Circle of Six, page 2
The armed goons of this racist government will again meet the guns of oppressed Third World Peoples as long as they occupy our community and murder our brothers and sisters in the name of American law and order; just as the fascist Marines and Army occupy Vietnam in the name of democracy and murder Vietnamese people in the name of American Imperialism are confronted with the guns of the Vietnamese Liberation Army, the domestic armed forces of racism and oppression will be confronted with the guns of the Black Liberation Army, who will mete out in the tradition of Malcolm and all true revolutionaries real justice. [sic]
We are revolutionary justice. All power to the people.
My partner, Sonny Grosso (of French Connection fame), and I'd crossed paths with Meyers eleven months prior. I'd locked him up. We'd received information that Meyers was setting us up for assassination, and through some street CIs (confidential informants) we were able to get the jump on him and two accomplices before they could carry out their deadly mission—killing us. However, during the struggle Sonny and Twyman both fell over a banister, crashing onto a flight of stairs one-half story down. Sonny sustained injuries that would ultimately end his career. One week after our violent encounter, Twyman was bailed out of the Manhattan Detention Center, the Tombs, with money the BLA acquired from a St. Louis bank robbery. He was free to roam and murder again. Directly after this jumble-fuck-of-a-release from the Tombs, it was determined that Meyers had been party to the 1971 murders of New York City cops Joseph Piagentini and Waverly Jones. Witnesses said that Twyman Meyers danced over the fallen bodies of the two patrolmen. It was incriminating evidence, but it had come too late. The killer was long gone and had disappeared into the wind. But the scumbag wouldn't let me forget him for long. He was a son of a bitch who liked to brag. In those eleven months since we'd collared him, he'd made repeated calls to Les Matthews, a writer for The Amsterdam News, stating that I was at the top of his to-be-killed list, and that members of my family would be executed as well. Needless to say, the NYPD took those threats seriously, especially after Meyers showed up at my mother's home. After that incident, my parents received twenty-four hour, solid-gold protection and were eventually relocated to Florida and taken into protective custody. Twyman Meyers had made it personal, but so did I. I countered by calling Matthews with a message, in hopes of smoking the killer out of hiding. It was detailed, as in-depth as Meyers's rant to The Times, but subtly worded to get the reaction I wanted. It's a shame that the newspaper printed this watered-down version:
Harlem-born and reared detective, Randy Jurgensen, is looking for the young leader of the Black Liberation Army, Twyman Meyers, and his daring accomplice Robert Vickers, who are both out to allegedly assassinate the cop according to underworld sources.
Young leader of the BLA and his daring accomplice? They weren't movie stars; they were cop killers looking to make a name for themselves. And The Amsterdam News had become their go-between. This only tempered my resolve to catch my would-be assassin.
In 1972 we (the NYPD) were at war with the likes of Twyman Meyers, a hostile media, and a public who, for the most part, did not trust or like what they saw as the manifestation of “the establishment.” This was a brew for a hellacious and bloody year. The climate in New York was this: We cops were targeted for death. The us-versus-them mentality was a yoke on every cop's shoulder, worn like a heavy weight, carried daily with rounds and rounds of extra ammo to guard against everyone and anyone. In those mean 1972 streets, the only thing we could count on was one another—our brother cops and the superior officers we called boss. If only that held true on that particular April morning. What I and the rest of the country were about to witness would place an indelible black mark on the face of the NYPD, its uppermost echelon, the Nation of Islam, Police Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, and Mayor John Lindsay—a dark hurtful blemish that remains to this day, one that I myself could never and will never forget. We, the rank and file, were sandbagged by our own—the hierarchy of the NYPD. One of our brother cops, Phil Cardillo, was murdered and subsequently bastardized, then hurried into the ground in a cloak of mystery and dishonor, all in an effort to cover up a purposeful negligence of duty so blatant it defies belief. In short, we were betrayed by our fathers, the police commissioner, and his deputies. It was the collusion of our own, Mayor John Lindsay, Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, Deputy Commissioner Benjamin Ward, Chief of the Department Michael Codd, and Congressman Charles Rangel, with Minister Louis Farrakhan of the Nation of Islam—six in total—the Circle of Six.
To understand the backstabbing fully, we have to go back in time, back to one of the most brutal periods in New York history. Back to a time when ten cops a year were systematically executed in cold and calculated hits, back to one of the most traumatic eras in the storied New York City Police Department's past. The place: Harlem, New York. The time: April 14, 1972.
“TEN-THIRTEEN!”
Friday, April 14th, 1972 – 11:39 A.M.
We were set up just west of Amsterdam Avenue on 125th Street. I settled my binoculars on a clear and unobstructed view of the set. According to my information, Twyman Meyers was coming in from the north, so we felt fairly confident that our surveillance OPs (observation posts) were invulnerable to burn. I was assigned five plain-clothes cops, or anticrime cops as they were called, from the 2-8 (28th) Precinct. Two were with me in the car, while the other three were on the other side of Amsterdam Avenue. It was an unseasonably warm day, and the fact that I was wearing my army field jacket to hold ammo and conceal my shotgun made the shit-box Impala feel like a blast furnace. I was jittery and for good reason. Meyers had succeeded in doing what no other perp had done before: He'd gotten deep inside, made this a personal war. But I was a professional and didn't want emotions getting in the way of a good bust. As far as I was concerned, Twyman Meyers was about to lose his position as the head of the BLA. He had a destiny with one of two conclusions: an electric chair or a pine box. End of story.
I swept the binos over the dingy terrain and couldn't help thinking how the streets had changed. I knew the area intimately, was born and bred on 123rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue, just two blocks south of where I was sitting that very moment, trying to catch this criminal. But that was a different time and a different way of life.
My parents were the superintendents of the building, two of the few who truly cared about their residents and strived to make the conditions as nice as possible. Like most of the hard-working parents in New York City during the forties, they also took care of the neighborhood and all of its children. Now, thirty years later, I was trying to do the same, look out for the neighborhood. Though this time, so much more was at stake. The core values and very foundation that molded me into the man I was, that same foundation that once held those families, their extensions, and those tightly knit streets together, was now being dismantled by an ideology steeped in blazing hatred. In hindsight I may have been overly naive, but I truly felt that when I caught Twyman Meyers, the hatred and all the diseased thoughts that he espoused to so many young children would somehow recede, and we would all come together like so many years before. In my heart I felt that Twyman Meyers, Joanne Chesimard, and the soldiers of the BLA were the symbols of hatred that I had to do away with. Was I obsessed with my mission? You bet. My mission was to try to turn back the hands of time. I'd soon realize how ridiculous that presumption was. That day was just the beginning of five years of hell.
We were on the Zone-6 radio frequency, which seemed to erupt in a continuous cacophony of chatter between the cops of the ultra-busy Harlem precincts and Central Dispatch. It was a machine-gun ratta-tat-tat of coded numbers, legalese, and raw New York slang.
2-8 Nora, got a 52 corner of 1-2-8 and Amsterdam
Ten-four central, Nora responding, K
2-5 Adam 52 with a gun, corner of Saint Nick at 1-2-2, units to respond
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.
11:41:20 A.M.
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.
11:42:00 A.M.
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.
11:42:35 A.M.
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.
11:44:15 A.M.
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.”
