White River Burning

by John Verdon

  WARNING!!!

  A VIOLENT EVENT IS ABOUT TO BE SHOWN

  IF YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO WITNESS IT

  CLOSE YOUR EYES FOR THE NEXT SIXTY SECONDS

  The video continued, with the two officers again moving slowly along the sidewalk, their attention on the crowd. Gurney grimaced, his jaw clenched in anticipation of what he was now sure was coming.

  Suddenly the head of one of the officers jerked forward, and he fell facedown onto the concrete, hard, as though an invisible hand had slammed him down.

  There were cries of shock and dismay from the guests around the TV. Most continued watching the video—the panicky movements of the second officer as he realized what had happened, his frantic attempts at first aid, his shouting into his cell phone, the spreading awareness of trouble, the confused milling and retreat of many of the nearest onlookers.

  Two key facts were clear. The shot had come not from the crowd but from somewhere behind the victim. And either the shooter was far enough away or the weapon was sufficiently silenced for the shot not to be picked up by the camera’s audio system.

  Gurney was aware of the bathroom door sliding open behind him, but he remained focused on the video. Three more officers arrived on the run, two with weapons drawn; one of the other officers took off his own protective vest and placed it under the man’s head; more cell phone calls were made; the crowd was breaking apart; a distant siren was growing louder.

  “Goddamn animals.”

  The voice behind Gurney had a rough scraping quality that sharpened the contempt conveyed by the words.

  He turned and came face-to-face with a man of his own height, build, and age. His features were individually normal, even ideal; but they didn’t seem to go together.

  “Gurney, right?”

  “Right.”

  “NYPD detective?”

  “Retired.”

  A shrewd look entered the eyes that seemed a bit too close together. “Technically, right?”

  “A bit more than technically.”

  “My point is, being a cop gets in the blood. It never goes away, right?” He smiled, but the effect was chillier than if he hadn’t.

  Gurney returned the smile. “How do you know who I am?”

  “My wife always lets me know who she’s bringing into the house.”

  Gurney thought of a cat announcing with a distinctive meow that she was bringing in a captured mouse. “So you’re Marv Gelter. Nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands, Gelter eyeing him as one might examine an interesting object for its potential utility.

  Gurney nodded toward the TV. “That’s quite a thing you have over there.”

  Gelter peered for a moment at the big screen, his eyes narrowing. “Animals.”

  Gurney said nothing.

  “You had to deal with that kind of shit in the city?”

  “Cops being shot?”

  “The whole thing. The circus of bullshit. The entitlement.” He articulated the last word with vicious precision. His eyes narrowed as he stared at Gurney, apparently waiting for a response, an endorsement.

  Again Gurney said nothing. On the screen, two talking heads were arguing. One was contending that the current problems were part of the endless price being paid for the moral disaster of slavery, that the destruction of families had wrought irreparable damage, carried from generation to generation.

  His opponent was shaking his head. “The problem was never the enslavement of Africans. That’s a myth. A politically correct fairy tale. The problem is simpler, uglier. The problem is . . . Africans! Look at the facts. Millions of Africans were never enslaved. But Africa is still a total disaster! Every country, a disaster! Ignorance. Illiteracy. Lunacy. Diseases too disgusting to describe. Mass rapes. Genocides. This isn’t the result of slavery. This is the nature of Africa. And Africans!”

  The talking heads froze in place. Jagged triangles of color came swirling in from the edges of the screen, forming the letters of the words that earlier had blown apart:

  EXPLOSIVE NEWS—HAPPENING NOW

  SEE IT ALL ON BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT

  THERE’S NOTHING AS REAL AS RAM-TV

  Gelter nodded appreciatively before speaking, his eyes still on the screen. “Killer point about all the slavery bullshit. And he nailed the truth about the African cesspool. Refreshing to hear a man with the balls to tell it like it is.”

  Gurney shrugged. “Balls . . . or a mental disorder.”

  Gelter said nothing, registering the remark only with a sharp sideways glance.

  The three-line statement on the screen blew apart again, and a single line coalesced from tumbling shards of color—THE CONTROVERSY CONTINUES—then it, too, broke into pieces that cartwheeled out of the frame.

  A new talking head appeared—a young man in his early twenties, with fine features, a fierce gaze, and thick reddish-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. His name and affiliation crept across the bottom of the screen: “Cory Payne, White Men for Black Justice.”

  Payne began in a strident voice, “The police claim to be defenders of the rule of law.”

  Gelter grimaced. “You want to hear a mental disorder, listen to this asshole!”

  “They claim to be defenders of the rule of law,” repeated Payne. “But their claim is a lie. It’s not the rule of law they defend, but the laws of the rulers. The laws of the manipulators, the ambition-crazed politicians, the dictators who want to control us. The police are their tools of control and repression, enforcers of a system that benefits only the rulers and the enforcers. The police claim to be our protectors. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

  Gurney suspected, from the practiced flow of Payne’s accusations, that he’d made them many times before. But there didn’t seem to be anything rehearsed about the anger driving them. Or the intense emotion in the young man’s eyes.

  “Those of you who seek justice, beware! Those of you who trust in the myth of due process, beware! Those of you who believe the law will protect you, beware! People of color, beware! Those who speak out, beware! Beware the enforcers who use moments of unrest for their own ends. This is such a moment. A police officer has been shot. The powers that be are gathering to retaliate. Revenge and repression are in the air.”

  “You see what I mean? Unmitigated garbage!” Gelter was seething. “You see what civilization is up against? The rabble-rousing crap that spews out of the mouth of that self-indulgent little shit—”

  He broke off as Trish came up to him looking hurried and anxious. “You have a call on the house phone.”

  “Take a message.”

  She hesitated. “It’s Dell Beckert.”

  There was a shift in Gelter’s expression.

  “Ah. Well. I suppose I should take it.”

  After he’d disappeared through one of the doors in the back wall, Trish put on a bright smile. “I hope you like vegan Asian cuisine. I found the cutest young Cambodian chef. My little wok wizard.”

  7

  They said little during the drive home. Madeleine rarely spoke when they were in the car at night. For his part, he’d been making an effort not to be critical of social events she’d involved him in, and he could think of little positive to say about the party at the Gelters’. As they were getting out of the car by the mudroom door, Madeleine broke the silence.

  “Why on earth would they keep that television on all evening?”

  “Postmodern irony?” suggested Gurney.

  “Be serious.”

  “Seriously, I have no idea why Trish would do anything. Because I’m not sure who she is. I don’t think the packaging is particularly transparent. Marv might like to keep the TV on to keep himself angry and right about everything. Bilious little racist.”

  “Trish says he’s a financial genius.”

  Gurney shrugged. “No contradiction there.”

  It wasn’t until they were in the house and Gurney was starting to make himse
lf a cup of coffee that she spoke again, eyeing him with concern. “That moment . . . when the officer . . .”

  “Was shot?”

  “Were you . . . all right?”

  “More or less. I knew it had happened. So the video wasn’t a total shock. Just . . . jarring.”

  Her expression hardened. “News, they call it. Information. An actual murder on-screen. What a way to grab an audience! Sell more ads!” She shook her head.

  He assumed that part of her fury was indeed provoked by the profit-based hypocrisy of the media industry. But he suspected that most of it arose from a source closer to home—the horror of seeing a police officer, someone like her own husband, struck down. The price of her deep capacity for empathy was that someone else’s tragedy could easily feel like her own.

  He asked if she’d like him to put on the kettle for some tea.

  She shook her head. “Are you really planning to get involved in . . . all of that?”

  With some difficulty he held her gaze. “It’s like I told you earlier. I can’t make any decision without knowing more.”

  “What kind of information is going to make—” The ringing of his cell phone cut her question short.

  “Gurney here.” Though he’d been out of NYPD Homicide for four years, his way of answering the phone hadn’t changed.

  The raspy, sarcastic voice on the other end needed no identification, nor did it offer any. “Got your message that you’re looking for insider shit on White River. Like what? Gimme a hint, so I can direct you to the type of shit you have in mind.”

  Gurney was used to Jack Hardwick’s calls beginning with bursts of snide comments. He’d learned to ignore them. “Sheridan Kline paid me a visit.”

  “The slimebag DA in person? Fuck did he want?”

  “He wants me to sign on as a temporary staff investigator.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Looking into the cop shooting. At least, that’s what he says.”

  “There some reason the regular White River PD detective bureau can’t handle that?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Why the hell’s he getting involved in the investigation? That’s not his turf. And why you?”

  “That’s the question.”

  “How’d he explain it?”

  “City on the verge of chaos. Need to make solid arrests fast. Pull out all the stops. No time for turf niceties. Full assets into the breach. The best and the brightest. Et cetera.”

  Hardwick was silent for a bit, then cleared his throat with disgusting thoroughness. “Odd pitch. Distinctive odor of horseshit. I’d be careful where I stepped, if I were you.”

  “Before I step anywhere, I want to know more.”

  “Always a good idea. So what do you want from me?”

  “Whatever you can find out fast. Facts, rumors, anything at all. About the politics, the shot cop, the department, the city itself, the old incident with Laxton Jones, the Black Defense Alliance. Anything and everything.”

  “You need all this yesterday?”

  “Tomorrow will do.”

  “You don’t ask for much, do you?”

  “I try not to.”

  “Very fucking kind of you.” Hardwick blew his nose about an inch from the phone. Gurney wasn’t sure whether the man had a perpetual sinus problem or just enjoyed producing unpleasant sound effects.

  “Okay, I’ll make some calls. Pain in my ass, but I’m a generous soul. You free tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll make myself free.”

  “Meet me in Dillweed. Abelard’s. Nine thirty.”

  Ending the call, Gurney turned his attention back to Madeleine, recalling that she’d been in the middle of asking him something.

  “What were you saying before the phone rang?”

  “Nothing that won’t wait till tomorrow. It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.”

  He was tempted to join her, but the questions on his mind about the situation in White River were making him restless. After finishing his coffee, he got his laptop from the den and set it on the table in the breakfast nook. He pulled up a chair and typed “White River NY” into the browser. As he scrolled through the results, looking for articles he might have missed earlier in the day, a few items caught his eye:

  An article in the Times, emphasizing the ongoing nature of the problem: “Police Officer’s Death Deepens Upstate Racial Divide.”

  A shorter, punchier Post article: “Cop Gunned Down at BDA Rally.”

  A muted approach in the White River Observer: “Mayor Shucker Calls for Calm.”

  And then there was the all-out RAM promotional screamer: FIRST BLOOD DRAWN IN RACE WAR? COP SHOT DEAD AS ACTIVIST INCITES CROWD. SEE IT ALL ON BATTLEGROUND TONIGHT—STREAMING LIVE AT RAM-TV.ORG.

  After skimming the articles attached to these headlines and finding nothing that he didn’t know already, he scrolled on. When he came to a link to the official White River municipal website, he clicked on it. It was a predictable presentation of city departments, budget data, upcoming events, area attractions, and local history. A section on “Career Opportunities” listed a job opening for a part-time waitress at the Happy Cow Ice Cream Shoppe. A section titled “Community Renewal” described the conversion of the defunct Willard Woolen Socks Factory into the Winter Goose Artisanal Brewery.

  There were pictures of clean but deserted streets, redbrick buildings, and a tree-shaded park named after Colonel Ezra Willard, of the sock-manufacturing family. The first of the two Willard Park photos showed a statue of the eponymous colonel dressed in a Civil War uniform astride a fierce-looking horse. A biographical note below the photo described him as “a White River hero who gave his life in the great war to preserve the Union.”

  The second park photo showed two smiling mothers, one white and one brown, pushing their giddy toddlers on adjacent swings. Nowhere on the website was there any reference to the fatal shooting or the hate-driven violence tearing the city apart. Nor was there any mention of the correctional facility that provided the area with its main source of employment.

  The next item that attracted Gurney’s attention was a section devoted to White River on a site called Citizen Comments Unfiltered. The site seemed to be a magnet for racial attacks posted by individuals with IDs like Truth Teller, White Rights, American Defender, and End Black Lies. The posts went back several years, suggesting that the city’s overt racial animosities were nothing new. They brought to mind a wise man’s comment that few things on earth were worse than ignorance armed and eager for battle.

  He returned for a moment to the section of the White River website that showed the park and the statue of Colonel Willard, wondering if that might be the statue that Madeleine had told him was one of the objects of the current protests. Finding nothing there that answered the question, he decided to do an internet search—trying various combinations of terms: “Ezra Willard,” “Civil War,” “statue,” “New York State,” “White River,” “racial controversy,” “Correctional Facility,” “Willard Park,” “Union,” “Confederacy.” Finally, when he added the term “slavery” to the mix, he was led to the answer in the journal of one of the Civil War historical societies.

  The article was about the federal fugitive slave laws that legalized the capture in the North of slaves fleeing from slave owners in the South. Among the examples given of this practice was the “establishment in 1830 by the mercantile Willard family of upstate New York of a detention facility to house captured runaway slaves while payments were negotiated for their return to their Southern owners.”

  A footnote indicated that this lucrative practice ended when the war began; that at least one family member, Ezra, ended up fighting and dying on the Union side; and that after the war the former detention site became the core of what was gradually rebuilt and expanded into a state prison, now the White River Correctional Facility.

  Pondering the ugly nature of the seed from which the institution
had grown, Gurney could understand the impulse to protest the memorialization of a Willard family member. He searched the internet for more information about Ezra but could find nothing beyond brief news references to BDA demands for the removal of his statue.

  Putting the historical issue aside, he decided to return his focus to getting as up to date as he could on the current turmoil. He revisited the RAM website in the hope that he might be able to extract some useful information from the opinionated noise they retailed as “news and analysis.”

  The site was slow in loading, giving him time to consider the irony of the internet: the world’s largest repository of knowledge having become a megaphone for idiots. Once it appeared, he clicked his way through a series of options until he reached the page titled “Battleground Tonight—Live Stream.”

  He was puzzled at first by what he saw on the screen—a close aerial view of a police car with siren blaring and lights flashing, speeding along a thoroughfare. The angle of the shot indicated that the camera was above and behind the cruiser; when the cruiser made a fast right at an intersection, so did the camera. When it came to a stop in a narrow street behind three other cruisers, the camera slowed and stopped, descending slightly. The effect was similar to a tracking shot in a movie chase scene.

  He realized that the equipment involved must be a sophisticated drone equipped with video and audio transmitters. As the drone maintained its position, its camera slowly zoomed in on the scene the cruiser had been racing to. Helmeted cops were standing in a semicircle around a black man who was leaning forward with his open hands against the wall of a building. As the two cops from the cruiser joined the others, the man was handcuffed. A few moments later, after he was pushed into the back of one of the original cruisers, a line of text crawled across the bottom of the screen: 10:07 PM . . . DUNSTER STREET, GRINTON SECTION, WHITE RIVER . . . CURFEW VIOLATOR TAKEN INTO CUSTODY . . . SEE DETAILS ON NEXT RAM NEWS SUMMARY.