She turned to George and addressed him firmly. “It is very, very rare for a parent to bring such serious charges against his child. We get a lot of people like you who come to this court and say, ‘Do something!’ Well, we can’t do anything unless we have your cooperation. I am recommending family counseling, because you say you and your son cannot talk to each other. You have to talk to each other. If you don’t, the problems will never be resolved. Certainly not by this court.”
When George and Richie left the court, Judge Burstein sensed a “tremendous antagonism” of the father toward his son. She did not like the idea of a father using her court to punish his child.
On December 6, an East Meadow High art teacher named Vartanian reported to the assistant principal’s office that Richie Diener had suddenly showed up in crafts class, for the first time since early September. Assistant Principal Castelli called Richie in and said he could not return to class, that he would be given an extra study hall.
When Carol learned of this much later, she wondered how her son had managed to cut crafts class each day for more than two months before the school discovered it. Why didn’t the art teacher report Richie’s absences earlier? The explanation was that the teacher was a new one, who worked only two days a week, and who was not fully familiar with “the ropes.”
As the holidays neared, and Carol began planning the clever decorations for which she was known and the large Christmas Eve feast at which the entire clan would gather to open gifts, George was not infused with the spirit of the season.
Instead he would come home after work and go immediately to the tape recorder, which he moved regularly about the house to new hiding places so Richie would not discover it. Then he would sit down and play the day’s telephone conversations. Like any telephone tap, they contained considerable extraneous material, which George had to sit through patiently before Richie’s husky young voice came on again and again. The tapes were, in fact; a panorama of family life, a daily chronicle of George and Carol and Richie and Russell. As George sat in his locked bedroom listening, he heard himself talking to a superior about a supermarket running out of gravy mix, or a Boy Scout official wanting the names of two youngsters George had signed up for Russell’s neighborhood troop. Or Carol talking almost curtly to her sister, who was calling to borrow a department store charge plate. (June Marck, the sister, did not know of the telephone tap’s existence for several weeks and she complained to her husband, Joe, “What’s the matter with my sister? She won’t talk to me anymore on the telephone!” When Joe found out the truth, he told June, and only then did she realize why Carol spoke so economically and hesitantly on the telephone.) Or Russell talking to a playmate about Saturday’s game. And, finally, Richie, speculating on the possibilities of ripping off someone who claimed to have fifty pounds of marijuana, or of going into partnership with someone who can get a thousand Seconals.
As the tapes spun, George made notes, a daily chronical of what went in and out on his family telephone. Then he painstakingly transferred a synopsis to a typewritten log, using the blank back side of his salesman’s Daily Performance Sheet. The sheets began to grow.
Often George would shut off the machine and go in search of Carol, asking her to come hear something particularly informative—or damning.
Carol hated the tape recorder. She found herself wishing it would break, or that the tape would run out before Richie could finish a conversation, or that the telephone system in East Meadow would cease so that people could retain their own secrets.
“Listen to this,” George would say.
Carol would shake her head sadly. “I don’t want to,” she would answer. “I might hear something I don’t want to hear. I might learn something I don’t want to know.”
On December 19, 1971, George made the following entry in his chronicle:
Richard called a boy named Timmy J. and bragged about ripping off Solly Greene. He also told him the gang was planning a New Year’s Eve party at some motel and Richie expects everyone to bring at least a half ounce of “STUFF.” Richard made a date with some kid named Peter to go to a rock concert at Queens College, and Richie would bring some other people to Peter’s house on the way in and have a “Pot Party” before the show. Richard said he would bring the “STUFF.” I then contacted Patrolman Moran of the Nassau County narcotics squad to follow them when they left here and raid their little “Pot Party” and arrest them all, but Richard did not go to the concert and the whole plan fell through.
On December 20, the entry read:
Mark Epstein called and told Richard to meet him and another boy at Peanuts’ house and Mark would provide stuff to smoke. Richard told Mark that a boy named Ozzie had “turned on” ten or twelve kids in the boys’ room at school today. Peanuts went out Christmas shopping so Richard went to Mark’s house instead to “turn on.” Richard called Sheila, his girl friend, and during conversation told of the night his friends tried to “turn on” his little brother, Russell, while we were out to a friend’s house for coffee.
December 21:
Richie had conversations with Peanuts and Mark about getting a driver’s license and a car. Richie said he had promised his mother he would give up marijuana if he could get his license and use her car. He said he didn’t really mean this, of course. They talked about some pot they ripped off another kid, but Richard was afraid they would have to pay for it, after all, because the victim had a partner who is a friend of Richard’s and he didn’t know it at the time. Honor among thieves? They also talked about a quarter pound of “hash” that they are bringing to the New Year’s Eve party. Richie is getting a bunch of kids together to rent a motel room and smoke so much grass and pot that everybody will pass out.
December 23:
Richard was on the phone quite a few times today talking “pot” and “hash” and planning the New Year’s Eve party. Mark Epstein came over, and while he was here, Richard got a call from someone offering to sell him as much hash as he could afford. Richard didn’t have the money, but Mark did, so Mark made arrangements to meet the seller at twelve tomorrow in the teachers’ parking lot at Woodland School to buy one quarter ounce for $25.
In carving twenty-four hours each day down to a few stark lines, George was like an artist drawing a stick figure of a man, leaving out the flesh and bones and texture and emotion. True, he received daily reinforcement of his suspicions of his son until they were no longer suspicions but sorrowful facts. But perhaps he overlooked more poignant information available from Richie’s words. Behind the tough talk and the moments when the sentences were slurred and punctuated by long, drugged silences, there stood revealed a bewildering child-man, insecure, desperate for affection/attention, and very, very lonely.
Three days before Christmas, Richie telephoned Sheila and caught her in the midst of wrapping packages. Sheila reminded Richie that this was the fourth Christmas they had known each other, their fourth anniversary “so to speak”—even though their relationship was more “brother and sister” than anything else—and that she expected an appropriate gift.
RICHIE:
(Embarrassed) I didn’t go Christmas shopping yet.
SHEILA:
Christmas is Saturday, darling.
RICHIE:
I know. (A fit of coughing)
SHEILA:
What are you stoned on?
RICHIE:
Whatta you think?
SHEILA:
Knowing you, downs.
RICHIE:
No.
SHEILA:
Yeah.
RICHIE:
Pot?
There is a long pause that stretches for almost a minute. Richie cannot think of anything to say. Even with the courage of grass, he is not comfortable talking to girls. (One of the most discouraging factors of drug use among the young, Dr. Victoria Sears, the Drug Abuse psychiatrist, has often noted, is that it robs them of sexual experiences and prohibits their maturity in that area. “Kids who are afraid of s
ex often substitute drugs instead,” she said. “At the most crucial period of their lives, they get stoned and opt out.” At seventeen and a half, though he would have bloodied anyone’s nose who even hinted at it, Richie remained a virgin. As did many of his friends who spoke with veteran sophistication of sexual triumphs.)
RICHIE:
So … what are you doing?
SHEILA:
Wrapping Christmas presents.
RICHIE:
I know that. Besides that.
SHEILA:
Listening to the Concert for Bangladesh album. Twelve dollars. But it’s worth it.
RICHIE:
(Another pause) I got a whole three Christmas cards.
SHEILA:
What?
RICHIE:
I only got three Christmas cards this year.
SHEILA:
Well, how many were you expecting, fifty?
RICHIE:
(Rather sadly) I don’t know. At least a few more than three … a few.
SHEILA:
Who sent you Christmas cards?
RICHIE:
You. Grandma. (A rueful laugh) My aunt.
SHEILA:
You didn’t get one from Kathy [a girl whom Richie briefly dated and of whom Sheila professed jealousy]?
RICHIE:
No, but she sent me a message. She hopes I OD.
A few days later, Richie was called by a girl named Anne Marie, who attempted to invite him to a party. But Richie declined. There would be a number of people there he did not know, and he indicated he would be uncomfortable.
ANNE MARIE:
But why can’t you come? We want you. It’s good to feel wanted, you know?
RICHIE:
What?
ANNE MARIE:
Did you ever feel wanted?
RICHIE:
Who, me? Never heard the word.
And, in discussing an LSD trip with a friend named Peter, Richie delved, unknowingly, deep into his reasons for drug-taking:
PETER:
I’m telling you, man, this new acid is unbelievable.
RICHIE:
How so?
PETER:
It’s like taking sixty-eight Seconals, something like that.
RICHIE:
How so? Explain it. Nobody’s home at your house.
PETER:
It’s hard to explain. It’s weird. Like I’d move my hand in front of my face and my hand seemed so far away. Like it was somebody else’s hand, disconnected. Everytime I’d lie down I’d lose touch with reality, you know?
RICHIE:
Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?
PETER:
What did you feel like, that night you took three tabs, before you puked?
RICHIE:
I dunno, man. It was like … it was like the room was shrinking, and I was all alone, and nobody would listen to me. I kept crying, and nobody would do anything. I remember thinking, “Well, Richie, you’ve killed yourself. Finally.” The others were laughing at me, huh?
PETER:
No, that girl thought you were stupid for taking three tabs—that’s all. One would have been enough.
RICHIE:
They were laughing at Richie cracking up, huh?
PETER:
They always laugh.
RICHIE:
I know.… Did you see the way I was walking? Those lumps on the floor flipped me out. They were like mountains.… God, I was scared. But it was worth it.
PETER:
You only get that way on acid and stuff.
RICHIE:
Brick’s cousin flipped out on us the other night. On real strong pot. He was having “horrors.” He’s like twenty-three.
PETER:
(Surprised) He flipped out? Really?
RICHIE:
You can flip out on pot.
PETER:
(Scoffing) I never do.
RICHIE:
You can. I’m telling you.… I got scared a couple of times. Paranoid. I thought people were coming in the windows.… You ever read those drug books, “Pot can cause temporary insanity,” stuff like that?… It could. It definitely could. But when your parents read something like that, they say, “Oh, Richie, you’re going to go insane smoking that.” It could … but it usually very rarely does.… I mean, you’d really have to smoke powerful pot every day to flip out, wouldn’t you?
PETER:
You just about do, Rich.
RICHIE:
(A long pause) I know.…
On Christmas Eve the Diener living room was crowded with a gracefully decorated tree, a small mountain of gifts, an array of laughing uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandfathers and grandmothers. Carol drew warmth and protection from the gathering in her home, even though she went about preparing the traditional meal with less than her normal zeal. Her mother, up from North Carolina, commented that Carol “looked tired.” Her father suggested that she was trying to do too much, with work, charity endeavor, and family duties. Fortunately my parents do not know what is the reason for the pouches under my eyes and the tremors of my hands, thought Carol. She envied George, who was a better actor than she, who could celebrate the rite with what seemed his dependable good humor, telling jokes, flattering the women, dispensing wine and eggnog, remembering fragments of holidays past and the strength of them that binds families. No one else in the living room knows the secret of my house, thought Carol. No one here has witnessed the terrible scenes. No one gathered around my tree would even have a frame of reference for what happens between my husband and my son and me. They must never know.
Richie did not appear for the early part of the evening, and when his relatives inquired about him, Carol tried to make light of his absence. “He’s down in his room listening to music,” she said. “You know teenagers.” The remark was accepted. Youngsters are difficult these days. And Richie was known to his tribe as an independent kid who had a fight now and then.
When it was time for dinner, Carol went to her son’s room and opened the door without knocking. Smoke and odor of burning marijuana assaulted her. Quickly she shut the door so it would not creep through her house.
“Put that out immediately,” she ordered, pointing to Richie’s cigarette. “And come to dinner. Everybody’s waiting for you.”
With wonder, with a curious smile that seemed disconnected from his face, Richie looked at his mother. Oh, God, screamed Carol inside herself. He’s stoned. “Not tonight,” she pleaded. “Oh, please not tonight. It’s Christmas Eve.”
Richie did not move from his bed. He only smiled.
Carol made her voice as firm as she could. She would have fallen to her knees and begged if it would have done any good. “Please get up and come to dinner,” she said. “They have presents for you.”
Slowly Richie shook his head. “I can’t …” he said. “I just can’t.”
And then Carol knew. He cannot face the decent people in my living room, she realized. He cannot bear to let those who love him see him this way. With enormous sadness, she nodded and left her son alone on Christmas Eve.
She made up a clumsy lie that Richie had taken ill with a virus and had gone to sleep early. Later, when the family began singing carols, she slipped into the bathroom and began to cry.
Chapter Nineteen
“Richard’s New Year’s Eve ‘Pot Party’ fell through,” wrote George in his December 30, 1971, entry of the log. In celebration of Christmas, perhaps, he had taken the tap off the telephone on December 23, but he put it back on after the unpleasant episode when the family was gathered about the tree. “Richie found out that I knew about the ‘Pot Party’ and that I planned to have it raided, so he called it off. He called up Sheila and asked if she wanted any THC (a powerful synthetic marijuana) and she said NO. Richie said he and two others were pooling three ounces of marijuana for New Year’s Eve. The other ‘two’ are apparently Mark and Peanuts. I do not know where they will do their ‘turning on.’”
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sp; On the first night of the New Year, 1972, George listened to a crowded tape. Richie had been busy on the telephone most of the day, rehashing the party of the night before, which was transferred from the planned motel room to an apartment owned by a relative of Brick Pavall. As Richie had predicted, most of those who attended eventually passed out after liberal intake of sangría, apple wine, Seconals, amphetamines, marijuana cigarettes, and hashish in pipes. One novice youngster at the party was turned on by Richie to pot for the very first time, only he embarrassed himself by throwing up violently on his girl friend’s new party dress. “Richie, of course, thought this was very funny,” wrote George in his transcription.
He was becoming fairly immune to such talk, hearing it from his son’s unknowing lips for weeks now, even as he was growing sophisticated in the jargon of drug chatter. But one piece of news startled George as he heard the latest tape. Richie, in speaking with a friend named Nick, said he was furious at Sean O’Hara for telling people he was an addict “just because I shot up a few times.”
George played this portion of the tape twice, then shut it off. In one sense, he was not surprised. This was the logical progression, he told himself. Now Richie is a junkie. But on the other hand, he felt revulsion. He felt total loss. He felt as he had when he attended the funeral not long before of a neighborhood youngster who died tragically of a blood disease. The boy had been bright, handsome, athletic, full of promise. How much better it would have been, George thought to himself in a confession so dark that it haunted him, if Richie were dead and this other boy alive.
Richie Page 21