Circle of Six Read Free Page B

life was lost, many careers halted and destroyed, and an unbreakable bond of trust and faith shattered forever.

    Operator: “Police operator.”
    Caller: “Hello, this is Detective Thomas of the 2-8 Precinct.”
    Operator: “Yeah.”
    Caller: “I have a ten-thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th Street.”
    Operator: “1-0-2 West 116th?”
    Caller: “Right, that's on the second floor.”
    Operator: “Second floor.”
    Caller: “Right.”
    Operator: “Hold on.”

    The caller abruptly hung up. The operator, a uniformed member of the NYPD, immediately typed out the message and electronically sent it to the civilian radio dispatcher in an adjacent room at police headquarters. The dispatcher, or Central, immediately broadcast it over the Zone-6 radio frequency—Harlem, my killing fields.
11:42:00 A.M .
    Central came over the air with urgency—regardless of childish pranks, call-ins do sometimes turn out to be legit and have to be taken seriously.
    Central: “Signal ten-thirteen, 1-0-2 West 116th Street on the second floor. 1-0-2, 116, second floor, signal thirteen.”

    Both the assigned cops in my car instinctively grabbed hold of their radios. I was on a point-to-point channel with the car across the street. The point-to-point frequency allowed us to communicate without everyone else in the zone hearing. The purpose of this was simple: Police radios were easy to come by, thus allowing the bad guys to monitor them. They could hear and know exactly what was going on. Point-to-point helped us keep them out, and the less they knew the safer we all were. Units responded to the call-in with a rush of adrenalin.

    Unit 1: “2-8 Frank on the way.”
    Unit 2: “David will respond.”
    Central: “That's second floor hallway, 1-0-2 West 116, K.”
    Unit 3: “2-8 Sergeant responding.”

    I lifted up the radio and keyed the mike on the point-to-point, “Stay on the set. Could be a ninety to pull us off.” My heart was racing for two reasons—if it was a phony thirteen then we could be very close to Meyers; however, if the call-in turned out to be legit, it would mean that a cop was in a fight for his life and we would have to pull from our OPs. Either way it was an extreme and intense thirty-five seconds. What occurred in those thirty-five seconds was a series of critical events that would alter the rest of my career. I didn't know this at the time, but I was going to find out.
    The first unit to respond to the thirteen was a pair of five-year police veterans, Phil Cardillo, and his partner of four years, Vito Navarra. They were directly around the corner from 1-0-2 West 116th Street, which turned out to be the famous Mosque Number 7. Both veteran cops didn't think twice that the door to the mosque was left unattended and wide open. Why should they? They were in ten-thirteen mode—take no prisoners until the thirteen was a ninety-x or the job became a condition corrected, meaning: cops out of harm's way. The second car was from our sister precinct, manned by Victor Padilla and Ivan Negron. The fact that the front door to Mosque Number 7 was unlocked and unguarded was an incongruity within itself. There were never fewer than three steely FOI (Fruit of Islam) soldiersstationed at the secured doors. Their primary job was to keep interlopers out—that meant anyone who wasn't Muslim. And even if they were Black Muslims, they'd have to be members of Mosque Number 7 to be let in. Neither of the four cops fit that criterion.
    All four officers, looking to help a brother in need, walked through those open doors. Once inside the vestibule, which was smallish—approximately eight feet wide by ten feet deep—they passed an empty reception desk and ran up a staircase toward the second floor. Halfway up the staircase they were met by approximately twenty Muslims, most of them FOI soldiers or building security. Two sets of metal double doors were slammed shut behind them and dead-bolted from the inside. All four cops were trapped, surrounded,