Free Circle of Six by Randy Jurgensen Page B

were a match.
    As we began our courtship, Lynn's small town, which hugged the Hudson, was abuzz with the knowledge that she was dating an unkempt looking man. It wouldn't be long before my cop status would filter out, and I'd suddenly get tagged with an affectionate nickname: The Narc.
    It became customary for Lynn to take in a movie with her girlfriends if I worked a Friday night. She was with a lifelong friend, Susan Grande, as they approached a newsstand that particular Friday. Lynn bought the evening edition for her father every night—he liked the horses, numbers, and sport finals. Susan screamed when she noticed the front page of The Daily News . I appeared to have been shot, with a head wound, unconscious. The headline read: Five cops hurt in Harlem .
    Lynn saw the end to a supposed lifelong love affair. I'm sorry for that day, Lynn.
Saturday, April 15, 1972—12:30 P.M .
    The Manhattan North Task Force (MNTF) was a group of cops approximately 200-strong, who were kept in reserve. They had been mobilized since the ten-thirteen twenty-four hours prior.
    At the same time, in a mosque-owned restaurant on 116th Street, Louis Farrakhan held his own press conference. He knew those cops were there at the wait, ready for anything new. This was his chance to become the victim. Surrounded by Fruit of Islam soldiers, Charles Rangel, Jesse Jackson, and a large contingency of press, he cried and preached for justice. He denounced the NYPD as premeditated and unprovoked attackers, demanding apologies from Mayor Lindsay and Police Commissioner Murphy for condoning the blatant assault against women and children inside the mosque.
    “We are here to voice our anger, outrage, and bitter resentment. The police did not simply make a mistake. They said the Bay of Pigs invasion was a tragic mistake, because it didn't bring off the intended results. The two policemen came charging into our temple like criminals, and they were treated like criminals. Muslims are people without weapons, but we fight to the death when we are attacked.”
    He raised the cadence of his voice as if he were on a pulpit. “One of these cops ran past our man at the desk and rushed up the stairs to the second floor. That act was disrespectful and provocative. The brothers had to bring the policeman back down the steps. And shortly after that, six other patrolmen tried to gain entrance.”
    Farrakhan grinned into the cameras for supreme effect, “They were all expelled from the temple. And then they came with their submachine guns, automatic weapons, and every type of handgun imaginable, all the while wearing bulletproof vests.”
    He held his hands suppliantly out, “A swift arrival with that much firepower had to have been a premeditated plan of attack. We demand a changing of the guard. No more of the blue-eyed devils surrounding our temples, our houses of worship, our streets, our schools. We demand a replacement of white cops and their commanding officers by strong black men in Harlem.”
    The request was the equivalent, in my mind, of a kid running for class president, by promising to pump soda through the water fountains.
    Throughout Farrakhan's venomous rhetoric, he never once mentioned the fact that he and his men were in possession of a stolen police revolver. He failed to mention that one cop had been mortally wounded by one of his men, and that three others were beaten to within an inch of their lives. The closest he came was saying the policemen were “expelled from the temple.” He also failed to mention that the police were well within their rights to enter the mosque in accordance with their duty, and that they were only expelled after being attacked five-to-one. Nor did the press ever question the veracity of his statements. They did, however, view the silence of the NYPD as an admission of guilt.
    We—the rank and file—now viewed ourselves as simple bargaining chips, risking our lives day-in and day-out for what? Heavily armed and dedicated