The Witness Page 5

  “Now, I’m going to tell you in all candor,” Sergeant Frankel said, “that I have no idea why you men were sent here or why it was decided at the last minute to beef up the force. For the last four days there have been what we can term ‘peaceful demonstrations,’ and no arrests have been effected because no arrests have been warranted.” Sergeant Frankel noted the quick exchange of glances between two patrolmen at the rear of the van. He aimed his remarks directly at the center of the van. “These kids out here are within their rights when they march around and carry their signs and chant their slogans. As long as they don’t interfere with the conduct of business, as long as they don’t block entry into or out of the construction site, they are okay. Our job is to just keep them moving.” Sergeant Frankel felt the beads of sweat across his forehead join into a thin trickle of moisture which worked down the side of his left temple. He raised himself from a squatting position, and as he did so, twelve sets of eyes followed him. He had pretended not to hear their initial remarks when he introduced himself. After all, he knew he was a twenty-four-year-old kid who looked no more than seventeen. But he also knew, as they did from the TPF insignia at his collar, that he had been on this assignment because of his special training. All members of the Tactical Patrol Force had to meet certain specifications, the first relating to height. Sergeant Frankel was over six feet tall, with stiltlike legs and a wiry body. He also had two and a half years of college, two years as an Army MP, and special training at the Police Academy which gave him a certain understanding of the present situation. Why these extra men had suddenly been tossed into the line was a puzzle, but Sergeant Frankel had to work with what they sent him.

  “Now, it is going to be real hot again today. We can expect it to break a hundred, so the weather is against us all the way. It’s hot, it’s humid and the kids are planning to lie down.”

  “We know what they’re planning?” a hard voice asked.

  Sergeant Frankel nodded. “Yes, our CO had a conference with four of the student leaders last night.”

  “A conference, for Chrissake.”

  Sergeant Frankel sucked in his breath; his stomach was so flat it was nearly concave. “Now listen. These kids are not criminals. They’ve told us their plans and they’ve been advised of the position they’d be putting themselves in. Whether they go through with it or not remains to be seen. But if they do, then our job will be to lift them bodily and place them in the vans.”

  There was a groaning, a flexing of shoulders and arms and a soft, long string of swear words. The young sergeant moved to the center of the van. He placed his feet wide apart and took a long, slow look around, meeting each pair of eyes, trying to memorize each face and to calculate where he might lean and where he would have to be careful. The top of Sergeant Frankel’s hat nearly touched the ceiling. His face tightened and he jabbed an index finger as he spoke. “If and when we get the order to place the demonstrators under arrest, you, you, you”—he turned, then pointed again—“and you, you and you, will be assigned to lifting bodies. The rest of you men are assigned to crowd control.” He reached under one of the seats for his clipboard. “All of you men sign the roster: name, shield number, command, and indicate your specific assignment with either ‘Lb.’ or ‘c.c.’ I’ll be back in a minute—stay put.”

  Lieutenant Ralph McDermott was thirty-six years old. He wore his shiny peaked uniform hat tipped forward over his forehead, his chin raised in such a position that he seemed to be glaring at Sergeant Frankel. “Hey, Stan, what kind of group you got in there?”

  “Lieutenant, what the hell is cooking? Why they sending in precinct men? Even if these kids flop, we could handle it.”

  McDermott, his shaded eyes on a level with Frankel’s, raised his shoulders. “I don’t know what gives, but they’re beefing up the whole area.”

  “We got anything really serious here? Seems to me we’re getting ready for something heavy.”

  “Son, the New York City Police Department is always ready for something heavy. Let me give your guys a look and a little pep talk.”

  The sergeant preceded the lieutenant into the van and motioned for the men to remain seated. “This is Lieutenant McDermott of the TPF, in charge of our sector of the operation.”

  The upper half of Lieutenant McDermott’s face was shadowed by his hat, but the men noted the firm, square jaw and tight lips and their silence was respectful. He might be one of the new-breed boys but he looked like he knew what it was all about. They were surprised by his quiet voice.

  “Sergeant Frankel has briefed you men, and I just want to add my few words to his. This is a tight setup here. We will all be under heavy pressure. There are more goddam cameras and news photographers and reporters than you’ve ever seen assembled in any one place, so we are going to be under constant scrutiny. If the order comes to lift bodies, that is exactly what you are going to do: lift them.” He tilted his head back slightly and two pale eyes surveyed each face in the van. “You will not shove, kick, gut-punch, pinch, jab or use unnecessary force. Further, you will not make any remarks, comments, statements, et cetera. Clear?”

  One patrolman, directly in McDermott’s line of vision, started a comment to the man next to him, but he swallowed the wisecrack and McDermott’s eyes stayed on the man’s throat for ten full seconds before his face relaxed. “Okay. Now one other thing. There are some hecklers in the crowd. Some of the heckling will be directed at us—at all of us, at our blue uniforms. The demonstrators will probably call us anything from pigs to fascists; that’s standard. The construction workers and their sympathizers will call us anything from finks to cowards.” He leaned his head back again, folded his arms across his chest. “Now, I trust that you gentlemen are thick-skinned enough to accept a little name-calling with good grace?”

  There was a small rumble of polite laughter and McDermott nodded and signaled Sergeant Frankel to leave the van with him. He waited until the door closed behind them. “It might be a rough one, Stan. I wish to God they’d left the job to us.”

  Christie had seen the young student leader many times on television, so that she was familiar with his face and with his voice, which, while soft, could be heard quite clearly because of the hush that encircled him. What impressed her was the aura that radiated from him: an aura of calm serenity yet certain determination. He stood among them, the center of it all, the leader of it all, and there was no slightest trace, no hint, of the excitement that surrounded him. He scanned the faces around him but his own face reflected nothing of the mood of the students; he was sober and calm and controlled and intent. His words had a quieting effect, which did not destroy the purpose of his followers but rather clarified their aims.

  “Now, there will be the most total media coverage given to us today,” Billy Everett said, “and this is our immediate aim: to catch the public eye and the public mind, and thereby to catch the public conscience. We have elected this course of action.” He paused, his eyes finding the nod of understanding. “We have elected this course of action freely. We must remember and hold onto that. The police officers assigned here will be doing their sworn duty and they have no choice. The choice was ours and we have made it. This must be a moral demonstration and I rely on you—as we must rely on each other—to keep this fact in mind: We have made our choice!”

  Those words, spoken slowly and distinctly, worked through the crowd, from the circle immediately around him, back steadily to the vast group of anonymous faces. The words spread into a rallying cry until the entire area reverberated: “We have made our choice!”

  Billy Everett nodded in response to some question put to him. He smiled, scanned the faces around him, consulted his watch and turned against the bodies that seemed to hold him fast. “Let’s move out now,” he said. Hands reached out, pressed his shoulder, his arm, patted his head with rough affection, and Christie noted that he seemed genuinely surprised and touched, for he, in turn, reached out for the others.

  Reardon’s daughter stayed close to
the standard-bearer for the FFA: BROOKLYN LOCAL—Billy’s local—and she caught his arm and exchanged some words with him and he smiled and nodded. Christie stayed, unnoticed, within physical contact of the girl because should one person come between them the girl would be swallowed in the press of moving bodies.

  The demonstrators moved across the wide-open area of rubble in a loosely formed line. As they approached the row of wooden police barricades that fenced the construction site on one side and the improvised roadway on the other, the ranks of demonstrators began to tighten. There was another row of barricades on the far side of the road, to hold back a large group of spectators. Tall, immaculately groomed TPF men stood with their backs to the crowds, a long, even line at arm’s distance from each other. They faced the demonstrators and seemed alert, but not too tense. A police captain and lieutenant, the gold on their caps and at their shoulders sparked by the sun into gashes of flickering light, stood directly across the road, but their eyes were not on the slowly moving line of construction trucks coming toward them, nor on the police emergency vehicles that were parked to one side of the road. Christie noted that the lieutenant’s lips were pressed into a tight, thin line. The visor of his cap hid his eyes but she knew they were fastened on Billy Everett. The captain’s face was flushed to a dull, dry pink and he licked his lips, then moved to face the demonstrators.

  He held up a white-gloved hand. He looked uncomfortable in his heavy, navy blue uniform, not as fortunate as the patrolmen, who wore short-sleeved summer uniforms. “Okay, now, you people, that’s about far enough. You know what the limits are. You are not to move beyond the barricades.”

  Billy Everett stood absolutely still, the edge of the barricade against his hip. Christie heard the long slow intake of breath as he raised his face for a moment toward the sky. His skin was light tan in the sharp glow of the sun. He released his breath in a sad, regretful sound and a muscle was working at his jawline. He glanced down the road at the four trucks that were creeping along the dusty, littered road. His voice was almost apologetic, yet firm.

  “Captain, I regret the actions we must take even more than you do. I regret the inconvenience we must cause you and your men.”

  In a quick, graceful, unexpected motion, Billy Everett ducked his body down and emerged on the other side of the barricade, and before anyone could stop him he moved the barricade aside. As the young people surged through the opening, the captain’s hand gestured, a quick half-wave, and his signal produced immediate action. Four of the TPF men came forward toward the opening.

  A young TPF man, his face smooth and earnest, his voice friendly, said, “Hell, Billy, come on. You don’t want to get locked up.”

  Billy smiled at the officer, touched his elbow lightly. “That’s the way things are.”

  Several of the barricades were pushed aside and the captain signaled for the police emergency trucks. The demonstrators swept onto the improvised road and ranged themselves around their leader, who lay stretched flat on his back at the feet of the police captain.

  Christie’s hand grasped the shoulder of Reardon’s daughter; she tried to hold the girl back, but Barbara Reardon, if she felt the pressure at all, must have thought it was just part of the general jostling for there was physical contact all around them in the rush to be part of it. Mechanically, Christie lay down beside the girl but kept her head up high enough to watch the action. Men with earphones clamped across their heads were stepping over prone bodies, stretching cigar-shaped microphones at arm’s length, trying to duck so that the zoom lenses behind them could close in on the captain’s face and catch his words and expression and gestures. There was a series of blinding flashes as the newspaper photographers aimed straight down at the demonstrators and Christie leaned forward, hiding Barbara Reardon’s face with the back of her head. She heard the low heavy rumbling as the trucks approached. The drivers, slowing their vehicles, leaned their heads out of the cabs and began shouting, adding their words to the insults from the crowd of spectators.

  The captain’s voice was harsh and thin as he addressed them and did not quite carry over the noise from the hecklers. “You are committing an act of disorderly conduct. If you will all rise to your feet now and clear this roadway, these men can get on with their jobs. If you refuse to rise and clear this roadway, I have no other choice but to place you all under arrest.”

  Billy Everett raised himself on one elbow. “Captain, will the union officials accept members of minority groups into their training programs? Will they accept qualified men, regardless of their race, into their unions? Until such time, we have no alternatives.”

  The captain’s face was expressionless. “Very well, you are all under arrest.”

  Christie turned her head and watched the progress of the police vans. Her mouth felt dry and sandy from the heat of the sun and the dirt of the road. Barbara Reardon lay beside her, her face pale, her eyes half closed. She was breathing in shallow, quick gasps of air. The sounds from across the road, which had been a humming noise, took shape. The words were ugly and hard. A loud masculine voice could be heard over the other voices: “String the bastard Commies up!”

  The crowd cheered and picked up the cadence until the words became a chant: “String the bastard Commies up!” Intermittently there were loud hoots and catcalls and threats and insults, but all around her Christie saw that the demonstrators appeared to be calm and under control. A chant spread among them now, rising over their heads, and Barbara Reardon, her lips dry and trembling slightly, her eyes closed tightly now, repeated the slogan: “We have made our choice!”

  Christie calculated quickly. When they were on their feet, as they approached the vans, she would identify herself and claim to take Barbara into custody herself. There wouldn’t be any questions asked; the uniformed men would be grateful to have her assistance. Arresting a female was a rough deal for a man. She’d get the girl out of here and—

  Through all the noise there was a sudden crashing sound, the sound of glass smashing with a terrible finality. All heads turned instinctively toward the first construction truck, which had been pulled to a stop on police orders. Slowly, as if in a trance, the driver emerged, holding his right hand up to his forehead, bewildered at the red blood that gushed between his fingers and streamed down his face. The TPF men moved closer together, and without instruction they extended their arms to form a human chain, holding the mass of spectators. They were forced a few inches from their original position, but they held firm a distance of fifteen feet from where the demonstrators lay. The sight of blood seemed to infuriate the crowd and they strained against the police line. A voice called out, “They want blood, we’ll give them blood—some of their own!”

  At the explosive shattering within the group, Christie turned her body instinctively so that her shoulder pressed against Barbara Reardon’s face. “Keep your head down!” she instructed the girl. “For God’s sake, turn over onto your stomach and keep down!”

  There were sharp startled cries of shock and pain as a series of missiles—bottles, beer cans, stones, pieces of chain—was sent raining down among them. Christie heard the furious voice of a technician who had just realized that his television equipment had been damaged. The captain was shouting his orders now and his vocabulary, which had been so careful and so official, was breaking into urgency and would have to be censored before any footage of him could be shown on the late news.

  A hand grasped Christie’s shoulder, half pulled her to her feet, and without looking up she grabbed at Barbara Reardon. “Come on, let’s get up now. Barbara, get up!” The girl stayed where she was, as unrelenting as the other demonstrators. In a kneeling position, Christie traced the path of a broken bottle: It was going in the wrong direction. Someone within the group was responding to the attack. A cry of fury and pain came from the crowd of hecklers; they hadn’t expected to be assaulted.

  Billy Everett rose to his knees, his face pained and worried for the first time. His lips formed the word “No,” but
his voice could not be heard over the growing reaction from within his own group.

  “How long we going to take it? How long we going to lie back and take it?”

  This was something new. Christie’s attention spun about, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. An odd fact registered in her brain. First one voice would call out in anger; then, as though in answer, from another section of the half-kneeling, half-lying bodies, another voice picked it up. As though it had been planned. Another missile, a piece of chain, soared through the air, back into the crowd that had sent it. There was a shriek as the chain hit a target. There was a move as irresistible as an ocean current and the TPF men, reinforced by regular patrolmen, leaned backwards, then toppled forward. Their hands lost contact With each other and the mob, faceless, waded into the prone demonstrators and heavy shoes kicked out and directionless fists struck. A solid body of blue uniforms surged into the mob, forcing them back and away. Some demonstrators were shoved into the mob, and some of the mob were herded back into the crowd of demonstrators. A hand pulled Christie to her feet; an arm shoved her back to the ground again. She had a deathlike grip on Barbara Reardon’s arm, and as they lunged, directionless in the mass of bodies, Christie’s cheek hit against Billy Everett’s shoulder, then a blue uniform shirt pressed against her face. She could no longer see Reardon’s daughter, but her hands never left the girl.

  The police officers grappled with arms and legs and bodies. Billy Everett, tall and lanky, seemed to be struggling against them, his arms slipping free of their grasp. He turned into the group of his demonstrators. They were alien to him. They had the face of the mob. Voices all around him were screaming words he could not understand, shouting back the anger and the threats and the demands that were hurled at them.