smile. With her attention on Tom, she registered only the other man’s gestures, not his face or appearance. And then, having loomed to their left, the two men—both of them large, vivid, and sweating—were swiftly gone. Suddenly ten paces beyond them, Nancy asked Benjamin, “So, who was that?”
“Tom Perini. Great football player.”
“The name meant something to me,” Nancy told Julie, “but not the same as Paul Newman the night before.”
Julie laughed, and then waited for Nancy, consummate talker, to finish the story. And she did. She and Benjamin decided to end their run at the drinking fountain at the western side of the transverse. They sprinted. In the midst of the sprint, the sound of their running bodies briefly overwhelming the quiet sibilance of the spring trees, they heard a sharp, metallic bang .
“What was that?” she asked Benjamin as they came to a stop, breathing heavily, at the fountain.
“A firecracker.”
She said, breathless, “Early for the Fourth of July.”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
It was the following morning when they first heard the news about the killing. She immediately recognized Tom’s face on the front page of the News , the Post , and the Times . Benjamin was at the hospital, on a ten-hour Saturday shift.
“Don’t do anything until I get home,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
They argued, but she waited.
They continued to argue that night and all the next day about whether to call the hotline number. Benjamin was stubborn.
He insisted they knew nothing more than the police already 75
knew—Tom Perini had been in the park at night and was now dead. Benjamin was busy. If they called that number, they would spend hours with police, with lawyers (“those shits,” he said), repeating the same noninformation.
“But we know there was somebody else with him,” Nancy had said to Benjamin.
“And so what?”
Benjamin was not only stubborn but abrasive. She was out of work, a lady of leisure. He told her she might have time to kill with cops and lawyers. He didn’t have that luxury.
“When I finally called the hotline number, Benjamin was actually more gracious than I expected him to be. I think he was relieved I had summoned him to his duty, so to speak. He even got angry and impatient when no one seemed to answer our call at first. Hello , is there anybody there ?, we felt like saying.”
Julie poured both of them more coffee from the Krups cof-feemaker. “How long did it take?”
“I’m not sure. Four, five days before our favorite Irish cop called.”
“What do you think of him?”
“A creep. He sat in that miserable little office, taking notes. At the end he said ‘Tanks a lot,’ and we left. Strangely enough, Benjamin was annoyed. After all that time arguing with me about how much time this would all take, it ended up taking two hours, including the trip downtown and back. It seemed to him it P A U L B A T I S T A
should’ve taken more. More time. More effort. Somebody sharper to ask the questions. I think he was insulted that it wasn’t a lawyer. Somehow his pride was hurt.”
Julie felt a series of emotions. Gratitude toward this New York woman for taking her in and speaking so freely, anger with McGlynn and with the government for what she believed was their inept, inattentive, ineffective approach, and fascination with this witness to her husband’s death, this woman who was the last person but one to see him alive.
“You know what struck me as strange?” Nancy was speaking 76
slowly for the first time. She stared at Julie. She had detected a look of precariousness, of possible collapse, in Julie’s fine, small-boned and small-featured face. “They never even tried to show us pictures. Mug shots. We described this guy as best we could, about three inches taller than Tom, full head of blond hair, a bushy moustache. He had that look John Newcombe had, remember him, that tennis player from Australia? In the sixties, before all those
“Tom Perini. Great football player.”
“The name meant something to me,” Nancy told Julie, “but not the same as Paul Newman the night before.”
Julie laughed, and then waited for Nancy, consummate talker, to finish the story. And she did. She and Benjamin decided to end their run at the drinking fountain at the western side of the transverse. They sprinted. In the midst of the sprint, the sound of their running bodies briefly overwhelming the quiet sibilance of the spring trees, they heard a sharp, metallic bang .
“What was that?” she asked Benjamin as they came to a stop, breathing heavily, at the fountain.
“A firecracker.”
She said, breathless, “Early for the Fourth of July.”
D E AT H ’ S W I T N E S S
It was the following morning when they first heard the news about the killing. She immediately recognized Tom’s face on the front page of the News , the Post , and the Times . Benjamin was at the hospital, on a ten-hour Saturday shift.
“Don’t do anything until I get home,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
They argued, but she waited.
They continued to argue that night and all the next day about whether to call the hotline number. Benjamin was stubborn.
He insisted they knew nothing more than the police already 75
knew—Tom Perini had been in the park at night and was now dead. Benjamin was busy. If they called that number, they would spend hours with police, with lawyers (“those shits,” he said), repeating the same noninformation.
“But we know there was somebody else with him,” Nancy had said to Benjamin.
“And so what?”
Benjamin was not only stubborn but abrasive. She was out of work, a lady of leisure. He told her she might have time to kill with cops and lawyers. He didn’t have that luxury.
“When I finally called the hotline number, Benjamin was actually more gracious than I expected him to be. I think he was relieved I had summoned him to his duty, so to speak. He even got angry and impatient when no one seemed to answer our call at first. Hello , is there anybody there ?, we felt like saying.”
Julie poured both of them more coffee from the Krups cof-feemaker. “How long did it take?”
“I’m not sure. Four, five days before our favorite Irish cop called.”
“What do you think of him?”
“A creep. He sat in that miserable little office, taking notes. At the end he said ‘Tanks a lot,’ and we left. Strangely enough, Benjamin was annoyed. After all that time arguing with me about how much time this would all take, it ended up taking two hours, including the trip downtown and back. It seemed to him it P A U L B A T I S T A
should’ve taken more. More time. More effort. Somebody sharper to ask the questions. I think he was insulted that it wasn’t a lawyer. Somehow his pride was hurt.”
Julie felt a series of emotions. Gratitude toward this New York woman for taking her in and speaking so freely, anger with McGlynn and with the government for what she believed was their inept, inattentive, ineffective approach, and fascination with this witness to her husband’s death, this woman who was the last person but one to see him alive.
“You know what struck me as strange?” Nancy was speaking 76
slowly for the first time. She stared at Julie. She had detected a look of precariousness, of possible collapse, in Julie’s fine, small-boned and small-featured face. “They never even tried to show us pictures. Mug shots. We described this guy as best we could, about three inches taller than Tom, full head of blond hair, a bushy moustache. He had that look John Newcombe had, remember him, that tennis player from Australia? In the sixties, before all those
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