Man of the Hour Read online

  “Allahu akbar.” Dr. Ahmed waved. “We’ll be along.”

  “Insh’allah,” Nasser called after him.

  The door closed and Nasser noticed there was a brown Snickers bar wrapper sticking out of the garbage can next to it. Dr. Ahmed clapped his hands gleefully and turned to Youssef.

  “So now it’s all set,” he said.

  Nasser looked at him quizzically. “What’s all set?”

  “He has given us his blessing. Didn’t you hear that?”

  “Not at all.”

  Nasser was still trying to decode the words the imam had said. Was some deeper meaning eluding him?

  Dr. Ahmed stared to the left of him and worked the side of his mouth into a sneer.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said. “He could not have been any clearer. Does he have to spell it out when people could be listening? He wants us to do away with many of them.”

  Before Nasser could protest that the imam had said nothing of the kind, Youssef came over, sat back down beside him, and put an arm around him.

  “It’s okay, my friend,” he said. “You are young. But you must learn to listen with your heart and not just your ears.”

  36

  THE NEXT MORNING, David sat with Renee and their respective divorce lawyers in Judge Katherine Nemerson’s chambers at 110 Centre Street. He had tried to get this conference delayed for at least another week until the investigation blew over, but both the judge and Renee’s lawyer, a blustery former prosecutor named J. Randy Barrett, insisted on going ahead, since David’s new notoriety presented a slate of complicating issues that needed to be addressed immediately.

  So he slumped down in his chair, looking at one of the claw feet of the judge’s Louis Quatorze desk. Its nails were digging into a ball and he imagined that it was his heart being punctured.

  “Okay, so what’s the problem?” asked the judge, a hard and leathery New York lady in her mid-fifties.

  “Your Honor, let’s cut to the chase,” said Randy Barrett, who had wavy black hair and jowls as big as a woman’s purse. “Mr. Fitzgerald over here is the target of a federal probe. He’s accused of planting a bomb meant to kill at least twenty-four school-age children. He’s under constant surveillance and intense media scrutiny. So for the sake of the child, I want to terminate all visitation rights immediately and seek a waiver for my client to take Arthur out of state.”

  “Hardball, eh?” The judge made a note to herself and pushed her bifocals up on her nose, liking his style.

  David winced, feeling like he’d been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer. He waited for his lawyer, Beth Nussbaum, to respond. But Beth was anything but a hard-charger. An old school friend from Atlantic Beach, she was a gentle, kind, loving person, with a soft heart-shaped face and billowy yellow hair. More than once, David had worried she wasn’t vicious enough to make it in the matrimonial business.

  “Your Honor, with all due respect, what counsel is saying is ridiculous,” she said, shuffling papers on her lap “My client hasn’t been convicted of any crime. He hasn’t even been arrested or charged.”

  Though at the moment, it was hard to tell that. Stories about him were appearing in every newspaper and on every television station, twisting his image and taking everything he’d said on the air and in class out of context.

  “Judge, I’m not stupid,” Barrett fired back. “I know the difference between arrest, arraignment, and conviction. What I’m saying is just look at the practicalities. Forget all of Mr. Fitzgerald’s shortcomings for a moment—we’ll get to those later. How is he going to care for his son and simultaneously mount a vigorous defense for himself? He could be going to prison for the rest of his life.”

  Prison. David had been struggling hard to keep that image out of his mind the last two days. He’d visited students on Rikers Island, heard about the strip searches, the fingers up the butt, the shanks driven into chests, the systematic loss of identity and manhood.

  “I’m not going to prison,” he spoke up. “I’m innocent.”

  He felt Renee looking at him. Dark circles under her eyes, a little scab in the middle of her lip. Christ, why couldn’t they work this out between themselves? She wasn’t that far gone, was she?

  “So what’s the story, Mr. Fitzgerald?” asked the judge. “Are you working in the meantime?”

  “I’m still getting my salary,” said David, pulling himself up in his chair.

  “That’s not what I asked.” The judge scrubbed away the excuse in her steel-wool voice. “I asked if you were working. So I take it the answer is no, they want you away from the kids.”

  Before David could respond, Beth put a hand on his wrist, reminding him she was the mouthpiece here. “Judge, we’re confident that Mr. Fitzgerald will be cleared in due time and get his job back. He’s engaged the services of the criminal attorneys Ralph Marcovicci and Judah Rosenbloom.”

  “Oh great, the Laurel and Hardy Show!” Randy Barrett snickered. “See, this is what I’m talking about, Judge! Ralph Marcovicci is the all-time clown master of the media circus. There’s going to be cameras around this case for months to come. This poor fragile little boy, Arthur, won’t have a moment’s peace. We’ve gotta protect him and get him out of town.”

  David bared his teeth and looked sideways at Renee. “Don’t let him do this to us,” he murmured. “You know it isn’t right.”

  “Judge, please tell him not to address my client.” Barrett cut him off, jabbing a finger at David. “He’s trying to play games with her head.”

  “All right, all right, enough already.” The judge waved her hands. “I’ve never heard so much acrimony over so little money.” She touched the center piece of her bifocals and picked up a file. “Ms. Nussbaum, what say you about Mr. Barrett’s request to let his client take the boy out of town?”

  David and Beth looked at each other sorrowfully. They’d discussed bringing up Renee’s deteriorating mental condition and had decided only to raise the issue in the most delicate way possible. But here Randy Barrett had gone nuclear on them.

  “Your Honor,” Beth began slowly. “My client still loves his wife, but he’s beginning to grow concerned about her. Based on what he’s seen and what the boy has told him, he’s afraid she may be experiencing some kind of a breakdown and won’t be able to take care of the child. So we would strongly oppose any effort to take Arthur out of town.”

  David saw Renee shudder in her seat. Her lawyer grabbed her elbow, meaning to reassure her but just startling her more.

  “Your Honor, this is outrageous!” he bellowed. “Even I didn’t think Mr. Fitzgerald would sink to this level of character assassination. He has no right to cast aspersions on my client’s mental state.”

  “Well, actually he does.” The judge was still studying the file, her mouth strained and dubious. “I’m reading Dr. Ferry’s report and he had some serious concerns about Mrs. Fitzgerald’s mental condition.” She dropped the file on her desk with a thwap. “So here we have a problem. On the one hand, Mr. Fitzgerald is being followed around by the press and the feds, which could have a traumatic effect on both the wife and the child. But on the other hand, Mrs. Fitzgerald doesn’t seem entirely capable of caring for him all by herself. So what are we going to do about this?”

  She threw her hands open to the room, as if asking for suggestions, but everyone was looking down. David gripped his armrests and saw Renee digging her heel into the carpet.

  “Does anyone want to see this child in foster care or sent to live with a grandparent?” Judge Nemerson asked.

  “No,” said David, clearing his throat and raising his eyes.

  “No.” Renee’s voice slid under his.

  David looked at her gratefully, but she’d already turned away and started picking at her lip again. He reminded himself how much it must have cost her to keep it together as long as she had.

  “All right, so let’s figure out what we’re going to do.” The judge took off her bifocals and rubbed the brid
ge of her nose. “Mr. Barrett may have a point about all this pressure having a traumatic effect on the child.” She turned her eyes to David. “Mr. Fitzgerald, have your criminal lawyers told you how long they expect this investigation to last?”

  “Oh, it shouldn’t be too long, Your Honor,” he lied. “The government has no case.”

  Judge Nemerson cocked her head to one side, unconvinced. “Well, until this gets cleared up, I’m afraid I see things from Mr. Barrett’s point of view. I’m not going to cut off all visitation rights, but I am going to curtail them a little. The potential for damage is too great.”

  David felt the talons digging deeper into his heart. Stay focused on Arthur and the kids, he told himself. That’s how you’re going to get through this.

  “All right, here’s what we’re going to do,” said the judge, flipping open a desk calendar. “I’m going to schedule a custody hearing for four weeks from today, the sixteenth of next month, so we can settle this matter once and for all. Mrs. Fitzgerald”—she nodded to Renee—“I want you to continue seeing your psychiatrist and taking the medication he prescribes. If the drugs don’t work anymore, get new drugs. I want full and regular reports from your doctor about how you’re doing. If you try to leave the city with your son, the consequences will be serious. And Mr. Fitzgerald—” She drew a bead on David. “I suggest you get your situation with the investigation and your employment straightened out before the hearing. Those are going to be very important factors in my decision about who gets permanent custody of the child.”

  “But Your Honor, that’s completely unfair!” Beth Nussbaum looked like she was about to start crying. “These matters are out of my client’s hands. You’re penalizing him just because he’s been falsely accused of something.”

  “And what about the damage to my client and the boy from being in the middle of this media zoo all the time?” Barrett protested.

  “Hey.” The judge shrugged. “Who do I look like, Solomon?”

  37

  THE DAY AFTER MEETING with the Imam, Youssef, Dr. Ahmed, and Nasser got down to the serious business of preparing for the next hadduta.

  They drove out to Sunset Park, Brooklyn, and rented a garage for $1,200 a month on a quiet block, where they could mix the chemicals for their explosives in peace. Then they walked around the corner and rented a dirty little hovel of an apartment behind a taxi stand for $686 a month, so the doctor and Nasser could stop sleeping on the floor of the Great Bear’s living room and have a place of their own for a while.

  Just before lunch, Dr. Ahmed gave Nasser a list of some of the ingredients they’d need, including two hundred pounds of the chemical fertilizer ammonium nitrate and five hundred gallons of diesel fuel, plus a half dozen fifty-five-gallon drums to mix them in. What he didn’t give him was enough money to pay for everything; after renting the apartment and the garage, there was little left over from the check store robbery.

  “Buy what you can,” Dr. Ahmed said, pressing four crumpled twenties into Nasser’s hand. “We’ll raise the rest. And remember: don’t buy too much at any one store. Spread it around. You don’t want these bigots to wonder what an Arab boy is doing with all this material.”

  Nasser took the money and drove out to a garden supply store in Borough Park. He frowned, seeing the Orthodox Jews on the street in their black silk robes, fur hats, and nineteenth-century-style stockings. He parked his car in front of a vegetable stand selling “Israeli tomatoes” for 79 cents each. Israeli tomatoes? He felt like picking one up and smashing it on the sidewalk. These were Palestinian tomatoes, grown on land drenched in Arab blood. By God, these infidels deserved their punishment. It was getting easier to convince himself.

  He went into the little store crammed with rakes and lawn mowers, wondering what they would finally select as a target. A synagogue? A great landmark like the United Nations? Some small part of him wished he could try again at the school. Every time he saw Ahmed, the doctor would remind him of his previous failure.

  Nasser found two fifty-pound bags of the fertilizer back by the leaf blowers and checked to make sure the nitrogen content was at least 34 percent, as Dr. Ahmed had specified. Yes, it would be even better if he could go back to the school and find Mr. Fitzgerald there. This one who was trying to seduce Elizabeth. The idea of it filled Nasser with sickening rage. How could he stop this from happening? He felt ashamed and powerless. What would their mother have said about the loss of family honor?

  He heaved the two sacks up onto the counter and the muscular kid in a Viva Puerto Rico shirt at the cash register did a double-take.

  “Whooa, son,” he said. “How much a that shit you need?”

  “I need a lot.” Nasser busied himself, digging into his pockets for the money.

  The Puerto Rican kid looked at the instructions on the side of one bag. “Says here each of these bad boys covers fifteen thousand square feet. You sure you need that much?”

  “I have a farm,” said Nasser.

  Yes, he thought. Somewhere I have a farm. But the Jews stole it and I’ve never seen it.

  “Twenty-seven dollah niney-nine cent each, plus tax.” The cashier patted the bag nonchalantly and started ringing it up on the register. “I hear this is good shit. People say it give your lawn a nice thick green color. Like the Emerald City. Right?”

  “What?” Nasser carefully placed three twenties on the counter and looked around, sure he was missing something.

  “You know, man. The Emerald City. The Wizard of Oz.”

  “Oh, yes.” Nasser pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the counter, waiting for his change.

  He hated these little references Americans made to their own culture, as if they expected everyone else to be just as enthralled. They made him feel small, resentful, and stupid. Didn’t these people know there was an older world with more sacred traditions? Some things couldn’t be mocked, packaged, and turned into television shows.

  “Hey, man, where’s your farm?” the cashier asked.

  “Bethlehem,” Nasser blurted out, and instantly regretted it.

  I am an idiot. A complete idiot. He was aware of other customers looking at him. Jews with hats, beards, and curls. Swarthy men with heavy arms and broad faces. And sallow beardless boys like himself, whose ethnicity he couldn’t trace. Wouldn’t one of them remember him if they were questioned later? Especially after he made such a foolish slip.

  But God was looking out for him. “Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Right?” The cashier counted out his change for him.

  “Exactly,” said Nasser, hesitating for a moment and then grinning in relief. “You have it exactly.”

  “I thought that was steel country.”

  “It is.” Nasser stuffed the change into his pockets and pulled down his bags, grateful to be getting out of there. “But there’s farmland too. Chickens, cows, everything just as God made it.”

  Yes, this was surely a sign from God mat he was going in the right direction with his life and this plan. Otherwise, he would have been stopped and caught immediately.

  “Hey, you need your receipt?” The cashier pulled the white tape out of the register.

  Nasser started to say no, and then caught himself. Trust in Allah, but tether your camel. That’s what the imam had instructed. The less evidence around, the better. “Yes, thank you very much,” he said, taking the sales slip and men starting to lug the bags out to his car.

  “All right, my brotha.” The cashier waved after him. “Follow the yellow brick road.”

  38

  “I DIDN’T DO IT,” said David.

  “What?”

  The cute little Dominican girl at the corner bodega, who usually had a sweet smile and a kind word, wouldn’t look him in the eye.

  “I didn’t do what you think I did.” The need to declare his innocence had come upon him like a fever.

  But the girl put his change down on the counter, instead of in his hand. “I didn’t say anything.”

  He left carrying two six-
packs of Rolling Rock in a brown paper bag and started up Broadway. In these last thirty-six hours or so, a sense of paranoia and isolation had begun to creep over him. Old friends like Henry and his occasional jogging partner, Tony Marr, acted strange and distant when he called, as if the David Fitzgerald they’d known before was just a sham. People moved down the counter when he visited Tom’s Diner for a late breakfast. At the college bookstore, he picked up Conrad’s Secret Agent and then put it down quickly because its plot involved a bombing and he was worried the store’s clerk would tell someone he’d looked at it.

  Outside his building, the camera crews, reporters, and various federal agents were maintaining an intimidating presence. There were at least thirty of them at all times, and various detachments would follow him on his jaunts to the grocery store and the dry cleaners, where the Korean men behind the counter would eye him with newfound suspicion.

  “Hey, David, turn around!”

  “David, just one picture please!”

  “How are you holding up, David?”

  He was turning into one of those horrible anti-celebrities, people famous for making a spectacular hash of their lives. He wished he could just turn it all off and ignore the racket, but his lawyers, Ralph Marcovicci and Judah Rosenbloom, had given him responsibility for clipping every newspaper article he could find about himself and recording as many radio and television stories as possible with rented equipment in preparation for a civil suit.

  And God, the stories were relentless, humiliating beyond belief. He turned on the television when he got home with the beer and there was his old Little League coach, Murray Samuels, who’d always stood too close giving him tips in the batter’s box.

  “He always was a funny kid, that David,” said Murray, who’d gone completely gray and had conspicuous hair growing out of his ears. “I remember whenever a simple fly ball would come to him in the outfield, he’d have to dive for it and make a big dramatic show of catching it and holding it up, so everyone could see what a big deal he was.”