Circle of Six Read online

  “Circle of Six takes us back to a time of despair in New York City that we would all like to forget, but cannot, because we have to understand the mistakes of that time so we don't repeat them again.”

  — William J. Bratton

  LAPD Chief and Former NYPD Commissioner

  “This is the most realistic book since The French Connection. This book makes me wish I was still producing movies. The Moby Dick of police stories...makes me proud to live in New York and have brave and resolute men from NYPD ‘on the job.’”

  — Phil D'Antoni

  Academy Award Winning Producer, The French Connection

  “This fantastic book puts you right there in the teeming, riotous Harlem streets, amidst the chaos, anger, fear, betrayal, violence and death. Every cop should read this. Every American should read it. You won't believe what they did.”

  — Ed Dee

  Retired NYPD Lieutenant and Author of The Con Man's Daughter

  © 2007 Randy Jurgensen and Robert Cea

  Published by Disinformation Books

  An imprint of Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC

  with offices at 665 Third Street, Suite 400 San Francisco, CA 94107

  www.redwheelweiser.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a database or other retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means now existing or later discovered, including without limitation mechanical, electronic, photographic or otherwise, without the express prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover photo: Jerry Mosey, courtesy of Associated Press/Wide World Photos

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2007932948

  ISBN-13: 978-1932857-85-6

  ISBN-10: 1-932857-85-0

  Printed in USA

  Jacket: anlända and Greg Stadnyk

  Text: raisedBarb Graphics

  Managing editor: Ralph Bernardo

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  Distributed in the USA and Canada by:

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  E-mail: [email protected]

  The names of some of the characters and locations in this book have been changed, as have certain physical characteristics and other descriptive details. Some of the events and characters are also composites of several individual events or persons. The publisher has not verified any of the events described in this book and no warranty or fitness is implied. The publisher shall have no liability or responsibility to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage arising from the information contained in this book or from the use thereof or reliance thereon.

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  This is for Phil and Joy Cardillo, and their family

  For those magnificent bastards of the 2-8 Precinct

  For my younger brother, Dave, my hero

  For my lady, Lynn

  Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.

  Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent.

  Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb.

  Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts.

  Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.

  – Calvin Coolidge

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Prologue

  “Ten-Thirteen!”

  “Riot, What Riot?”

  “Search Those Cops”

  “No Legal Right”

  “Never Forget Phil Cardillo”

  Aftermath

  Twyman Meyers

  The Blue Book

  Takedown

  “You Got Cardillo”

  “Ground Rules”

  Down to Business

  Crossing the Line

  FBI

  Witness

  “Thank You, Phil”

  Foster 2X Thomas

  “Run”

  No-Tell Motel

  Strange Bedfellows

  Mitchell 5X San-San

  “Farrakhan's a Collar”

  “Am I Under Arrest?”

  “Lewis 17X Dupree, You're Under Arrest”

  Trials

  Nolo Contendere

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Afterword

  About the Authors

  Index

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Randy Jurgensen:

  For all those who worked the case, for those who never forgot and for those we will always remember.

  Those who worked the case: DT. Elwood Ambrose, PTL. Rudy Andre, DT. Jimmy Aurichio, DT. Cryus Bartley, PTL. Ralph Bax, DT. William Butler, DT. Nick Cirillo, DT. Joe Conboy, DCPI. Robert Daley, PTL. Sam DeMilia, DT. Marino DiChristina, DT. Lou D'Pasquale, DT. Eddie Eagan, DT. Ed Engle, DT. Eddie Evans, (PTL. Eveready), Insp. Jack Haugh, Chief Tom Fahey, (SGT. Jones), DT. Al Gates, PTL. Bart Gorman, PTL. John Grizopoulos, DT. Sonny Grosso, PTL. Jerry Harvey, PTL. Jay Hernandez, PTL. Ronnie Iamundi, DT. Willie Johnson, PTL. Ed Keegan, PTL. Ray Kelly (current Police Commissioner), PTL. William Kelvahan, PTL. Jim Kenney, SGT. Walter Kirkland, DT. John Lafferty, DT. Jerry Leon, DT. Tom Lyons, PTL. James Macieko, PTL. John McCafferty, PTL. J. D. McLaughlin, PTL. J. Metzler, Insp. Thomas Mitchelson, DT. Alfonso Morrow, PTL. John Morrow, PTL. Vito Navarra, PTL. Ivan Negron, Lt. John O'Connell, PTL. Mike O'Connell, PTL. Victor Padilla, PTL. Ray San Pedro, Capt. Ray Powers, Insp. Hamilton Robinson, PTL. Vic Ruggiero, Chief of Detectives Al Seedman, Capt. Leonard Spatz, DT. M. Waxman, DT. Richie Wrase, DT. Arthur Young, Lt. John Quinn, and FBI agents Joe “Donnie” Pistone and Al Genkinger.

  District Attorneys: Robert Morgenthau, John Keenan, Robert Tannenbaum, John Van Lindt, Larry Keefer, and Jim Harmon.

  Additional thanks to Chief Medical Examiner Mike Baden, Clint Blackstone, Larry Marinelli, and Foster 2X Thomas.

  For those who never forgot: Jimmy Breslin, Robert Crane, Tim Hardiman, Timmy Motto, Tom Nearny, Mike Pearl, Sam Roberts, Phil Messing, Murray Weiss, Dennis Lynch, Joe Klein, Robert Daley.

  For those we will always remember: Phil, Joy, and the Cardillo family, PTL. John Darcy, SGT. Greg Foster, PTL. Rocco Laurie, PTL. Joseph Piagentini, PTL. Waverly Jones, PTL. John Verecha, PTL. Thomas Curry, PTL. Nicholas Benetti, PTL. Artie Plate, SGT. Howard Stewart, DT. Frank Serpico.

  Special thanks to Chief H. Schryver, Lt. J. Motherway, Lt. Passaro, DT. Nanton, DT. Nicholas, DT. Evans, and DT. Fenton for their work in bringing down the FBI's number one most wanted, Twyman Meyers, for the killing of New York City cops.

  To the Long Island Shields, special thanks to all past presidents, especially William Lombard and current President Richard Petito. Thanks to Timmy Motto and all the other organizations who keep Phil's memory alive.

  To John Malandrio for the annual Blue Knights motorcycle run through New York City that ends at the gravesite of PTL. Phil Cardillo.

  I wish to thank the amazing support this book has received from all of the organizations, especially the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, inside and outside of the Police Department of the City of New York. For anyone that I may have left out, my deepest and most sincere apologies.

  For the superintendents of 1264 Amsterdam Ave, my mother and father, Elizabeth and Randolph Jurgensen. My brother Dave, my sister Jeannie “Beanie” w
ho kept us together. My sisters Boo and Jude who taught me how to dance. To their spouses, Arlene, Eddie, Raphael and Ben. My sister-in-law Wendy. Sandy, Michael, Kenny, Bebe, Lauren Andrea, Paul, Danielle, Nicole, and Christine. For my godchildren Jason, Craig, Steve, Sean, Donnie, and Maxil. To Jimmy's Sandra. And for my parish, Our Lady of Pompeii. The 712 and the Detroit Tigers.

  For my friends Bill Freidkin, Phillip Rosenberg, Lou DiGiaimo, Mark Lipsky, Joe “Donnie” Pistone, Larry Marinelli, Bernie Kowalski, Joe Mazzilli, Joe Cirillo, George Carlin, Bob Markell, Jim Bowser, Tom Fahey, Tony Rosini, and Winifred White Neiser.

  For my oldest, dearest and most faithful friend, Jimmy Aurichio.

  For my friend and mentor, Phil D'Antoni.

  For Rob Cea, my friend and co-author, for your dedication to honoring the memory of Phil, I can never thank you enough.

  My editor Daniel Nayeri who I thank for treating this book as if it were his own, my publisher Gary Baddeley who has been totally supportive from day one, and David Samra, Ralph Bernardo and the team at The Disinformation Company for their constant help. And to my friend, my agent, Ian Kleinert, thanks for everything.

  For my children, my son Randy, his wife Jaime, and his son Ty, my son Devon and his wife Juliana, my son Jarrod and his wife Robyn and his son Trey. And to the center of my life, my daughter Lindsay.

  My wife, my life Lynn.

  Robert Cea:

  Thank you Gary Baddeley and the rest of the folks at The Disinformation Company for going beyond their norm to publish this not-so politically correct book. Thank you all for giving us the proper amount of time to tell this story correctly.

  Robert Cea also wishes to thank all of the men and woman of the NYPD, active and retired, for all their help during the process of writing this book. In particular, Timmy Motto, Manny Guella, Rudy Andre, Tony DiCristoforo, Jimmy Kenney, Richie Petito, and J. D. McLaughlin. Thank you Police Commissioner Ray Kelly for your continued interest in the homicide of Patrolman Phil Cardillo and this subsequent book. You are truly a man of your word.

  Special thanks to Lisa, Nicholas, and Liv for giving me the seven months of solitude in the “carriage house.” And a special thank you to Randy Jurgensen for giving me the chance to record while he drove us both on a clear and direct path back in time. Thank you for allowing me to help tell your amazing story; finally the truth about Phil Cardillo's murder has been told. Your life is truly inspiring; you are a hero amongst so many peers—past, present and certainly the future.

  INTRODUCTION

  Setting the Table

  By 1968 I had eleven years on the job. The job was the New York City Police Department—homicide detective. I worked two of those eleven years in uniform in East (Spanish) Harlem. I did another four years undercover working vice and buying narcotics, guns, and whatever else the streets had for sale. It was during my undercover work that I broke a case known as the Bag Murders involving two killers who zeroed in on homosexuals. Breaking this case got me the Gold Shield. As for the last five of those eleven years, I dealt with death every morning, every afternoon, and every night, whether I was awake or asleep; I was a homicide detective. All in all, I worked eighteen of my twenty years in Harlem.

  I am a white male—born and raised just three city blocks from the heart of Harlem, 125th Street and Eighth Avenue. In my time, the people of this area were always at the bottom of the ladder. Whether it was the ladder of employment, living conditions, economic opportunities, schools, or city services, Harlem and its residents were always left out—no matter gender, color, or creed. Every store on 125th Street was “white outsider–owned.” The money spent and the money made in those businesses didn't come back to the community because the owners didn't live there. Most of, if not all the housing and apartment buildings were also “white owned,” not to mention insufferable. They weren't maintained—there was no heat in the winter, the little running water never crawled beyond the second floor, and fires left many apartments scarred and uninhabitable. There were times when the tenants would call the police to come and shoot the rats infesting the hallways. Children returning home from school feared the vermin. Aside from rats, deplorable living conditions, and money that seemed to only go one way—out—there were drugs.

  The precinct I worked at, the 28th Precinct (or 2-8 Precinct), had two distinctions. First, we were the smallest out of seventy-six others; and second, we led the city in homicides. There were three ways out of Harlem. One: as stated by Honey Combs, the proprietor of The Apollo Theatre, you could, “sing or dance your way out,” like Sammy Davis Jr. who never sang or danced his way back. Two: you could join or wait and be drafted into the army, and sent to Vietnam. Three: be killed. I believe Time magazine said that if you were between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one years old and black, you stood a better chance in the jungles of Vietnam than on the concrete corner of 116th Street and Eighth Avenue on a Friday night.

  Indeed, 1968 was a defining year.

  President Nixon was in the White House. It was the apex of the Vietnam War (Tet Offensive). The city's streets were flooded with people of both genders and all colors, creeds, and religions fighting for equal rights. The Women's Movement, the Civil Rights Movement, the Columbia student riots, and of course, the explosive drug problem all crowded New York's already busy streets.

  The word in City Hall was that law and order had to be restored. To that end, after years of its absence, they were going to fire up the electric chair, or Old Sparky as those in the know called it. But in order to sit on Old Sparky's throne, you had to have a prior arrest record.

  On any given day I would look out the window of the 28th Precinct. I'd see some of Harlem's kids running in and out of the spray of a busted fire hydrant. What I didn't see was a chance in hell that any of those kids would ever be doctors, lawyers, or bankers. But given the right circumstances, which their atmosphere all too willingly provided, I saw plenty of candidates for the chair. Nevertheless hope was still alive in Harlem. But then someone killed Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

  Hope was replaced by anger and three days of fires, looting, and shooting...what did you expect?

  The following story is true. It took place in this setting and during these trying times. Some of the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

  Well, the table is set. Pull up a chair. Take a seat and indulge in some of New York City's most tumultuous history.

  –New York City Homicide Detective, Randy Jurgensen (retired)

  PROLOGUE

  Wasn't that hard to make us out—three wired unshaven white guys, sipping cold coffee in a '66 Impala, middle of Harlem, 1972? Shit, we weren't trying to fool anyone. Most of the junkies, hustlers, and street mopes breezing past us that crisp Spring morning worked for me in one way or another anyhow. I was a first grade detective, Harlem's home grown DT. Kid, Randy Jurgensen, the omnipresent spoke on a wheel of detectives or DTs. I was part of a high-profile homicide team working out of Manhattan's Zone-6, affectionately known back in the day as, The Murder Factory.

  The Zone-6 murder factory or killing field covered three of the deadliest police precincts in New York City circa 1972—the 2-8, 2-5, and 3-2 precincts. That year alone, 500 people were killed in an area no bigger than 3.4 square miles. An even broader, more staggering statistic: roughly one third of all homicides committed in New York's seventy-five precincts occurred in Zone-6. To say we officers were busy was the understatement of the decade.

  My job, among many others that year, was to find those prolific murderers and bring them to justice—a job I'd grown to respect and subsequently love. My job also demanded me to know every one of those street types intimately who were scurrying past us on that severely clear April morning. Occasionally I'd have to turn to them for the info. This was all part of the game, and it would also help catch some killers. These guys, for good or for bad, were what I did for a living; my eyes and ears in a business—catching murderers—that totally relied on credible street intelligence for positive results. More t
han likely a few of those street mopes would turn up at the beginning or the end of my day, depending on which side of the murder weapon they were lucky or unlucky enough to be on. However, on this particular morning, I was not assigned to Zone-6 homicide. I was on loan to a newly formed furtive unit called the Major Case Squad. The unit's sole objective was to hunt down and arrest members of a dangerous and militant anarchist group who were calling themselves The Black Liberation Army, or BLA. The members of this group were vociferous in their threats and had murdered scores of cops across the United States during crimes such as bank robberies, holdups, armored car heists, and well-organized high-profile assassinations.

  My target that April morning was as legitimate a cop killer as anyone I'd ever known, one with whom I was quite familiar—Twyman Meyers, the self-professed leader of The Black Liberation Army. Just the week before, we'd been sitting on Joanne Chesimard, “the soul of the BLA,” and had missed her by six hours. Twyman was wanted in connection with the cold-blooded ambush assassination of four New York City patrolmen and the attempted murder of two other New York City cops by wantonly spraying their RMP (Radio Motor Patrol) with automatic machine-gun fire. Numerous witnesses recorded the license plates of Meyers's getaway car. He wasn't trying to hide anything. Two days after the plates of Twyman's stolen car were revealed in the news, the actual plates were mailed to The New York Times with this hand-written message:

  May 19th, 1971

  All the power to the people.

  Here are the license plates sort [sic] after by the fascist state pig police. We send them in order to exhibit the potential power of opposed peoples to acquire Revolutionary justice.