The Bonfire of the Vanities (83 page)

Finally her voice saying: “Germaine pays only $331 a month, and I pay her $750. It’s rent-controlled. They’d love to get her out of here.”

Soon the voices stopped…and Sherman remembered,
felt
, the fitful session on the bed…

When the tape had played out, Sherman said to Killian, “My God, that’s astounding. Where did that come from?”

Killian looked at Sherman but pointed his right index finger at Quigley. So Sherman looked at Quigley. It was the moment Quigley had been waiting for.

“As soon as you told me where she told you about her rent scam, I knew it. I just fucking
knew it
. Those lunatics. This Hiellig Winter ain’t the first one. The voice-activated tapes. So I went straight over there. This character has microphones hidden in the intercom boxes inside the apartments. The recorder’s down in the cellar in a locked closet.”

Sherman stared at the man’s suddenly radiant face. “But why would he even bother?”

“To get the tenants out!” said Quigley. “Half the people in these rent-controlled apartments ain’t in there legally. Halfa them are scamming, just like your friend there. But proving it in court is another thing. So this lunatic’s taping every conversation in the joint with the voice-activated tape. Believe me, he ain’t the first one, either.”

“But…isn’t that illegal?”

“Il
le
gal,” said Quigley with great joy, “it’s so fucking illegal it ain’t even funny! It’s so fucking illegal, if he walked in that door right now, I’d say, ‘Hi, I took your fucking tape. Whaddaya thinka that?’ And he’d say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ and walk away like a nice boy. But I’m telling you, these maniacs are
crazed
.”

“And you just took it? How did you even get in there?”

Quigley shrugged with consummate smugness. “That’s no big deal.”

Sherman looked at Killian. “Christ…then maybe…if that’s on tape, then maybe…Right after the thing happened, Maria and I went back to her apartment and we talked the whole thing over, everything that happened. If that’s on tape—that would be…fantastic!”

“It ain’t there,” said Quigley. “I listened to miles a this stuff. It don’t go back that far. He must erase it every now and then and record right over it, so he don’t have to keep buying new tapes.”

His spirits soaring, Sherman said to Killian, “Well, maybe this is enough!”

Quigley said, “Incidentally, you ain’t the only visitor she receives in that joint.”

Killian broke in: “Yeah, well, that’s of historical interest at this point. Now, here’s the thing, Sherman. I don’t want you to get your hopes up too high over this. We got two serious problems. The first one is that she don’t come right out and say she hit the kid and you didn’t. What she says is indirect. Half the time, it sounds like she might be going along with what you’re saying. Nevertheless, it’s a good weapon. It’s certainly enough to create doubt in a jury. She certainly seems to be concurring with your theory that this was a robbery attempt. But we got another problem, and to be honest with you, I don’t know what the hell we can do about it. There’s no way I can get this tape into evidence.”

“You can’t? Why not?”

“Like Ed says, this is a totally illegal tape. This crazy guy Winter could go to jail for doing this. There is absolutely no way that a surreptitious, illegal tape can be used as evidence in a court of law.”

“Well then, why did you wire
me
? That’s a surreptitious tape. How could that be used?”

“It’s surreptitious but not illegal. You’re entitled to record your own conversations, secretly or not. But if it’s somebody else’s conversation, it’s illegal. If this lunatic landlord Winter was recording his own conversations, there’d be no problem.”

Sherman stared at Killian with his mouth open, his just-hatched hopes already crushed. “But that’s not
right!
Here’s
…vital evidence
! They can’t suppress vital evidence on a technicality!”

“I got news for you, bro. They can. They would. What we gotta do is think of some way to use this tape to get somebody to give us some legitimate testimony. Like if there’s some way we can use this to make your friend Maria come clean. You got any bright ideas?”

Sherman thought for a moment. Then he sighed and looked off past the two men. It was all too preposterous. “I don’t know how you’d even get her to listen to the goddamned thing.”

Killian looked at Quigley. Quigley shook his head. The three of them were quiet.

“Wait a minute,” said Sherman. “Let me see that tape.”

“See it?” said Killian.

“Yes. Give it to me.”

“Take it off the machine?”

“Yes.” Sherman held out his hand.

Quigley rewound it and took it off the machine very gingerly, as if it were a precious piece of hand-blown glass. He gave it to Sherman.

Sherman held it in both hands and stared at it. “I’ll be damned,” he said, looking up at Killian. “It’s mine.”

“Whaddaya mean, it’s yours?”

“This is my tape. I made it.”

Killian looked at him quizzically, as if searching out a joke. “Whaddaya mean, you made it?”

“I wired myself up that night, because this article in
The City Light
had just come out and I figured I might need some verification of what actually happened. What we just listened to—that’s the tape I made that night. This is my tape.”

Killian’s mouth was open. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I made this tape. Who’s going to say I didn’t? This tape is in my possession. Right? Here it is. I made this tape in order to have an accurate record of my own conversation. Tell me, Counselor, would you say this tape is admissible in a court of law?”

Killian looked at Quigley. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ.” Then he looked at Sherman. “Let me get this straight, Mr. McCoy. You’re telling me you wired yourself and made this tape of your conversation with Mrs. Ruskin?”

“Exactly. Is it admissible?”

Killian looked at Quigley, smiled, then looked back. “It’s entirely possible, Mr. McCoy, entirely possible. But you gotta tell me something. Just how did you make this tape? What kind of equipment did you use? How did you tape yourself? I think if you want the court to admit this evidence, you better be able to account for everything you did, from A to Z.”

“Well,” said Sherman, “I’d like to hear Mr. Quigley here
guess
how I did it. He seems knowledgeable in this area. I’d like to hear him
guess
.”

Quigley looked at Killian.

“Go ahead, Ed,” said Killian, “take a guess.”

“Well,” said Quigley, “if it was me, I’d get me a Nagra 2600, voice-activated, and I’d…” He proceeded to outline in great detail just how he would use the fabled Nagra machine and wire himself and make sure he secured the highest-quality recording of such a conversation.

When he was through, Sherman said, “Mr. Quigley, you are truly knowledgeable in this area. Because you know what? That is exactly what I did. You didn’t leave out a single step.” Then he looked at Killian. “There you have it. What do you think?”

“I’ll tell you what I think,” Killian said slowly. “You surprise the hell outta me. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t, either,” said Sherman. “But something’s gradually dawned on me over the past few days. I’m not Sherman McCoy anymore. I’m somebody else without a proper name. I’ve been that other person ever since the day I was arrested. I knew something…something fundamental had happened that day, but I didn’t know what it was at first. At first I thought I was still Sherman McCoy, and Sherman McCoy was going through a period of very bad luck. Over the last couple of days, though, I’ve begun to face up to the truth. I’m somebody else. I have nothing to do with Wall Street or Park Avenue or Yale or St. Paul’s or Buckley or the Lion of Dunning Sponget.”

“The Lion of Dunning Sponget?” asked Killian.

“That’s the way I’ve always thought of my father. He was a ruler, an aristocrat. And maybe he was, but I’m not related to him anymore. I’m not the person my wife married or the father my daughter knows. I’m a different human being. I exist
down here
now, if you won’t be offended by me putting it that way. I’m not an exceptional client of Dershkin, Bellavita, Fishbein & Schlossel. I’m standard issue. Every creature has its habitat, and I’m in mine right now. Reade Street and 161st Street and the pens—if I think I’m above it, I’m only kidding myself, and I’ve stopped kidding myself.”

“Ayyyyy, wait a minute,” said Killian. “It ain’t that bad yet.”

“It’s that bad,” said Sherman. “But I swear to you, I feel better about it now. You know the way they can take a dog, a house pet, like a police dog that’s been fed and pampered all its life, and train it to be a vicious watchdog?”

“I’ve heard of it,” said Killian.

“I’ve seen it done,” said Quigley. “I saw it done when I was on the force.”

“Well, then you know the principle,” said Sherman. “They don’t alter that dog’s personality with dog biscuits or pills. They chain it up, and they beat it, and they bait it, and they taunt it, and they beat it some more, until it turns and bares its fangs and is ready for the final fight every time it hears a sound.”

“That’s true,” said Quigley.

“Well, in that situation dogs are smarter than humans,” said Sherman. “The dog doesn’t cling to the notion that he’s a fabulous house pet in some terrific dog show, the way the man does. The dog gets the idea. The dog knows when it’s time to turn into an animal and fight.”

It was a sunny day this time, a balmy day in June. The air was so light it seemed pure and refreshing, even here in the Bronx. A perfect day, in short; Sherman took it badly. He took it personally. How very heartless! How could Nature, Fate—God—contrive such a sublime production for his hour of misery? Heartlessness on all sides. A spasm of fear reached down to the very bottom of his descending colon.

He was in the back seat of a Buick with Killian. Ed Quigley was in the front seat, next to the chauffeur, who had dark skin, thick straight black hair, and fine, exquisite, almost pretty features. An Asian? They came down the ramp from the expressway right past the bowl of Yankee Stadium, and a big sign said,
TONIGHT 7 PM YANKEES VS. KANSAS CITY
. How very heartless! Tens of thousands of people would come to this place tonight
anyway—
to drink beer and watch a white ball hop and pop around for two hours—and he would be
back in there
, in a darkness he couldn’t imagine.
And it would begin
. The poor fools! They didn’t know what the real thing was like! Tens of thousands of them in Yankee Stadium, watching a
game
, a mere
charade
of war, while he was
in
a war. And it would begin…the elemental physical violence…

Now the Buick was going up the long hill, up 161st Street. They would be there in no time.

“It’s not the same courthouse,” said Killian. “It’s the building up on the top of the hill, on the right.”

Sherman could see an immense limestone structure. It looked quite majestic sitting up there on the crest of the Grand Concourse in the sunlight of a perfect day; majestic and stupendously heavy.

Sherman could see the driver’s eyes seeking him out in the rearview mirror, and then they locked in an embarrassing contact and jumped away. Quigley, up front next to the driver, was wearing a tie and a jacket, but just barely. The jacket, a curious Meat Gone High teal-green tweed, was riding up away from the pitted skin of his neck. He looked like the kind of fidgety Hard Case who is spoiling for an opportunity to peel off the jacket and tie and start fighting and cultivating hematomas or, better still, intimidate some funk-ridden weakling who isn’t ready to meet the challenge to fight.

As the car ascended the hill, Sherman could see a crowd in the street near the top, out in front of the limestone building. Cars were squeezing over in order to get by.

“What’s going on?” he said.

“Looks like a demonstration,” said Quigley.

Killian said, “Well, at least they aren’t in front of your apartment house this time.”

“A de-mon-strrra-tion? Hahahaha,” said the chauffeur. He had a singsong accent and a polite and thoroughly nervous laugh. “What it is about? Hahahaha.”

“It’s about us,” said Quigley in his dead voice.

The chauffeur looked at Quigley. “About yooouuu? Hahahaha.”

“You know the gentleman who hired this car? Mr. McCoy?” Quigley motioned with his head toward the back seat.

In the mirror the chauffeur’s eyes searched and locked on again. “Hahahaha.” Then he became quiet.

“Don’t worry,” said Quigley. “It’s always safer in the middle of a riot than out on the edge. That’s a well-known fact.”

The chauffeur looked at Quigley again and said, “Hahahaha.” Then he became
very
quiet, no doubt trying to figure out which to be more afraid of, the demonstrators he was approaching on the street or the Hard Case who was inside and merely inches away from his as yet unwrung neck. Then he sought out Sherman again with his eyes and locked on and then jumped inside the cavity and flailed away, bug-eyed with panic.

“Nothing’s gonna happen,” Killian said to Sherman. “There’ll be cops up there. They’ll be ready for ’em. It’s the same bunch every time, Bacon and that crowd. Do you think the people of the Bronx give a damn one way or the other? Don’t flatter yourself. This is the same bunch, doing their same weird number. It’s a show. Just keep your mouth shut and look straight ahead. This time we have a surprise for them.”

As the car neared Walton Avenue, Sherman could see the crowd out in the street. They were all around the base of the huge limestone building at the top of the hill. He could hear a voice coming over a microphone. People were answering the voice with a chant. Whoever was screaming over the microphone seemed to be up on the terrace of the stairway on the 161st Street side. There were camera crews with their equipment sticking up out of the sea of faces.

The driver said, “You waaaant me to stop? Hahahahaha.”

“Just keep moving,” said Quigley. “I’ll tell you when to stop.”

“Hahahaha.”

Killian said to Sherman, “We’re going in through the side.” Then to the driver: “Take the next right!”

“All the peeeoooople! Hahahaha.”

“Just take the next right,” said Quigley, “and don’t worry about it.”

Killian said to Sherman, “Duck down. Tie your shoe or something.”

The car turned onto the street that ran along the lower edge of the great limestone building. But Sherman sat up straight in his seat. It no longer mattered.
When would it begin?
He could see blue-and-orange vans with wire mesh over their windows. The crowd had spilled off the sidewalk. They were looking up toward the 161st Street side. The voice harangued them, and the chants arose from the mob on the stairs.

“Hook a left,” said Killian. “Right in there. See that red cone? That’s it.”

The car was heading in at a ninety-degree angle toward the curbing at the base of the building. Some sort of policeman was out there lifting up a Day-Glo rubber cone from the middle of a parking place. Quigley was holding a card up in the windshield with his left hand, apparently for the benefit of the policeman. There were four or five other policemen on the sidewalk. They wore short-sleeved white shirts and had tremendous revolvers on their hips.

“When I open the door,” said Killian, “you get in between me and Ed and make tracks.”

The door opened, and they scrambled out. Quigley was on Sherman’s right; Killian on his left. People on the sidewalk stared at them but didn’t seem to know who they were. Three of the policemen in white shirts sidled between the crowd and Sherman, Killian, and Quigley. Killian took hold of Sherman’s elbow and steered him toward a door. Quigley was carrying a heavy case. A policeman in a white shirt stood in the doorway, then stepped aside to let them through into a lobby lit by dim fluorescent bulbs. On the right was a doorway to what looked like a utility room. Sherman could make out the black and gray hulks of people slumped on benches.

“They did us a favor by having their demonstration on the steps,” said Killian. His voice was high-pitched and tense. Two officers led them toward an elevator, which another officer was holding open for them.

They entered the elevator, and the officer stepped inside with them. The officer pressed the button for the ninth floor, and they began their ascent.

“Thanks, Brucie,” Killian said to the officer.

“It’s okay. You got Bernie to thank, though.” Killian looked at Sherman, as if to say, “What did I tell you?”

On the ninth floor, outside a room marked Part 60, there was a noisy crowd in the corridor. A line of court officers was holding them back.

Yo!…There he is!

Sherman looked straight ahead.
When does it begin?
A man jumped out in front of him—a white man, tall, with blond hair swept back from a sharp widow’s peak. He wore a navy blazer and a navy tie, and a shirt with a striped front and a stiff white collar. It was the reporter, Fallow. Sherman had last seen him when he was about to enter Central Booking
…that place…

“Mr. McCoy!!”
That voice
.

With Killian on one side and Quigley on the other and the court officer, Brucie, leading the way, they were like a flying wedge. They brushed the Englishman aside and went through a door. They were in the courtroom. A crowd of people to Sherman’s left…in the spectator seats…Black faces…some white faces…In the foreground was a tall black man with a gold earring in one lobe. He rose up from his seat in a crouch and pointed a long, thin arm at Sherman and said in a loud guttural whisper: “That’s him!” Then in a louder voice: “Jail! No bail!”

The deep voice of a woman: “Lock him up!”

Yegggh!…That’s the one!…Look at him!…Jail! No bail!

Now?
Not yet. Killian held his elbow and whispered in his ear, “Ignore it!”

A falsetto croon: “Sherrrr-maannnn…Sherrrr-maannnn.”

“
SHUT UP! SIT DOWN
!”

It was the loudest voice Sherman had ever heard. At first he thought it was directed at himself. He felt terribly guilty, even though he hadn’t uttered a sound.

“
ANY MORE OUTBURSTS—I CLEAR THE COURT! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR
?”

Up at the judge’s bench, beneath the inscription
IN GOD WE TRUST
, a thin bald hawk-nosed man in black robes stood with his fists on top of his desk and his arms straight, as if he were a runner about to spring from the starting position. Sherman could see the white beneath the irises as the judge’s blazing eyes swept the crowd before him. The demonstrators grumbled but grew still.

The judge, Myron Kovitsky, continued to stare at them with his furious gaze.

“In this courtroom you speak when the court asks you to speak. You pass judgment on your fellow man when you are selected for a jury and the court asks you to pass judgment. You stand up and render your obiter dicta when the court asks you to stand up and render your obiter dicta. Until then—
YOU SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN! AND I…AM THE COURT! DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR
? Is there anyone who disputes what I have just said and holds this court in such contempt that he would like to spend some time as a guest of the state of New York contemplating what I have just said?
DO—I—MAKE—MYSELF—CLEAR
?”

His eyes panned the crowd from left to right and right to left and left to right again.

“All right. Now that you understand that, perhaps you can observe these proceedings as responsible members of the community. So long as you do so, you are welcome in this courtroom. And the moment you don’t—you’ll wish you hadda stood in bed! Do—I—make—myself—clear?”

His voice rose again so suddenly and to such an intensity the crowd seemed to recoil, startled at the thought that the wrath of this furious little man might descend upon them again.

Kovitsky sat down and spread his arms. His robes billowed out like wings. He lowered his head. The whites still showed beneath his irises. The room was now still. Sherman, Killian, and Quigley stood near the fence—the bar—that separated the spectators’ section from the court proper. Kovitsky’s eyes settled on Sherman and Killian. He appeared to be angry at them, too. He breathed what seemed to be a sigh of disgust.

Then he turned to the clerk of the court, who sat at a large conference table to one side. Sherman followed Kovitsky’s gaze, and there, standing beside the table, he saw the assistant district attorney, Kramer.

Kovitsky said to the clerk, “Call the case.”

The clerk called out: “Indictment number 4-7-2-6, the People versus Sherman McCoy. Who is representing Mr. McCoy?”

Killian stepped up to the bar and said, “I am.”

The clerk said, “Please give your appearance.”

“Thomas Killian, 86 Reade Street.”

Kovitsky said, “Mr. Kramer, you have a motion to make at this time?”

This man, Kramer, took a few steps toward the bench. He walked like a football player. He stopped, threw his head back, tensed his neck, for some reason, and said, “Your Honor, the defendant, Mr. McCoy, is currently free on ten thousand dollars’ bail, an insignificant sum for a person with his particular advantages and resources in the financial community.”

Yegggh!…Jail! No bail!…Make him pay!

Kovitsky, his head down low, glowered. The voices died down to a rumble.

“As Your Honor knows,” Kramer continued, “the grand jury has now brought in an indictment against the defendant on serious charges: reckless endangerment, leaving the scene of an accident, and failure to report an accident. Now, Your Honor, inasmuch as the grand jury has already found sufficient evidence of the defendant’s abandonment of his responsibilities to indict him, the People feel there also exists the substantial possibility that the defendant might ignore and abandon his bond, given the small amount of that bond.”

Yeah…That’s right…Unh-hunh…

“So, Your Honor,” said Kramer, “the People feel it is incumbent upon the court to send a clear signal not only to the defendant but to the community that what is at issue here is in fact regarded with the utmost seriousness. At the heart of this case, Your Honor, is a young man, an exemplary young man, Mr. Henry Lamb, who has become a symbol to the people of the Bronx of both the hopes they have for their sons and daughters and the callous and deadly obstacles that they face. Your Honor is already aware of the passion with which the community is following every step of this case. Were this courtroom larger, the people of this community would be here at this moment by the hundreds, possibly the thousands, just as they are even now in the corridors and on the streets outside.”

Right on!…Jail! No bail!…You tell him!

KAPOW
!

Kovitsky brought his gavel down with a tremendous explosion.

“
QUIET
!”

The rumble of the crowd sank back to a low boil.

His head down low, his irises floating on a sea of white, Kovitsky said, “Get to the point, Mr. Kramer. This isn’t a pep rally. It’s a hearing in a court of law.”

Kramer knew he was staring at all the usual signs. The irises were floating on that foaming sea. The head was down. The beak was out. It wasn’t going to take much more to set Kovitsky off. On the other hand, he thought, I can’t back down. Can’t give in. Kovitsky’s attitude so far—even though it was nothing but standard Kovitsky, the usual yelling, the usual belligerent insistence on his authority—Kovitsky’s attitude so far established him as an adversary of the demonstrators. The Office of the District Attorney of Bronx County was their friend. Abe Weiss was their friend. Larry Kramer was their friend. The People were…truly
the People
. That was what he was here for. He would just have to take his chance with Kovitsky—with those furious Masada eyes that now bore down on him.