Cemetery Dance

Chapter 37

At ten after nine in the morning, D'Agosta gave up waiting for Pendergast and made his way from the lobby of City Hall to an anonymous office on a high floor of the building, which took him another ten minutes to find. At last he stood before the closed office door, reading its engraved plastic plaque:

He gave the door a double rap.

"Come in," came a thin voice.

D'Agosta entered. The office was surprisingly spacious and comfortable, with a sofa and two easy chairs on one side, a desk on the other, and an alcove containing an old bag of a secretary. A single window looked into the forest of towers that constituted Wall Street.

"Lieutenant D'Agosta?" asked the office's occupant, rising from behind his desk and indicating one of the easy chairs. D'Agosta took the sofa instead: it looked more comfortable.

The man came around the desk and settled himself in a chair. D'Agosta took him in quickly: small, slight, ill — fitting brown suit, razor — burned, tufts of thinning hair springing from the middle of a bald head, nervous shifty brown eyes, small trembly hands, tight mouth, self — righteous air.

D'Agosta started to remove his shield, but Wartek quickly shook his head. "Not necessary. Anyone can see you're a detective."

"That so?" D'Agosta was somehow offended. He realized he was hoping to be offended.

Vinnie — boy, just take it easy.

A silence. "Coffee?" "Thank you. Regular."

"Susy, two regular coffees, please."

D'Agosta tried to organize his thinking. His mind was shot. "Mr. Wartek—"

"Please call me Marty." The guy was making an effort to be friendly, D'Agosta reminded himself. No need to be an asshole in return.

"Marty, I'm here to talk about the Ville. Up in Inwood. You know it?"

A cautious affirmative nod. "I've read the articles."

"I want to know how the hell it is these people can occupy city land and block off a public access road — and get away with it." D'Agosta hadn't meant to be so blunt, but it just came out that way. He was too damn tired to care.

"Well, now." Wartek leaned forward. "You see, Lieutenant, there's a point of law called a 'proscriptive easement' or 'right of adverse possession' " — he indicated the quotation marks with nervous darts of his fingers—"which states that if a piece of land has been occupied and used in an 'open and notorious' manner for a certain specific period of time without the permission of the owner, then the using party acquires certain legal rights to the property. In New York, that specific period of time is twenty years."

D'Agosta stared. What the man had said was just so much noise in his ear. "Sorry. I didn't follow you."

A sigh. "It seems the residents of the Ville have occupied that land since at least the Civil War. It was an abandoned church with numerous outbuildings, I believe, and they simply squatted there. There were a lot of squatters in New York City at the time. Central Park was full of them: little kitchen farms, pigpens, shacks, and so forth."

"They're not in Central Park now."

"True, true — the squatters were evicted from Central Park when it was designated a park. But the northern tip of Manhattan was always something of a no — man's — land. It's rocky and rugged, unsuited to farming or development. Inwood Hill Park wasn't created until the thirties. By that time, the residents of the Ville had acquired a right of adverse possession."

The man's insistent, lecture — hall tone of voice was starting to grate. "Look, I'm no lawyer. All I know is, they don't have title to the land and they've blocked a public way. I'm still waiting to hear how that's possible." D'Agosta folded his arms and sat back.

"Lieutenant, please. I am trying to explain this to you. They've been there for a hundred and fifty years. They have acquired rights."

"Rights to block a city street?"

"Perhaps."

"So you mean, if I decide to barricade Fifth Avenue, it's okay? I have a right to do it?" "You'd be arrested. The city would object. The law of adverse possession would never apply."

"All right then, I break into your apartment while you're away, live there rent free for twenty years, and then it's mine?"

The coffees arrived, milky and lukewarm. D'Agosta drank half his down. Wartek sipped his with poked — out lips.

"In point of fact," he continued, "it would be yours, if your occupation of the apartment were open and notorious and if I never gave you permission to be there. You would eventually acquire a right of adverse possession, because—"

"What the hell — are we Communist Russia, or what?"

"Lieutenant, I didn't write the law but I have to say it's a perfectly reasonable one. It's to protect you if you, say, accidentally build a septic system that encroaches on a neighbor's land and that neighbor doesn't notice or complain for twenty years — do you think you should have to take it away if he notices it then?"

"An entire village in Manhattan is not a septic system."

Wartek's voice had climbed a notch as he became excited, a rashy splotch spreading over his neck. "Septic system or entire village, it's the same principle! If the owner doesn't object or notice, and you are using the property openly, then youdo acquire certain rights. It's as if you abandoned the property, not so different from the marine law of salvage."

"So you're telling me the city never objected to this Ville?"

A silence. "Well, I don't know."

"Yeah, well maybe the city did object. Maybe there are letters on file. I'll bet—"

D'Agosta fell silent as a black — clad figure glided into the room.

"Who are you?" Wartek asked, his voice high with alarm. D'Agosta had to admit that Pendergast was a rather disturbing presence at first notice — all black and white, his skin so pale he almost looked dead, his silver eyes like newly minted dimes.

"Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation, at your service, sir." Pendergast gave a little bow. He reached into his suit and produced a manila file, which he laid on the desk and opened. Inside were photocopies of old letters on New York City letterhead.

"What's this?" Wartek asked.

"The letters." He turned to D'Agosta. "Vincent, please forgive my tardiness."

"Letters?" Wartek asked, frowning.

"The letters in which the city objected to the Ville. Going back to 1864."

"Where did you get these?" "I have a researcher at the library. An excellent fellow, I recommend him highly."

"So," said D'Agosta. "There you have it. No right of possession or whatever the hell it was you said."

The rash on Wartek's neck deepened. "Lieutenant, we are not going to institute eviction proceedings against these people just because you or this FBI agent want us to. I suspect this crusade of yours might have something to do with certain religious practices you find objectionable. Well, there is a question of religious freedom here, as well."

"Freedom of religion — to torture and kill animals… or worse?" D'Agosta said. "To clobber policemen in the performance of their duty? To disturb the peace and tranquility of the neighborhood?"

"There has to be due process."

"Of course," said Pendergast, interjecting smoothly. "Due process. That is where your office comes in — to institute the due process. And that is why we are here, to suggest that you do so with all dispatch."

"This kind of decision takes long and careful study. It takes legal consultations, staff meetings, and documentary research. It can't happen overnight."

"If only we had the time, my dear Mr. Wartek! Popular opinion is moving against you even as we speak. Did you see the papers this morning?"

The rash had overspread most of Wartek's face and he was beginning to sweat. He rose to his full five — foot — three — inch height. "As I said, we'll study the issue," he repeated, ushering them to the door.

On the way down in a crowded elevator full of somnolent gray suits, Pendergast turned to D'Agosta and said, "How lovely, my dear Vincent, to see New York City bureaucracy in vibrant, full — throated action!"