by Andrew Kane
CHAPTER 51
Cruising down Union Street, Paul Sims sat confidently behind the wheel of his ’78 Impala, and looked over at his partner, Yossie Bloom, in the passenger seat. As usual, Yossie was oblivious to the world, his eyes glued to the book of Hasidic mysticism in his hand. Paul looked past Yossie onto the street, making sure all was safe and sound, then glanced at the blackjacks and baseball bats on the back seat. They were well prepared.
The car, compliments of Paul’s father, was a business lease, tax deductible and all. If only Alfred knew exactly what sort of business his son was conducting with it. But Paul didn’t worry about that; he had the streets to concern him. And his inattentive partner.
“How can you see what’s going on outside if you’re eyes are glued to that book?” Paul said.
“Ah, Reb Pinchas, that’s why I have you. You watch for me, and I study for you; that way, we each have two mitzvahs.”
Paul chuckled. Yossie was a sharp one, and—Paul had to admit—a solid partner in a crunch, who never had any compunction about stopping a black or even a group of blacks in the street, even just to ask for identification. And he also had a way of making them cooperate.
Paul recalled how, a year earlier, they had tangled with a big black kid who turned on a fire hydrant and refused to close it when pedestrians complained. Boy, they showed him! Paul held the kid from behind while Yossie whacked him in the gut with a blackjack. And no one had messed with any hydrants on their watch since. That Yossie was okay, Paul mused, even with his head in a book.
Comparing this with his past, when the Italian and Irish kids beat him up after school, brought a tinge of satisfaction. Now he was the tough guy.
He also thought about Rachel, if only she could see him now. He often fantasized about running into her, and even rescuing her from danger as Joshua had once done. Surely she wouldn’t reject him after that, or so he wanted to believe. His mind turned back to the present. “Things look good tonight,” he said.
“Things have been good for a while,” Yossie responded, still reading.
“What about that Russian guy who got mugged last week?”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about him. But things have still been better.”
“Better, but not great.”
“An interesting point,” Yossie said, his tone betraying a desire for his partner to just watch the streets and let him study. It was often this way when they were together.
“How do you like what the police did to that black guy, what’s his name?” Paul asked.
“You mean, the shvartze, Miller?” Yossie gave up and closed the book.
“Yeah, Miller.”
“Funny thing.”
“How is it funny?”
“The police have been criticizing us for our tactics, and they go off and kill a guy that way.”
“You think he deserved it?”
“He’s a shvartze,” Yossie responded. “Who cares, as long as he’s gone. One less mugger to worry about.”
Paul was still discomfited by such characterizations, even though such was a common sentiment in the community. For him, it was one thing to beat up criminals and trouble makers, and another to indict an entire race. But he never voiced his thoughts, not to Yossie, nor anyone, for he understood that they had never known the likes of Loretta Eubanks. Yossie had grown up in Crown Heights, a place where black crime was rampant, a place where perceptions were skewed and bigotry was pervasive. And if Paul had learned anything in his life, it was that arguing with perception was futile.
Suddenly, they heard shouting down the block. Paul scanned the area, searching for the source. “There, over there,” he said, pointing to a group of Hasidic men chasing a black kid. He floored the gas, sped up the block, and skidded the car around in front of the black kid. He and Yossie jumped out, and trapped the kid between them and the crowd. Paul looked at the kid, who appeared no older than sixteen. There was fear in the kid’s eyes; he was caught, and now he would be taught a lesson, one he would never forget.
Paul and Yossie moved in with their blackjacks, as the other Hasidim approached. The kid stood, helpless, waiting, nowhere to run. Within seconds, the group set upon him, throwing him to the ground, stomping on him, kicking him, shouting ethnic slurs.
Paul suddenly realized that there must have been at least thirty of them beating this one kid. He didn’t know why, but naturally figured the kid must have done something serious to merit such reprisal. Without thinking, he joined in and started striking with his blackjack. It was a good five minutes before they heard police sirens and fled, leaving the black kid unconscious in the street, lying in a pool of his own blood.
As they sped away, one of the other Hasidim who had been on foot patrol jumped into the back seat of the car. “Good job guys, we really showed him,” he said.
Paul didn’t know their passenger personally, only that his name was Ari and that he was a large, stocky fellow who somehow managed to be involved in every skirmish. “What did the kid do?” Paul asked.
“He grabbed a yarmulke off the head of a yeshiva guy, and started to run,” Ari answered.
“He what?” Paul said incredulously, starting to feel queasy.
“A group of guys were coming out of a wedding at the Brooklyn Jewish Center, and this punk runs up to one of them, grabs his yarmulke, and starts running,” Ari explained, almost nonchalantly.
“And all of you chase him and beat him for that?”
“All of us? I seem to recall you having participated,” Ari said.
Yossie glared at Paul, his expression saying, Leave it alone! But Paul wasn’t about to. “I thought he did something terrible, otherwise I wouldn’t have…”
“Next time, why don’t you ask him what he did,” Ari interrupted with a chuckle.
Paul looked at Yossie, and said nothing more.
CHAPTER 52
Joshua arrived at the restaurant on time. Rachel was already there, seated at their usual table. He walked over, kissed her cheek, and sat down.
“I can’t believe what’s happening,” she said. “Everything is falling apart.”
“It’s going to get worse before it gets better,” he replied.
“How so?”
“You didn’t hear? Thompson and Williams are forming a black community patrol now.”
“That’s all we need, another patrol.”
“Well, if you guys have one, maybe we should too.”
“Is that what you think?”
“That’s what they think; I don’t know what I think.”
“I don’t know what I think either.”
“Good, let’s talk about something else.”
“We’re so absorbed, we didn’t even say hello,” she said.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“Want a drink?”
“I could certainly use one.”
The only problem was, The Greenery didn’t serve alcohol. “After dinner, we’ll find a bar, get sloppy drunk, and forget about all this crap,” he said.
“It’s a date.”
He wondered how serious she was being.
They ordered dinner, and resumed discussing the thing they didn’t want to discuss. “Is there any news on that boy?” she asked, referring to Victor Rhodes, the kid who had been beaten up by the patrol.
“Not good. Critical in Kings County Hospital. Last I heard, he’s in some kind of partial coma, drifts in and out of consciousness.”
She looked nonplussed. “How could this happen?”
“Ask your boys.”
“My boys?”
“Sorry.”
She looked at him for a moment. “I’m not the enemy.”
He took her hand. “I know, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s okay, it’s been quite a week.”
They finished eating, and found a quaint little pub on Bleecker Street. There was a good crowd, easy to get lost in. They felt comfortable.
She wasn’t schooled in spirits, so
she asked him to order for her. “Something sweet and fruity,” she said. He was no maven either. A screw driver was all he could come up with. For himself, he ordered a scotch on the rocks, only because it seemed more manly.
The tables were occupied, so they stood at the bar. He wasn’t used to hanging out in bars, especially one as white as this. He was the only black man in the place, as far as he could tell. But no one stared, no one even seemed to notice. Perhaps because he was wearing a suit and tie, or perhaps because this was The Village. Either way, it was a far cry from Crown Heights, and it felt good. For both of them.
Her first reaction to the drink was a bitter face, but after a few more sips, she began to like it. He also winced when he tasted his, but eventually it was just fine.
They felt like a couple of college kids. A jukebox in the corner played loud, Whitbread music, and the crowd was pretty noisy too. They could barely hear themselves think, so they just watched each other, smiled, and ordered more drinks.
The density of the crowd caused them to stand close to one another. They didn’t mind; in fact, after a few drinks, they began to take advantage of the situation. Joshua wasn’t sure who started it, but he suddenly found his hand resting softly on her waist, while her hand caressed his arm. Her eyes were glassy and her smile was uncontrolled, like a schoolgirl doing this for the very first time.
She snuggled in close, pushing her body against his. There was less than an inch between their lips. Neither seemed to care what was going on around them, perhaps because of the alcohol, perhaps because they had grown contemptuous of the perceptions of others. Whatever it was, they wanted this moment, and they were going to have it.
The distance faded, their mouths merged, and they clung to one another with a desperation neither had ever known. It was anguish and ecstasy, recklessness and resolution; everything they’d hoped for and feared, everything they’d craved but couldn’t have. Neither could stop, pull away and snap back into reality, for this was their reality, the only one they had ever truly known, the sole moment of clarity in the lunacy that had otherwise defined their existence.
The kiss turned into kisses, to the point where they couldn’t help becoming self conscious. They decided to leave, but weren’t sure where to go. Joshua wanted to suggest a final drink, to keep the mood going, but something inside him said no. They left, stumbling out onto the sidewalk, as he tried holding them both up. Quite a feat for a man with a cane.
They were wasted, and tomorrow they would pay for it, physically and emotionally. But for now, they still had the evening. They grabbed each other, and began making out in the street. He used the cane to hail a cab, and pulled her tightly against him with his other hand. Next thing they knew, they heard screeching brakes followed by an obnoxious voice: “Hey, goin’ somewhere or not?”
Joshua held up a finger signaling, one minute. The cabby appeared impatient but stayed put. Joshua turned to Rachel and said, “This is your ride.”
“You aren’t coming?”
“Coming where? We can’t go back to the neighborhood in the same car, not with everything that’s going on.”
“I know that, I wasn’t thinking about going there. I want to be with…”
He placed his forefinger over her mouth. “Look, if you don’t get in that cab right now, I’m just liable to take you somewhere and do something real stupid. So go!” He tried escorting her to the taxi, but she resisted.
“It wouldn’t be stupid!” she said.
“It would! Trust me, tomorrow, if you remember any of this, you’ll thank me.”
The cabby blew his horn. “Come on, now or never!”
“But Joshua…”
“Rachel, please, this isn’t easy for me, just go!”
He practically had to drag her toward the taxi. The cabby gave him a disdainful look, one he had grown accustomed to. Rachel also caught it, and it brought her back to reality. Joshua placed a few dollars in her hand for the fare as she slipped into the back seat. Through the open window, her hand held his, and she mouthed, “Good night.” He smiled, the cabby practically floored the gas, and her hand slid away.
He turned and began to walk. He needed to walk. He didn’t know where he was heading, only that he would be kicking himself all the way.
The next few months were marked by more demonstrations over the Miller and Rhodes affairs, as rabble rousers labored to keep the cause alive. The crowds grew, but remained basically peaceful. Williams and Thompson were always at the helm, their names and faces frequenting the media. They had found their fight.
The NAACP also got in on the action and called for a federal inquiry into Miller’s death, along with the suspension of the police officers involved. They got their inquiry, but the city held fast on the police officers, insisting that no action would take place until the investigation had been completed. The mayor and police commissioner took a lot of heat for their continued insistence that Miller’s death was not a racial incident. The NAACP also issued public statements asking members of the community to keep cool throughout the summer.
A black citizens’ patrol was formed, with the stated purpose of protecting blacks from crime, and the unstated purpose of policing the way Hasidic patrols dealt with black suspects. Patrol members were issued special green jackets, and marched in some of the protests as a unit, parading their presence and resolve. The first time Joshua saw them gathered outside the courthouse, he found himself feeling more worried than proud.
The Justice Department’s investigation took about a year and culminated in a twenty-one page report. The results, released by the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, Edward Korman, on August 2, 1979, found that Arthur Miller’s civil rights had not been violated by the police in whose custody he had died. This was consistent with an earlier finding by a Brooklyn grand jury that had ruled Miller’s death a “tragic unforeseeable accident which occurred during a lawful arrest.”
The report justified the arrest on the basis of radio transmission recordings and witness accounts. The recordings showed that the original officers were informed that Samuel Miller did have five suspensions against his license for failure to answer a summons, circumstances for which an arrest is required by law. According to witnesses who had overheard, Samuel claimed to have paid the summons on Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn, a location at which, the officers knew, payments for traffic summonses were not collected. Witnesses also claimed that Arthur attempted to intervene and prevent the arrest by pushing the sergeant and attempting to pull the arresting officer away from his brother. It was at this point when the sergeant ordered Arthur’s arrest.
Samuel apparently tried to escape by pushing the arresting officer away and getting into his truck. He managed to back up a short distance and round a corner, but two officers pursued him and eventually got him out of the truck. At that point, witnesses say, Samuel became irate, grabbed a nearby table, threw it at one of the officers and knocked him unconscious.
Arthur, in his own struggle, heard the sound of the table crashing, a sound which all witnesses claimed had resembled a gunshot. At that point, Arthur, apparently fearing his brother had been shot, grappled to free himself from the officers who were constraining him, yelling that he wanted to see what had happened to his brother. He was wearing a short jacket, which was pulled up during the struggle, revealing a holstered gun. Seeing the gun, the police officers fought harder to restrain him, but had a rough time doing so. Arthur, apparently, wasn’t called “Sampson” for nothing. It took twelve of them to finally subdue him, and some received injuries in the process. Eventually he was cuffed, placed in a patrol car, and driven away. He apparently lost consciousness in the car on route to the station house.
While the report exonerated the officers involved, it did not place the blame on Arthur for his own death. Most witnesses, in fact, claimed that what had initially transpired between Arthur and the officers was “never more serious than minor pushing and shoving,” until the moment when Art
hur had believed that his brother had been shot. A mistake, a tragic mishap, the death of a good man.
As for Samuel, his initial arraignment was postponed due to the prevailing atmosphere, but he did eventually plead guilty to a section 511, driving with a suspended license, for which he received a sentence of a one hundred dollar fine or thirty days in jail. Unable to pay the fine, he ended up serving the time. For the additional charges of second degree assault and possession of marijuana, he received three years probation.
Victor Rhodes lapsed in and out of a coma for over two months, but eventually recovered, returned home, and testified at the trial of two Hasidic men, whom police had managed to arrest shortly after the incident. The two men were believed to have led the attack against Rhodes, were members of the civilian patrol, and had been apprehended while driving a car nearby. Both were charged with assault and attempted murder.
At the trial, the defense lawyers contended that their clients had been falsely accused in a case of mistaken identity. The jury, which had six blacks and no Jews, eventually agreed with the defense, having been unable to sufficiently distinguish the defendants from the many other Hasidic men sitting near them during the prosecution’s presentation. The judge had been criticized by black community leaders and the district attorney’s office for having allowed the defendants to sit with their look-a-likes in the spectator section of the court, even though they had returned to the defense table after the prosecution had rested.
Joshua had followed the trial and, as a citizen, had been dismayed by the decision. As a lawyer, however, he couldn’t help but admire the defense’s brilliant strategy. As a man, he was petrified.
CHAPTER 53
Jonathan Kenon arrived on the shores of the U.S. from the Island of Trinidad on August 9,1970. His wife, Dorothy, and their three small children remained behind, while he, an uneducated auto mechanic, tried to establish a life so that they could eventually join him. He found lodging in a dilapidated SRO on Atlantic Avenue, and worked pumping gas for minimum wages at a Texaco station.