The two ma.s.ses of humanity met, merged, froze. Killian rose up in front of Sherman. Microphones were in his face, and Killian was declaiming, most oratorically: "I want you to show the whole city a New York"-Yawk-"what you just saw"-sawwwwr-"in there"-in eh. With the most curious detachment Sherman found himself aware of every street inflection of the fop's voice. "You saw a circus arrest, and then you saw a circus arraignment, and then you saw the District Attorney's Office prost.i.tuting itself and perverting the law"-the lawwr-"for your cameras and for the approval of a partisan mob!"

Booooo!...Yegggh!...Partisan you, you bent-nose b.a.s.t.a.r.d!...Somewhere behind him, no more than twenty-four inches away, someone was keening in a singsong falsetto: "Say your prayers, McCoy...Your day is done...Say your prayers, McCoy...Your day is done..."

Killian said: "We reached an agreement with the district attorney yesterday..."

The singsong falsetto said: "Say your prayers, McCoy...Count your breaths..."

Sherman looked up at the sky. The rain had stopped. The sun had broken through. It was a lovely balmy day in June. There was a fluffy blue dome over the Bronx.

He looked at the sky and listened to the sounds, just the sounds, the orotund tropes and sententiae, the falsetto songs, the inquisitory shouts, the hippo mutterings, and he thought: I'm not going back in there, ever. I don't care what it takes to keep me out, even if I have to stick a shotgun in my mouth.

The only shotgun he had was, in fact, double-barreled. It was a big old thing. He stood on 161st Street, a block from the Grand Concourse, in the Bronx, and wondered if he could get both barrels in his mouth.

23. Inside the Cavity

"Well, there you are, Larry," said Abe Weiss with a big grin. "They sure gave you a shiny dome." Since Weiss was now inviting him to do it, Kramer did what he had been wanting to do for the past forty-five seconds, which was to turn completely away from Weiss and look at the bank of television sets on the wall.

And there, indeed, he was.

The videoca.s.sette had just reached the part in the Channel 1 broadcast from last night in which the artist's drawing showed the scene in the courtroom. The sound was on low, but Kramer could hear the voice of the announcer, Robert Corso, as if he were right inside his skull: "a.s.sistant District Attorney Lawrence Kramer thrust the pet.i.tion toward Judge Samuel Auerbach and said, 'Your Honor, the people of the Bronx...' " In the drawing, the top of his head was absolutely bald, which was unrealistic and unfair, because he was not bald, he was only balding. Nevertheless, there he was there he was. It was not one of Those People We See on TV. It was himself, and if there was ever a powerful warrior for Justice, it was himself on that screen. His neck, his shoulders, his chest, his arms-they were huge, as if he were heaving the 16-pound shot in the Olympics instead of waving a few pieces of paper at Sammy Auerbach. True, one reason he looked so big was that the drawing was a little out of proportion, but that was probably the way the artist had seen him: Larger Than Life. The artist...What a juicy Italian girl she had been...Lips like nectarines...Nice b.r.e.a.s.t.s underneath a shiny silky jersey...Lucy Dellafloria, her name was...If there hadn't been such commotion and confusion, it would have been the easiest thing in the world. After all, she had sat there in the courtroom concentrating on him, at center stage, absorbed in the look of him, in the pa.s.sion of his presentation, the confidence of his performance on the field of battle. She had been absorbed as an artist and as a woman...with full Italian Dirty Girl lips...in himself.

All too soon, just like that, the drawing was gone and Weiss was on the screen with a whole forest of microphones sticking up at him. The microphones had been on little metal stands on his desk, for the press conference he gave right after the arraignment. He had given another one this morning. Weiss knew exactly how to keep the focus on himself. Oh yes. The average TV watcher would a.s.sume that the show was all Abe Weiss's and that the a.s.sistant district attorney who presented the case in the courtroom, this Larry Kramer, was merely the instrument of Abe Weiss's gravel-voiced strategic brilliance. Weiss hadn't actually worked on his feet in a courtroom the whole time he had been in office, which was almost four years. But Kramer didn't resent that; or not very much. That was the given. That was the way it worked. It was thus in every district attorney's office, not just Weiss's. No, on this particular morning Captain Ahab was okay with Kramer. The TV news and the newspapers had featured the name Lawrence Kramer many times, and she she, luscious Lucy Dellafloria, s.e.xy Lucy Delicate Flower, had done his portrait and captured the mighty Kramer form. No, it was fine. And Weiss had just gone to the trouble of pointing that out to him, by playing the videoca.s.sette. The implicit message was: "All right, I make myself the star, because I run this office and I am the one who has to face reelection. But see, I don't leave you out. You get the second billing."

So the two of them watched the rest of the Channel 1 coverage on the television set on the paneled wall. There was Thomas Killian standing outside the Criminal Courts Building with the microphones held up at his his face. face.

"Look at those f.u.c.king clothes," muttered Weiss. "Looks f.u.c.king ridiculous." What crossed Kramer's mind was how much such clothes must cost.

Killian was going on about how this was a "circus arrest" and a "circus arraignment." He appeared to be extremely angry.

"We reached an agreement with the district attorney yesterday that Mr. McCoy would present himself for arraignment here in the Bronx, peacefully, voluntarily, this morning, and the district attorney chose to violate that agreement and bring Mr. McCoy in like a violent felon, like an animal-and for what? For your cameras and for votes."

"Gedoudahere," Weiss said to the screen.

Killian was saying, "Mr. McCoy not only denies these charges, but he is eager for the facts in this case to come out, and when they come out, you will see that the scenario that is being contrived for this case is utterly without foundation."

"Blah blah blah," Weiss said to the screen.

The camera moved to a figure standing just behind Killian. It was McCoy. His tie was loose and pulled to one side. His shirt and jacket were rumpled. His hair was matted. He looked half drowned. His eyes rolled up, toward the sky. He didn't look all there.

Now Robert Corso's face was on the screen, and he was talking about McCoy, McCoy, McCoy. It was no longer the Lamb case. It was the McCoy case. The big Wall Street Wasp with the aristocratic profile had given the case some s.e.x appeal. The press couldn't get enough of it.

Weiss's desk was covered with newspapers. He still had yesterday afternoon's City Light City Light right up on top. In enormous letters the front page said: right up on top. In enormous letters the front page said: Wall Street Socialite Nabbed In Hit-And-Run The words were banked up against a tall narrow picture of McCoy, soaking wet, with his hands in front of him and his suit jacket folded over his hands, obviously to hide his handcuffs. He had his big handsome chin up, and a ferocious scowl beamed straight down his nose at the camera. He looked as if he was saying, "Yeah, and what of it?" Even the Times Times had the case on the front page this morning, but it was had the case on the front page this morning, but it was The City Light The City Light that was really going wild. The headline this morning said: that was really going wild. The headline this morning said: Seek "Foxy"

Brunette Mystery Girl A smaller headline up above said, Team Mercedes: He Hit, She Ran Team Mercedes: He Hit, She Ran. The picture was the one from the social magazine, W W, the one Roland Auburn had pointed to, the one of McCoy in his tuxedo, grinning, and of his wife, looking proper and plain. The caption said, Eyewitness called McCoy's companion younger, more "foxy," a "hotter ticket" than his forty-year-old wife, Judy, shown here with hubby at charity bash Eyewitness called McCoy's companion younger, more "foxy," a "hotter ticket" than his forty-year-old wife, Judy, shown here with hubby at charity bash. A line of white letters on a black bar at the bottom of the page said, Protesters Demand "Jail, Not Bail" for Wall Street Whiz. See page 3 Protesters Demand "Jail, Not Bail" for Wall Street Whiz. See page 3. And: Chez McCoy and Chez Lamb: A Tale of Two Cities. Pictures, pages 4 and 5 Chez McCoy and Chez Lamb: A Tale of Two Cities. Pictures, pages 4 and 5. On pages 4 and 5 were pictures of McCoy's Park Avenue spread, the ones from Architectural Digest Architectural Digest, on one side and pictures of the Lambs' tiny rooms in the project on the other. A long caption began: Two vastly different New Yorks collided when Wall Street investment banker Sherman McCoy's $50,000 Mercedes-Benz sports roadster struck honor student Henry Lamb. McCoy lives in a $3 million, 14-room, two-story apartment on Park Avenue. Lamb, in a $247-a-month three-room apartment in a housing project in the South Bronx Two vastly different New Yorks collided when Wall Street investment banker Sherman McCoy's $50,000 Mercedes-Benz sports roadster struck honor student Henry Lamb. McCoy lives in a $3 million, 14-room, two-story apartment on Park Avenue. Lamb, in a $247-a-month three-room apartment in a housing project in the South Bronx.

Weiss loved every square inch of the coverage. It had blown all this talk of "white justice" and "Johannesbronx" right out of the tub. They hadn't managed to jack McCoy's bail up to $250,000, but they had gone after that aggressively. Aggressively? Kramer smiled. Sammy Auerbach's eyes had opened up like a pair of umbrellas when he had waved the pet.i.tion at him. That had been just a shade outrageous, but it had gotten the point across. The Bronx D.A.'s Office was in touch with the people. And they would keep pet.i.tioning for higher bail.

No, Weiss was pleased. That was obvious. This was the first time Kramer had ever been summoned into Weiss's office by himself, without Bernie Fitzgibbon.

Weiss pressed a b.u.t.ton, and the television set went blank. He said to Kramer, "Did you see the way McCoy looked standing there? He looked like a f.u.c.king mess. Milt said that's the way he looked when he came in the courtroom yesterday. He said he looked like h.e.l.l. What was that all about?"

"Well," said Kramer, "all it was was, it was raining. He got wet while he was standing in line outside of Central Booking. They made him wait in line like everybody else, which was the whole point. Not to give him special treatment."

"All right," said Weiss, "but f'r Chrissake, here we're bringing Park Avenue into the courtroom, and Milt says the guy looked like he was just fished out of the river. Bernie was giving me a hard time about that, too. He didn't want to take him through Central Booking in the first place."

"He didn't look all that bad, Mr. Weiss," said Kramer.

"Make it Abe."

Kramer nodded, but decided he would wait a decent interval before trying out his first Abe Abe. "He didn't look any different from anybody else who comes in from out of the pens."

"And there's Tommy Killian trying to raise a big stink about it, too." He gestured toward the television sets.

Kramer thought, Well, you finally stood up on your hind legs against the two Donkeys. Bernie had been unhappy, to put it mildly, when Weiss overruled him and ordered Kramer to request that McCoy's bail be raised from $10,000 to $250,000 after Bernie had struck a deal at $10,000 with Killian. Weiss told Bernie it was only to placate the angry residents of the community who thought McCoy would get special treatment and that he knew Auerbach wouldn't actually set such a high bail. But to Bernie it was a breach of contract, a violation of Favor Bank regulations, of the sacred code of loyalty of one Harp to another in the criminal justice system.

Kramer could see a cloud pa.s.sing in front of Weiss's face, and then Weiss said, "Well, let Tommy squawk. You can drive yourself crazy if you try to please everybody. I had to make a decision and I made a decision. Bernie likes Tommy, and that's okay. I like Tommy myself. But Bernie wants to give him the G.o.dd.a.m.ned store! The promises he made Tommy, McCoy was gonna come traipsing through here like Prince Charles. How long was McCoy in the pens?"

"Oh, about four hours."

"Well, h.e.l.l, that's about normal, isn't it?"

"About. I've seen defendants get shuttled from one precinct lockup to another and then to Central Booking and then to Rikers Island and then back to Central Booking, and then they get arraigned. They get arrested on a Friday evening, they can spend the whole weekend bouncing around. Then you're looking at somebody who's a mess. McCoy didn't even have to start off in a precinct house and get bused over to Central Booking."

"Well then, I don't know what all this G.o.dd.a.m.ned bellyaching is. Did anything happen to him in the pens? What's the big deal?"

"Nothing happened. The computer went down, I think. So there was a delay. But that happens all the time, too. That's normal."

"You wanna know what I think? I think Bernie, without knowing it-don't get me wrong, I like Bernie and I respect Bernie-but I think, without knowing it, he really does think someone like McCoy should get special treatment, because he's white and because he's well known. Now, this is a subtle thing. Bernie's Irish, just like Tommy's Irish, and the Irish have a certain amount of what the English call deference deference built into them, and they don't even know it. They're impressed by these Waspy guys, like McCoy, even though consciously they may act and think like they're members of the IRA. It's not really important, but a guy like Bernie's got this deference thing to deal with, this unconscious Irish thing, and he doesn't even know about it. But we don't represent the Wasps, Larry. I wonder if there's even a Wasp living in the Bronx. There must be one in Riverdale somewhere." built into them, and they don't even know it. They're impressed by these Waspy guys, like McCoy, even though consciously they may act and think like they're members of the IRA. It's not really important, but a guy like Bernie's got this deference thing to deal with, this unconscious Irish thing, and he doesn't even know about it. But we don't represent the Wasps, Larry. I wonder if there's even a Wasp living in the Bronx. There must be one in Riverdale somewhere."

Kramer chuckled.

"No, I'm serious," said Weiss. "This is the Bronx. This is the Laboratory of Human Relations. That's what I call it, the Laboratory of Human Relations."

That was true; he called it the Laboratory of Human Relations. He called it that every day, as if oblivious of the fact that everyone who had ever been in his office had heard him say it before. But Kramer was in the mood to forgive Weiss's fatuous side. More than forgive...to understand...and appreciate the essential truth that underlay his buffoon's way of putting things. Weiss was right. You couldn't run the criminal justice system in the Bronx and pretend you were in some kind of displaced Manhattan.

"Come here," said Weiss. He got up from his great chair and walked over to the window behind him and beckoned to Kramer. From up here on the sixth floor, at the top of the hill, the view was grand. They were up high enough so that all sordid details receded and the Bronx's lovely rolling topology took over. They looked out over Yankee Stadium and John Mullaly Park, which from up here actually looked green and sylvan. In the distance, straight ahead, across the Harlem River, was the skyline of upper Manhattan, up where Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center was, and from here it looked pastoral, like one of those old landscape paintings in which they put some fuzzy trees in the background and some soft gray clouds.

Weiss said, "Look down there on those streets, Larry. Whaddaya see? Who Whodaya see?"

All that Kramer could see, in fact, were some tiny figures walking along 161st Street and Walton Avenue. They were so far below they were like insects.

"They're all black and Puerto Rican," said Weiss. "You don't even see any old Jews walking around down there anymore or any Italians, either, and this is the civic center of the Bronx. This is like Montague Street in Brooklyn or City Hall Plaza in Manhattan. In the summertime the Jews used to sit out on the sidewalk at night right over there on the Grand Concourse and just watch the cars go by. You couldn't get Charles Bronson to sit out there now. This is the modern era, and n.o.body understands it yet. When I was a kid, the Irish ran the Bronx. They ran it for a long time. You remember Charlie Buckley? Charlie Buckley, the congressman? No, you're too young. Charlie Buckley, the Boss of the Bronx, as Irish as they come. Up to about thirty years ago Charlie Buckley was still running the Bronx. And now they're finished, and so who runs it? Jews and Italians. But for how long? There's none down there on the street, and so how long are they gonna be up here in this building? But that's the Bronx, the Laboratory of Human Relations. That's what I call it, the Laboratory of Human Relations. Those are poor people you're looking at down there, Larry, and poverty breeds crime, and the crime in this borough-well, I don't have to tell you. Part of me's an idealist. I want to deal with every case on an individual basis and every person one by one. But with the caseload we got? Ayyyyyyyyyyyyy...The other part of me knows that what we're really doing, we're like a little band of cowboys running a herd. With a herd the best you can hope for is to keep the herd as a whole as a whole"-he made a great round gesture with his hands-"under control and hope you don't lose too many along the way. Oh, the day will come, and maybe pretty soon, when those people down there will have their own leaders and their own organizations, and they'll be the Bronx Democratic Party and everything else, and we won't be in this building any longer. But right now they need us, and we have to do the right thing by them. We have to let them know that we're not removed from them and that they're just as much a part of New York as we are. We have to send them the right signals. We have to let them know that maybe we come down hard on them when they get out of line, but it's not because they're black or Hispanic or poor. We got to let them know justice really is blind. We got to let them know if you're white and rich, it works out the same way. That's a very important signal. It's more important than any specific point or technicality of the law. That is what this office is all about, Larry. We're not here to handle cases. We're here to create hope. That's what Bernie doesn't understand." The doesn't doesn't, in preference to the Irish don't don't, signaled the elevation of the D.A.'s thoughts at this moment. "Bernie is still playing Irish politics," said Weiss, "the same way Charlie Buckley used to play it, and that's finished. It's all over. This is the modern era in the Laboratory of Human Relations, and we have a sworn duty to represent those people you're looking at down there."

Kramer peered down diligently at the insects. As for Weiss, the loftiness of his sentiments had filled his voice and his face with emotion. He gave Kramer a sincere look and a tired smile, the sort of look that says, "That's what life is all about, once the petty considerations have been swept away."

"I never thought about it that way before, Abe," said Kramer, "but you're absolutely right." It seemed like a good moment for the first Abe Abe.

"I was worried about this McCoy case at the beginning," said Weiss. "It looked like Bacon and those people were forcing the issue, and all we were doing was reacting. But that's okay. It turned out to be a good thing. How do do we treat some hotshot from Park Avenue? Like anybody else, that's how! He gets arrested, he gets the cuffs, he gets booked, he gets fingerprinted, he waits in the pens, just like anybody down there on those streets! Now, I think that sends a h.e.l.luva good signal. It lets those people know we represent we treat some hotshot from Park Avenue? Like anybody else, that's how! He gets arrested, he gets the cuffs, he gets booked, he gets fingerprinted, he waits in the pens, just like anybody down there on those streets! Now, I think that sends a h.e.l.luva good signal. It lets those people know we represent them them and they're a part a New York City." and they're a part a New York City."

Weiss gazed down upon 161st Street like a shepherd upon his flock. Kramer was glad no one but himself was witnessing this. If more than one witness had been on hand, then cynicism would have reigned. You wouldn't have been able to think about anything other than the fact that Abe Weiss had an election coming up in five months, and 70 percent of the inhabitants of the Bronx were black and Latin. But since there was, in fact, no other witness, Kramer could get to the heart of the matter, which was that the manic creature before him, Captain Ahab, was right.

"You did a great job yesterday, Larry," said Weiss, "and I want you to keep pouring it on. Doesn't it make you feel good feel good to use your talents for something that means something? Christ, you know what I make." That Kramer did. It was $82,000 a year. "A dozen times I coulda taken a fork in the road and gone out and made three times, five times that in private practice. But for what? You only pa.s.s this way once, Larry. Whaddaya wanna be remembered for? That you had a f.u.c.king mansion in Riverdale or Greenwich or Locust Valley? Or that you to use your talents for something that means something? Christ, you know what I make." That Kramer did. It was $82,000 a year. "A dozen times I coulda taken a fork in the road and gone out and made three times, five times that in private practice. But for what? You only pa.s.s this way once, Larry. Whaddaya wanna be remembered for? That you had a f.u.c.king mansion in Riverdale or Greenwich or Locust Valley? Or that you made a difference made a difference? I feel sorry sorry for Tommy Killian. He was a good a.s.sistant D.A., but Tommy wanted to make some money, and so now he's out making some money, but how? He's holding the hands and wiping the noses of a buncha wise guys, psychotics, and dopers. A guy like McCoy makes him look good. He hasn't seen a guy like that in all the years he's been outta here. No, I'd rather run the Laboratory of Human Relations. That's the way I think of it. I'd rather make a difference." for Tommy Killian. He was a good a.s.sistant D.A., but Tommy wanted to make some money, and so now he's out making some money, but how? He's holding the hands and wiping the noses of a buncha wise guys, psychotics, and dopers. A guy like McCoy makes him look good. He hasn't seen a guy like that in all the years he's been outta here. No, I'd rather run the Laboratory of Human Relations. That's the way I think of it. I'd rather make a difference."

You did a great job yesterday. And I want you to keep pouring it on.

"Christ, I wonder what time it is," said Weiss. "I'm getting hungry."

Kramer looked at his watch with alacrity. "Almost 12:15."

"Whyn't you stick around and have lunch? Judge Tonneto's coming by, and this guy from the Times Times, Overton Something-or-other-I always forget, they're all named Overton or Clifton or some f.u.c.king name like that-and Bobby Vitello and Lew Weintraub. You know Lew Weintraub? No? Stick around. You'll learn something."

"Well, if you're sure..."

"Of course!" Weiss motioned toward his gigantic conference table, as if to say there's plenty of room. "Just ordering in some sandwiches."

He said this as if this happened to be one of those spur-of-the-moment lunches where you order in instead of going out, as if he or any other shepherd from the island fortress dared stroll out amid the flock and have lunch in the civic center of the Bronx.

But Kramer banished all cheap cynicism from his thoughts. Lunch with the likes of Judge Tonneto, Bobby Vitello, Lew Weintraub, the real-estate developer, Overton Whichever Wasp of The New York Times The New York Times, and the district attorney himself!

He was emerging from the anonymous ooze.

Thank G.o.d for the Great White Defendant. Thank you, G.o.d, for Mr. Sherman McCoy.

With a blink of curiosity, he wondered about McCoy. McCoy wasn't much older than he was. How did this little icy dip into the real world feel to a Wasp who had had everything just the way he wanted it all his life? But it was only that, a blink.

The Bororo Indians, a primitive tribe who live along the Vermelho River in the Amazon jungles of Brazil, believe that there is no such thing as a private self. The Bororos regard the mind as an open cavity, like a cave or a tunnel or an arcade, if you will, in which the entire village dwells and the jungle grows. In 1969 Jose M. R. Delgado, the eminent Spanish brain physiologist, p.r.o.nounced the Bororos correct. For nearly three millennia, Western philosophers had viewed the self as something unique, something encased inside each person's skull, so to speak. This inner self had to deal with and learn from the outside world, of course, and it might prove incompetent in doing so. Nevertheless, at the core of one's self there was presumed to be something irreducible and inviolate. Not so, said Delgado. "Each person is a transitory composite of materials borrowed from the environment." The important word was transitory transitory, and he was talking not about years but about hours. He cited experiments in which healthy college students lying on beds in well-lit but soundproofed chambers, wearing gloves to reduce the sense of touch and translucent goggles to block out specific sights, began to hallucinate within hours within hours. Without the entire village, the whole jungle, occupying the cavity, they had no minds left.

He cited no investigations of the opposite case, however. He did not discuss what happens when one's self-or what one takes to be one's self-is not a mere cavity open to the outside world but has suddenly become an amus.e.m.e.nt park to which everybody, todo el mundo, tout le monde todo el mundo, tout le monde, comes scampering, skipping, and screaming, nerves a-tingle, loins aflame, ready for anything, all you've got, laughs, tears, moans, giddy thrills, gasps, horrors, whatever, the gorier the merrier. Which is to say, he told us nothing of the mind of a person at the center of a scandal in the last quarter of the twentieth century.

At first, in the weeks following the incident in the Bronx, Sherman McCoy had regarded the press as an enemy that was stalking him out there out there. He feared each day's newspapers and news broadcasts the way a man would fear the weapons of any impersonal and unseen enemy, the way he would fear falling bombs or incoming sh.e.l.ls. Even yesterday, outside the Central Booking facility, in the rain and the filth, when he saw the whites of their eyes and the yellow of their teeth and they reviled and taunted and baited him, when they did everything short of trampling and spitting upon him, they were still the enemy out there out there. They had closed in for the kill, and they hurt him and humiliated him, but they could not reach his inviolable self, Sherman McCoy, inside the bra.s.s crucible of his mind.

They closed in for the kill. And then they killed him.

He couldn't remember whether he had died while he was still standing in line outside, before the door to Central Booking opened, or while he was in the pens. But by the time he left the building and Killian held his impromptu press conference on the steps, he had died and been reborn. In his new incarnation, the press was no longer an enemy and it was no longer out there out there. The press was now a condition, like lupus erythematosus or Wegener's granulomatosis. His entire central nervous system was now wired into the vast, incalculable circuit of radio and television and newspapers, and his body surged and burned and hummed with the energy of the press and the prurience of those it reached, which was everyone, from the closest neighbor to the most bored and distant outlander t.i.tillated for the moment by his disgrace. By the thousands, no, the millions, they now came scampering into the cavity of what he had presumed to be his self, Sherman McCoy. He could no more keep them from entering his very own hide than he could keep the air out of his lungs. (Or, better said, he could keep them out only in the same manner that he could deny air to his lungs once and for all. That solution occurred to him more than once during that long day, but he fought against morbidity, he did, he did, he did, he who had already died once.) It started within minutes after he and Killian managed to disengage themselves from the mob of demonstrators and reporters and photographers and camera crews and get into the car-service sedan Killian had hired. The driver was listening to an Easy Listening station on the car radio, but in no time the every-half-hour news broadcast came on, and right away Sherman heard his name, his name and all the key words that he would hear and see over and over for the rest of the day: Wall Street, socialite, hit-and-run, Bronx honor student, unidentified female companion, and he could see the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror staring into the open cavity known as Sherman McCoy. By the time they reached Killian's office, the midday edition of The City Light The City Light was already there, and his contorted face was staring back at him from the front page, and everyone in New York was free to walk right in through those horrified eyes of his. Late in the afternoon, when he went home to Park Avenue, he had to run a gauntlet of reporters and television camera crews to get into his own apartment building. They called him "Sherman," as merrily and contemptuously and imperiously as they pleased, and Eddie, the doorman, looked into his eyes and stuck his head way down into the cavity. To make matters worse, he had to ride up on the elevator with the Morrisseys, who lived in the penthouse apartment. They said nothing. They just poked their long noses inside the cavity and sniffed and sniffed at his shame, until their faces stiffened from the stench. He had counted on his unlisted telephone number as a retreat, but the press had already solved that, by the time he got home, and Bonita, kind Bonita, who took only a quick peek inside the cavity, had to screen the calls. Every imaginable news organization called, and there were a few calls for Judy. And for himself? Who would be so deficient in dignity, so immune to embarra.s.sment, as to make a personal telephone call to this great howling public arcade, this sh.e.l.l of shame and funk, which was Sherman McCoy himself? Only his mother and father and Rawlie Thorpe. Well, at least Rawlie had that much in him. Judy-roaming the apartment shocked and distant. Campbell-bewildered but not in tears; not yet. He hadn't thought he would be able to face the television screen, and yet he turned it on. The vilification poured forth from every channel. Prominent Wall Street investment banker, top echelon at Pierce & Pierce, socialite, prep school, Yale, spoiled son of the former general partner of Dunning Sponget & Leach, the Wall Street law firm, in his $60,000 Mercedes sports roadster (now an extra $10,000), with a foxy brunette who was not his wife and not anything like his wife and who makes his wife look dowdy by comparison, runs over an exemplary son of the deserving poor, a young honor student who grew up in the housing projects, and flees in his fancy car without so much as a moment's pity, let alone help, for his victim, who now lies near death. The eerie thing was-and it felt eerie as he had sat there looking at the television set-was that he was not shocked and angered by these gross distortions and manifest untruths. Instead, he was was already there, and his contorted face was staring back at him from the front page, and everyone in New York was free to walk right in through those horrified eyes of his. Late in the afternoon, when he went home to Park Avenue, he had to run a gauntlet of reporters and television camera crews to get into his own apartment building. They called him "Sherman," as merrily and contemptuously and imperiously as they pleased, and Eddie, the doorman, looked into his eyes and stuck his head way down into the cavity. To make matters worse, he had to ride up on the elevator with the Morrisseys, who lived in the penthouse apartment. They said nothing. They just poked their long noses inside the cavity and sniffed and sniffed at his shame, until their faces stiffened from the stench. He had counted on his unlisted telephone number as a retreat, but the press had already solved that, by the time he got home, and Bonita, kind Bonita, who took only a quick peek inside the cavity, had to screen the calls. Every imaginable news organization called, and there were a few calls for Judy. And for himself? Who would be so deficient in dignity, so immune to embarra.s.sment, as to make a personal telephone call to this great howling public arcade, this sh.e.l.l of shame and funk, which was Sherman McCoy himself? Only his mother and father and Rawlie Thorpe. Well, at least Rawlie had that much in him. Judy-roaming the apartment shocked and distant. Campbell-bewildered but not in tears; not yet. He hadn't thought he would be able to face the television screen, and yet he turned it on. The vilification poured forth from every channel. Prominent Wall Street investment banker, top echelon at Pierce & Pierce, socialite, prep school, Yale, spoiled son of the former general partner of Dunning Sponget & Leach, the Wall Street law firm, in his $60,000 Mercedes sports roadster (now an extra $10,000), with a foxy brunette who was not his wife and not anything like his wife and who makes his wife look dowdy by comparison, runs over an exemplary son of the deserving poor, a young honor student who grew up in the housing projects, and flees in his fancy car without so much as a moment's pity, let alone help, for his victim, who now lies near death. The eerie thing was-and it felt eerie as he had sat there looking at the television set-was that he was not shocked and angered by these gross distortions and manifest untruths. Instead, he was shamed shamed. By nightfall they had been repeated so often, on the vast circuit to which his very hide now seemed wired, that they had taken on the weight of truth, in that millions had now seen seen this Sherman McCoy, this Sherman McCoy on the screen, and they knew him to be the man who had committed the heartless act. They were here now, in vast mobs, clucking and fuming and probably contemplating worse than that, inside the public arcade that he had once thought to be the private self of Sherman McCoy. Everyone, every living soul who gazed upon him, with the possible exception of Maria, if she ever gazed upon him again, would know him as this person on the front of two million, three million, four million newspapers and on the screen of G.o.d knew how many million television sets. The energy of their accusations, borne over the vast circuit of the press, which was wired into his central nervous system, hummed and burned through his hide and made his adrenaline pump. His pulse was constantly fast, and yet he was no longer in a state of panic. A sad, sad torpor had set in. He could concentrate on...nothing, not even long enough to feel sad about it. He thought of what this must be doing to Campbell and to Judy, and yet he no longer felt the terrible pangs he felt before...before he died. This alarmed him. He looked at his daughter and tried to feel the pangs, but it was an intellectual exercise. It was all so sad and heavy, heavy, heavy. this Sherman McCoy, this Sherman McCoy on the screen, and they knew him to be the man who had committed the heartless act. They were here now, in vast mobs, clucking and fuming and probably contemplating worse than that, inside the public arcade that he had once thought to be the private self of Sherman McCoy. Everyone, every living soul who gazed upon him, with the possible exception of Maria, if she ever gazed upon him again, would know him as this person on the front of two million, three million, four million newspapers and on the screen of G.o.d knew how many million television sets. The energy of their accusations, borne over the vast circuit of the press, which was wired into his central nervous system, hummed and burned through his hide and made his adrenaline pump. His pulse was constantly fast, and yet he was no longer in a state of panic. A sad, sad torpor had set in. He could concentrate on...nothing, not even long enough to feel sad about it. He thought of what this must be doing to Campbell and to Judy, and yet he no longer felt the terrible pangs he felt before...before he died. This alarmed him. He looked at his daughter and tried to feel the pangs, but it was an intellectual exercise. It was all so sad and heavy, heavy, heavy.

The one thing he truly felt was fear. It was the fear of going back in there back in there.

Last night, exhausted, he went to bed and thought he would be unable to sleep. In fact, he fell asleep almost at once and had a dream. It was dusk. He was on a bus going up First Avenue. This was odd, because he had not taken a bus in New York for at least ten years. Before he knew it, the bus was up around 110th Street, and it was dark. He had missed his stop, although he couldn't remember what his stop was supposed to be. He was now in a black neighborhood. In fact, it should have been a Latin neighborhood, namely, Spanish Harlem, but it was a black neighborhood. He got off the bus, fearing that if he stayed on, things would only get worse. In doorways, on stoops, on the sidewalks he could see figures in the gloom, but they hadn't seen him yet. He hurried along the streets in the shadows, trying to make his way west. Good sense would have told him to head straight back down First Avenue, but it seemed terribly important to head west. Now he realized the figures were circling. They said nothing, they didn't even come terribly close...for the time being. They had all the time in the world. He hurried through the darkness, seeking out the shadows, and gradually the figures closed in; gradually for they had all the time in the world. He woke up in a dreadful panic, perspiring, his heart leaping out of his chest. He had been asleep for less than two hours.

Early in the morning, as the sun came up, he felt stronger. The humming and burning had ceased, and he began to wonder: Am I free of this dreadful condition? Of course, he hadn't understood. The vast circuit was merely down for the night. The millions of accusing eyes were closed. In any event, he decided: I will be strong. What other choice did he have? He had none, other than to die again, slowly or quickly; and truly. It was in that frame of mind that he decided he would not be a prisoner in his own apartment. He would lead his life as best he could and set his jaw against the mob. He would start by taking Campbell to the bus stop, as always.

At 7:00, Tony, the doorman, called upstairs, with apologies, to say that about a half dozen reporters and photographers were camped outside, on the sidewalk and in cars. Bonita relayed the message, and Sherman squared his jaw and raised his chin and resolved to deal with them the same way you would deal with foul weather. The two of them, Sherman in his most uncompromising nailhead worsted suit from England and Campbell in her Taliaferro school uniform, got off the elevator and approached the door, and Tony said, with genuine feeling, "Good luck. They're a rude lot." Out on the sidewalk the first one was a very young man, babyish in appearance, and he approached with something resembling politeness and said, "Mr. McCoy, I'd like to ask you-"

Sherman took Campbell's hand and raised his Yale chin and said, "I have no comment whatsoever. Now, if you'll just excuse me."

Suddenly five, six, seven of them were all around him and around Campbell, and there was no more "Mr. McCoy."

"Sherman! One minute! Who was the woman?"

"Sherman! Hold it a second! Just one picture!"

"Hey, Sherman! Your lawyer says-"

"Hold it! Hey! Hey! What's your name, Pretty?"

One of them was calling Campbell Pretty! Appalled and furious, he turned toward the voice. The same one- The same one-with the tangles of kinky hair pasted on his skull-and now two pieces of toilet paper on his cheek.

Sherman turned back to Campbell. A confused smile was on her face. The cameras! Picture-taking had always meant a happy occasion.

"What's her name, Sherman!"

"Hi, Pretty, what's your name?"

The filthy one with the toilet paper on his face was bending over his little girl and speaking in an unctuous avuncular voice.

"Leave her alone!" said Sherman. He could see the fear come into Campbell's face with the sharpness of his own voice.

All at once a microphone was in front of his nose, blocking his vision.

A tall sinewy young woman with big jaws: "Henry Lamb lies near death in the hospital, and you're walking down Park Avenue. How do you feel about Henry-"

Sherman swung his forearm up to knock the microphone out of his face. The woman began screaming: "You big b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" To her colleagues: "You saw that! He hit me! The sonofab.i.t.c.h hit me! You saw that! You saw it! I'm having you arrested for a.s.sault, you sonofab.i.t.c.h!"

The pack swarmed about them, Sherman and his little girl. He reached down and put his arm around Campbell's shoulders and tried to pull her close to him and walk quickly toward the corner at the same time.

"Come on, Sherman! Just a couple a questions and we'll let you go!"

From behind, the woman was still bellowing and whining: "Hey, you get a picture a that? I wanna see what you got! That's evidence! You gotta show it to me!" Then down the street: "You don't care who you hit, do you, you racist f.u.c.k!"

Racist f.u.c.k! The woman was white. The woman was white.

Campbell's face was frozen in fear and consternation.

The light changed, and the pack followed the two of them and pigged and hived about them all the way across Park Avenue. Sherman and Campbell, hand in hand, plowed on straight ahead, and the reporters and photographers who surrounded them scampered backward and sideways and crabwise.

"Sherman!"

"Sherman!"