Heart of Gold

I first met Rebecca Buck in 2000 at the 28th Precinct.  I had just gotten out of field training and sent to evening shift. She was a 30 year old newly pressed Sergeant in the NYPD and she had come to evenings.  Specifically she had come to the best squad on evenings, C-2.  As a bit of an explainer, there are three Platoons in a precinct (Midnights "A", Days "B", and Evenings "C") In each platoon there are three squads that rotate five days on, two off, five on, three off. I had found myself placed in Squad C-2, the second squad of the evening shift.

New Sergeants are an interesting breed.  They just came from humping a radio car like you and so they understand all of the scams and the work, but they also have been told over and over in BMOC (the Basic Leadership class of the NYPD) that officers are not your friends anymore and they will get you in trouble or fired.  And C-2 was a hot mess of officers who had lots of years on working in a busy precinct and a short, young attractive blonde sergeant was going to be tested.

Right after she became our Sgt, she invited us all to this Brazilian steakhouse in Queens.  The whole squad, which was like 12-14 people. And some of them were misfits.  My favorite quote was a more senior guy asked her "Do we have to invite Satan?" referring to one of the more disgruntled guys we had.  She insisted.  So we went and ate and drank and she paid for the whole thing.  I imagine this happens to Teach for America kids who get to their first school in a bad neighborhood and decide to give peace offerings as a first act.  We even told her that she shouldn't do this because it wasn't necessary.  But she insisted.  And she spent a lot of money on us losers.

As she grew into her role as our boss, there were some tensions.  I remember we went on strike with our activity for some reason.  Jose, a Dominican guy, thought it was a good idea and just kept yelling "STRIKE!" in a heavily tinged accent, which seems as good a reason as any to not write tickets.  I'd ask him if he remembers why we went on strike. but he's currently on an 18-year vacation.  You have to turn in your activity sheets at the end of the month and as each guy handed in their sheet, her face dropped more and more, until she ran out of the room and went to the Lieutenant to try and figure out what the hell was going on.  Fair question.  We had no idea either and activity returned to normal as soon as Jose stopped yelling.

What I remember most about Sgt. Buck was her kindness.  I remember asking her to come to one of my calls to see if I had enough to make an arrest.  And then we got into a discussion like this:

Me: So, Boss, here's the details, is that enough for an arrest?  

Her: You looking to make an arrest today? 

Me: I'm totally fine taking the arrest and staying on overtime, I just don't know if this is an arrest or not.

Her: You got plans tonight?  You want to go to court tomorrow? 

Me: Listen, Sarge, if I wanted to shitcan this (NYPD parlance for making things go away) you would never even know this address existed, but I called you and I embrace whatever decision you make,  You have the stripes.  

Her: Lock her up.  

Me: Thank you.  

She also smoked like a chimney, which meant that when she took me as her driver, it made for interesting times.  Point of reference, since all NYPD patrol units are two-officer cars, they give the patrol sergeant's a driver (operator in job speak) so they can respond to calls as well.  Normally, i could just roll down the windows, but on the days I drove her and it rained, it was a scene out of a comedy.  She would be smoking with her window barely cracked while mine was down.  My left side would be soaked, and she would ask "Campbell, does this bother you?  I can put it out." To which I always replied, "No Sarge.  I just like the feeling of rain."

Sergeant Buck went on to become Lieutenant Buck and retired from the job after 20 years of helping people and somehow not becoming a terrible, disgruntled person counting down their time like a prison sentence.  Rebecca passed away last week after suffering from 9/11 related illness.  Former colleagues turned out on Facebook to express their sadness and happiness at having known her.  And out of those posts, an odd pattern started forming.  Many peopl
e said that she had reached out exactly two weeks before she passed and they had a great conversation where she said she was doing well and asked about their kids and lives.  The theory is that she was gravely ill and wanted to reach out to talk to those she cared about to say goodbye without burdening them with her health.  Even to the end she was selfless.

She is being laid to rest today in the Hudson Valley in New York.  I can't be there as I have a crazy work week and it hurts.  As I've mentioned before I learned you always make the funeral and I simply can't.  But she is in my mind all day and has been since I heard the terrible news.  I am reminded again sadly that 9/11 has killed more officers (84) than were killed on 9/11 (24).

Rest easy Rebecca Buck.  Hope there's a smoking section in heaven. I'll miss you calling me "Big Bird."  Don't spend any money buying people dinner to make sure they like you up there, because they won't be able to help themselves.  Even without a green paddle for more prime rib.

Fidelis Ad Mortem.  Squad C-2 forever. 

Remember Cardillo

When I arrived at the 28th Precinct in February of 2000, fresh out of the NYPD Academy, I remember walking into the locker room and on almost every single one was a faded sticker that said "Remember Cardillo."  It was a powerful and quiet statement that something terrible happened and was now part of the building's DNA.  And that feeling was right.  A horrible injustice occurred that practically no one knows about.

This is Patrolman Philip Cardillo.  He served with the NYPD for 5 years and was 31 years old when he was murdered.  He was survived by his wife, and his three young children.  I use the term murdered and not died or killed, because the incident that took his life was pre-meditated but sadly not as shocking as what followed it.

On Thursday, April 20th, 1972, NYPD Communications received a 911 call of Officer Needing Assistance inside Harlem Mosque Number 7, headed by Louis Farrakhan, and helmed by Malcolm X for a time.  The call actually just gave the address, not mentioning the mosque.  Cardillo and his partner ran inside along with two other officers.

I want to pause the story here and try and give some perspective.  While Fox News recently made much hay of the New Black Panther Party suppressing votes using one guy in a kufi, it's important to remember the early 70's would have made the anchors on Fox's head explode.  The Black Liberation Army had shot 6 NYPD officers in the 10 months leading up to the call that Cardillo got, and 4 of the officers had died.  Officers Piagentini and Jones were killed in May of 1971 in an ambush outside the precinct just above Cardillo's.  Officers Laurie and Foster were killed in Greenwich Village, shot in the back while they walked to their foot beat.

The NYPD Patrol Guide still instructs officers to space out when leaving the precinct to get your patrol cars, which was protocol to limit the amount of officers that could be killed in one ambush.  So there was a war going on in Southeast Asia and a war on the streets of New York.  This was not just a NYC phenomenon either.  13 years after this in Philadelphia, police dropped a bomb on a rowhouse to break a siege and arrest members of the MOVE Group.  Just think about that happening now.  Seriously.  Stop and just process that. A police helicopter dropping a bomb in a city neighborhood.  Alright, unpause.

So Cardillo and the other three officers were inside the mosque a crowd formed outside blocking other officers from assisting them.  Three of the officers were able to escape but Cardillo was trapped behind a gate that was closed to trap him.  He overpowered by many men and his service weapon was taken from him and he was shot with it.  Officers were able to break back in and rescue the mortally wounded Cardillo.  At this point, the crowd had swelled outside furious that officers, regardless of their skin color, had broken the sanctity of the mosque, or seeing an opportunity to hurt outnumbered police officers.  A riot roiled for three hours.  Requests for buses of recruits to assist went unanswered.  Below is a photo of Detective Randy Jurgensen, who had just been struck in the head with a brick, falling into the arms of the 28 Precinct Commanding Officer Deputy Inspector John Haugh.

So we have a mortally wounded officer, cops pouring in responding to cries for help on the radio and hundreds of people responding to fight them.  There were 12 suspects in the basement that they were searching to find Cardillo's gun, when Rep. Charles Rangel and Louis Farrakhan come downstairs and order everyone out of the mosque.  Rangel and Farrakhan promised police officials that the men would surrender themselves at the precinct for interviews later that evening.  No one ever showed up.    Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs Ben Ward, who later became Police Commissioner, ordered all the white officers to leave the scene, to relieve tensions, further destroying morale for all officers, black and white.

I'm going to cut and paste from the excellent blog NYPD Confidential for the follow-up.

Six days later, Cardillo died. He was 32 years old, the father of three. The day of the funeral, his commander, Deputy Inspector John Haugh, resigned in disgust, blaming the NYPD for failing to affirm publicly that Cardillo had acted properly on entering the mosque.

Within days, the department issued written rules for 16 “sensitive locations,” including Nation of Islam Mosque Number 7, forbidding officers from entering such places without a supervisor. It turned out there had been an unwritten agreement with Mosque Number 7.

So strictly did the department interpret these rules that, because of objections from the mosque, ballistics technicians were prevented for the next two years from gathering evidence from Cardillo’s shooting.

It needs to be said that neither the Mayor nor the Police Commissioner attended Cardillo's Funeral.  That day was looked upon as an embarrassment by the Job and all attempts were made to sweep it under the rug.  Thankfully, some have done as the bumper stickers have commanded.  Randy Jurgensen, the same detective who was injured in the photo above, wrote a book called Circle of Six about the incident which is a must read.  

No one has ever been convicted for the murder of Philip Cardillo.  

The reason this post came up is because recently attempts have been made to one again name the street in front of the 28th  precinct after Cardillo.  This apparently is difficult because of the community and the sensitivity of the incident.  The only thing that happened that day on April 20th, was a NYPD officer was murdered and the city and a department colluded to ensure that his murder was never solved.  I think a street sign is the least, and I mean the very least, it could do. 

I know that currently in New York and nationally that there is an anti-cop sentiment.  The recent death of Eric Garner in Staten Island has inflamed simmering tensions that never seem to go cold.  I'm not going to say that all cops are decent people.  Some are even criminals in uniform.  But Philip Cardillo was a son of the city,  just like all the police officers who have been killed doing their duty.  As a nation we are shamed by our handling of returning troops after the Viet Nam war and now we bend over backwards to support our troops as a nation.  We should bend over backwards to correct this injustice.  

That faded sticker  on my locker was right.  I will always Remember Cardillo.

Ain't no Party like a 28 Party....

Apologies for not blogging about this sooner.  I've been alternating heat and cold on my back for the past few days. On Thursday, June 10th, we held a 10-13 party for Natalie.  10-13 refers to the NYPD radio code for Officer Needs Assistance.  It's the most serious thing you can say over the radio, and in the macho culture of the Job usually never gets uttered.  Cops prefer to call a 10-85, or "an 85" which is supposed to be used for non-emergency requests.  And even then, most cops will call an "85 non-emergency) which means you're fighting but don't want to make a big deal out of it.  It's especially impressive when you're putting that out over the air and all you hear is screaming in the background.  A cop named Botta once told me when calling for help to "try and keep the bitch out of my voice" when I key the radio.  Sage words.  Thanks Tony.

However, 10-13 is also used to refer to parties and rackets where you raise money for a cop or a cop's family who are usually dealing with catastrophic medical bills.  This is the case for my friend George, who is taking care of his three sons without his wife.  So, I grabbed the Amtrak up to NYC in the morning, my partner Will picked me up.  He always picks me up, no matter where I come in. I'm not going to talk to much about it, because I'll jinx it.  But God bless that man.

We drove to the 28 up in Harlem.  And let me tell you, a lot has changed since I left there 8 years ago.  And when I say a lot, I mean white people.  Everywhere.  There's a new SPG hotel across from the precinct, which took the place of the slowest supermarket to ever make a sandwich and the only ghetto chinese place we would eat at.  Oh, and there's a gym for kids in a new building next to the precinct, literally a place for toddlers to work out.  Harlem is not Harlem any more, Toto.  I missed the old Harlem.

We then went up to Mount St. Michael's Academy which is a prestigious Catholic school in the Bronx.  Really nice.  Prior to that day, my only knowledge of that place was from my friend in college who went there, Pedro.  Back in the infancy of the internet, I went to the school's homepage and they allowed alumni to write in with updates.  So I wrote in as Pedro that I was married and studying chemical engineering and had a kid and life was good.  (None of this was true) His mother got the alumni magazine and had a heart attack and called him screaming.  Good times.

Anyway, there was a DJ (former 28 guy). 60 cases of beer. 50 cases of soda and water.  Enough trays of mac and cheese and chicken parm and baked ziti, that you could walk to Queens without touching water.  Banners and tables and chairs.  And it was all donated.  The local precinct sent guys to watch the cars parked out front.  It was a day that made me proud to be a cop.

Saw tons of people from the 28 and it was like a great family reunion.  The midnight lieutenant that no one likes was there, which earned him I'm sure a very begrudging respect.  My old XO (Executive Officer) was there.  He now works for a bank recovering ATM cards that people leave in the machine.  (Just kidding Kev.)  He's a bigwig, and it's awesome to call him Kev and he can't do anything about it.

George walked in and gave me a huge hug with tears in his eyes and thanked me profusely for everything.  Puh-leeze.  Seeing him smile while talking to guy's was the only thing I really wanted.  Besides, does he know how easy this is?  I got on a train to support a friend.  I stayed with Will and managed not to offend his wife by leaving my boxers in the kitchen like last time.  This is easy.  If being there brings him a shred of comfort, I'll never leave.

We're family George.  For better or worse.  I love you like a brother and Nat like a sister.  You need anything.  You want to take the kids to DC for a long weekend to get them out of the city, you call me, I hook it up.  I'll even pay for all the museums.  You can have my 1-bedroom and I'll crash with friends.  What's mine is yours.  Currently, that's a lot of Ikea furniture and beer, but I think you'll be fine.