“And then what?” asks Fred Green.
“Then Melinda is going to go stand up there to try and disperse the crowd.”
“Whoa. How’s that?” Melinda says, suddenly engaged.
“I think they are less likely to be violent against a woman.”
“So why am I wearing a bulletproof vest?”
“I might be wrong. OK, folks, showtime.”
Irv opens the car door, but before he is able to slide out, Fred manages to grip Irv’s shirt at the shoulder. This surprises him, and he looks at the hand and the arm attached to it. Reverend Fred Green has reached out so far that his face is pressed against the glass, distorting his cheek and muffling his message. “After Jeffrey, and Lydia . . .” he says.
“I know,” says Irv, shaking Fred off.
“After Jeffrey and Lydia,” repeats Green, gripping him even tighter, “if the police shoot one black person in defense of a white gang—no matter the circumstances . . .”
“I get it, Reverend. And now that you know about Marcus being a suspect too—though an unlikely one—I assume you want me to find him. Get this solved. I know. I’m working on that, too.”
“No, Sheriff. I do not want you to find him. Or arrest him.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why not?”
“Because justice lost is better than justice denied.”
Melinda opens the back door of the car and leads the reverend toward the crowd.
Irving does not follow them. Instead he makes a beeline for Pinkerton, who is on the phone looking very pleased with himself, and who clearly wants a chance to demonstrate his skills with leadership and a baton. Pinkerton gives Irv the upward dude-nod. Irv, scowling, is now between the gathering and the SERT, and everyone’s eyes are on him.
Someone shouts “No justice, no peace.” It sounds less like an analysis than a promise.
“Joe,” says Irv to Pinkerton.
“Sheriff. Howard wants a word.”
“Don’t shoot anybody while I’m on the phone. And turn some of your people around. Face the upstate biker-Nazis.”
“I don’t think they’re Nazis, Sheriff,” says Pinkerton. “They’re just white supremacists.”
“That’s what we call a distinction without a difference, Pinkerton. Now: Point some of the guns at the white people. Confederate flags have always made nice targets. That’s an order.”
Irv looks up into the sky, which glows a celestial green. The mist doesn’t cool his skin, and he imagines the acid rain eating him alive like a solvent. Eyes closed, he takes the phone from Pinkerton and presses it to his ear.
“Howard, Howard, Howard. Why are you always in my face?”
“How does it look?”
“Manageable,” says Irv, lying.
“You ran your campaign on being hard on crime.”
“I ran my campaign on being smart on crime, which everyone took to mean whatever they wanted, which is how I won. You’re wasting my time, Howard, and I’m going to hang up.”
“I know—the commissioner knows—that you’re sympathetic to the Simmons family and don’t agree with the Carman verdict. Well . . . too bad. That’s the law and you’re the lawman. If anyone in that crowd breaks the law, you make the arrest and get control. The law is colorblind. No exceptions.”
Irv hangs up to keep from saying something he’d enjoy but regret.
Taking a breath, Irv turns to face forty irate people who—against expectations—turn out not to be facing him or the line of cops. Instead, their attention is directed toward Reverend Fred Green, who is now gathering people toward him with slight gestures, the way a guide might draw a tour group tighter to discuss a ruin. His face is passive and relaxed under that massive umbrella, and once a circle forms he starts shaking hands and introducing himself to those he doesn’t know.
Irv is too far away to hear him. What Irv can see, though, is that Fred Green is not doing most of the talking. He is not politicking or working the crowd. He is, primarily, listening. And with someone attentive and interested to speak to, they are speaking. One by one: gesturing, explaining, wondering.
Irv turns to Pinkerton. “Shoulder all the rifles, take off the helmets, and tell your men to clean their fingernails. We’re deescalating.”
“That’s not wise.”
“That’s an order. And I want you to personally go into that clubhouse over there and arrest somebody.”
“For what?”
“Something illegal, preferably. But anything will do. Catch and release is fine. Just . . . go catch. I want bearded faces shouting obscenities on the evening news.”
“Something like what?”
“Like what?”
No imagination in this guy. Nothing.
“Put your Popeye Doyle hat on,” Irv explains, “and find me illegal possession of a firearm, drugs, drunk and disorderly conduct, wearing plaid and fatigues at the same time, or simply picking their feet in Poughkeepsie. I couldn’t care less. I mean, shit, Joe, maybe you can get one to hit you and we’ll have a win-win. Either way, I want to see a white man in handcuffs in five minutes.”
“I thought we were the law, Sheriff.”
“That’s where the country has forgotten its roots, Pinkerton, but luckily I remember. We’re not just the law, Joe. We’re the peacemakers. Like the old Colts. We are here to be more than meter maids, Joe. We’re here to be the actual instruments of God. Because it was the Lord above who said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers for they will be called children of God.’ Matthew Five, verse nine. Now go walk in the way of the Lord, Pinkerton. Make peace. Right the fuck now.”
The News
Two months ago, Marcus invited Lydia to Montreal for a long weekend with the intention of exploring as much of her mind and body as he possibly could. It was only an
