“And by taking responsibility . . . ”
An object landed on the court near Jay’s feet. From high up, a fan had hurled a tightly rolled T-shirt. It skimmed past him. The arena remained strangely hushed. Not sure what to do but wanting to convey amiability, Jay leaned down, picked up the T-shirt and tossed it back in the stands.
“Someone else might want this,” he said.
A fan shouted from the upper deck, “Racist!” the harsh intonation screaming like a missile before detonating on the floor. Jay tensed. Another T-shirt hit the court, then three more. Two sailed over his head, tossed from behind him. He could not throw them all back.
“I like your passion,” Jay said, a projectile striking his leg. “But it’s not true. So by taking responsibility—”
Boos began to roll in from the upper decks, boos gathering force in the lower bowl, boos coming from behind him and from either side, rising in volume and combining with wild voices emerging from hundreds of throats, all swelling into a crescendo of contempt. Fans rose in their seats yelling, gesticulating, and Dag Maxwell T-shirts began to rain down on the court from all directions, filling the noisy air like snowballs, some arcing gracefully toward their target, others shooting at Jay with laser-like precision. What collective insanity had broken loose? He wasn’t a bad actor—he was good!—and this was atonement of the first order! He apologized! He took responsibility!
As one T-shirt struck him in the back and another glanced off his shoulder, Jay reflexively held his hand up to protect his recently broken nose. A phalanx of security charged in his direction.
“ANY FAN CAUGHT THROWING AN OBJECT ON THE COURT WILL BE EJECTED. PLEASE DO NOT THROW OBJECTS. YOU WILL BE EJECTED IMMEDIATELY.”
But the T-shirts continued to land on the court near Jay along with drink cups, team hats, and anything else that could be hurled through the air. Bellows of indignation, howling imprecations, curses of all kinds unleashed. Distorted faces and cruel laughter added to the sensory overload. Security men waded in, trying to stop fans from contributing to the chaos.
Dequan sprinted toward him. A T-shirt struck the bodyguard in the face, and he tripped over a guard who had fallen while chasing a fan. Dequan picked himself up and, pushing other members of the security detail out of the way, found Jay. Several guards chased other fans that had dashed on to the court wielding T-shirts, arms cocked, attempting to get a better shot at the petrified owner. On the sidelines, players and coaches stood frozen and watched the action unfold like a video game.
Cutting through the roar of the unhinged mob, an authoritative voice: “THIS IS THE MAYOR OF NEWARK.” There was a brief lull in the mayhem, mischief-makers calibrating their reaction to this attempted assertion of control. “ALL FANS RETURN TO YOUR SEATS IMMEDIATELY.” But just as quickly, the noise level climbed, bedlam resumed, and although the mayor continued to assert his authority—“YOU ARE BRINGING SHAME ON THE CITY OF NEWARK! RETURN TO YOUR SEATS!”—the fans ignored him.
Dequan threw an arm around Jay and, shoving people out of their path, guided him toward the tunnel. When they were twenty feet from the entrance Jay felt a blow to his head as if someone had punched him. He wheeled and saw that one of the T-shirt bazooka marksmen had scored a direct hit with the weapon. Several security men wrestled him to the floor as he hooted in celebration. Dequan hustled Jay into the mouth of the tunnel. Through the din, he heard the agitated voice of his erstwhile ally continue to implore, “THIS IS THE MAYOR OF NEWARK, RETURN TO YOUR DAMN SEATS!”
Relieved the T-shirt had not further damaged his already broken nose but undone by the riot his presence caused, he waited with Boris in the security office until Bo McCants determined it was safe to leave the building. Jay was shaking, short of breath. It took several minutes for his pulse to slow, and he thought he might be having a coronary. Huddled in the claustrophobic room, he tried to get his bearings. Blood roared in his ears. There was the strange sensation of thinking he might begin to cry. It seemed as if the entire building had lost its collective mind. Where was the residual goodwill he had anticipated? Where was the collective memory of his generosity? Bo McCants stood at the door peering up and down the corridor. What was he waiting for? Finally—how long had they been stuck there?—he indicated that the time had come to move out.
A close formation of security guards surrounded Jay and escorted him toward the exit. They emerged from the building, and he was relieved to see only a smattering of people outside. The outdoor protest had ended, and in the brisk evening air, the scene appeared like any other game night. As a safety precaution, an additional detail of security men piled into a van and tailed the SUV as it ferried Jay into the city.
When Bo McCants’s squad finally restored order at Sanitary Solutions Arena, over a hundred fans were ejected from the building. Police made twenty-seven arrests for disorderly conduct and public drunkenness. Jay was watching the local feed of the game with Boris on the large screen television in his apartment and, in what felt like an afterthought, saw the home team beat the Miami Heat 107-105, thereby qualifying for the NBA playoffs. Boris offered his congratulations, but Jay was not in a festive mood.
In the postgame wrap-up, rather than simply celebrate the twin accomplishments of knocking off a formidable foe and making it to the postseason, the announcers chose to discuss the melee that had occurred earlier.
The white play-by-play man, a career New York broadcaster named Al Klinger, declared, “The fans’ behavior tonight was outrageous. Jay Gladstone’s a decent guy.”
Pro basketball games are usually broadcast by duos: The play-by-play announcer who describes the action as it’s occurring and the “color” man who provides insights and analysis. The color man is often a former player and often, although not always, African-American, rendering the term “color man” unfortunate. Al Klinger’s partner was Kenny Jamison, a former Chicago Bull. He was black. To Klinger’s remark, Kenny Jamison responded, “You’re so sure he’s a decent guy?”
Jay sat wrapped in a bathrobe, a bowl of low-fat mint chip ice cream on his lap, and watched this unfold.
“I think he’s a decent guy,” the white announcer said. “You don’t?” Jay could see Al suddenly wondering whether he should have asked his broadcast partner this particular question.
The pause that ensued while Kenny Jamison thought about what he might say was agonizing. Kenny Jamison was an employee of the home team. Kenny Jamison, technically speaking, worked for Jay Gladstone.
“You want my honest opinion?”
Kenny Jamison’s employer, sitting in front of the television high in the Manhattan sky, paused the spoonful of ice cream that was halfway to his mouth, unsure how much he wanted to know the man’s honest opinion.
Kenny Jamison: “I think it’s complicated.”
Complicated? String theory was complicated! Deciphering ancient runes was complicated! Jay Gladstone had uttered a few words that could have been interpreted by well-meaning people multiple ways and then publicly apologized! What was complicated about that?
Jay turned off the television. He did not want to hear that the quality of his character was “complicated.” If he could fire Church Scott when the playoffs were over, could he fire Kenny Jamison, too? Of course not. He couldn’t just get rid of everyone, make them take loyalty oaths, swear fealty to him.
“How is it possible that I have no black friends?”
“What about Church?”
“That backstabber?”
“He’s in an impossible position.”
“Don’t defend him, Boris.” Jay’s tone did not invite a response.
Boris leaned back on the sofa, stretched his arms over his head. Jay put the ice cream down. It had lost its taste.
“Someone needs to start a business,” Boris said. “Black friends for white liberals. Reduces black unemployment, erases white guilt. All credit cards accepted.”
Th
ere was no laughter from Jay.
The men did not talk for the next several minutes, just remained together, each brooding about how dire the situation had become. Boris asked if Jay would be all right alone in the apartment. Upon receiving an affirmative response, he departed.
In bed, Jay wondered about the effects of the night’s events. It was hard to believe only hours earlier he had stood at the center of a basketball court and been subjected to the jeers of the mob, many of whom could not confine their abuse to the verbal realm and had either hurled objects or tried to attack him physically. It was bizarre. Jay had from his earliest years fantasized what it was like to be on the court with the full attention of the crowd. But in his fantasy, he was much younger and wearing a basketball uniform, and the crowd he envisioned was an adoring one cheering his achievements. Reversal of the image from worship to denigration disrupted the circuitry. He knew there would be a backlash from what had happened with Dag, but he had not expected this. The model citizen who had led a sober life as an executive, civic leader, and—until recently—family man was now the target of free-ranging scorn that seemed to have come unstuck from its original cause and taken on a life of its own. But perhaps something positive might come from it, he reflected. Being the victim of public shaming on such a scale might create sympathy and reverse the trend that seemed to be taking hold. Or, would what had occurred only reinforce his role as a villain, validate the feelings of those inclined to be cruel, and permit them to give their disgust free rein?
And when would Dag emerge from the coma? Were that to happen, Jay could at least temporarily decrease the rate and frequency of his self-flagellation.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Late Saturday evening while Jay was watching the post-game broadcast with Boris, Imani Mayfield sat down at her dorm room desk, opened her laptop, and began to type. As a scholar and, in her view, a fair-minded woman, she took great pains to find the right tone. She wanted to condemn, but not destroy. Jay Gladstone’s daughter was one of her closest friends. Should she mention that? No, it was irrelevant. But there would be no ad hominem attack. It took several drafts, and in the end, she was satisfied. The next morning everyone affiliated with Tate College, including the trustees (one of whom was Jay Gladstone), woke up to find the following email waiting for them:
From: Imani Mayfield, Tate College, ’12
To: All members of the Tate College community
This email contains upsetting material so if you have been a victim of racism consider this a trigger warning.
I am writing to you as a student at Tate College and a progressive woman of color. Tate College has a long history of tolerance. It is a nexus of competing ideas and an incubator of challenging thought. But even at a place like Tate, some ideas are so unacceptable that their expression must be banned. As you may already know, Jay Gladstone has been invited to address the class of 2012 at our graduation in May. As a student, this was not a decision I approved of, but I believe in the free exchange of ideas, and despite his controversial record as a New York City landlord, I did not raise my voice in protest. Now circumstances have changed, and today I respectfully call on all members of the college community, students, faculty, and staff, to join me in demanding the immediate withdrawal of this invitation.
Some of you may not be aware of the recent events that have led me to take this step: Gladstone was heard on a tape making a racially charged comment. If you haven’t heard about the incident and want to read about it yourself to provide some context you can find stories on the Internet here: www.nytimes.com, here: www.espn.com, or here: www.gawker.com, and on lots of other sites. Here is what he said:
“Why does everyone in this family want to have sex with black people?”
I’m sorry to have to drop that in the middle of your computer screen, or your smartphone, or whatever device you’re reading this on but that’s how it is. With or without context, the comment is deeply hurtful and racist. If you don’t know, Gladstone’s wife was having sexual relations with one of his black male employees, and he caught them. I’m a human being. I feel for Jay Gladstone. But that does not diminish the harmfulness of what he said. While I wish my eyes could unsee his words, my eyes cannot unsee them. I will, however, offer an interpretation because this is the basis for my demand to withdraw the invitation to speak at graduation. Jay Gladstone’s objectification of the black body has a long, ugly, and dangerous history in America. Since our ancestors arrived on these shores in chains, white folk, to put it mildly, have had a complex relationship with people of color. Make no mistake: Black bodies built this nation. Black bodies are worshipped in this nation. Black bodies are feared in this nation. Black bodies are rendered abstract, decoupled from their personhood, and sexualized. Jay Gladstone, through his hateful words, invokes the antebellum magnolias-in-the-moonlight slave-owning landscape of Mandingo, a depraved world of delicate white folk whose respectability and decorum are vanquished by untamed black sexuality and the people of color who pay for that depravity with their lives. That original sin from which this nation is still recovering grew out of the white supremacist vision of men like Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson, and Jay Gladstone is their heir. As a personification of white male privilege, he declares himself unfit to be a speaker on this campus.
Please join me in calling the office of President Chapin at (845) 456-7395 or contacting him at [email protected] and letting the man know that people like Jay Gladstone are not welcome at a place like Tate. The college must rescind the invitation to speak.
One love, Imani Mayfield
Jay blearily perused the email with his morning coffee, stomach migrating incrementally downward as he read. By the time he reached the end, he was wide-awake. Then he reread it. He was wounded and outraged. Although Imani’s words were upsetting, they were to be expected considering the source. She had a score to settle with Jay. Her characterization of him was wildly off base, but enemies had caricatured him before, and as a landlord he was accustomed to being vilified. No one ever compared me to Thomas Jefferson, he reflected. If my mother weren’t senile, she’d be thrilled. He expected this entreaty to ignite a prairie fire at the college that would burn until it consumed him. Had Aviva signed off on her friend’s email? Had she co-written the thing? It had certainly been a bold stroke. Not only would the opportunity to speak there probably be denied as a result of what Imani had done, but his very presence at his daughter’s graduation would also now be unwelcome. This situation horrified him. As sour as it was between them, Aviva was his only child, and he intended to watch her graduate from college.
It occurred to Jay that in the wake of her friend’s missive Aviva might call or send him an email using Imani’s to buttress her case. But he did not hear from her. After last night’s events, the shift in his circumstances was unmistakable. He could endow a new science or humanities center, underwrite chairs in every department; none of it mattered now. Aviva’s friend had checkmated him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The banks of the Hudson around Schuylkill are densely forested. Although the well-heeled have, since the 19th century, erected palaces along the swiftly flowing river, great swaths of the land remain undeveloped. Hickory, hemlock, and black birch soar over the primeval landscape, much of which continues to be unchanged from the time of the Algonquin. Over two centuries earlier, these woods were filled with British soldiers under the command of General Cornwallis attempting to rout the ragtag revolutionary troops led by the upstart George Washington. America was born, and the crack of martial gunfire was now heard only in the context of video games. More recently, for circumscribed periods each year, licensed sportsmen draped in orange reflective gear tracked through the area hoisting rifles and obliterating deer. But it was not hunting season, and as the sun winked above the treetops melting the frost that had formed overnight on the fallen branches and old leaves that carpeted the ground, four soldiers swarmed through the woods cradli
ng weapons.
Aviva, Imani, and Noah were participating in an acting exercise devised by Axel that he had dubbed “full environmental immersion” and it consisted of the performer enacting the part he or she was playing in the actual context where the action depicted on stage occurred or, failing that, in the closest manageable approximation. In theory, this would allow the performer to draw on sense memories—the peaty smell of the woods, the crack of a twig snapping underfoot—acquired in the course of the exercise and use them to create a deeper, more evocative portrayal. Axel modeled this particular one on the military training devised by Field Marshall Cinque to prepare his followers in the Symbionese Liberation Army for taking over television studios, or power plants, or kidnapping heiresses. Their sneakers didn’t make a sound as they stole through the woods.
They had gone out early to avoid running into anyone. Axel drove them in his truck and parked in front of an unoccupied summer home on a dirt road off the two-lane highway that ran parallel to the river about a mile from the east bank. After a brief safety lecture, he distributed the guns and they hiked into the woods.
Axel had attended a gun show and purchased two .22 caliber handguns and a pair of military rifles. Aviva and Imani cradled the rifles and the young men each gripped a pistol. Axel was comfortable with a weapon and handled it like he would any tool. But the others were not as relaxed at first and arranged themselves in poses inspired by films and television shows, taking care not to point the barrels at one another. Axel reprimanded them and reminded everyone that art and politics were serious business, and if anyone wanted to goof around, they could go home.
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