Authors: Randy Jurgensen
The little barbs traded with this punk through New York's newspapers were just blips on the screen. Suddenly, everything was eclipsed by an
all-consuming hunger, one that could only be satisfied with a ninety-five tag affixed to Twyman Meyers's toe. Any decency I would've afforded this criminal was torched at the foot of my mother's doorstep. I could only hope Meyers's last living moment was clearly visible through my service revolver's gun sight. The rules of engagement were about to be rewritten.
I held onto two very important objectives, my family and Twyman Meyers. The wellbeing of my immediate family, of course, topped the list. I needed to get them twenty-four-hour protection, and that was afforded, no questions asked, by the NYPD.
Because of my history—BLA, homicides, Albert Victory's price on my head—the job took these threats seriously, and a protective
big blue
leviathan was put into play. A three-cop security team was detailed to my parents' home. They worked three eight-hour shifts, and escorted my parents and Betty anywhere outside their home. Cops with dominion far outside of the NYPD would drop by, at all hours, to offer support and show camaraderie. If this could happen to me, it could happen to anyone in law enforcement. There were never fewer than five cops at a time inside the home. A
trap
was set up off my mother's landline, or a duplicate phone that recorded all conversations and incoming numbers. Dad got daily visits at the hospital. My future brother-in-law, also a cop, was suddenly pulled off the street and designated to desk duty. Though my parents and sister were incredibly grateful, the situation quickly became uncomfortable.
The Jurgensens had become wards of the NYPD, their every move suddenly forestalled under an act of terrorism. They were no longer intensely private, hardworking citizens, impervious to the horrors that were part of my everyday life. They'd sadly become unarmed liabilities in a war they had nothing to do with, and this marked and embarrassed me greatly.
My time was divided into two. I was either at work, which had become fairly unproductive, filled with worry and peppered with phone calls to the cops and to my parents. The rest of my time was spent at home or at the hospital with my dad. This contemptuous fuck had gotten inside. By creating the disorder within my family's life, he'd succeeded in throwing me off
course—catching him. I had to regroup, and I needed the wherewithal to do so. I needed a plan, and my family needed a change in environment.
This lasted about six weeks. My dad had been granted a leave of absence from his lifelong employment at St. Luke's. He had family in southern Florida, and after lengthy discussions, it was decided that Betty's wedding would be put on hold. Everyone would relocate. This all happened in front of my lady, Lynn. She wasn't in any danger and wouldn't relocate, but I think she got a sense of things to come. All of the moving and temporary living expenses were paid for by the NYPD, and I was damn grateful for it. Now I had one priority: capturing and dismantling the BLA and all its members, in particular, Twyman Meyers.
I hit the ground running. I called in every favor I'd ever extended. I immersed myself into the dark, hostile ways of the street. No stone was left unturned. I knew the clock was ticking. My family wouldn't stay in Florida forever. They were New Yorkers and not easily swayed from their lives.
I fished out the address that Patrolman Evans gave me, which Clint gave him. I pulled Amby from the squad, and we made our way to the location. It was another Harlem firetrap tenement. I tapped gently on the door. I knew this was street info. No one needed to know this woman's business, that the cops were calling on her. I heard the peephole slide open, then locks started to unclick. The door opened. A woman of about seventy, wearing a housecoat and a set of rosary beads, tilted her head for us to enter. We stepped into the tidy living room, adorned with plastic flowers, a watercolor of
The Last Supper
, furniture covered with white sheets, and makeshift bookshelves stacked with dog-eared novels. I cautiously said, “I'm Detective Jurgensen.”
She smiled, sat on an ancient easy chair, which was situated in front of a window looking out onto the teeming streets. “It's on the kitchen table,” she said, and added nothing more.
We entered the small clean kitchen. On the tabletop was a brown paper bag. I opened it. Inside was an unloaded Smith & Wesson six-shot police service revolver. I knew it was the cop's gun from the Audubon shootout. I pulled out the gun, showing it off to Amby. He smiled and looked toward the woman and said, “We were never here.”
The woman hadn't asked for anything in return. But Clint had made one request, groceries, and her cupboards were empty. I pulled out whatever cash I had, thirty dollars. Amby pulled out a twenty. Before leaving, we placed the money on the table.
I'd been down after Phil's murder and the events after. But now, this
simple street gesture gave me a much-needed kick in the ass. I realized that I
was
jacked into everything that was occurring in Harlem. I was in the middle of a big mash of wrong, and I was in a position to try to make some of it right. The BLA, a lot of the homicides, retrieving a cop's gun, the investigation into the murder of Phil Cardillo, I could make a difference. I knew eventually the streets were going to be fed all kinds of information, most of it; I was sure, would be garbage. But some of it would come from the likes of this woman and Clint. I was thrilled to be plugged into Harlem's community. I was finally back in the game.
Tashana Dixon had seen better days. She was once a pretty little hard-body, but Harlem's powerful heroin had enslaved her to a life of prostitution and street scams. She was, however, an old street ally and had just been busted and was due for sentencing. We met in Mount Morris Park, now known as Marcus Garvey Park, behind the decrepit bathrooms where the primary use had become a shelter for banging, huffing, or smoking—sexual gratuities for money. We sat on a broken bench, junkies—black and white—moved in and out of the shooting gallery like zombies. Tashana didn't give a rat's ass that others noticed her talking to DT. Kid. Had they any information to trade, they'd do it for a price that would inevitably end up banged through their veins. It was all part of survival on the street.
I noticed a thin red trail oozing between her ring and middle fingers. Her dark almond-shaped eyes were glassy. She'd just gotten high. She was trying hard to focus on my eyes. In the street, eye contact is crucial in establishing trust.
She smiled, slowly puckering her perfect lips at me, “You entirely way too fine DT. Kid, you know that? Can't we handle our business indoors? You know.”
She laughed. I could see her teeth were in decent shape, despite the fact that she'd been shooting dope for a number of years. I remembered her back in the day. She was a beautiful young girl, filled with promise, but Harlem's
gack
was subservient to no one.
I laughed with her, “C'mon baby.”
She suddenly turned serious, melancholy almost. Her eyes trailed away, watching the junkies shuffling in and out of the restrooms. “So you know T-girl lookin' out for her detective.”
“As always, Tashana, as always. Without you I'm just a cat in a blue polyester suit.”
“Two brothers I know from Park Avenue dollar two-three.”
Park Avenue dollar two-three
was Park Avenue at 123rd Street. It was a well-known area for street pros, or hookers. She continued, “These boys, about twenty-one and twenty-three from the East Side. They be settin' up in business.”
“What kind?” I asked.
She flicked gently at her forearm, indicating heroin, “And they's some weight attached to it.”
She slid in closer, almost whispering, “Thing is, Kid, these boys up on Front Street talkin' bout how they gonna light shit up in Harlem.”
She looked into my eyes. After a moment she said, “Cops.”
“They solo?”
She quickly shook her head “no,” and said, “They with the black soldiers.”
I said, “Very cool, T, very cool. Where and when are they setting up?”
She was very specific. I imagined these brothers were regular customers of Tashana. It would embarrass her, so I didn't ask about it. “379 East 1-2-6, second floor. They said Thursday night.”
I smiled as I pulled out a wad of cash and my promise of a
get-out-of-jail
-free card. I was ecstatic. Moving material, guns, heroin, bodies—whatever—through the streets between police tours was a staple in the BLA's MO. They knew that the cops working the afternoon shifts would be turning in their cars and radios to the midnight cops, leaving the streets vacant for at least five minutes. It was in those few moments that the city's underworld did its business. I had to catch my breath I was so excited. I knew if these young upstarts were caught with heroin, in any kind of weight, they'd be ripe to give up their own mothers. And all at once, I felt myself moving that much closer to Twyman Meyers.
The address Tashana had given me was in the jurisdiction of the 2-5 Precinct. The cops of this house were as seasoned as the 2-8 cops. It was where Ivan Negron and Victor Padilla once worked.
Vito Navarra and Sleepy had been given a desk at the 2-5 since they couldn't work at the 2-8 Detective Squad. The 2-8 squad wasn't very big, and given the fact that it was the busiest squad in the city, it was already overcrowded. Once Vito and Sleepy began ostensibly working the case, every uniform cop from the 2-8 was at their desks offering assistance and guidance. The squad whip was keenly aware that Slepwitz and Navarra were there for show, not to solve the case. He could no longer deal with this disruption. So he made a phone call to the borough, and in twenty-four
hours, Sleepy and Vito were transferred to the 2-5 under the pretense of working the Cardillo case. What a joke that was.
I parked at the 2-5 Precinct lot. I was trying to maintain the lowest possible profile. Somehow it was decided that I was straddling a fine line between the cops and the bosses at One PP. I was somehow able to get pertinent information in regard to Phil's murder, then I'd sling it back to the cops and the guys at the PBA. They were all wrong. I had nothing more than anyone else had, and I hadn't spoken to anyone at the porcelain palace since my meeting with Seedman—and he was now a civilian. So up the back staircase I went. This led me to the second floor of the building, the squad.
I knew most of the guys in the squad by name. The smallish squad room contained twelve desks and twenty-four chairs. There was a prisoner cage to the right of the door, and to the right of the cage was the whip's office.
The whip's office was built for work, not pleasure. It was a small eight-by-eight room, slightly larger than a prison cell. It held a small bathroom, desk, file cabinet, and a two-way mirror that looked into an even smaller interrogation room. I made my way into his office; it was empty. But it was there that I saw one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Through the mirror I saw Vito Navarra. He had been using the interrogation room as his office. He was sitting at a table putting together a photo album. I looked closer and my heart sank. He was pasting newspaper clippings of Phil's murder in the book. It seemed as though he was mouthing words in response to a conversation he was having with himself.
I hadn't seen Vito since the funeral. He looked gaunt, his eyes distant and somewhat unfocused. I knew the man's spirit had been trampled upon, but seeing him alone in that windowless hole of a room, busying himself with a photo album, made me realize his assignment was torture. Vito should have been in counseling, not on the NYPD's biggest case. Before I entered, I took a deep breath and tried my damnedest to smile.
He looked up. It took about five seconds before it registered who I was. He smiled and stood slowly, “Randy, Jesus Randy, what are you doing here?”
He opened his arms as he made his way from behind the table. We hugged. I felt his embrace last more than a moment. “They got you in the squad, huh, Vito? Pretty soon I'll be working for you.”
I laughed, trying to remain unemotional. Vito seemed drained of tears, but seeing me was going to bring everything front and center all over again. Better sooner than later.
He looked around the gray room, smiled as he waved his hand around. Then it seemed as though he lost his train of thought. He moved back around the table, sitting heavily in the city-green metal chair. He sadly looked at the photo album. There was an uncomfortable silence, and I felt guilty because I had nothing left to offer him. The truth was Vito had gone way beyond the call of duty. In my opinion, he was on the verge of a mental breakdown and should have been put on light duty.
I sat at the only other chair in the room. I imagined Slepwitz napping in it while Vito pasted. “What is it you're doing, Vito?”
He turned the album toward me, flipping the plastic-lined cardboard pages to the beginning. “I'm creating a chronological timeline.” He had trouble with the word
chronological
, repeating it twice. “You know, starting from the beginning, the turn of events.”
As he meticulously turned the pages, I became transfixed on those miserable images. I was reliving the horror all over again, and it placed me in an incredibly dark place. How could this beaten man, after losing a partner, relive that nightmare over and over again? Every picture a continuous reminder—
the odious crowds; cars set ablaze; the wounded pulled from the mosque; Farrakhan; Congressman Charles Rangel; Ben Ward; The police commissioner; Mayor Lindsay; me, unconscious, being dragged to safety; the funeral; the vacant gaze of Joy Cardillo
—how could he stand it? Did he feel insurmountable guilt that he was alive and his partner wasn't? Was he reliving all that pain as penance in the purgatory he now lived in? To this day, I couldn't answer if you asked.
I couldn't take any more. I slammed the album closed and slid it far away from us. Vito was lost, but he wasn't ignorant. I'm sure he understood what I meant. I looked into his eyes, cupping his hand in mine. “You did nothing wrong, Vito, nothing.”
I saw his chin shake. He looked away as tears dropped from his eyes. I understood what he was feeling. I knew those tears weren't self-serving. We cops feel one thing as we go out on patrol:
responsibility toward the man riding with us, our partner.
When Phil died, so did Vito. Those tears came from frustration and the unprecedented rejection from the brass. I pressed further, “You were bum-rushed, surprised, there was nothing you could do. No one blames you. It would've happened to any one of us. Didn't matter if there were ten cops behind you. You were set up. You've got to let go of all this, Vito. Otherwise it's going to tear you apart.”