Authors: Randy Jurgensen
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.”