All white cops leave the scene. Return to your command forthwith.”
That was real fucked up. I thought to myself about how shameful and embarrassing it was. I was embarrassed not just for me and the rest of the white cops who'd heard the order, but for the black cops as well, and the rest of the cops who made up the vast majority of the NYPD, despite race or creed. See, we were no longer the men in blue. Now we were stripped bare by a high-ranking police official under orders, stripped of our brethren and stripped of our unity. I was dumbfounded and I saw the masses of cops, black and white, turn to one another, also dumbfounded. If we divided, we knew we wouldn't stand a chance, not with this crowd, not ever. We all stared at Benjamin Ward. He was now the black Deputy Commissioner.
Upon hearing this command, the crowd erupted. They were going to bask in watching the NYPD break its own back. Even later Ward would never admit who gave this order, he or a superior officer but we heard it loud and clear. Back then, an order given was an order obeyed. And reluctantly, we left our remaining brother-officers to fend for themselves in the middle of a riot.
As Chief Seedman reached the lobby, he saw twenty FOI men cleansing the hallway, situating the table and chairs, mopping up the blood—Phil Cardillo's, Ivan Negron's, Victor Padilla's, Vito Navarra's, and Rudy 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.”
“SEARCH THOSE COPS”
I heard my name over the radio. It was the commanding officer of the 2-8, Inspector John Haugh, the twenty-five-year career cop, lawyer, teacher, mentor, and good friend. “Randy, I need you to eighty-five me Lenox between one sixteen and one seventeen forthwith.” He wanted a face-to-face .
Even though I was probably thirty feet from the man, I couldn't see him over the people. I pushed my way to the middle of the block. The bricks were still being lobbed off the roof, but we were a safe distance. Inspector Haugh was a cool operator. Even in the middle of battle, he never seemed out of control, which is why I respected and trusted him. When I reached him, he was bordering meltdown. He screamed over the crowd, “Randy, someone's going to get killed.”
He pointed to the roof, shook his head violently back and forth, “Get up there and take that fucking roof!”
I didn't ask questions. I searched and quickly found all the men from the Twyman Meyers stakeout. I pointed to the roof, “We're clearing that roof.”
The men followed me in a close cluster as we charged into the building. We hit the stairway and I realized that we were followed in by close to thirty civilians, all wanting to be a part of the action. I posted one of the anticrime cops at the bottom of the stairway. “Gun out, nobody comes up.”
That stopped the crowd. We moved up the stairs to the second floor and encountered the same; out of apartments, tenants were spilling into the hallway, wanting to follow us up. I positioned another cop on the second and third landings—no one was getting up.
Myself and two other cops charged the roof, barreling out onto the tar and asphalt. First thing I heard was the incredible rumbling of the helicopter. I was back in Korea. I had to catch my breath, because the rotors were so low it made it almost impossible to breathe. I looked upand actually saw the pilot squinting at me. I ripped open my field jacket, revealing my shield. He gave me a thumbs-up and pulled back the aircraft. I checked the roof. Approximately ten teenagers, no older than fourteen, were standing in a semicircle around a dismantled chimney. I lifted the shotgun in the air and screamed “Everybody off the fucking roof.”
The kids dropped the bricks and charged off the roof, probably very happy they weren't locked up.
It was safe. I stuffed the shotgun into my hip and halfway down my pant leg. I zipped up my
That was real fucked up. I thought to myself about how shameful and embarrassing it was. I was embarrassed not just for me and the rest of the white cops who'd heard the order, but for the black cops as well, and the rest of the cops who made up the vast majority of the NYPD, despite race or creed. See, we were no longer the men in blue. Now we were stripped bare by a high-ranking police official under orders, stripped of our brethren and stripped of our unity. I was dumbfounded and I saw the masses of cops, black and white, turn to one another, also dumbfounded. If we divided, we knew we wouldn't stand a chance, not with this crowd, not ever. We all stared at Benjamin Ward. He was now the black Deputy Commissioner.
Upon hearing this command, the crowd erupted. They were going to bask in watching the NYPD break its own back. Even later Ward would never admit who gave this order, he or a superior officer but we heard it loud and clear. Back then, an order given was an order obeyed. And reluctantly, we left our remaining brother-officers to fend for themselves in the middle of a riot.
As Chief Seedman reached the lobby, he saw twenty FOI men cleansing the hallway, situating the table and chairs, mopping up the blood—Phil Cardillo's, Ivan Negron's, Victor Padilla's, Vito Navarra's, and Rudy 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.”
“SEARCH THOSE COPS”
I heard my name over the radio. It was the commanding officer of the 2-8, Inspector John Haugh, the twenty-five-year career cop, lawyer, teacher, mentor, and good friend. “Randy, I need you to eighty-five me Lenox between one sixteen and one seventeen forthwith.” He wanted a face-to-face .
Even though I was probably thirty feet from the man, I couldn't see him over the people. I pushed my way to the middle of the block. The bricks were still being lobbed off the roof, but we were a safe distance. Inspector Haugh was a cool operator. Even in the middle of battle, he never seemed out of control, which is why I respected and trusted him. When I reached him, he was bordering meltdown. He screamed over the crowd, “Randy, someone's going to get killed.”
He pointed to the roof, shook his head violently back and forth, “Get up there and take that fucking roof!”
I didn't ask questions. I searched and quickly found all the men from the Twyman Meyers stakeout. I pointed to the roof, “We're clearing that roof.”
The men followed me in a close cluster as we charged into the building. We hit the stairway and I realized that we were followed in by close to thirty civilians, all wanting to be a part of the action. I posted one of the anticrime cops at the bottom of the stairway. “Gun out, nobody comes up.”
That stopped the crowd. We moved up the stairs to the second floor and encountered the same; out of apartments, tenants were spilling into the hallway, wanting to follow us up. I positioned another cop on the second and third landings—no one was getting up.
Myself and two other cops charged the roof, barreling out onto the tar and asphalt. First thing I heard was the incredible rumbling of the helicopter. I was back in Korea. I had to catch my breath, because the rotors were so low it made it almost impossible to breathe. I looked upand actually saw the pilot squinting at me. I ripped open my field jacket, revealing my shield. He gave me a thumbs-up and pulled back the aircraft. I checked the roof. Approximately ten teenagers, no older than fourteen, were standing in a semicircle around a dismantled chimney. I lifted the shotgun in the air and screamed “Everybody off the fucking roof.”
The kids dropped the bricks and charged off the roof, probably very happy they weren't locked up.
It was safe. I stuffed the shotgun into my hip and halfway down my pant leg. I zipped up my
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