Cusimano peered with evident curiosity into my face, as if trying to see if I were a fucking idiot. Then he laughed, briefly, which I did not appreciate.
“Alright.” I spoke now without—as you see—much caution. “You know Sharon Solarz from Mendocino in ’71—sounds like a Joni Mitchell song, doesn’t it—when she was in the Weather Underground and you hired her to help get Timothy Leary out of San Luis Obispo. Now, either you’ve stayed in touch for all these years, which was stupid of you, because that means you’ve protected a federal fugitive, or she’s just come to find you for old times sake. What’s amazing is that you’re so arrogant as to let her into your house while you’re under federal surveillance. So there’s my first question. Are you really so arrogant?”
I could see Billy’s cheeks reddening just slightly under his beard. He answered in a straightforward voice, though.
“I didn’t invite Sharon to come here. She came unannounced. And I didn’t have any—any—way of knowing that the FBI would be doing a black-bag job on my house. What, they exhume J. Edgar Hoover for this?”
“They had a warrant, Mr. Cusimano.”
“Listen, kid. First of all, Mr. Cusimano was my father, who ran a greengrocery in Brooklyn. Second of all, as for their warrant: that warrant’ll stand up in court for about seven seconds. That doesn’t matter one bit, though, ’cause they’ve already done what they set out to. My lawyer says they wiped out my whole prosecution with that warrant. A blatantly illegal search warrant.”
“Your lawyer,” I answered right away. “So that’s why Sharon came. To meet him?”
“No. He refused even to meet her.”
It was funny. This guy, I could see he wasn’t stupid. To the contrary, he was evidently an extremely smart man. And yet I had gotten him in less than three minutes. I let the pace slow a little, now, by lighting a cigarette.
“Really? Why’s that? Isn’t this Grant’s kind of case? I mean, the most fundamental issues of the lefty pantheon, I would have thought.”
Now he seemed to be taking me a little more seriously, squinting at me through the sun and speaking in a lower tone.
“Listen, Sharon came here looking for a way to surrender herself. If she’d been able to do it, she’d have at least had a little control over her life. Now she’s facing spending the rest of her days in jail. If you had any part in that, then feel bad.”
“And why do I feel bad about someone complicit in the murder of a policeman going to jail?”
But his answer surprised me. Less for what he said than for the tone in which he said it, which was not mad but sad. “Complicit? Complicity’s a big word, boy. For example, what are you, right now, complicit in?”
I thought about that. Then: “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Nah.” Cusimano was turning already. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Wait. What are you talking about?”
“That’s your job. Go figure it out.”
But he didn’t turn, speaking as he walked away.
“Mr. Cusimano. Bill. Stop.”
Now he turned and shook his head slowly. “No. You’re not going to listen to me. Kids never do. See, it’s our parents’ revenge on us.”
“But it’s my job to listen.”
“Yeah, that’ll be the day. I’ll tell Jim to expect you. Take 23A down to Palenville, your car doesn’t look like it’ll weather 16.”
And after watching Billy Cusimano walk—or rather waddle—away, I went back to my car and started down 23A to Palenville. I knew the way to Saugerties, and I didn’t need Cusimano here to tell me my car couldn’t make it down 16.
And I guess I knew that your father was the next logical person for me to talk to.
What I didn’t know was why Billy Cusimano’s tone was so hopeless.
Like I was about to do something very bad to someone who didn’t deserve it, and if I only understood why, I too would be sad.
Okay? That good enough for you, J? It’s like two in the morning,
“Alright.” I spoke now without—as you see—much caution. “You know Sharon Solarz from Mendocino in ’71—sounds like a Joni Mitchell song, doesn’t it—when she was in the Weather Underground and you hired her to help get Timothy Leary out of San Luis Obispo. Now, either you’ve stayed in touch for all these years, which was stupid of you, because that means you’ve protected a federal fugitive, or she’s just come to find you for old times sake. What’s amazing is that you’re so arrogant as to let her into your house while you’re under federal surveillance. So there’s my first question. Are you really so arrogant?”
I could see Billy’s cheeks reddening just slightly under his beard. He answered in a straightforward voice, though.
“I didn’t invite Sharon to come here. She came unannounced. And I didn’t have any—any—way of knowing that the FBI would be doing a black-bag job on my house. What, they exhume J. Edgar Hoover for this?”
“They had a warrant, Mr. Cusimano.”
“Listen, kid. First of all, Mr. Cusimano was my father, who ran a greengrocery in Brooklyn. Second of all, as for their warrant: that warrant’ll stand up in court for about seven seconds. That doesn’t matter one bit, though, ’cause they’ve already done what they set out to. My lawyer says they wiped out my whole prosecution with that warrant. A blatantly illegal search warrant.”
“Your lawyer,” I answered right away. “So that’s why Sharon came. To meet him?”
“No. He refused even to meet her.”
It was funny. This guy, I could see he wasn’t stupid. To the contrary, he was evidently an extremely smart man. And yet I had gotten him in less than three minutes. I let the pace slow a little, now, by lighting a cigarette.
“Really? Why’s that? Isn’t this Grant’s kind of case? I mean, the most fundamental issues of the lefty pantheon, I would have thought.”
Now he seemed to be taking me a little more seriously, squinting at me through the sun and speaking in a lower tone.
“Listen, Sharon came here looking for a way to surrender herself. If she’d been able to do it, she’d have at least had a little control over her life. Now she’s facing spending the rest of her days in jail. If you had any part in that, then feel bad.”
“And why do I feel bad about someone complicit in the murder of a policeman going to jail?”
But his answer surprised me. Less for what he said than for the tone in which he said it, which was not mad but sad. “Complicit? Complicity’s a big word, boy. For example, what are you, right now, complicit in?”
I thought about that. Then: “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“Nah.” Cusimano was turning already. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Wait. What are you talking about?”
“That’s your job. Go figure it out.”
But he didn’t turn, speaking as he walked away.
“Mr. Cusimano. Bill. Stop.”
Now he turned and shook his head slowly. “No. You’re not going to listen to me. Kids never do. See, it’s our parents’ revenge on us.”
“But it’s my job to listen.”
“Yeah, that’ll be the day. I’ll tell Jim to expect you. Take 23A down to Palenville, your car doesn’t look like it’ll weather 16.”
And after watching Billy Cusimano walk—or rather waddle—away, I went back to my car and started down 23A to Palenville. I knew the way to Saugerties, and I didn’t need Cusimano here to tell me my car couldn’t make it down 16.
And I guess I knew that your father was the next logical person for me to talk to.
What I didn’t know was why Billy Cusimano’s tone was so hopeless.
Like I was about to do something very bad to someone who didn’t deserve it, and if I only understood why, I too would be sad.
Okay? That good enough for you, J? It’s like two in the morning,
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