The Bonfire of the Vanities

by Tom Wolfe

  Sherman was astonished by the sound of his own desperate gulps for air, which came heaving out of the little black machine on the judge’s desk. It was a mortifying sound. Pain, panic, cowardice, weakness, deceit, shame, indignity—all of those things at once, followed by an ungainly clumping. That was the sound of himself fleeing down the town-house stairs. Somehow he knew everyone in the room could see him running away with the tape deck and the wire between his legs.

  By the time the tape had petered out, Kramer had managed to crawl out from under his wounded vanity and collect his thoughts. “Judge,” he said, “I don’t know what—”

  Kovitsky broke in: “Just a second. Mr. Killian, can you rewind that tape? I want to hear the exchange between Mr. McCoy and Mrs. Ruskin concerning her testimony.”

  “But, Judge—”

  “We’re gonna listen to it again, Mr. Kramer.”

  They listened to it again.

  The words sailed by Sherman. He was still drowning in ignominy. How could he look any of them in the face?

  The judge said, “All right, Mr. Killian. What conclusion are you proposing that the court should draw from this?”

  “Judge,” said Killian, “this woman, Mrs. Ruskin, was either instructed to give certain testimony and omit certain other testimony or suffer severe consequences, or she thought she was, which amounts to the same thing. And—”

  “That’s absurd!” said the assistant district attorney, Kramer. He was leaning forward in his chair with a big meaty forefinger pointed at Killian and a red-mad look on his face.

  “Let him finish,” said the judge.

  “And furthermore,” said Killian, “as we’ve just heard, she had ample motivation to testify falsely, not only to protect herself, but to injure Mr. McCoy, whom she calls a ‘rotten, dishonest bastard.’ ”

  The rotten, dishonest bastard was mortified all over again. What could be more mortifying than the plain truth? A shouting match broke out between the assistant district attorney and Killian. What were they saying? It meant nothing in the face of the obvious, miserable truth.

  The judge roared, “SHUDDUP!” They shut up. “The question of subornation is not one that interests me at this time, if that’s what you’re worried about, Mr. Kramer. But I do think there exists the possibility of tainted testimony before the grand jury.”

  “That’s preposterous!” said Kramer. “The woman had two lawyers by her side at all times. Ask them what I said!”

  “If it comes to that, they’ll be asked. But I’m less concerned with what you said than with what was on her mind when she testified before the grand jury. You understand, Mr. Kramer?”

  “No, I don’t, Judge, and—”

  Killian broke in: “Judge, I have a second tape.”

  Kovitsky said, “All right. What’s the nature of that tape?”

  “Judge—”

  “Don’t interrupt, Mr. Kramer. You’ll have a chance to be heard. Go ahead, Mr. Killian. What’s the nature of that tape?”

  “This is a conversation with Mrs. Ruskin that Mr. McCoy informs me he recorded twenty-two days ago, after the first newspaper article concerning the injuries to Henry Lamb was printed.”

  “Where did this conversation take place?”

  “Same place as the first one, Judge. Mrs. Ruskin’s apartment.”

  “Likewise without her knowledge?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And what is the bearing of the tape on this hearing?”

  “It gives Mrs. Ruskin’s account of the incident involving Henry Lamb when she is talking candidly, of her own volition, with Mr. McCoy. It raises the question of whether or not she might have altered her honest account when she testified before the grand jury.”

  “Judge, this is crazy! Now we’re being told the defendant lives with a wire on! We already know that he’s a rat, in the parlance of the street, so why should we believe—”

  “Calm down, Mr. Kramer. First, we’re gonna listen to the tape. Then we’ll evaluate it. Nothing’s engraved in the record yet. Go ahead, Mr. Killian. Wait a minute, Mr. Killian. First I want to swear Mr. McCoy in.”

  When Kovitsky’s eyes met his, it was all Sherman could do to hold his gaze. To his surprise, he felt terribly guilty about what he was about to do. He was about to commit perjury.

  Kovitsky had the clerk, Bruzzielli, put him under oath, then asked him if he had made the two tapes in the way and at the times Killian had said he had. Sherman said yes, forced himself to keep looking at Kovitsky, and wondered if the lie showed up somehow on his face.

  The tape began: “I knew it. I knew it at the time. We should have reported it immediately…”

  Sherman could barely listen to it. I’m doing something illegal! Yes…but in the name of the truth…This is the subterranean path to the light…This is the actual conversation we had…Every word, every sound, is truth…For this to be suppressed…that would be the greater dishonesty…Wouldn’t it?…Yes—but I’m doing something illegal! Around and around it went in his mind as the tape rolled on…And Sherman McCoy, he who had now vowed to be his animal self, discovered what many had discovered before him. In well-reared girls and boys, guilt and the instinct to obey the rules are reflexes, ineradicable ghosts in the machine.

  Even before the Hasidic giant had lumbered down the stairs and Maria’s whoops of laughter had ceased in this moldering chamber in the Bronx, the prosecutor, Kramer, was protesting furiously.

  “Judge, you can’t allow this—”

  “I’ll give you an opportunity to speak.”

  “—cheap trick—”

  “Mr. Kramer!”

  “—influence—”

  “MR. KRAMER!”

  Kramer shut up.

  “Now, Mr. Kramer,” said Kovitsky, “I’m sure you know Mrs. Ruskin’s voice. Do you agree that that was her voice?”

  “Probably, but that’s not the point. The point is—”

  “Just a minute. Assuming that to be the case, did what you just heard on that tape differ from Mrs. Ruskin’s testimony before the grand jury?”

  “Judge…this is preposterous! It’s hard to tell what’s going on on that tape!”

  “Does it differ, Mr. Kramer?”

  “It varies.”

  “Is ‘varies’ the same as ‘differs’?”

  “Judge, there’s no way to tell the conditions under which this thing was made!”

  “Prima facie, Mr. Kramer, does it differ?”

  “Prima facie it differs. But you can’t let this cheap trick”—he swung his hand contemptuously in the direction of McCoy—“influence your—”

  “Mr. Kramer—”

  “—judgment!” Kramer could see that Kovitsky’s head was gradually lowering. The white was beginning to appear below his irises. The sea was beginning to foam. But Kramer couldn’t restrain himself. “The simple fact is, the grand jury has handed down a valid indictment! You have—this hearing has no jurisdiction over—”

  “Mr. Kramer—”

  “—the duly completed deliberations of a grand jury!”

  “THANK YOU FOR YOUR ADVICE AND COUNSEL, MR. KRAMER!”

  Kramer froze, his mouth still open.

  “Let me remind you,” Kovitsky said, “that I am the presiding judge for the grand jury, and I am not enchanted by the possibility that testimony by a key witness in this case might be tainted.”

  Fuming, Kramer shook his head. “Nothing that these two…individuals”—he flung his hand toward McCoy again—“say in their little love nest…” He shook his head again, too angry to find the words to finish the sentence.

  “Sometimes that’s when the truth comes out, Mr. Kramer.”

  “The truth! Two spoiled rich people, one of them wired up like a rat—try telling that to the people in that courtroom, Judge!—”

  As soon as the words popped out, Kramer knew he had made a mistake, but he couldn’t hold back.

  “—and to the thousands outside that room hanging on every word of this ca
se! Try telling them—”

  He stopped. Kovitsky’s irises again surfed the turbulent sea. He expected him to explode once more, but instead he did something more unnerving. He smiled. The head was down, the beak was out, the irises hydroplaned over the ocean, and he smiled.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kramer. I will.”

  By the time Judge Kovitsky returned to the courtroom, the demonstrators were having a merry time for themselves, talking at the top of their voices, cackling, walking around, and pulling faces and otherwise showing the platoon of white-shirted court officers who was boss. They quieted down a bit when they saw Kovitsky, but as much out of curiosity as anything else. They were wound up.

  Sherman and Killian headed for the defendant’s desk, a table out in front of the judge’s bench, and the falsetto singsong started up again.

  “Sherrrr-maaannnn…”

  Kramer was over by the clerk’s table, talking to a tall white man in a cheap gabardine suit.

  “That’s the aforesaid Bernie Fitzgibbon, in whom you have no faith,” said Killian. He was grinning. Then he said, indicating Kramer, “Keep your eye on that sucker’s face.”

  Sherman stared without comprehending.

  Kovitsky still had not ascended to the bench. He stood about ten feet away, talking to his secretary, the redheaded man. The noise in the spectators’ section grew louder. Kovitsky walked slowly up the steps to the bench without looking in their direction. He stood at the bench with his eyes down, as if he were looking at something on the floor.

  All at once—KAPOW! The gavel—it was like a cherry bomb.

  “YOU! SHUT UP AND SIT DOWN!”

  The demonstrators froze for a moment, shocked by the furious volume of this little man’s voice.

  “SO YOU INSI-I-IST…ON TESTING…THE WI-I-I-ILL…OF THIS COURT?”

  They grew silent and began to take their places.

  “Very well. Now, in the case of the People versus Sherman McCoy, the grand jury has returned an indictment. Pursuant to my authority to supervise the grand jury’s proceedings, I am ordering that indictment dismissed in the interests of justice, without prejudice and with leave to re-present by the district attorney.”

  “Your Honor!” Kramer was on his feet, his hand in the air.

  “Mr. Kramer—”

  “Your action will do irreparable damage not only to the People’s case—”

  “Mr. Kramer—”

  “—but to the cause of the People as well. Your Honor, in this courtroom today”—he gestured toward the spectators’ section and the demonstrators—“are many members of the community so vitally affected by this case, and it ill behooves the criminal-justice system of this county—”

  “MR. KRAMER! KINDLY BEHOOVE ME NO ILL-BEHOOVES!”

  “Your Honor—”

  “MR. KRAMER! THE COURT DIRECTS YOU TO SHUT UP!”

  Kramer looked up at Kovitsky with his mouth wide open, as if the wind had been knocked out of him.

  “Now, Mr. Kramer—”

  But Kramer had gotten his breath back. “Your Honor, I want the record to show that the court raised its voice. Shouted, to be precise.”

  “Mr. Kramer…the court is going to raise…MORE THAN ITS VOICE! What makes you think you can come before the bench waving the banner of community pressure? The law is not a creature of the few or of the many. The court is not swayed by your threats. The court is aware of your conduct before Judge Auerbach in the criminal court. You waved a petition, Mr. Kramer! You waved it in the air, like a banner!” Kovitsky raised his right hand and waved it about. “You were on TELEVISION, Mr. Kramer! An artist drew a picture of you brandishing your petition like Robespierre or Danton, and you were on TELEVISION! You played to the mob, didn’t you—and perhaps there are those in this courtroom RIGHT NOW WHO ENJOYED that performance, Mr. Kramer. Well, I got NEWS for you! Those who come into THIS courtroom waving banners…LOSE THEIR ARMS!…DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

  “Your Honor, I was merely—”

  “DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “All right. Now, I am dismissing the indictment in the case of the People versus McCoy, with leave to re-present.”

  “Your Honor! I must repeat—such an action would irreparably damage the People’s case!” Kramer blurted the words out so that Kovitsky couldn’t overpower him with his tremendous voice. Kovitsky seemed surprised by the brashness of his declaration and by his vehemence. He froze, and that gave the demonstrators just enough courage to erupt.

  “Yagggghhh!…No more Park Avenue Justice!” One popped up out of his seat, and then another and another. The tall one with the earring was in the front row with his fist in the air. “Whitewash!” he yelled. “Whitewash!”

  KAPOW! The gavel exploded again. Kovitsky stood up and put his fists on his desktop and leaned forward. “The officers will…REMOVE THAT MAN!” With that, Kovitsky’s right arm shot out and pointed toward the tall demonstrator with the earring. Two court officers in short-sleeved white shirts, with .38s on their hips, moved toward him.

  “You can’t remove the People!” he shouted. “You can’t remove the People!”

  “Yeah,” said Kovitsky, “but YOU will be removed!”

  The officers closed in on either side of the man and began pushing him toward the exit. He looked back at his confreres, but they seemed confused. They were yammering, but they didn’t have the heart to take on Kovitsky en masse.

  KAPOW!

  “SILENCE!” said Kovitsky. As soon as the crowd was reasonably quiet, Kovitsky looked toward Fitzgibbon and Kramer. “Court is adjourned.”

  The spectators stood up, and their yammering now grew into an angry rumble as they headed toward the door, glowering at Kovitsky as they went. Nine court officers created a line between the spectators and the bar. Two of them had their hands resting on the handles of their revolvers. There were muffled shouts, but Sherman couldn’t make them out. Killian got up and started walking toward Kovitsky. Sherman followed him.

  A tremendous commotion from behind. Sherman spun around. A tall black man had burst through the line of court officers. It was the one with the gold earring, the one Kovitsky had ordered out of the court. Apparently the court officers had deposited him out in the hallway, and now he had returned, in a rage. He was already past the bar. He headed toward Kovitsky, his eyes blazing.

  “You bald-headed old pussy! You bald-headed old pussy!”

  Three officers left the line that was trying to herd the demonstrators out of the courtroom. One of them grabbed the tall man by the arm, but he spun away.

  “Park Avenue justice!”

  Demonstrators now began surging through the breach in the line of officers, rumbling and growling and trying to figure out just how fierce they wanted to be. Sherman stared at them, paralyzed by the sight. Now it begins! A feeling of fear…anticipation!…Now it begins! The court officers are falling back, trying to stay between the mob and the judge and the court personnel. The demonstrators are milling about, growling, baying, building up steam, trying to figure out just how powerful they are and how brave.

  Booooo!…Yeggghhh!…Yaaaggghhh!…Yo! Goldberg!…You bald-headed old pussy!

  All at once, just to his left, Sherman sees the wild rawboned form of Quigley. He’s joined the court officers. He’s trying to herd the mob back. He has a crazy look on his face.

  “Okay, Jack, that’s enough. It’s all over. Everybody’s going home now, Jack.” He calls them all Jack. He’s armed, but the revolver remains somewhere under his teal-green sport jacket. The court officers are edging slowly backward. They keep moving their hands toward the holsters on their hips. They touch the butts of the revolvers, then pull their hands away, as if terrified of what would happen in this room if they unsheathed the weapons and started firing away.

  Pushing and shoving…a terrific thrashing about…Quigley!…Quigley grabs a demonstrator by the wrist and twists his arm behind his back and jerks it up—Aaaagggh!—and kicks his legs out
from under him. Two of the court officers, the one called Brucie and the big one with the tire of fat around his waist, come backing past Sherman, crouched over, hands on the guns in their holsters. Brucie starts yelling over his shoulder to Kovitsky: “Get on your elevator, Judge! F’r Chrissake, get on your elevator!” But Kovitsky doesn’t budge. He’s glowering at the mob.

  The tall one, the one with the gold earring, is barely a foot from the two officers. He doesn’t try to get past them. He has his head stuck way up in the air on his long neck, yelling at Kovitsky: “You bald-headed old pussy!”

  “Sherman!” It’s Killian, by his side. “Come on! We’re going down in the judge’s elevator!” Feels Killian tugging at his elbow, but he’s rooted to the spot. Now it begins! Why postpone it?

  A blur. He looks up. A furious figure in a blue work shirt charging toward him. A contorted face. An enormous bony finger. “Time’s up, Park Avenue!”

  Sherman braces. Suddenly—Quigley. Quigley steps between the two of them and with an utterly crazy smile sticks his face in the man’s and says, “Hi!”

  Startled, the man stares at him, and in that moment, still looking straight into his eyes and smiling, Quigley raises his left foot and smashes it down on the man’s toe. A terrific yelp.

  That sets the mob off. Yagggghhhh!…Ged’im!…Ged’im!…Shoving past the court officers. Brucie pushes the tall black man with the earring. He goes reeling to one side. All at once he’s directly in front of Sherman. He stares. He’s amazed. Face to face! And now what? He just stares. Sherman’s transfixed…terrified…Now! He ducks, pivots on his hip, and turns his back—now!—it begins now! He wheels about and drives his fist into the man’s solar plexus.

  “Ooooo!”

  The big sonofabitch is sinking, with his mouth open and his eyes bugged out and his Adam’s apple convulsing. He hits the floor.

  “Sherman! Come on!” Killian is pulling on his arm. But Sherman is frozen. He can’t take his eyes off the man with the gold earring. He’s on the floor, doubled up on his side, gasping. The earring dangles off his earlobe at a crazy angle.

  Sherman is knocked backward by two thrashing forms. Quigley. Quigley has a tall white boy around the neck with one arm and appears to be trying to drive his nose back up into his skull with the heel of the other hand. The white boy is going Aaaaaah, aaaaaah and bleeding terribly. The nose is a bloody pudding. Quigley is grunting Unnnnh unnnh unnnh. He lets the white boy fall to the floor, then smashes the heel of his shoe into his arm. A dreadful Aaaaah. Quigley takes Sherman by the arm and pushes him backward.