by Matt Witten
“Jude. Major scoop," I announced into the phone. Judy tends to speak in clipped phrases, trying to sound like a hardboiled newspaperwoman I guess, and sometimes I adjust my dialogue to match. "Dishonest cop. Neighbors outraged. Tonight—live at seven."
"Dishonest cop. Neighbors outraged," Judy repeated. "We like. We like mucho. What's the deal?"
I told her.
"Pop?!" she asked, incredulous. "You're going up against Pop?!"
I stiffened. "Why the hell not?"
She hesitated. "No reason. I'll be there."
"Thanks, Jude."
"Good luck, Jake." Then she added, "You'll need it," and hung up.
You'll need it. What the hell was I setting myself up for, anyhow?
As I hung up the phone, I felt a cold shiver crawling down my spine. But hey, if Jimmy Stewart could fight City Hall, then by golly, so could I.
3
Six fifty-nine. The hearing was about to begin.
We were in a venerable second-floor meeting room in Saratoga's venerable City Hall. Portraits of famous dead politicians and racehorses covered the walls.
Six somber-faced men in jackets and ties and one somber-faced woman in a navy blue suit sat behind a long oak table up front. These were the accountants, lawyers, and businessmen who served for a nominal fee on the Saratoga Zoning Board. No doubt they were all East Siders.
To be charitable, maybe the board members were simply good-hearted folks who liked doing public service. To be cynical, there was probably money in it—and not just that nominal fee, either.
The audience, some forty strong, was sprinkled throughout the wooden pews that filled the room. In the front row, to my left, sat the man himself.
Pop.
Pop Doyle was stubble-faced and jowly, three inches shorter than me at five nine but forty pounds heavier. Some of those pounds were fat—this was not a guy who worked out at the World Gym—but some of it was leftover muscles from his younger days. He was decked out in a pinstriped, vested suit, but with his short arms, blunt fingers, flat nose, blond hair fading into pale pink cheeks, and mean, beady eyes, he looked like . . . well, there's no better word . . . like a pig.
Sitting to Pop's right was his legal eagle, Matt Wells, Saratoga's most expensive real estate lawyer. He's the gun Wal-Mart hired when they bullied their way into town. To Pop's left was Genevieve Rendell, the town's slimiest real estate broker, who swindled some friends of mine out of $3000 when they bought their house. Unfortunately, the swindle was (barely) legal.
And who was opposing this powerful threesome? Well, there was myself; little Tony Martinelli, spilling snot into the Kleenex I brought for him; Wayne Gretzky and Babe Ruth, playing with their Ninja Turtle action figures; and Andrea, who'd had to stay late at school and was now gobbling down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner.
A hell of a lobbying group.
Occupying neutral territory, on an aisle seat toward the back, was newspaperwoman Judy Demarest. The rest of the audience came in a variety of ages, clothing styles, and economic status, but they did share one thing in common: they all looked nervewracked. There was a lot of agitated whispering, nail-biting, and nose-picking.
When the hearing began, I found out what caused this frantic behavior. These folks were all petitioning for zoning changes—a new garage here, an additional bedroom there. There were so many petitions that I wondered if the board would ever get around to us tonight, but most of them sailed right through with no hassle whatsoever. All that nose-picking for nothing. So it was still only 7:30 when the chairman of the board, a smooth up-and-comer with blow-dried hair and a Boston Brahmin accent whom I disliked immediately, asked Pop's lawyer to come forward.
Matt Wells stood up, adjusting his sport jacket—not that it needed adjusting, it fit his broad shoulders perfectly—and stepped gracefully around the railing that separated the board members from the plebeians. Wells looked perfectly at ease, like he played golf on Saturdays with half the board. They were all gazing at him respectfully. My heart sank. How could I ever hope to beat this Robert Shapiro lookalike? And why hadn't I remembered to get dressed up? I was wearing blue jeans and a faded old Pogo T-shirt.
I felt outgunned, outmanned, and alone. Andrea had taken our kids for a walk around the block because they were making too much noise, so the only person I had with me for moral support was little snot-nosed Tony. I looked over at Judy, but she didn't look back; she was too busy being an impartial journalist.
"Gentlemen," Wells began in a pleasant, confidential tone, "and gentlewoman," he added, nodding pleasantly to the one woman on the board, "this is a very straightforward petition. Mr. Doyle, or as we all know him, Pop"—here Wells smiled, Pop smiled, and the board all smiled back—"wishes to officially rezone his property on 107 Elm Street as a three-family unit. Unofficially, the property has been three-family for over ten years, with no problems or complaints from the neighbors—"
What?! Screw you, you lousy East Side slimeball—
"—and now we're merely requesting that you formalize the arrangement. As you can see from this map"—here Wells passed around Xeroxes to the board members—"most of the other houses in this area are also two-family or three-family units—"
Wait, that's a total lie!
"—so Pop's dwelling fits perfectly into the neighborhood—"
"Excuse me," I interrupted, standing up. All seven board members turned and frowned at me. I belatedly remembered the grape juice I'd spilled on my shirt at dinner; hopefully it hadn't left too big of a stain. "May I see that map?" I blundered on, with what I hoped looked approximately like an ingratiating smile.
The board members frowned even harder, and out of a corner of my eye I saw Pop stiffen. But then Wells said, "Of course," and with the utmost graciousness handed me a copy of the map.
I had an inspiration. "Perhaps the editor of the Daily Saratogian would like a copy, too," I suggested.
If any of the board members hadn't known before that there was a media watchdog present, they knew it now. As Wells handed Judy the map, they all sat up straighter in their chairs. I snuck a look at Pop; he was glaring straight at me, and his face flamed bright red with anger right before my eyes.
Clearing his throat, Wells went back to the railing and resumed his confident baritone monologue. But I didn't hear what he was saying. I was busy staring at the map.
The map was baloney. It may have been true, but it was still utter baloney. There's lies, damn lies, and statistics . . . and then there's damn lying maps.
Wells's map showed a small slice of Elm Street from the cemetery northward to 107, where it stopped abruptly. And sure enough, slightly over half the houses in this carefully selected slice were indeed two-or three-families.
But.
By stopping where it did, the map obscured the fact that 107 was the only two- or three-family on our entire block. Because if you charted Elm Street southward to 107 instead of northward, absolutely none of the houses were multi-families.
Furthermore, though the map didn't show this, every single three-family on Elm was much, much larger than the house at 107. No other landlords had been nearly so greedy, subdividing their places into such Lilliputian apartments.
Tony nudged my shoulder sharply, and I looked up. I suddenly realized that Wells had finished his speech and the chairman was already asking for audience comments. I'd been so wrapped up in the map, I hadn't raised my hand.
"Since no one has any comments," the chairman was saying, looking pretty happy about it, "we will now proceed to—"
"Wait!" I yelled. Oops, I hadn't meant to yell. "I do have comments, Mr. Chairman," I continued, more quietly.
The chairman sighed. "All right. Please be brief."
I stood at my pew and started to speak from right there, but then went up to the railing instead and stepped around it. If Wells thought that was the best place to stand, then by God, that's where I'd stand, too.
Behind me little Tony began whistling and clapping
loudly. Great, just the kind of support I needed. I looked back and scowled until he finally got the message and shut up, embarrassed, and blew his nose. On his shirt.
Meanwhile I located the grape juice stain on my own shirt. It was right above my belly button. I tried to hide it with my hand, doing the Napoleon pose.
I cleared my throat and nervously commenced with "Gentlemen," then realized I was squeaking. I was so rattled, and so intent on lowering my voice a few octaves, that I forgot to add the smooth "and gentlewoman" like Wells did.
But then somehow, out of sheer desperation, I managed to find a rhythm. Waving that dishonest map aloft, forgetting all about my grape juice stain, I attacked. I tore the map's lies and half-lies to shreds. I described the Third-World living conditions at 107—"the nightmare on Elm Street," I called it—and used all the skills I'd honed during my years as a writer to vividly depict the late-night screaming, brawling, horn honking, and drug dealing. When I happened to turn sideways at one point, I noticed Tony beaming at me proudly. On the center aisle, Judy Demarest furiously took notes. I was cooking with gas.
Maybe I was cooking with too much gas. Fueled by my eloquence, and by my two-months-long anger at being awakened nightly, I threw caution to the winds. I forgot there must be a reason why half of Saratoga seemed to be scared of Pop. I let him have it with both barrels.
"Furthermore, gentlemen," I continued, "and gentlewoman," I added gracefully, "you all heard Mr. Wells inform you that, unofficially, this house has been a three-family unit for over ten years. But, Mr. Wells"—I turned to him—"and Mr. Doyle"—I turned to Pop—"and members of the board"—I turned back to them—"let's cut the crap. It wasn't just 'unofficial,' it was blatantly illegal. This man is a cop—a cop for God's sake, and yet he has broken the law with impunity for ten years. Now his lawyer shamelessly stands before you and declares that this man should be rewarded for his illegal actions. He actually wants you to approve Mr. Doyle's misdeeds, so he can sell his property at a huge profit and make even more money from breaking the law than he already has. Members of the board, on behalf of my wife, my children"—they'd come back in a moment ago, and Andrea was staring at me, astonished by my oration—"my neighbors, and the people of this city, who are represented here today by the esteemed editor of the Daily Saratogian"—I figured it wouldn't hurt to remind the board again that they were being observed—"I urge you to reject this man's appeal. I urge you to go even further," I proclaimed, bringing my fist down hard on the wooden railing, "and take steps immediately to force Pop Doyle to obey the law as regards his property. Thank you very much."
Then I went back to my seat.
The room was so silent you could hear Judy Demarest scribbling away in her notebook. The board members sat there stunned. Andrea, Tony, and my kids were still staring at me. The kids didn't know what was going on, but they knew it was something very weird.
Everyone else was staring at me, too. Especially Pop.
And Pop's face wasn't bright red anymore. It was dark purple.
"Mr. Wells," the chairman finally asked, "is there anything you wish to say in reply?"
Wells set his jaw. "There most certainly is." He advanced resolutely to the railing, but I noticed he stayed on the audience side of it this time. Maybe his confidence that he and the board were on the same side had been shaken.
Or maybe not. His voice sounded just as self-assured as ever. "Members of the board, I will ignore the incendiary remarks with which Mr. Burns ended his impassioned though inaccurate speech. As you know, they are totally outside the purview of this board.
"Let's move on to the real issue," he continued, oozing greasy sarcasm. "Since Mr. Bums claims to represent the people of his neighborhood, I have one simple question. Where are they?" He stopped, peering theatrically around the room. "I don't see them. Why aren't they here?"
"I'm here!" little Tony called out. Thanks a heap, kid. A wave of laughter broke through the audience, and several board members chuckled.
Wells chuckled himself, and pointed a disdainful thumb at Tony. "So this young man, members of the board, represents the total extent of the community support for Mr. Burns."
Unable to contain myself any longer, I jumped up. "There's a big West Side meeting tonight about the Grand Hotel. That's why no one's here."
Wells gave me the kind of look you'd give a mosquito. "Mr. Burns, don't insult my intelligence. You know as well as I do, that meeting doesn't start until eight. If your neighbors were truly on your side, they could have shown up here for an hour. And besides, where are the petitions? Where are the letters of support?"
"Hey, I didn't hear about this damn meeting"—no, don't cuss, get a grip—"until this afternoon. I'll bet no one else did either."
One of the board members cleared his throat loudly. He was a fat-cheeked guy with big ears, bushy eyebrows, and an officious manner who managed to look like a stuffed owl even though he was only in his mid-thirties. "Sir," he said to me, making that salutation sound like an insult, "we mailed out official notices regarding this hearing to all homeowners within one hundred yards of 107 Elm Street exactly one month ago, on September first. We followed the customary, legally mandated procedure." He held up a fistful of papers. "If you so desire, I will be glad to show you documentation."
"Hey, I'm not saying you didn't send them, I'm saying we didn't receive them. And the other thing is, my neighbors are scared to go up against Pop. They know his rep: he's crooked and he likes to hurt people."
Someone in the audience gasped. Andrea eyed me in alarm. Shit, had I just gone too far? Had I slipped into some late 60s "off the pigs" time warp? Had I been watching too much Court TV for my own good?
Was I, in short, making a total ass of myself?
Evidently Wells thought so, because he counterattacked with gusto. "Mr. Burns, you have exceeded the bounds of civil discourse. To maliciously state these reckless accusations in a public forum, when you know they will be reported in tomorrow's newspaper, is unconscionable. My client is a respected twenty-year veteran of the Saratoga Springs Police Department. As soon as this hearing is over, I will recommend to Mr. Doyle that he institute immediate action against you for slander."
Jesus, could I really get sued for this? I looked over to Andrea for support, half-expecting her to be glaring at me. But I got lucky—she reached for my hand and squeezed it. That gave me strength. I stood up. "Mr. Chairman, I respectfully request that you postpone your decision on this proposal until your next board meeting, to allow me sufficient time to demonstrate the unanimity of community opposition."
The chairman gave a sigh so loud I could hear it clearly from my pew. Interestingly, all the other board members were sighing too. Why?
Then I figured it out. These were sighs of relief. With the media there watchdogging them, the board members were afraid to make any actual decisions. So they were grateful for an excuse to delay. Procrastination—the bureaucrat's best friend.
And procrastinate they did. The chairman mumbled briefly to the other board members, who rapidly nodded in agreement, and they tabled the issue until November. The battle was over ... for now.
Andrea and I gathered up Tony and our kids and headed out. As soon as we hit the hallway, the boys immediately started jumping around and practicing their fiercest Ninja Turtle karate moves, undoubtedly their response to all the heavy tension in the air. It took Andrea and me a full minute to corral our little warriors down the stairs to the first floor.
Which is where Pop Doyle caught up with me.
4
Pop put his short, stubby, muscular hand on my arm. "Mr. Burns," he said.
I jumped, startled. His piggy eyes shone meanly, and I was afraid he'd pop me one.
But there were other people in the hallway too, coming out of meetings or just hanging out. Surely Pop wouldn't do anything violent now. Too many witnesses.
In fact, as I would learn later, there were exactly twelve witnesses, not including my family and Tony. And all twelve of the
m eventually wound up giving statements to the police about what they saw, which was:
They saw Pop touching my arm. As far as they could tell, he was touching me gently.
The three witnesses who were standing close to us heard Pop say, in a friendly voice:
"Just wanted to say, Mr. Burns, no hard feelings. You're entitled to your opinion."
And here's what all twelve witnesses saw and heard next:
My face exploded with fury. I yanked my arm away from Pop and instantly shoved him backward so hard he reeled, all 220 pounds of him. Now I'm no Hulk Hogan, and ordinarily Pop would beat the stuffing out of me, but I caught him by surprise and threw him down like a wet towel. Then I stood over him and started yelling.
And here's what the witnesses heard me yell:
"You motherfucker, don't you dare do that again!"
And then a lot of things happened at once. Pop tried to jump up, presumably so he could attack me, but suddenly my three Ninja Turtles leaped into the fray. Babe Ruth karate kicked Pop in one leg and Wayne Gretzky karate kicked him in the other, while Tony, more wise to the ways of the world, karate kicked him right in the balls.
Pop howled with pain. Tony kicked him again, paying Pop back in spades for having beaten him up once. Andrea, shouting, got in the Ninja Turtles' faces and tried to push them away. But they had picked up my angry adrenaline and it was carrying them to superhuman, or should I say superturtle, heights. They darted around Andrea and jumped up and down on top of various parts of Pop's body, starting with his knuckles.
I would have tried to stop them—well, maybe I would have—except that a lantern-jawed man in his thirties who turned out to be an off-duty police lieutenant pushed me up against a wall, away from the action. I started to explain to him the reason why I had exploded, and what had really happened between me and Pop—because eyes can deceive, and what the witnesses saw was not what really happened, as I'll explain to you in a moment—but the lieutenant wasn't listening. He was just repeating over and over, like a mantra, "Calm down, calm down, calm down." But it was kind of hard to calm down when the man had one hand grabbing the front of my T-shirt and another hand balled into a fist, ten inches from my nose.
