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In 1975, after his divorce, Goetz moved to New York City to start his own small business. He specialized in calibrating sophisticated electronic equipment to precise manufacturing standards. The minute attention to detail, the quest for accuracy, seemed to suit him. "Machines don't hurt you," he has sometimes said. He ran the business out of his own spartan, meticulous apartment, where he stored the equipment acquired from suppliers all over the city. In order to bid on bargains at auctions and sales, Goetz often carried several thousand dollars in cash with him.
In 1977 he moved to a one-bedroom apartment on the northern fringe of Greenwich Village. For Goetz, the tan brick building was an oasis amid what he saw as the tawdry turbulence of 14th Street, a thoroughfare of cut-rate clothing and furniture stores. He launched a one-man crusade to clean up the street, pestering city agencies to do something about the litter, the junkies and the homeless.
In January 1981, Goetz experienced what may have been the watershed event in his life. While traveling home with some electrical equipment, he was jumped by three black youths at the Canal Street subway station. He was smashed into a plate-glass window, and suffered torn cartilage in his knee. His deepest bruises, however, were psychic. Two of the muggers escaped; one was nabbed by an alert policeman. Goetz was outraged that the suspect spent less than three hours at police headquarters while Goetz was there for more than six. Being the victim of such an act, says Atlanta Psychiatrist Alfred Messer, "creates a sense of helplessness and fear; and the more lasting that effect, the greater rage or anger you have, much of which is directed toward the self."
Later that year, Goetz applied for a pistol permit. Although he cited the fact that he routinely carried large sums of cash and valuable equipment, his application was rejected on grounds of insufficient need. Goetz was bitter. On a subsequent trip to his family's Florida home, he bought a nickel-plated, lightweight Smith & Wesson .38-cal. revolver.
The weather was unseasonably warm on the Saturday before Christmas when Goetz strolled out of his apartment. He descended into the 14th Street station of the Seventh Avenue subway line. As the No. 2 express screeched to a halt, Goetz, wearing a blue windbreaker, quickly scanned the cars, looking for a relatively empty one. According to his later statements, he took a seat across from the door through which he entered, on a long bench. Directly opposite him sat Troy Canty, 19; to Goetz's right, on a short two-seat bench, sat Darrell Cabey, 19, and James Ramseur, 19. Diagonally across from Goetz sat Barry Allen, 18.
Canty asked Goetz how he was. Fine, Goetz replied. Anywhere else in the world that might seem like an innocuous exchange; on a Manhattan subway it can be ominous. According to Goetz, two of them, probably Canty and Allen, got up and moved to his left. Goetz knew that something was up. He also knew that he had a loaded gun tucked in his trousers. As Goetz recounts the incident, Canty then said, "Give me $5." Canty's attorney claims his client made a request, not a demand.