Circle of Six, page 22
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.”
We stepped off the elevator at the ADA's floor. Movement was once again permitted. As we stepped toward Van Lindt's office, the door of the back stairway was kicked opened. It was him, all 225 pounds of twisted molten anger wrapped in a lieutenant's uniform—Muldoon had come for my head.
Go ahead, Lieutenant, say what you want, because I'm done, going to Disneyland, out there on the West Coast. I'll make it easy for you. I'll hand you my shield in front of everyone. I felt Van Lindt and Harmon step close to my side.
Muldoon stood in front of the three of us, livid. He didn't look at either man at my side. He didn't care what they thought.
He said, in an even tone, “Whether you believe it or not, we all have a job to do. Today, my job was to protect you and the subject, to bring you both in unharmed. You don't show up, I assume you were in trouble. If we are going to make this work for the duration, however long that might be, you've got to follow the tact plans, which have been laid out and prepared by men who do this for a living.”
He still hadn't acknowledged Harmon or Van Lindt. All of the piss and vinegar suddenly evaporated from within. Could this guy actually have meant all that? I nodded slowly, “You're right, Lieutenant, and I apologize.”
He dropped his head shuffling his feet slightly, “Well, just wanted to say...good job.”
He turned, heading back down the stairway, accompanied by a dozen ESU and TPF cops, most of whom smiled, winked, and gave me a thumbs-up. It felt good being a New York City cop that afternoon. But the afternoon wouldn't last till tomorrow.
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
We were led into Homicide Bureau Chief John Keenan's private conference room. For the rest of my stay at the DA's office, I was to be assigned a detective from the DA's squad—old crony—Nick Cirillo. Most of the men in the DA's homicide squad were NYPD detectives, but their assignments were to investigate for the assistant district attorneys' cases. They'd enhance what the precinct detectives had already procured during their own investigations. They were basically an extension of a squad at the DA's office. We made the case in the street, the DA's detectives helped make the case for court.
Nick Cirillo was a good street detective, and he was an excellent DA's squad cop. Cirillo understood that with me came Foster, and he had to bring Foster into his fold, which he did easily. The Harlem-bred detectives could speak a lot of street languages, which is why they had a lot of informants and street jugo, or juice.
I said good-bye to Van Lindt. It was his final week in the DA's office. I was happy he could see some progress before he left.
The transition from Van Lindt to Harmon was easy. The guys were dispirited that the team was breaking up, but they kept the vibe upbeat. Van Lindt demanded his forty bucks back, and Harmon said I was having an affair with some hotty Brazilian maid at the Saint George Hotel (Harmon's fantasy, not mine). The jokes were a nice change of pace from all the stress. They were good soldiers, and I was thrilled to end my career with them.
Muldoon put into place a security detail of five detectives who would be assigned twenty-four seven to Foster. I was going to get a much-needed hiatus from the case. This was good because Lynn was ready to give birth to our firstborn any day. It would also give me the time to enhance the case with Harmon. But all of it was icing on the case. They didn't need me to make the arrest. Anyone could've made the collar. My gig was to testify at the trial. Case was over. Now I just had to wait on the ADA's office to say when Dupree would be yanked. The problem was—though not really a problem—Harmon was shoring up this case to the max, which took time. He was the most thorough ADA on all nine planets.
Foster gave Harmon all of the Muslims who were there the day of occurrence, and I had to go find them and try to extract statements from them. Most of the men were going to say, Yes, Sir, I was there, but I didn't see anything. And that's exactly what we wanted them to say. Our objective wasn't to make our case; it was to stop the defense from making its case. They could've had men say they saw Foster shoot Phil, or they saw Dupree, but he wasn't near Phil. Once it was on record that a man was there and saw nothing, anything he said afterward would be seen as a lie.
Muldoon did as promised; he sent out a teletype to all of the squad bosses of Zone-6: send a list of available detectives who could work security detail. The problem was that no squad boss was giving up his best DTs just to make my or Muldoon's job easier. They'd send some good ones, and some not so good. We made do, for a while. Then things went bad, really bad.
The five DTs we got were from the zone, and I knew all of them, though never really interacted with them. They were inside guys, clerical DTs who'd never caught cases. I needed to have Foster as willing, able, and productive as he'd been; these guys weren't making it easy. They just weren't with the program. Even though they had been schooled on the Muslim way of life, when they brought Foster to breakfast, they just didn't think. Everyone ordered bacon and eggs. They didn't think they were doing anything wrong when they had alcohol in the room.
They didn't hide their feelings about Foster. They didn't care for studying what Foster stood for. They just knew he was there, day of occurrence, and took part in it. The DTs started calling in sick, taking lost time or vacation days. We'd have to have other detectives with no knowledge of Foster guarding him, which created a whole new set of problems. Foster started to feel like the redheaded stepchild, shuttled from one place to the next. He was miserable. So after my days working the case with Harmon, I'd drive up to be with Foster, even if it was for a half-hour walk-and-talk. We couldn't help moving him from one no-tell motel to another. Too many people knew. The Muslims were now aware of Foster's defection, and the ADA's office received death threats against both him and me. I promised him it would all be over relatively soon. That's what they told me. But detective time and district attorney time are on two different clocks. Detectives move at breakneck speed—we have to—and the good ones get what's needed and move on to the next case. ADAs have all the time in the world, because they have more resources to work with in order to develop a complete case. In the ADA's mind—rightfully so—there can be no stone left unturned. My problem was I had been on the case almost four years. I felt my job was done. I was ragged and ready to move on. It was beginning to wear on Foster too, and everything hinged on his testimony and believability. If he seemed hostile or under duress, the case would implode.
