Authors: Randy Jurgensen
Charlie, K
Adam responding
Crimes 84, K
5 Sergeant en route, K
All units in the 3-2, ten-ten reports of shots fired Broadway 1-4-0, K. Numerous calls, units to respond, K
3-2 Boy
Adam
Charlie's en route, K
3-2 Boy's 84, it's confirmed, get a bus, K! Get a bus, K! Guy's bleedin' like a stuck pig, K!
It was a nonstop mélange of deadly calls twenty-four seven. Shootings, robberies, assaults, murders, and of course, the end-all, ten-thirteens.
Ten-thirteen
was the code for an officer in need of help. When that thirteen alarm sounded, everything in copland stopped, all focus was on the radio for the coordinates. However, when the thirteen was phoned in via 911
emergency police operator, it often turned out to be an unfounded call. The first unit to respond would immediately contact central and designate the call as a
ninety-x-ray
(unfounded job), ceasing further response from units who were certainly traveling at breakneck speeds through harm's way to help. These fake ten-thirteens were phoned in for a number of reasons, though, generally non-malicious ones—prank callers just trying to break the balls of a few cops. Still, some had criminal intent. For instance, say an OP—like the one I was on that day—had been burned or discovered by a wanted man—like Twyman Meyers—and he needed to move from one safe house to another without being seen. He could easily call in the bogus ten-thirteen at the opposite end of the precinct and pull guys just like us off our spots. It was good business to keep the cops off guard, and most of the salty perps knew exactly where the precinct boundaries were, allowing them to send us to the opposite end of Harlem. So when Central got the call that morning, before I moved, I was going to be cock-and-balls sure that it was a confirmed ten-thirteen.
A ten-thirteen call was made to the 911 operator, or Central Dispatch. What you are about to read are the identical transcripts of the thirteen in question. This was the beginning of the end for many people. One life was lost, many careers halted and destroyed, and an unbreakable bond of trust and faith shattered forever.
Operator: “Police operator.”
Caller: “Hello, this is Detective Thomas of the 2-8 Precinct.”
Operator: “Yeah.”
Caller: “I have a ten-thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th Street.”
Operator: “1-0-2 West 116th?”
Caller: “Right, that's on the second floor.”
Operator: “Second floor.”
Caller: “Right.”
Operator: “Hold on.”
The caller abruptly hung up. The operator, a uniformed member of the NYPD, immediately typed out the message and electronically sent it to the civilian radio dispatcher in an adjacent room at police headquarters. The dispatcher, or Central, immediately broadcast it over the Zone-6 radio frequency—Harlem,
my killing fields.
Central came over the air with urgency—regardless of childish pranks, call-ins do sometimes turn out to be legit and have to be taken seriously.
Central: “Signal ten-thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th Street on the second floor. 1-0-2, 116, second floor, signal thirteen.”
Both the assigned cops in my car instinctively grabbed hold of their radios. I was on a
point-to-point
channel with the car across the street. The point-to-point frequency allowed us to communicate without everyone else in the zone hearing. The purpose of this was simple: Police radios were easy to come by, thus allowing the bad guys to monitor them. They could hear and know exactly what was going on. Point-to-point helped us keep them out, and the less they knew the safer we all were. Units responded to the call-in with a rush of adrenalin.
Unit 1: “2-8 Frank on the way.”
Unit 2: “David will respond.”
Central: “That's second floor hallway, 1-0-2 West 116, K.”
Unit 3: “2-8 Sergeant responding.”
I lifted up the radio and keyed the mike on the point-to-point,
“Stay on the set. Could be a ninety to pull us off.”
My heart was racing for two reasons—if it was a phony thirteen then we could be very close to Meyers; however, if the call-in turned out to be legit, it would mean that a cop was in a fight for his life and we would have to pull from our OPs. Either way it was an extreme and intense thirty-five seconds. What occurred in those thirty-five seconds was a series of critical events that would alter the rest of my career. I didn't know this at the time, but I was going to find out.
The first unit to respond to the thirteen was a pair of five-year police veterans, Phil Cardillo, and his partner of four years, Vito Navarra. They were directly around the corner from 1-0-2 West 116th Street, which turned out to be the famous Mosque Number 7. Both veteran cops didn't think twice that the door to the mosque was left unattended and wide open. Why should they? They were in ten-thirteen mode—take no prisoners until the thirteen was a ninety-x or the job became a
condition corrected,
meaning: cops out of harm's way. The second car was from our sister precinct, manned by Victor Padilla and Ivan Negron. The fact that the front door to Mosque Number 7 was unlocked and unguarded was an incongruity within itself. There were never fewer than three steely FOI (Fruit of Islam) soldiers
stationed at the secured doors. Their primary job was to keep interlopers out—that meant anyone who wasn't Muslim. And even if they were Black Muslims, they'd have to be members of Mosque Number 7 to be let in. Neither of the four cops fit that criterion.
All four officers, looking to help a brother in need, walked through those open doors. Once inside the vestibule, which was smallish—approximately eight feet wide by ten feet deep—they passed an empty reception desk and ran up a staircase toward the second floor. Halfway up the staircase they were met by approximately twenty Muslims, most of them FOI soldiers or building security. Two sets of metal double doors were slammed shut behind them and dead-bolted from the inside. All four cops were trapped, surrounded, and becoming increasingly confused as one of the FOI men screamed, “
Allahu Akbar
!” The four patrolmen tried to gain entry to the second floor, looking for the cop in trouble. The Muslims wouldn't allow it and push came to shove. Suddenly the Muslims jumped the outnumbered cops. One of the four officers grabbed his radio and squeezed the mike in an attempt to call his own thirteen. He screamed inaudibly into it.
Unit: [Inaudible screams.]
Central: “Ten-five...is there a footman requesting assistance?”
Unit: “—116th Street, central.”
The second I heard the screams coming from the radio, I determined this to be confirmed. I slammed the car into gear—a cop
was
on the wrong end of that thirteen. I placed the cherry light on the roof and raced east on 125th Street. I'd get Twyman Meyers another day.
There is nothing scarier than hearing the plaintive screams of a cop pleading for help over a radio. That sudden terror strikes you, like the slow motion of a tragedy happening before your eyes. Five thousand thoughts in your head all tell you to dive in the way, do whatever you can, but every sinew in your body is locked in fear. It's a crippling feeling, rushing toward a thirteen and hoping to God you're not too late. Hearing him scream over the radio, maybe the last noises he ever made, struck every cop with that same parental panic.
The four cops were beaten up and kicked back down the stairs to the first floor. The patrolmen were in survival mode as the FOI soldiers tried to rip their guns from their holsters. All they could do was cover up and wait for backup. Vito Navarra was kicked down the stairs, and Phil Cardillo was
dragged down, feet first. Though he was nearly unconscious, he had the wherewithal to hold on to his weapon as a swarm of hands tried to pull it from its holster-locked position. Once on the first floor, the beating continued. That was when all hell broke loose.
I blocked everything out and focused on navigating around the traffic on 125th Street. The radio was momentarily silent, never a good sign on confirmed thirteens. I heard sirens closing in from all directions. Civilian cars heard them too and suddenly stopped. It was a bottlenecked mess on both sides of Harlem's main drag. I had nowhere to go. I heard the female dispatcher's voice, filled with heightening anxiety. It was her job to direct every unit to the location, and it was also her job to find out who the downed cop was. That would be tough to accomplish until somebody ID'd himself or another cop got eyes on him or them. It was even tougher to coordinate when sitting behind an archaic computer screen, wearing a headset some fourteen miles south of the action.
For a while, more of the same transpired—dead air.
Central: Any unit on the scene at the assist patrolman, 1-0-2 West 116th?
I was still trapped in four lanes of standstill traffic. I looked at my watch, almost two minutes had expired—still no sound from the units. Central was as nervous as I was; her voice cut through the radio silence.
Central: “Any 2-8 car on the scene at that assist patrolman, 1-0-2 West 116th Street, K?”
There was no answer. Where the fuck were those cops? What was happening? I was starting to hyperventilate. The agonizing radio silence allowed me to imagine all kinds of horrific scenarios. I jerked the wheel, trying to pull the car into the west-bound lane; a stopped bus blocked my way. I leaned out the window and slammed my hand into the bus, screaming, “Move forward, goddamit!” But the driver had nowhere to go.
Then suddenly the radio jumped alive. Someone called off the ten-thirteen.
“No further, 1-0-2 West 116th Street, scooter post two of the 2-8.”
It was called off, but something just didn't seem right.
Patrolman Rudy Andre of the 2-8 was nearby. He quickly made his way
to the scene. When he arrived he found a scooter cop kneeling in front of Vito Navarra, who was bloodied outside the mosque. It was quiet all around. Rudy determined that Navarra had been beaten and thrown out. The mosque doors were locked. None of them knew that three more cops were less than twenty feet away, struggling to stay alive. Even if they had known, they would have had no way to get into the building. And unfortunately, the three heavily outnumbered cops inside had no way out. Later, Patrolman Rudy Andre stated, “Navarra was out of it, barely conscious. I assumed there were no other cops in the building, because the scooter man called off the initial thirteen to slow everybody down.”
We let out a collective, though guarded, sigh of relief. I actually laid my head on the steering wheel and whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I took a deep breath. Central came back on the air, calmly took control again.
Central: Units in the 2-8 Precinct, no further, 1-0-2 116th authority 2-8 scooter patrolman on the scene, 11:45 hours.
I glanced at my watch again. Three minutes had passed and the all cops were safe, or so we all thought.
I looked into my rearview mirror. The other car was trying to pull a u-turn back toward the OP. He called over the radio,
“Randy, OP, yes?”
I gave him a thumbs-up out the window. We weren't gone that long, and Twyman Meyers obviously hadn't called this one in. We still had a chance to catch him.
Meanwhile Patrolman Rudy Andre wanted to get a lead on Vito Navarra's attackers. He ran to the front doors of the mosque to search. As he reached the two-foot square windows on the double doors, he heard a gunshot explode from within. He pulled his service revolver and was jolted by what he witnessed—FOI men stomping on three bloody cops on the floor. He snatched up his radio and screamed,
“Ten-thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th Street!”
I jerked the wheel to the right, gunning the engine. All eight pistons fired open. The Impala slammed into the car ahead of us, pushing it far enough to give us access to the sidewalk. The Impala's undercarriage scraped onto the curb. Central squawked over the radio, “
1-0-2 West 116th a signal thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th, a signal thirteen, what units to respond?
”
Unit: 2-5 anticrime, Central.
Central: Ten-four. Any other units in the 2-5, 1-0-2 West 116th assist patrolman?
I had a clear easterly corridor on the southbound sidewalk. We flew off into the crosswalk of Manhattan Avenue, siren blaring, crossed over to the eastbound sidewalk, and jumped the curb banging a hard right, now heading south. Pedestrians were diving into storefronts, over fences, and back into the street where other cars were at complete standstill. Now the radio was abuzz with the noise of sirens and the jumble of voices from police units jumping on top of one another.
Meanwhile Rudy Andre tried to pull the door open; it was locked. The FOI men inside the mosque continued to stomp on the downed cops. A pool of blood started to form around Phil Cardillo. It was at this point that Officer Rudy Andre made an incredible command decision. He pulled his gun and fired through the chicken-wired glass portals of the double doors. Some of the FOI men started to scatter. He reached in, slicing his wrist on a jagged edge, and fired three more times into the mosque ceiling. This stopped the advance and further beatings by the FOI. They ran down the stairs, leaving the three half-conscious cops on the floor. Though he was losing blood from a main artery, Rudy Andre used his weapon to punch out the remaining shards of glass. Other cops gathered behind him. Ivan Negron managed to shake off the hits he'd taken and stumble to the door. When he unlocked it, a dozen cops filed into the vestibule. Rudy screamed into the radio,
“Ten-thirteen, get additional units, Central.”
We were closing in. All of a sudden, two footmen wearing 3-2 numerals turned the corner, weaving in and out of stopped cars. They were drenched in sweat and completely gassed. They had to have been running full-bore from their precinct. A sense of pride washed over me. I looked up and saw an NYPD helicopter swooping in from the south. It quickly dipped behind a building, then yawed low and out of sight. Central had called in additional units off of the next zone, meaning we were in the middle of a citywide ten-thirteen. Any available unit within earshot was to mobilize immediately to the location. It also meant that we were heading into full-blown chaos. I keyed the mike,
“Central be advised, two units from the Major Case Squad are responding, K.”