The Bonfire of the Vanities (63 page)

“I asked you politely…You understand?…In here, you gotta use your head and make
friends
.”

Then he opened his hand, let the cup fall down onto Sherman’s lap, and walked away. Sherman was aware the entire room was watching.
I should—I should—
but he was paralyzed with fear and confusion. Across the way, a Latino was pulling the meat out of his sandwich and throwing it on the floor. There were slices of meat everywhere. Here and there were balled-up wads of Saran Wrap and entire sandwiches, unwrapped and thrown on the floor. The Latino had begun to eat the bread by itself—and his eyes were on Sherman. They were looking at him…in this human pen…yellow lunch meat, bread, Saran Wrap, plastic cups…cockroaches! Here…over there…He looked toward the drunken Latino. He was still collapsed on the floor. There were three cockroaches rooting about in the folds of his left pant leg at the knee. All at once Sherman saw something moving at the mouth of the man’s pant pocket. Another roach—no, much too big…gray…a mouse!…a mouse crawling out of the man’s pocket…The mouse clung to the cloth for a moment, then scampered down to the tile floor and stopped again. Then it darted forward and reached a piece of yellow lunch meat. It stopped again, as if sizing up this bonanza…

“
¡Mira!
” One of the Latinos had seen the mouse.

A foot came flying out from the ledge. The mouse went skidding across the tile floor like a hockey puck. Another leg flew out. The mouse went flying back toward the ledge…A laugh, a cackle…“
¡Mira!
”…another foot…The mouse went skidding on its back, over a wad of lunch meat, which spun it upright again…Laughter, shouts…“
¡Mira! ¡Mira!
”…another kick…The mouse came spinning toward Sherman, on its back. It was just lying there, two or three inches from his foot, dazed, its legs jerking. Then it struggled to its feet, barely moving. The little rodent was out of it, finished. Not even fear was enough to get it moving. It lurched forward a couple of steps…More laughter
…Should I kick it as a sign of my solidarity with my cellmates?…
That was what he wondered…Without thinking, he stood up. He reached down and picked up the mouse. He held it in his right hand and walked toward the bars. The cell grew silent. The mouse twitched feebly in his palm. He had almost reached the bars
…Sonofabitch!…
A tremendous pain in his index finger…The mouse had bitten him!…Sherman jumped and jerked his hand up. The mouse held on to his finger with its jaws. Sherman flailed his finger up and down as if he were shaking down a thermometer. The little beast wouldn’t let go!…“
¡Mira! ¡Mira!
”…cackles, laughter…It was a terrific show! They were enjoying it immensely! Sherman banged the meaty side of his hand down on one of the crosspieces of the bars. The mouse went flying off…right in front of Tanooch, who had a sheaf of papers in his hand and was approaching the cell. Tanooch jumped back.

“Holy shit!” he said. Then he glowered at Sherman. “You gone off the platter?”

The mouse was lying on the floor. Tanooch stamped on it with the heel of his shoe. The animal lay flattened on the floor with its mouth open.

Sherman’s hand hurt terribly, from where he had hit the bar. He cradled it with his other hand.
I’ve broken it!
He could see the teeth marks of the mouse on his index finger and a single tiny blob of blood. With his left hand, he reached around behind his back and pulled the handkerchief out of his right hip pocket. It required a tremendous contortion. They were all watching. Oh, yes…all watching. He swabbed the blood and wrapped the handkerchief around his hand. He heard Tanooch say to another policeman:

“The guy from Park Avenue. He threw a
mouse
.”

Sherman shuffled back toward where his jacket was balled up on the floor. He sat back down on the coat. His hand didn’t hurt nearly so much any longer.
Maybe I haven’t broken it. But my finger may be poisoned from the bite!
He pulled the handkerchief back far enough to look at the finger. It didn’t look so bad. The blob of blood was gone.

The black youth was coming toward him again! Sherman looked up at him and then looked away. The fellow sat on his haunches in front of him, as before.

“Hey, man,” he said, “you know something? I’m cold.”

Sherman tried to ignore him. He turned his head. He was conscious of having a petulant look on his face.
The wrong expression! Weak!

“Yo! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Sherman turned his head toward him.
Pure malevolence!

“I ask you for a drink, and you wasn’t nice, but I’m going to give you a chance to make up for that…see…I’m feeling cold, man. I want your coat. Gimme your coat.”

My coat! My clothes!

Sherman’s mind raced. He couldn’t speak. He shook his head no.

“What’sa matter with you, man? You oughta try and be friendly, Mr. Manslaughter. My buddy, he say he know you. He saw you on TV. You wasted some ace, and you live on Park Avenue. That’s nice, man. But this ain’t Park Avenue. You understand? You best be making some friends, you understand? You been slicking me some kinda bad, bad, bad, but I’m gonna give you a chance to make up for it. New gimme the fucking coat.”

Sherman stopped thinking. His brain was on fire! He put his hands flat on the floor and lifted his hips and then rocked forward until he was on one knee. Then he jumped up, clutching the jacket in his right hand. He did it so suddenly the black youth was startled.

“Shut up!” he heard himself saying. “You and I got nothing to talk about!”

The black youth stared at him blankly. Then he smiled. “Shut
up
?” he said. “Shut
up!
” He grinned and made a snorting noise. “
Shut
me up.”

“Hey! You germs! Knock it off!” It was Tanooch at the bars. He was looking at the two of them. The black youth gave Sherman a big smile and stuck his tongue in his cheek. (Enjoy yourself! You’re gonna own your mortal hide for about sixty seconds longer!) He walked back to the ledge and sat down, staring at Sherman the whole time.

Tanooch read from a sheet of paper: “Solinas! Gutiérrez! McCoy!”

McCoy!
Sherman hurriedly put on the jacket, lest his nemesis rush forward and snatch it before he could leave the cell. The jacket was wet, greasy, fetid, completely shapeless. His pants fell down around his hips as he put it on. There were Styrofoam peanuts all over the coat and
…moving!…
two cockroaches had crawled into the folds. Frantically he swept them off onto the floor. He was still breathing rapidly and loudly.

As Sherman filed out of the cell behind the Latinos, Tanooch said to him in a low voice, “See? We didn’t forget you. Your name’s actually about six more down the list.”

“Thank you,” said Sherman. “I appreciate that.”

Tanooch shrugged. “I’d rather walk you outta there than sweep you outta there.”

The main room was now full of policemen and prisoners. At the desk, the Angel’s desk, Sherman was turned over to a Department of Corrections officer, who manacled his hands behind his back and put him in a line with the Latinos. His pants now fell hopelessly around his hips. There was no way he could pull them up. He kept looking over his shoulder, fearful that the black youth might be right behind him. He was the last person in the little line. The Corrections officers led them up a narrow stairway. At the top of the stairs was another windowless room. More Corrections officers sat at some beat-up metal desks. Beyond the desks
—more cells!
They were smaller, grayer, dingier than the white-tile cells downstairs. Real jail cells, they were. On the first was a peeling sign that said,
MEN ONLY—21 AND OVER—8 TO 10 CAP
. The
21 AND OVER
had been crossed out with some sort of marker. The entire line of prisoners was led into the cell. The handcuffs were left on. Sherman kept his eyes pinned on the doorway they had first entered. If the black youth came in and was put into this small cell with him—he—he—his fear made him crazy. He was sweating profusely. He had lost all track of time. He hung his head down to try to improve his circulation.

Presently they were led out of the cell and toward a door made of steel bars. On the other side of the door Sherman could see a line of prisoners sitting on the floor of a corridor. The corridor was scarcely thirty-six inches wide. One of the prisoners was a young white man with an enormous cast on his right leg. He wore shorts, so that the entire cast was visible. He was sitting on the floor. A pair of crutches leaned against the wall beside him. At the far end of the corridor was a door. An officer stood beside it. He had a huge revolver on his hip. It occurred to Sherman that this was the first gun he had seen since he entered this place. As each prisoner left the detention area and went through the gate, his handcuffs were removed. Sherman slumped against the wall, like all the rest. The corridor was airless. There were no windows. It was filled with a fluorescent haze and the heat and stench of too many bodies. The meat spigot! The chute to the abattoir! Going…where?

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and a voice from the other side said, “Lander.” The Corrections officer inside the corridor said, “Okay, Lander.” The young man with the crutches struggled to his feet. The Latino next to him gave him a hand. He bounced on his good foot until he could get the crutches settled under his armpits.
What on earth could he have done in that condition?
The policeman opened the door for him, and Sherman could hear a voice on the other side calling out some numbers and then, “Herbert Lander?…counsel representing Herbert Lander?”

The courtroom! At the end of the chute was the courtroom!

By the time Sherman’s turn came, he felt dazed, groggy, feverish. The voice from the other side said, “Sherman McCoy.” The policeman inside said, “McCoy.” Sherman shuffled through the door, holding his pants up, sliding his feet so as to keep his shoes on. He was aware of a bright modern room and a great many people going this way and that. The judge’s bench, the desks, the seats, were all made of a cheap-looking blond wood. To one side people moved in waves around the judge’s elevated blond-wood perch, and on the other side they moved in waves in what appeared to be a spectators’ section. So many people…such a bright light…such confusion…such a commotion…Between the two sections was a fence, also of blond wood. And at the fence stood Killian…He was there! He looked very fresh and dapper in his fancy clothes. He was smiling. It was the reassuring smile you save for invalids. As Sherman shuffled toward him, he became acutely aware of what he himself must look like…the filthy sodden jacket and pants…the Styrofoam peanuts…the wrinkled shirt, the wet shoes with no strings…He could smell his own funk of filth, despair, and terror.

Someone was reading out some number, and then he heard his name, and then he heard Killian saying his own name, and the judge said, “How do you plead?” Killian said to Sherman,
sotto voce
, “Say, ‘Not guilty.’ ” Sherman croaked out the words.

There seemed to be a great deal of commotion in the room. The press? How long had he been in this place? Then an argument broke out. There was an intense heavyset balding young man in front of the judge. He seemed to be from the District Attorney’s Office. The judge said
buzz buzz buzz buzz Mr. Kramer
. Mr. Kramer.

To Sherman, the judge seemed very young. He was a chubby white man with receding curly hair and a set of robes that looked as if they had been rented for a graduation.

Sherman heard Killian mutter, “Sonofabitch.”

Kramer was saying, “I realize, Your Honor, that our office agreed to bail of only $10,000 in this case. But subsequent developments, matters that have come to our attention since that time, make it impossible for our office to agree to such a low bail. Your Honor, this case involves a serious injury, very possibly a fatal injury, and we have definite and specific knowledge that there was a witness in this case who has not come forward and that that witness was actually in the car driven by the defendant, Mr. McCoy, and we have every reason to believe that attempts have been or will be made to prevent that witness from coming forth, and we do not believe it will serve the interests of justice—”

Killian said, “Your Honor—”

“—to allow this defendant to go free on a token bail—”

A rumble, a growl, an immense angry mutter rose from the spectators’ section, and a single deep voice shouted: “No bail!” Then a mighty mutterers’ chorus: “No bail!”…“Lock ’im up!”…“Bang it shut!”

The judge rapped his gavel. The muttering died down.

Killian said, “Your Honor, Mr. Kramer knows very well—”

The rumble rose again.

Kramer plowed on, right over Killian’s words: “Given the emotions in this community, quite justifiably aroused by this case, in which it has appeared that justice is a reed—”

Killian on the counterattack, shouting: “Your Honor, this is patent nonsense!”

A mighty rumble.

The rumble erupted into a roar; the muttering into a great raw yawp. “Awww, man!”…“Booooo!”…“Yeggggh!”…“Shut your filthy mouth and let the man talk!”

The judge banged the gavel again. “Quiet!” The roar subsided. Then to Killian: “Let him finish his statement. You can respond.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Kramer. “Your Honor, I would call the court’s attention to the fact that this case, even in the arraignment stage, on very short notice, has brought out a heavy representation of the community and most specifically of the friends and neighbors of the victim in this case, Henry Lamb, who remains in extremely grave condition in the hospital.”

Kramer turned and motioned toward the spectators’ section. It was packed. There were people standing. Sherman noticed a group of black men in blue work shirts. One of them was very tall and wore a gold earring.

“I have a petition,” said Kramer, and he lifted some sheets of paper and waved them over his head. “This document has been signed by more than a hundred members of the community and delivered to the Bronx District Attorney’s Office with an appeal that our office be their representative, to see that justice is done in this case, and of course it is no more than our sworn duty to be their representative.”