“Are you familiar with Martin Healy?”
“I must insist that you leave.”
“Are you aware that he’s been selling judgeships to the highest bidder?”
“I—” Seabury pulled his glasses off, cleaned them on a handkerchief, and set them back on his nose. “Excuse me?”
The orchestra erupted below. A man and woman twirled onstage, surrounded by other couples in the background. Round and round they went in widening circles. Her dress flared out like flower petals, and with the last burst of music, they stopped, arms outstretched and chests heaving. The audience gave them tepid applause.
Ritzi brushed her lips against Samuel Seabury’s ear. It was the only way he would be able to hear her next words, and it was vital that he heard them correctly. “Tammany Hall district leader Martin Healy has been stacking your court system with jurists of his own choosing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The audience had risen to their feet now, stretching and talking and looking for the exits so they could find the restrooms. Crater was searching for her in the crowd.
“You should. Because I happen to know that Joseph Crater is just one of the men who paid a year’s salary for the privilege of wearing a jurist’s robe. And that, Your Honor, should concern you deeply.”
“That is preposterous.”
“It is nothing but the truth. And it will come to light sooner or later. The only question is whether you’ll get the glory for uncovering the most graft-ridden scandal in political history.”
Judge Samuel Seabury gazed ahead, silent, as Ritzi slipped from his private box. Patrons were clogged at the top of the stairs, and she had to push her way through in order to get back down to the lobby. She skirted the wall and ran the tips of her fingers through the drinking fountain before joining Crater in the third row.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Immensely.”
GEORGE Hall was a tall, twitchy man, the sort who couldn’t seem to find pants long enough. Almost an inch of white sock was visible above his black wingtips. He plowed through the rambling crowd with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his tie loose, and the first button of his shirt undone. He snapped his head this way and that, looking for eye contact. After a moment of aggravated searching, George stopped near the south gate, within view of the bronze statue of Edwin Booth playing Hamlet, and leaned against the wrought-iron fence, scanning the crowd.
Ritzi ignored him and finished her corned beef sandwich. Melted Swiss cheese. Sauerkraut. Toasted rye bread. For three minutes, she savored every bite. A meal of her own choosing with no one around to harass her. No salads or ice water or boiled eggs. The rare luxury of real food.
The perimeter of Gramercy Park—the city’s most elite private garden—was ornamented with decorative benches, and she sat on one near the newsstand, tucked beneath a large elm, that day’s issue of the New York World spread across her lap catching crumbs. She swept them off with her fingers to read George’s latest article, an investigation into whether judgeships were on the block to the highest bidder. The headline screamed corruption: TAMMANY HALL DISTRICT LEADER MARTIN HEALY INDICTED BY SEABURY COMMISSION . The article claimed that a local magistrate had purchased his robe in an elaborate scheme brokered by members of Tammany Hall and the underworld. So far, three witnesses were pleading the Fifth Amendment. Others couldn’t be located. Crater’s name was mentioned below the fold as a person of interest.
Ritzi kept one eye on George Hall as he scanned the park. She wore her favorite blue dress with the black satin belt and a wide-brimmed floppy hat that dipped down over one eye. A pair of dark sunglasses and bright red lipstick completed the ensemble. She looked out of place among the crowd, and it didn’t take George long to spot her beneath the elm. He paused, uncertain, and then she held up his article in
“I must insist that you leave.”
“Are you aware that he’s been selling judgeships to the highest bidder?”
“I—” Seabury pulled his glasses off, cleaned them on a handkerchief, and set them back on his nose. “Excuse me?”
The orchestra erupted below. A man and woman twirled onstage, surrounded by other couples in the background. Round and round they went in widening circles. Her dress flared out like flower petals, and with the last burst of music, they stopped, arms outstretched and chests heaving. The audience gave them tepid applause.
Ritzi brushed her lips against Samuel Seabury’s ear. It was the only way he would be able to hear her next words, and it was vital that he heard them correctly. “Tammany Hall district leader Martin Healy has been stacking your court system with jurists of his own choosing.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The audience had risen to their feet now, stretching and talking and looking for the exits so they could find the restrooms. Crater was searching for her in the crowd.
“You should. Because I happen to know that Joseph Crater is just one of the men who paid a year’s salary for the privilege of wearing a jurist’s robe. And that, Your Honor, should concern you deeply.”
“That is preposterous.”
“It is nothing but the truth. And it will come to light sooner or later. The only question is whether you’ll get the glory for uncovering the most graft-ridden scandal in political history.”
Judge Samuel Seabury gazed ahead, silent, as Ritzi slipped from his private box. Patrons were clogged at the top of the stairs, and she had to push her way through in order to get back down to the lobby. She skirted the wall and ran the tips of her fingers through the drinking fountain before joining Crater in the third row.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“Immensely.”
GEORGE Hall was a tall, twitchy man, the sort who couldn’t seem to find pants long enough. Almost an inch of white sock was visible above his black wingtips. He plowed through the rambling crowd with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his tie loose, and the first button of his shirt undone. He snapped his head this way and that, looking for eye contact. After a moment of aggravated searching, George stopped near the south gate, within view of the bronze statue of Edwin Booth playing Hamlet, and leaned against the wrought-iron fence, scanning the crowd.
Ritzi ignored him and finished her corned beef sandwich. Melted Swiss cheese. Sauerkraut. Toasted rye bread. For three minutes, she savored every bite. A meal of her own choosing with no one around to harass her. No salads or ice water or boiled eggs. The rare luxury of real food.
The perimeter of Gramercy Park—the city’s most elite private garden—was ornamented with decorative benches, and she sat on one near the newsstand, tucked beneath a large elm, that day’s issue of the New York World spread across her lap catching crumbs. She swept them off with her fingers to read George’s latest article, an investigation into whether judgeships were on the block to the highest bidder. The headline screamed corruption: TAMMANY HALL DISTRICT LEADER MARTIN HEALY INDICTED BY SEABURY COMMISSION . The article claimed that a local magistrate had purchased his robe in an elaborate scheme brokered by members of Tammany Hall and the underworld. So far, three witnesses were pleading the Fifth Amendment. Others couldn’t be located. Crater’s name was mentioned below the fold as a person of interest.
Ritzi kept one eye on George Hall as he scanned the park. She wore her favorite blue dress with the black satin belt and a wide-brimmed floppy hat that dipped down over one eye. A pair of dark sunglasses and bright red lipstick completed the ensemble. She looked out of place among the crowd, and it didn’t take George long to spot her beneath the elm. He paused, uncertain, and then she held up his article in
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