by JJ Partridge
I led him back through the french doors; he retrieved his jacket and briefcase from the hall table, and as I opened the front door, I had no doubt he was tipsy. Good thing Benefit Street was a short walk, I thought, as he disappeared around the corner of the yard at East Street and headed down The Hill. I considered that Reinman had most everything going his way. He had grabbed the brass ring and was holding it tightly.
* * *
After a morning of routine work, including an hour or so working on the procedural issues for the tenure appeal facing the Provost, I drove through downtown, across the gorge of I-95 to Providence’s Italian enclave: restaurant-choked Federal Hill and the adjoining mansion lined Broadway. Every two weeks, Fausto Tramonti, the middle Tramonti brother, held Thursday lunch meetings at his law offices in a meticulously renovated Victorian on Broadway to plot his younger brother’s mayoral prospects. Early on, the group consisted of Fausto, Tony, Tramonti family friends, some money people, a couple of reform types, and a handful of seasoned politicians who, for one reason or the other, detested Sonny. In the aftermath of the August riots, and the dissipation of our early confidence, the group had dwindled to a core of Tramonti loyalists like myself.
Fausto’s office is across the street from Tramonti Corporation’s block-filling headquarters. As I parked among the expensive cars, including Fausto’s elegant, black Maserati Quattroporte with its coveted, single-digit license plate, I remembered that the patriarch, Angelo Tramonti, had started the business in a garage only a block away with a “pick and a wheelbarrow,” as the family often boasted. When Tony and I were teenagers employed for the summer as laborers, the company was run out of a collection of ramshackle corrugated buildings at the edge of the landfill in Johnston, a place of storage sheds, T logoed road machines, hoists, derricks and tractors, and noisy with diesel engines, whistles, the bee-beeps of vehicles in reverse, and the profanity of beefy workers in safety hats and overalls. By then, under the leadership of hard charging, ambitious “Aldo the Dynamo,” the eldest brother, the company was expanding rapidly, garnering contracts as a construction manager for airports, university dormitories, classroom buildings, stadiums, research facilities and hospitals, initially in New England and then countrywide.
Meanwhile, Fausto, the middle brother, who most resembles his father in looks and mental toughness and is the most traditional Italo-American of the three brothers, stayed local in his college education at Providence College, law school at Boston College, choice of the Broadway neighborhood for his home and office, and developed a law practice which combines his considerable abilities with that inevitable element of a successful Rhode Island legal practice: influence. Tony, the youngest brother, the one with the robust handsomeness and the natural gifts of a politician, the Harvard footballer and company lawyer, who married the prettiest girl at The Dunes Club, seems always to have been designated for elected office.
Today, in a conference room that would make a Roman advocato jealous, there were only six of us: Fausto, myself, a dissident city councilman, a young Latino lawyer with ambitions for Congress, a Tramonti cousin who owned the largest jewelry manufacturing company in Rhode Island, and state Senator Frank Rotundo, a construction supervisor at Tramonti Corporation as well as a thirty year veteran of political wars and intrigues. Tony was absent; he had to contend with Jesse Kingdom’s courthouse rally and march to the Public Safety Building. Since Fausto believed in la cucina buona, today’s lunch from the Italo-American Club was a spread of veal pizziola, choice of pasta, salad, and dolce. Bottles of San Pellegrino and the absence of wine indicated seriousness.
Fausto’s secretary operated an elaborate espresso machine to fill tiny cups as we began the political talk. Since for a mayoralty campaign, Tramonti wouldn’t have to worry about finances, the questions were always the same. Was Tony’s candidacy premature? Who out there was unhappy with Sonny? Were there enough votes? The politicos dominated today’s discussion with anecdotes about Sonny and McCarthy who, they said, had galvanized the city’s public safety and teacher unions as bases of support. This was confirmed by a recent poll conducted by a Providence College think tank which indicated that Sonny was riding high. Not even his latest tax increase seemed to make a difference! Rotundo groused that Sonny had the unions, he had a good part of the ethnic neighborhoods, and he didn’t need to worry about the rest of the citizenry. The only good news was that former State Senator Lucca, known to some at the table as Il Mazziere, the “card dealer,” and his son, the councilman from Federal Hill, were likely to stay neutral in a primary, not out of friendship but because traditizione has it that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
When they finished, we argued about what all of that meant. I said that we had in Tony an honest candidate running in a troubled city, that there were enough people who despised Sonny or who wanted a better future to put together a coalition that could win. Tramonti’s cousin’s face told me I had no clue of political realities, that Tony should pack it in for now; Rotundo squinted and grimaced as though he was thinking basta at any point I made. Fausto, however, agreed with me. There was plenty of time, he insisted, for Sonny to screw up. Fausto, in his feisty, take no prisoners mode, seemed to be an Italo-American Bobby Kennedy in his determination that his brother should run in, and would win, the next election. By the time the meeting broke up, he had most of us thinking his way.
Clouds with dark edges had formed and the sun had become a yellowish smudge in an unpleasant, unsettled sky as I got in my car. I started the engine and let it idle while I considered the advice from the politicos at the table. They were up to their keisters in Providence’s sometimes odious, often suspicious, and rarely principled politics. They understood better than I the fickleness of Providence voters who are notorious for their tolerance of roguish, rapacious politicians so long as “tings are goin’ good.” Wheeling-dealing, after all, is our basic form of city government, how we deal with civic issues during infrequent truces in ethnic turf battles and political vendettas. So, why did I think Tramonti could shake things up? Make a difference?
Damn, if I know .... But, I know!
I drove back into downtown with the back-from-lunch traffic. At the Providence River Bridge at Market Square, waiting for a light change, a steady stream of somber-faced Carter students, many toting placards and banners denouncing Sonny Russo and Chief McCarthy or supporting Jesse Kingdom, held up traffic and joined others massed on the RiverWalk in front of the RISD Auditorium. There, under a multicolored, tile-faced gazebo, an impassioned young black woman, her hair in a seventies-ish Afro and wearing a faded Army field jacket, directed maybe a hundred or so into groups with vigorous arm waves and her bull horn. With a chant of “Jess-ee, Jess-ee,” they lined up five abreast and started off toward the courthouse. Others, at least another fifty, not as regimented, maybe more sullen and purposeful, followed in groups of three and four.
In College Hall, noisy radiators greeted my return; the building’s steam heating system had cranked to life, which meant my office door had to stay ajar and a window had to be kept open to limit the effect of erratic blasts of heat given off by the old cast-iron piping. Accompanied by clanking and an occasional whistle from a radiator valve, I finished the conclusion of the Crime Report and the memo to Danby and the Provost on Zerma v. Carter University, and otherwise plodded through telephone calls, e-mails, letters, and reports. Once or twice, my mind went to the demonstration at the courthouse but since neither McAllister nor Tuttle had called, I continued my work. Maybe today, with Ms. Sullivan not on my mind, I could earn my salary.
* * *
McAllister didn’t knock, he burst in. “It’s bad. Some demonstrators got busted charging police lines in front of the Public Safety Building. Likely some of our kids. Don’t know much about it yet. Seems like a break away group from Kingdom’s rally at the courthouse. At least a half-dozen arrested, maybe more. I’ve got to go down there.” For a second, I hesitated. If it was “bad,” the kids could be brought up on charg
es for violations of Carter’s Student Code. I wasn’t supposed to get involved or intervene since, as University Counsel, the administration of the student justice system was under my purview. On the other hand, goddammit, I wanted to!
“Provost know?” He nodded affirmatively. “Tuttle?” Again the nod.
“I’ll go with you. My car is parked on Waterman. I’ll call Steve Winter and get some help.”
Fortunately, Winter was in his office at Champlin & Burrill and I authorized him to implement the “get’em out of the tank” procedure we had worked out long ago. A justice of the peace and a bail bondsman would arrive for arraignments in less than an hour if McAllister couldn’t work out releases. Before dinner, if the plan worked, the kids would be celebrities at the Refectory.
McAllister barely squeezed into the Mini. We drove through Capital Center to avoid the courthouse and downtown traffic lights; other than wondering aloud what had triggered the fight, he didn’t say a word until we were in the parking lot behind Trinity Square Theater, a block from the Public Safety Building. I sensed he thought he had misjudged the situation, hadn’t expected violence; I said that our kids do a lot of crazy things and are not going to give the Dean or his minions prior notice. As I locked the car, McAllister pulled out a cell phone and punched in numbers. “My only good contact in the Department,” he said and we waited in the lot until he made the connection and got us a promised entry.
We heard the clamor before we saw the crowd. A black man in a clerical collar—not Jesse Kingdom—stood on the flatbed of a pickup truck with a bullhorn, haranguing a crowd that maybe numbered fifty to seventy-five. Couldn’t make out his words except “racist” and “cops” in close proximity. Around the front and sides of the Public Safety Building, cops in robotic-looking riot gear stood side-by-side, shields up, batons in hand, like a phalanx of Spartan warriors. Taunts were still flying at them although nothing physical was going on, probably due to a handful of young, mostly black and Latino, women with white arm bands who patrolled between the police and the demonstrators. All three local television stations were there, their mobile unit antennas sprouting high above the crowd, their video people thrusting cameras at demonstrators and cops in attempts to capture vituperation and reaction. As we approached from Empire Street, the reverend jumped into the crowd and pushed forward to the police line where he began a “Jess-ee, Jess-ee” chant that others quickly joined. Where was Kingdom? Arrested? Despite the noise and angry voices, I got the impression that some of the demonstrators, except those facing the cops, were listless and dispirited; many did not join the chant, their banners furled and their placards leaning against the pickup, or at least no longer bouncing up and down.
McAllister’s pal, a uniformed sergeant who addressed McAllister as “Shaz”, let us in through a side door off the police hierarchy’s parking lot and we walked down a dimly lit corridor and into an empty holding room. I saw Steve Winter pass by and I called to him and went out to the corridor. Winter finished speaking to a red-faced, paunchy, unhappy police captain with gold leaves on his cap brim and introduced me. The cop gave me a once over, sneered, and left. Winter said, “Six of yours arrested out of a dozen or so, and they’re looking for the one who threw the Coke can and bonked the cop and set the whole thing off.” He paused. “Are you supposed to be here ...?”
“Never mind.”
We had been partners and friends far too long for debate. He shrugged.
“They’ll be kept in the tank for about another hour before we can get arraignments. One or two cops got banged up, one of the kids claims they twisted him to the ground and bruised his arm, another says she got pushed by a cop and whacked with a baton, and another says he was attacked by a police dog. Don’t know yet how that’s going to play out. At least, we’ll get them out of here. If we don’t, a few heads are going to get knocked. I’ve heard Sonny has gone ballistic. McCarthy’s holed up upstairs with his commanders and you can imagine what’s going on there. Kingdom got the crowd under control once he arrived and somebody on his side had enough sense to use his people from the courthouse protest, the ones with the arm bands, as security. Otherwise ... !”
“What happened?”
“Best as I can find out, before Kingdom finished up at the courthouse, a few troublemakers, including some Carter kids, went face-to-face with a police line setting up here in front of the building. Maybe thirty or forty. Somebody threw a soda can, hit one of the cops on the head, the shields went up, batons came out, some idiot got the dogs out of the back of a van, and the next thing you know .... Nobody decided to be peaceful or go limp this time and a dozen got arrested before Kingdom and his people marched here. They had no clue what had happened and got only one side of the story. Began demanding the release of the hostages, if you can believe it. Anyway, Tramonti got Kingdom on a cell phone—”
“What ...?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Anyways, Tramonti got Kingdom to agree to get his people out of here if we move quickly on the arrangements. Kingdom did his teevee thing and he’s gone. I don’t get it. Seemed like a perfect set up for more confrontation. What’s out there now are the remnants.”
McAllister joined us. “I’ll need names and addresses of everyone arrested.”
I said, “You can work it out with Steve. Call in a list of charges so we can figure out how to handle parents and the media, and whatever else might happen on campus. I’m going back.”
McAllister’s broad face was unhappy and strained. “Tell them,” he said, “we’ve got to think twice about Kingdom on campus tomorrow.”
I knew that idea would go nowhere. “You can take that up with the President, if you want to. But from what I’ve heard, Kingdom wasn’t the problem here. What we’ve got to concentrate on is getting the right message out to our kids.”
Winter nodded.
I left them and had reached the outside door when I heard Puppy Dog’s voice croak from behind me. “Whoa. Not so fast,” he said as he caught up to me, with jacket off, tie down two buttons, face beet red, and a loose strand of hair behind an ear; the yellowish glints in his eyes were particularly malevolent. “I warned you about Kingdom. See?”
He took a step closer. His breath needed a wash.
“Now look what we’ve got. Don’t you guys get it? He’s poison. Sonny’s gonna have the whole council, the whole city this time, when he puts it to you, and believe me he will. I warned you ...!”
“So you did.”
“You want extra help for Kingdom tomorrow? Fuhgeddaboutit. And if any of your kids come marching down here afterward, we’ll be prepared.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If they pick their noses or spit on the sidewalk, they’re gonna be in the tank. That’s what McCarthy’s told everybody and I’m telling you right now so there won’t be any surprises.” He was barely controlling himself. “And don’t go complaining to your buddy on the third floor. He’s out of this!”
This is what passes for the chief legal advisor in City Hall. I shook my head, opened the door, and was out on the street.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Steve Winter was on speakerphone with the Provost and McAllister when I entered the Provost’s office.
Our arrests turned out to be seven, and one by one, the kids were being arraigned and released on minimal bail by Winter’s on call Justice of the Peace. The cops, Winter said, had filed multiple misdemeanor charges—disturbance of the peace, illegal parading, refusal to obey a lawful police order, and the like—as well as a felony assault charge for the John Doe who threw the Coke can. In turn, a fistful of complaints would be lodged by Kingdom and the demonstrators with the Attorney General, the Human Rights Commission, and the Justice Department that would take time to sort out. Supposedly—and this was interesting—somebody had captured the confrontation with a video camera on the roof of the Public Safety Building; Winter’s comment was that if the cops had been assaulted, we’d see the tape; if the cops had been vicious,
the tape would likely be lost in the property room. From what he heard, however, the cops had not been the Neanderthals they can be when surprised and think no one is looking.
No doubt, some of our kids had acted stupidly, crudely, and recklessly for which there was no excuse, and for which—in loco parentis, again—comment would be expected from the University. The Information Office had quickly drafted a statement for Danby, which McAllister handed to me, expressing the University’s opposition to violence and its commitment to the demonstrators’ civil rights, etc., etc., etc. It read like something off the shelf and the Provost asked me to try to make it more specific and relevant. While I scribbled in a few thoughts, the Provost said Danby would be at the Refectory tonight to try to calm the expected reaction and had tried, in vain, to get through to Sonny to urge a cooling off. Danby also told him that Kingdom’s rally would definitely proceed—McAllister looked none to happy—and that Tuttle had carte blanche in terms of getting his people ready. Poor Tuttle, I thought, if Kingdom lets the rally get out of hand, no Event Plan will make a difference.
* * *
The ruckus at the Public Safety Building seemed to be of little concern on the third floor of College Hall. Maria, in a heavy, dark red coat, her head covered by a pinkish woolen hat, greeted me by announcing that she was “leavin’ early because of the storm.”
“What storm?”
Marcie popped her head out of her office to confirm that the weather report had changed from rain to two or three inches of snow and that she would also depart early unless there was some good reason not too. I knew better than to suggest any such thing and nodded okay; in a moment, she was gone. The legend of the Blizzard had struck again!
Every Rhode Islander over thirty has a story about the unexpected storm that deposited four feet of drifting snow beginning early on a Friday afternoon, stranded thousands at work or on snow-clogged highways, and shut down the entire state for more than a week in its white flood. While the storm crippled the state’s economy, the days that followed were an unexpected respite from work and school and had become, in Rhode Island’s collective memory, a time of goodwill, neighborliness, sledding, cross-country skiing on city streets, and lots of parties as the state dug out. To this day, any forecast of snow on a workday means Rhode Islanders prepare for both the possibility of being snowbound and the prospect of a day off. Offices, factories, and government close early, schools are dismissed, and convenience stores’ shelves are emptied of milk and bread. “But it’s only a couple of inches!” I exclaimed to the empty office.