"I've Got a Hostage"

What Phil Panzarella says can lead to murder and suicide. In conversation, he adopts the kind of tone you can imagine Bogart or Cagney taking when offering curt assurances there will be no more trouble from the likes of Legs Diamond. His voice is capable of rich inflections of empathy and irony, but its primary quality is blunt force, and Panzarella can wield it like an angry drunk with a crowbar. A New York Police Department lieutenant in his 33rd year of service, Panzarella has the resources of a 38,000-member, multibillion-dollar police department at his disposal, but it is his voice alone on which he depends in his role as a hostage negotiator, on those unexpected occasions that demand it. "One of the first things you learn is you can't learn it," he says. "But I had good teachers."

As he sees it, a negotiator needs an ear for nuance, a knack for reading a conversation and the ability to follow a train of thought through surreal detours. Sometimes a negotiator will talk and listen for days on end as the words float back and forth. The communication can be rudimentary, until the hostage taker is drawn in on human terms and begins to see his (and his captives') condition through the prism of another sensibility. The negotiator may then have the leverage--through sympathy or sheer persistence--to induce the release of the hostages. Intimidation has its place, which is one reason psychologists often consult but never negotiate directly. Though negotiations are a kind of emergency therapy, few qualified therapists allow sniper teams to play any part in a course of treatment.

Lieutenant Hugh McGowan, the commanding officer of the Hostage Negotiation Team, is judicious in both his praise and his use of Panzarella, who is one of his senior negotiators. "It's not as if I wouldn't use Phil if I wanted to go in soft," he says in the diplomatic and slightly defensive tone of a breeder of prize dobermans. "It's just that he's particularly good at the other way."

Panzarella admits that his belligerent approach masks grave anxiety as he threatens and pleads for the lives of strangers. But then he dismisses his own fears: "When I'm on the phone, I'm not going to get hurt. I've been in the hall when shots have come through the door, and it's asses and elbows to get out of the way." But even Panzarella seems to view himself as a kind of last resort. He refers to his deployment by McGowan in one hostage barricade with unself-conscious admiration: "It was a gutsy call."

•

Edwin Lamage showed up unexpectedly at Christine Hogan's apartment in Far Rockaway, Queens one frigid evening in early January 1995. Hogan found it rude, strange and entirely unwelcome. Even by her standards, it was a chaotic scene: She had just fed ten children--her son, grandchildren and a neighbor's kids, all under nine years old--and was doing the dishes while the kids ran riot in a post-Christmas trove of toys. Her boyfriend, Garrick, was in bed with the flu. Lamage had dated Christine's sister Mary, who lived several blocks away. Christine thought it odd that he hadn't looked at Mary's house first. Then again, she had never been glad to see him. He had a sarcastic, superior way of talking and an oafish, scruffy look, with a bushy moustache and thick glasses. Though he dressed a notch above skid row, he carried himself with the injured dignity of someone passed over, yet again, for employee of the month. When he offered to pay the cab fare for someone to get Mary, no one took him up on it. Lamage used the bathroom and told them, as he left, that they were out of toilet paper. Christine sent a daughter to buy some. A neighbor, Latasha Thomas, stopped in to pick up her three children just before Lamage returned with Mary. Over the noise of the dishes, the TV and the children, Christine heard him yell at Mary for seeing another man. When Mary insisted Lamage leave with her, he produced a .22 revolver and threatened to kill everyone. The domestic mayhem erupted into terror.

Mary tried to shove Lamage outside, and one of the children ran for the door. Lamage grabbed for him, but Christine managed to herd him with the rest of the children into the back room where Garrick lay. She made them get down on the floor, stuffing as many under the bed as would fit, then screamed out the window for help. Latasha threw out a note that said "Please call the police!" When two police officers arrived at the door, Lamage had Mary in a choke hold, with a gun to her head. He shouted, "Back off! I'll kill her! Nobody's leaving!"

There wasn't much else to say. They withdrew, called for backup and were joined by about 50 other police officers, who sought to convince Lamage to do no harm.

The Hostage Negotiation Team is called out roughly 100 times each year, but only a few incidents result in sustained hostage barricades. Hostage takers fall into three categories: "crusaders, criminals and crazies," though the distinctions obviously aren't rigid. As McGowan explains, "Sometimes people claim to be terrorists, but they're really just out for money, and they also happen to be as crazy as bedbugs." Eighty percent of hostage situations involve "emotionally disturbed persons," and the remainder are primarily the fallout of robberies gone awry. Everything a negotiator does runs counter to the traditional police response to crises. The instinct to react, assert control and meet force with superior force can be disastrous, as was demonstrated in Waco, where 80 followers of Branch Davidian leader David Koresh were immolated after federal agents raided his compound. Sometimes force is necessary to end a barricade, but for the most part the strategy is one of listening, talking, giving in whenever possible and, above all, waiting.

Waiting was not pleasant in Far Rockaway on the night of January 3. The temperature had dipped below freezing, and Rockaway was strafed with northerly winds. The neighborhood is one of red-brick housing projects, ramshackle colonial houses and vacant lots, and has the desolate calm peculiar to beach towns in winter. The Hogans lived on the top floor of a seven-storied housing project. Police sealed off the area for several blocks around. The Emergency Service Unit, in heavy vests, helmets and midnight-blue commando gear, was deployed to rooftops, for surveillance and to secure areas in the line of fire. A door team of five ESU cops, armed with .12-gauge shotguns and MP5 machine guns, was at the entrance of the apartment, behind "body bunkers," or handheld ballistic shields. The Technical Assistance Response Unit coordinated communications among the police and began to secure the phone line in the Hogan apartment. Headquarters was set up in an apartment in the project next door, which offered a view of the Hogans' apartment and an adjoining roof. Detective Andrew Cardamone called to begin negotiations. "Hello, sir," he said. "What's going on here?"

The mind of a hostage taker is a cauldron of emotions--rage, dread, resentment, despair. His thoughts can range widely and wildly, from bitter childhood insults to visions of the electric chair that he believes, with whatever merit, awaits him. Negotiations are a process of containment and control, of making the hostage taker focus on the present and what he can do to get out of his predicament, rather than what inspired his actions or their consequences. The negotiator tries to establish a rapport, to represent himself as an ally and an opportunity for peaceful resolution. It is a truthful representation, as histrionic demands for a plane to Algeria or an interview with Dan Rather frequently melt away to their metaphoric cores, becoming simple pleas for release or recognition.

Cardamone began to talk to Lamage around 9:15, half an hour after the police responded. At that point, he didn't know Lamage's name, let alone anything of his past or personality. He didn't know how many people were inside, or where they were. Lamage told him that he was going to kill himself over Mary and other problems. Cardamone found him resigned rather than overtly hostile, though Lamage often hung up on him or put him on hold. As word spread, relatives, neighbors and busybodies began to call to find out what was happening, and the attention clearly provided Lamage with an emotional boost. When the father of Latasha's children called, there was a proud, peremptory note in Lamage's response: "Yes, I'm the gunman. I have your babies." He made calls to relatives and friends to broadcast his moment of relevance. Finally, Lamage announced his demands: a bucket of chicken, soda and the still-awaited toilet paper. Despite the pettiness of the demands, it was a breakthrough that provided Cardamone with an opportunity to truly negotiate rather than simply plead. He (continued on page 80)Hostage(continued from page 70) said he would do what he could, but told Lamage to let the children go. Latasha threw another note out the window, telling the police to hurry up with the chicken.

Inside the apartment, Lamage was wholly different from the small, sour voice on the telephone, complaining that life wasn't worth living and that dinner was late. For the most part, he remained in the bathroom with Mary. He insisted that one of the infants be brought to him. He yelled at the women in the bedroom and threatened to kill the children, one by one, if he wasn't fed soon. Christine heard thuds and cries from the bathroom -- it sounded like Mary was being beaten. The children cried, too, though as time went on, some forgot the danger and began to play under the bed, poking at one another and giggling. Some dozed off. Christine's boyfriend, Garrick, was a figure of misery so extreme as to be almost comical: a hostage and the father of a hostage bedridden with the flu, throwing up into the plastic bucket the children were using as a toilet. With Garrick there, Christine was aware that things could be worse.

Lamage repeated his threats. Christine urged him to let the children go, especially the asthmatic one. She showed him an inhaler to prove the illness was genuine, and Lamage decided to let him go, the first to be freed. Lamage then agreed to free four more. Latasha took the children to the door, and the ESU led them out. The door team--who stood in the hall, out of Lamage's line of sight--pumped Latasha for information on the hostages. She again told them, "Hurry up with the chicken."

Around 10:30, McGowan decided to move headquarters to an apartment two doors away from the Hogans'. The lines were cleared by the Technical Assistance Response Unit, and neither phone would receive calls except for those approved by the police. McGowan also decided to change negotiators. Cardamone confessed to feeling "a little jilted" as he joined the rest of the team.

•

Several hours into the negotiations, the press had begun to gather. Half a dozen reporters waited, frozen and forlorn, aware that the close of the morning editions had passed hours earlier. TV crews gravitated toward their vans, and a few left to get coffee. Meanwhile, in the narrow living room of #7D, there were a Christmas tree, black plastic wall hangings of lithe African women, shelves decorated with family pictures and a toy stuffed parrot. There were also 20-odd cops: the TARU and the Hostage Negotiation Team in headsets and blue windbreakers; the ESU in helmets and flak jackets; and, in suits and ties, a sampling of the upper echelons of the NYPD. The Queens district attorney and the chairman of the New York City Housing Authority were also in the apartment, which combined the frenetic drive of a campaign war room with the awkward deference of a distant cousin's wake. One officer, of lower rank, grumbled that the coffee they had brought in didn't seem to make it past the bosses. The family who lived there did not leave--"Why should they? It's freezing outside," said a cop--and they tried to maintain as normal a routine as possible.

McGowan has about a hundred negotiators on call, all city detectives trained in the discipline. In most cases, he no longer negotiates himself but instead stands to the side to observe and make decisions with the benefit of distance. McGowan, a 29-year veteran whose silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses and habit of wry understatement contribute to his professorial manner, broke his composure with only an occasional comment or quick frown. There was cause for hope: Five hostages were out. Violence tends to occur in the first hour of a barricade. McGowan next tried Detective Carlos Gonzalez, telling him to continue in the same easygoing manner Cardamone had displayed. Gonzalez made a brave start, but Lamage, who grew increasingly irritated without his food, hung up on him. McGowan decided to change his tactics, sharply, and put on Phil Panzarella.

Broadly built, broader still in his vest, Panzarella sat back in his chair, holding an unlit cigar with self-mocking confidence, like a boxer who throws a combination for the crowd. Gonzalez, now his coach, wore a headset and held a notepad, and two more negotiators stood by, available for relief.

McGowan signaled for Panzarella to call, and Lamage picked up. He was made instantly aware of the change: "Listen, you fuck!" Panzarella yelled. "You're going to let those people go now! They got me out of bed for this bullshit! We got you the chicken, it's going in, and you're going to let those fucking people go! Now!" The gambit was a tremendous risk, but the stress of negotiations had worn Lamage down. McGowan had guessed that Lamage's choice of women and children as victims, together with his prison experience, indicated that he would defer when confronted by a dominant personality. Simply put, Lamage was a bully and would respond like one. When Lamage stammered, "I have to think about it!" and hung up, it was a sign of submission as unmistakable as a dog's lowered tail.

After the initial confrontation, Lamage recovered somewhat, and Panzarella continued his brusque, aggressive tack. The two quickly fell into a familiar routine, as the relative force and weight of each personality became clear: "But you ain't listening to me," Panzarella said in a tone of fraternal aggravation. "I'm telling you, open the door and let everyone out, and the thing is over. Then you and me will sit and talk this thing out. There ain't no sense in letting this bullshit go on all goddamn night, because eventually something else will happen, and you're going to get your ass in more trouble, brother. You've got to open the door sooner or later."

As Panzarella probed for weaknesses, Lamage began to experiment with defensive lines of argument. After taking a breath, he quietly demurred: "Not if I kill myself first." In a sense, he was a hostage too.

"That ain't got nothing to do with anything, understand?" said Panzarella, judiciously shifting from abuse to praise like a bad parent. "You're the man. I want you to be the man!" When Lamage tried to speak, Panzarella cut him off again, shouting, "The chicken's here! We got it right here, I'm telling you!"

"Well, bring it back."

"It's right by the door, like I said."

Lamage paused, and a bold note crept back into his voice. "Let Ja bring it." Jalila had been out when Lamage took her mother and family hostage, and was now in the apartment with the negotiators.

"No, Ja can't bring it. I'll put it right by the door, and I----" Panzarella put down the phone. "Fuck. He's off." When Lamage picked up again, Panzarella tried a tentative, injured tone: "Eddie! Eddie! What you hanging up on me for?" His voice hardened: "I don't hang up on you, do I? Do I? What the fuck you hanging up on me (continued on page 86)Hostage(continued from page 80) for?" He then said, half as a dare, "I thought we were talking man to man here."

"Yes," allowed Lamage. Whenever Lamage agreed with him, it was a small victory, and Panzarella continued to advance the premise of their personal bond: "How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"Thirty-one! OK, I'm 50 fucking years old here! I ain't over here hanging up on you, am I? Now listen to me. You got to talk to me, you got to let these people go, OK? You want, you and me can eat the chicken together -- that's fine. But you got to help me out here. You listening?"

There was noise in the background, and Lamage shouted, "I'm talking to the police!" In the harried tone of a chaperon at a high-school dance, he explained, "I was talking to Ja's mother."

"Oh, Ja's mother. How's Christine doing? 'Cause she's a sick lady. She could die at any minute. She's got high blood pressure and shit."

"She just took her pill," Lamage said with concern. "She's all right."

"She took her pill, but you ain't helping the situation any. Who's doing the shitting in there that you need all the shit paper?"

"Mary. She's right here. She's got the runs."

"Well, she's probably scared. Why don't you ask her if she's scared." Though Panzarella was reluctant to let Lamage disengage from the conversation, it was unavoidable at times, and he took advantage of those moments to highlight the pain of the hostages. Lamage had begun to mimic the gestures of a caretaker, and Panzarella encouraged him. When Lamage asked, "Mary, are you scared?" there was an affirmative grunt in the background. "She said she's scared."

"You bet your ass she's scared," Panzarella said, reminding him of all the commotion he had caused. "You got a hundred goddamn people out here, a lot of people tied up. Eddie, come on, people can't even get into the building. We can't go on like this all night. Don't do this shit to me. I got to go home! I'm tired, man!"

"I'm tired too."

"I know! But come on, man, don't give up on me like this!"

"I already let five go. When Ja brings the chicken----"

"Ja can't. Want me to bring the chicken over there?"

"No, 'cause you're a cop."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're a man with a gun."

"I'm over here talking to you, trying to help you out of this thing. We're going to do this together. If we don't do it together, it ain't going to get done." Lamage took a breath and Panzarella pressed on. "I'm telling you, these people are getting pissed off out here. I'm in the middle with you, and I'm getting my fucking ass reamed here, all right? You're inside there waiting to eat chicken, I'm waiting here to go home. And these people, they're beating the shit out of me now."

"We're hungry. Christine already went to the door three or four times."

"Listen to me, goddamn it, she's out of this goddamn thing. It's you and me here. And we got to work this out. We'll do it our way. You and me, we're on the same goddamn team here--nothing will happen unless I say it happens and you say it happens. We're the only two fucking people that count in New York City. You and me on this goddamn phone. Are you listening to me?"

While it was frustrating to haggle over the mechanics of a chicken delivery, that didn't mean the dialogue had deteriorated. The hostages hadn't been injured. Lamage was contained in the apartment, and his relationship with the negotiator seemed to deepen, consuming a greater share of his attention. The food began to take on great symbolic importance, and its arrival would allow Lamage a benign measure of victory. Moreover, he had changed his cast of mind, at least in part, from thoughts of murder-suicide to expectations of dinner. Panzarella appealed to Lamage's putative decency, trying to transform the contest of wills into a collaborative release of the hostages. He and Lamage were in oddly similar positions, trapped on the phone in small crowded rooms, fatigued, flushed with adrenaline, hemmed in by an audience desperate to know where the conversation would lead.

"Nobody else is involved in this," Panzarella said. "Just you and me, all right? It's like I'm your goddamn best friend right now. I'm trying to help you do the goddamn right thing. Be the man everybody here tells me you are. They tell me that you're a real man, a stand-up guy. You been in the joint, did your time, came out without no bullshit, and now you're acting like some fucking teenage rap singer or something."

"It's like-----"

"Punks do the shit you're doing in there! And I don't want you to be like that, OK? I want you to be a man. Everybody I spoke to downstairs said that Eddie's a good guy. Eddie had a couple of problems, but he took care of them, and he's the man. But this ain't helping nobody, what you're doing. So let me put the chicken by the door, Eddie."

"Ja brings it in."

"I'm telling you-----"

"I will not-----"

"Don't bring her up again! She's got nothing the fuck to do with this. I'm asking you, as a favor--I've been talking to you now for a long time. Do you trust me?"

"No, I don't."

"You got to trust me, because it's you and me."

"But I let five people go."

"I wasn't here then, goddamn it! I just got here--they called me from fucking home! If I had been here, you would have gotten the chicken immediately. Listen, Eddie, why the fuck do you think I'm so pissed off? I had to get out of my goddamn bed to come here. They called me in just to talk to you. I'm putting that chicken at the door, and don't say another goddamn word to me."

"Ja is------"

Panzarella took a chance and hung up, his doubts belied by the decisiveness of the act. Again, Lamage acquiesced, sending Latasha to the door for the chicken. The ESU handed it over, along with the soda and toilet paper.

Christine maintained a kind of stunned calm, minding the children in her apartment and urging Lamage to let them go. She took her pills and bided her time. Sometimes Lamage made Mary and the infant lie down on the floor, but when he felt threatened--as he did when he saw the door team hold a pole camera inside the apartment -- he made Mary sit on his lap, and the infant on hers, as a double human shield. The door team pulled back the camera. He had told Latasha he would release her when the food came, but then reneged when diet soda was delivered instead of regular. After the switch was made, he let her take two more children and leave. Six hostages remained: Mary and the infant, and Christine, Garrick and two more babies in the bedroom.

After the release, Lamage became still more agitated. When Panzarella (continued on page 152)Hostage(continued from page 86) succeeded in getting him back on the phone, Lamage emitted a crabby, stiff laugh: "Ha, ha, ha. Can I ask you a question? What time is it now?"

"It's 12:30 . . . no, it's ten after one."

"Why don't you give me a time when I can pull the trigger on myself?"

"No, no, no, you ain't doing that," Panzarella said, softer but more quickly. If Lamage were to shoot himself, the primary objectives of the police--that no hostages or officers be hurt--would be met. But they didn't want him to die, either, and, more important, he was slipping into a dangerous emotional state. He felt his actions had no meaning and that violence was the remedy. Danger to the hostages grew as their number shrank.

"Don't give me that bullshit about killing yourself, about pulling the trigger."

"Then you can have everybody."

"No, no, I don't want you to do that. I don't want nobody then. If you're going to do that, I don't want anyone. I thought we were talking man to man here. Didn't I give you the fucking chicken? I gave you the soda and shit paper."

"Yeah, and I let people go."

"That's got nothing to do with what we're talking about now!" barked Panzarella, relentlessly focused on the present. "We're talking about coming out, so that nothing happens to anybody. These people are starting to get itchy, I'm telling you. You're the only fucking one who can do this."

"Let me talk to Mary for a while."

"All right, you tell Mary what I said. I'll be right there with you, I swear to God, I swear on my kids. I want to fucking go home, Eddie. I'm tired."

"Give me some time to talk to her."

"OK, two minutes," Panzarella said, hanging up before Lamage could, to preserve the impression of control. When Panzarella called him back, Lamage sounded weak and tired: "There's just one more person I gotta talk to, and then it's gonna be over. And that's Ja."

"To Ja? You want to talk to Ja? But what about?"

"About the decision," he said, his voice breaking.

"Listen to me. I can't get ahold of Ja right now," Panzarella said, as Christine's 21-year-old daughter sat in the kitchen. Hostage takers sometimes make ritualistic demands (such as a last meal) when they intend to commit suicide, and Lamage's insistence on speaking with the various Hogan women seemed to fit that pattern. Some hostage takers fire a shot at police before making a futile rush outside with--as is discovered afterward--a gun emptied of bullets. The phenomenon is known as suicide by police.

"I don't know where Ja went," Panzarella continued. "This has to stop, they're breaking my balls-----"

"I'm telling you, everybody will be cut loose. Free."

"I know that. Listen! I trust you. You trust me now-----"

Lamage let out a long exhalation, and Panzarella took it as an assent. "OK, when you come out, I will personally get ahold of Ja and let you talk to her alone."

"Where is she?" Lamage asked, before breaking off to yell at the hostages. McGowan and the team agreed the situation had worsened.

"Eddie! Hey, what are you doing? Listen! If this were a pay phone, I'd be out of quarters. I'm going to put Ja on. You give me the babies. No, give me the babies first, then I'll put Ja on the phone. I want them right now. You're holding the ace, I'm only holding the king. Come on! Eddie, you there? Eddie? We're still here, you and me. Come on, I told you, you got to be a man about this. I didn't start this, you started it. Eddie! Put Mary on the phone. Eddie?"

Mary picked up, and Panzarella urged her to remind Lamage that the children had done him no harm. "Don't hang up! Don't forget I'm on the phone, honey!" he said, turning to confer with the team. Friends and family are rarely allowed to speak to the hostage taker, as it breaks the link with the negotiator, and old resentments and new demands can arise as conversation wanders. But McGowan decided that they needed to reduce the anxiety, and he asked Detective Gonzalez to prepare Ja. Gonzalez would tell her to remain calm, to blame the police for any problems, and to continue to press Lamage to release the hostages. In the background, Lamage could be heard saying he'd let everyone go after he talked to Ja. Panzarella told the team, "He's changed. He's up high now. He told me 'fuck you,' and he never did that before." Panzarella hummed, "Pick up the phone, pick up the phone. . . ." The ESU cops yelled for Lamage to pick up the phone. Lamage told the hostages, "I don't mind dying, I'm going to die anyway." And then he released two more hostages. "We got two more kids!" A cop carried one child across the living room of the makeshift headquarters. Lamage finally picked up the phone.

"Where is Ja? I just let two go."

"All right, listen to me," Panzarella said. "I want you to start letting those people walk to the door, and I'll put her on the phone right now. OK? Ja, say hello."

"Hi, Edward," Ja said. Lamage began to protest but Panzarella cut him off: "No--I'm just going to let her say hello. Listen carefully-----"

"I want to talk to her!"

"I'm going to let her say hello," Panzarella said. His voice changed to a full-throated roar: "But you have to do the fucking thing my way!"

"I let two go!"

"I know, now listen to me!"

"I got her daughter."

"Listen to me. I'm gonna put her on the phone right now. Tell those people to start walking to the door."

"Put her on."

Panzarella handed Ja the phone. "Hello?" she said.

"Hello?" said Lamage.

"Edward?" It wasn't his name, but Ja didn't know him well. It didn't seem to matter.

"Who's this?"

"It's Ja."

"Hold on . . . I just want to make sure. Prove it to me."

"You don't know me? You don't know my voice? You want me to scream and yell so you know my voice?" And then she softened. "This is me! It's me!"

"All right, I apologize," Lamage said. "Listen. I spoke to Chris and Mary."

"Are they coming out? My mother's real sick. Would you send her out so she could take her pills?"

"She took her pills already."

"What you want me to say? What you want me to listen to?"

"I let everybody go already," he said, then correcting, "I let out all the kids. It's only your daughter, and Mary-----"

"Let my baby out now."

"I'm going to let everybody-----"

"I'll hang up the phone. You let my baby out right now."

"All right, I'll-----"

"Right now, while I'm talking. Let the baby go."

"All right, I'm going to let everybody out," Lamage said. He turned from the phone to say, "OK, put your coats on," and then, to Ja, "Your mother's getting their coats." Ja encouraged him, saying, "Go ahead, tell my mother to get my baby's coat, she has to bundle, 'cause it's cold outside." Gonzalez shook his head as he heard Lamage tell the hostages, "Stay here. Don't go anywhere yet." Gonzalez hissed to Ja, "Forget the coat, get them out!"

"All right, Edward," Ja said. "She doesn't need a coat. Just let her out." There was silence, and Ja called his name until he picked up again. Then he announced he would kill himself after letting everyone go. "Edward, let me talk to you," said Ja, soothingly. "Edward, you listening to me? Don't kill yourself, OK? You know I'll talk to you. You know I'll talk to you any time, Edward. Don't kill yourself. We'll always be here for you. We ain't going nowhere."

There was shouting, and McGowan pressed Ja to keep calling to him. She called out, "Edward! Edward! Edward!" as Christine screamed in the bathroom. "Just sit down and think! Let the baby out! Just give us the baby!" Ja shouted, "Edward! Now!" and McGowan said, "Keep going! You don't know when he's going to pick it up again. You're doing good!" Ja began to bellow names: "Edward! Mary! Mommy! Ma!" Gonzalez and McGowan urged Ja on as the ESU shouted in at Lamage to let the baby go. Christine's voice rose to a shriek: "Give us the baby!"

Over the tumult there was a faint pop! and then another, seconds later. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Ja looked up, wide-eyed, and gazed out past the score of cops. It seemed that time did not pass, as if a single dreadful second caught. "He shot, he shot," Ja said. Panzarella lit his cigar.

The shouting started and movement resumed, and over the police radio a voice said, "Shots fired!" McGowan and Gonzalez shouted to Ja, "Talk! Talk! Keep talking!" The door team stormed the apartment, and then came the hollow boom of an explosion. "Keep talking," McGowan told Ja. "This is ongoing." Another cop called, "The baby's all right!" Ja broke down as the hostages began to come out.

•

What had happened was that Lamage had continued to hold the baby even after he promised to release everyone, but he put the baby down to argue with Mary and Christine. Then Christine snatched up the baby and ran. Lamage raised his gun as she fled and fired at her. The bullet pierced the padded shoulder of her coat, passing inches from her head and even closer to the child's. The door team barreled down the hall as Lamage slammed the bathroom door and shot himself in the stomach. A cop broke through and tossed in a flash grenade, which knocked Mary into the bathtub, singeing her coat but leaving her unharmed. The cop dove into the bathroom and wrestled the gun from Lamage. He was handcuffed and taken to medics waiting in the hall. The remaining hostages were led out, examined for injury and then debriefed by detectives. When Mary walked out, Ja erupted in anger, shouting, "She brought him into the house!" Gonzalez held Ja back as another detective led Mary away, holding her arm and consoling her, "It's OK, honey, it was just the grenade." The police officers packed up their equipment and filed out toward the cameras or their cars. Their hosts and the hostages were free to go to bed.

•

For all their successes, the most skilled hostage negotiators admit that their discipline consists of a modest handful of prescriptions and tips. For better and for worse, human behavior eludes prediction and control. But negotiators are guided by the belief that people can speak to each other, for a time, even when they are filled with hatred or hopelessness. For Edwin Lamage, such times were episodic, transient and, combined with his poor marksmanship, just sufficient to permit the safe release of fourteen people. The justice system took care of Lamage, who is currently spending ten to life in prison for holding Mary and the others hostage.

"You can taste these things sometimes," McGowan reflected. "It starts to flow, and seconds later it goes down the toilet. There's no magic word--you build up trust, reduce fear. The balance of power never really changes; the perception does. We're not like car salesmen, getting the ransom down from $2 million to $1 million. It's more like an ocean liner that picks up a harbor pilot coming into port who helps them through the shoals.

"This kind of 'talk tactic,' or 'soft' police work, has a lot of applications. Once, I arrived on the scene and a woman yelled out, 'All these cops just to kill one man!' And I said to her, 'Ma'am, it's taking all these cops not to kill one man.' We're not sitting around waiting for the morgue truck. Words are so powerful sometimes. All the mind games, trying to see who wins--it's bad. The way we try to play it, everybody wins."

"We got you the chicken, it's going in, and you're going to let those fucking people go! Now!"

Christine maintained a kind of stunned calm. She took her pills and bided her time.

"You got to be a man. I didn't start this, you started it. Eddie! Put Mary on the phone. Eddie?"