Praise Her, Praise Diana

by Anne Rothman-Hicks

  “That’s a very technical point,” Sanders said, “that we don’t need to address. The Grand Jury is entitled to each person’s evidence. That’s the law.”

  “If we want to hear it,” the black woman said. “That’s what I heard on the news last night.”

  She turned to her right and left, trying to involve her colleagues. Some of them nodded in agreement. Others shook their heads. The jury foreman did not speak.

  “A pair of murders has occurred in this city,” Sanders continued. “We are here for the very important purpose of investigating those crimes.”

  “That don’t mean we should do another,” the woman said. “And it would be a crime to send this lady to jail, even for one night.”

  “It’s her duty to testify!”

  “If we say it is!”

  “Excuse me a moment,” the Foreman said finally, sitting forward in his chair and addressing the others. “I think we should vote on this, and I would ask you, Ms. Sanders, to please leave the room while we do. Although I think Miss O’Reilly should stay.”

  “This is totally improper as far as I’m concerned,” Sanders said. “But I will do as you wish. Please, all of you just remember your duty as citizens and the oath you took to uphold the law of this State.”

  She left the room, and the young black woman turned to the rows of jurors.

  “As far as I’m concerned, we also have a duty as human beings. And if that lady sitting here does not want to testify, then I don’t want to force her.”

  “Does anyone else have anything they want to say?” the foreman asked.

  “I have a question,” a young man said from one of the back rows. He was thin with jet-black hair that fell over his forehead. “Has Diana contacted you since you told everyone that you saw her?”

  “Yes she has,” Maureen said. “In fact she called me last night.”

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She thanked me for what I had said. But she told me that I should feel completely free to testify today and give her name.”

  “Did she threaten you in any way?” a woman asked.

  “Good heavens, no,” Maureen said.

  “Let’s vote,” the foreman said.

  Of the 23 jurors, thirteen were women, only seven of whom voted in favor of Maureen. But four of the men made the vote eleven to eleven with the foreman not having cast his vote yet.

  He stood up.

  “I am torn in this situation,” he said. “On the one hand, I don’t want to help any criminal go free for even a day. But this lady is acting on a principle that she feels strongly about. She is not refusing for any purpose that benefits herself. She is not being coerced in any way. And she is perfectly willing to go to jail not to testify. Under those circumstances, if we said she had to testify, we would be forcing her to jail for no purpose. She would never say what we wanted to hear. For that reason, I vote to release this witness. You may go, Miss O’Reilly.”

  Maureen was surprised at first, and seemed to not quite understand. But then the black woman smiled at her and gestured toward the door and Maureen got to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all.”

  She exited the room with a dazed smile on her face, and as she walked across the hall to Jane and Maggie, she thought again of her mother and father and burst into tears.

  “They let me go!” she managed to say. “They let me go!”

  Someone in the crowd below received a text message from a member of the Grand Jury and the news spread through those assembled. A cheer exploded into the crisp morning air and the wooden spoon started beating again. This time it was simple:

  “Maur-een, Maur-een, Maur-een, Maur-een!”

  Over a thousand women and a smattering of men were waiting outside for a glimpse of her when Maureen and Jane and Maggie left the building. With Maggie in the lead, they paused at the top of the steps as applause and cheers resounded.

  Maureen stood with her hands clasped in front of her, basking in the roar of all those women calling her name.

  “I would like to say something,” she whispered to Jane, who raised her hands signaling for quiet.

  A wedge of microphones appeared in front of Maureen. She glanced around timidly.

  “I want to thank you nice people for coming here today for me. I really appreciate it.” Cheers and applause erupted again. Smiling, Maureen waited for the noise to subside before continuing. “And I want also to thank Diana, and to tell you all that Diana is with us today! Diana is here!”

  The pot was pummeled with renewed fervor at her words and amidst the ruckus a new chant emerged, “Di-an-a, Di-an-a, Di-an-a!”

  Suddenly, the crowd surged toward Maureen as though they all wanted just to touch her hand, and there was a resounding crack as they pushed against the wooden barricades and one broke into pieces, freeing them to advance in a rush like water through a collapsing dam.

  Jane grabbed Maureen and pulled her back inside the building. Maggie followed. They hurried down the hallways, as court officers ran past them in the opposite direction. Exiting on Seward Park, they headed straight into Chinatown. There, they grabbed the first cab they could find and soon were on their way up the Bowery to Jane’s office.

  No one talked as the cabbie drove. On the radio, a newscaster was already calling it the Diana Riot.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Judith stood alone opposite the courthouse taking in the scene, her body seeming to hum; each tendon, each muscle, each fiber vibrated with the energy that coursed through her, and the almost unbearable feeling of well-being. So this is what joy is, she thought.

  On a purely intellectual level, she wasn’t totally satisfied. If she’d had her way, the wave of women who had smashed through the barricades so unexpectedly would not have stopped at the steps of the courthouse like children scared of breaking some schoolyard rule at recess. They instead would have barreled past the guards, knocked them flat, men and women alike, since those women were flunkies of the system like the ADA. And then they would have raced through the halls, defacing the sexist murals that adorned the walls and ceilings—justice blind, with one breast bared—giving notice at the seat of the male power that they had won. Women had seized the day, led by Diana. And one day women would do exactly that, Judith thought. Anyone who thought that Diana was finished was badly mistaken. The city and the world would be hearing from those crazy witches again, and soon. That was a certainty. There were so many deserving of retribution, and it would be supplied abundantly.

  Some arrests had been made, mostly for failing to obey an order to disperse from the sidewalk immediately in front of the building, but they were few and far between. Amusingly, Charmaine, Dr. Suzy’s financial backer, was among them. Susan had staked out a prime spot with the door to the courthouse directly behind her and was being filmed by her camera crew as an opening segment for that night’s show, the first to be broadcast on network TV, albeit cable. A female police officer told her she couldn’t remain there. Dr. Suzy, willing to oblige, had batted her eyes winningly at the officer, and even tried to get her to come into the camera’s view with her for two minutes of fame. For the demonstration today, she had had her hair done in an upswing style and her nails painted blood red. She wore a ridiculously low-slung white blouse with a carved jade pendant that bounced from breast to breast as if it couldn’t decide which of those shimmying beauties to love. The rest of her outfit was designer denim: a mini-skirt with inviting gold buttons from hem to navel over blue tights, a fitted jacket with lace trim along the lapels and cuffs, and light and dark denim scraps sewn together for a handbag. How much had Charmaine paid for that get-up?

  Was it any wonder that Charmaine was peeved when the policewoman barked orders to Dr. Suzy to move on—her investment, her money. And so Charmaine, nicely dressed herself in Bergdorf certified style, started babbling about the First Amendment and refused to move her substantial butt from where she stood and was carted away howling while Dr. Suzy narr
ated in real time.

  It was foolishness, Judith thought. They had already accomplished their aims for the morning so what was the point of Charmaine getting arrested, except to draw attention to herself rather than the cause? Selfishness and foolishness. And Dr. Suzy and Charmaine were not alone in their greed. Ellen Briars had been prominent at the edge of the barricade and had persuaded a few of the photographers to travel to the demonstration with her, holding signs: ‘Artists for Justice’ and of course, ‘Iphigenia Gallery for Justice.’ Always looking for a plug, you disgusting bitch!

  Jenna Worley was there also, blending in with the crowd almost furtively, checking her watch to see how much time from her office she was missing. And then there was Ari, who was never more than a few steps from Detective Smalley the entire time. At one point, she had linked her arm in his and laughed, sharing some joke, eliciting the most amazing little smile from the Detective, as though they were boy and girl friend at a high school football game. What has happened to you, Ari? Looking for husband number 4?

  What puzzled Judith was that Sheila had wanted to be carted across the street to be arrested. Judith had flatly refused to help her and the other Eumenides knew to follow Judith’s lead and, my God! Sheila had become so angry that they all thought she might have a stroke. Her face was mottled red with graying patches, her arms pounded on the side of her wheelchair like a thwarted toddler. Finally, she had begun to cool off and settled into a more familiar tactic—the silent treatment, withholding her love and approval, as if that was relevant anymore. Poor thing. They finally were able to get the van close enough to load her into the front seat for the drive back home, and she sat there, seething.

  Judith, herself, went over and arranged the seat belt around Sheila lovingly, ignoring Sheila’s jutting granite jaw, her head held upright, stiff as a soldier, her back arched so that her breasts pressed forward as if part of some challenge.

  “Come on, Sheila,” Judith said, patting her gently on the shoulder, slowly rubbing her arm, speaking in a tone of voice as soothing as her massage. “We had a great day. We did good.”

  “You should have left me at home if you are going to treat me this way,” she replied, her eyes fixed forward on some distant point, or perhaps focused on a memory out of her past.

  Judith made a face, pulling down the corners of her mouth in a look of exasperation that Sheila couldn’t see, and winked at the driver who did her best not to smile. They had all been subjected to this pouting lately. Their willingness to show deference and respect to this icon of the movement was waning. Times had changed and the old warhorse was the last to know.

  “I’m sorry,” Judith said. “I didn’t think you wanted to waste your time and ours in the police station and in court when we have so much that has to be done.”

  “You’re all in such a hurry. But it can’t happen quickly, if you want it to last.”

  Another familiar and very tired theme—the Movement as waves beating against a rock wall, gradually eroding it. Judith wanted to use dynamite.

  “I swear I’ll help you next time. Okay?” Judith leaned through the window of the van and kissed Sheila on the forehead.

  “At my age, you never know if there will be a next time,” Sheila replied.

  “You’re not old,” Judith said. “You’ve got more energy than all of us.” She brought her face close to Sheila’s again and whispered in a husky voice. “You know you do.”

  Sheila had to use all of her considerable will not to turn toward Judith.

  “I’m still the head of this group,” Sheila said firmly.

  “Of course you are,” Judith replied.

  The tightness at her eyes and mouth eased slightly, but she was not willing to let go of the dregs of her fury. Nonetheless, Judith reached through the window and stroked her cheek before stepping back and signaling to the driver to start. Only then did Sheila turn in Judith’s direction, her pose betrayed by a sudden loosening of the lines across her forehead.

  “Will you be by later?” she asked, her voice trembling now. Pathetic, really. “I’d like to talk to you about this ... this day, later on.”

  “We’ll talk as long as you want, Boss,” Judith called as the van pulled away and headed north up Centre Street. Judith knew that a smile would be widening on Sheila’s broad, grand face now, thinking about their “talk” later. What difference? There really was no question that this was now Judith’s group. The young ones belonged exclusively to her. The rest would follow soon.

  Judith checked her watch. It was time for her to leave also. She had hoped—not expected—that Jane would reappear, but she had undoubtedly left. It made sense. Her client deserved to be shielded from the crush of her admirers, but Judith envied anyone who had the privilege of being with Jane so soon after her triumph.

  Of all the women whom Diana had affected, the transformation of Jane had been the most dramatic. Miraculous. How long had it been? Two weeks? And she had thrown off the domination of men in her personal life and fought like a lion for a woman in her public life. God willing, she would never turn back. If Judith had anything to do with it, she would not. She felt Jane’s lips on hers still. Smelled her sweet breath still. Remembered the look Jane had given her. Love. Love! Even if for the moment she was with another, the future was hers.

  * * * *

  With the van out of sight, she and two of the women who still wore the Diana costume started walking west toward Broadway and then north to Canal Street where they intended to pick up the local subway for the trip to the Columbia University area. But as they reached the stairway down to the station, Judith felt too energized by the past twenty-four hours to get onto a train, so she told the others that she wanted to keep walking and they followed her lead. The muscles throughout her body did not feel tense. They felt ready. There was a spring to her step. Her arms swung easily. The two women with her seemed to unconsciously match her stride, and they marched along with an almost military precision, one on either side.

  They weren’t the only ones walking in the direction of mid-town who had attended the demonstration. Just a few blocks north of Canal, Judith spotted a pair of young women across the street that she had seen outside the courthouse that morning and imagined that they were co-workers in some office—probably secretaries in a law firm, based upon the way they were dressed, business-like but with the overarching purpose to attract a man. Their skirts were rather short, but not enough so as to appear whorish. Their tops were not cleavage baring but hugged their breasts and torso with little to spare. One wore heels that dramatized her long, very shapely legs. The second sported open-toed shoes to reveal a pedicure. They talked and laughed as they walked.

  The two girls had to pass a spot with a couple of boarded up buildings, empty and waiting for the wrecking ball. Two young men leaned against the wall in the sunshine, sharing a six-pack for lunch. They wore construction clothes: leather boots, worn, dusty jeans and sweatshirts. One of them called out to the girls as they approached, and he didn’t seem to like the response. He started walking beside the women, his friend joining him with a laughing sneer on his face as they moved into the center of the sidewalk, blocking the way so the girls couldn’t get around them.

  Judith inclined her head in the direction of the men and they strode across the street, coming up behind the men. Judith held a 2 x 4 in her hand that she had fished out of a trashcan. Without a second of hesitation, she swung the board with all her might and connected with the back of the talkative man’s skull. His eyes glazed over, and he fell to his knees. Another blow of the wood in the middle of his back pitched him face-first onto the sidewalk.

  His friend was stunned momentarily by what had happened, and before he could react, either to help his friend or to defend himself, the other Eumenides, still dressed in the Diana garb, descended upon him. They knocked him to the ground, beat him with their fists and kicked him until he stopped crying for mercy and curled into an unmoving ball of flesh.

  Panicked, the two gi
rls ran into the street and hailed the first cab that came along. Judith dropped the piece of wood, and she and her two friends continued walking calmly north.

  A block further along, Judith borrowed a cell phone and punched in the number of Susan Hempten. An assistant answered. Judith recognized her voice, a Susan Hempten wannabe, only not as pretty as Susan and quite a bit heavier.

  “Tell Dr. Suzy that there is breaking news on Broadway around Bleecker of the man bites dog variety,” Judith said.

  “Who is this please?” the assistant said.

  “Never mind who this is,” Judith replied sharply. “Just take this down and save your damned job! A few minutes ago, three women beat the living shit out of two guys who were guilty of the crime of harassing women. The quote men unquote are lying on the sidewalk at Broadway and Bleecker. Have you got that?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then tell her to get her rear-end over there. And tell her that Diana and the Eumenides took care of it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  After the demonstration was over and the crowd subdued, Detective Smalley offered Ari a ride back to her apartment building on Park Avenue South. It was “on his way”, as he’d put it, just to be perfectly clear that nothing more was intended—nothing inappropriate, no signal that he might want more from her than tidbits about WPW and its board. The ride was still a nice gesture, some recompense for the information she had been giving him, most recently a heads up about the gathering of women this morning which, in turn, had allowed him to alert his fellows in the police department so that there were enough officers on hand. He had made a point of finding her in the crowd and thanking her for her help; politely, in measured tones, the flicker of his gray eyes alone revealing a man of more than average intelligence and sensitivity.