by James Duffy
"I'm going to go over everything again, Governor. And you're right, you shouldn't just take my opinion. The AG should certainly be involved."
"It's too good to be true, Raifeartaigh. Removing Eldon from office and getting rid of the only son of a bitch who could give me a run next year. Delicious, but I'm worried about the 'charges.' Ordering the execution of that dog? Probably not enough. But by thereby provoking the worst disruption in the history of the city, is that enough? Let's go over to Le Boeuf Bleu and talk about it. Come on, Albert, we're going to lunch."
. . .
The traffic disruptions had delayed the newsstand appearance of The Surveyor, less technically outfitted than the dailies, until late morning. But when it appeared, a new ingredient was added to the stew, in the form of Scoop's lead story:
MAYOR PRESIDES AT SLAIN DOGOWNER'S BIGAMOUS MARRIAGE
—————
Was It a Payoff?
—————
By Frederick P. Rice
A new twist in the Wambli dog-killing saga has emerged. It nowappears that the marriage Mayor Eldon Hoagland performed at theheight of the controversy last week between Sue Nation Brandberg,owner of the slain Wambli, and her houseboy, Genc Serreqi, wasbigamous.
This was the allegation made to The Surveyor by Greta KaloSerreqi, a 25-year-old computer programmer from Tirana, Albania. Ms. Serreqi, who saw a picture of her husband and his newbride on a newscast in the Albanian capital, flew to New York toconfront her husband. She spoke to this reporter sitting in thelobby of the modest midtown hotel where she is staying, which sheasked not to be identified.
"Genc and I were married in Kruja, a little town outside Tiranawhere my parents live, five years ago. We were having some difficulties when he left for America, but he promised we'd work them outonce he was established here. We certainly were never divorced andnever even talked about it."
The striking brunette, who bears a resemblance to Mrs. Brandberg, the former beauty queen and Manhattan socialite, produced acopy of their marriage license, which she translated for this reporter.
She said that she had been in occasional communication with herhusband during his time here, and knew of his employment by Ms.Brandberg. He had described to her his household duties, which included caring for his employer's dog, the American Staffordshireterrier Wambli. Serreqi was walking the dog along Fifth Avenuelast August 16th when the canine was killed in the altercation withthe mayor's bodyguards that has recently gripped the attention ofNew Yorkers.
On October 13th, the same day the mayor admitted his complicity in the Wambli killing at a press conference, he performed a surprise wedding ceremony for Mrs. Brandberg and Serreqi at CityHall. Cameramen covering the story of the shooting had crowdedCity Hall at the time and snapped pictures and made videotapes ofthe newlyweds. It was an excerpt from one of these tapes that Ms.Greta Serreqi saw on television back in Tirana.
"All I can tell you is, I was stunned," she told us. When askedwhat she hoped to accomplish on her trip to New York, the womansaid that all she wanted was "my husband back."
The woman said she had confronted Ms. Brandberg at the latter's town house but had been asked to leave when she said she wasSerreqi's wife. The Surveyor has also learned that Serreqi himselfhas been evicted from the Brandberg mansion.
It is unclear how this new revelation will affect the besiegedMayor Hoagland.
At the time of the Brandberg-Serreqi "marriage" last week, therewas speculation that the mayor had performed the ceremony as ameans of pacifying the intense anger Ms. Brandberg has expressedover the death of her dog, including her public statements criticizing the mayor's part in the incident.
Whether or not there was an element of payoff involved, according to lawyers consulted by The Surveyor, the mayor may haveviolated the New York Penal Law, which classifies as a class A misdemeanor the performance of a marriage ceremony if the officialperforming it does so "knowing that a legal impediment to suchmarriage exists."
Neither Ms. Brandberg nor her "husband" would comment forthis article. Calls to the mayor's office requesting a statement werenot returned.
Sue Brandberg had forewarning about Scoop's bigamy story; he had called her the day before, asking for comment, which she refused to give. She had immediately tried to reach Brendon Proctor, only to find that he was on a quick, one-day trip to Chicago. She requested that his secretary get in touch with him with the urgent message to call his client at once.
Proctor's secretary had failed in her task. The lawyer had already left for O'Hare when she connected to the office he had been at, and since Proctor was a Luddite who did not believe in cell phones, she could not reach him. Then he had been stuck on the ground in his New York–bound plane for six hours, the victim of the international air traffic jam set off in the aftermath of the Wambli rally.
When he finally did get Sue's message the next morning, he called her forthwith and was assaulted by a mixture of hysteria and vituperation.
"Where were you when I needed you? Why were you in Chicago? That worm Justin Boyd and his baby reporter are about to run a story that I am a bigamist. I need a lawyer right now. When can you get here?"
As usual Proctor was annoyed at Sue's peremptory attitude and baffled as well by the reference to bigamy. What next? he thought. First that lightning marriage to her gigolo and now this. But he concealed both his irritation and his confusion and said he would be over within the hour. But not before taking a quick look at the New York Penal Law definition of bigamy. And along the way to 62nd Street picking up a copy of the new Surveyor.
. . .
"Here it is," Proctor said to Sue, handing her the paper as soon as she opened her front door. Once they were seated upstairs, she read the account and then crumpled up the paper.
"Bastard!" was her terse, angry reaction as she got up and paced around her living room. Calming down, she related to Proctor the details of the visit from Greta Serreqi.
"Did you believe her?"
"I had no way of knowing. It doesn't matter. Genc has admitted it." She did not specify when the admission had been made.
"Where is he now?"
"I have no idea. I threw him out."
"I assume, Sue, that you had no reason to believe that Genc was already married?" Proctor was by no stretch of the imagination a criminal lawyer, experienced in steering clients' recollections in the right direction (that is, toward the path of innocence), but he was shrewd enough to make the attempt solely by instinct.
Sue hesitated, stalling by repeating his question. "Did I have any reason to believe that Genc was already married? No." She recalled full well her conversation about a communist marriage and stuck to her nonlegal but perhaps patriotic conclusion that such a marriage was no marriage at all.
"There were no discussions with him about this—before your marriage, that is?"
"No."
"And no hints in anything he told you?"
"I knew he had had a girlfriend back in Albania. I may even have thought he was living with her. But marriage? No." She answered quietly, perhaps because she saw vividly a mental image of that donkey cart bearing the happy—and very obviously married—Greta and Genc.
"Listen to me carefully, Sue. A person is guilty of bigamy if he or she marries another who has a living spouse. In New York it's a so-called class E felony—not murder or grand larceny, but a felony, punishable by up to four years in prison."
Sue rubbed her face in despair as her lawyer spoke.
"As you might guess, I've only done about five minutes' research on this, but it is apparently a defense if a party acted under a 'reasonable belief ' that the other person was unmarried. If Serreqi had a wife, that defense won't do him any good. He's guilty as hell. But from what you say, it sounds like you had such a 'reasonable belief.'"
"Yes!" Sue said. She had feared Proctor would press her on whether she knew Genc was married; "reasonable belief " seemed to give her some wiggle room, though it would be just as well if no one eve
r knew about that picture in Genc's wallet.
"Yes, you had a reasonable belief that he was unmarried?"
"Absolutely."
"Well, Sue, you may have a large embarrassment on your hands, but I think we can probably keep you out of Sing Sing."
"What should I do, Brendon?"
"Lie low. And for God's sake, don't say a word to The Surveyor or any other reporter."
"Don't worry."
. . .
After a steak, shared with Albert, and a martini—white wine was for fairies, she maintained—Governor Foote was in a mellow mood as she strolled back to her office with Raifeartaigh and Sheila Baine. The prospect of offing Eldon Hoagland still intrigued her but she continued to have doubts, which she had expressed again over lunch.
On the way Raifeartaigh spotted the new issue of The Surveyor on a newsstand, as well as it's "Bigamous Marriage" headline. He bought a copy and was soon reading Scoop's story aloud to an incredulous governor and Sheila. He had finished as they got off the elevator outside the executive offices.
"Well, well, well," Foote chortled. "Maybe I can squeeze Eldon's balls after all."
TWENTY-SIX
Gullighy had also received a call the day before from Scoop, inquiring about the "bigamous marriage" the mayor had performed. He had hung up on the reporter, after calling him a "crazy bastard." What will they try next? he thought to himself. Once he had been shown The Surveyor, Eldon asked the same thing.
"I can't seem to do anything right. The first marriage I performed as mayor and it turns out to be bigamous.
"The Court Street lawyers that reporter consulted said I committed no crime, unless I knew of the bigamy. Well, I sure as hell didn't. But please check with Noel Miller to make sure that 'knowledge' is there in the law. Jack, the way things are going, they'll put me in a black box, like the 'coffin' for that damn dog, and parade me around City Hall Park. Why the hell did I take this job, will you tell me?"
It was a question for which, under the circumstances, Gullighy had no ready answer.
. . .
In late afternoon Scoop returned to his apartment, a copy of The Surveyor under his arm. Genc was there and, to Scoop's surprise, greeted him cheerfully.
"Scoop, I know you're my friend—about the only one I have over here—but you didn't have to go and see Greta. It was gentle of you to do that. She was feeling very down and felt happy that a friend was supporting her."
Scoop was conscience-stricken. He had told Greta that he was a friend of her husband's and that he would try to help her. But he needed to know the facts before he could. He had failed to mention that he was a reporter, and one writing a story about her husband's marital adventure. She may even have thought he was a lawyer, though his conscience told him—almost—that he really had said nothing to further that impression, though he had carried a briefcase and had taken notes on a yellow legal pad purchased in the stationery store around the corner, rather than his customary notebook. He chose to stay mute as Genc continued to speak.
"You're a good man, Scoop. I thank you. But I think we do not need your help. I've talked with Greta and told her the truth. That my marriage to Sue was for green card. When I have it—I wait two years, I understand—I can get good job, say bye-bye to Sue. Then bring Greta over to have a real life, not illegal's. She understand now, and if Sue pay up, she will go home without her mouth opening."
"Genc, you better read this," Scoop said, handing him The Surveyor and pointing to the lead story.
Genc read slowly. "You fucking Gypsy," he said finally, coolly angry and waving the newspaper. "You ruin all my plans! My plans for my life!" He put on his shirt and started gathering up his possessions into his backpack.
"Genc, I'm sorry. Really I am. But you must remember I'm a reporter. My first duty is to my paper and my readers. You and Sue committed a serious crime. The public is entitled to know that and it was my obligation to write about it."
Scoop managed to finish his little speech, even while recognizing his priggish and self-righteous tone. More precisely, he heard the voice of Justin Boyd echoing in his own.
"What are you going to do?" he asked as Genc finished his packing.
"I'll think of something. Do not worry. But don't expect to put it down in your newspaper."
Genc headed to the door and, before leaving, bowed with mock solemnity toward Scoop. "Thank you for everything, my friend. My best friend in America!" He slammed the door hard and was gone.
Scoop sat on the edge of his bed, staring for some minutes at the headline—and byline—in the paper Genc had thrown to the floor.
. . .
The Post-News once again had to swallow its pride the next morning and parrot The Surveyor's bigamy story; its reporters had been unable to locate Genc or Greta. Sue, as instructed, refused any comment, and Gullighy indignantly denied Mayor Hoagland's criminality. This did not stop the paper's editorialists, who wrote, under the heading "Something Smells":
We are not going to write about Mayor Eldon Hoagland anddogs today. Instead our subject is the mayor and a fish—a verysmelly fish in City Hall. As reported on our front page, the marriage ceremony that he performed uniting Sue Nation Brandbergand her boyish live-in, Genc Serreqi, was a sham. It turns out thatthe smooth young Albanian who caught beauty queen Brandberg'sfancy already had a wife back home in the Balkans. This makes himguilty of good, old-fashioned bigamy—still a felony in New York.And it makes her guilty, too, if she smelled something fishy, so tospeak.
And what about the mayor? There was deep suspicion when theSerreqi-Brandberg nuptials were announced that there was aquidfor hisquo:he would preside at her hastily arranged "marriage" ifshe would keep quiet about the slaying of her beloved dog, Wambli,by the mayor's condottieri.
We have two questions for Eldon Hoagland:
1.Did he make a deal with Mrs. Brandberg to marry her in exchange for her silence? Did that deal involve only the woman'spromise to be quiet, or was it more complicated than that?
2.As to the bigamy matter, one is reminded of that questionfrom another ancient scandal: What did he know, and when did heknow it?
We need answers, Mr. Mayor, and the faster the better.
The Times, presumably on the quite valid theory that it could not corroborate Scoop's story, was silent for the day.
The morning e-mail was surprisingly quiet. The only message was not, however, especially comforting:
I hope that Native American and her Albanian did have a bigamousmarriage, and I hope you knew all about it. Marriage is a dumb irrelevancy forced upon us by religious fanatics. So bigamy should beirrelevant, too. Who cares how many times someone goes through amarriage ceremony? Stand up for sexual freedom—don't let thebastards get you down. Yours in good sex—Bruce
Having not heard from Noel Miller by noontime, Eldon gave him a call. The corporation counsel confirmed that the mayor was not in violation of the law by marrying Genc and Sue, as long as he didn't have knowledge of Genc's marital status.
"That means I'm in the clear, Noel, since I had no idea her young stud had a wife. The Post-News doesn't agree with that, if you've seen it this morning, but what do you expect? They're certainly accusing me of high crimes and misdemeanors. What if they were right? Could I be impeached?
"I'd like to know the answer to that. Could you call me? Edna and I are getting out of here and going to Leaky Swansea's, on Long Island, for the weekend. You can reach me there. You have the number? Good."
. . .
Eldon was grateful for the chance to leave town; at least the Wambli balloon did not follow him to Southampton. The Swanseas were good hosts, plied their guests with good food and wine and refrained from discussing dogs or dubious marriages.
He and Edna went for a walk on the deserted, windswept beach late in the afternoon. The mild weather, the impending sunset and gently breaking waves were conducive to an intimate chat.
"I don't know if I'm going to make it, Edna. All the insults, the shouting, the innuendos in
the damn Post-News, they're getting to me. That editorial this morning, practically accusing me of taking a bribe. Not to mention committing a crime."
"It's politics, dear. Of the New York City variety."
"I now understand why no mayor has ever gone on to be president. They all became exhausted trying to keep the melting pot from boiling over."
"They ought to revise the song. 'If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere—if you survive.'"
"I know that things will calm down. The animal righters will run out of steam. It'll be clear I did nothing worse than lose control when that wretched dog bit me. And the idea that I committed a crime is preposterous. Eventually people will understand that."
"You're right—I think."
"The real question is whether it will settle down soon enough—soon enough for me to push the programs I promised. We're all ready to launch our technology zone project, but it needs my full-time attention. I can't give that with all the stupid distractions. It's so tedious and boring."
"You've been through it with nutcases before, dear. Those new-wave upstarts in your department were almost as extreme as the Animal Liberation Army. And that Dean of the Faculty at Columbia made it about as difficult for you as The Post-News. Everything's going to be all right."
"Let's hold hands and look at the sunset. As long as we're okay, we'll hang on."
. . .
Noel Miller called early Saturday morning.
"Good news, Eldon. As I thought, there's absolutely no provision for impeaching a mayor. You're in the clear unless you become mentally disabled. Then they can push you out." Miller chuckled.
"Don't laugh. The way things are going I could be round the bend tomorrow. But thanks for the good word, Noel. Not that I was worried."
