Free Circle of Six by Randy Jurgensen Page A

Deputy Commissioner Benjamin Ward. He would allow a lone ESU driver to enter his block and remove Big Bertha. At that sight every cop on the scene dropped his head in shame. NYPD's last line of defense was retreating on the orders of a self-styled zealot, whose preachings had no actual relation to the real Islamic religion. The NYPD had collapsed under threats and violence, and as a result the city of New York lost its police force.
    Farrakhan stood atop a car in the middle of the chaos. These were his people, his constituents, his fans. He waved a white handkerchief that matched his long white coat as he screamed, “Brothers and sisters of Harlem, the blue-eyed devil is no longer a threat. Everyone just be cool.”
    The riotous crowds listened to the leader of Mosque Number 7. They surrounded his car, cheering, hanging onto every word he accentuated and sermonized.
    Traffic started to flow once again. Order had been restored. Farrakhan flexed his muscles and everyone listened, not just the masses of tempestuous people on 116th Street, but the hierarchy of the gargantuan NYPD and all of New York's top administrators. This was just the beginning of Farrakhan's love affair with his own voice and the beehive of press that followed him everywhere.
    A tiny hall on the ground floor of St. Luke's was used to assemble thehordes of press. Both Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy took turns at the lectern, denying that they knew anything as of yet. But they did know. I had told them myself. Daley and Seedman had told them. Both said that an investigation was proceeding to gather all pertinent information. But that didn't happen. One cop mortally wounded, three seriously injured, and dozens of other casualties—there was no investigation and no information gathered. You'd think they'd put out a statement to save face— We lost the battle, but we'll win the war type thing—but no. This was mop-up time— Time to put all of this behind us. Let's move forward and forget the past.
    All police presence was lifted from the entire area of the mosque. Other cars and units were flown in from different precincts all over the city to lend backup to the depleted forces of the 2-8 and 2-5 precincts. That evening a statement was released to the press with slightly more information: The names of the injured cops who were responding to an apparently legitimate call for assistance, which later turned out to be unfounded, and a quick summarization of Phil Cardillo who had been operated on and was listed in critical condition at St. Luke's hospital. Nothing else was stated. The official stance was silence. Deputy Commissioner Ward was one of the biggest pushers for that. He said to the other superior officers, “Harlem is on the edge of riot. We cannot give out any info that would invoke a reaction of violence. It's Friday, let's get through the weekend, and on Monday or some time next week we can reveal what actually happened.” Ward was allegedly an expert on all matters pertaining to Harlem, so this statement was the only one issued.
    What Ward and the rest of the higher-ups didn't realize was that there were scores and scores of cops who not only wanted answers to the day's events, but also were entitled to them. Chief among them were the union leaders of the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association (PBA), NYPD's powerful patrolmen's union, the largest and richest in the country.
Friday, April 14, 1972 – 10:40 P.M .
    I had met Lynn Bucci one year prior at an oldies concert. There was an immediate mutual attraction, and from that night forward we were an inseparable couple. I'd come to learn that Lynn—though born in very rural surroundings—had much the same upbringing as my own. Her fundamental family values were critical in her life, which molded the way she lived; the Buccis were close-knit. I'd also come to understand that no one really could compare with her father, and I respected this, as no one could compare withmine as well. We