Authors: Randy Jurgensen
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.
The only bright spot in my life, other than the expectancy of our baby, was the fact that since forging the police plate, I hadn't gotten one summons. Maybe crime does pay?
After hearing about this latest debacle between me and the NYPD, Harmon had me transferred to the office of the district attorney, in much the same capacity as Nick Cirillo. I was still being paid by the NYPD, but my daily assignments were no longer generated from Muldoon. I was on a more amenable work chart, and I didn't have to worry about the random calls into his office to justify myself. The bad news was that the NYPD still had to finance the security detail, and Muldoon was never on time with the rent money for the safe house or for the incidentals that were coming out of my pocket. Things got so bad that the heat at the safe house had been turned off. Luckily, there was a small fireplace where we burned cheap furniture, paper, even garbage. After one fifteen-hour session at Harmon's office, Foster and I came back to find the house padlocked because of unpaid rent. Foster was becoming as resilient as me. He was learning to roll with it. The ones who weren't rolling with it were the other detectives assigned to the security detail. And all their anger was taken out on Foster. It all came to a head when I went to pick up Foster one morning and found him unusually flustered. Foster's Koran had been removed from his room and the detectives had denied seeing it. Foster was bordering on a breakdown; the Koran was a sacred object to him. I charged into the rattrap bungalow to find two of the detectives nodding off on the couch. I tore the house apart searching for it. When I finally found it, it was jammed behind the water tank of the toilet bowl. I stood in the middle of the room, screaming at the two cops. I asked if they'd forgotten why we were there in the first place. They seemed humiliated and ashamed, and I left it at that.
At Harmon's office, I began the daunting task of preparing the interviews of the superiors, daunting not because I was intimidated, but because I knew lies were going to be told, which then had to be disproved. This was going to turn into a bloodbath. My first preinterview was with Congressman Charles Rangel. It took more than a few days before he returned my calls. Rangel's explanation of his actions was short, gruff, and dismissive, almost to the point of being confrontational. He denied his involvement, and he suddenly had an affliction with memory loss.
“Yes, Detective, I was there that day, but I don't recall ever going inside the mosque....Deal, what deal?”
After relaying these blatant lies to Harmon, as blown away as he was, his advice was to do a five on it, and leave it alone. Rangel, when called by the defense, could not offer anything that would be detrimental to the prosecution's case, because he couldn't remember a thing.
That afternoon, Harmon received a call from the security desk, requesting that I move my car. This was odd, because on this particular day I had my wife's vehicle. How could the guards know it was my car?
Immediately, as I stepped from the side entrance into the street, I noticed two white men wearing tacky suits; it was obvious they were cops. This was the district attorney's office so they could've very well been coming to court. As I reached the middle of the block, I noticed two more suited men coming at me from the opposite direction, then two more following them. We all reached my car simultaneously. The lead man pulled out his shield and ID. He said, “I'm Lieutenant Francis from IAD. I'm gonna need you to open the car.”