The Comedy is Finished

“They bribed her,” Peter said. “They paid her off.” But the others watched the screen, as though he hadn’t spoken.

St. Clair again, glancing up at the camera then down at his script: “Also on the list is Hugh Pendry, thirty- seven, in the Federal Penitentiary at Leavenworth, Kansas. Pendry’s activities included skyjacking, the planting of bombs in such public places as the American Express office in Mexico City, and direct involvement with guerilla groups in South and Central America. He was briefly with Che Guevara in Bolivia, but returned to Cuba before Guevara’s death. He is serving concurrent life sentences for attempted murder and other crimes. When informed this morning of the kidnappers’ demand for his release, he expressed the hope that the demand would be met. Hugh Pendry wishes to leave the United States for Algeria.”

“All right,” Peter said, rubbing his palms together, looking left and right. “All right.”

A picture of a thin-faced frightened-eyed black man flashed on the screen. St. Clair: “This is Fred Walpole, thirty-five, originally a leader in student demonstrations in the New York City area, later responsible for the fire- bombing of several banks in New York and other northeastern states, currently serving twenty years to life in the Green Haven Correctional Facility in upstate New York. Walpole refused to be filmed, but this afternoon he gave the following recorded statement.”

The picture on the screen remained the same. An anonymous voice, baritone with falsetto overlays, spoke: “I don’t wanna go anywhere. I come up for parole in four, four and a half years. When I get outa here, that’s it for me. From now on, I worry about me. I don’t know those people, I don’t want to know them, I got no connection with them. And I never had anything against Koo Davis.”

“That could be anybody,” Peter said. “It’s a fake.”

Joyce, her voice and expression miserable, said, “No, it isn’t, Peter. I’m sorry, I’m dreadfully sorry, but you know it isn’t.”

“Shut your nasty little faces,” Ginger said, “or leave my house.”

The picture of Fred Walpole had now been replaced by a color photograph of a priest in front of a church; the priest, a slender black-haired youngish man in black gown and black-rimmed glasses, looked serious, sincere and not particularly intelligent. St. Clair’s voice was saying, “Louis Golding, forty-two, an ex-priest currently serving an indeterminate sentence in a Federal Correctional Facility in Pennsylvania for destruction of government property, was interviewed earlier today.”

Another institutional setting, another nervous man sitting at a wooden table with a barred window behind him. This man, however, looked almost nothing like the photograph of the priest; his dark hair was much thinner, his face was more drawn and lined, and his plain-rimmed glasses made it easier to see his level intelligent eyes. “I would certainly never leave the United States of America,” he said, with a passionate intensity only increased by the weakness of his voice. “I consider myself a missionary to America, as much as Pere Marquette or any of the other priests who came here three hundred years ago. This is still a barbarous nation. My work is here. When I am released, whenever that may be, it is in America that I must continue my mission.”

“Well, he’s stir crazy,” Peter said. “You can see that. Can’t you?” Needing a response, he reached out to pat Joyce’s head where she sat on the floor in front of him. “Can’t you?”

“Yes,” she said.

St. Clair was on the screen again, looking at his audience. He said, “It was two-thirteen Van Dyke.”

Joyce started, a sudden tremor through her entire body as though an electric charge had just thrummed through her. Peter, his hand still resting on her hair, frowned down at the top of her head, saying, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Ssshh, listen.”

St. Clair was reading his script, “The next person on the list, Abby Lancaster, thirty-three, a leader of rent strikes and anti-landlord demonstrations in New York City, also leader of a movement for free subways in New York City, now in a New York State Correctional Facility, convicted of arson, assault, destruction of public property, and other crimes. Miss Lancaster also refused to be filmed, and refused as well to allow a recording of her voice. Following our agreement not to show any picture of her on this broadcast, she made the following signed statement, in the presence of two witnesses who have personal knowledge of her identity. This is the statement: ‘I, Abby Lancaster, no longer believe violence can ever produce lasting good. I will become eligible for parole in ten months’ time. It is my hope to receive parole, and to continue the career in social work I misguidedly deviated from several years ago. I have no desire for further notoriety.’ That’s Miss Lancaster’s statement.”

Peter closed his eyes. The hand that had patted Joyce’s head rubbed his cheeks. Ginger watched him, eyes glinting.

Another photo appeared on the screen, a serious-looking young black man with an exaggerated afro. This seemed to have been cropped from some larger group photo, a graduation or team picture or some such thing. St. Clair’s voice said, “This is William Brown, thirty-three, currently serving a life sentence in the New Jersey State Prison at Rahway for murder in the first degree. Brown, originally a Black Panther, later joined one of the more militant offshoots of the Panthers and was convicted of murdering two Black Panther leaders in 1969. Other black militants had tried him in absentia in their own kangaroo court, found him guilty of murder and sentenced him to death. He turned himself in to the authorities for his own protection. When informed this afternoon of the prospect of leaving prison and going to Algeria, Brown stated that he would be agreeable.”

“All right,” Peter whispered, but he went on rubbing his cheeks.

Liz gasped as the next photograph appeared on the screen: a dark-haired, recklessly grinning, handsome young man. St. Clair’s voice said, “This is Eric Mallock, thirty-three, serving an indeterminate sentence in the Federal Penitentiary at Lewisburg, Kentucky. He was captured in 1972 when his bomb factory in Chicago exploded. He has been convicted of second-degree murder, manslaughter, attempted murder, assault, arson and other crimes. He was interviewed this afternoon at Lewisburg.”

Liz covered her eyes with a rigid hand, but at the sound of Mallock’s voice she lowered the hand and gazed unblinking at the screen.

Another institutional setting, but this time the man was seated on a metal folding chair in front of a tan tile wall. He sat bent forward, elbows on knees, eyes looking at a presumed interviewer to the camera’s left, hands gesturing between his knees as he spoke. His was recognizably the same face as before, but blurred by a smoothness of flesh; he’d apparently put on thirty or forty pounds since that earlier picture had been taken. The recklessness was gone from his mouth and eyes, and his hair was neater, more controlled. He said, “It’s hard for me now to understand myself as of several years ago. I made mistakes, criminal mistakes. The cause I was working for was not wrong, I think most Americans realize that now, but my methods were wrong. The desperation I felt, some of my friends felt, I don’t know if we were right, if change would have come about no matter what we did. All I know is, we all claimed we were prepared to pay the consequences; as for me, when the time came I found I wasn’t prepared to pay the consequences. My first few years here were very difficult. Now I feel differently. I don’t know what the future holds, I’m just living day by day. I’ve been very active in forming various prisoner programs here, I started a very successful bookkeeping course, I work on the prison newspaper. There’s still a lot to be done here, every-where—I suppose in Algeria, too. But not for me. If those are my friends out there—” and for the only time he glanced directly at the camera, his eyes and here-and-gone grin a quick faint echo of that former recklessness “—and I suppose they are—” he returned his gaze to the interviewer, the somber mask again firmly in place “—I appreciate their intentions, I wouldn’t presume to say whether they’re right or wrong, but I think they ought to go on without me.”

Liz closed her eyes and lowered her head, covering her face with her hand.

Mallock was followed by a black-and-white news photograph of an angry demonstration scene. The focus was on two uniformed policemen struggling with a stocky bushy-haired moustached man flailing about himself with a sign on a long stick. St. Clair’s voice said, “This is Howard Fenton, thirty-nine, convicted of tax evasion and related offenses. He is currently in the Federal Correctional Facility at Danbury Connecticut, where he was interviewed this afternoon.”

They were shown again the same room where the first prisoner, Cobberton, had been interviewed. The man sitting at the table this time was a somewhat older and thinner version of the man in the news photograph. His speech was rapid, the words jumbling together, his hands jittering in the air as he spoke: “I don’t know who these