From The New York Post, October 8, 2006
Excerpt from the book: Circle of Six, by Randy Jurgensen and Robert Cea
BETRAYAL OF A POLICE HERO
October 8, 2006 -In 1972, a young cop was shot inside Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam mosque in Harlem. Fearing racial riots, city and police leaders put the brakes on an investigation to appease the people in the streets. Detective Randy Jurgensen refused to give up his quest for justice, arresting one Muslim after a painstaking probe. After that man was acquitted, Jurgensen retired. But he has never given up his belief that light must be shed on the killing and the coverup.
In his new book, "Circle of Six: The True Story of New York's Most Notorious Cop-Killer and The Cop Who Risked Everything to Catch Him," Jurgensen, with co-author Robert Cea, tells his story. 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, Police Commissioner Patrick V. Murphy, Deputy Commissioner Benjamin Ward, Chief of the Department Michael Codd and Rep. Charles Rangel, with Minister Louis Farrakhan of the Nation of Islam - six in total - the Circle of Six. To understand the back-stabbing 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 10 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.
11:42 a.m. I was staking out suspected cop-killer Twyman Meyers, of the Black Liberation Army, when my police radio rang out with the most dreaded of calls, a 10-13 signaling a cop in trouble. The first to respond were five-year police veterans, Phil Cardillo, and his partner of four years, Vito Navarra. Neither thought twice that the door to 102 W. 116th St. - which turned out to be the famous Mosque No. 7 - was left unattended and wide open.
When a second car carrying Victor Padilla and Ivan Negron showed up, all four officers walked through those open doors, passed an empty reception desk and ran up toward the second floor. Halfway up they were met by 20 Muslims, most of them the paramilitary Fruit of Islam (FOI) soldiers or building security. Two sets of metal double doors were shut behind them and dead-bolted.
The cops were trapped, surrounded, and becoming increasingly confused as one of the FOI men screamed, "Allahu Akbar!" Navarra was kicked down the stairs, and Cardillo was dragged down feet-first. 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. On the first floor, the beating continued.
11:44 a.m. Patrolman Rudy Andre ran to the front doors where he heard a gunshot. He pulled his service revolver and was jolted by what he witnessed through a window: FOI men stomping on three bloody cops inside. He snatched his radio and screamed, "10-13, 102 West 116th Street!"
Andre tried to open the door as a pool of blood started to form around Cardillo. Andre pulled his gun and fired through the chicken-wired glass portals of the doors. He reached in, slicing his wrist on a jagged edge, and fired three times at the mosque ceiling. The FOI men ran downstairs. Andre led the charge and found Cardillo heading toward death. He didn't realize Cardillo had taken a bullet. The shot that Andre heard from behind the locked doors had come from Cardillo's own gun. One of the FOI men had ripped it from his holster and fired one round into his sternum.
11:47 a.m. I stared at the four bloodied cops being dragged and carried into an ambulance. When the crowd of onlookers saw the battered cops, they burst into a great cheer. I felt an incredible surge of anger pack into my neck. Someone would have to pay for this. I knew the only way was to complete a thorough investigation. I rounded up the cops injured in the mosque from St. Luke's Hospital and headed back to 116th Street.
But the brass had beaten me to it and allowed Farrakhan's army to take control. Navarra stepped into the mosque basement. Several of the FOI men receded further into the rear of the lounge-type area. Chief of Detectives Albert Seedman and the rest of the detectives immediately noticed this. So did Farrakhan.
He stepped forward and in an overly loud and preachy voice he exclaimed: "I cannot guarantee your well-being if you remain inside the house of worship . . ." Rangel suddenly appeared in the basement to deliver a message. He said, Ward wants all police presence out of the building . . . now.
Seedman turned slightly, hesitated for the briefest of moments. "You, right now, are impeding an assault and attempted-homicide investigation. Leave." Rangel lowered his voice and repeated his words. Seedman got face-to-face with Rangel. "Go upstairs and tell Commissioner Ward that the chief of detectives is conducting a show-up."
Rangel fired back: "All due respect, Chief, something's gotta be done. Upstairs is going to be turned into a parking lot if a riot ensues. Lots of people are going to get hurt, including cops. Now, we worked out a deal that all of the detained men will be brought into the 24 Precinct later today for questioning, but right now our priority is the well-being of the cops and the people of Harlem upstairs.
"We worked out a deal. Who's we?" asked Seedman. Rangel grinned, "You know, myself, Commissioner Ward, Minister Farrakhan, and . . ." "And?" asked Seedman. "Well, there aren't too many people above the rank of deputy commissioner, Chief."
As Seedman reached the lobby, he saw 20 FOI men cleansing the hallway, situating the table and chairs, mopping up the blood - Cardillo's, Negron's, Padilla's, Navarra's and Andre's. The crime scene was being erased with every stroke of the mop. Seedman turned to the detective and said, "This case will never be solved." I pushed my way to the middle of the block. Bricks were still being lobbed off the roof. When I reached Inspector Jack Haugh, he screamed over the crowd, "Randy, someone's going to get killed."
Myself and four other cops charged the roof, barreling out onto tar and asphalt. I lifted my shotgun in the air and screamed, "Everybody off the f- - -ing roof. As the teens split, a high-ranking superior officer, one uniform cop and a local rabble-rouser known as Kenyatta 35X demanded our guns. We were f-ed. All of the NYPD was f-ed. And things were only going to get worse.
The semicircle of people closed ranks and formed a wall in front of the door, which was the one way down. We dropped our heads like fullbacks, squared our shoulders and surged forward. They started to punch, kick and claw at us. I felt a horrific sting below my shoulder. Someone had bitten a chunk of skin out of my back.
We made it to the police car, slamming the doors and locking them. They keys weren't in the car. BOOM! The windshield exploded, covering us in a million fine pieces of glass. If that wasn't enough, burning rags soaked in gasoline were tossed in. BOOM! Another explosion, then another gunshot, then blackness draped over me. I heard myself talk, though it was slurred and incoherent, "I'm shot . . . I'm shot . . ."
On the fifth day, after being treated at St. Luke's, I was made aware Cardillo was going to die. I went to his room and I said my farewell and signed myself out of the hospital. That Monday was Cardillo's funeral. It was, by far, the largest turnout of police personnel I had ever witnessed . . .
It was an amazing show of support - except Lindsay and Murphy weren't there. For the next five years - in spite of my bosses efforts to rein me in - I pursued the case 16 hours a day and made enemies of the brass, the Nation of Islam and Farrakhan.
After interviewing scores of cops, making a replica of the mosque, sifting through hours of video tape of that day and using the FBI to identify members of the Nation of Islam, I finally caught a break when a man called Foster 2X Thomas was arrested for a petty credit-card crime.
I leaned in close, not to intimidate him or anything, just to show I needed answers. "Did you shoot the policeman?" "Well then, who did? I know you know, and you want to tell me, yes?" "Lewis shot the policeman." I had a name. And Foster 2X Thomas had a face to go with the name. "Lewis who?" "Lewis 17X Dupree; he's the dean of boys."
Our star witness was a devout Muslim from the mosque, who I spent years protecting from the militants who threatened to kill us. As we approached trial, Farrakhan, never one to miss an opportunity presented by the press, staged peaceful marches by Muslims around the DA's offices. This wasn't going to stop me, and it sure as hell wasn't going to slow DA Jim Harmon down either. Dupree landed a hung jury in his first trial and was acquitted in the second on March 27, 1977. Yes, led by Harmon, we went after Dupree with as much fervor as we had the first time, but the truth of the matter was simple - been there and done that - the public no longer cared. They had all heard of the first hung jury. Why would and should this be any different?
When Foster 2X Thomas was brought in, he gave his testimony as he had the first time. But I could tell in the jurors' faces, their body language, they weren't ready to believe him . . . They came back with a verdict of not guilty. I don't know if it was luck, or complete misfortune, because that was the only day during both trials that Cardillo's widow, Joy, wasn't present.
I looked at him, Dupree. He did it. He got away with murder. And at that moment, as harsh a reality as this is to admit, I wanted to murder him. After being on trial myself, five months later, I retired on Aug. 17, 1977.
I found myself moving toward the wall of heroes in the lobby of headquarters. I was there to hand over my guns, and officially turn in my retirement papers. I saw the various plaques of the downed officers: Piagentini, Jones, Foster, Laurie, among so many others.
Then I saw Cardillo's plaque on the wall. I remember feeling the irony and duplicity of it all . . .A cop looked up at me and said, "Listen, guy, before you retire, you've got two unpaid parking tickets that have to be paid."
I laughed, asking the cop if I could use his phone. I called my wife, Lynn. She picked up on the first ring. She could barely talk. I told her I'd just heard about Elvis, who had just died. "Are you OK, Lynn?"
"I'm fine Randy. It's OK. When are you coming home?" she asked. Right now, Lynn, my work is done here."
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