“Then the chairman gave them time to assimilate the contents and suggested a vote of confirmation, saying that he had left the shoo-in in his office and that if they finished their business quickly, they could all enjoy a celebration lunch together before some of them had to catch their jets.
“At once the vice-president offered a motion to confirm, and before his motion could even be repeated by the chairman two voices were heard. The chairman called on the man furthest from him, the organization’s chief counsel, a man famous for his careful evaluations, expecting that he wanted to second the motion, and by thus giving his blessing, preclude any merely routine discussion. When the man spoke, however, he surprised them all. ‘I don’t know,’ he began. ‘Perhaps I’m being arbitrary, but I think we ought to take a closer look at these letters.’
“‘What do you mean?’ the chairman demanded. ‘The letters are genuine. Are you making the monstrous suggestion that they’ve been forged?’
“‘Not at all, not at all,’ the lawyer said. ‘Of course they’re legitimate. I’m not suggesting otherwise. All I mean is that we ought to examine the substance. This one, for example.’ He held up a letter. ‘This one says—let’s see if I can find it; yes, here it is—this one says that what the writer is chiefly struck by is the candidate’s good humor, that he’s had him out to the farm and found him “convivial, gay, charming, an indefatigable social catalyst whose jokes and anecdotes enlighten as well as entertain.” He mentions “his dancing, his tennis, his universal good manners and courtly display of wit to the least of the other guests and to the staff,” as well as to himself.’
“‘What’s wrong with that?’ the chairman asked. ‘The man goes on to vouch for his brains and efficiency too. What’s wrong with that?’
“‘Nothing, of course,’ the lawyer said, ‘but then we have this testimonial’—he picked up a second letter from the pile—‘where the writer remarks on being impressed with the candidate’s seriousness of purpose, his levelheaded and even solemn approach to a situation. He’s been our candidate’s host too, it seems, and claims that he considers those weekends when the candidate was a guest in his home to have been “philosophical mileposts, times for meaningful contemplation and the dignified reappraisal of goals and values.” The young man has been an inspiration, this man claims, and “has redirected and subdued the frivolous and cynical vitality of others into more worthwhile channels.” ’
“‘But the fellow talks of his perspective also, of his balance and good sportsmanship,’ the chairman said.
“‘I know that,’ the lawyer said, and began to read from a third letter, but at this point was interrupted by the board member next to him, a man who had opened up vast new customer areas in Asia.
“‘I see what our colleague is getting at, but I like the part in this letter—’
“‘That’s the one I was just coming to,’ the lawyer said.
“‘—where the young fellow’s foresight and courage are praised, “…his willingness to take a big risk and then back up that risk with everything he’s got.” He says he can almost smell the fresh young blood in him. I like that. That sort of thing could stir some of the rest of us up around here.’
“‘Certainly,’ said the man who had spoken up at the same time as the lawyer, the member the chairman had not called upon when the vice-president made his motion to confirm. ‘Yet in this last letter the writer speaks of the boy’s “prudence, his steady imperturbability, and reluctance to seek an advantage when the percentages are against it.” He goes on to comment that this is rarely found in someone the candidate’s age.’
“Now all the board members began to discover inconsistencies, calling them out to each other like people who want their songs played on a piano. The chairman, who had risen out of his seat to oppose the lawyer when he had read from the letters and who had remained standing through it all, now sank back wearily. ‘I hadn’t realized,’ he said. ‘The letters were all so enthusiastic. I hadn’t realized.’
“‘None of us realized, Joseph,’ the vice-president who had proposed confirmation said.
“‘I hadn’t realized myself,’ the organization’s chief counsel said. ‘It was only when I remembered what you told us of the fellow’s being nonplused when you asked him for the names. Then I thought of certain phrases in the letters and I became concerned. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the candidate is devious.’
“The chairman thanked him and asked if there was now a second to the vice-president’s motion. There was no one to second it. Reluctantly the vice-president rose, asked that his former proposal be withdrawn and suggested that the candidate be disqualified from further consideration. This was quietly seconded and somewhat sadly passed by all present.
“Now the chairman had the responsibility of returning to his office to tell the shoo-in he had been rejected. Before he left the young man, he had urged him to sit in his chair at the big desk, assuring him that the joke was standard ritual for a shoo-in like himself. When he opened the door, however, he saw that the fellow was still standing where he had left him. He came in and smiled, not knowing how to begin. ‘Something came up,’ he said at last.
“‘I know,’ the young man said. ‘The board of directors has denied me.’
“‘It was astonishing to me. Naturally as chairman I did not exercise a vote. Objections were raised. I’m sorry.’
“‘May I ask what the objections were?’
“‘These meetings,’ the chairman said, ‘they’re confidential.’
“‘Never mind,’ the young man said, ‘perhaps I already know.’
“‘There was no animosity. And if you like, of course we want you to stay on in your present job. The letters—’
“‘The letters were thrilling,’ the young man said.
“‘They were very enthusiastic,’ the chairman said.
“‘But they contradicted—’
“‘They presented a picture of four different men,’ the chairman said.
“‘Yes,’ the shoo-in said.
“‘Naturally the directors were confused. They felt that since each letter carried equal weight, they weren’t competent to determine which estimate was the one…And someone suggested afterwards that his own enthusiasm for your character and work lay in different directions entirely from the ones he had seen represented in the letters. My reactions too are…You see how it is?’
“‘Yes.’
“‘A man should be fixed,’ the chairman said. ‘The board felt that a certain firmness was lacking—’
“‘That one ought to know his necessity and bow down to it?’
“‘Yes,’ the chairman said, ‘that’s it.’
“‘One is what one is?’
“‘Properly so,’ the chairman said, ‘yes.’
“‘No,’ the young man said. ‘What you call character is the mere obstinacy of the self, the sinister will’s solipsist I am. One adjusts his humanity to the humanity of others. Not I am, but You are—there’s the necessity. Love cooperates; it plays ball. I hate a chaos. Does the company need me?’
“‘I beg your pardon?’
“‘You said I might stay if I wished it. What does the board wish?’
“‘Well, of course, we talked mainly of your candidacy, but your work’s been splendid and I get the feeling that all of us would regret your going.’
“‘I shall stay on then,’ the young man told him.
“He is there today,” the warden said. “The firm has prospered. It has built new plants. Thousands are employed. It pays enormous taxes to the government, and the government uses the money to build ships and planes that defend us all. That is the parable of the shoo-in. Beautiful, isn’t it? Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes, Warden,” a man said.
“Yes, Warden,” some others chipped in.
The cry went up throughout the hall. “Yes, Warden. Yes, Warden.”
The warden raised his hands for silence. “But he didn’t get the job, is that what you’
re thinking? Is it? You bad men, is that what you’re thinking? No ‘making warden’s mouths’ this time. Answer in your hearts. Well, you’re wrong. He got the job. He got the job. And when the old man died, he got his job too. He got everybody’s job. And he bought out other companies and deposed the chairmen, and he got their jobs too. Today the men who wrote those letters work for him. That’s what flexibility does. Right there, that’s what it does! That’s what it does, you guys stuck in your casings of self like pure pork sausage! There are no piker saints!”
The warden paused, then stepped forward. When he spoke again his voice was soft. “There’s some prison business,” he said. It was what he always said before announcing policy changes, and the men, who had seemed confused during his parable, now looked more confident. A few had brought pencils to take down whatever he said. This was a prisoner’s privilege, since it was the warden’s custom frequently to introduce new rules or to abridge old ones during a Warden’s Assembly. The changes would affect them all, but they were never written down by the administration. The warden preferred that there be a sort of oral tradition in the penitentiary. Indeed, it was his boast that the prison did not even own a mimeograph machine. But, thought Feldman when he heard this, an electric chair they’ve got.
The warden’s reasons for denying the men any codified regulations were perfectly apparent, Feldman thought. Since infractions were met with severe punishments, it became the responsibility of the men themselves, as well as their best interest, to try to understand the warden—in short to listen. Nevertheless, they were allowed a certain latitude here. The most literate of the convicts were appointed by their fellow inmates to catch the warden’s words on the tips of their pencils. Later their notes were checked, double-checked, collated against the notes of the other scribes. (In this way a certain respect for scholarship was induced too. Feldman had never been anywhere where there was a more genuine admiration of those who knew facts, though a scholar’s mistakes earned him beatings.) Discussion groups were formed to resolve inconsistencies and to interpret what had been said. Indeed, the warden had created in effect a hard core of penal Talmudists, men who parsed intention and declined nuances like lexicographers, men adept at shorthand, good punctuators and spellers who wrote with a strong, legible hand. Now, as he glanced about, Feldman saw their strained attentions, their lick-lead alertness; they seemed passionate, fools leaning forward.
“I have this day sent to all administrative personnel,” the warden began, “formal notification of my intention to introduce a policy of remission in this institution. Early next week I shall be forwarding to the appropriate officials a detailed schedule of indulgences, which will then go immediately into effect.
“Now, as you know, paroles have, in the past, been based upon projections of a convict’s ability to adapt to the workaday world. Among the documents he has had to include in the dossier he builds for the parole board are letters from a prospective employer, character endorsements from members of the clergy, character endorsements from members of the secular arm, statements of reconciliation from members of his family and, if he’s to return to his old community, from his neighbors. It is on the basis of these, taken with his own pledges of good will, that the board makes it prognosis about the prisoner’s chances on the outside. I need hardly point out to you that such sentimental evidences as these would be of little consequence in a court of law. Of course the parole board also considers a convict’s record, his behavior during confinement, and makes, from hearsay, what it can of his present attitudes. But the poverty of these techniques is illustrated by the dramatic statistics that there is only a twelve-percent difference in the incidence rate of recidivism among parolees and those who are discharged only after serving their full sentences. Twelve percent.
“As you should be able to infer then, there is a distinct tense shift between the philosophy of punishment and the philosophy of pardon. A man is punished for a fait accompli; yet that same man, up for parole, is forgiven his past and granted his chance largely on the basis of a prediction—say rather a hope—about his actions in the future.
“It is this—this schism between past and future—which my policy of remission and schedule of indulgences seeks to adjust. Henceforward my recommendation to the parole board will be based upon my personal observation of a man’s virtue. ‘Warden’s Approval,’ formerly automatic like the principal’s signature on a diploma, now becomes the vital element in the parole process. The jerry-built letters of recommendation will still be required, of course, and sappy-hearted priests and social workers and wives who forget and sons whose hope exceeds their expectation will still be found to write them, but these will be meaningless without my own recommendation.’
The warden stepped forward onto the apron of the stage, at the length of the wire on his collar microphone. He took another step and must have broken the connection, for he tore the microphone from his lapel impatiently and dropped it to the floor. When he spoke, however, his voice still seemed amplified. “Now I would solicit your honor,” he said. “Now I would urge your virtue. Now I would inspire. You—” he called, “men with pencils, scholars of this place, ministers of my administration—hear me. Explain to them. Speak what I tell you. The tongues of Pentecost are upon me, and I would teach you prison business.
“And we shall prove here again, together, what crusaders traveling armed and East once proved, and what the old popes knew, and the hooded saints who stretched the rack, who turned its wheel, getting God’s awful leverage, and all those who once tied hate-knots on wrists behind backs and then tugged at the strappado, hauling at the lousy heretic’s flaggy self: that virtue is as active a principle as evil, that cruelty is written off in a good cause, that there is no violence like an angel’s violence.
“Let us pray.”
The man bowed their heads uneasily.
“Lord God of hooked scourge and knotted whip, of sidearms and sidecar, of bloodhound and two-way radio, vigilant God of good neighborhoods and locked Heaven—lend us Thy anger. Teach us, O God, revulsion. Remind our nostrils of stench and our ears of discord and our eyes of filth. Grant these men a holy arrogance and instill in them the courage to expose all bad men, to divulge their plans for jailbreak, their schemes of dirty escape in the back of a laundry truck. Give them the will to betray all wicked confidences, to publish secrets right and left. Bestow on them wakefulness, God, to collect the broken-talk dreams of their cellmates, and give them the memory to report verbatim whatever is spoken in anger behind my back or the backs of my guards. Move them to mar a friend’s plot, and to sing like canaries the hymns of their blessed betrayals. Instruct their tongues in delation and denunciation, and arrange it so that all charges brought against anyone anywhere may be made to stick!
“Transubstantiate now their prison garb into their chrisoms, for they would be Thy paracletes, and their very cells become as benefices in Thy penal see. Call on them to abjure and recant all blasphemy, in the murus strictus now and here and in the murus largus then and there. Admit them as successful spies to all infamous councils, and sustain the endura of their reputations, the ordeal of their betrayed confidences. Strengthen all stoolies to Heaven, O Lord, and make them to turn state’s evidence. Marry them to whores that they may correct them, and give them wicked children that they may chastise them. Have them to live at the scene of crimes near telephones.
“But let their compurgations, if they would make them, fail in their mouths! Strike down all extenuators!
“Amen.”
“Amen,” said the men.
“This isn’t part of the prayer now,” the warden said. “The rest is off the record.” He winked. “We’re moving against the bad men.”
Feldman shuddered.
“Sometimes,” the warden said, “it isn’t enough merely to bring charges or to make sermons. There are—well, you know, you aren’t stupid—things that are done and there’s no recourse. There is…latitude. There are great nasty areas where one is still with
in one’s ‘rights,’ legal, snug as a bug. Ask yourself. How much time can a man be made to do for being himself? Well, you see the problem. The bad men…Suppose—get that word, ‘suppose,’ I said—suppose they were relaxed to you? Listen to me.” He paused and wiped his forehead with his hand. Then he looked down at his shoes. “It’s embarrassing,” he said at last. “I’m no hinter, no intimator. Let’s not crap around with each other.
“I am calling for the infusion of the sacerdotal spirit! I need inquisitors’ hearts! You must be—you must be malleus maleficarum, hammers of witches, punishers and pummelers in God’s long cause. You must be warden’s familiars. We shall share the power of the keys. Despoil, confiscate, make citizen’s arrests. You know what needs to be done.
“We must invent terrible penances together. Rebuff the bondsman along with the bailee. Seek the alkahest of perfect punishment to dissolve the stony-hearted men. Bring your charges, bring them, please. Say ‘I know not whom to accuse, but here are the names of those I suspect.’ Imply. Implicate. Indict. What would you? Torture the witness? Force the confession? You’ve your immunities. I give you carte-blanche souls. Charge even the dead. Yes! Let us have exhumations. Bones to scatter. Visit plagues, visit poxes. Zealously, zealously, flagellate, spank. Interdict and preclude. Exorcise the lamiae, rout the mascae, bury the incubi. Ignite the dark conventicle. Hate heresies. Kiss not the toad on its posteriors nor lift the dog’s tail to make love. Don’t chew the Scriptures, nor piss on private property. Go straight, god-damnit! Tapas. Tapas. Tapas. If you would live forever, then think on sin until all scores are settled. Talio. Talio. Push them in cesspools. Accusatio! Denunciatio! Trust dreams, bad tastes in your mouths, hunches, first impressions. Bet long shots. Tribulations of the flesh. Trifle their hearts. Bread and water them. Durus carcer et areta vita. Be impeccable. You shall know them by their kosti and saddarah, their thread and shirt. Haereticus indutus or vestitus. Poena confusibilus. Crush the tergiversator, the vitiator, the equivocator!”
A Bad Man Page 21