building. Gorman laid his hand on my shoulder, “You're gonna need a lawyer now.”
He was right. It was just a matter of who would bleed out first, me or the job.