Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 43

She stopped to catch her breath. "Witnesses say Arthur's mouth was foaming as he was shoved into a patrol car, that his feet were sticking out the window as the car drove off. The cop who Arthur threw, broke his kneecap. Two other cops had back injuries, and a fourth had an injured or broken thumb or something. Next thing I hear, Arthur's DOA at St. Mary's."

"This is bad."

"That's putting it mildly."

"Do you know who the cops were?"

"Not yet."

"I don't get it. Arthur was friendly with all the cops around here. It just doesn't add up."

"Not unless, of course, there was something else going on."

"You mean the cops were asking for payoffs?"

"Makes sense. They come by, complain about the debris, looking for graft, threatening summonses. Young Miller says no, starts loading the garbage on the truck, they check his license-knowing he's had some problems with it-big brother Arthur comes on the scene, and the proverbial s.h.i.t hits the fan."

He had to agree it was possible, and far from unheard of. Mrs. Sawyer stuck her head in the door. "There's a Miss Scott on the phone for Constance, and a room full of people outside I might add."

Connie picked up the phone. "Hi Eunice, got anything?"

Joshua sat, and listened to Connie's end of the conversation, wondering what would happen once the news spread to the streets. Connie picked up a pen and started jotting down notes. "Uh huh... Uh huh... Uh huh... Wow, thanks Eunice, I owe you one. We'll get together for dinner sometime next week... Good... Thanks again... Take care."

"So?" Joshua asked.

"So, seems the coroner's report is going to attribute Miller's death to asphyxia." She looked down at her notes, and read, "Pressure applied to the front of the throat in a narrow area by a rod-like object, such as a forearm or a stick."

"Choked to death!"

"I suppose one could put it that way. She referred to her notes again. "Get this, the cops are saying that there's 'no evidence of excessive savage beating.' That's a laugh."

"No one's going to be laughing. Look, I suggest we tell everyone in the waiting room to go home, and that we go home ourselves."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about riots. What do you think's gonna happen when this news gets out?"

She considered his point. "I haven't really thought about it."

"Well, do think about it, and let's get moving." He stood up and headed towards the door.

"You really believe they'll riot?"

"I don't know what I believe, but I'd rather be safe than sorry, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose so," she muttered under her breath.

"Get your stuff together," he said. "I'll talk to the folks in the waiting room, then call a cab and see you and Mrs. Sawyer home."

There were no riots. In fact, the immediate aftermath of Arthur Miller's death was surprisingly quiet, the community too shaken to respond. The funeral was small and uneventful, and there weren't any demonstrations until four days later, when a crowd of about a hundred people gathered at the foot of the courthouse during Samuel Miller's arraignment on charges of resisting arrest and a.s.sault.

Joshua hadn't planned on attending the rally, but he happened to be coming from the courthouse on business while it was occurring. He stopped and noticed that the crowd was rather orderly, despite the rhetoric from the podium that Miller's death had been provoked by the victim's repeated refusal to comply with police demands for payoffs. Joshua didn't want to believe that, but he couldn't deny that it did explain some things.

He looked around and wasn't the least bit surprised at seeing Professor Alvin Thompson and Reverend Jerome Williams near the podium. He was due back at the office, but something kept him there. He waited, and watched, and soon found himself trailing the crowd as they marched across the Brooklyn Bridge to City Hall. He didn't know what compelled him, only that he was drawn to follow.

They came to City Hall, stood outside, chanting and yelling, until Mayor Edward Koch emerged and spoke to the crowd. He appeared sincere, expressed his condolences, and promised a "full investigation" into the details of the case. The crowd was unimpressed; many tried to shout the mayor down. But he was tough, and at one point even admonished the crowd against making this a racial issue, pointing out that two of the police officers who escorted Arthur Miller to the police station were, in fact, black. For a brief moment, as the mayor stepped down, the shouting lulled and the crowd seemed to consider his words, but that didn't last long.

Reverend Jerome Williams climbed the steps and turned to the crowd. "First they try to extort us," the reverend exclaimed, "they try to sell us their lies."

"You tell 'em, reverend," someone in the audience yelled.

"Right on!" others joined in.

Jerome continued, "When they aren't trying to sell us, they're trying to buy us. And when we protest, they offer vain promises, false promises! For all they really want is to buy and sell us, just like they did in the old South. But we aren't for sale, and we aren't listening to their lies anymore! No more buying, no more lying!"

"Right on!"

"The truth will emerge eventually, my friends. One way or another, the truth always emerges! Either they will admit what they've done, they will repent before G.o.d and beg forgiveness, or it is going to be a l-o-n-g, h-o-t summer!"

"Right on."

"You tell 'em, reverend!"

Joshua, hearing the rage in his old friend's voice, couldn't help feeling responsible and frightened. Then, suddenly, he emerged from his trance and realized that he had joined the crowd. And that was even more frightening.

Regarding the actual causes of Arthur's death, Dr. Milton A. Wald, the deputy chief medical examiner, who had performed the autopsy, reported exactly what Eunice Scott had told Connie: death by asphyxiation, but "no evidence of excessive, savage beating." A police spokesman admitted that "considerable force was being used... violent force," and added, "A blow may have been delivered, or pressure applied by an arm or whatever resulting in injury to this area of the body (the larynx), which resulted in death." The spokesman qualified his statement, however, explaining, "When you think of someone being 'choked to death,' you get the impression of somebody with two hands around the neck. We do not have something like that here."

Reading this in the paper, Joshua wondered what exactly it was that they did have here, and where all this would lead. He had no answers, only the echoes of his mother's words when he had come home the night after Arthur's death: "This isn't right, Joshua, not right at all. Trouble's coming, and it's going to be bad. Real bad!"

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 pa.s.senger 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 pa.s.senger 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 partic.i.p.ated," 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 h.e.l.lo," she said.

"h.e.l.lo."

"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 c.r.a.p," he said.