field jacket. With the roof completely empty, we began to clear the rest of the mortar and bricks by dropping them down into the rear courtyard.
Now that we'd stopped the hailstorm, the crowd moved into the middle of the streets, shouting like a hellish Mardi Gras. Big Bertha was pointed at an odd angle in the middle of the street, surrounded by smaller cars that led to a stranded city bus filled with screaming people. The mosque's four corners were completely ringed by FOI men dressed in suits. The police presence in front of the mosque had all but vanished.
The roof door was suddenly kicked open. The three anticrime cops emerged, followed by a very tall black boss in uniform, Inspector Tom Mitchelson, commander of Zone-6. We'd never met. He was a newcomer to the area. He had a uniformed driver with him, a young guy scared witless, and another black man in his late forties wearing a dashiki and two crossed saber swords over his chest. The last man wasn't a cop. He was a local rabble-rouser, Kenyatta 35X, who at the drop of a hat would stand on a soapbox preaching of the injustices inflicted upon the community by the likes of us. Why is he with the boss of the zone, I thought, and more important, why was my boss with him?
Mitchelson pointed to me and yelled over the noise, “Who are you and what are you doing up here?”
The door was still open and people from the street were slowly growing in number—bats, sticks, bottles. They formed into a semicircle behind the inspector and Kenyatta 35X. I stepped to the inspector, “I'm following orders, Sir.”
He snapped back, screaming nervously, “What orders?”
“To clear this roof, Sir.” More people filed onto the roof behind Mitchelson. The situation was getting tense. They fidgeted, like they wanted to be set loose to charge. Mitchelson kept eyeing us like we were the criminals launching the airmail off the roof. Everything about that day was lopsided.
Kenyatta leaned in, whispering to Mitchelson, who in turn demanded, “We need to search you. What weapons do you have?”
He turned to the young uniform, “Search those men.”
I saw the uniform's knees buckle as he took the first step. That was as far as I was going to be pushed. I wasn't going to be searched under the authority of some neighborhood agitator. I took a step backward. “Sir, you're not searching me. I'll open my coat, but you're not searching me.”
I unzipped my field jacket and slid out the shotgun. Kenyatta had a smug, contented look on his face. He reached in and whispered to Mitchelson again, who in turn held out his hand, “Give me that weapon.”
Some embarrassing catcalls from the angry civilians, “Right on. Give up all y'all weapons mothafuckin' pigs.”
I was about to hand it to him when I quickly pulled it back. The last thing I was going to do was have that street-sweeper end up in the wrong hands. Three trigger pulls and all six of us would have been torn in half. I broke the shotgun down into pieces. I handed him the stock and butt of the gun, keeping the firing mechanism and the shells.
He accepted the pieces and demanded, “What unit are you men with?”
“The Major Case Squad, Sir. We're hunting the people who are hunting us.”
I never took my eye off the crowd. It was growing. People just kept shoving their way onto the roof. Mitchelson didn't see this. He was with Kenyatta 35X so he was safe. Us, we were the bad guys, at their mercy, to be made examples for the rest of the police.
“Let me tell you something. You, and the rest of these men, by tomorrow I promise, you'll all be back in uniform. Now, I'm ordering you off this roof!”
Was that a threat? Honestly I didn't think we could have left if we wanted to. We were fucked. All of the NYPD was fucked. And on that day, the city of New York was fucked. And things were only going to get worse.
Mitchelson spun on his heels and the trio disappeared off the roof. The semicircle of people closed ranks after them. They
Now that we'd stopped the hailstorm, the crowd moved into the middle of the streets, shouting like a hellish Mardi Gras. Big Bertha was pointed at an odd angle in the middle of the street, surrounded by smaller cars that led to a stranded city bus filled with screaming people. The mosque's four corners were completely ringed by FOI men dressed in suits. The police presence in front of the mosque had all but vanished.
The roof door was suddenly kicked open. The three anticrime cops emerged, followed by a very tall black boss in uniform, Inspector Tom Mitchelson, commander of Zone-6. We'd never met. He was a newcomer to the area. He had a uniformed driver with him, a young guy scared witless, and another black man in his late forties wearing a dashiki and two crossed saber swords over his chest. The last man wasn't a cop. He was a local rabble-rouser, Kenyatta 35X, who at the drop of a hat would stand on a soapbox preaching of the injustices inflicted upon the community by the likes of us. Why is he with the boss of the zone, I thought, and more important, why was my boss with him?
Mitchelson pointed to me and yelled over the noise, “Who are you and what are you doing up here?”
The door was still open and people from the street were slowly growing in number—bats, sticks, bottles. They formed into a semicircle behind the inspector and Kenyatta 35X. I stepped to the inspector, “I'm following orders, Sir.”
He snapped back, screaming nervously, “What orders?”
“To clear this roof, Sir.” More people filed onto the roof behind Mitchelson. The situation was getting tense. They fidgeted, like they wanted to be set loose to charge. Mitchelson kept eyeing us like we were the criminals launching the airmail off the roof. Everything about that day was lopsided.
Kenyatta leaned in, whispering to Mitchelson, who in turn demanded, “We need to search you. What weapons do you have?”
He turned to the young uniform, “Search those men.”
I saw the uniform's knees buckle as he took the first step. That was as far as I was going to be pushed. I wasn't going to be searched under the authority of some neighborhood agitator. I took a step backward. “Sir, you're not searching me. I'll open my coat, but you're not searching me.”
I unzipped my field jacket and slid out the shotgun. Kenyatta had a smug, contented look on his face. He reached in and whispered to Mitchelson again, who in turn held out his hand, “Give me that weapon.”
Some embarrassing catcalls from the angry civilians, “Right on. Give up all y'all weapons mothafuckin' pigs.”
I was about to hand it to him when I quickly pulled it back. The last thing I was going to do was have that street-sweeper end up in the wrong hands. Three trigger pulls and all six of us would have been torn in half. I broke the shotgun down into pieces. I handed him the stock and butt of the gun, keeping the firing mechanism and the shells.
He accepted the pieces and demanded, “What unit are you men with?”
“The Major Case Squad, Sir. We're hunting the people who are hunting us.”
I never took my eye off the crowd. It was growing. People just kept shoving their way onto the roof. Mitchelson didn't see this. He was with Kenyatta 35X so he was safe. Us, we were the bad guys, at their mercy, to be made examples for the rest of the police.
“Let me tell you something. You, and the rest of these men, by tomorrow I promise, you'll all be back in uniform. Now, I'm ordering you off this roof!”
Was that a threat? Honestly I didn't think we could have left if we wanted to. We were fucked. All of the NYPD was fucked. And on that day, the city of New York was fucked. And things were only going to get worse.
Mitchelson spun on his heels and the trio disappeared off the roof. The semicircle of people closed ranks after them. They
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