commissioner, Chief.”
Seedman was about to rip into the congressman when he heard his name over the police radio. It was Ward's voice, “Chief Seedman, ten-two the ESU truck with all units remaining in the building!” Ten-two meant Seedman had to go see Ward—outside.
Seedman turned to Congressman Charles Rangel and asked, “You promise that these people [the ones up against the wall) will be brought into the 2-4 Precinct for interrogation?” Rangel sa id “Yes.” Seedman shook Rangel's hand and left the mosque.
Even though Ward was never elevated above the rank of lieutenant within the NYPD, an appointed commissionership superceded and outranked any uniformed member of the service. As hard a pill as it was to swallow, Ward was Seedman's superior.
Seedman was shell-shocked. Thirty years of hardcore policing, this was a first. A shot cop took precedence over any crime. Every available police resource was utilized until all guilty parties were brought to justice. That was because when you're risking your life out on the street every day, you need that one assurance— cops take care of their own. Not on April 14, 1972 they didn't. Seedman hesitated. He had the men responsible in his sights.
Farrakhan was emboldened, and so were the FOI men who surrounded him. He looked at Seedman and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Here's your hat, and there's the door.
Seedman turned to his men. Even he didn't believe what he was about to say. “Let's go.”
Not one of the men moved, not the uniformed presence, not the detectives assigned to the Chief of Detectives' office, and certainly not the detectives from the 2-8 and 2-5 Precincts. Phil Cardillo was one of their own; the other three cops who were beaten were also among their own. All these men could ever hope for was that in similar circumstances, had they been the ones beaten and shot, those men would do the same for them. As it were, Seedman knew this was the beginning of the end. He'd been around long enough to see the shitcanning a mile away.
One of the black detectives from his office looked first at Navarra, then back to Seedman. He refused to move. He said, “There's an attempted murderer down here, and he's coming out attached to my cuffs.”
Seedman looked at the FOI men. He quickly looked at Farrakhan, who was grinning, then he turned to look at Rangel for more than a few seconds. He finally turned back to the detective and slowly shook his head. He moved inches from the detective and quietly said, “Son, this is over. We leave and maybe we fight tomorrow. I promise you, you disobey that order, there'll be nothing left of you to fight. I certainly don't want to go out that way, do you?”
It was no-win. The detective would have to wait to interview each of those men at the 2-4 Precinct. He and everyone else were going to wait a very long time.
All of the cops left. The only one who didn't leave immediately was Vito Navarra. Farrakhan and the rest of his men simply stared. Navarra didn'tlook away, he gaped at every man's face, placing the faces in the horrific four-minute battle that he would never forget. The one that would haunt him and 32,000 other men for the rest of their lives.
The only thing that was saving the streets from erupting into absolute bedlam was the fact that the punks on the roof were blanketing 116th Street with bricks and other skull-crushing material. The tide of people would crest into the street and then a brick would explode onto the asphalt, sending the wave of people rushing back against the buildings for safety. The tide came in; the tide went out.
Ward pulled the bullhorn to his mouth and bellowed into it, “Only block cops remain on the scene.”
I looked at the uniforms that surrounded me. The same confused look crept across all of our faces, “What in the fuck is a block cop?” I asked.
And then, unbelievably, I heard it a second time. Ward wailed into the bullhorn, “All black cops remain on your assigned posts.
Seedman was about to rip into the congressman when he heard his name over the police radio. It was Ward's voice, “Chief Seedman, ten-two the ESU truck with all units remaining in the building!” Ten-two meant Seedman had to go see Ward—outside.
Seedman turned to Congressman Charles Rangel and asked, “You promise that these people [the ones up against the wall) will be brought into the 2-4 Precinct for interrogation?” Rangel sa id “Yes.” Seedman shook Rangel's hand and left the mosque.
Even though Ward was never elevated above the rank of lieutenant within the NYPD, an appointed commissionership superceded and outranked any uniformed member of the service. As hard a pill as it was to swallow, Ward was Seedman's superior.
Seedman was shell-shocked. Thirty years of hardcore policing, this was a first. A shot cop took precedence over any crime. Every available police resource was utilized until all guilty parties were brought to justice. That was because when you're risking your life out on the street every day, you need that one assurance— cops take care of their own. Not on April 14, 1972 they didn't. Seedman hesitated. He had the men responsible in his sights.
Farrakhan was emboldened, and so were the FOI men who surrounded him. He looked at Seedman and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Here's your hat, and there's the door.
Seedman turned to his men. Even he didn't believe what he was about to say. “Let's go.”
Not one of the men moved, not the uniformed presence, not the detectives assigned to the Chief of Detectives' office, and certainly not the detectives from the 2-8 and 2-5 Precincts. Phil Cardillo was one of their own; the other three cops who were beaten were also among their own. All these men could ever hope for was that in similar circumstances, had they been the ones beaten and shot, those men would do the same for them. As it were, Seedman knew this was the beginning of the end. He'd been around long enough to see the shitcanning a mile away.
One of the black detectives from his office looked first at Navarra, then back to Seedman. He refused to move. He said, “There's an attempted murderer down here, and he's coming out attached to my cuffs.”
Seedman looked at the FOI men. He quickly looked at Farrakhan, who was grinning, then he turned to look at Rangel for more than a few seconds. He finally turned back to the detective and slowly shook his head. He moved inches from the detective and quietly said, “Son, this is over. We leave and maybe we fight tomorrow. I promise you, you disobey that order, there'll be nothing left of you to fight. I certainly don't want to go out that way, do you?”
It was no-win. The detective would have to wait to interview each of those men at the 2-4 Precinct. He and everyone else were going to wait a very long time.
All of the cops left. The only one who didn't leave immediately was Vito Navarra. Farrakhan and the rest of his men simply stared. Navarra didn'tlook away, he gaped at every man's face, placing the faces in the horrific four-minute battle that he would never forget. The one that would haunt him and 32,000 other men for the rest of their lives.
The only thing that was saving the streets from erupting into absolute bedlam was the fact that the punks on the roof were blanketing 116th Street with bricks and other skull-crushing material. The tide of people would crest into the street and then a brick would explode onto the asphalt, sending the wave of people rushing back against the buildings for safety. The tide came in; the tide went out.
Ward pulled the bullhorn to his mouth and bellowed into it, “Only block cops remain on the scene.”
I looked at the uniforms that surrounded me. The same confused look crept across all of our faces, “What in the fuck is a block cop?” I asked.
And then, unbelievably, I heard it a second time. Ward wailed into the bullhorn, “All black cops remain on your assigned posts.
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