We walked back inside and down the corridor and overheard one of the guards yelling at an inmate.
"I am held here wrongly, mon," said a deep booming voice. "I am held on suspicion, nothing more. And because I came here in a leaky-sponge boat, does that take away all my rights? You hear me talkin', mon?"
The guard slammed the door with a clang and passed us in the hall. "Fuckin' jig," he muttered under his breath so we could all hear, especially the man behind bars. He was huge and rich chocolate-brown, with green eyes. He gripped the bars, and the big muscles of his jaws bunched and leapt at the sides of his face. He rocked sideways, back and forth, back and forth, as he gripped the steel in front of him. He swayed to and fro on his feet, like an elephant eating hay.
"What's the huge black guy in for?" Joe asked the superintendent.
"Vagrancy and resisting arrest. Don't think it'll stick though. He'll probably walk in a week. Why, you want him?"
"Naw. just curious. He one of the Caribbean boat people?"
"Uh-huh. Jamaican. Nothing but trouble, the whole bunch of 'em, and they're coming farther north every day now. Oughta kick 'em right back out. Oh, but he'll walk; you wait and see."
On the way out of the cell block something- I'm not sure what it was- made me retrace my steps to the cell that held the giant Jamaican. He looked at me.
"What did you do that they put you in here?" I asked.
"Nothing. They call it vagrancy. I am an illegal alien. I was arrested loitering at a bus station. Are you a policeman?"
"No. A doctor. What is your name?"
"Amos Railford. Fisherman and carpenter. You will help me? I cannot pay now, but later-"
"Amos Railford, are you innocent of any crime except being here? You've heard of a polygraph, or lie detector? Would you take a polygraph test?"
"Hmmmmph!" He snorted, and jerked at the bars two inches in front of his face. His forearms bulged like Popeye the Sailor's. His chest was a bronzed, chiseled slab of muscle two feet wide. I was a little thankful for the bars. '
"Will you take it?"
"Yes, mon."
"And what is your bail set at?"
"Bail? I don't know."
"Thank you Amos. Good luck."
I walked back down the corridor, smelling that peculiar and depressing jail smell so well described by Raymond Chandler. On the way out I could not help thinking that nothing much had changed since 1927, except perhaps the appearance of those on the lowest rung.
We walked back to the courthouse building. It was just a couple of blocks. Sacco and Vanzetti made the trip there and back every day during the weeks of the trial, surrounded by armed guards. I stood facing the courthouse steps and recalled the film. Turning toward the jail, I took myself back in time. The small, squared-off Datsuns and Vegas became rounded Packards and Overlands. The people wore wool and cotton instead of polyester. The women had on wide hats with flowers on top; the men wore top hats, boaters, snap-brims, and bowlers. A crowd came dance-stepping around the comer, heading my way. Throngs of onlookers pressed close. Kids shouted and ran around the edges of the crowd. A big square of blue-coated policemen formed the nucleus of the mob, each one toting a Winchester pump scatter-gun. Here they came bouncing fast up the street. They were jump-roping without rope. The cars zigged and zagged. People waved their arms and hopped around. Where was Harold Lloyd? Buster Keaton? The mob was close now, approaching the courthouse steps. I could see the two defendants: Vanzetti with his proud carriage, tipping his snap-brim hat, gesticulating to the crowd with raised fist. Injustice! he is crying, and for him it certainly is. Almost everyone agreed that Bartolomeo Vanzetti was innocent. The other man, though- what's going through his mind? Sacco walks on silently, having to pause when his companion does because they are chained together. But he says nothing, looking straight ahead, noncommittal. Is he scared? Seething with outrage? Bored? Or is he lying? Is he merely disgusted with himself at having been caught?
A car horn jerked me out of my reverie, and I moved off the street. The driver rolled down his window and grinned.
"Don't tell me. Don't tell me- I know what ya wuz lookin' at. Yuz lookin' at the jail and then the court building. Well, I tell ya, mistah… they wuz guilty!"
He drove on, and we got back into Joe's cruiser and went back home.
After dropping off Tom, Joe and I went back to the house.
Joe's mood was still dark. He paced the living-room carpet, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, muttering to himself. The only words I caught were "can't believe it… just can't believe it," over and over again.
"Can't believe what?" I finally asked. "That they were probably guilty?"
"Not that so much. I'm thinking of Andy. I can't believe the community would turn against him. You know the Sons of- oh hell, skip it."
He returned to pacing and muttering until the phone rang. Mary answered it in the kitchen and called Joe.
"[oey, you know anything about Christopher Columbus?"
"Sure. He discovered America in- what? What the hell are you asking me a stupid-ass question like that for?"
"No, dummy. There's a guy calling you from the Christopher Columbus. What's that?"
Joe rushed toward the kitchen like a fifty-yard man out of the blocks. "Gimme that," he said, panting.
There was a short, intense conversation in the kitchen, with hoarse whispers and oaths. Comments like "you're goddamn right that's what I thought. What would you think, for Chris-sake?" and "I didn't mean you, Mike. I was thinking of the young guys- "
Mary and I waited in the living room until he was finished, which wasn't long. He came stomping through the room and hooked his finger at me. I followed him out the door as Mary sank dejectedly onto the couch and stared at the wall.
"Don't worry, Mare. This is just a short visit in the North End. Be back in two hours. Promise!"
"I'm coming too then."
"Can't. The Christopher Columbus is a men's club. See you."
The neighborhood social club was on Fleet Street between two others. The North End is famous for these men's clubs. On any weekend in nice weather the front doors are generally open and you can hear the television blaring out the progress of the Patriots or Red Sox games and, further in the background, an aria. The weather was slightly chilly and the door, with no markings or signs on it whatsoever, was closed. Joe opened it and walked in. The men inside stared at us. Then I realized they were staring at me. I was a stranger. My presence in this private drinking and social club was tolerated only because I was with Joe, who was an ex-officio member.
We walked through the front room, which contained the TV, bar, and pool tables, and into the back one, which had a carpeted floor, a smaller bar, a stereo from which a rich baritone crooned, and a big green felt card table. As we entered, all seven men at the table rose at once. Three of them, younger men, left as if on prearranged signal and went back to the front room. The cards had been turned face down, the play having stopped in the middle of a hand.
Of the four men who approached us smiling, I recognized Gus Giordano immediately. He came up and hugged me first, which set the mood of acceptance right away. The men beckoned us to sit down in the leather chairs, which looked as if they were purchased secondhand from a bar that went bust. They drew theirs up around us, facing us like a panel. Or perhaps a tribunal?
The leader, a man named Mike, spoke first. He was at least seventy, razor-thin with a veiny forehead, pale skin, white hair, and a thin beaky nose. He had piercing black eyes and wore a big old-fashioned hearing aid. He chain-smoked as he drank coffee.
'Joey, that big Irish guy you hang around with, Heeney?"
"O'Hearn. Kevin O'Hearn. My partner."
"Yeah, him. Well, he told Angie Catardi, who walks the beat here, that you thought we were behind the Santuccio murder. Joseph, shame on you."