time I added the knit shirt and the underwear, my bankroll was reduced to thirty dollars and forty-seven cents. But at least I’d have something to put on while I washed my state clothes in the sink.
I walked down to Washington Square and passed the afternoon with the folk musicians and singers. The chess hustlers still gathered in the southwestern corner of the park, just as they had ten years before, and the drug dealers still whispered “coke and smoke” as I strolled past. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, without a hint of the summer heat to follow. I felt my freedom for the first time. In a few days, I’d have a job. A shitty job, true, but still a job and a steady income that might, one day in the future, buy me a room of my own in a building run by an ordinary thieving landlord instead of a grant-hungry director with an MSW.
I headed back uptown at five o’clock. I was hungry and I wanted to get to the Foundation in time for a meal. Calvin would be gone and I wouldn’t have any trouble with Sing-Sing. Sing-Sing would be too busy finding a substitute dishwasher to bother with me. Of course, there was the always the possibility that some of Calvin’s buddies would be waiting, but I simply wasn’t afraid.
Still, I wasn’t surprised to find Arthur McDonald waiting in the foyer, a worried look on his face. I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to join him in his office, either. By this time, everyone in the Foundation must have known who and what had happened to Calvin. That was the whole point of the exercise. What shocked me were the detectives lounging in McDonald’s office. One of them was short and fat. His face was all jowls and cheeks, his eyes little dots. The other cop was taller and muscular. His cheeks were dotted with acne scars and he wore a gray sport jacket over a tightly buttoned charcoal vest. He would be the bad cop.
They rose as I entered the room, evaluating my potential for violence, bracing me with hard cop stares. Then they handcuffed me, read me my rights, and told McDonald to take a walk.
“You got anything to say?”
I’d first begun to hate after I was attacked in the group home when I was nine. Before that, I’d had a full quota of anger and resentment, but I was (I think I was, anyway) still reachable. After Jack Parker and Ramsey, my anger hardened until hatred became the focus of what little self-esteem I possessed. I began by hating my adopted parents, then my real parents, then the group home and the people who ran it, then cops and politicians, then ordinary citizens. I was an outlaw in the literal sense of being outside the law and I was proud of it. Watch out, world, Pete Frangello’s gonna get even.
“Fuck you.”
As soon as Simon found out that I’d been arrested, he’d violate me, which meant I wouldn’t be eligible for bail or a hearing before the parole board until the assault charge was resolved. I was amazed that Calvin had given my name to the cops, and I couldn’t imagine him testifying in court, but even if I beat the new charge, the board could decide to send me back to prison. There are no standards of proof at parole board hearings, no rules of evidence, and while you can bring a lawyer to the hearing, the board may resent his presence enough to remand you for that reason alone.
The tall cop reached over and slapped me in the face. It was his way of opening a conversation. The fat one grabbed his hand before he could do it again. I’d been right about the good cop-bad cop routine, but that was small consolation to my face.
“Take it easy, Rico,” the fat one growled. “You wanna go before the review board?” Rico backed off and his partner returned to me. “I’m Detective Condon and this is Detective Rico. We’re arresting you for Assault in the First Degree.”
“Yeah,” Rico said, coming back at me. “One fuckin’ day out of the joint and he commits an assault. Somebody oughta give this asshole an IQ test. Find out if he’s a
I walked down to Washington Square and passed the afternoon with the folk musicians and singers. The chess hustlers still gathered in the southwestern corner of the park, just as they had ten years before, and the drug dealers still whispered “coke and smoke” as I strolled past. It was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, without a hint of the summer heat to follow. I felt my freedom for the first time. In a few days, I’d have a job. A shitty job, true, but still a job and a steady income that might, one day in the future, buy me a room of my own in a building run by an ordinary thieving landlord instead of a grant-hungry director with an MSW.
I headed back uptown at five o’clock. I was hungry and I wanted to get to the Foundation in time for a meal. Calvin would be gone and I wouldn’t have any trouble with Sing-Sing. Sing-Sing would be too busy finding a substitute dishwasher to bother with me. Of course, there was the always the possibility that some of Calvin’s buddies would be waiting, but I simply wasn’t afraid.
Still, I wasn’t surprised to find Arthur McDonald waiting in the foyer, a worried look on his face. I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to join him in his office, either. By this time, everyone in the Foundation must have known who and what had happened to Calvin. That was the whole point of the exercise. What shocked me were the detectives lounging in McDonald’s office. One of them was short and fat. His face was all jowls and cheeks, his eyes little dots. The other cop was taller and muscular. His cheeks were dotted with acne scars and he wore a gray sport jacket over a tightly buttoned charcoal vest. He would be the bad cop.
They rose as I entered the room, evaluating my potential for violence, bracing me with hard cop stares. Then they handcuffed me, read me my rights, and told McDonald to take a walk.
“You got anything to say?”
I’d first begun to hate after I was attacked in the group home when I was nine. Before that, I’d had a full quota of anger and resentment, but I was (I think I was, anyway) still reachable. After Jack Parker and Ramsey, my anger hardened until hatred became the focus of what little self-esteem I possessed. I began by hating my adopted parents, then my real parents, then the group home and the people who ran it, then cops and politicians, then ordinary citizens. I was an outlaw in the literal sense of being outside the law and I was proud of it. Watch out, world, Pete Frangello’s gonna get even.
“Fuck you.”
As soon as Simon found out that I’d been arrested, he’d violate me, which meant I wouldn’t be eligible for bail or a hearing before the parole board until the assault charge was resolved. I was amazed that Calvin had given my name to the cops, and I couldn’t imagine him testifying in court, but even if I beat the new charge, the board could decide to send me back to prison. There are no standards of proof at parole board hearings, no rules of evidence, and while you can bring a lawyer to the hearing, the board may resent his presence enough to remand you for that reason alone.
The tall cop reached over and slapped me in the face. It was his way of opening a conversation. The fat one grabbed his hand before he could do it again. I’d been right about the good cop-bad cop routine, but that was small consolation to my face.
“Take it easy, Rico,” the fat one growled. “You wanna go before the review board?” Rico backed off and his partner returned to me. “I’m Detective Condon and this is Detective Rico. We’re arresting you for Assault in the First Degree.”
“Yeah,” Rico said, coming back at me. “One fuckin’ day out of the joint and he commits an assault. Somebody oughta give this asshole an IQ test. Find out if he’s a
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