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The Massacre That Spawned the Alt-Right

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The Massacre That Spawned the Alt-Right

“Death to the Klan!” On Saturday, November 3, 1979, that chant swept over Morningside Homes, a mostly black housing project in Greensboro, North Carolina, as dozens of protesters—some donning blue hard hats for protection—hammered placards onto signposts and danced in the morning sun.

The American left had largely given up on communism by then, but these demonstrators were full-on Maoists. Their ranks included professionals with degrees from places like Harvard and Duke. And they were descending on Greensboro, a city where sit-ins helped launch the civil rights movement in 1960, to ignite another revolution. They danced to a guitar player singing, “Woke up this morning with my mind set to build the Party.” Their children dressed in tan military shirts and red berets. They even brought an effigy of a Klansman, dressed in a white sheet and hood, which kids from the neighborhood joined in punching.

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The communists planned to begin their march at noon, moving from the housing project to a local shopping center. But just after 11:20, a caravan filled with real Klansmen and Nazis surprised them, snaking through the neighborhood’s narrow byways. As the protesters stood their ground, a man in a white T-shirt leaned out the passenger window of a canary-yellow pickup truck, and yelled, “You asked for the Klan. Now you got ‘em!” The station wagon behind him carried four Nazis. Seven more vehicles followed, carrying nearly 30 more men, including an Imperial Wizard of the Klan.

What happened next took just 88 seconds, but still reverberates 40 years later. In a confrontation where white supremacists began firing pistols, rifles and shotguns, and with television cameras rolling but police nowhere to be found, five communists were shot dead in broad daylight. Ten others were injured, some left to lie bleeding in the streets.

But that November morning became momentous for more than the grotesque video footage that still lives on the Internet: The Greensboro Massacre, as it became known, was the coming-out bloodbath for the white nationalist movement that is upending our politics today.

Before Greensboro, America’s most lurid extremistslargely operated in separate, mutually distrustful spheres. Greensboro was the place where the farthest-right groups of white supremacy learned to kill together. After November 3, 1979, it was suddenly possible to imagine Confederate flags flying alongside swastikas in Charlottesville. Or a teenager like Dylann Roof hoarding Nazi drawings as well as a Klan hood in his bedroom while he plotted mass murder.

Today, white nationalism is closer to the mainstream of American politics than ever before. The far right’s fears about “replacement” of the white race and outsider “invasions” have become standard tropes at conservative media outlets, and its anger is routinely stoked by the president of the United States. At the same time, right-wing violence is on the rise: Far-right terrorists accounted for the overwhelming majority of extremist murders in the U.S. last year, according to a January report by the Anti-Defamation League.

The seeds for this iteration of white supremacy were planted 40 years ago in Greensboro, when the white wedding of Klansmen and Nazis launched a new, pan-right extremism—a toxic brew of virulent racism, anti-government rhetoric, apocalyptic fearmongering and paramilitary tactics. And this extremism has proven more durable than anyone then could imagine.

***

Segregationists of the Greatest Generation,who fought German soldiers on the battlefields of World War II, would have thought it beyond preposterous for the Klan and Nazis to make common cause. Adolf Hitler drew inspiration from Jim Crow, but American southerners strongly supported going to war against Nazi Germany. In 1946, a list of American Nazi Party members, obtained by the U.S. Army, showed that just two percent lived in the South. Nazis were dedicated to the violent overthrow of the government, as part of their program of genocidal fascism. Through the 1950s, most neo-Confederates considered themselves patriotic Americans and had faith in the U.S. political system, even as they believed in and practiced white supremacy.

But many southern traditionalists experienced the upheavals of the next two decades as a series of betrayals. By the mid-1970s, federal courts had embraced civil rights, and civic and business leaders were dismantling legal segregation. Manufacturing, textile and tobacco jobs were vanishing. Politicians on the cosmopolitan left and corporate right were abandoning blue-collar voters. Vietnam veterans were coming home unappreciated and embittered. In addition, the FBI, after years of pursuing black nationalists, began infiltrating and undermining local Ku Klux Klans through a program, largely forgotten today, called COINTELPRO-White Hate. To be sure, only a small fraction of angry southerners turned to terror groups. But the Klan’s membership grew in the ’70s, and so did its public support. Gallup reported in 1979 that 11 percent of white Americans viewed the KKK favorably, up from just six percent in 1965. And with that rebound came something more: Those who were susceptible to recruitment were far more likely than their parents or grandparents to see the U.S. government itself as an alien force bent on destroying the white way of life.

Meanwhile,American Nazis were expanding their public presence. Some younger would-be fuhrers began trading armbands for sport coats and toning down their rhetoric in media appearances in order to seem more palatable.Other Nazi leaders, like William Pierce, head of the white separatist National Alliance, started looking for partners and muscle, hoping to turn far-right fanatics from vigilantes to insurrectionists. In 1978, Pierce publishedThe Turner Diaries, a futurist fantasy-cum-blueprint for all-out race war. In Pierce’s novel, oppressed whites join forces to create an underground organization that bombs New York and murders thousands of black and Jewish people, among many other horrific acts; the book’s protagonist ultimately flies a nuclear warhead into the Pentagon.The Turner Diarieswas a huge hit with the far right, and has influenced a wide spectrum of racists—and inspired notorious hate crimes—ever since.

It wasn’t just avowed racists who gravitated to new extremes. In the weird, unusually rootless time between Watergate and the election of Ronald Reagan in 1980, America’s faith in public institutions collapsed, cynicism soared and belief in a wide range of conspiracy theories and cults, from UFOs to the Unification Church, sprouted in popularity. But those rooted in racial resentment took hold in especially bitter soil. White supremacists of all stripes came to believe they faced annihilation, and they prepared to fight it on the home front. The country, in other words, was primed for a fusion of the ultra-right.

***

The story of the Greensboro Massacrereally begins with an episode that occurred in the summer of 1979, in a tiny, working-class city 60 miles to the southwest, called China Grove.

Klan leaders in North Carolina had spent the first half of the year stepping up their recruitment efforts by appealing to the heritage of white supremacy. The Federated Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, for example, staged a historical exhibit at the Forsyth County Library—and in an early sign of what was to come, a group of Nazis showed up to ogle the items on view, surprising the media.

On July 8, the same North Carolina Klan faction tried to screenThe Birth of a Nation,the 1915 racist epic that depicts heroic figures in white hoods trying to beat back the scourge of Reconstruction at the turn of the century, at the China Grove Community Center. But before they could show the movie, more than a hundred protesters, led by communists from Durham and Greensboro, marched on the building, chanting “Death to the Klan!” and “Decease the rotten beast.” Many carried pipes and chains.

The Grand Dragon of the Federated Knights, a pot-bellied mason named Joe Grady, stood on the porch outside the building with some 20 men in robes and white-power t-shirts, rifles drawn, while members of the China Grove police force struggled to create a human buffer. Grady’s men were eager to fire on the crowd, but a policeman who walked up to him whispered that if they did, the officers trying to keep the peace were the ones who would get hurt. Grady reluctantly agreed to move into the musty bingo hall, where women and children who had been watching the approaching crowdwere hiding. Once the Klansmen retreated, a cheer rose up from the protesters, who burned a pair of Confederate flags.

Afterwards, once the crowd was gone and the screening cancelled, Grady re-emerged to face the news cameras. Grabbing a shred of burned flag, he vowed, “There will be revenge for this.” But while Grady put on a brave face for the remaining television cameras, in the eyes of his hooded peers, he had committed a cardinal sin. He had allowed himself to look weak.

By that point, the Klan’s resurgence was already triggering confrontations around the country. In Decatur, Alabama, in May 1979, more than a hundred armed Klansmen blocked a civil rights march. Later, that August, rock-throwing protesters pelted Klansmen at an anti-immigration meeting in Castro Valley, California. None of those episodes led to lethal retaliatory violence, however. China Grove was different because it got the attention of a young Nazi named Harold Covington.

Born about 20 miles east of Greensboro, Covington had attended an integrated high school in Chapel Hill, where he proudly called himself the “school fascist.” Jowly and glib, Covington traveled to South Africa where he built a minor reputation as a soldier-for-hire who’d taken up arms to defend apartheid. By the time he resettled in North Carolina and launched a losing but surprisingly well-run campaign for Raleigh city council, Covington had become an articulate, publicity-seeking ideologue, with a sideline writing campy novels—a kind of L. Ron Hubbard of the racist resistance.

With a sense of himself as a global figure, Covington regarded most Klansmen he met as boorish. The backlash to China Grove convinced him they were also in disarray.And Covington saw no one in the back-country klaverns of North Carolina capable of stepping into the void. Long before he would become a YouTube provocateur by posting white-power videos online, Covington decided to herd them into a single white-power army himself.

In a preview of 8Chan, the message-board website that would become a haven for white nationalists in the 2010s, he began bringing together various strains of supremacists, or as he put it, “normalizing relations.” His early attempts didn’t go well. The few Klan members he was able to woo were largely fabulists who made up stories to make themselves seem more violent than they really were. Deciding he needed to get a better cut, Covington organized a racist retreat on September 22 at a borrowed farm outside Louisburg, about 30 miles northeast of Raleigh, and sent word through the bars, garages and diners where “his people” hung out that they were all invited.

With the media dutifully attending what promised to be a freakshow, no detail was too small for Covington to stage-manage. Kids milled around a barbecue pit where a whole hog roasted, while parents doused a huge cross in kerosene. Nazis wore uniforms budgeted at $25 for tailored pants, $10 for boots and $2 for arm bands. The sound system alternated bluegrass tunes and “The Ride of the Valkyries.” A cute blonde in a “White Power” t-shirt sauntered with a Doberman and a rifle for photographers. In a crib, a baby wore a small shirt that read “Future Klansman.” For extra inspiration, a noose hung from a tree.

Late in the afternoon, a caravan of 20 Klansmen pulled into the farm led by a gaunt mechanic with a plunging jawline named Virgil Griffin. Griffin carried the title of Imperial Wizard of a backwoods klavern known as the Invisible Empire in Mount Holly, close to the South Carolina border. But he was also something of a joke on the national stage. His rallies, unlike Covington’s barbecue, were often threadbare affairs that dissolved into chaos. At one event, he’d been shouted down by protesters singing the theme song from “The Mickey Mouse Club,” according to an account from a community journalist, Elizabeth Wheaton, who covered radical politics around Greensboro.

If Covington looked in the mirror and saw a worldwide revolutionary, Griffin viewed himself as a backwoods patriot. After the China Grove debacle, he concluded that local Klans needed better leadership and more action, and believed he could provide both. Covington was only too happy to help feed such ambitions, elaborately making the Imperial Wizard feel like an honored guest among the other extremists—who also included the Klansmen who had peeled off from the Grady’s Federated Knights after China Grove, and a Nazi-curious crew from Winston-Salem.

The extremists nattered about where to buy guns and how to deal with the summer heat—Klan robes were sweatier than Nazi uniforms. And they found common ground.

“You take a man who fought in the Second World War, it’s hard for him to sit down in a room full of swastikas,” a Klansman told the Associated Press, which published a report about the event called “North Carolina United Racist Front Forms.” Then he added: “But people realize time is running out. We’re going to have to get together.”

***

What Virgil Griffin didn’t knowwas that one of his closest allies was keeping the cops informed about this new alliance.

Unlike the years after 9/11 when American law enforcement took its focus off white nationalism to fight Islamist terror, the 1960s and ’70s were a period of robust intelligence-gathering in the supremacist underground. One of North Carolina’s most charismatic Klansmen, a car salesman named Bob Jones who recruited 12,000 members to his state chapter, was undone by an aide whose information led to him being dragged before Congress and held in contempt. In the case of Griffin, law enforcement’s material came from a chain-smoking handyman named Eddie Dawson.

Born in New Jersey, Dawson cut an odd figure for a Southern Klansman. He spoke with a twitchy northern accent and had an uncanny resemblance to the Hollywood actor William Holden. Having drifted down to Greensboro in the early ’60s—a time when black activists were staging sit-ins at segregated lunch counters—he managed to get invited to a meeting of the Klan, and quickly established himself as an enthusiastic recruit. In one career-building episode, he took an armed joy ride through a poor black neighborhood that he peppered with rifle fire.

Dawson, however, blamed the KKK for letting him get sentenced to nine months in jail after he was convicted of assault with intent to kill for the joy ride. He was still bitter when an FBI agent approached him at a coffee shop after he got out in 1969, and offered to pay him $25 every time he told the Bureau about a Klan meeting. Dawson shook hands on the deal.

His time with the FBI ended the way most of his relationships did—unhappily. But Dawson resumed his double life a few weeks after Covington’s barbecue, when leaflets began appearing around Greensboro that announced a “Death to the Klan” march. The posters were the work of a group called the Workers Viewpoint Organization (WVO), which was filled with professionals who had elite-school degrees, identified as Maoists, and used revolutionary rhetoric to match. They had attempted to organize local textile workers, then tried direct action by taking part in the anti-KKK protest at China Grove. Now, they were itching for another, more visible confrontation with the Klan.

The leftists had plausible reasons for choosing to organize and demonstrate in North Carolina. At the end of the ’70s, the state ranked 49th in the U.S. in blue-collar wages and dead last in the percentage of workers who were unionized. But neither Duke educations nor medical training nor Maoist ideology prepared them to comprehend the culture of electricians, loggers or sheet-metal workers—jobs held by some of the men who would ride the caravan into Greensboro—beyond seeing them as either recruitable proletarians or irredeemable racists. The communists used language even more incendiary than the words on their flyers. On October 11, for instance, they issued a press release saying the KKK “must be physically beaten back, eradicated, exterminated, wiped off the face of the earth.” And they took exactly the wrong message from China Grove: that the Klan would be too cowardly to mount any resistance to them.

Instead, WVO’s leaflet lit a flame under Griffin and the Klan. It also alarmed the police in Greensboro. Soon, a detective who knew Dawson’s FBI past was talking with him about disrupting local meetings of communists, which made perfect sense. After all, the KKK rated communists about the same as black people. But Dawson had another angle, too: He could help the police investigate the Klan. With a highly-developed sense of grievance that often left him feeling under-appreciated and under-used, he saw a chance to become the one who was pulling the strings—both as an informant and as an instigator—as confrontations heated up.

On Saturday, October 20, when Griffin marched his Invisible Empire through the fairgrounds in Lincoln County, about 100 miles southwest of Greensboro, and told a crowd of 150 that if they cared about their children, they would “kill a hundred niggers and leave them dead in the street.” At a members-only meeting afterward, he introduced Dawson to talk about the planned WVO march. Towering over the 5-foot-6 Griffin, Dawson started out by warning that the communists were recruiting busloads of black college students to flood into Greensboro. Asked whether it would be a good idea to bring guns, he demurred. “I’m not your father,” he replied. “But if you carry a gun, you better have damned bond money.”

The vote among those in the audience was unanimous: They’d go to Greensboro to make their presence felt. The following weekend, as word spread, white supremacist groups met in at least three different locations around North Carolina and agreed to head there, too.

Dawson earned $50 by telling the Greensboro PD about the October 20 meeting. And he let them know Griffin was planning to come to town and looking for allies. But Dawson neglected to mention his own starring role, or the fact he subsequently drove around Morningside Homes in his Cadillac late at night, pasting leaflets over the “Death to the Klan!” posters. His replacements featured a dark figure hanging from a noose and the phrase, “It’s time for some old-fashioned American Justice.”

The Nazi camp, meanwhile, was getting just as frothy. At a November 1 event that Covington staged for the media in the garage of a sheet-metal worker named Roland Wayne Wood, a dozen of his recruits mugged through a made-for-TV roast of the disgraced China Grove wizard, Joe Grady.

Once the cameras departed, the united racists got down to the business of how they planned to crash the communists’ party in Greensboro. One suggested throwing eggs. Another went further, saying he had a pipe bomb that would be effective if thrown into a crowd. At 11:00 p.m., the group gathered around a television to watch themselves on the local news, only to become infuriated when a press conference held by the WVO’s members got more airtime. As the screen showed one of the march leaders calling the KKK “scum,” Jerry Paul Smith, the Klansman with the pipe bomb, took his gun and pointed it at the TV.

Police reports would later quote Wood as saying that he heard Smith mutter, “Kill the communist.”

***

On the morning of November 3,Dawson called his Greensboro Police contact to say that three dozen supremacists from around the state, including Virgil Griffin, were assembling at a house owned by one of Dawson’s Klan pals, a few miles from the Morningside Homes march site.

A little later, Dawson called again to warn that the place was chock full of firearms. But that information never made its way to the shift commander, who wrapped up a daily briefing at about 10:30 that morning by reminding his men the parade permit listed a start time of noon. The officers could get breakfast, he said, so long as they were on the route by 11:30.

As the Klansmen and Nazis made their way along Interstate 85 into Greensboro, a Greensboro Police detective spotted the caravan and called in to ask if tactical units were in place. His supervisor, showing no special concern, replied that there was still “another fourteen minutes by my watch” for breakfast.

The leftists planned to line up their crew at 11:00, then begin marching at noon. But at 11:22, a frightening transmission came over a CB radio: Klansmen were talking about closing in. Before the protesters could react, cars with Confederate-flag license plates began approaching. There were no cops in sight.

Dawson, who was leading the convoy, would later tell police and reporters that he merely wanted to put a scare into the Maoists before driving on to the spot at the shopping center where the march would end. It was Dawson who yelled, “You asked for the Klan. Now you got ’em!”

But then Griffin’s white LTD screeched and swerved, nearly hitting a marcher. The caravan came to a stop. The communists went from singing to swinging, banging their placards on the cars. Members of the convoy poured out, punching through the melee, grabbing weapons. Dawson told his driver to get the hell out of there—and since they were in the first car of the caravan, they were able to split.

The WVO had packed a few weapons, but were seriously outgunned. One of the WVO leaders, a physician named Jim Waller, lunged for a 12-gauge shotgun he’d stashed in a car, but a Klansman flew toward him before he could fire. The two rolled in the grass, fighting nose-to-nose over the weapon until others started piling on top of them and the pump mechanism snapped. Waller screamed as the pump-action crushed the bones in his shooting hand.

Amidst the chaos, other white supremacists lined up their shots. A Nazi named Jack Fowler opened the trunk of a blue Ford Fairlane and, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, handed out rifles and shotguns. David Matthews, from Griffin’s Klan, stood behind the door of a van and nailed his first target, a bookish pediatrician named Mike Nathan. Then Matthews took down an organizer named Jim Wrenn, who was crawling on his belly. Bill Sampson, a former Harvard Divinity student, tried to give Wrenn rifle cover but took two fatal shots in the heart.

Roland Wayne Wood observed Waller writhing from his crushed hand. Coolly aiming his shotgun, the Nazi delivered a blast into the physician’s right side. Matthews, the Klan member, finished the job with another blast into Waller’s back.

The convoy sped away, with Matthews’ van the last to leave the scene. Climbing aboard, Matthews let the rest of squad know: “I got three of ’em.” Moments later, police intercepted the van, but didn’t get to Morningside Homes until the shooting was over.

***

Eighty-eight seconds of gunfirein Greensboro marked the worst violence in the South since the 1960s. And for the men who shot their enemies dead, November 3, 1979, was just the beginning of a new era of notoriety and collaboration. The botched trials and political response that followed ensured that white nationalism would grow to become more dangerous than ever today.

The legal system took three whacks at the Greensboro conspirators. First, police rounded up 14 Klansmen and Nazis, and the state of North Carolina charged most of them with first-degree murder and felony riot. Prosecutors lined up eyewitnesses, videotapes, weapons and FBI ballistics analysis. But they couldn’t convince the surviving revolutionaries—who were stubbornly convinced the cops had conspired to leave them unprotected—to cooperate.

At trial, the Klansmen and Nazis wrapped themselves in the American flag and argued self-defense. “They acted like men to aid someone in distress,” Wood’s lawyer claimed. “They would not have been worthy of anyone’s respect if they had done otherwise.” He added that his client just wanted to sing, “My country ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, from every mountainside, let freedom ring.”

On November 17, 1980, an all-white jury found the Klansmen and Nazis not guilty. “Anytime you defeat communism,” said Jerry Pridmore, one of the men acquitted, “it’s a victory for America.”

The U.S. Justice Department then charged nine Klansmen and Nazis, this time including Griffin and Dawson, with conspiracy to violate the civil rights of the Greensboro victims. In April 1984, the federal jury, also all-white, refused to conclude the defendants had violated the law by acting out of racial rather than political hatred. It too delivered not-guilty verdicts across the board.

Finally, the victims filed a $48-million lawsuit against 87 defendants, including the city of Greensboro, the state of North Carolina, the Justice Department and the FBI. Wood, now on trial for the third time, felt confident enough to give a Nazi salute when sworn to testify.

In June 1985, the civil jury delivered a landmark yet twisted verdict: They found eight defendants liable for wrongful death: Dawson, five Klan and Nazi shooters, the Greensboro police detective who received advance word about the attack from Dawson and the lieutenant who was the GPD event commander at the massacre. But the jury applied that decision only in the case of Michael Nathan, the one murder victim who wasn’t a WVO member at the time of the shootings. To avoid appeals, the city of Greensboro settled for $351,000, sending a check to Nathan’s widow, who split it among the survivors.

Strike three.

The supremacists who emerged from the Greensboro trials understood they were free. Free not just to stay out of prison, or to keep burning rags and kvetching about the price of jackboots. Free to work together to stockpile weapons, terrorize neighborhoods and commit violence up to and including murder—so long as their opponents were communists.

“The Klan and Nazis felt emboldened,” says Patricia Clark, a veteran Klan watcher who served on the Greensboro Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which local citizens set up in the mid-2000s to investigate the massacre. “They thought they won the fight.”

By 1980, membership in Klan-Nazi fusion groups began to outnumber that of old-school Klans. And as horizons of hate broadened and merged, alliances deepened around the country. As just one example, four months after Greensboro, the California Knights of the Ku Klux Klan rallied in the city of Oceanside and beat counter-protesters with baseball bats. The marchers brayed a version of “Sixteen Tons,” the old coal-mining song. Their rewritten lyrics celebrated the Greensboro killings and ended, “If the Nazis don’t get you, a Klansman will.”

The increasing unity of far-right factions was more than tactical. By transfusing “blood and soil” into American racism, it led to what historian John Drabble called in a 2007 study “the Nazification of the Ku Klux Klan.” That was bad news for hustlers like Eddie Dawson. Dawson managed to dodge Klan retribution for informing. But he soon found it much harder to profit from playing different extremists against one another. Greensboro turned Dawson into a relic—and the hardening ideology of right-wing terror networks that followed made them harder for the FBI to penetrate.

Meanwhile, new doors swung wide open for fanatics like Frazier Glenn Miller, a Covington acolyte and former Green Beret who rode in the Greensboro caravan. Miller founded the Carolina Knights of the Ku Klux Klan in 1980. And by merging Klan and Nazi symbolism while instilling paramilitary discipline in his followers, he quickly built the strongest white-power group in the state.

As an emboldened white-power movement spread, Miller connected its dots. The Greensboro veteran held public marches, harassed local black residents and amassed huge caches of explosives. In 1987, he issued a revolutionary “Declaration of War” filled with calls for assassinations. He coordinated with The Order, a violent extremist group inspired byThe Turner Diaries. And he sought allies through voluminous racist literature and eventually on the Internet, where he extolled the mass shooting by Anders Behring Breivik in Norway. Miller returned to racist murder in 2014, when he targeted a Jewish community center in Overland Park, Kansas, and killed three people. That landed him on death row, where he sits today.

Greensboro’s aftershocks held their most important lessons for mainstream opportunists. By the end of the 1970s, southern nationalists had spent more than a decade trying to re-code their racism to make it more palatable. As master political consultant Lee Atwater put it: “You start out in 1954 by saying, ‘Nigger, nigger, nigger.’ By 1968, you can’t say ‘nigger’—that hurts you, backfires. So you say stuff like forced busing, states’ rights.”

Republican politicians soon realized they could go even farther. After Greensboro, it became clear that, as historian Kathleen Belew has written, extremists “increasingly used anticommunism as an alibi for racial violence.” And by targeting the far right’s dual paranoias—federal authority and socialism—GOP operatives were able to harness its nativism while hanging onto the votes of establishment conservatives.

Over the next 30 years, Republicans racked up spectacular gains in state legislative seats, governorships and U.S. Senate elections across the South by hammering cultural issues that the far right recognized as approving winks. A decade after Greensboro, establishment candidates were already posing in front of rebel flags and openly courting “white heritage” groups like the United Daughters of the Confederacy. The GOP advanced most in counties where the Klan had been active in the ’60s, according to a 2014 study by political scientists from Notre Dame, Brandeis and Yale.

During the administration of President Barack Obama, the new generation of conservative politicians had the extremists’ backs. In 2009, the Department of Homeland Security issued a report forecasting a rise in racist violence. Republicans objected so vociferously that DHS rescinded the projection and silenced its domestic terrorism unit. Mike Pompeo, then a congressman from Kansas, said it was “dangerous” to track homegrown violence.

By that point it was hard to tell who was co-opting whom on the right. Republicans were playing to the fringe without worrying where their most incitable elements might channel their anger.

And you know what happened next: Jonah turned the whale inside out. Donald Trump’s bald invocations of racial and working-class grievances made him a hero to the ultras; “MAGA” is the most common word in Twitter user profiles among members of the alt-right, according to a study by J.M Berger of the research network VOX-Pol. From Charlottesville to Pittsburgh to El Paso, right-wing attacks have surged. The latest evidence: The FBI made almost 100 arrests related to domestic terrorism by July of this year, more than in all of 2018, according to agency director Christopher Wray, who told Congress the majority of cases involved “white supremacist violence.”

In Greensboro, private citizens tried to find a way forward by empaneling a Truth & Reconciliation Commission—the first in U.S. history. But today’s political landscape, where the language and resentments of white nationalism have taken deeper root than ever, raises the question: What happens when there is no reconciliation in truth?

Twenty-six years after the massacre, Virgil Griffin surprised everyone at the Greensboro Commission by showing up and taking questions.

Asked why no Klansman was killed in the shootings, he answered: “Maybe God guided the bullets.”

#Alt-Right #Foreign #Politics #Spawned

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how2to18 · 6 years

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THIS IS PART XV of LARB’s serialization of Seth Greenland’s forthcoming novel The Hazards of Good Fortune. This is the last week of our serialization of the book but it isn’t the end of the novel. To finish the novel, you can pick it up in bookstores or order it upon its release on August 21st. Links to pre-order the book are below.

Greenland’s novel follows Jay Gladstone from his basketball-loving youth to his life as a real estate developer, civic leader, philanthropist, and NBA team owner, and then to it all spiraling out of control.

A film and TV writer, playwright, and author of four previous novels, Greenland was the original host of The LARB Radio Hour and serves on LARB’s board of directors. The Hazards of Good Fortune will be published in book form by Europa Editions on August 21, 2018.

To start with installment one, click here.

To pre-order (and finish the book) on Indiebound, click here; on Amazon, click here; at Barnes & Noble, click here.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The weekend had been taxing for Nicole. She spent most of it holed up in the hotel suite frantically trying to figure out who had hacked her. She still had no idea. Her friend Audrey called on Saturday to commiserate and invite her to Nantucket, but Nicole declined. She felt safer in the city. As far as Nicole’s vague plan to somehow repair her marriage, the release of the tape rendered the degree of difficulty nearly insurmountable. Not only was it humiliating for all the obvious reasons, but she had inadvertently added another layer of stress to Jay’s life, and knew her chances of getting him to reverse his decision existed in inverse proportion to his anxiety. She surmised it was still DEFCON 4 in her husband’s head. She wanted to talk with him but not enough time had passed. Yesterday afternoon she contacted Bebe. To Nicole’s relief, Bebe did not sound angry on the phone, nor was her affect in any way chilly. Jay’s sister made sympathetic noises and when Nicole asked if her sister-in-law would join her for a drink after work the next day Bebe was game.

They met at the Oak Room in the Plaza Hotel. Nicole was in a corner, nibbling mixed nuts, nursing a glass of chardonnay. Bebe sat down and ordered a vodka martini. Nicole thanked her profusely for coming, a crumpled a cocktail napkin in her hand. Nerves. When Bebe asked how she was doing Nicole looked down, shook her head, and moaned. She put the napkin on the table and with the index fingers of each hand proceeded to smooth it out. It was around six, and the bar was starting to fill up with after-work pleasure seekers and several tables of tourists. The waiter placed Bebe’s drink in front of her, glanced at Nicole—did he recognize her? She hoped not—and departed. Bebe took a sip and gazed into Nicole’s watery eyes.

“What possessed you to make a tape?”

“I was drunk; it was idiotic. I was mad at your brother.”

“You were going to show it to him?”

“No. I don’t know. I wish I could unwind everything.” She told Bebe about their fight before he left for Africa, her desire to have a child, his unwillingness, and her resentment. “I keep telling myself I’m going to call my therapist who I haven’t talked to in five years, but I don’t want him to judge me.”

“He’s a therapist. They’re not allowed to judge you.” One of the many reasons social success accrued to Nicole was because she exuded a potent mixture of refinement and aplomb that captivated men and women alike. She operated in a matrix of hints and signals. Her default mode was one of surpassing subtlety, but with the decision to take Dag to bed she had precluded that approach and the luxury of indirection was no longer hers. Too much was slipping away too quickly.

“Who do you think put that tape out there?”

“You’re asking me?” Bebe said. “How would I know? I have no idea.”

Nicole was at a loss. “I might as well ask the waiter.”

Bebe studied the martini.

“How can I help?”

“Talk to Jay,” Nicole suggested.

“And say what?”

“I love him, I’m horrified by my behavior, and I’ll do anything to get him back.”

“I’m not sure he’s going to be receptive to that message right now, but when I talk to him next I’ll try to figure out what he’s thinking, and if it’s appropriate, I’ll say something. All right?”

Nicole effusively expressed her gratitude. Bebe told her she had to get going. Franklin had invited her to a fundraiser for Christine Lupo, and because she enjoyed harassing her cousin, and wanted to take the measure of the woman who was prosecuting her brother, she could not resist.

“Wait a minute,” Nicole said. “Franklin is hosting her in his home? Why would he do that?”

“To be fair, I think he arranged this before Jay’s—” Bebe searched for the right word—“setback happened.”

“Franklin should have canceled the event,” Nicole said.

“Franklin,” Bebe said, “should have done a lot of things.”

When the waiter brought the check, Nicole took it and placed a credit card on the table. She began to say something, hesitated, then asked, “Do you think Franklin would mind if I came with you?”

“Probably.”

A look of concern clouded Nicole’s worn face. Continually recalibrating her social position was exhausting and, given its downward trajectory, destabilizing.

“You really think he’d have a problem?”

“Yes,” Bebe said. “Which is why you’re going to be my date.”

The Statue of Liberty set against the velvet jewel box lining of New York Harbor at night never failed to move Christine. She stood at the window of a Tribeca penthouse in a guest bedroom having gone there to take a phone call from her daughter, who had a question about homework. Christine remembered when her parents brought her downtown as a small child, how they pointed to Ellis Island, the portal through which her grandparents passed on their journey from Italy to the Bronx. She remembered standing on the docks for the bicentennial celebrations, July 4th, 1976, captivated by the sight of the tall ships sailing upriver as bouquets of fireworks burst overhead, tendrils of light illuminating the New York and New Jersey shorelines. Recalled bringing her children down here to see the display on a more recent July 4th, and how she had told Dominic Jr. and Lucia they were all part of a chain and that one day they would bring their children to watch the celebration in the harbor. Her relationship with Dominic Jr. had deteriorated since he discovered what she had done to his T-shirt, but he would get over it. Mothers and sons found each other in the end.

Perhaps she would stage a photo op for her campaign on Liberty Island, one mighty, torch-wielding woman in the shadow of another. A link with history, an image for tomorrow. Her immigrant grandparents could not in their wildest imaginings have conceived that their granddaughter might rise from Arthur Avenue to become the Governor of New York.

The idea of charging Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was Lou Pagano’s, but this didn’t matter because, as District Attorney of Westchester County, she would get the credit. It was a bold move that would demonstrate her credentials as a crusader against racism and generate support in the black community (plummeting since the nonindictment of Russell Plesko) while doing nothing to antagonize law enforcement. It was an elegant legal maneuver that was sure to pay political dividends. But the decision to add the charge to the indictment had not been arrived at easily. Pagano called her at home on Sunday and was surprised she had not immediately agreed but instead had asked for time to think about it. To charge Jay Gladstone with a hate crime was to raise the stakes considerably. The bar for proof was high, but it could serve as a useful bargaining chip, should he decide to accept a deal. More important, it would send a signal to voters that she was sensitive enough in matters of race to bring the weightiest charges against one of New York’s ruling elite.

Again, she called Franklin Gladstone. Now that they were about to augment the original indictment with a charge that would immeasurably compound its severity, she felt the need to at least mention it as a courtesy so her patron would not be caught off guard when he heard about it. Franklin told her not to worry and expressed his admiration for her integrity.

To Christine’s pleasure, the hate crime charges had led the local news that evening. She noted with no little satisfaction that Imam Ibrahim Muhammad had called a well-attended press conference during which he commented that while the Westchester County District Attorney’s office should have brought charges against the officer who killed John Eagle, the new ones against Jay Gladstone were “a positive step in her relations with African-Americans.”

All of this was going through her mind as she tore herself away from the view to greet the guests at the fundraiser Franklin and Marcy Gladstone were hosting for her gubernatorial candidacy. From the other room came the restless sound of money.

Despite the retention of a prominent interior design team, Franklin and Marcy had expensively decorated their penthouse loft in no particular style. The gathering of more than a hundred that filled the living room and spilled out on to the deck was a glittering portrait of achievement. A smattering of media people gathered in a corner listening to Roger Ailes hold forth. Across the room, Rupert Murdoch chatted with the actor Jon Voight. Near the free bar manned by a white-jacketed waiter, Ezra Gladstone and his twin brother Ari sipped artisanal beer and engaged the daughter of a casino mogul with whom they were exploring a co-venture. Dr. Bannister and his wife chatted with Michael Steele, who had recently become the first black man to chair the Republican National Committee. It was a coup to have attracted such prominent African-Americans.

A hedge fund manager approached with his wife and asked about Wall Street regulation. Several others immediately were drawn to her orbit, and so Christine Lupo began to work the room.

Standing in front of a framed pair of boxing trunks worn by the heavyweight fighter Sonny Liston, Franklin was talking to a bond trader from whom he planned to extract a six-figure contribution when he noticed a woman scanning the crowd. It was his cousin Bebe, chatting to another woman who had her back to him. He immediately realized that Bebe’s companion was Jay’s wife. He had invited his cousin as a courtesy never imagining she would attend. That she had brought Nicole was an overt provocation. Why had Nicole come? Franklin immediately crossed the room to greet the women.

“I didn’t expect to see you two,” he said, approximating friendliness.

Bebe said, “You invited me, didn’t you?” She was drinking club soda. “Nicole wanted to come. Who was I to say no? I like your loft.”

Franklin nodded at Nicole, who smiled uncomfortably and said something about how it was important to listen to all political points of view.

Franklin to Bebe: “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Remind me,” she said. “When would that have been?”

Franklin’s parrying skills were minimal, but his arrogance rendered them unnecessary. Rather than offering a wisecrack, he said, “Well, I’m glad you’re here tonight. I think Christine’s going to make a hell of a governor.”

Bebe raised her well-tended eyebrows. “She seems like a strong-minded woman. I’d like to meet her.” Franklin looked stricken, which only heightened Bebe’s determination. Turning to her sister-in-law, she suggested the two of them immediately say hello to the candidate.

“She’s getting ready to speak,” Franklin said.

“If you don’t introduce us,” Bebe said, “I will. Come on, Nicole. I want to talk to her.”

Nicole excused herself and went to refill her wineglass as Franklin grumpily accompanied his cousin across the room. From her position near the bar, she watched Franklin introduce Bebe to Christine Lupo. The politician was pretty and relaxed, two qualities Nicole felt herself to be decidedly lacking at present. Men beset Nicole whenever she stood alone at a party; they would babble and flirt, gauge their chances with the unobtainable. But tonight, many of the guests had probably watched her have sex with D’Angelo Maxwell, so she had no idea what to expect. The amateur porn shattered the illusion of her inviolability. A spasm of self-doubt seized her. Why had she come? Did she really want to face the woman who was trying to send her husband to prison? Was it only because she could not endure once again returning to her hotel suite alone?

A familiar-looking man in a business suit approached. Mannequin handsome, with graying hair and a friendly expression, he seemed to know her. Who was he?

“Nicole?”

“Yes, hello, you are—?”

“Fred Panzer, Lynx News.”

That was it! She didn’t know him, just recognized his face from television. Immediately, she wanted to retract the warmth of her greeting.

He said, “I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

“You don’t know me so why would you expect one thing over another?”

Panzer shrugged. “No reason.” She looked over his shoulder for someone else to talk to. “Have you thought about doing an interview?”

“About what?” She knew what but wanted to make the creature say it. The wine in her glass was disappearing again.

“Recent events. Get your version out there, gain control of the story.”

“I think you want to contact my husband.”

“He won’t talk to us.”

“Because he’s a very intelligent man,” Nicole said.

“Jay Gladstone would be the get of the decade today. He’s O.J. in reverse.”

“What does that mean?”

“Famous white guy who killed an African-American. The trial’s going to be a circus.”

“My husband didn’t kill anyone.”

“Dag’s still in that coma, isn’t he?”

Nicole briefly thought about tossing her drink in Panzer’s face but preferred to consume the dregs of the glass. Now another problem presented itself. Marcy was slicing through the guests like a Coast Guard cutter, headed in her direction. What could that woman possibly want? Marcy might ask her what she was doing here or, worse, suggest she leave. Without saying goodbye to Panzer, Nicole tottered off to find a bathroom. There was one adjacent to the kitchen where the busy wait staff were working. She felt their eyes on her as she passed through.

When it came to audacity in another woman, Christine Lupo was of two minds: Since it was the quality she cultivated that allowed her to achieve her exalted position, she admired those who possessed it. But when it was employed by another woman to challenge her, she found it distinctly less appealing. Men she squished like they were bugs. They didn’t scare her the way women did. This Gladstone lady had fixed her with a dark-eyed gaze and, as Franklin gaped like a trout, was saying, “To not at least convene a grand jury seems like a remarkably tone-deaf response to what happened. How can black people have any confidence in the government if they don’t get their day in court?”

“I’m sorry, tell me your name again.”

“Beatrice,” Bebe said. The nickname was for people she liked.

“Well, Beatrice, to answer your question, I don’t think about what works for me on a personal level because that would be a betrayal of the contract I have with the citizens of this state. You’re a New Yorker?”

“Born and bred.”

“Well, I will never betray you. I weighed the facts and made the best decision for the citizens of Westchester County.”

“You’re dying to be governor,” Bebe said. “Aren’t you?”

“I will be governor.” Then Christine Lupo winked at her interlocutor. “With the help of people like you.”

Wanting to end the conversation, Franklin said, “I think it’s time for the DA to speak.”

As the host led the guest of honor to safety in another part of the room, Bebe watched them. While she was not going to mention her brother’s case, she had intended to test the politician. The DA was a formidable adversary, self-possessed and unyielding. Words bounced off her armor. Jay needed to prepare for war.

Where was Nicole? Bebe peered around the room, searching for her. Had she gotten flustered and left? That would be understandable.

Marcy approached and demanded to know whether she was enjoying herself.

“Immensely,” Bebe said.

“How’s Jay doing?” Marcy asked, with barely concealed relish.

“Under the circumstances, he’s all right.”

“What he did? It’s a shanda!” Bebe looked at her quizzically. “D’Angelo, the tape—” Her voice trailed off as if she could barely bring herself to enumerate his transgressions. “Why did you bring her?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Hmmpf,” Marcy said, a noise intended to convey that to respond would be beneath her. But curiosity won out: “Try me.”

Before Bebe could answer, Franklin tapped a spoon on a glass and called the room to order. Without bothering to excuse herself, Marcy flew to his side and when everyone had turned their attention to the host and hostess, Franklin introduced Christine Lupo as the next governor of New York. After the polite applause died down the district attorney spieled with great conviction about lower taxes, more police, and eliminating regulations that limit what businesses can do. Attentively, the wallets listened. “And for everyone in this room who works on Wall Street, I want you to know that a Lupo administration will be in your pocket.” Far from humorless, the district attorney knew how to land a well-timed joke. After the briefest pause during which the marks realized the verbal slip was intentional, a wave of laughter rippled through the room. She shouted: “I mean on your side!” and the levity rose.

In the wings, hands clasped at his waist, Franklin beamed. Christine Lupo was his politician and who could identify her ceiling? The DA had everyone reaching for their checkbooks.

Nicole spent five minutes locked in the bathroom, several of them staring at her reflection in the mirror. How could she have let herself sink to such depths? The dalliance with D’Angelo was bad enough, her role in his current predicament unbearable, but an emotional collapse in its wake? That was inexcusable. Malingering for days in a luxury hotel suite swilling champagne like some dissipated royal was not how she had reached her enviable station in life, and neither was hiding out in Franklin’s bathroom. Why did she not stand her ground with Marcy? She couldn’t let that virago intimidate her. Why should she care what Marcy thought? Marcy was a rigid, conformist nonentity, mother of three spoiled children, all of whom would be living in a cardboard box under a bridge were they not born Gladstones, a woman whose entire existence involved doing the bidding of her overbearing husband. Marcy was nothing.

Nicole reapplied her lipstick and touched up her eye makeup. She wanted to have a word with that Lupo woman.

When Nicole emerged from the kitchen, her target was addressing the packed room. She pushed between two tall bankers to get a better view. There was Franklin, staring at the guest of honor adoringly with Marcy next to him, thrilled to have famous people in their home. There were Ezra and Ari, those charter members of the lucky sperm club. The Lynx reporter lurked near Bebe.

The guests were rapt. Nicole could not understand it. Yes, the politician was a compelling woman who seemed in control of her life in a way that shone a light on Nicole’s precipitous fall. But Christine Lupo struck her as decidedly second-rate, an ambitious hack whose road company charisma stood in sharp contrast to that of President Obama, the only politician Nicole had truly loved. Why had she not done more than just say hello to him at the Waldorf dinner? She had been too distracted by Dag. She remembered his speech in Chicago the night he was elected. The poetry of his words had brought her to tears. Christine Lupo droned; the moneyed mollusks opened. Who were these pasty-faced white people? And who were these black people? What were they doing in the enemy camp? Could none of them discern the falsity at her core? The clones of these men and women packed Washington to the rotting gills. Nicole knew them, worked with them, slept with them, and now their avatar, an empty suit with padded shoulders, intended to use the power of her office to ruin Jay’s life.

“A few minutes ago, I was looking out the window at the Statue of Liberty, and I thought of my grandmother who was born in Calabria, Italy, and took a boat to Ellis Island where—”

From the back of the room, Nicole said, “You’re a fake,” loud enough to be heard. Several pairs of eyes swung in her direction. The attention only emboldened her. Christine Lupo stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked in her direction.

“Excuse me,” she said.

A woman shushed Nicole, but she paid her no mind. “You’re a big fake and shame on you for using Jay Gladstone to advance your political career!”

Several people made hissing noises to indicate their displeasure. Who is that woman, someone said. Oh, for heaven’s sake, said another, it’s Jay Gladstone’s wife. Is she drunk? Jon Voight and Roger Ailes were gaping at her. As Nicole continued to interrupt the DA, the quiet downs and shushes increased in volume. The Lynx reporter filmed with his cell phone.

Franklin moved in her direction.

Nicole was undeterred. Louder: “You need a well-off white man on the docket so you can prove you have no racial bias, but you didn’t have the guts to lock up the cop who killed that black guy.”

The two bankers flanking Nicole moved away from her so Franklin, his face tainted with rage, had a clear shot. He seized her arm, pushed his face close—the tip of his nose pressed against her hair, she shuddered in revulsion—and whispered, “Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked, but you should leave right now.”

“Franklin, it’s okay,” Christine Lupo said. He looked at her questioningly but did not release his grip. “Let the lady speak.”

Under his breath, he hissed, “Goddammit.”

Nicole wrenched her arm away and said to Franklin, “You’re a putz.”

How much had she imbibed? There were the two glasses of wine at the Oak Bar, two at the loft—wait, no, one and a half at the loft. She wasn’t that drunk. A little food might help. Perhaps she’d grab a canapé on her way out. Nicole cleared her throat and focused on the district attorney: “The people here tonight, who have a lot more in common with my husband than they do with that poor black man who got killed by a policeman, they’re all nodding in agreement because by crucifying Jay you absolve them of their sins.”

She waited now, pleased with her insight, the freedom with which she expressed it, and wondering if Christine Lupo would respond. Would the Christian reference disturb Marcy? She had more: “Who made you Pontius Pilate?” The smile on Nicole’s face after delivering the last barb was disreputable and rakishly appealing, the kind one uncharitably recalls when sobriety reasserts itself. Nicole deployed it like a ninja.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Gladstone,” Christine Lupo said from the front of the room. Her manner was noncombative. “You look better in person than you do on the Internet.”

There was a brief pause while the refined attendees contemplated whether it was permissible to display their delight at this insult, concluded that Nicole deserved it, and burst into sustained laughter followed by applause. Nicole felt hot, blinding shame that rose from her feet to her calves, her hips, belly, up through her back, flaming her neck and thickening her tongue. The entire room was mocking her. Why had she not left ten minutes earlier? Why had she come at all?

Christine Lupo concluded with, “I can’t comment on a pending case.”

Bebe was at her side. They were in the elevator. The air in the street refreshed her.

“That was impressive,” Bebe said.

“I don’t care what those assholes think of me.”

Bebe asked if she was all right and Nicole told her she was, and that calling out Christine Lupo was liberating. Heckling was not Bebe’s style, but she was impressed with Nicole’s commitment, rash though it might have seemed. Her brother was already in bad shape. It was hard to see how his wife’s outburst could make it worse.

They chatted about the presidential election during the cab ride uptown.

Nicole hoped Bebe would tell Jay exactly what his wife had done, although she wasn’t going to ask her. If Jay’s sister performed that modest task, the wretched humiliation Nicole experienced in Franklin’s penthouse would be worth it.

What was it Franklin had told her? Everyone’s sorry your phone got hacked. How did he know someone hacked her? None of the accounts she read had mentioned that detail. No one knew that that horrid clip had come from her phone. What else would have provided it? No one used video cameras anymore. Franklin had assumed—that was all. But the more she thought about it, the less sense her conjecture made. Franklin wasn’t clever enough to guess something like that. When she returned to the hotel Nicole sent the following text to her husband:

Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker.

Chapter Fifty

It was a serene Christine Lupo that gazed across the East River at the Queens skyline from the backseat of her town car as Russell Plesko drove north on the FDR. Pagano’s request had gone through, and the cop had been assigned to the DA’s office where he filled in on an as-needed basis. The evening had been an unmitigated triumph. Christine’s ability to charm a roomful of New York City honchos had her thrumming with confidence. They didn’t just respond to the message—they loved her. Her policies, humor, and improvisatory ability combined to showcase considerable political skills and all of it resonated with the donor base. Even that slatternly wife of Jay Gladstone was a gift. The interruption had allowed the district attorney to display poise, forbearance, and quick-wittedness. The woman had opened fire with both barrels and Christine had crushed her without sacrificing likeability. What a nasty person that pipe-cleaner skinny, entitled, rich bitch seemed to be. Christine thought of the Bronx nuns who taught her at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow. They would have loved the poke she delivered. What kind of depraved world was this where people leaked sex tapes on the Internet? She wondered if the woman had done it herself. This suspicion made her think of Dominic Lupo and the personal dishonor she had suffered as a result of his behavior. At least the evidence of his sexual incontinence wasn’t smeared all over the Internet.

Poor Jay Gladstone. She immediately froze the sympathy she felt and examined it. The declaration became a question: Poor Jay Gladstone? Yes, yes, he was a man made of blood and sinew and a beating heart. Christine Lupo understood what it was like to have a spouse who was a curse. Her quarry was an estimable man—It’s what made him such valuable prey—brought down by a poor choice in mates. Certainly, his predicament was thornier than that, the car had not run over D’Angelo Maxwell by itself, but none of the auto-da-fé he was enduring would have occurred had his wife honored her marital vows. As for the fiasco that had taken place in the basketball arena, the man had paid for his sins in the currency of shame.

These thoughts created a disturbance in her well-ordered moral universe. Before this evening, Jay Gladstone was only a prominent citizen charged with crimes, an abstraction. But seeing his wife tonight—flushed face, firing squad eyes—listening to her aria of abuse, had brought Jay into sharper focus, and the picture that formed was of a human being who was suffering. And suffering caused by a cheating spouse was something about which Christine was not without sympathy.

Then what of mercy? Well, mercy was not exactly hers to dispense, was it? That was more God’s bailiwick. Why was she even thinking these thoughts? Sin and mercy were not helpful when considering a defendant in a pending criminal case. Sin and mercy were ideas, and she needed to stick to facts. If the luxury of a Jesuitical debate were permitted, she would never prosecute anyone. Many of the accused that came under her purview had partners who betrayed them. Humanizing a defendant was against the rules.

As the car sailed over the Third Avenue Bridge and north on the Major Deegan Expressway, Christine realized that something about Jay had been peeled back by his wife’s presence and it kept niggling at her because it felt familiar. She and Jay were public people with families in the process of fracturing. Until recently, they both had been paragons, the kind of citizens others were encouraged to emulate. The vehicular assault charges he faced? Had she not done something similar in the parking lot at work? Sean Purcell had bumped a demonstrator with her official vehicle. Knocked the woman down. A black woman, no less. It wasn’t on the cataclysmic scale of what Jay had done but to pretend there was no parallel would be disingenuous. Had that been racially motivated? Of course not! Moreover, Christine knew it was an accident. By a stroke of luck, no one had reported that incident. Who knows what cynics might have made of it? What if what Jay had done was an accident? What if his lawyer’s claims were accurate? Was she persecuting him? Reasonable people might disagree on whether there was a political tinge to the initial indictment and the subsequent hate crime charge but Jay Gladstone would get his day in court. That was the beauty of the system. She needed to stop seeing moral equivalence where there was none. Ultimately, all that united them was philandering spouses. It was impossible to have anything in common with someone so wealthy. Still, her cerebral push and pull would not cease.

They were riding east on the Cross-Westchester Expressway.

“Russell, what do you think about Jay Gladstone? Do you think he’s guilty?”

Plesko did not answer right away. Christine waited. She didn’t want to influence him so did not offer a further prompt.

“Permission to speak frankly?”

“Granted,” she said.

“He did it, that’s pretty obvious. But did he mean to do it?”

“That’s what I’m asking.”

“People wanted to hang me,” Plesko said. “Like they could all read my mind. But no one can do that. I don’t care who they are. If Gladstone says it was an accident, I believe him.”

“Even after what he witnessed? He accidentally ran over the man he caught with his wife?”

Plesko adjusted the rearview mirror so he could see his passenger. “Does he seem like a violent guy to you?”

“I indicted him.”

“Hey, look, you gave me a break, and I’ll always be grateful for it.”

“Tell me what you think,” the DA said.

“I guess you can’t let everyone off.”

With all the certainty at her disposal, she declared: “Jay Gladstone has had enough breaks.”

By the time she climbed out of the car in her driveway Christine had convinced herself it was true.

Her mind returned to Jay as she lay in bed. Their fathers were both men of the Bronx, first-generation Americans who served in World War II, raised families in New York, pillars of their respective communities. Bingo Gladstone was a version of Mario Lupo with a lot more money. Like something caught between her teeth, the similarities continued to nag her. To her growing consternation, all of it added to this nascent kinship with Jay that she found harder and harder to dismiss.

Twenty minutes later, when she could not fall asleep, Christine went to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea. As she waited for the water to boil, she booted up her laptop. Jay had an extensive online presence. Christine skimmed sports pages and business sites, noted his philanthropic activities and the awards he had received. There was a group photograph with Archbishop Desmond Tutu celebrating Universal Children’s Day that she had previously missed. It was not the profile of a criminal.

When the kettle whistled, she brewed the tea, spooned honey into the cup, and returned to the computer. On a real estate site, she typed in Jay’s Bedford address, which for reasons Christine did not want to think about she knew by memory. Up came a single photograph and a description. The image of the palatial house on a hundred and twenty acres, with pool house, barn, paddock, and bridle paths did not produce resentment or envy or in any way stick in the DA’s craw. Jay Gladstone had Sultan of Brunei money, but he employed thousands of people and paid untold millions of taxes into the public treasury. In her view, this was how America was meant to work.

Since the separation from her husband, Christine occasionally found herself missing, not Dominic Lupo exactly, but the companionship he had provided. Case in point: The night of the incinerated T-shirt on the backyard grill. Had Dominic been there, she would have asked him to play the heavy. Something in her had loosened. It was energizing.

She finished the tea, rinsed the cup, and put it in the dishwasher. Went upstairs, but instead of getting into bed, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Checked on her sleeping children and went downstairs. Closing the back door quietly behind her, she climbed into her black Lexus sedan, slipped La Boheme into the CD player, and backed out of the garage.

Chapter Fifty-One

Just after eight the same evening, Bobby Tackman arrived at Jay’s Bedford estate to conduct a simulated interview in preparation for the real one. The communications expert reviewed a list of fifty likely questions and made sure his client had responses to each of them. The theme of the evening was Apology. Keep apologizing, he advised. Then apologize some more, and you will be redeemed because America loves a redemption story.

When Tackman left, Jay called Herman Doomer. A team of attorneys was preparing to wage war with the league, but the lawyer warned him that when facing a player boycott, their influence was limited. “You have to knock this interview out of the park,” Doomer said. Jay asked what was going on with the Planning Commission regarding the Sapphire situation. Doomer had made inquiries, but as far as he knew, no new information was available. Jay had hoped to hear from Aviva since he had withdrawn from participating in the commencement, but she had not returned his calls. With all of this on his mind, he shambled to bed.

It was a surprise to find the house situated on a dirt road bounded by low walls built from stones. This evocation of the rural past left Christine strangely moved. She, too, yearned for a time before the current fractiousness, when America had a common purpose. What were Jay’s political preferences? Her Internet scavenging revealed he had made contributions to Democrats and Republicans. What he believed in, she recognized, was the efficacy of the system.

She parked on the road in front of the property, turned off the headlights but left the engine idling. The night was cloudless, pricked with stars, and a half moon impassively shone. Although the house was dark, several security lights painted the grounds in pale yellow. A single light illuminated an upstairs window. Probably on a timer, she thought. From a fawning profile on Forbes.com, she knew Jay owned horses and wondered if whoever looked after them lived on the premises. Lowering the car window, she inhaled the pleasing earthy scent. An owl broadcast its presence. A breeze disturbed the branches. Homes like this one often had security cameras, but none were visible.

She placed her hand on the steering wheel and saw her bare ring finger, moonlit. For ten minutes, she observed the house. No cars passed. Christine had never done anything remotely like this. The burning of her son’s T-shirt, she knew, was indicative of the heightened emotional state she was in, but this amounted to stalking. As long as it did not become a habit, she believed her behavior on this night was justifiable. How else to get a feel for her adversary if not by entering his world? She wanted to know what it was like to be this man, to live in storybook surroundings with a gorgeous young wife and a geyser that spouted money. She imagined him riding a horse along the edge of a luminous meadow, wind at his back, savoring yet another victory. And then he was not alone. There she was, Christine Lupo, the girl from Arthur Avenue, astride a golden palomino. The two of them, together in the gloaming, the broad land spread out intoxicatingly before them, like a Technicolor movie. She could almost hear the brass and strings swell on the soundtrack. Christine had never ridden a horse. Once, as a girl, her father had put her on a pony at a church fair in Yonkers. What was she doing on an imaginary horse next to Jay Gladstone riding into a Hollywood sunset? Smirking at the silliness of it, she repressed the vision. Jay Gladstone and Christine Lupo together in a sylvan fantasy, on horses, no less. It was ridiculous.

Jay was drifting off when Nicole’s text arrived. Was Franklin the mastermind? Nicole certainly thought so. It was impossible to know if she was drunk and raving, or if it was true. He turned off his phone, but could not get back to sleep. For half an hour, he lay in bed listening to the night and trying to slow his rampaging mind. Was Franklin capable of treachery on this level? It was not beyond the realm of possibility. But could he have acted so aggressively? Jay did not realize he possessed that degree of malevolence. Perhaps he had underestimated him. As reprehensible as it was, Jay had to give his cousin credit. The sheer chutzpah of the gesture was impressive.

The road in front of the house rarely saw nocturnal traffic and Jay listened as a car engine hummed in the distance increasing in volume as it rolled past and then died away. Several minutes later he heard another car. It got louder as it drew nearer but then the sound did not recede. A lone vehicle in the middle of the night was not a welcome sound. Someone had parked in front of the property. He lay there for a few seconds, but when he did not hear the car go away, he climbed out of bed, crossed the hall, and entered a guest bedroom in the front of the house where a timer light was on.

Sitting in the car, Christine was in a reverie. Dominic was gone, she had a career-making case on her hands, and with adroit handling, there was no reason she could not spin it into political gold. Thomas Dewey was a New York prosecutor, and he had nearly become president. No one knew how far she could go. Then the light in Jay Gladstone’s upstairs window went out.

Jay immediately saw the car at the end of his driveway. It was not there because of a flat tire. Whoever it was, they were there for him. In a way, he had wanted this. It was why he was reluctant to be saddled with personal security even after the rampage at the arena. He went to the safe, opened the combination lock. Removed the gun, felt the heft of the weapon in his hand. Checked the clip. Fifteen rounds. Boris had shown him how to shoot.

He walked downstairs and sat in a chair facing the front door with the weapon on his lap. He thought about prison versus death and concluded death might be preferable. He wished he could have resolved the situation with Aviva. His will was in order. The floor was cool against the soles of his bare feet. He wondered who would say Kaddish for him.

After sitting there for ten minutes, his nerve failed him, and he called the police. The cop on duty the night of the accident arrived at the house. Officer Wysocki. He acted like he was pleased to see Jay and asked how he was doing. He told Jay there were no other cars on the road.

When Wysocki left, Jay drove into the city.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The next morning, he did not make the mistake of arriving at the office alone. Behind a flying wedge of corn-fed security, he made it through the demonstrators without incident. He had coffee. He met with Bebe and Boris and briefed them on his preparations with Tackman. The Sapphire matter was taking suspiciously long to resolve and Bebe told him she was going to reach out to someone she knew in the city bureaucracy to find out what was going on. Jay told Boris to prepare to fly to Hong Kong the following week to familiarize himself with the Asian branch of the business and brief Bebe when he returned. When the confab was over, Bebe stayed behind and reported what Nicole had done at Franklin’s house the previous evening. They were in the sitting area of Jay’s office. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

“She was battling for you.”

“That’s not the way to do it,” he said, rubbing his temples.

“Nicole wants to save the marriage.”

Jay opened his eyes and regarded his sister. “Would you stay married to someone like that?”

“You remember that secretary who worked for Dad in the late seventies?”

“Miss Sloves?” Bebe nodded. She had a throaty laugh and always acted pleased to see him when he visited the office as a gangly teenager. “What about her?” Bebe’s knowing look spilled the old secret. “You can’t be serious.” She slowly nodded.

Layers of certainty, conviction, and belief began to dissolve. Jay found himself searching for words to express inchoate thoughts. His father, who had coached him in youth basketball, who had passed him the Torah at his bar mitzvah, had been prowling around Manhattan unpeeling his secretary? It was inconceivable. “How do you know?”

“Mom told me years ago. She almost left him, but she didn’t.”

The news caused a tectonic shift in Jay’s perception. The ground swayed. Foundations adjusted, recalibrated. For his entire life, he had modeled himself on his father, held him up as a shining example of how to be a man in the world, prostrated at the feet of his exemplary life when all the time, in this most basic measurement of goodness, Bingo was an imposter, a failure. But as much of a punch to the solar plexus that this represented, in some indeterminate way that he could only begin to discern, it was a relief.

When Bebe left the office, Jay lay on the sofa and thought about his father and how he had behaved in the wake of this dalliance. He reviewed family dinners, Sundays watching football, skiing and sailing vacations, business meetings, shows, charity events they’d attended, endless conversations shared about topics distant and local, and there was nothing he could remember that hinted at Bingo carrying on with his secretary. So, did Jay have to reexamine his perception of his father, adjust his place in the pantheon? Did he have to demote him?

It was with all of this still reverberating that Franklin appeared. Jay did not want to deal with his cousin, who was standing at the foot of the sofa looking down at him over his gelatinous belly.

“Your wife caused quite a scene last night,” Franklin said, satisfaction mixed with the outrage he was impelled to convey.

“I heard. As you know, I can’t control her.”

“Someone needs to. She’s an embarrassment.”

His cousin’s presence further agitated Jay, who rose from the sofa and lumbered to his desk where he flopped into the chair. He thought about the text he had received last night from Nicole: Franklin hacked my phone. He’s the leaker. What had led her to that conclusion? Could it possibly be true? It was certainly of a piece with Franklin’s surreptitious financial maneuvers.

“What did you want to talk about?”

“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Franklin said. “For your own well-being, I think maybe you shouldn’t come to work until things cool down.”

Here was the Franklin he knew, blunt, artless. Bebe had said nearly the exact words, but her intent was far different.

“Did you hear what happened to me on Saturday night?”

“It was all over the sports page.”

“But you didn’t call or text to see if I was all right?”

Franklin ignored the question. “Fans, Christ, they’re fuckin’ fickle! You okay?”

“Yes,” Jay said. “Thanks for your concern.”

Never before had he felt vulnerable to Franklin. The dynamics of their relationship had been set years earlier and had remained static. Jay believed that Franklin had come to accept the structure of the company and was satisfied with his role. For his cousin to use the current situation to try and maneuver him out of the way seemed entirely out of character. But that appeared to be what was going on. He second-guessed telling Doomer to delay bringing legal action.

“What do you know about that tape?”

Franklin regarded him uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“Was I not clear? Do you know anything about how that tape got out there?”

“Only what I read,” Franklin said.

“You’re sure?”

“What are you asking me? It’s awful. It’s a crock of politically correct bullshit what’s happening to you. I’ll tell you something, Jay, I never liked Nicole. She was beneath you. Between you and me, if I had walked in on Marcy schtupping some guy, I would’ve killed them both.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what you would have done.” Jay had not checked with the hospital since yesterday. He made a mental note to do that when he finished with his cousin.

“Crime of passion,” Franklin said. “People understand.” He made a brisk motion with his hand as if to wave away culpability.

“About the tape?”

“I sympathize, believe me. I do.”

“Did you leak it?”

Jay saw Franklin’s slack body stiffen, the planes of his face become rigid.

“What? No! Me? Wha—?” Franklin shook his head vigorously. “No, no, no. Why would you say that?”

“You know nothing about it?”

“Jay, come on! Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m going to tell you one thing, and then we’re done.” Jay paused to let the weight of what he was about to impart sink in. It appeared Franklin might say something but his only response came from his shoulders, driven upward by the tension he was unable to conceal. “If I find out you had anything to do with the leaking of that tape, I will cut your legs off. Between that and what else you’ve been up to, I’ll have you so tied up in court you’ll be afraid to leave your house without calling your lawyer to see if it’s allowed.”

“I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know what’s going on in Asia,” Jay said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Let’s not get into that now. Did you or did you not hack my wife’s phone and leak that tape?”

“Did I hack her phone? I can barely work a fucking blender.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hand to God, Jay.” Like a Boy Scout taking an oath, he held his hand up.

“Hand to God? Now I know you’re bullshitting.”

“You don’t trust me? Go fuck yourself.”

“Go fuck myself?”

“You got what you deserved,” Franklin said. “You’re an arrogant schmuck, and you always were.”

He left the office, barreling through the door and slamming it behind him. The room was silent as a cave. Absent Franklin’s sulfurous presence, it felt strangely empty. Jay still had no idea if Nicole’s accusation was valid, or if she had been drunk texting. He had assumed it was the latter. After having confronted Franklin, he was unimpressed with his denial. There was a risk in trying to ascertain guilt. If Franklin was culpable, the ramifications for the future of the business were profound. But a rupture in their relationship was inevitable anyway. It was going to happen as soon as Jay informed Franklin of the lawsuit he intended to file.

An unfamiliar sensation overcame him, and his heart began to tom-tom. He cursed to himself. Was this a heart attack? Unbelievable. Franklin will have finished the job. He remembered that a coronary event was often accompanied by pain radiating down the arm. Was it the left or the right? He didn’t feel pain in either one. He willed himself to relax and took several deep breaths, letting the air run slowly out of his nose, which he was able to do since the swelling had decreased. A minute later his heart rate ceased its campaign of terror.

When Jay reached Dr. Bannister, the surgeon informed him there had been some hopeful signs since they had last spoken. Something about brain waves that Jay did not have the bandwidth to absorb but had encouraged the doctor. He called Doomer and inquired about the situation with the league. Doomer reported that the commissioner was intransigent. The league was insisting that he sell the team. In desperation, Jay pulled up the list of NBA owners on his computer. He knew them all from league meetings and considered himself friends with several of them. Of the twenty-eight calls his secretary placed, she managed to reach five of the owners. Jay jumped on the phone with each. He wheedled and inveigled. He recounted his history and reminded them of his sterling reputation. They listened dutifully. But of these five men, all of whom expressed sorrow at his predicament and conveyed their sincere sympathies, none would speak on his behalf in public. Too sensitive, was the consensus.

Bastards, Jay thought.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Late that afternoon, the television crew arrived at the apartment to set up. Bobby Tackman paced and offered silken words of encouragement as Jay sat in a chair with a bib over his shirt having makeup applied by a quiet young woman with a nose ring and a tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm. She treated him professionally, which he took to be a positive sign.

Jay was in the kitchen nursing a glass of whiskey when Anderson Cooper arrived and said hello before conferring with the producer, a fussy man in a snug suit who seemed barely out of his teens. Jay freshened his drink and as the whiskey slid into his bloodstream he began to feel its effects. Nervousness receded. It occurred to Jay that in many ways he had been preparing for this his entire life. Always he had chosen to rein in his personality, content to let the light shine on Bingo. This self-abnegation had begun when he was young and continued until his father’s passing. But now circumstances required Jay to step on stage, and he was ready.

Tackman continued his magpie chatter, but Jay was no longer listening. He visualized himself conversing sagely with Anderson Cooper about the scars of American history, the travails of black people, and “the deep well of empathy I’ve drawn from my whole life.” He pictured the easygoing host nodding sympathetically. He imagined viewers across America, around the globe, and all of them coming to see the untarnished quality of his soul. Church Scott (that traitor!) didn’t know what was in his heart? Jay would show the world. He took another sip of whiskey.

“Ten minutes,” a production assistant said.

Jay slipped on his suit jacket. Tackman looked him over. The consultant did not like the picture.

“You need to lose the suit. Put a sweater on.”

“I always wear a suit in public.”

“Millions of people are going to watch this and you’re going to remind them of their boss. A sweater makes you more relatable.”

In his bedroom Jay selected a gray cashmere number with a V-neck. As he pulled it over his head, the soft material masking his face, he felt dizzy so he sat on the bed. To steady himself he took several deep breaths. His balance returned and he felt a surge of energy. He wanted to talk, get a few things off his chest.

In the living room, Jay sat in a director’s chair next to Anderson Cooper, who was checking notes on a clipboard. A sound technician pinned a microphone to him. The television lights were warm, but he was not uncomfortable. Behind one of the two cameras, Tackman stood next to the producer and gave a thumbs-up. A voice said, “Rolling,” and Anderson Cooper introduced Harold Jay Gladstone as a real estate executive and NBA franchise owner to the millions of viewers who would be watching the interview later that evening.

“Please call me Jay,” he said.

“All right,” Anderson Cooper said. Then: “Are you a racist?”

Man, Jay thought, right out of the gate. But he was ready.

“I am not a racist. I made a terrible mistake and I’m here to apologize to all the people I’ve hurt. I don’t know how I could say such disrespectful words. I’m so sorry.”

“Who, specifically, do you want to apologize to?”

Jay was ready:

“There are so many people, starting with D’Angelo Maxwell.” Here Jay paused. Acknowledging this first seemed like the wisest course. He wanted the first apology to resonate like a bell. “I feel terrible about what happened to him. I wish I could undo it. When he recovers I will do everything in my power to make it up to him. He’s doing better, you know. I talked to the doctor this morning, and he’s improving.” Again, Jay paused. He wanted to allow any helpful information time to register. “And I hurt my wife, Nicole. She didn’t need this. I blew up her life.”

“You seem remarkably forgiving about her behavior. What about what she did? She had relations with a player and you caught them.”

Anderson Cooper was not pulling punches. Jay pressed on.

“Yes, I did. I did. But this isn’t about her.”

He congratulated himself on the magnanimity he displayed. So far, he was hewing to the Tackman plan. This was easier than expected.

“Did you know you were being recorded?”

“Of course not. I did a terrible thing and I want to explain. I’m not sure how to say this because for a man in my position, well, everything can be misinterpreted.”

Anderson Cooper wanted some elaboration, but Jay just looked at him. He was having trouble accessing this part of what he had reviewed with Tackman. All he could remember was the apologizing he was supposed to do, and he had already done that. His mind went back to the previous night and the car that stopped in front of his house. By the time the police officer arrived at the house, it was gone. Now he wasn’t even sure a car had been there at all. The sweater was making him hot. What did Anderson Cooper want him to say?

“I think you better ask me another question.”

“You said ‘Why is everyone in this family having sex with black people.’ What did that mean?”

“That’s the question you’re going to ask now?” Jay was trying to be light, amusing. Cooper was stone-faced. “Don’t you want to work up to it?”

“It would help if you answered it. What did that mean?”

“What did that mean? It meant what I said.”

“Everyone in this family?” Jay did not respond. “Would you elaborate?”

Jay paused for a long time. The television lights were getting hotter. His lower back was swampy. He could feel Tackman’s eyes willing him to take control. To steady himself, Jay locked into Anderson Cooper’s unwavering gaze. “I have a daughter who I love very much. She’s an intelligent young person who is in a phase of life where she is experimenting. Her girlfriend is a black woman, which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. So, there’s my daughter and my wife. The word ‘everyone’ was hyperbole, something perhaps you can understand, under the circumstances.”

Anderson Cooper wanted more but Jay decided that he had said enough on the subject. He leaned back and waited for the next question. But before it arrived, Jay wanted to make another point:

“My daughter’s friend happens to be very anti-Israel and she expressed that opinion at our Seder where she was a guest. So, I admit, I may have had some residual bad feeling. But, look, I’m not saying that excuses anything.”

“What do the political opinions of your daughter’s girlfriend have to do with what occurred?”

“We had a rainbow Passover this year, black people, white people, a thing of beauty. The next day I flew to South Africa where I’m doing a major project. When I arrived home, I said a few unfortunate words that, believe me, I’ll regret for the rest of my life. That’s not how I talk. You can ask anyone who knows me. I don’t talk about people. I talk about ideas. May I tell you what I’m doing in South Africa?”

“Let’s stay on this subject for now. Who do you think released the tape?”

“I can’t say on television, but I believe I know the person’s identity and he’s someone who for his own personal reasons does not wish me well.”

Although Jay was tempted to go into more detail, he chose not to.

“When you first heard the tape, did you remember making that statement?”

“I’ve said all I have to say about those words.”

“All right, let’s talk about you.”

“I’m responsible. I have twenty-nine partners in the league. They’re an incredible group of men. I want to apologize to my partners and the commissioner. This mess lands on his desk and I caused it and I’m sorry. Stupid words. Foolish. A man gets upset, says things he shouldn’t say. I was jealous.”

Revisiting the experience was making Jay increasingly uneasy. His mouth was dry. He wanted a glass of water.

“The league wants you out.”

“The media wants me out.”

“And the league. I’ve had sources tell me—”

“Look, I put the league in a difficult position. My partners there are understandably angry. I have a lot of respect for the commissioner and he’s frustrated. But let me ask you—is what I did so terrible that it merits banishment? Is it fair that I should lose a business that I’ve been devoted to, that I love, because of a few words that are being misinterpreted? No one who knows me will tell you I’m a racist. No one. My family has been in the real estate business for generations. Years ago, not every landlord would rent to black people. There are prominent real estate families in New York City—I’m thinking of one in particular—that would not rent to minorities. That was never the Gladstone way. Back in the 1930s, when my father was on his high school prom committee, he refused to hold the event at a hotel where they were going to make the black kids use the service entrance.”

“What does that have to do with—”

“I’m telling you. I’m not saying Bingo Gladstone was Abraham Lincoln, but what I am saying is that I was raised in a liberal tradition, my parents taught me that God created everyone equal, and that’s how I’ve always lived my life.”

“Church Scott, the coach of your team, was quoted as saying, ‘I don’t know what’s in his heart, but I’m praying for him.’ What would you say to Church Scott?”

“Church Scott’s reaction to this—” Jay considered his words. “I’m disappointed. That’s my only comment. He’s a friend and I wish him well. Do you know he’s the highest paid coach in the league?”

“You say that like he mugged you.”

“He mugged me? He didn’t mug me,” Jay said. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Are you saying that because you’re his employer, he should suspend judgment?”

“In this situation, I think he should get the players to stop this silly talk about a boycott, suit up, and go win some playoff games.”

“When Mayor House of Newark was asked to weigh in on your situation, he had no comment. What would you say to Mayor House?”

“Mayor House is a fine man who’s a little confused right now.”

“Confused how?”

Jay knew he was standing on the edge of a cliff. He took a step back.

“I’m not going there. Let me just say that our family foundation has given away millions of dollars in scholarships, we’ve funded nutrition programs. Half the charitable organizations in Harlem, Bed-Stuy, and Newark have the name Gladstone on the wall because we want to help. But there’s someone else who’s leading the attack on me, this Imam Ibrahim Muhammad fellow, who happens to be a Muslim.”

“What does that have to do with the situation?”

“I want to tread lightly here because it’s a sensitive area. Some Muslims, not all of them, have issues with Jews. Some of them take extreme points of view. Some of them, quite frankly, are worse than Rumanians, who during the Holocaust were worse than the Nazis.”

“Some of them. Is that code for—”

“No, no, no! It’s not code for anything. This particular imam has been leading demonstrations against me in front of the arena where the team plays, violent demonstrations in front of my offices, spreading the most scurrilous lies. It’s pretty obvious that my personal situation is being used to advance several agendas that have nothing to do with me. But I occupy a certain position in society so people feel like they can say whatever they want. And you know what? That’s fine. The Constitution guarantees that right. Everyone just needs to be a little less sensitive, but people are extremely sensitive, they’re so sensitive it’s like no one has skin anymore, only nerve endings. So once again, I want to be clear, I apologize to everyone.”

“You have said that your words have been misinterpreted, misunderstood—”

“I have.”

“I want to give you a platform now to say whatever you want to our audience.”

“Thank you.” Jay turned directly to the camera. He paused, and then said, “Please look inside and ask yourselves whether you have ever done, or said, or even thought something that would embarrass you if it were made public. I would like to say to anyone who hasn’t, you’re a better person than I am.”

“What happened that night in Bedford?”

Jay was prepared for this. What further light could he shine on the question that would not doom his chances of exoneration? That he had been cuckolded by Dag and in a spectacularly misguided attempt to—to what, exactly? To discuss what had occurred? To arrive at some kind of rapprochement? He still did not know. Now the door was open and his restless intellect impelled him to articulate all the subtle gradations of intent that had led to the catastrophe and then dive into the waves of remorse that subsequently rolled in and gambol like a seal. But instead, he said:

“It was an accident.”

Anderson Cooper let the moment linger. Considering the circumstances, Jay was relatively pleased with how the interview had gone, and would not be lured into a rhetorical trap to be destroyed by his own words.

“That’s the extent of your comment on the subject?”

“On the advice of my attorney, that’s all I can say about it.”

Anderson Cooper recognized the immovable object in front of him and pivoted.

“Will you sell the team?”

“When Hell freezes over.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Jay believed the insight and distress he had displayed would go a long way toward rehabilitating his image. He believed he had come across as folksy, honest, and repentant. He believed he was on his way back to the sunny uplands of acceptance and admiration. When the interview ended, the panicked look on Bobby Tackman’s face told him otherwise. Tackman took Jay aside and ordered him to not say another word to the host. He watched as the consultant buttonholed Anderson Cooper, who was being congratulated by his now ecstatic producer, a man who knew broadcast gold when he saw it, and begged him to not run the interview, a request that was summarily rejected. The television crew wrapped their gear and vanished.

Jay was in the kitchen sipping a glass of water when Tackman barged in. He made it clear that the opportunity had been outstandingly botched. Jay listened as the consultant enumerated his sins:

“You can’t apologize and then disparage your daughter’s black girlfriend, why did you express any opinion at all about Church Scott or the mayor of Newark? How would you feel if some well-meaning black man spouted off about Jews? And don’t get me started on what you said about the Muslims. I’m not even sure you and I can work together anymore.”

Tackman ordered him to not engage in further direct contact with the media until they could formulate a new plan.

As Jay absorbed this litany of transgressions, the apartment, which seemed to have cooled with the extinguishing of the television lights and disappearance of the crew, felt like it was heating up again. A mule was trying to kick its way out of his skull. He was about to respond to Tackman when he noticed the vision in his left eye had become occluded and the entire room lost definition, straight planes bending, becoming curvilinear, vibrating, melting, the floor rising and the entire space beginning to disintegrate. Tackman had stopped talking and was looking at him strangely. Jay lost his balance and crumpled, his head striking the floor. Indistinct voices rose and fell. There was so much to do and undo, and yet as consciousness slipped away, what he felt, oddly, was release.

An ambulance brought Jay to Mt. Sinai Hospital where doctors determined that he had not had a coronary or a stroke. He had fainted, the resident who examined him concluded. Probably from stress. He ordered Jay to remain in the hospital under observation for the night. A nurse inserted a needle into his arm for hydration.

Jay had been born at Mt. Sinai. Although his parents lived in Queens at the time, his mother had insisted on it because she wanted her son to be able to say he had been born on Fifth Avenue. When thoughts of his death inevitably arose, he marveled at the symmetry. Staring at the ceiling Jay felt the weakness and frustration that had become his constant companions, but, more than anything, there was the growing sense that he had slipped on some cosmic banana peel and was now in a continuous state of imbalance. From Dag to Nicole to Aviva, the ability to make things conform to the way he wanted them to be had deserted him.

Although Dag had shown slight improvement, the doctors had hinted that a full recovery might not be possible, something that would forever haunt Jay. Additionally, although it paled in comparison to how he felt about the havoc he had wreaked, he feared losing his NBA franchise and not receiving permission from the city to begin construction on the Sapphire, because those endeavors represented a significant part of his future. But what overrode all of this, casting a shadow the size of the world itself, was death. It wasn’t so much that he dreaded the prospect of nonexistence, although he had a healthy terror of that. What concerned him was that he would die now, with his reputation not just deteriorating but seemingly in free fall. How long was he going to live if stress landed him in a hospital bed? Long enough to salvage his reputation and avoid the ignominy of dying in disgrace?

It was not difficult to locate Dag’s room and because he was wearing a hospital gown, the night nurses assumed Jay was just padding along the crypt-quiet halls on a late walk. When he peeked in and saw Dag was alone, he entered and sat in the chair next to the bed.

Dag’s long, lean frame lay still. His chest rose and fell. Clear fluid ran from an IV drip into the soft flesh of his wrist. An oxygen mask covered his features. His eyes were closed. Someone had arranged for a shave, and his cheeks were smooth. Jay glanced at the squiggly green lines of the monitors.

Leaning his head back, he said to the ceiling, “I don’t do this often, but please God, save this man. Please, please Yahweh, Jesus, Allah, whoever is listening.” Humble and emotionally naked, he felt like he was performing a sacred duty. “Little help here, okay? I’m begging.”

Tentatively, he reached his hand out and laid it on Dag’s bicep. It was warm. There was a hitch in Dag’s breathing which caused Jay to start, and he removed his hand and watched Dag’s face for signs of distress. When steady breathing resumed, Jay gently returned his hand to the big man’s arm.

Heas leaned toward Dag’s ear and whispered, “I have no idea if you can hear me, probably not. But, listen. I’m so deeply sorry for this. With my hand on a Bible, I will tell you I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was angry, and because you humiliated me, I wanted to scare you. I admit that. I wanted to put the fear into you in a way you would never forget, and then I did the most unimaginable thing I’ve ever done. I will regret my behavior as long as I’m alive, Dag. I will pray for your recovery each day, and when you recover, I hope you can forgive me.”

Dag’s eyes opened. Jay was dumbfounded, tried to talk, but his tongue would not obey.

“I’m going to be all right,” Dag said.

Jay was crying, tears streaking his face. The mixture of relief, shock, and gratitude paralyzed him. Again, he tried to talk but his tongue expanded to fill his mouth and words would not come.

“How are you feeling?”

Whose voice was that? He still could not get words out.

Swimming to consciousness, he saw Doomer and Tackman at the foot of the bed. Next to them was his sister Bebe. He had been dreaming. It was morning. Through the fog, he realized the tears were real and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. He hoped his visitors didn’t notice. It was Bebe who had spoken. Her voice was soft and solicitous. Once more she asked how he was feeling.

Chapter Fifty-Five

A nurse arrived to administer another round of intravenous hydration. The hospital would discharge him as soon as she checked his vital signs. The only thing the attending physician prescribed was blood pressure medication and a few days of rest.

Jay tried to concentrate as Tackman related the extent of the damage. This took several minutes. True to Tackman’s postgame analysis, the Anderson Cooper interview did not serve the purpose Jay had hoped. The reaction, on television and the Internet, was predictably merciless. “Self-indulgent,” “non-apology apology,” and “insensitive” were leitmotifs, as were “slanderous,” “anti-Muslim,” and, of course, “racist.” Jay was a whipping boy, caricatured, lampooned, dismissed, and the consensus was that his time was over, what he represented was an abomination to right-thinking people, and the acceptable repentance, according to public opinion, was to self-immolate in the middle of Marcus Garvey Boulevard. Tackman concluded by saying, “The only surprise was that no Rumanians complained.”

“There’s still time,” Jay said. The rattle of his laugh had the gallows in it. Everything had gone so transcendently wrong it had begun to seem perversely funny.

“I spoke with the commissioner this morning,” Doomer reported. “He wants to know if you’ve reconsidered. The team is still refusing to play.”

“I’m not selling,” Jay said.

“You’re certainly within your rights to maintain that position,” the lawyer said. “However, we’ve been notified that if you don’t sell the team, he’s going to ban you for life. They can go to court and force a sale. They can get a judge to issue an injunction removing you from day-to-day management of the team by asserting that the rights of the other owners now supersede yours. We can challenge it, but they’ll win.”

“This is America,” Jay reminded them. “The government can’t seize your property because you said something stupid.”

Tackman suggested they explain the interview by saying Jay was “pre-stroke.”

“I stand by every word,” Jay said.

The consultant looked at the lawyer, imploring him to intercede.

“Jay, I think Bobby is right. You can help yourself by embracing the stroke.”

“I didn’t have a stroke.”

“Pre-stroke,” Doomer said.

“It makes you a victim,” Tackman pointed out. “The equation changes. We can suggest the entire episode, going back to the car accident, was a result of physical deterioration.”

“There could be significant ramifications for your legal defense,” Doomer said. “It’s a persuasive mitigating circumstance.”

Bebe had heard enough. “My brother didn’t get to be who he is by bending to the prevailing winds,” she said. “As long as he’s in possession of his faculties, I think we can all depend on him to make a sound decision.” Bebe held Jay’s hand. Their eye contact excluded Doomer and Tackman, who knew not to intrude. “Jay, you need to wait until you’re out of the hospital and you’ve gotten some rest. Don’t make any decisions today.”

He appreciated his sister’s advice and neither Doomer nor Tackman contradicted it. They arranged a conference call for the next day to discuss subsequent steps. Boris arrived and, after a few minutes, the others departed. While they waited for a doctor to sign the discharge papers, Jay complained: He had believed in the legal system his entire life, and now it was gearing up to steamroll him.

But he had another idea.

Chapter Fifty-Six

On a summer day about a month after Jay graduated from college, his mother invited him to accompany her on a roots trip to her old haunts. They visited her modest home on a quiet street in Bensonhurst. Several members of the Italian-American family that lived there were home and when Helen explained that she had grown up in the house, she and Jay were invited in to look around. The rooms were neat and small and Jay remembered thinking that it could not be possible that his mother, who explored multiple continents, hosted sophisticated dinner parties, and lovingly smoothed the jagged edges of her coarser husband, could possibly have grown up in such mundane circumstances. To be able to witness the distance she had traveled was to be reminded of his own astonishing luck. After lunch at Nathan’s in Coney Island they went to Brooklyn College where Helen had graduated, although did not attend the ceremony because she had to work that day and so never collected her diploma. Miraculously, it remained on file decades later:

Helen Shirley Goldstein, BA Brooklyn College, 1952

Jay was aware that his mother existed in a whorl of parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins before she married her husband and eventually became Helen Gladstone of Scarsdale, but his mental image of her earlier identity remained unformed. This tangible evidence, first her house, and then the degree, and the pride that filled her as she held it in her unwrinkled hands, enabled him to complete a vibrant picture. She seemed younger than he had ever seen her that afternoon, and so vivid. Now he was glad she could not understand what was happening to him because it would utterly violate the sense of propriety she had worked so hard to cultivate.

A wedge of purpling clouds roiled over Sheepshead Bay and by the time Jay and Boris arrived in Brighton Beach the sky was sloppy with rain. Boris slid the SUV into a parking space down the street from the Rasputin nightclub and he and Jay jogged along the sidewalk through the deluge. They breathed the salt air and heard the rough surf batter the deserted beach a few hundred yards away. Boris pounded three times on the door. A pierogi-shaped woman with six inches of teased black hair waddled past them holding an umbrella and smoking a cigarette. She was walking a small dog with the muzzle of a lion. When the dog sniffed Jay’s leg the woman said something to it in guttural Russian and jerked the animal’s chain without stopping. A moment later the door opened revealing a huge man in a tracksuit. Unkempt brown hair and a mustache the size of a pickle. He, too, was smoking a cigarette. In a borscht-flavored accent he asked what they wanted. Boris told him whom they were there to see. The man ordered them to wait and closed the door. The rain intensified. After all Jay had accomplished, after reaching the dizzying heights he had, socially and in business, he was standing on a rain-splattered sidewalk in front of a nightclub in Brighton Beach. He almost laughed at the wildly improbable nature of the situation but was interrupted by the return of the bearish man, who waved them inside.

The words were being sung in Russian but the big, sultry voice was unmistakably that of a black woman, or a white woman who was trying to sound black. The unseen chanteuse was belting the disco anthem “I Will Survive” in the language of the Moscow trials. The place smelled like a mixture of sea breeze, disinfectant, and stale cigarettes. Jay had to adjust his eyes to the shadowy darkness. The nightclub was a large, multi-tiered space ringed with tables surrounding a dance floor. On a small stage, the singer, a statuesque black woman with a huge Afro, belted the Russian lyrics as if she had been raised on the banks of the Dnieper. A laptop that stored her backing tracks rested next to her on a high stool.

The mustache motioned for Jay and Boris to wait. He approached a table where two men in suits sat listening to the performance. When the song ended, the men conferred. In English, the singer asked if they wanted her to sing another song and one of the men replied that she should audition for one of those talent shows on television, but meanwhile, they would like her to perform in the club starting this weekend. The diva thanked them, gathered her gear, and hustled off the stage. One of the men rose from the table and escorted her out a side door. The mustache beckoned Jay and Boris to the table.

It had been years since Jay had seen Marat, from whom he kept a wary distance. He did occasional favors for him, like arranging apartments for associates in Gladstone buildings, but their contact was minimal. Marat rose from his chair, smiled, and embraced Jay and Boris in succession.

Only his height was unchanged. When Jay thought of Marat, it was as he looked in the 1970s, with a barrel chest, more hair, and a coiled aspect. In his late sixties now, his hair had thinned and grayed. The Cyrillic letters tattooed on his ringed fingers had faded. His chest had shrunk, and his girth expanded. Most surprising to Jay, he smiled when he asked if they had enjoyed the singer. They assured him that her talents were exemplary.

“During sixties, in Soviet Union, all kinds of Africans showed up to attend school,” he said. “She reminds me of those days.”

Marat indicated they should join him at the table. He inquired whether they would like a drink and, without waiting for an answer, called into the darkness for a bottle of vodka. He asked after Boris’s mother, and Boris told him that she was well. Marat sent his greetings.

“Is my son causing you problems?” Marat asked with mock concern. Boris looked away, embarrassed by the teasing. Jay assured him he was not. He had trouble imagining what it must be like for Boris to have Marat Reznikov as a father.

A beefy woman with bleached blonde hair appeared with the vodka, deposited it on the table, and toddled away. Marat poured three glasses and lit a Lucky Strike.

“I’m trying to quit,” he said, taking a deep drag and blowing an impressive cloud. “You see how well it’s going.”

Boris asked if he could have a cigarette. His father lit one and handed it to him. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. Jay had never seen Boris smoke.

Marat stared at Jay. “You look like shit.”

“It’s been a difficult time.”

“I always tried to keep my name out of the papers.” Marat waved the smoke away. “The more people know your name, the more people want to take you down. Why you go on television? I watched that interview. You dug your own grave with your mouth.” Jay did not respond. Being addressed like this in front of Boris was painful. “What kind of idiot goes on television?” Marat still pronounced it “eee-dyote.” His accent still redolent of the Odessa docks.

“My advisors suggested it.”

“Your advisors?” He spat the word like a bloody tooth. Now it sounded jarring in Jay’s ears. Marat called out for appetizers. The same waitress arrived in seconds with a plate of herring and crackers. Marat slapped her backside as she departed.

Jay thought back to the summer when he met his Ukrainian cousin for the first time. To a college student from a world far removed from the first-generation Bronx and Brooklyn experience of his parents, this immigrant seemed like a wild beast. His surface was composed, but underneath something simmered that could erupt without warning, like the steamy day when the two of them crossed a potholed street in the Mott Haven section of the Bronx, and the gypsy cab lightly struck Marat. Jay never forgot the sick feeling that overcame him as he watched his cousin pistol-whip the driver.

His mouth full of herring, Marat said, “You drove all the way to Brooklyn to see me on this beautiful day. What’s on your mind?”

Jay wrenched his thoughts back from the Bronx. He outlined his situation with the league, related that the playoffs started soon, and told Marat that a judge was going to rule on the matter shortly.

“What can I do?”

“You still know a lot of people in the sports book in Las Vegas?”

“One or two.”

“And that league referee who went to prison for gambling.”

“Not personally, no.”

“There are rumors, Marat, we discuss them at the owners’ meetings.”

“Always there are rumors.”

“Any hint of fixing in a sport can make people think it’s like professional wrestling. It would kill the league.”

“Rumors are like oxygen, Jay.” Marat glanced around the dim room, over one shoulder, then the other, to illustrate his point. “Everywhere.”

“I’m not asking you to confirm or deny.”

The expression that had been so welcoming hardened, replaced by a feral wariness that appeared at home in Marat’s weathered features.

“Boris, give us a minute,” Jay said. He did not want his protégé to witness his further abasement. Boris took his glass of vodka and retreated.

Jay leaned over the table, lowered his voice: “I only want to be able to communicate to the commissioner that facts might come to light that could cause trouble for the league exponentially worse than what my situation is causing so he’ll have to back off and figure out a way to line up behind me.”

Jay hadn’t intended to drink the vodka, but now he took a sip.

“That’s your plan?”

“I don’t have a lot of options.”

“If they push back then on top of all the other trouble, they’ll get you for extortion. Not only will they get you, they get me, and then I’m going back to prison. But, Jay, I’m not going back to prison.” Marat had done time upstate for running a gasoline racket.

“I can’t go to prison.”

Marat took another drag of his cigarette and released a plume of smoke.

“Take your medicine. I did five years. You are big boy, you can do it.”

The club was starting to feel like the middle of the night on a deserted subway platform in the 1970s, the atmosphere rank with bad possibilities. Jay started to perspire. His clothes were already moist from the downpour and now he wanted to take a shower.

“Listen to me, Marat.”

“I’m listening.”

“When you asked me to forget what I saw—”

Marat interrupted, “I’m not going to tell you I’m grateful because I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He drained the vodka in one gulp and poured another.

Jay knew his cousin would admit nothing out loud but it didn’t matter. It was a decision that went against his grain at the time and in the ensuing years he had carried like a virus.

“That’s all you’re going to say?”

“You are bigger man than your father, and Bingo was great man. Is handicap to be born with money because hard to learn how shit works. But you learned.”

Marat, philosopher.

Marat, dispenser of favors.

Marat, lands’ end court for petitioners with no hope.

Jay knew exactly how shit worked, which was why he was here in the Rasputin nightclub swilling vodka with his grizzled cousin. He reflected on his father, wondered if he would have traveled to Brooklyn to sit down with Marat and attempted to pull invisible levers that would shift the planes on which everything was built. He concluded that that is just what Bingo would have done. But Jay didn’t know if he had Bingo’s nerve. Perhaps the easiest thing would be to arrange a deal with Marat and then not live up to his half of the bargain. Marat would turn him into a pavement stain and that would be the end of it.

“I could lose everything.”

“What everything? Don’t be dramatic. You’re a fucking billionaire.” Marat picked a piece of tobacco from between his teeth and flicked it off his finger with a callused thumb. “I tell you what. Say I make a couple of phone calls.” Jay straightened his back. This negotiation is why he was in Brooklyn. “What can you do for me?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I didn’t say I would do it.”

“Marat, just ask.”

“I love basketball.”

“I do, too.”

“Remember when Russian men’s team stole 1972 Olympics from the Americans?”

“Who can forget?”

Marat smiled as if he were the one who had arranged that farce himself. He drained his glass and called for coffee. The same waitress arrived with the same speed and placed two espressos in front of them. Jay inhaled the pleasant smell. Its familiarity comforted him, but he did not touch his cup. Marat downed the shot in one gulp.

“I hear your team is worth more than billion dollars.”

“So I’m told.”

“Give me half.”

“Cash?”

“Ownership.”

His cousin was throwing him a lifeline, but it was one that would strangle him. A partnership with Marat would be like sharing a confined space with a sleeping lion. Eventually, the cat would awaken.

“That’s not possible.”

“I should risk my ass for a box of chocolates?”

Jay insisted such a transaction would be remarkably difficult to engineer. There are few businesses as public as professional sports. Owners have to vote, Marat was a convicted felon. There were ways to disguise ownership, Marat said. His name was on only a fraction of the enterprises he controlled.

“Those are illegitimate businesses.”

At first, Marat seemed insulted. At this point, Jay did not care.

“Not all of them, boychik. Not all of them.” Marat named a well-known Manhattan restaurant operated by a famous chef and informed Jay that he owned a controlling share. When Marat saw the look of surprise on Jay’s face, he said, “See, even a guy as smart as you, you don’t know everything.”

“I don’t think it can work.”

“Don’t tell me it can’t work if what you want to say is you don’t have the balls to pull it off.”

Jay said he would think about Marat’s offer and call him. Marat told him not to use the phone. He should come back and shake on the agreement in person.

“If you don’t want to do it, I understand. Big decisions are not easy. When time comes, if things are bad, perhaps then I help you.”

“How?”

“You say you can’t go to prison.”

“I won’t do that.”

“Then maybe you want to disappear.”

It was still raining when they drove back to Manhattan. Jay did not mention the particulars of his discussion with Marat, only that he had agreed to consider helping him. Boris listened and nodded. Who knew what he was thinking about his father, their relationship, and the different roads their lives had taken.

Was it worth it to make Marat a silent partner? If it could help Jay avoid prison, perhaps it was. One of the reasons he had hired Boris out of college was because Marat had asked, but also, he viewed it as a means to keep Boris out of his father’s orbit. As corny as it was, Jay wanted to be the kind of example for his young cousin that his father had been for him, someone to admire, to emulate. In going to Brighton Beach, he had utterly betrayed that idea. In the Gates of Heaven Cemetery, Bingo Gladstone lay not far from where Babe Ruth was buried. Today Jay was glad of it. As they drove over the Brooklyn Bridge and slid beneath the cloud-shrouded towers of Manhattan, the wash of shame he experienced was tempered by the distant hope that his gambit might work.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Dag’s coma lasted ten days. After a week, when Dr. Bannister and his team attempted to bring him out of it, the patient was unresponsive. The wounds were beginning to heal, but his slightly enhanced brain function proved a false dawn. The prognosis went from hopeful to guarded. The international medical team Jay had assembled could not say if he would emerge from a “persistent vegetative state.” Jamal Jones had not been back after the first week and Brittany Maxwell had returned to California to look after her children. But Dag’s brother Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were a constant presence, as was Imam Ibrahim Muhammad. When his friends took a break, Trey remained at his brother’s side with the imam.

Muhammad told Trey his own story: The crimes, prison time, and conversion. They discussed the fragility of existence and the innate need of humans to submit to something greater than themselves. The cross on Trey’s neck was inked when he was trying to make Church Scott’s team and he derived limited comfort from the art when he was cut loose. He told the imam that he wished it had been something more than a decoration. Now that his life had once again derailed he found himself compelled by the spiritual succor his new friend offered. The words of Ibrahim Muhammad were seductive and welcoming and offered sensible solutions to seemingly intractable problems.

At Dag’s bedside Trey perused the pamphlets the imam gave him with heightened interest. What he knew about Islam mostly came from television: Jihad, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, seventy-two virgins, a grab bag that did not cohere into anything he could comprehend. Because white people controlled the media, he viewed much of what it purveyed as inherently suspect. He wanted solace in a time of need, not to strap on a suicide vest and blow himself up. He was impressed that the Prophet was a warrior who vanquished his adversaries and had multiple wives (the Prophet actually reminded him of several guys he knew growing up in Houston). The idea of being part of a vast community of believers that stretched around the world held deep appeal. The no drugs or alcohol business might be a problem, but following every rule wasn’t the point, was it? Besides, if he had to quit, he could.

He considered the Five Pillars of Islam: Al-Shahadah (Testimony), Al-Salah (Prayer), Al-Siyam (Fasting), Al-Zakat (Almsgiving), and Al-Hajj (Pilgrimage). All of them seemed not only doable but an effective program for gaining control of a sybaritic existence defined by running errands for his brother, whom he loved, but wasn’t it time to think about his own life? Trey Maxwell needed to create some sacred space for himself. He needed to stand up and be his own man, gain inner strength, purify, and if one point six billion Muslims could be trusted, Islam was the answer, the word, the “for real” thing.

Dag’s room was on the tenth floor, overlooking the heliport adjacent to the East River. Each day the helicopters would come and go, arriving and departing in an endless cycle. One came in and another took off, climbing above the river and banking into the distance. There was something mystical about the helicopters to Trey, something he could not quite put into words. But he felt it. Then, it hit him: The helicopters lifting off reminded him of the Prophet Muhammad ascending from Al Aqsa astride his winged steed to begin his heavenly journey. His mind never used to work like that. He felt something good was happening.

When the imam arrived at the hospital the following day, Trey asked how he could become a Muslim. The imam praised him and said he knew Trey would find happiness, tranquility, and inner peace. His friends took the news in stride, which is to say they asked him if he was going to wear white robes and sell bean pies up on 125th Street. When Trey said, “Ain’t funny,” and they saw he was serious, that temporarily ended the comedy.

On Wednesday afternoon of the second week Dag was in the hospital Trey, Lourawls, and Babatunde were playing poker (Trey’s conversion did not include a prohibition against a friendly card game in Dag’s room). Exuding the false cheer of hospital rooms where the possibility of upsetting news flickers like a lightning storm on the horizon, Lourawls gloated as he raked in a twenty-three-dollar pot. Babatunde cursed and told Lourawls he had no talent for the game, it was just luck. Trey ordered the winner to shut up and deal the next hand. As Lourawls began to distribute the cards, Dr. Bannister entered with a group of residents and asked if they would mind stepping out. This was routine, Bannister saw Dag each day, and the entourage left the room. The banter continued in the hallway while they waited for the doctor to finish the examination.

Bannister emerged from the room accompanied by the residents, the graveyard in his eyes. He said, “It looks like your brother might have sepsis.” Trey had no idea what sepsis was and asked if it was dangerous. “It’s a systemic inflammatory response and, yes, it’s dangerous. His organs are failing.”

Trey asked if they could do anything to reverse what was happening and Bannister informed him they were doing all they could.

Trey spent the night at the hospital, grabbing snatches of sleep in the chair next to his brother’s bed. Teams of doctors attended Dag, changing IVs, hooking him up to different machines. As the night wore on Trey stared at the blinking lights. He talked to Allah and with every cell in his body he supplicated, begged, and prayed. Dawn arrived and, bleary-eyed, Trey watched as helicopters rose up like flying horses and arced over the river through the early morning light soaring above the pallid sun toward Arabia.

D’Angelo Maxwell died that afternoon.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.

Seth Greenland is the author of five novels. His latest, The Hazards of Good Fortune (Europa Editions), will be published in 2018. His play Jungle Rot won the Kennedy Center/American Express Fund For New American Plays Award and the American Theater Critics Association Award. He was a writer-producer on the Emmy-nominated HBO series Big Love.

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