by Tom Wolfe
“Holy shit!” he said. Then he glowered at Sherman. “You gone off the platter?”
The mouse was lying on the floor. Tanooch stamped on it with the heel of his shoe. The animal lay flattened on the floor with its mouth open.
Sherman’s hand hurt terribly, from where he had hit the bar. He cradled it with his other hand. I’ve broken it! He could see the teeth marks of the mouse on his index finger and a single tiny blob of blood. With his left hand, he reached around behind his back and pulled the handkerchief out of his right hip pocket. It required a tremendous contortion. They were all watching. Oh, yes…all watching. He swabbed the blood and wrapped the handkerchief around his hand. He heard Tanooch say to another policeman:
“The guy from Park Avenue. He threw a mouse.”
Sherman shuffled back toward where his jacket was balled up on the floor. He sat back down on the coat. His hand didn’t hurt nearly so much any longer. Maybe I haven’t broken it. But my finger may be poisoned from the bite! He pulled the handkerchief back far enough to look at the finger. It didn’t look so bad. The blob of blood was gone.
The black youth was coming toward him again! Sherman looked up at him and then looked away. The fellow sat on his haunches in front of him, as before.
“Hey, man,” he said, “you know something? I’m cold.”
Sherman tried to ignore him. He turned his head. He was conscious of having a petulant look on his face. The wrong expression! Weak!
“Yo! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Sherman turned his head toward him. Pure malevolence!
“I ask you for a drink, and you wasn’t nice, but I’m going to give you a chance to make up for that…see…I’m feeling cold, man. I want your coat. Gimme your coat.”
My coat! My clothes!
Sherman’s mind raced. He couldn’t speak. He shook his head no.
“What’sa matter with you, man? You oughta try and be friendly, Mr. Manslaughter. My buddy, he say he know you. He saw you on TV. You wasted some ace, and you live on Park Avenue. That’s nice, man. But this ain’t Park Avenue. You understand? You best be making some friends, you understand? You been slicking me some kinda bad, bad, bad, but I’m gonna give you a chance to make up for it. New gimme the fucking coat.”
Sherman stopped thinking. His brain was on fire! He put his hands flat on the floor and lifted his hips and then rocked forward until he was on one knee. Then he jumped up, clutching the jacket in his right hand. He did it so suddenly the black youth was startled.
“Shut up!” he heard himself saying. “You and I got nothing to talk about!”
The black youth stared at him blankly. Then he smiled. “Shut up?” he said. “Shut up!” He grinned and made a snorting noise. “Shut me up.”
“Hey! You germs! Knock it off!” It was Tanooch at the bars. He was looking at the two of them. The black youth gave Sherman a big smile and stuck his tongue in his cheek. (Enjoy yourself! You’re gonna own your mortal hide for about sixty seconds longer!) He walked back to the ledge and sat down, staring at Sherman the whole time.
Tanooch read from a sheet of paper: “Solinas! Gutiérrez! McCoy!”
McCoy! Sherman hurriedly put on the jacket, lest his nemesis rush forward and snatch it before he could leave the cell. The jacket was wet, greasy, fetid, completely shapeless. His pants fell down around his hips as he put it on. There were Styrofoam peanuts all over the coat and…moving!…two cockroaches had crawled into the folds. Frantically he swept them off onto the floor. He was still breathing rapidly and loudly.
As Sherman filed out of the cell behind the Latinos, Tanooch said to him in a low voice, “See? We didn’t forget you. Your name’s actually about six more down the list.”
“Thank you,” said Sherman. “I appreciate that.”
Tanooch shrugged. “I’d rather walk you outta there than sweep you outta there.”
The main room was now full of policemen and prisoners. At the desk, the Angel’s desk, Sherman was turned over to a Department of Corrections officer, who manacled his hands behind his back and put him in a line with the Latinos. His pants now fell hopelessly around his hips. There was no way he could pull them up. He kept looking over his shoulder, fearful that the black youth might be right behind him. He was the last person in the little line. The Corrections officers led them up a narrow stairway. At the top of the stairs was another windowless room. More Corrections officers sat at some beat-up metal desks. Beyond the desks—more cells! They were smaller, grayer, dingier than the white-tile cells downstairs. Real jail cells, they were. On the first was a peeling sign that said, MEN ONLY—21 AND OVER—8 TO 10 CAP. The 21 AND OVER had been crossed out with some sort of marker. The entire line of prisoners was led into the cell. The handcuffs were left on. Sherman kept his eyes pinned on the doorway they had first entered. If the black youth came in and was put into this small cell with him—he—he—his fear made him crazy. He was sweating profusely. He had lost all track of time. He hung his head down to try to improve his circulation.
Presently they were led out of the cell and toward a door made of steel bars. On the other side of the door Sherman could see a line of prisoners sitting on the floor of a corridor. The corridor was scarcely thirty-six inches wide. One of the prisoners was a young white man with an enormous cast on his right leg. He wore shorts, so that the entire cast was visible. He was sitting on the floor. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall beside him. At the far end of the corridor was a door. An officer stood beside it. He had a huge revolver on his hip. It occurred to Sherman that this was the first gun he had seen since he entered this place. As each prisoner left the detention area and went through the gate, his handcuffs were removed. Sherman slumped against the wall, like all the rest. The corridor was airless. There were no windows. It was filled with a fluorescent haze and the heat and stench of too many bodies. The meat spigot! The chute to the abattoir! Going…where?
The door at the end of the corridor opened, and a voice from the other side said, “Lander.” The Corrections officer inside the corridor said, “Okay, Lander.” The young man with the crutches struggled to his feet. The Latino next to him gave him a hand. He bounced on his good foot until he could get the crutches settled under his armpits. What on earth could he have done in that condition? The policeman opened the door for him, and Sherman could hear a voice on the other side calling out some numbers and then, “Herbert Lander?…counsel representing Herbert Lander?”
The courtroom! At the end of the chute was the courtroom!
By the time Sherman’s turn came, he felt dazed, groggy, feverish. The voice from the other side said, “Sherman McCoy.” The policeman inside said, “McCoy.” Sherman shuffled through the door, holding his pants up, sliding his feet so as to keep his shoes on. He was aware of a bright modern room and a great many people going this way and that. The judge’s bench, the desks, the seats, were all made of a cheap-looking blond wood. To one side people moved in waves around the judge’s elevated blond-wood perch, and on the other side they moved in waves in what appeared to be a spectators’ section. So many people…such a bright light…such confusion…such a commotion…Between the two sections was a fence, also of blond wood. And at the fence stood Killian…He was there! He looked very fresh and dapper in his fancy clothes. He was smiling. It was the reassuring smile you save for invalids. As Sherman shuffled toward him, he became acutely aware of what he himself must look like…the filthy sodden jacket and pants…the Styrofoam peanuts…the wrinkled shirt, the wet shoes with no strings…He could smell his own funk of filth, despair, and terror.
Someone was reading out some number, and then he heard his name, and then he heard Killian saying his own name, and the judge said, “How do you plead?” Killian said to Sherman, sotto voce, “Say, ‘Not guilty.’ ” Sherman croaked out the words.
There seemed to be a great deal of commotion in the room. The press? How long had he been in this place? Then an argument broke out. There was an intense heavyset
balding young man in front of the judge. He seemed to be from the District Attorney’s Office. The judge said buzz buzz buzz buzz Mr. Kramer. Mr. Kramer.
To Sherman, the judge seemed very young. He was a chubby white man with receding curly hair and a set of robes that looked as if they had been rented for a graduation.
Sherman heard Killian mutter, “Sonofabitch.”
Kramer was saying, “I realize, Your Honor, that our office agreed to bail of only $10,000 in this case. But subsequent developments, matters that have come to our attention since that time, make it impossible for our office to agree to such a low bail. Your Honor, this case involves a serious injury, very possibly a fatal injury, and we have definite and specific knowledge that there was a witness in this case who has not come forward and that that witness was actually in the car driven by the defendant, Mr. McCoy, and we have every reason to believe that attempts have been or will be made to prevent that witness from coming forth, and we do not believe it will serve the interests of justice—”
Killian said, “Your Honor—”
“—to allow this defendant to go free on a token bail—”
A rumble, a growl, an immense angry mutter rose from the spectators’ section, and a single deep voice shouted: “No bail!” Then a mighty mutterers’ chorus: “No bail!”…“Lock ’im up!”…“Bang it shut!”
The judge rapped his gavel. The muttering died down.
Killian said, “Your Honor, Mr. Kramer knows very well—”
The rumble rose again.
Kramer plowed on, right over Killian’s words: “Given the emotions in this community, quite justifiably aroused by this case, in which it has appeared that justice is a reed—”
Killian on the counterattack, shouting: “Your Honor, this is patent nonsense!”
A mighty rumble.
The rumble erupted into a roar; the muttering into a great raw yawp. “Awww, man!”…“Booooo!”…“Yeggggh!”…“Shut your filthy mouth and let the man talk!”
The judge banged the gavel again. “Quiet!” The roar subsided. Then to Killian: “Let him finish his statement. You can respond.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Kramer. “Your Honor, I would call the court’s attention to the fact that this case, even in the arraignment stage, on very short notice, has brought out a heavy representation of the community and most specifically of the friends and neighbors of the victim in this case, Henry Lamb, who remains in extremely grave condition in the hospital.”
Kramer turned and motioned toward the spectators’ section. It was packed. There were people standing. Sherman noticed a group of black men in blue work shirts. One of them was very tall and wore a gold earring.
“I have a petition,” said Kramer, and he lifted some sheets of paper and waved them over his head. “This document has been signed by more than a hundred members of the community and delivered to the Bronx District Attorney’s Office with an appeal that our office be their representative, to see that justice is done in this case, and of course it is no more than our sworn duty to be their representative.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” muttered Killian.
“The neighborhood, the community, the people of the Bronx, intend to watch this case, diligently, every step of the judicial process.”
Right!…Yegggh!…Un-hunnnnh!…Tell ’im! A terrific yammering started in the spectators’ section.
The chubby judge rapped his gavel and called out, “Quiet! This is an arraignment. It’s not a rally. Is that all, Mr. Kramer?”
Rumble rumble mutter mutter booooo!
“Your Honor,” said Kramer, “I have been instructed by my office, by Mr. Weiss himself, to request bail in the amount of $250,000 in this case.”
Right!…Yegggh!…Tell ’im!…Cheers, applause, stamping on the floor.
Sherman looked at Killian. Tell me—tell me—tell me this cant possibly happen! But Killian was straining toward the judge. He had his hand in the air. His lips were already moving. The judge was banging the gavel.
“Any more of this and I’ll clear the room!”
“Your Honor,” said Killian, as the din subsided, “Mr. Kramer is not content to violate an agreement between his office and my client. He wants a circus! This morning my client was subjected to a circus arrest, despite the fact that he has been ready at all times to testify voluntarily before a grand jury. And now Mr. Kramer manufactures a fictitious threat to an unnamed witness and asks the court to set a preposterous bail. My client is a homeowner of long standing in this city, he has a family and deep roots in his community, and a bail request has been agreed to, as even Mr. Kramer acknowledges, and nothing has occurred to alter the premise of that agreement.”
“A lot has changed, Your Honor!” said Kramer.
“Yeah,” said Killian, “the Office of the Bronx District Attorney is what’s changed!”
“All right!” said the judge. “Mr. Kramer, if your office has information bearing upon the bail status of this case, I instruct you to gather that information and make a formal application to this court, and the matter will be reviewed at that time. Until then, the court is releasing the defendant, Sherman McCoy, under a bond in the amount of $10,000, pending presentation of this complaint to the grand jury.”
Bellows and screams! Boooo!…Yegggghh!…Noooooo!…Ged’iml…And then a chant began: “No bail—put ’im in jail!”…“No bail—put ’im in jail!”
Killian was leading him away from the bench. To get out of the courtroom they would have to go straight through the spectators’ section, straight through a mass of angry people who were now on their feet. Sherman could see fists in the air. Then he saw policemen coming toward him, half a dozen at least. They wore white shirts and bullet belts and colossal holsters with pistol handles showing. In fact, they were court officers. They closed in around him. They’re putting me back in the cell! Then he realized they were forming a flying wedge to get him through the crowd. So many glowering faces, black and white! Murderer!…Motherfucker!…You gonna get what Henry Lamb got!…Say your prayers, Park Avenue!…Tear you a new one!… McCoy, say—McDead, baby!…He stumbled on, between his white-shirted protectors. He could hear them groaning and straining as they pushed back the crowd. “Coming through! Coming through!”…Here and there other faces popped up, lips moving…The tall Englishman with the blond hair…Fallow…The press…then more shouts…You mine, Needlenose! Mine!…Count every breath, baby!…Geed’um!…Lights out, sucker!…Look at ’im—Park Avenue!
Even in the midst of the storm, Sherman felt strangely unmoved by what was happening. His thoughts told him it was something dreadful, but he didn’t feel it. Since I’m already dead.
The storm burst out of the courtroom and into a lobby. The lobby was full of people standing about. Sherman could see their expressions change from consternation to fear. They began scurrying to the sides, to make way for the rogue galaxy of bodies that had just burst out of the courtroom. Now Killian and the court officers were steering him onto an escalator. There was a hideous mural on the wall. The escalator was heading down. Pressure from behind—he pitched forward, landing on the back of a court officer on the step below. For a moment it seemed as if an avalanche of bodies—but the court officer caught himself on the rolling railings. Now the screaming galaxy burst through the front doors and out onto the main stairway on 161st Street. A wall of bodies was in the way. Television cameras, six or eight of them, microphones, fifteen or twenty of them, screaming people—the press.
The two masses of humanity met, merged, froze. Killian rose up in front of Sherman. Microphones were in his face, and Killian was declaiming, most oratorically:
“I want you to show the whole city a New York”—Yawk—“what you just saw”—sawwwwr—“in there”—in eh. With the most curious detachment Sherman found himself aware of every street inflection of the fop’s voice. “You saw a circus arrest, and then you saw a circus arraignment, and then you saw the District Attorney’s Office prostituting itself and perverting t
he law”—the lawwr—“for your cameras and for the approval of a partisan mob!”
Booooo!…Yegggh!…Partisan you, you bent-nose bastard!…Somewhere behind him, no more than twenty-four inches away, someone was keening in a singsong falsetto: “Say your prayers, McCoy…Your day is done…Say your prayers, McCoy…Your day is done…”
Killian said: “We reached an agreement with the district attorney yesterday…”
The singsong falsetto said: “Say your prayers, McCoy…Count your breaths…”
Sherman looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped. The sun had broken through. It was a lovely balmy day in June. There was a fluffy blue dome over the Bronx.
He looked at the sky and listened to the sounds, just the sounds, the orotund tropes and sententiae, the falsetto songs, the inquisitory shouts, the hippo mutterings, and he thought: I’m not going back in there, ever. I don’t care what it takes to keep me out, even if I have to stick a shotgun in my mouth.
The only shotgun he had was, in fact, double-barreled. It was a big old thing. He stood on 161st Street, a block from the Grand Concourse, in the Bronx, and wondered if he could get both barrels in his mouth.
23. Inside the Cavity
“Well, there you are, Larry,” said Abe Weiss with a big grin. “They sure gave you a shiny dome.” Since Weiss was now inviting him to do it, Kramer did what he had been wanting to do for the past forty-five seconds, which was to turn completely away from Weiss and look at the bank of television sets on the wall.