X - Chapter Twenty Five "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution"

Chapter Twenty Five 

      G. Gordon Hope looked around the cell. He examined his four companions: In one corner, a young kid sat on the floor with his legs extended in front of him. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his head was withdrawn into his gray hoodie. Another was large and athletic-looking man, who was sitting on the only chair in the cell, and he wore a light-blue leisure suit; he exuded confidence. The third was a young business type in a suit; he seemed as uneasy and lost as Gordy felt. And the last one was a very thin man who was partially hidden behind a metal room divider; he was sitting on the cell’s only toilet, where it seemed he had been since Gordy’s arrival. They were all black. 

      Gordy examined the cell. It was bare, except for the litter of chewing-gum wrappers and other bits of paper. It had an overwhelming smell of ammonia, as though it had just been cleaned. The odor gave Gordy a headache. 

      Time passed slowly. Gordy tried to estimate how long he had been in the cell. It seemed like an eternity. Every instant stretched out and inflicted pain. In reality, Gordy had been in the cell for little more than two hours. 

      The arrest, it was a constant presence. Gordy couldn’t break away from the reality he felt, the pain and the shame. More than a memory, Gordy relived his arrest, in every detail, every motion and emotion, every sight and sound. And every reliving increased the pain. 

      It came in the morning. 

      Two uniformed NYPD officers burst into his office, announced their presence and thrust a document in front of him. He was told it was an arrest warrant. Directed to stand, he was read his rights, or as one officer put it, he was “mirandized.” Then the two officers cuffed his wrists behind his back, and – as each officer held one of his arms – they marched him through the hallways and the entrance lobby. And at every step, Gordy looked at every face, every person who put a hand over their mouth in shock, every person who snapped their head away, so as to not make eye contact, every person who looked at him as a stranger. 

      It was at that moment, Gordy told himself: I’m an outsider. I’m different. I’m on my own.  

      As he stumbled to keep up with the police officers’ pace, as he felt his shoes skim over the floor in the rush, as he felt the steel handcuffs dig into his wrists and the officers fingers clasped on his arms, his face turned hot in shame and he himself finally looked away. 

      And all the time, Gordy kept asking himself: Why am I going through this? How could they believe I killed Ted? Why would they believe such a thing? Sure, he hated me, and I can’t say I felt friendship for him, but I wouldn’t kill him. To resort to violence, no, that’s impossible. 

      And then an idea came to Gordy. It started out as just a hint. He didn’t know if it was while they were in the elevator, or while he was in the back of the police van, or at Central Booking that the idea grew. But the idea became clearer, on the way through all of the administrative steps, all the hallways and corners where he was told to wait, the flashes in front of him for mug shots, the ink on his fingers for his prints. And the one phone call, his legal right, he called the office and Grant Stauffer wasn’t there, and Gordy dictated a long message. Until he finally understood . . . . the date.  

      It was the date, the date of Ted’s murder. During his interrogation, and that is what it was, Gordy remembered he was asked where he was, and they threw a date at him, and he told them he was at his office. And they looked at each other. And they repeated the date and asked him again. And he repeated it, and he could prove, with the video security system, that he left the office around seven-thirty. 

      But Gordy knew what he couldn’t say. He couldn’t say where he went after that. He couldn’t bring Ermira into his problems. He couldn’t expose that part of his life and endanger her. 

      “What they got you for?” It was the big guy, the one in the blue leisure suit. 

      Gordy looked up at him, and wondered if he should answer. Then he told himself, Why not? Pass the time, just don’t confess, don’t say anything that could be used later in court. “Jesus, fella, I don’t know where to start.”

      “Well, I’m bettin’ your folks or your company, they’re gonna get some big lawyer in here, and he’ll get you outta here,” he said in a full, resonant voice. “Me, made my one call, and I’m hoping someone’s gonna show up to spring me.”

      “How about you? You know why you’re here?” Gordy asked. 

      “Now that, that’s an interesting question,” the big man in blue said. “I been wondering about that myself. If I had to guess, I’d say suspicion of business success. That might be it.”

      Gordy didn’t know how to respond. He decided, “I gotta admit, I don’t understand.”

      “You see, every city’s got a power structure,” he began, taking his time as though he was starting a long tale. “I’m in the disposal business, you know, trash. Got four trucks, all licensed, all clean, all modern, environmental, all that shit. I got around fifty-some customers, and we’re doing a good, dependable job, and every week or so, we sign on maybe one or two new customers.

      “The trash business is complicated, but you can make good money in it,” he continued. “So, in the meantime, I got a good wife, and two sweet kids. But the big trash companies, the big guys, they don’t like that. They want it all to themselves. They’re in that power structure. So, every once in a while, one of those big guys asks me if I want to sell my routes and my trucks. When I saw no thank you, I’m gonna get picked up for something,” and he stopped. 

      “So, here I am,” he said. “Seems if you’re black, you’re already halfway down the path to conviction, no shit. It’s not just me sayin’ it. Just read about it. But they got nothin’. Sure, I’ll get out. ‘Til the next time.”

      “But it’s wrong.” Gordy was getting excited. “They shouldn’t. You need some kind of protection.”

      “You are so right, man. You’re right. But I’m not the only one.”

      Suddenly, Gordy extended his hand. “Look, my name’s Gordy. How about you?”

      “Clarence,” and he extended his hand, and the two men shook. 

      “Well, Clarence, whatever I’m in this slammer for, it isn’t true.” Gordy thought Clarence wouldn’t understand, but it felt good for  Gordy to talk, to get it out. “But maybe I’m guilty of other stuff. You know, I been lettin’ my life get real complicated, for a bunch of things that don’t really matter. It’s like tryin’ to be more and more important. I’m talking about my job. I’m talking about trying to get a better title, rather than doin’ a good job, and getting some honest satisfaction. It’s like tryin’ to feel important, when that’s all phony. It’s like runnin’ after some things, when I should pay attention to my family.”

      Gordy stopped himself. He told himself that he had to be careful. Don’t talk too much, he told himself. He knew he wouldn’t start confessing about drinking and skirt-chasing and wanting to reach out and touch . . . . And he could never talk about Ermira and what he felt for her and thinking about her and feeling guilty. 

     “But Clarence,” Gordy began. “Going through all this shit here, as wrong as it is, it got me thinking. You know, we humans, we’re strange. Our minds’re always churning; you can’t stop it. If I’m not sent up the river, I might make a bunch of big promises, to help people, not chase the skirts, treasure my family. But then I might just fall back to the way I was before. Or the way I am right now, rather than a good, new model.” 

      “Up to you, man,” Clarence said. “If you really want it, you’re the one gotta fix it.”

      Gordy and Clarence spotted a uniformed officer in a dark blue uniform walking in the hallway toward them. He was carrying a metal bar. When he arrived at their cell, he banged on the cell’s bars. He was short, and he had the red face of a man who drank. 

      He had a rough yet high voice. “Gentlemen, just to let you know. There’s gonna be a special bus here pretty soon for you. Next stop, I’m sorry to tell you, Rikers Resort. I wish you all good luck.” 

      Gordy and Clarence looked at each other. At the same time, they both said: “Good luck.”

      “Not so fast, you!” the officer said. “Your name Hope, Gordon Hope?”

      Gordy said, “Yes, that’s right officer.” 

      “Well, you got a lawyer comin’,” the officer said. “You’re stayin’ put.” 

      Clarence looked at Gordy, “What I’m tellin’ you, halfway to conviction. But not you. Anyway, good luck.” 

      “Same to you,” Gordy said. “Maybe our paths will cross some day.” 

      The four men filed out of the cell.