"It's a date."

He wondered how serious she was being.

They ordered dinner, and resumed discussing the thing they didn't want to discuss. "Is there any news on that boy?" she asked, referring to Victor Rhodes, the kid who had been beaten up by the patrol.

"Not good. Critical in Kings County Hospital. Last I heard, he's in some kind of partial coma, drifts in and out of consciousness."

She looked nonplussed. "How could this happen?"

"Ask your boys."

"My boys?"

"Sorry."

She looked at him for a moment. "I'm not the enemy."

He took her hand. "I know, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's okay, it's been quite a week."

They finished eating, and found a quaint little pub on Bleecker Street. There was a good crowd, easy to get lost in. They felt comfortable.

She wasn't schooled in spirits, so she asked him to order for her. "Something sweet and fruity," she said. He was no maven either. A screw driver was all he could come up with. For himself, he ordered a scotch on the rocks, only because it seemed more manly.

The tables were occupied, so they stood at the bar. He wasn't used to hanging out in bars, especially one as white as this. He was the only black man in the place, as far as he could tell. But no one stared, no one even seemed to notice. Perhaps because he was wearing a suit and tie, or perhaps because this was The Village. Either way, it was a far cry from Crown Heights, and it felt good. For both of them.

Her first reaction to the drink was a bitter face, but after a few more sips, she began to like it. He also winced when he tasted his, but eventually it was just fine.

They felt like a couple of college kids. A jukebox in the corner played loud, Whitbread music, and the crowd was pretty noisy too. They could barely hear themselves think, so they just watched each other, smiled, and ordered more drinks.

The density of the crowd caused them to stand close to one another. They didn't mind; in fact, after a few drinks, they began to take advantage of the situation. Joshua wasn't sure who started it, but he suddenly found his hand resting softly on her waist, while her hand caressed his arm. Her eyes were gla.s.sy and her smile was uncontrolled, like a schoolgirl doing this for the very first time.

She snuggled in close, pushing her body against his. There was less than an inch between their lips. Neither seemed to care what was going on around them, perhaps because of the alcohol, perhaps because they had grown contemptuous of the perceptions of others. Whatever it was, they wanted this moment, and they were going to have it.

The distance faded, their mouths merged, and they clung to one another with a desperation neither had ever known. It was anguish and ecstasy, recklessness and resolution; everything they'd hoped for and feared, everything they'd craved but couldn't have. Neither could stop, pull away and snap back into reality, for this was their reality, the only one they had ever truly known, the sole moment of clarity in the lunacy that had otherwise defined their existence.

The kiss turned into kisses, to the point where they couldn't help becoming self conscious. They decided to leave, but weren't sure where to go. Joshua wanted to suggest a final drink, to keep the mood going, but something inside him said no. They left, stumbling out onto the sidewalk, as he tried holding them both up. Quite a feat for a man with a cane.

They were wasted, and tomorrow they would pay for it, physically and emotionally. But for now, they still had the evening. They grabbed each other, and began making out in the street. He used the cane to hail a cab, and pulled her tightly against him with his other hand. Next thing they knew, they heard screeching brakes followed by an obnoxious voice: "Hey, goin' somewhere or not?"

Joshua held up a finger signaling, one minute. The cabby appeared impatient but stayed put. Joshua turned to Rachel and said, "This is your ride."

"You aren't coming?"

"Coming where? We can't go back to the neighborhood in the same car, not with everything that's going on."

"I know that, I wasn't thinking about going there. I want to be with..."

He placed his forefinger over her mouth. "Look, if you don't get in that cab right now, I'm just liable to take you somewhere and do something real stupid. So go!" He tried escorting her to the taxi, but she resisted.

"It wouldn't be stupid!" she said.

"It would! Trust me, tomorrow, if you remember any of this, you'll thank me."

The cabby blew his horn. "Come on, now or never!"

"But Joshua..."

"Rachel, please, this isn't easy for me, just go!"

He practically had to drag her toward the taxi. The cabby gave him a disdainful look, one he had grown accustomed to. Rachel also caught it, and it brought her back to reality. Joshua placed a few dollars in her hand for the fare as she slipped into the back seat. Through the open window, her hand held his, and she mouthed, "Good night." He smiled, the cabby practically floored the gas, and her hand slid away.

He turned and began to walk. He needed to walk. He didn't know where he was heading, only that he would be kicking himself all the way.

The next few months were marked by more demonstrations over the Miller and Rhodes affairs, as rabble rousers labored to keep the cause alive. The crowds grew, but remained basically peaceful. Williams and Thompson were always at the helm, their names and faces frequenting the media. They had found their fight.

The NAACP also got in on the action and called for a federal inquiry into Miller's death, along with the suspension of the police officers involved. They got their inquiry, but the city held fast on the police officers, insisting that no action would take place until the investigation had been completed. The mayor and police commissioner took a lot of heat for their continued insistence that Miller's death was not a racial incident. The NAACP also issued public statements asking members of the community to keep cool throughout the summer.

A black citizens' patrol was formed, with the stated purpose of protecting blacks from crime, and the unstated purpose of policing the way Hasidic patrols dealt with black suspects. Patrol members were issued special green jackets, and marched in some of the protests as a unit, parading their presence and resolve. The first time Joshua saw them gathered outside the courthouse, he found himself feeling more worried than proud.

The Justice Department's investigation took about a year and culminated in a twenty-one page report. The results, released by the U.S. Attorney for the Eastern District of New York, Edward Korman, on August 2, 1979, found that Arthur Miller's civil rights had not been violated by the police in whose custody he had died. This was consistent with an earlier finding by a Brooklyn grand jury that had ruled Miller's death a "tragic unforeseeable accident which occurred during a lawful arrest."

The report justified the arrest on the basis of radio transmission recordings and witness accounts. The recordings showed that the original officers were informed that Samuel Miller did have five suspensions against his license for failure to answer a summons, circ.u.mstances for which an arrest is required by law. According to witnesses who had overheard, Samuel claimed to have paid the summons on Schermerhorn Street in downtown Brooklyn, a location at which, the officers knew, payments for traffic summonses were not collected. Witnesses also claimed that Arthur attempted to intervene and prevent the arrest by pushing the sergeant and attempting to pull the arresting officer away from his brother. It was at this point when the sergeant ordered Arthur's arrest.

Samuel apparently tried to escape by pushing the arresting officer away and getting into his truck. He managed to back up a short distance and round a corner, but two officers pursued him and eventually got him out of the truck. At that point, witnesses say, Samuel became irate, grabbed a nearby table, threw it at one of the officers and knocked him unconscious.

Arthur, in his own struggle, heard the sound of the table crashing, a sound which all witnesses claimed had resembled a gunshot. At that point, Arthur, apparently fearing his brother had been shot, grappled to free himself from the officers who were constraining him, yelling that he wanted to see what had happened to his brother. He was wearing a short jacket, which was pulled up during the struggle, revealing a holstered gun. Seeing the gun, the police officers fought harder to restrain him, but had a rough time doing so. Arthur, apparently, wasn't called "Sampson" for nothing. It took twelve of them to finally subdue him, and some received injuries in the process. Eventually he was cuffed, placed in a patrol car, and driven away. He apparently lost consciousness in the car on route to the station house.

While the report exonerated the officers involved, it did not place the blame on Arthur for his own death. Most witnesses, in fact, claimed that what had initially transpired between Arthur and the officers was "never more serious than minor pushing and shoving," until the moment when Arthur had believed that his brother had been shot. A mistake, a tragic mishap, the death of a good man.

As for Samuel, his initial arraignment was postponed due to the prevailing atmosphere, but he did eventually plead guilty to a section 511, driving with a suspended license, for which he received a sentence of a one hundred dollar fine or thirty days in jail. Unable to pay the fine, he ended up serving the time. For the additional charges of second degree a.s.sault and possession of marijuana, he received three years probation.

Victor Rhodes lapsed in and out of a coma for over two months, but eventually recovered, returned home, and testified at the trial of two Hasidic men, whom police had managed to arrest shortly after the incident. The two men were believed to have led the attack against Rhodes, were members of the civilian patrol, and had been apprehended while driving a car nearby. Both were charged with a.s.sault and attempted murder.

At the trial, the defense lawyers contended that their clients had been falsely accused in a case of mistaken ident.i.ty. The jury, which had six blacks and no Jews, eventually agreed with the defense, having been unable to sufficiently distinguish the defendants from the many other Hasidic men sitting near them during the prosecution's presentation. The judge had been criticized by black community leaders and the district attorney's office for having allowed the defendants to sit with their look-a-likes in the spectator section of the court, even though they had returned to the defense table after the prosecution had rested.

Joshua had followed the trial and, as a citizen, had been dismayed by the decision. As a lawyer, however, he couldn't help but admire the defense's brilliant strategy. As a man, he was petrified.

CHAPTER 53.

Jonathan Kenon arrived on the sh.o.r.es of the U.S. from the Island of Trinidad on August 9,1970. His wife, Dorothy, and their three small children remained behind, while he, an uneducated auto mechanic, tried to establish a life so that they could eventually join him. He found lodging in a dilapidated SRO on Atlantic Avenue, and worked pumping gas for minimum wages at a Texaco station.

Jonathan was a punctual and reliable employee, and Martin Siegel, the Jewish owner of the station, took a liking to him. Martin was refurbishing his home in Great Neck, Long Island, and the contractor needed help, so he offered Jonathan extra work on the weekends. A few weeks later, one of the mechanics strained his back, and Martin decided to give Jonathan a chance to step in. Within two months, Jonathan was earning a full mechanic's salary at Siegel's Texaco on Atlantic Avenue, plus the weekend job.

It took three years for Jonathan to save enough for a down payment on a home, a.s.sume a mortgage, and send for his family. It hadn't been easy, but Jonathan was a disciplined, G.o.d fearing man. He never drank, womanized, or gambled. In fact, the only place he ever went besides work was to church on Sundays. His rent was cheap, he never bought clothing or much of anything, and his food preferences were simple. The only indulgence he had allowed himself during these years had been two trips back to Trinidad.

All in all, Jonathan had saved a "mint." By the time Dorothy and the children arrived, the red-brick house on Crown Street had been fully prepared. He had purchased beds and furniture for the children's rooms and master bedroom, a dining room set, living room set, and even some odds and ends for the bas.e.m.e.nt. He had used the skills he acquired on his weekend job to renovate one of the bathrooms, and had done such a fine job installing carpet in the living room and master bedroom, he just had to bring Mr. Siegel over to see it.

"I would have expected nothing less," his boss said, offering the praise Jonathan had hoped for.

Jonathan was the last of ten children. His father had died of cholera shortly before his birth. Mr. Siegel was as close a subst.i.tute as Jonathan had ever encountered; kind, fair, and compa.s.sionate. Siegel's own parents had also been immigrants, and giving someone like Jonathan a break came naturally.

Jonathan's family had always been poor. His older brothers had worked from the time they were seven just to put food on the table. He had spent his youth dreaming of a better life, of coming to America and giving his children the education and opportunities he never had. And now, only ten years after his arrival on the sh.o.r.es of New York, Jonathan Kenon's oldest and only son was about to graduate from Brooklyn College.

Dorothy had found the perfect dress for the occasion, and was showing it off to Jonathan when the doorbell rang. It was late, ten-thirty, an unusual time for a visitor, and the sound of the bell was startling.

Jonathan descended the stairs to the front door and asked who was there. The caller identified himself as Ephraim Gross, one of Jonathan's Hasidic neighbors. Recognizing the name, Jonathan immediately opened the door. Ephraim Gross was not alone.

"Ah, Mr. Kenon, sorry to bother you this time of night," Ephraim Gross said. Jonathan looked at the three other Hasidic men with Gross, none of whom he recognized, wondering what was going on. Gross continued, "May we come in, please, there is something we would like to discuss."

Jonathan had known Gross for the past seven years, and had always found him to be a respectful, though cold neighbor. With what was happening in the neighborhood lately, even that was a blessing. He had no reason to suspect anything untoward from Gross, so he instinctively opened the door and invited the men into his living room.

Dorothy, still upstairs, called down to him, asking who was at the door. "It's our neighbor, Mr. Gross, and some other gentlemen," Jonathan answered, adding, "I'll be up soon."

The five men sat, and Ephraim Gross introduced the three Hasidim with him: Paul "Pinchas" Sims, Yossie Bloom, and Moshe Friedman. Omitting any niceties, Gross got right down to business. "We're here to talk to you about possibly selling your house," Gross said, almost casually.

Jonathan was dumbfounded. "But my house isn't for sale."

"Yes," interrupted Paul, "we are aware of that. We are here to make you an attractive offer, so that you might consider selling."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen," Jonathan said, "I don't mean to be impolite, but my house is not on the market, and if that's all, the hour is late." He glanced at his watch to emphasize the point.

His visitors stared blankly at one another before Paul turned again to Jonathan. He had a well-rehea.r.s.ed script to deal with such resistance. "Look, Mr. Kenon, I intend no disrespect, but we are prepared to offer you a significant sum of money, cash, that will surely yield you a nice profit on what you originally paid, and enable you to move anywhere you like."

"I like it just fine right here!"

Dorothy called again from upstairs: "Jonathan, is everything okay?"

"Yes dear, I'll be right up." To the others: "Gentlemen, as I said, it is late."

"Just one more thing before we go," Paul said. "I don't know what you paid for this house, but I would imagine it was somewhere around fifty or sixty thousand." Paul actually did know the exact figure-to the penny. "That was seven years ago and, as you know, real estate hasn't exactly been booming in these parts." The others nodded. "In all, we're prepared to pay you a twenty percent profit on your initial investment, which, if you check up on things, is quite handsome."

"Only to someone who is selling," Jonathan responded adamantly.

"Will you at least think about our offer? We can come back next week to discuss it further."

"Don't bother, I'm not interested." With that, Jonathan stood, walked to the front door, and opened it.

Paul looked at his colleagues, signaling that it was indeed time to leave. Yossie Bloom and Moshe Friedman left first, pa.s.sing Jonathan as if he were a fixture. Ephraim Gross stopped to shake his neighbor's hand, and Jonathan hesitantly obliged. Paul stopped and said, "I'm sorry if we offended you, Mr. Kenon. Please understand, that was not our intention. We simply have people coming to live here, to be closer to our grand rabbi, from all over the world, and we're running out of s.p.a.ce. I a.s.sure you, this isn't racial."

"Fine," Jonathan responded, not wanting to get into any further discussion on the matter. He shook Paul's hand also, closed the door, and stared at the walls around him. His body trembled, he watched his hands shake. Twenty percent profit on his house, undoubtedly a tempting offer, all things considered. He calculated the exact amount in his mind, close to a year's salary. Tempting indeed! But he could never do it. Everything he'd ever worked for or dreamed of was under this roof, and n.o.body was going to take it from him. He thought about Paul's last words: this isn't racial. "Not much," he mused.

Outside, Paul and his cohorts licked their wounds. Jonathan Kenon had been their third prospect that evening, and thus far only one was even remotely interested. They had a list of ten homeowners to be covered before the end of the week. It was late, and they were worn from the defeat. They would meet again the next night to continue. Perhaps the break would invigorate them.

Paul decided to walk for a while before returning home, mulling over his acts, rationalizing that the Hasidim needed more housing within safe walking distance to the synagogue to accommodate growing families and new immigrants. But he knew that this was only part of the truth, for Rav Schachter had even spoken about encouraging Asians to buy up homes in the neighborhood; anything to rid the area of blacks.

Paul's contribution to this cause had certainly gained him respect and influence among his peers, but he was left uneasy, haunted by the voice of Rabbi Weissman telling him of how the n.a.z.is sought to make Germany Judenrein, free of Jews. And then there was Loretta; how heartbroken she would be if she ever learned of this.

Still, he couldn't stop. Aside from his indebtedness to Rav Schachter, he simply couldn't deny himself the acceptance and admiration from others he was finally receiving.

He wandered for a while, unsure of where he was heading, mindlessly turning corners and drifting through the streets, until he found himself standing in front of the building in which Loretta and Joshua lived. He was perplexed as to how or why he'd ended up there, but after some reflection, he understood. It had been years since he'd last seen Loretta, and she was still the only person who could make him feel okay. He needed her now, more than ever.

As he approached the door, he hesitated, recalling that awful night with Rachel and wondering if she had ever told Joshua about it. He became fearful, and was about to leave, but felt himself compelled to stay. He had to see Loretta, and if that meant a confrontation with Joshua, so be it. He rang the bell.

Loretta answered the door in her bathrobe, appearing quite surprised to see him. It had been many years. She looked older, her hair mostly gray, and she'd added some weight to her still handsome figure.

Paul heard the television in the living room, and was relieved he hadn't awakened her. He apologized anyway, for appearing unannounced this time of night. She a.s.sured him it was nothing, and told him, in fact, that she wished he would visit more often. He was always welcome.

She lamented that Joshua was out at some sort of business meeting. Paul was silently thankful. She showed him into the living room and turned off the TV. He didn't have much to say, no explanation for his visit, and she didn't ask for one. She was happy just to see him, and went on and on about Joshua's fortune. He told her he had read about it in the newspaper, and watched her face come aglow with pride.

They talked some about his parents. He told her that it was silly for her to continue working for them. "That's funny, Joshua says the same thing," she commented, and then said nothing more about it. It was no time for a disagreement.

He stayed for close to half an hour, and left without any mention of his recent escapades. He had found what he had come for-someone who simply appreciated him. And yet, having gotten that, he felt even worse than before.

When he finally arrived home, it was after twelve. Chava was upstairs sleeping. He stopped in the girls' bedroom, as he did every night, to watch them sleep for a little while.

He stood quietly in the doorway, his eyes on Rifky, his youngest, now ten. "My little princess," he always called her, knowing that a cuter, more precocious child was simply nowhere to be found. A wave of sadness came over him; she was growing up, and Chava could not bear more children. The doctor had said no, the last pregnancy had been too difficult.

He then turned his attention to Sheindy, his first, now twelve. The serious, studious one, a pleasure across a chess board, or discussing biblical pa.s.sages. G.o.d had been less kind with her appearance, he had to admit, but he was confident she would thrive. He was becoming an important man, and both his daughters were destined to marry scholars.

He caught himself, surprised to be thinking of his little girls and marriage. He looked at them, feeling ridiculous for considering such a thing while they were still so young. Yet, as he turned away and walked to his bedroom, the thought lingered. There was no denying it, the years were speeding by.

He tiptoed around the room, thinking Chava was asleep, but as usual, she wasn't. She pretended, as she believed a dutiful wife should. And she wondered.

He had never explained his late nights, and she had never asked. She knew he was involved in the citizens' patrol, which accounted for two, maybe three nights a week. But recently he'd been out almost every evening, and she knew he wasn't spending that time at the yeshiva. In fact, she'd heard through the neighborhood rumor mill that his presence in the yeshiva had dwindled quite a bit these past few months.

She had learned many things from the yenta brigade, like the stories she'd heard before they were married concerning his supposed interest in another woman, and other similar rumors that had resurfaced over the years. She had always dismissed such chatter, going about her business, and praying to G.o.d that everything would turn out well for her and her children. But now it was coming back to haunt her.

Paul was haunted too, his ceaseless battle with insomnia fueled by his recent adventures. He wanted to tell Chava what he'd been doing, perhaps merely to alleviate some of the guilt, but he was afraid of her disapproval, and also concerned she might pressure him to quit. He couldn't quit now; he had to stay the course.

So here he was, nearing thirty-two, duplicitous, weak, and sneaking around behind his family's back, all to attain an elusive sense of worth and importance. And in the end, amid the self loathing and incessant doubt, there was only one fact of which he could be certain: he was nothing more than his father's son.

CHAPTER 54.

It had been years since Arthur Miller's death, but his memory still stirred the attendees of the annual Nostrand Avenue Commerce a.s.sociation's dinner and dance. Joshua sat beside Connie, restlessly listening to speech after speech, award recipients and community leaders parroting the ills of local law enforcement and the preferential treatment afforded their Hasidic neighbors. The Miller incident and its aftermath had left a bitterness that would seemingly never wane. Joshua looked around. Hatred was thriving in the midst, unchecked, uncensored. The storm was closing in.