“I don’t understand. How can that be?” she says. “If they were repealed, why are they still there?”
I try to explain it to her. “What Scarborough discovered was a seam in the way in which the Constitution is published. Its system of publication is unique to that document.”
Fortunately for Scarborough and unfortunately for the country, removing the language of slavery from the Constitution is not something that can easily be done.
I explain to her that “this is likely to require a separate constitutional amendment altering the style of the amending process. Scarborough knew this. So he knew he wasn’t wasting his time publishing Perpetual Slaves. The book would have a long shelf life, because Congress couldn’t wave its magic wand and pass a bill to fix the problem and the president couldn’t do it by executive order.
“There is no simple procedural mechanism for this,” I tell Sarah. “The process and style for amending language in the Constitution have remained the same for more than two hundred years. It’s not like a statute or bill passed by Congress. There, the language that is repealed or amended is stricken from the codebooks and no longer appears in print after a short time following its amendment. On the other hand, words repealed from the Constitution will always remain in print as part of the document, even though they may no longer be enforced and are dead-letter law.”
Sarah thinks about this for a moment, then starts to read again.
“According to the story, it says here, ‘Now, with a spotlight cast on them for all to see, the offending words of slavery fester like some open wound, threatening to give rise to race riots unseen in the nation since the 1960s.’”
She looks at me. “Do you really think that could happen?”
“I hope not, but there’s already been violence. Mr. Scarborough and his book stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
“But wasn’t that the purpose of his book? Social justice?” she says. “According to political theory, what I’m reading now, violence is sometimes the price that has to be paid. Jefferson said-”
“I know. ‘The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants.’”
“You read that?” she says.
“Many years ago.”
As it turns out, her interest is sufficiently piqued that when I set forth the following morning headed for Richard Bonguard’s office, Sarah is with me. She says she will not utter a word. She will sit in the corner like a mouse.
Sarah and I are in the back of a taxi stopped dead in traffic, the remnants of rush hour and the parking lot that is midtown Manhattan.
I warn her that Bonguard may not be friendly. He is, potentially at least, a hostile witness.
“Gee, you think, Dad?” Sarah looks at me, one eyebrow arched. “Your client did kill his cash cow.”
“Is accused of killing,” I correct her.
She ignores me. “Besides, I’ve never seen a literary agent before, so this is a first. Who knows, I may want to write a book someday. What was he like on the phone?”
“Businesslike and guarded,” I tell her. Bonguard agreed to talk with me as much out of curiosity as anything else. From our brief conversation on the phone, it was clear. He is seeking a mutual exchange of information. “I suspect he wants to know whatever it is that I know.”
“Like what?” asks Sarah.
“Mostly he wanted to know about Arnsberg-what he’s like, his background. And of course the big enchilada-why he might want to kill Scarborough.”
“Maybe he’s planning on writing a book,” says Sarah.
“Nothing would surprise me. Let’s hope that’s all it is.”
“You worry too much,” she says.
“I get paid to worry.”
What has me worried in this case is that Bonguard, a close acquaintance of the victim, would normally be high on the list of possible prosecution witnesses. The cops would be all over him, urging him not to talk to the defense and, if he does, to pump us for as much information as possible. Talking with him could be tantamount to a conference call with the cops.
“He’s probably just curious,” says Sarah.
“Let’s hope so.”
“So what are you going to tell him?”
“As little as possible.”
“What about this letter?” As it has with Harry’s and mine, the mystery letter mentioned by Bonguard on Leno has captured Sarah’s interest.
“All I know is what he said on television.”
“But the police must have checked it out?” she says. “They must know something.”
“If they do, they aren’t sharing it with us. Besides, there’s a certain dynamic to a case like this, once the cops start to focus on a suspect. And they arrested ours-”
“Yours,” she says.
“Mine.” I smile at her. “They arrested Arnsberg very early on. In that kind of a situation, where they focus early on one suspect, unless there’s an alibi-the suspect was somewhere else at the time of the killing and can prove it- or some other hard evidence that points away from their suspect, the cops can be very myopic. Shortsighted,” I say.
“Dad, I know what ‘myopic’ means.”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not a kid anymore.”
The taxi takes a right, and we head down one of the less-congested cross streets toward the East River. Here we are surrounded on both sides by well-manicured multistoried brownstones. The cab pulls up in front of one of these and stops. We step out, and I pay the driver.
I check the address against the note I’d taken during my telephone conversation with Bonguard. “This is it.” I had been expecting a commercial high-rise.
There are baskets of colorful hanging flowers adorning the wrought-iron trellis that arches over the doorway at the top of the stairs. The small-paned windows are framed by neatly painted green wooden shutters, the paint glossy and fresh. Sarah and I head up the steps. On the door a small brass plate announces:
BONGUARD & ASSOCIATES
Talent and Literary Agents
I ring the bell, and an instant later a buzzer unlocks the door, so I push it open, and we enter. Inside is a large vestibule, polished hardwood floors, and solid millwork, a heavy beamed ceiling. Dark mahogany banisters flank a curved stairway leading to the upper floors in what was once an impressive private home.
Set back and off to one side is a small Louis XV desk, dark enamel and gold leaf. Seated behind it, a pretty young woman is talking on the phone.
“I’ll give him the message. I’m sure he will get back to you as soon as he can.” She hangs up, makes a quick note, and then looks up at us. “Can I help you?”
“We have an appointment with Mr. Bonguard. Paul Madriani.” I hand her a business card. She takes the card and glances down at a calendar in front of her.
“Just a moment.” She picks up the telephone receiver and pushes two buttons on the desk set, waits a couple of seconds, and then, to a voice on the other end, says, “A Mr. Madriani here to see you. Your ten o’clock. Yes.” She hangs up. “Someone will be right with you. Please have a seat.” She points toward a Louis XV sofa that is fitted into the curving wall supporting the staircase. The couch is one of those antiques with fluffed-up pillows the air from which will dissipate the moment you look at it.
Between planes and taxis over the last two days, we have been sitting for a long time, so we elect to mill around studying the artwork.
“Can I get you some coffee, a soft drink?” the receptionist asks.
I look at Sarah. She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
“We’re fine,” I tell her.
We spend five minutes checking out the prints on the walls, copies of early Manhattan landscapes, sailing ships
