“But like you, we were abandoned. Our politicians talked out of both sides of their mouths. One of them even suggested we facilitate the illegal crossings by having regular bus service. It was too dangerous, she said, letting these poor people have to be smuggled in by unscrupulous scavengers. Well, that was the last straw. Some of my friends and I decided to fight back. We lobbied, protested, patrolled the borders on our own. We got rid of backstabbing politicians who would have used our tax money to help these unclean, uneducated, undeserving criminals steal our dream. This is how we did it…”
Strohmeyer went on like this for about a half-hour, railing against the government, the media, the brown tide, the Border Patrol, the INS, even the Catholic church for giving the illegals shelter and places to organize. As his talk progressed, his speech became more feverish, more full of half-truths, stereotypes, false statistics, and distortions. But he never strayed too far afield, always picking at the fresh scab of the audience’s fears and confusion. Near the end of the speech, Strohmeyer introduced his son, Pete Jr. Though not nearly the speaker his father was, his size commanded people’s attention.
The son echoed the father’s themes, recounting horror stories from his schooldays in southern Arizona. He assured us that as bad the invasion was for adults, it was worse for kids. He told tales of rape, robbery, special treatment for the kids of illegals at the expense of the regular students. His key theme, however, was the establishment of neighborhood patrols. He said that America for Americans had just recently started up car and foot patrols in the area and that the rise in vandalism and violence would not be tolerated.
“We can’t patrol borders here,” he said, “but we can take back the streets.” He was careful not to criticize the cops, but said they could only react to crime, not prevent it. Unfortunately for Healy, his moment in the sun was at hand. The linebacker repeated the story of this morning’s confrontation as was told to him by his father. Healy was asked to stand. He got a big round of applause. Barbara, Bob noticed, was not clapping. That done, the son asked for volunteers to join the patrols. Several men in the crowd moved forward and signed their names. Healy went too. When he turned back around, Barbara was gone.
The men signed up. The hate was passed. Money was raised. Hands were shaken and backs were slapped. The bar began to empty out. As Bob made to leave, he was stopped by Pete Jr.
“Can I buy you a beer?”
“Sure.”
“Two Buds,” the younger Strohmeyer ordered. “Sorry about not letting you in before. My father is kind of strict about following the rules.”
“No sweat. My old man was the same way.”
“Father tells me you carry a. 38.”
“A. 38. Sometimes a Glock. Sometimes both.”
“Are you a cop?”
“Used to be-NYPD detective.” Healy knew it was best to lie as little as possible. “So when do we start on the patrols?”
“Tomorrow night, I guess. I’ll have to check with my father.”
“How’d you hurt the hand?”
“Punched a wall,” Junior said without hesitation. “I got a little drunk a while ago, got into a fight with this girl I’ve been seeing up here and I slammed it into her bedroom wall. Busted and cut it up pretty good. Went to the hospital and had it looked at and-”
“Hey, son,” the elder Strohmeyer interrupted. “We don’t want to bore Mr. Healy with the details of your temper.”
“Sorry, dad. Did you know Mr. Healy was a cop?”
“Really?”
Bob tried spinning this to his advantage. “NYPD detective, Internal Affairs. My job was like what you’re doing here. I spent my career exposing traitors, people who sold their own brothers out for a quick buck.”
If Healy thought that was going to elicit a warm response from Strohmeyer, he was wrong. A “How interesting” was all he got.
“I’ll say goodnight, then,” Healy said, shaking the hands of the father and the son.
When he got outside, Barbara walked up to him. “Have you been waiting out here all this time for me?” he asked.
She ignored his question. “That’s how it starts, you know?”
“How what starts?”
“Group hate. The lies and fear. That’s how it always starts.”
“So that stuff you told me inside about your husband dying, it was all-”
“-the truth. I really am worried about my property value and how I’m gonna get my girl started right in the world, but I won’t associate with people like that Strohmeyer. I couldn’t look myself in the face. Some of my neighbors joined up and I thought I’d come see for myself what these people were really like. Now I get that my fears about them were well founded.”
“So why tell me?”
“Because,” she said, “you seem like a nice guy, and a gentleman.”
“Thank you. I-”
“Never mind. I’m just being silly. You’ve got the right to do what you want. I’m sorry.”
Disappointed, Healy felt moved to comfort her. “You’re not being silly. And you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“I hope you can say the same for yourself, Bob. There’s some kinds of dirt that rubs off on you and you can never get the stain out. Good night.”
“Let me walk you to your car.”
“No, that’s all right. My car’s right over there.”
Bob Healy watched her pull away, making a mental note of her tag number, but he wouldn’t track her down, not yet. Even if he were prepared to explain the real reason for his being at the meeting, there was something else for which he was unprepared. In the wake of his attraction to Barbara came a flood of guilt. Until he dealt with his guilt, he’d be no good to anyone, especially himself.
Tuesday, March 2nd, 2004
J oe had already spoken with Bob Healy, if only briefly. They didn’t discuss Healy’s visit to Jerry’s Joint. Neither man was in a particularly talkative frame of mind. Serpe was too preoccupied with Frank’s plight to ask about every detail concerning Healy’s handling of the Reyes matter. Besides, he trusted that Healy would tell him if there was anything worth telling. For his part, Healy couldn’t get Barbara off his mind, or the guilt that came with her.
Bob did have some information for Joe, most of it bad. Frank had lawyered up, but hadn’t chosen to be represented by any of the criminal attorneys Joe had suggested to Tina. He’d been arraigned at the Cohalan Court Complex in Central Islip. At the arraignment, Frank pled not guilty and was denied bail. He was remanded to the Suffolk County Jail in Riverhead. The one positive note was that George Healy had arranged for Joe to visit with Frank in a more private setting at the jailhouse than was usually permitted.
“Don’t get too excited,” Bob Healy had warned Joe. “George told the D.A. you’re going there to try and convince Frank to plead out.”
Frank, handcuffed to the table, was already seated when Joe came into the room escorted by a sheriff’s deputy. He looked terrible-pale, gaunt, unshaven. He was dressed in his own clothes, including jeans and a western style shirt with the Mayday logo embroidered on the left breast. Joe had one just like it. It didn’t escape his notice that Frank’s belt and shoelaces were missing. If it was possible for a room to be simultaneously sterile and grungy, then this room was. Everything about the place was hard: the steel, the edges, even the air. The stink of the pine-scented cleaner burned the lining of Joe’s nostrils. Still, just being there made Joe want to shower.
In our daily lives, Joe thought, we’re used to concessions made for aesthetics. No such compromises are necessary in modern jails or prisons. Function, function, function; that’s the driving force.