September 11, 2001

September 11th 2001

It was a typical Tuesday morning for me. As we did most every day in Homicide, we met in the Lieutenants office and drank coffee while we discussed our current cases. The Lieutenant or sometimes one of our secretaries would make a pot of Cuban Coffee and pass it around to everyone one the second floor.
The television was on and as usual we would discuss Robin Meade’s wardrobe—and our own. It was a common thing to critique each other’s ties or how our socks didn’t match our shirts. But mostly we talked about our case files, what we had done, what still needed to be done and who was going to do it. These sessions started at eight and usually finished right at nine and as usual, I was in my office at nine.

My office was about seven feet square, I had a typical office desk, and a smaller computer desk behind me and a television on a stand in front of me. I was reading the reports written by patrol officers from the previous and assigning them to my detectives when someone walked in and said, “A small plane hit the Trade Center, turn on your TV.”

I remember the first image was the face of  Matt Lauer saying that indeed a small plane had hit one of the towers. Then came that camera view of the gaping hole with smoke and fire coming out of it. I remember my first thought was, how could any plane accidently hit such a huge building in clear blue skies.

I had a pilot’s license and it was just too hard to imagine. And then they zoomed in and I knew it wasn’t a small plane—and then the next plane hit.

I can’t think of adequate words to describe what I was thinking as I watched the debris and the fire raining down out of the second building. My brain felt paralyzed—WTF just happened?

I ran back into the Lieutenants office and we all had the same lost look on our faces. Slowly the numbness and realization that it was not an accident was replaced by anger, and horror and helplessness.

Helplessness was the big emotion. I wanted to grab my gear and race out the door and help, but it was so far away —there was nothing we could do but watch.

First we saw people jumping to their deaths and hearing their bodies hit the ground as cameramen filmed inside the lobbies of both towers. That sound was horrible.

Then both towers fell; one after the other and I knew that thousands; and I remember fearing it may be tens of thousands had just died right in front of my eyes. And I also knew that many of them were first responders; police officers and firemen just like me, doing what I would have been doing—crushed to death under tons of concrete.

In the next day or two we lost hope that any of them would be rescued. During these same two days we heard that New York feared that all its tourist attractions and even its infrastructure was possibly at risk. So many officers had died, and those alive were at the scene digging in the rubble looking for their coworkers—they needed help.

Soon police departments from all over the country were sending small caravans to New York, to guard the bridges and tunnels and airports and even the United Nations building. We wanted to go too but our administration was silent. Several of us planned to use vacation time and drive up there as we couldn’t fly. All commercial and civil aviation flights were grounded.

This next part I can’t verify, I never heard or saw anything to say it is true or not but I heard the mayor had finally okayed the plans for sending a dozen cars and up to twenty officers.
But the same day the City of Miami was on all the local news channels as several dozen Miami Police cars and fire trucks were filmed driving north.
Plans for our trip were canceled; Miami had stolen our Mayors photo op and our response would look weak compared to theirs.

The feeling of helplessness and anger lasted for weeks.

A month later Susan and I took a trip to Sea World with the kids and I remember standing in front of the gates seeing a huge American flag waving in the breeze. I fought back tears. It was the same gut wrenching feeling I get attending the funerals of fallen officers and soldiers—a combination of patriotism and grief.

It pains me today that most of society wants to forgive and forget what happened that day. 2,996 people were killed and more than 6,000 others wounded. 343 Firemen and 71 police officers died trying to help people they probably never met. And they are still dying today—just from breathing that contaminated dust.

On every anniversary of the attack I post a picture of the falling man. It’s an iconic but controversial picture of a man that chose to leap to certain death to avoid dying in the fire that would surely kill him.

The picture is controversial because some find it too disturbing or that that remembering the attack might bring back the fear and hatred that was directed towards Muslims in the aftermath. “It’s politically incorrect,” I heard someone say about the photo.

If I were the falling man—I would want people to remember me, to remember how I died and the choice I had to make and just as important, the men who forced me to make that decision.
As a Christian, I know I’m supposed to forgive those who do evil, but I have limits.

I will never forgive these men or anyone like them. I struggle with my belief sometimes when I wonder why God allows such people to exist.