I didn't sleep. At 9 a.m. I entered the bathroom and Tom was waiting for me. That was a first. He smiled and hugged me. “The people that count in this building are proud of you, Randy, and there are a lot of us left.”
I was completely out of gas. “This is going to do nobody any good, this trial. You know this, yes?”
“I'm not taking myself to trial, Tom. I'd gladly walk away from all of this if I could.”
“There's a deal on the table. They'll drop all the charges, criminal and departmental, but you have to plead nolo contendere to everything, and you have to resign immediately.”
Pleading nolo contendere meant that I was pleading no contest to the charges. It was a sort of kangaroo court term that allowed neither them nor me to actually admit anything in court. Both of us, myself and the job, could walk away with our heads up. They get rid of me without losing face. I get to leave the job with my pension benefits and pride intact, more or less.
I was stunned. I walked past him to the window. There they were, Chinatown, the Tombs, that snaking black ribbon, the Hudson River. I was once a part of all of it, never above it, just a part of it. I was a fixer of sorts, placing the broken pieces of an intricate puzzle back together. Now I was just another piece of that puzzle, jammed back into its place, regardless of fit. If I walked away, everything would go away. They win, we lose, Phil and I lose. It doesn't matter to them, as long as the puzzle seems somewhat in tact, after all is said and done.
Tom had to have known how the irony of all of this had slowly squeezed the life out of me. In a harsh desperate whisper he said, “You get to keep your pension, and believe me, those bastards who allowed this to happen are going to get their due. This is from someone in this building with a very high pay-grade. What happened to Phil, it's not over yet, Rand.”
I turned, looked into my old friend's eyes for more than a moment. I knew we were nearing the end, inching forward to the closure the department so desperately wanted. As I walked past him, I said, “Thanks for everything, Tom. I mean that. I know you were never behind any of the ugliness. Just give me time. Give me some time to think about it.”
I did think about it, a lot. But I still had the everyday gray business of police work to finish up. Foster and Loretta had to be placed into the Witness Protection Program, and the mountain of case files on the murder had to be boxed. More forty-nines and fives had to be written up to add legal finality and closure to the case. Imagine that, a murdered cop's case was officially closed because his murderer was never fully brought to justice. I drove around lower Manhattan in an endless circle, doing exactly what I told Tom I needed to do, think about it. Everything seemed a blur to me, all of it, the last five years. My head was swimming, faces of the past appearing before me in no discernable order: Bart Gorman, my mother, Foster, Twyman Meyers, Farrakhan, Muldoon, Ward, Harmon, Van Lindt, Josephs, San-San, Lynn, my son Randy, Frank Cardillo, Tessie Cardillo, Vito, my father, Rudy Andre, Victor Padilla, Ivan Negron, Muhammad Ali, the court stenographer, Joe Pistone, Loretta, the Bunch brothers, the faces of Phil Cardillo's young children, Joy Cardillo, and Phil. I jerked the car to the curb on Broadway at some backstreet in the financial wing of the city. I ripped open my collar. Sweat poured down my back. I needed to breathe, needed the air of the city that once gave me such life. I steadied myself on the side of my car; I looked up and saw the massive exterior of the New York Stock Exchange. The sculpture on the façade read: Integrity Protecting the Works of Man. I realized I had given it all to protect Phil beyond his life, and now, as a consolation, I was being offered a similar gesture of protection, but from who and why? Was it true integrity? Or was this just another sham to cover over the tarnished shield of the NYPD?
I met Foster and Loretta in Harmon's office. They were happy they were still a part of some kind of truth. I also assume they were happy to finally move on, anywhere but here. The process of placing them into the custody of the federal marshal service was tough to do. After all, they, especially Foster, had been mine for five years. But it was time for all of us to move on. The paper on the transfer was easy enough, but I took my time. I didn't want our partnership to end so sudden and harsh. Once they were in the program, they'd be erased, never to be seen or heard from again, and that was a hard pill to swallow.
The three of us moved down the spiral staircase in the back of 100 Centre Street. A man was walking up. His hair was long and he walked with a limp. I kept my eyes on him. Just as we passed each other on the stairs, I realized it was Frank Serpico. He smiled and nodded at me in recognition. I smiled back, but had absolutely nothing to say to the man.
The marshals were waiting at the bottom of the steps for us. I officially handed both—formerly named—Foster 2X Thomas and Loretta Harris over to the men. We hugged and I made some wisecrack, looking for a painless exit. “Go easy,” I whispered to Foster, “Go easy and enjoy your lives.” I turned and didn't look back.
I walked briskly out the front of the building, no longer in fear of reprisal, no longer charged with the well-being of my partner, Foster 2X Thomas, though the air didn't smell any sweeter. The next part of my life—the trial—was going to be an all-consuming ball of rage, accusations and firings; the casualties of this war were going to get hit and get hit hard. Quite possibly, I would be one of the wounded.
I turned the corner onto Leonard Street where my car was parked. I felt the hair on my back rise, the way it did when static ozone hung low in the air. Something wasn't right; it was the petite Hispanic woman, walking quickly around a car, something clutched in her hand. As I reached the side entrance of the building, she had made it to the front of the car, moving in my direction. Her eyes were glazed, wild, filled with rage. I saw her hand rise; she was holding a snub-nose .38. Her eyes, thankfully, weren't trained on me. They were fixed just beyond me, a man standing at a hotdog stand. Suddenly, she fired three quick shots, boom-boom-boom! I turned. She'd hit the man in the leg, severing arterial vessels. As he ran away from the madwoman, his blood shot across the sidewalk like a hose. He tried to get away, boom-boom! Two more shots, one hit the man in the buttocks. He went down hard, screaming. The street quickly turned from New York business-as-usual to total pandemonium. Cops from inside the building rushed out to the sounds of the gunfire and screaming. She was almost directly in front of me. This happened so quick, I was in simple survival mode. I grabbed her by the back of her head, trying to bring her down from behind. She was so enraged, filled with venomous adrenalin. She ripped free of my grip, spinning on me, pointing the gun right at my face. I reached out and grabbed it, but I was too late. She squeezed the trigger. I was waiting for the hot projectile to rip through my forehead, waiting for the cold darkness to finally envelope me, click! No more bullets! The gun was hot as I ripped it from her hand. Suddenly, the rush of cops forced everyone back into the building. Once inside, the woman was apprehended, screaming wildly that her victim was sleeping with her nine-year-old daughter. Her screams tore through the interior lobby, the wails of a madwoman, like something you'd hear late at night in an asylum. She was covered in blood. The cordite hung low in the air. I felt myself shivering, realizing I was scared. This was no longer for me. I was tired of it all. Someone behind me said into my ear, “It never fucking ends, does it?”
I turned. It was Frank Serpico. Again, I chose not to talk to the man. Inside, I was feeling just the opposite. It had just ended for me. I handed the first uniformed cop I saw the gun. I didn't want to stay there; it was all over for me. I had the answer to my questions, and the answer for the court.
The first person I called was Lynn. I said, “Honey, it's me. I'm done. I'm quitting the job. To hell with the trial and everything else, it's all over. I wanted you to be the first who heard it from me.”
In her soft calming voice she said, “Come home, Randy. Come home.” I'd later find out that this was the happiest day of her life.
I called Jack Haugh. I knew he wanted to take the NYPD to town, not only for what they'd done to me and Phil, but also to him. My trial was going to be his chance at redemption, and I understood that, but I just didn't have the inner strength or resolve to go through it all over again. After I told him, he said, “I understand, Randy. But we're not through with those bastards yet. Go with God, Son.”
I called up Sam DeMilia, thanking him for everything he had done for me over the years. He too understood, and said the same cryptic message to me, “This is just the beginning, Randy. We've got a blanket party all set for those bastards.” I hung up and went home.
The day had come that I'd been dreading for nineteen years, the moment I'd be saying good-bye to everything that I held so dear—the job.
Jimmy Aurichio drove Lynn and me to the puzzle palace, the porcelain palace, One PP, headquarters. As I entered the building for the very last time as a working cop, I affixed my shield to my blazer, signed in, and we all made our way to the trial room. The room's gallery was packed with cops, some I knew, and others I'd never met but were there for support: John Van Lindt, who started the case and Jim Harmon, who finished it. Bart Gorman was there, and next to him Sam DeMilia, behind him, dozens of men in suits—the upper echelon of the PBA. I saw Rudy Andre, whose heroics saved the lives of two other cops. Jim Kenney was there, the man who drove Phil to the hospital, giving him five more days of life. Many others were in the room. Detectives who worked the Foster Thomas detail with me were there. Frank and Tessie Cardillo were there, as was Nick Cirillo, the rock. I watched as Lynn and Jimmy sat next to Nick in the front row. Over in the corner, wearing sunglasses, sat Joe—now Donnie Brasco—Pistone. Everyone in the room had to have known how much the job meant to me, but there was an air of celebration in the room. Maybe these men were celebrating the camaraderie that had formed because of all this?
I moved to the table to my right. This was the prosecution's table. I'd been in court so many times as a witness for the prosecution, that I hadn't realized I was a defendant now, and at the wrong table. I noticed everyone in the courtroom nervously shuffling, looking away, not wanting to be the one to tell me. I was no longer the arresting officer, the one carrying gold in his pocket; I was suddenly the defendant. A court clerk walked to my table, quietly informing me of this. It was a blow. I asked myself, Jesus when did this happen to me, when did I become the perp?
Jack Haugh was at the defendant's table. He nodded sadly at me. I got up and moved. He grabbed hold of my arm, whispering, “You sure you want to do it this way? We still have plenty of time to reverse our plea.” I nodded in the affirmative.
Two detectives filed into the back of the courtroom, proceeding to my table. Behind them was the same black cop that I'd handed the gun to the day before. The first detective looked confused. He asked, “This bullshit is for you?”
I nodded. This was one of the more surreal moments of my trial. I was basically being thrown off the job, and these three cops were here to question me in an attempted homicide investigation. It was business-as-usual on the NYPD, and I knew whether I stayed to fight, or not, the job was still going to go on.
The other detective asked, “Can we talk to you, get a statement before this fucking kangaroo court starts?”
I liked the fact that every cop knew what these court proceedings were all about. They were about deals, and keeping face, not about the truth. Haugh said, “Not now, please wait at the back for the detective to finish up here.”
The chambers behind the NYPD's court of judges flung open. Five men, all in blue dress uniform, and none under the rank of full inspector, sat at their assigned benches. They were all grim and looked angry, at what, I had no idea. Did they want me to go all the way with this so they could hammer me into a jail cell? Or did they want me to see the trial through so their predecessors could pay for their mistakes. I was done detecting. I didn't care to analyze the whys and hows; I just wanted it all to end.
The final judge entered. These were his proceedings, Commissioner William Smith, formerly Sergeant Smith, and still formerly, the man who questioned and attacked my virtue and ethics while I testified for Eddie Popeye Doyle Egan. Smith sat front and center, three men to his left, two to his right. He never once looked at me or the other men as he read through the grocery list of charges the job had brought against me. I wasn't listening; my eyes wandered above and beyond Smith to the NYPD flag. A plaque above it read, Fidelis Ad Mortem—faithful unto death. I wondered, for the moment, if I had kept my word to that motto. I felt someone's eyes on me, close to my right, behind me. I turned. It was Lynn. I looked into her eyes; they were smiling. Yes, I kept my word, and now it was time to keep my word to my wife and family.
Smith now looked up from his bifocals toward Haugh, “So how does the defendant plea?”
Haugh looked at me one last time, are you sure, Randy? I said, “Nolo contendere.”
Each charge had to be read individually, to which I plead nolo contendere, seven times.
At the conclusion, Smith said, “All charges have been reduced. Does the defendant understand?”
I said, “Yes.”
“Defendant is hereby reduced one grade, to second grade detective. You will be fined thirty days full pay, and you will forthwith apply for retirement, turning in all equipment, including weapons. The court will recommend that on the sixtieth day from today, you will be allowed to retire. Does the defendant accept or not accept?”
I noticed Jack Haugh rifling through his file. Something wasn't right. What now, I wondered. He looked at me and nervously said, “We can't accept these charges! Sixty days leaves you nineteen days shy of your twentieth year. You won't get a full pension!”
Haugh turned to Smith, reiterating what he'd just told me. All of the men on the bench began rifling through their own paper, whispering to Smith, who pulled his glasses off in frustration, pointing them at Haugh. I knew he wanted this trial to end as much as I did. He said in a foul tone, “Counselor, you accepted this deal...”
Haugh screamed, “This man has a 50,000-dollar price on his head. He's a hunted man, and you're asking him to surrender his weapons. Have you no conscience?”
Smith screamed over him, “The defendant will not lose his twenty-year pension. We will amend this. Now does the defendant accept?”
I couldn't take the screaming any longer. I grabbed Jack Haugh's arm, “It's okay, Jack. Enough.”
Haugh couldn't let it go. He wanted to rip into them. They represented everything that was wrong with the case, and with the job. “He is not a defendant. He's a detective of the New York Police Department...”
I turned to Smith, screaming, “I accept the charges and the penalties! I accept!” This brought resounding silence into the large courtroom. “I accept,” I said quietly.
There was now another round of noise. It was a droning, the finishing of my case, of my career. It was now time to walk out. I looked at the NYPD flag one last time, and said to myself, “Good-bye, my lovely, good-bye.”
Lynn and Jimmy were waiting for me as I moved down the aisle of benches, past all the cops that I'd worked with for all those years. Jimmy squeezed tightly onto my shoulder. Lynn grabbed hold of my hand. With her at my side, I was able to stand tall and walk out with my head held high. “Time to go home, Randy. Time to go home.”
Just as I was about to step out of the courtroom, the young black cop who I gave the gun to was unstrapping a .38 off his ankle holster. He said to me, “I got two of these. Please, take this one.”
I smiled, “I'll be okay, Guy.” I looked at Lynn and said, “I'll be A-okay. Time to go home.”
I found myself moving toward the wall of heroes in the lobby of headquarters. I was there to hand over my guns, and officially turn in my retirement papers. I saw the various plaques of all the downed officers, Piagentini, Jones, Foster, Laurie, among so many others that I had worked on myself. Then I saw Phil Cardillo's plaque on the wall. I remember feeling the irony and duplicity of it all.
Once upstairs in the Pension Section, I was met by a cop who led me to his desk. Over the office loudspeakers, a police ceremony could be heard. Men were being congratulated and awarded. Cheers rose after names were called. I asked the cop, “What's going on?”
He didn't look up from the paper as he said, “Guys who broke the Son of Sam case are getting unit citations.”
I then heard Muldoon's name and another round of cheers. I wondered, had none of this happened, would I have been one of the recipients of that citation? Would I be accepting the award along with the other fine detectives? Another place, another time, because I was done detecting. As I laid my unloaded guns, shield, ID card, and rules-and-procedures book on the table, I heard the cop's small portable radio announce that Elvis Presley had died. My first thought was of Lynn, how she loved him. I knew this was going to make her sad. Suddenly the sadness of my situation had lifted. It wasn't about me anymore. It was about the people around me, and I recognized that this was a good thing.
The cop looked up at me and said, “Listen, Guy, before you retire, you've got two unpaid parking tickets that have to be paid.”
I laughed, asking the cop if I could use his phone. I called Lynn. She picked it up on the first ring. She could barely talk. I told her I'd just heard about Elvis. “Are you okay, Lynn?”
“I'm fine, Randy. It's okay. When are you coming home?” she asked.
“Right now, Lynn, my work is done here.”
The end.