Circle of Six (15 page)

He pulled his hands from mine, wiping his eyes clean. He rested his
elbows on his knees and dropped his head in his hands. He sobbed again. There was no consoling him. He had to move through this pain himself. “I understand, Vito, and it's all okay. It's okay, Brother.” I said this quietly, mostly to myself.

He stopped sobbing. In a flurry of anger he turned to me and said, “They're coming out with the
Blue Book
, Randy, and it's going to be filled with lies.”

I had heard about the
Blue Book
. It was a detailed report that was commissioned by the NYPD—police commissioner's (PC's) office—to an outside entity with the sole objective of retrieving all facts pertinent to the case. Anything that had occurred on April 14, 1972 would be cataloged in that report: all radio transmissions, who the bosses on the scene were, who took control of the situation, what orders were given, and more important, who gave those orders and who received them, all phone messages, private meetings after the fact, an overview as to how the case had been handled since, and a concluding summation on how the police department would respond to mosques and other houses of worship in the future.

He slammed his hand on the desk. “You know they're not going to fess up. They fucking can't. Who's going to stop them from writing it the way they want? You know why I'm so sure the cocksuckers are going to cover their asses?” He didn't allow me to answer, “Because no one interviewed me for this piece of garbage book, and I was the first cop on the scene.”

He pointed to the album, took a deep breath to stop himself from sobbing, “Me and Phil were the first cops on the scene, Randy. Me and Phil.”

He balled up his fist, then gently laid it on the table. He shook his head, “How could they write a fact-finding book without talking to the first cop on the scene? I saw what happened, they didn't; I know some of those mutts; I can ID them.”

He tapped his index finger on his temple, “They're up here, Randy, and guess what, I see them every day and every night. How come nobody other than you took me to see them, Randy? Tell you why, because they wanna pretend it never happened. But I know it happened, because I was there. Me and Phil were there. They can stick that
Blue Book
up their asses, cause it's a book of lies.”

I understood what Vito was saying, and to a point I believed his conspiracy theory. But given the fact that an outside agency was charged with the unrestrained mandate of this report, I assumed that the police department couldn't rig the findings.

He clasped his hands together on the table, studying his intertwined fingers. Again it seemed as though he were in the middle of an internal monologue. I watched as he mouthed words to himself in response to unasked questions. Watching the guy unravel was unnerving. I stood, extending my hand. After a few moments, he noticed and shook my hand as though I had just walked into the room.

“All right, buddy. It was really nice seeing ya. Thanks for stopping by.” I rushed out. Sweat poured off my forehead, down my back, my breathing labored. I didn't say bye to any of the detectives, just got out of there as fast as I could. Sadly, Vito Navarra wasn't a cop anymore, but a victim. I wondered about those other detectives, what they would have done if they'd been in Vito's place. Now they had shoved him in the scummy back room, hidden from the real world, black cloud above his head. No one would have to look at him, look into his inconsolable eyes. The interrogation room was the perfect place for the fathers of the NYPD to bury Vito. The problem was, with Vito came Phil, and there was no hiding that.

My meeting with Vito changed my mind about using cops from the 2-5. I called in two detectives from the Major Case Squad, Tommy Lyons and Billy Butler. These guys knew the terrain, the BLA. They were excellent street cops and even better interrogators.

The two players Tashana gave me had to be handled just right. My experience with the BLA gave me insight into their psyche. Planning bank robberies, successful jailbreaks, headline grabbing assassinations of cops and public figures, bombings of police stations, and the recruitment of young disillusioned black Americans—men and women—were all part of the BLA's grand scheme to split America in two, much the way the NYPD had been recently ripped apart.

The BLA was an adjunct
killer faction
of the Black Panthers. Where the Panthers tried to legitimize themselves with mainstream lectures, printed periodicals, and the realization of its own newspaper—
The Black Panther
—the BLA sought legitimacy through murder. Most members were young, under twenty-five, somewhat educated, though jobless, without possessions, with no known addresses, and with multiple street names and aliases. They were young formidable killers, and when caught, they were militant and tight-lipped during interrogations. Connecting the dots to other members, gleaning any credible information was nearly impossible. They knew the laws, and they knew their rights. They segregated themselves into cells or compartmentalized groups of five to seven soldiers. They were experts in hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, and demolition. Once cornered, without hesitation, they would take out as many people as possible before giving up.

Members of the BLA were emboldened behind worldwide connections. They could get false documents, money, planning, and refuge in Canada,
Europe, and Africa. They used a foreign film,
The Battle for Algiers,
as an organizational and tactical blueprint. In the film, oppressed black Algerians toppled French sovereignty by waging war against the police. The collapse of the French law enforcement allowed for looting, riots, and chaos to ensue in the streets, further bolstering individual revolutionary cells, which eventually led to French abdication. It was scarily reminiscent of our experience at New York's Mosque Number 7. The BLA sought abdication from its own rulers, the United States government, which, according to them, had been
their
oppressors for the last 350 years.

The one hope I held onto was the fact that these two brothers were new to the game and hadn't yet been brainwashed by the glorified freedom-fighter rhetoric of the BLA.

It was the morning of the takedown. The street was lined on both sides with four-story, brownstone and limestone walk-up buildings. The roofs all connected, which would allow us to enter the building from a different address. The target was in the middle of 126th Street, tactically good for us because Harlem blocks were notoriously long. If it came down to a foot chase, we'd have more time to catch them before they hit one of the avenues.

That was the good news; the bad news read like a grocery list. The street was a monster drug location where both heroin and coke were sold twenty-four seven. That meant there was a continuous flow of buyers and dealers in and out of the buildings on the block, with lookouts posted all over.

The first plan of action was getting a car on the block, preferably in front of the building, then parking it undetected. Since all three of us were white and fairly recognizable, it would be impossible to do. I recruited a black 2-4 anticrime cop to park my personal car, which would blend into any ghetto environment.

I felt secure his cover would stay intact since he was so far from his area of deployment. The plan was for him to park close to the set—379 East 126th Street—lock the car, and walk off undetected. After that, he'd relay its location through the point-to-point radio back to me.

The second part of the operation was a little trickier, getting into the building without being seen. It'd be impossible to go through the front door, so we decided on the 127th Street entrance.

We were lucky because 127th Street was deserted other than the occasional skin-poppers nodding on the decaying stoops and in scorched abandoned cars. We climbed the rear fire escape, making our way to the
roof. I stayed clear of the edge. If we were seen by anyone, the operation was a burn—end of takedown, end of Twyman Meyers.

We were on our haunches now, at both sides of the door. No sound from within the building.

We entered and waited on the stairs, ready to pounce, guns locked and loaded. When the brothers finally entered the building and I saw them walk to their apartment, my heart skipped. They were both carrying army-type duffle bags. I knew they were strapped with heavy artillery, and hopefully, a lot of heroin.

I felt Lyons directly behind me. We leapt off the stairs simultaneously, guns pointed in the direction of their heads. I screamed, “Police, don't fucking move!”

Surprise is a powerful tool. Both men dropped the duffle bags and raised their hands to their faces to block any bullets coming their way. “Don't shoot. Don't motherfucking shoot,” they screamed.

“On your knees. Keep your hands high above,” I screamed.

They complied. Butler screamed from above, “You got them?”

“Yeah, we're good, Billy.”

I moved to the two men, now kneeling on the ground, hands in the air. “Either one of you move, I'm gonna blow your fucking hearts out.”

I placed the barrel of my revolver just under one man's ear. Lyons did the same to the second man. We separated and cuffed both brothers. We laid them on their backs, quickly checking them for guns. Both were strapped with fully-loaded .45 caliber handguns, a great start.

The keys were still in the door. I pointed my gun at it. “Is there anyone in that apartment?”

The one closest to me calmly said, “You gots the gun; check your damn self.”

Not what I wanted to hear, but if there was someone waiting behind that door, I certainly wasn't going to take the first hit. I lifted my smart-ass prisoner to his feet. I'd been in these brownstones enough times to know their layout, two railroad apartments on each floor, kitchen, living room, bathroom, bedroom. It was a straight run, and my man was going in first.

I keyed open the door with the man in front of me, my gun stationary at the base of his head. The apartment was dark. I screamed, “Police, anyone here?”

Nothing. I whispered, “Where's the light switch, fuck-o?”

“On the wall to your left.”

He was extremely calm, which meant the apartment was clear. If he knew there was a shooter in the apartment, there was no way in hell he'd let me lead him in. I flipped on the hall light, empty.

We sat both men in the middle of the living room. They were young, maybe seventeen and eighteen. The older of the two was the one I led in with me. He looked up at me and for the briefest of moments, it looked like he recognized me. I was sure I'd never seen either of them before. He grinned and said, “Oh shit,” to his brother.

The younger one looked up at me and then quickly dropped his head. Of the two, he was the most frightened. He would be the easiest to turn.

I was curious. “You know me?” I asked.

Now he laughed, “Lots-a motherfuckers be knowin' you.”

His brother yelled, “Man, shut the fuck up.”

Butler and Lyons looked at me smiling; dissension among thieves always works for the good guys.

I pulled open the duffle bags, which contained two cut-down shotguns, two .9 mm automatic handguns, four extra clips, a police radio, rounds and rounds of ammunition, a scale, and two plastic baggies filled with white powder. I looked down at the men, “You guys are federally fucked.”

The younger brother asked, “Federally fucked?”

I lied, “New laws. Defaced guns along with narcotics are a federal offense.”

The older of the two sucked his teeth.

“Oh yeah, Hustler, you lookin' at twenty years behind this collar. You are federally fucked. You can believe that,” I laughed.

We exited the building, leading our two cuffed prisoners and all the evidence to the car we had planted. The shocked looks on the faces of the dealers said we had been completely undetected.

Once inside the 2-5 Precinct, we immediately separated both men. Butler and Lyons took the younger of the two. I took the older one into a clerical office, where I re-cuffed him to a chair. I was sure he knew who I was, and I had to be careful with my questioning. I had to make him offer me what it was he had, so first I had to lay out what he was facing.

I searched his pockets; a wallet held a valid New York State driver's license, and to my surprise, a work identification card from the New York Social Services Bureau. Both names on the documents matched, Benjamin Bunch. “What was it you used to do at social services?”

He was indignant, “What you mean
used to do
? Still gots my gig there.”

I shook my head slowly, “It's a state job. Felons can't hold state jobs.” This was going to be the first concession I'd offer him in return for information.

“Man, that's bullshit.”

“No it's not, Benjamin. But that's the least of your problems. We got you dead to rights. This is a slam dunk in court. You really are looking at twenty and up, and that's just for the gack and the guns.”

He sucked his teeth again, “What, you think you gots me on something else?”

“I know I do. What do you think? We just
happened
to be in the hallway when you walked in with the load you had on you? C'mon, Hustler,” This is where I'd partially tip my hand. “You were given to me.”

That really ticked him off. He sat up in his chair, “By who, Motherfucker, by who?”

I smiled and hesitated with the answer, “You know exactly who I am, yes? And you know who I'm looking for, so who in the fuck do you think gave you up?”

He leaned forward, eyes blazing with intensity. I could see him going through faces in his mind, deciding who it was who gave him up. I assumed he settled on someone because his shoulders relaxed. His face loosened up as he sat back in the chair smiling. “I know the motherfucker who gave my shit up. That's okay, motherfucker's days is numbered. Tell you what you need, DT. You need to check yo-self when you steppin' out, cause just likes you's be lookin' for a motherfucker, that motherfucker be lookin' for you, too.”

Now it was time to play him. “You know what else I got on you? The gun I pulled off of fuck-o Twyman last year was the same gun used in the cop killings uptown.” Lie.