A Bad Man

13

A Warden’s Assembly was called. Feldman filed into the hall with the others and sat down.

Maintenance trusties unfolded the Gothic sidings and fitted them into place along the walls. Seen from close up in the still lighted auditorium, they had the cartoony aspect of painted flats in old burlesque skits. Scalloped apertures, cut into the cardboard and covered with sheets of colored cellophane that might have been torn from lollipops, were aligned with the auditorium windows. Bits of sequins embedded in the siding gave a quartzy effect to the granite blocks. Here and there little painted gargoyles frowned down from the moldings. They had the faces of the bad men. Everything had a livid cast, quickening the eye as though it were perceiving under strobe light.

The workmen finished and the warden entered from the back of the auditorium. The first to see him began to applaud. Those up front, without even turning, clapped lustily. One man stood, then another, and soon everyone was on his feet. There were shouts of “Bravo! Bravo!” “Hurrah” called a man near Feldman and was immediately echoed by one next to him, who seemed peeved that he had not thought of it first. “Hurray for the warden,” another invented, and “Three cheers for Warden Fisher,” yelled someone else. “Two-four-six-eight,” a voice rose triumphantly, “who do we appreciate?” And the thunderous answer. “Fisher! Fisher!”

The warden climbed the steps leading to the stage and looked out calmly over the cheering men. The applause was brutal. He smiled and glanced down shyly and they screamed. He raised his hand, and the men cheered louder. Piercing whistles shrieked through the room like the announcement of bombs. Again the warden looked up and raised his hand, but the applause raced on. A trusty fitted a collar microphone around his neck, and the warden raised both hands and faced the men. “Civilization is forms,” he said. “It’s also doing what you’re told. It’s knowing when enough is enough.”

The men began to shush each other. Some in the rear pounded each other’s shoulders, admonishing silence. “Shut up, you guys,” someone near Feldman said. “Warden Fisher wants to speak.” “That’s right,” another added, “we won’t hear him if you’re not quiet.” Feldman’s neighbor nudged him and pointed to a convict down the row who was still applauding. “Some guys ruin it for all the others,” he whispered. A man pointedly stifled a cough.

“‘The Parable of the Shoo-in,’” the warden announced. A few around the auditorium began to applaud again, but they were effectively squelched by those next to them.

“A guy had worked for a large corporation for seven years,” the warden said. “He’d had the whole bit: the interview in college in his senior year, the junior-executive training, the tour of the plant in Milwaukee, the couple of moves to branch offices around the country. The works. The guy was a quick study, very diligent, and his superiors were duly impressed. He made it apparent almost at once that he had what it takes. Some of his suggestions saved his company thousands of dollars, and he came up with some fresh new ideas for promotions and campaigns that were substantively reflected in the annual profits.

“Gradually he came to the attention of the higher-ups, the big boys, and whenever they were in his city they made it a point to look him up. Always they came away impressed and delighted.

“When the lad had been with the company five years a job opened up in the home office that they thought he might do well in. It wasn’t the biggest job, but it was a good one, and for the right man it had a future that didn’t quit. When they told him he could have it he didn’t hesitate a minute, and the company liked that too. This was a difficult post, very sensitive, and some of the men they had put into the spot in the past, though they looked terrific on paper, just hadn’t worked out and had jeopardized their careers with the firm. Most fellows would have thought twice about making the shift. The money was about the same, and it was more expensive to live in the town where the home office was situated. But the guy took it, and just as the big shots expected, he did very well. In fact he was the best man they’d ever had in that particular slot.

“It soon became apparent, however, that if anything he was too big for the job. Oh, he didn’t complain, you understand. He wasn’t arrogant and didn’t even seem particularly aware of the sensation he was making in the organization, but the men at the top saw that he was being wasted, and when a vacancy opened up on the board of directors of this internationally famous company, they immediately thought that the young man would be a perfect choice to fill it. They discussed this among themselves and decided to propose him formally as a candidate.

“The next day the chairman of the board called him into his office and told him about it, and just as the man had anticipated, the candidate wasn’t flustered at all, though it was perfectly clear he was grateful. There wasn’t anything snotty about it. ‘One last thing,’ the chairman told him before he let him go, ‘the company has an official policy for a prospect at your level. We need the names of four top men not connected with our organization whom we can write to request letters about you. It’s just a formality, of course. The board never announces a man’s candidacy to him unless they mean to confirm. Nothing ever goes wrong when you get this far, but it’s standard operating procedure, so if you’ll give me the four names I’ll see that letters are gotten out at once, and you’ll be confirmed at our next meeting. You’re a shoo-in.’

“Well, to the chairman’s astonishment the candidate seemed a little flustered at this, and the chairman asked him what was wrong.

“‘Nothing,’ the guy said. ‘What sort of letters?’

“The chairman saw that the young man didn’t understand and tried to reassure him. ‘Just the usual stuff,’ he told him. ‘About your character, that you’re honest, that you’re not likely to embezzle our funds or get us into trouble with the SEC. A little about your personality. You know.’

“He saw that the fellow still had some misgivings, and he began to get suspicious, but just then he realized what it was probably all about and he broke into a big, friendly smile. ‘I get it,’ he said. ‘It’s because you’re so young and don’t yet feel you know four top executives well enough to ask them to write letters for you. That’s your problem, isn’t it?’

“‘Well—’ the young man said.

“‘Look,’ the chairman told him, ‘they don’t have to be the biggest men in the country. You’ve been with the firm seven years. You’ve had important posts. When you were out West and handled that government thing for us, didn’t you have to work with major men in smaller companies we subcontracted to?’

“The shoo-in nodded and the chairman said well then, he could use those names. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s get this over with. You sit down here at my desk and write me four names of people we can get in touch with. You don’t even have to know their addresses. My secretary will look them up.’ With that the chairman rose, and the shoo-in sat down behind the desk and quickly wrote out four names. He left the list on the blotter under a paperweight and got up to go. ‘There,’ the chairman said, ‘now that’s done we’ll be approving your candidacy in no time.’

“The shoo-in left the office, and the chairman read the list. What was his surprise when he saw that the young man had written down not the names of the presidents of small organizations, but of men at the head of the biggest companies in America, companies that dwarfed even the chairman’s own! Four key captains of industry, man in the vanguard of corporate America! And not just their names, but their Grosse Pointe and Virginia-hunt-country addresses as well! He couldn’t leave this to his secretary, and he decided instead to take up his own stationery and write out the notes himself in longhand and pen.

“The responses came back quickly, and the chairman had them reproduced and took them with him to the next board meeting. He told board members of his interview with the shoo-in and about how nervous the young man had seemed when he had asked for the names. ‘But what puzzles me,’ he said, ‘is what could have been in the fellow’s mind. Here, look, you can see for yourselves. The letters are marvelous.’ And with that he distributed copies of the letters all around the big mahogany table.

“Just as the chairman’s own had been, these letters too were handwritten by the executives and owners of the companies themselves, and frankly it was a little while before many of the men could make sense of the contents, so interested were they in the turns of phrase and styles and patterns of thinking revealed in the letters. Each was a rare industrial document. One member who had been with the organization since its beginning and was regarded by the others as the most solid and conservative among them grew so excited he had to hold up a letter and wave it. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘this one. You know I’ve only seen his signature before on the product. Why, it’s just like the stylized signature on the trademark!’

“Then the chairman gave them time to assimilate the contents and suggested a vote of confirmation, saying that he had left the shoo-in in his office and that if they finished their business quickly, they could all enjoy a celebration lunch together before some of them had to catch their jets.

“At once the vice-president offered a motion to confirm, and before his motion could even be repeated by the chairman two voices were heard. The chairman called on the man furthest from him, the organization’s chief counsel, a man famous for his careful evaluations, expecting that he wanted to second the motion, and by thus giving his blessing, preclude any merely routine discussion. When the man spoke, however, he surprised them all. ‘I don’t know,’ he began. ‘Perhaps I’m being arbitrary, but I think we ought to take a closer look at these letters.’

“‘What do you mean?’ the chairman demanded. ‘The letters are genuine. Are you making the monstrous suggestion that they’ve been forged?’

“‘Not at all, not at all,’ the lawyer said. ‘Of course they’re legitimate. I’m not suggesting otherwise. All I mean is that we ought to examine the substance. This one, for example.’ He held up a letter. ‘This one says — let’s see if I can find it; yes, here it is — this one says that what the writer is chiefly struck by is the candidate’s good humor, that he’s had him out to the farm and found him “convivial, gay, charming, an indefatigable social catalyst whose jokes and anecdotes enlighten as well as entertain.” He mentions “his dancing, his tennis, his universal good manners and courtly display of wit to the least of the other guests and to the staff,” as well as to himself.’

“‘What’s wrong with that?’ the chairman asked. ‘The man goes on to vouch for his brains and efficiency too. What’s wrong with that?’

“‘Nothing, of course,’ the lawyer said, ‘but then we have this testimonial’—he picked up a second letter from the pile—‘where the writer remarks on being impressed with the candidate’s seriousness of purpose, his levelheaded and even solemn approach to a situation. He’s been our candidate’s host too, it seems, and claims that he considers those weekends when the candidate was a guest in his home to have been “philosophical mileposts, times for meaningful contemplation and the dignified reappraisal of goals and values.” The young man has been an inspiration, this man claims, and “has redirected and subdued the frivolous and cynical vitality of others into more worthwhile channels.” ’

“‘But the fellow talks of his perspective also, of his balance and good sportsmanship,’ the chairman said.

“‘I know that,’ the lawyer said, and began to read from a third letter, but at this point was interrupted by the board member next to him, a man who had opened up vast new customer areas in Asia.

“‘I see what our colleague is getting at, but I like the part in this letter—’

“‘That’s the one I was just coming to,’ the lawyer said.

“‘—where the young fellow’s foresight and courage are praised, “…his willingness to take a big risk and then back up that risk with everything he’s got.” He says he can almost smell the fresh young blood in him. I like that. That sort of thing could stir some of the rest of us up around here.’

“‘Certainly,’ said the man who had spoken up at the same time as the lawyer, the member the chairman had not called upon when the vice-president made his motion to confirm. ‘Yet in this last letter the writer speaks of the boy’s “prudence, his steady imperturbability, and reluctance to seek an advantage when the percentages are against it.” He goes on to comment that this is rarely found in someone the candidate’s age.’

“Now all the board members began to discover inconsistencies, calling them out to each other like people who want their songs played on a piano. The chairman, who had risen out of his seat to oppose the lawyer when he had read from the letters and who had remained standing through it all, now sank back wearily. ‘I hadn’t realized,’ he said. ‘The letters were all so enthusiastic. I hadn’t realized.’

“‘None of us realized, Joseph,’ the vice-president who had proposed confirmation said.

“‘I hadn’t realized myself,’ the organization’s chief counsel said. ‘It was only when I remembered what you told us of the fellow’s being nonplused when you asked him for the names. Then I thought of certain phrases in the letters and I became concerned. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the candidate is devious.’

“The chairman thanked him and asked if there was now a second to the vice-president’s motion. There was no one to second it. Reluctantly the vice-president rose, asked that his former proposal be withdrawn and suggested that the candidate be disqualified from further consideration. This was quietly seconded and somewhat sadly passed by all present.

“Now the chairman had the responsibility of returning to his office to tell the shoo-in he had been rejected. Before he left the young man, he had urged him to sit in his chair at the big desk, assuring him that the joke was standard ritual for a shoo-in like himself. When he opened the door, however, he saw that the fellow was still standing where he had left him. He came in and smiled, not knowing how to begin. ‘Something came up,’ he said at last.

“‘I know,’ the young man said. ‘The board of directors has denied me.’

“‘It was astonishing to me. Naturally as chairman I did not exercise a vote. Objections were raised. I’m sorry.’

“‘May I ask what the objections were?’

“‘These meetings,’ the chairman said, ‘they’re confidential.’

“‘Never mind,’ the young man said, ‘perhaps I already know.’

“‘There was no animosity. And if you like, of course we want you to stay on in your present job. The letters—’

“‘The letters were thrilling,’ the young man said.

“‘They were very enthusiastic,’ the chairman said.

“‘But they contradicted—’

“‘They presented a picture of four different men,’ the chairman said.

“‘Yes,’ the shoo-in said.

“‘Naturally the directors were confused. They felt that since each letter carried equal weight, they weren’t competent to determine which estimate was the one…And someone suggested afterwards that his own enthusiasm for your character and work lay in different directions entirely from the ones he had seen represented in the letters. My reactions too are…You see how it is?’

“‘Yes.’

“‘A man should be fixed,’ the chairman said. ‘The board felt that a certain firmness was lacking—’

“‘That one ought to know his necessity and bow down to it?’

“‘Yes,’ the chairman said, ‘that’s it.’

“‘One is what one is?’

“‘Properly so,’ the chairman said, ‘yes.’

“‘No,’ the young man said. ‘What you call character is the mere obstinacy of the self, the sinister will’s solipsist I am. One adjusts his humanity to the humanity of others. Not I am, but You are—there’s the necessity. Love cooperates; it plays ball. I hate a chaos. Does the company need me?’

“‘I beg your pardon?’

“‘You said I might stay if I wished it. What does the board wish?’

“‘Well, of course, we talked mainly of your candidacy, but your work’s been splendid and I get the feeling that all of us would regret your going.’

“‘I shall stay on then,’ the young man told him.

“He is there today,” the warden said. “The firm has prospered. It has built new plants. Thousands are employed. It pays enormous taxes to the government, and the government uses the money to build ships and planes that defend us all. That is the parable of the shoo-in. Beautiful, isn’t it? Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes, Warden,” a man said.

“Yes, Warden,” some others chipped in.

The cry went up throughout the hall. “Yes, Warden. Yes, Warden.”

The warden raised his hands for silence. “But he didn’t get the job, is that what you’re thinking? Is it? You bad men, is that what you’re thinking? No ‘making warden’s mouths’ this time. Answer in your hearts. Well, you’re wrong. He got the job. He got the job. And when the old man died, he got his job too. He got everybody’s job. And he bought out other companies and deposed the chairmen, and he got their jobs too. Today the men who wrote those letters work for him. That’s what flexibility does. Right there, that’s what it does! That’s what it does, you guys stuck in your casings of self like pure pork sausage! There are no piker saints!”

The warden paused, then stepped forward. When he spoke again his voice was soft. “There’s some prison business,” he said. It was what he always said before announcing policy changes, and the men, who had seemed confused during his parable, now looked more confident. A few had brought pencils to take down whatever he said. This was a prisoner’s privilege, since it was the warden’s custom frequently to introduce new rules or to abridge old ones during a Warden’s Assembly. The changes would affect them all, but they were never written down by the administration. The warden preferred that there be a sort of oral tradition in the penitentiary. Indeed, it was his boast that the prison did not even own a mimeograph machine. But, thought Feldman when he heard this, an electric chair they’ve got.

The warden’s reasons for denying the men any codified regulations were perfectly apparent, Feldman thought. Since infractions were met with severe punishments, it became the responsibility of the men themselves, as well as their best interest, to try to understand the warden — in short to listen. Nevertheless, they were allowed a certain latitude here. The most literate of the convicts were appointed by their fellow inmates to catch the warden’s words on the tips of their pencils. Later their notes were checked, double-checked, collated against the notes of the other scribes. (In this way a certain respect for scholarship was induced too. Feldman had never been anywhere where there was a more genuine admiration of those who knew facts, though a scholar’s mistakes earned him beatings.) Discussion groups were formed to resolve inconsistencies and to interpret what had been said. Indeed, the warden had created in effect a hard core of penal Talmudists, men who parsed intention and declined nuances like lexicographers, men adept at shorthand, good punctuators and spellers who wrote with a strong, legible hand. Now, as he glanced about, Feldman saw their strained attentions, their lick-lead alertness; they seemed passionate, fools leaning forward.

“I have this day sent to all administrative personnel,” the warden began, “formal notification of my intention to introduce a policy of remission in this institution. Early next week I shall be forwarding to the appropriate officials a detailed schedule of indulgences, which will then go immediately into effect.

“Now, as you know, paroles have, in the past, been based upon projections of a convict’s ability to adapt to the workaday world. Among the documents he has had to include in the dossier he builds for the parole board are letters from a prospective employer, character endorsements from members of the clergy, character endorsements from members of the secular arm, statements of reconciliation from members of his family and, if he’s to return to his old community, from his neighbors. It is on the basis of these, taken with his own pledges of good will, that the board makes it prognosis about the prisoner’s chances on the outside. I need hardly point out to you that such sentimental evidences as these would be of little consequence in a court of law. Of course the parole board also considers a convict’s record, his behavior during confinement, and makes, from hearsay, what it can of his present attitudes. But the poverty of these techniques is illustrated by the dramatic statistics that there is only a twelve-percent difference in the incidence rate of recidivism among parolees and those who are discharged only after serving their full sentences. Twelve percent.

“As you should be able to infer then, there is a distinct tense shift between the philosophy of punishment and the philosophy of pardon. A man is punished for a fait accompli; yet that same man, up for parole, is forgiven his past and granted his chance largely on the basis of a prediction — say rather a hope—about his actions in the future.

“It is this — this schism between past and future — which my policy of remission and schedule of indulgences seeks to adjust. Henceforward my recommendation to the parole board will be based upon my personal observation of a man’s virtue. ‘Warden’s Approval,’ formerly automatic like the principal’s signature on a diploma, now becomes the vital element in the parole process. The jerry-built letters of recommendation will still be required, of course, and sappy-hearted priests and social workers and wives who forget and sons whose hope exceeds their expectation will still be found to write them, but these will be meaningless without my own recommendation.’

The warden stepped forward onto the apron of the stage, at the length of the wire on his collar microphone. He took another step and must have broken the connection, for he tore the microphone from his lapel impatiently and dropped it to the floor. When he spoke, however, his voice still seemed amplified. “Now I would solicit your honor,” he said. “Now I would urge your virtue. Now I would inspire. You—” he called, “men with pencils, scholars of this place, ministers of my administration — hear me. Explain to them. Speak what I tell you. The tongues of Pentecost are upon me, and I would teach you prison business.

“And we shall prove here again, together, what crusaders traveling armed and East once proved, and what the old popes knew, and the hooded saints who stretched the rack, who turned its wheel, getting God’s awful leverage, and all those who once tied hate-knots on wrists behind backs and then tugged at the strappado, hauling at the lousy heretic’s flaggy self: that virtue is as active a principle as evil, that cruelty is written off in a good cause, that there is no violence like an angel’s violence.

“Let us pray.”

The man bowed their heads uneasily.

“Lord God of hooked scourge and knotted whip, of sidearms and sidecar, of bloodhound and two-way radio, vigilant God of good neighborhoods and locked Heaven — lend us Thy anger. Teach us, O God, revulsion. Remind our nostrils of stench and our ears of discord and our eyes of filth. Grant these men a holy arrogance and instill in them the courage to expose all bad men, to divulge their plans for jailbreak, their schemes of dirty escape in the back of a laundry truck. Give them the will to betray all wicked confidences, to publish secrets right and left. Bestow on them wakefulness, God, to collect the broken-talk dreams of their cellmates, and give them the memory to report verbatim whatever is spoken in anger behind my back or the backs of my guards. Move them to mar a friend’s plot, and to sing like canaries the hymns of their blessed betrayals. Instruct their tongues in delation and denunciation, and arrange it so that all charges brought against anyone anywhere may be made to stick!

“Transubstantiate now their prison garb into their chrisoms, for they would be Thy paracletes, and their very cells become as benefices in Thy penal see. Call on them to abjure and recant all blasphemy, in the murus strictus now and here and in the murus largus then and there. Admit them as successful spies to all infamous councils, and sustain the endura of their reputations, the ordeal of their betrayed confidences. Strengthen all stoolies to Heaven, O Lord, and make them to turn state’s evidence. Marry them to whores that they may correct them, and give them wicked children that they may chastise them. Have them to live at the scene of crimes near telephones.

“But let their compurgations, if they would make them, fail in their mouths! Strike down all extenuators!

“Amen.”

“Amen,” said the men.

“This isn’t part of the prayer now,” the warden said. “The rest is off the record.” He winked. “We’re moving against the bad men.”

Feldman shuddered.

“Sometimes,” the warden said, “it isn’t enough merely to bring charges or to make sermons. There are — well, you know, you aren’t stupid — things that are done and there’s no recourse. There is…latitude. There are great nasty areas where one is still within one’s ‘rights,’ legal, snug as a bug. Ask yourself. How much time can a man be made to do for being himself? Well, you see the problem. The bad men…Suppose — get that word, ‘suppose,’ I said — suppose they were relaxed to you? Listen to me.” He paused and wiped his forehead with his hand. Then he looked down at his shoes. “It’s embarrassing,” he said at last. “I’m no hinter, no intimator. Let’s not crap around with each other.

“I am calling for the infusion of the sacerdotal spirit! I need inquisitors’ hearts! You must be — you must be malleus maleficarum, hammers of witches, punishers and pummelers in God’s long cause. You must be warden’s familiars. We shall share the power of the keys. Despoil, confiscate, make citizen’s arrests. You know what needs to be done.

“We must invent terrible penances together. Rebuff the bondsman along with the bailee. Seek the alkahest of perfect punishment to dissolve the stony-hearted men. Bring your charges, bring them, please. Say ‘I know not whom to accuse, but here are the names of those I suspect.’ Imply. Implicate. Indict. What would you? Torture the witness? Force the confession? You’ve your immunities. I give you carte-blanche souls. Charge even the dead. Yes! Let us have exhumations. Bones to scatter. Visit plagues, visit poxes. Zealously, zealously, flagellate, spank. Interdict and preclude. Exorcise the lamiae, rout the mascae, bury the incubi. Ignite the dark conventicle. Hate heresies. Kiss not the toad on its posteriors nor lift the dog’s tail to make love. Don’t chew the Scriptures, nor piss on private property. Go straight, god-damnit! Tapas. Tapas. Tapas. If you would live forever, then think on sin until all scores are settled. Talio. Talio. Push them in cesspools. Accusatio! Denunciatio! Trust dreams, bad tastes in your mouths, hunches, first impressions. Bet long shots. Tribulations of the flesh. Trifle their hearts. Bread and water them. Durus carcer et areta vita. Be impeccable. You shall know them by their kosti and saddarah, their thread and shirt. Haereticus indutus or vestitus. Poena confusibilus. Crush the tergiversator, the vitiator, the equivocator!”

You got all that down? You got all that down, you good punctuators and spellers? Feldman wondered.

“Well,” the warden said cheerfully, “well. That felt good, I have to admit. It clears the lungs. A shout clears the lungs. Ah, there’s nothing like rage, men. It tones a man. But I tell you criminals, until you guys go straight you’ll never know what it feels like. Oh, you’ve your anger, I suppose, but you’ve never peaked to wrath or felt a fine fury. Guilt waters your whiskey and niggles your righteousness. Pikers, pikers, you nickled-and-dimed. Well, it stands to reason. You’re all debtors to doubt, uncertainty. There’s vacillation’s dreary falsetto in your tantrums. It amateurizes you, men. Try as you will, how can you hate a man with your gun in his ribs? Is a shooter e’er sore or a mugger e’er maddened? God damns and makes decisions and denotes, but the devil’s all contingency and connotation. There’s something listless in a crime of violence, something pale in a prisoner’s pique. So you lose wrath and make do with a lousy bitterness, settling for slurs instead of curses. Petulance, bitterness and the soured heart. Dyspepsia and low dudgeon and never the high decorum of an injured outrage or the sweet reason in a rich reprisal.

“Why, look around you! Who blooms here? Who’s got the health? Is the charlatan cheerful or the robber robust? Only your cuckold thrives, your murderer for morality. Sure, sure, only your criminal of passion, your redresser, your reparator — your strangles your stabber — only your gut-ripper and your castrator. There’s nothing like their strength unless it’s the fine fettle of the framed. Innocence. Innocence does it, self-defense does.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your cells in a moment. I’ll lock you up. There are some night-shift personnel and their families outside that I’ve still got to talk to, but before I let you go I want to urge you again to think about what I’ve told you. I wish I could imagine that your malice toward bad men were predicated on your own good will, that you won’t just do what I ask merely to assure your paroles, but…well, I’m not naïve. I wasn’t born yesterday in a cabbage patch, I tell you, and I think I know the score. So I’m making it attractive, sweetening the pot.

“Yet — yet — yet a still small voice within me whispers that the time may come when you won’t be in it for the money, when you’ll vie for vengeance and strive for spite, your hearts swept by a lust for havoc and the will to afflict. You’ll get the hang of it, you hangmen. Trust me. Think — think — a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. In the meantime you’ve your own motives. So go back and size up your fellows. Don’t let them out of your sight. Take notes. Be suspicious. Watch in the foundry, in the print shop—in the canteen—the laborer’s labor. Does he love his work? When he whistles, is it a stirring march to set himself a fine pace, or is it a dreamy love song he hums to distract himself? The perfect crime’s imperfect. Sin leaves clues. Open your eyes, be alert. Stop, look and listen, for the world’s unsafe still. Earn your paroles. Time off for good behavior, everyone. Leave me with a remanence of corrupt men, I ask only that. Remember — rat and do worse, but leave no visible bruises. Connote injuries and stop short of murder, or we’ll both be in trouble.

“That’s that,” the warden said.

“That’s that,” the men said.

The warden nodded and they rose to leave. Guards came to prod them toward the doors. Someone shoved Feldman, but it was not a guard. It was his neighbor, a quiet convict from his own cellblock, stepping on his heels, jabbing him in the back.

They were marched to the rear-center door but then jammed together into the last few rows in order to let the night-shift personnel and their families pass into the auditorium first. While they were halted, the man behind Feldman leaned toward his ear. “You shit,” he whispered. “You mother-fucker kike bastard. Son-of-a-bitch cocksucker,” he told him softly. “Prick, fartass, scumbag, jerk. Fairy.” Feldman determined to ignore him, but the man’s mouth was almost in his ear. Once he felt the fellow’s lip brush against his lobe. He pulled his head away, but the man became bolder. He pinched Feldman’s back, first surreptitiously, then openly. Feldman moved forward and bumped into the man in front of him.

“Stand still there, you,” a guard said angrily, and smiled his sanction when the one Feldman bumped shoved him back roughly. Feldman stood still, enduring their pinches and shoves, the small talk of their marginal violence.

Meanwhile, the warden, still on the stage and able to see the temporary bottleneck at the doors, had begun to speak again, shouting a sort of recessional to them. “Not enough of you have been using Warden’s Forest in your free time,” he said. “I set this plot aside for your benefit, not my own. Yet when I look out on it from my office window I rarely see anyone in it. It’s not enough to reason that it’s winter and that the trees are all bare. Much can be learned from the cold. Much. What good does it do, men, to see the spring but not to suspect its sources? Little credit redounds to the gazer on fall’s fat spectacle.

“This is your copse, you robbers, and I want to see it used! Is that clear? All right, then. Move on out back there.” He began to clap his hands. “Virtue, virtue, virtue, virtue, virtue,” he cried. “Virtue, virtue.”

They started to march again, Feldman sliding out in a long first step to elude an anticipated shove or at least reduce its force. As they went up the aisle, he saw that his face had been the model for one of the gargoyles on the last panel of the Gothic siding.

Virtue, virtue, virtue, virtue, virtue, Feldman thought. Virtu, virtu, virtu, virtu, virtu, Vertigo!