left. One hole was bigger than the other, entrance and exit. He compressed both holes; blood continued to seep through his fingers. He screamed, “Hurry, goddamit, hurry!”
A band of patrolmen surrounded the mosque but gave way to a layer of rioting civilians–blue hats, swinging bats. I tucked both guns tightly against my body with the barrels pointed forward. I didn't want to be a cowboy,but I had to get through.
I pushed into the mob toward the mosque. This was dangerous. I was dressed in ratty civilian clothing, an easy target. I stopped to collect my anger and thoughts. I recognized some of the faces in the crowd, people I had dealt with on the street. The detective in me suddenly kicked in; I began to observe everything and everyone around me. I spotted most of the players—cops, bosses, some of the Muslims, and a lot of punks itching to turn Lenox Avenue into a nuclear situation. The radio jumped again.
Central: Any further assistance required at this time, 1-0-2 West 116th?
Unit: Send Emergency Service. I understand that they have perpetrators in the building with the cops' guns.
Central: Ten-four.
In control of the cops' guns. Guns. That's plural? A sinking feeling. They were in control. They'd stolen our weapons, which in itself, was huge—we are trained to never relinquish our weapons under any circumstances. If you steal a cop's gun, then that cop is fucked. I knew we weren't leaving the building till an arrest was made and the weapons returned.
I felt, once ESU arrived, the bloody uprising would begin wrapping up. The Emergency Service Unit was the no-nonsense rescue team of the NYPD. The cops of ESU trained day and night for this type of urban-specific warfare—they were also trained in bomb removal, hostage removal, and barricaded perp removal—and were affectionately known amongst the rank and file as Big Blue Sanitation.
ESU was the last line of defense for the NYPD, and they never lost. They were the department's mechanized artillery. The mere sight of the gargantuan blue and white ESU truck, named Big Bertha, accompanied by smaller armored vehicles loaded with men in Kevlar helmets and flak-jackets, all strapped to the tits with fully automatic carbines and shotguns usually changed the momentum of any situation. Their MO was this: two groups of eight cops, crouched behind bulletproof Plexiglas, enter the front and rear of the building in a wedged V-formation—like a human snowplow. Anyone in the way would get wedged to the sides and disarmed. Then a second team of ESU cops would pounce, collect, and arrest. I'd seen this before and it was always an impressive show of force and skill.
Jimmy Kenney keyed the mike for the third time, giving his ETA to St. Luke's. As the young driver pulled to the front of the emergency entrance,a gurney was positioned at the end of the ramp surrounded by cops, nurses, and resident doctors. The car skidded in, and before it stopped, Jimmy Kenney kicked the door open. Outstretched arms were thrust into the RMP, securely wrapping around Phil Cardillo's limp body. One cop wailed, “Goddamit, not Phil!” Jimmy Kenney and the driver of the RMP, another guy he didn't know, watched as the gurney disappeared through the double doors of the ER. Neither cop said anything to the other.
Kenney instinctively searched the back of the RMP for anything. It would be a powder keg investigation soon. He looked for the bullet, in case it'd slipped out of Phil's wounds. He got nothing. He looked at the puddle of blood on the seat. He looked down; his dark blue shirt was black where it had been stained. The young guy who'd driven him noticed Jimmy's shirt and rushed up, “Are you hit? Are you hit?”
Kenney shook his head “no.” He began to walk back to the mosque. Jimmy Kenney didn't know it at the time, but he gave Phil Cardillo five more days to fight.
By then, the cops in front of the mosque seemed to be gaining control, forming a semicircular wall of bodies at the
A band of patrolmen surrounded the mosque but gave way to a layer of rioting civilians–blue hats, swinging bats. I tucked both guns tightly against my body with the barrels pointed forward. I didn't want to be a cowboy,but I had to get through.
I pushed into the mob toward the mosque. This was dangerous. I was dressed in ratty civilian clothing, an easy target. I stopped to collect my anger and thoughts. I recognized some of the faces in the crowd, people I had dealt with on the street. The detective in me suddenly kicked in; I began to observe everything and everyone around me. I spotted most of the players—cops, bosses, some of the Muslims, and a lot of punks itching to turn Lenox Avenue into a nuclear situation. The radio jumped again.
Central: Any further assistance required at this time, 1-0-2 West 116th?
Unit: Send Emergency Service. I understand that they have perpetrators in the building with the cops' guns.
Central: Ten-four.
In control of the cops' guns. Guns. That's plural? A sinking feeling. They were in control. They'd stolen our weapons, which in itself, was huge—we are trained to never relinquish our weapons under any circumstances. If you steal a cop's gun, then that cop is fucked. I knew we weren't leaving the building till an arrest was made and the weapons returned.
I felt, once ESU arrived, the bloody uprising would begin wrapping up. The Emergency Service Unit was the no-nonsense rescue team of the NYPD. The cops of ESU trained day and night for this type of urban-specific warfare—they were also trained in bomb removal, hostage removal, and barricaded perp removal—and were affectionately known amongst the rank and file as Big Blue Sanitation.
ESU was the last line of defense for the NYPD, and they never lost. They were the department's mechanized artillery. The mere sight of the gargantuan blue and white ESU truck, named Big Bertha, accompanied by smaller armored vehicles loaded with men in Kevlar helmets and flak-jackets, all strapped to the tits with fully automatic carbines and shotguns usually changed the momentum of any situation. Their MO was this: two groups of eight cops, crouched behind bulletproof Plexiglas, enter the front and rear of the building in a wedged V-formation—like a human snowplow. Anyone in the way would get wedged to the sides and disarmed. Then a second team of ESU cops would pounce, collect, and arrest. I'd seen this before and it was always an impressive show of force and skill.
Jimmy Kenney keyed the mike for the third time, giving his ETA to St. Luke's. As the young driver pulled to the front of the emergency entrance,a gurney was positioned at the end of the ramp surrounded by cops, nurses, and resident doctors. The car skidded in, and before it stopped, Jimmy Kenney kicked the door open. Outstretched arms were thrust into the RMP, securely wrapping around Phil Cardillo's limp body. One cop wailed, “Goddamit, not Phil!” Jimmy Kenney and the driver of the RMP, another guy he didn't know, watched as the gurney disappeared through the double doors of the ER. Neither cop said anything to the other.
Kenney instinctively searched the back of the RMP for anything. It would be a powder keg investigation soon. He looked for the bullet, in case it'd slipped out of Phil's wounds. He got nothing. He looked at the puddle of blood on the seat. He looked down; his dark blue shirt was black where it had been stained. The young guy who'd driven him noticed Jimmy's shirt and rushed up, “Are you hit? Are you hit?”
Kenney shook his head “no.” He began to walk back to the mosque. Jimmy Kenney didn't know it at the time, but he gave Phil Cardillo five more days to fight.
By then, the cops in front of the mosque seemed to be gaining control, forming a semicircular wall of bodies at the
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