FINDING A HERO
Remains of Bravest pulled from rubble just before fam planned funeral
On 9/11, retired NYPD Transit Chief Joseph Fox’s nephew, Michael Roberts, was killed in the World Trade Center collapse. Like many victims’ families, Roberts’ parents decided to hold a funeral without their child’s remains. But on the night before his funeral, Roberts was found in the rubble. Those working at Ground Zero worked feverishly to get Roberts back to his family before the funeral. This is that story, told in Chief Fox’s own words.
After 9/11, nothing was standard anymore.
No two memorial services were the same. Few bodies had been recovered and families either had memorial services or wakes in funeral homes without a body. My sister and brother-in-law decided to do that for Michael, a New York City firefighter who died on Sept. 11, 2001. I was asked to do the eulogy.
The first gathering to remember Michael was at 2 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 25, at the Marine Park Funeral Home. A sofa table with Michael’s Little League Baseball cap and glove, his firefighter helmet, and assorted pictures of him stood where his coffin should have been.
My friend, NYPD Chief of Department
Joe Esposito, came on Friday. When he left, he went back to the “pile.” Twelve hours later, we would be holding Michael’s funeral service without a body. His helmet would be displayed on the back of an antique fire truck, instead of the flag-draped coffin.
At one point Friday night, Mike Collins, my partner as a rookie cop, got a message from Chief Esposito. “I have Michael — tell Joe,” he said.
Everyone was looking at us — they could tell that something was going on. I announced that Michael’s body had just been found. In a spontaneous moment, they began to applaud, but stopped a second later when they saw the pain in my sister Veronica’s face.
At about 1 a.m. the next morning, my cellphone rang. It was Joe Esposito. “I’m bringing Michael home,” he said. I would later learn that Joe temporarily suspended all of the operations at Ground Zero so that enough people could get Michael home for his funeral. His body was taken off the pile and put into an ambulance by fellow firefighters from the “Nut House.” At the morgue in lower Manhattan, all other operations stopped and everyone stood at attention when Michael was brought in.
I decided to put my dress uniform on to drive just a few blocks. I sensed the enormity of Michael’s homecoming, but in a way I could not fully grasp it. I quickly finished putting my uniform on, still wondering if I should be wearing it. Then I remembered how proud Michael was of the position I held, so it felt right.
I parked my car across the street from the funeral home’s entrance, in front of a bar that was still open. I noticed a few firefighters from the “Nut House” who attended Michael’s wake were inside, still wearing parts of their uniform.
My brother-in-law John arrived. We sat, and waited, no conversation. After a few minutes, in the distance I saw a welllit vehicle appear on Quentin Road more than a half mile behind us. There was a second well-lit vehicle right behind the first, and then another. The dark street became illuminated by a caravan of emergency vehicles, lights ablaze.
It was like a presidential motorcade. There were highway patrol cars, unmarked police cars with emergency lights, and an ambulance, with Michael inside.
As John and I got out of the car, I buttoned my dress uniform and fixed my hat. The line of cars drove past us, into the funeral home parking lot. The scene was almost surreal; so many cars, so many blinding lights when it was so quiet only moments ago.
Joe was the first to come toward us as we entered the lot. He approached John and hugged him. Then some firefighters walked out of the bar, crossed the street and joined us. They were straightening their uniforms and reattaching their clipon ties to their shirts. As he fumbled to button his collar, Bobby Austin, one of the firefighters who had worked with Michael said, “Let’s help that man carry his boy home.”
John, Joe Esposito and I went to the back of the ambulance parked by the funeral home’s rear door. The funeral director had it opened and ready. With the help of the guys from the “Nut House,” we lifted Michael out of the ambulance and carried him in. Michael was wrapped in a dark heavy plastic container, zippered shut. The outline of his body was apparent through the plastic.
John gently patted Michael’s forehead, and he said, “Welcome home, Mike.” Those of us standing there just watched, in respectful silence.
Michael was home.