3Souls: Chapter XXVIII
Casing the Joint
A rented white cargo van stood double-parked in front of a pizza shop across the street from the Board of Education headquarters at Livingston Street. Three men, Mitchell Mitkin, Roger Nin and Ricky Cuevas sat crammed in the front passenger seat, while Ed Taughtauer rested comfortably in the driver’s seat. They watched like crows on a wire as the pizza shop patrons, most of them employees of the Board, meandered in and out of the tiny pizza joint. Most emerged with little white paper bags saturated with red pizza grease, moving lazily in front of the long red counter, chatting and cheerily enjoying their very light workload. It was summer and school was still out.
“They sure smile a lot,” said Nin. “It must be the lunch.”
“Or a joke, a really funny inside joke,” said Mitkin.
“Everybody just give your neck a rest, huh,” said Taughtauer. “We’re here to learn, not gawk.”
“They really do have that look though,” said Nin, breaking the silence. “That bureaucratic, ‘I don’t care about nothing but the clock’ look, don’t they?” He shot a glance at Taughtauer. “They haven’t thought about the kids in months.”
“Months?” said Ricky. “My aunt used to work here. She said besides me, she didn’t never talk to one student in ten years. She sent all my cousins to Catholic school.”
Taughtauer grumbled, “You’re missing the point, gentlemen.” He looked at Mitkin. “Could you please tell these two fine revolutionaries the point, Mr. Mitkin?”
Mitkin spoke, still watching the civil servants come and go. “We need two things, one to get inside, and two, to make sure we do so with enough swagger that they know we mean business.” He nodded toward a police officer waiting inside for a slice. “He has to know we are dangerous so he doesn’t just rush in and make a mess of the whole thing. If everything goes up too quickly, well, our message is just violence, and then it’s as good as no message.”
“Not bad, Mitch, you’re close,” said Taughtauer condescendingly. “But even six dead students is a message. What concerns me is getting to the next day. We must get to Friday, period. We need everyone in this city to know exactly what is going on that night as they go to sleep, yep. There’s the point, ‘ole Mitch, that’s when the pressure shifts. Then Chancellor Romero must make his decision and that’s when all of you come in, you and Roger and Judy and the hundreds of students.” He pointed at his eyes with forked fingers. “That’s what I want to see with these eyes, that’s the point, Mitch.”
He reached across the front seat and slapped Mitkin on the thigh, as if an old football buddy. “Don’t worry, no more words. Soon, Mitch, three more weeks. As for right now, here’s the deal. I know this building well. The Chancellor is on the fourth floor. His office is big enough to use as our operations center, our very own bunker. You,” he pointed to Ricky, “will be with me. And we’ll have a few guests too, mainly the Chancellor and his staff. All of them will be bound and will not be allowed to leave under any circumstances.” He unrolled a long yellow piece of paper. “These are the blueprints. I had Alysha reconfigure them so each of us can carry a copy neatly in our pocket. Here’s the Chancellor’s office, and here, here is the front door.” He pointed at the paper, and then out the window and across the street. Heavily mirrored doors opened and shut, and on each was written: 555 Livingston Street, NYC Board of Education.
Taughtauer’s plans were neither difficult nor particularly creative. He and six martyrs would simply walk in the front door just as the business day ended, just one day before the official start of classes. Their first target would be the Chancellor, in his office, flanked by staff. Brandishing guns, the martyrs would clear out all non-essential staff. This big office would then become the headquarters for the siege. At the same time, two martyrs would be sweeping the entire building from the top floor to the bottom. They would be cleared to fire upon inanimate objects and basically scare people to death. Taughtauer wanted all non-hostages out of the building, and out with a palpable sense of fear. These everyday bureaucrats would be instrumental in spreading the word about just how dangerous it was inside.
With the building clear and the Chancellor in tow, Taughtauer would begin to negotiate with the NYPD, keeping them off balance and always a bit confused as to motive and membership. For Taughtauer, these hours immediately after the capture of Romero were crucial. He knew he needed to remain in charge and with his hostages until the second day, the first day of classes citywide. If so, Taughtauer believed he would have his rebellion; he would have begun a revolution.
“But how do we know the Chancellor will still be there at the end of the day?” asked Nin.
“Politics.”
“How do you figure?” said Ricky.
244 3Souls
“I’ve been watching him for five years. He’s always there late the day before, trying to make it look like he cares. He’ll be there.”
Nin laughed. “He’ll get his overtime alright. Right, Ed?”
Taughtauer nodded.
“What about the guards?” asked Mitkin.
“They don’t have guns. They’ll just go with the others.”
“And then what?”
Taughtauer’s eyes lit up. “Mitch, I’m glad you asked that question. I’ve written a detailed outline of the next three days. There’s one copy and well, that’s all there’s gonna be until the day before, then Ricky you’ll get one, too. Basically, here’s what I see happening.” He propped the outline against the steering wheel, and leaned forward to read.
“On Wednesday evening we will secure the building. Thursday morning, schools will open and we will be in negotiation. But they aren’t negotiations at all, are they Ricky?” Ricky shook his head. “Nope, just a stall tactic. We need time for you, Mitchell, and you, Roger, and all of the other school leaders to organize and overrun your own schools. So, if all goes as it should, by Thursday afternoon the movement will have at least eight schools under its control. Eight schools, each with its middle finger right up the mayor’s ass, each becoming historical markers and future references for the greater revolution to come.”
As he spoke, Taughtauer became even more animated. “And that’s exactly what will come. I want to see spontaneous student sit-ins, classroom strikes, anything that has the mark of the movement, and anywhere. Philly will follow, Chicago, and maybe even Los Angeles. The whole day will be spent rocking the system to its foundation. I want the world to see how bankrupt this system is, and I want them to see that it is our movement, the students, who care the most that it is changed. We decide. We determine what is good for us. That’s what I want on the radio, on television, everywhere, it must ring out across the city!
“Now we should try to avoid violence on this first Thursday, we want to appear to be negotiating. But if violence comes, if we need to fight to keep our hostages, then so be it. Violence is part of dying anyway, and that is what the system is doing, dying. Thursday night the city will go to bed without a deal and the Chancellor will enter his second night as a hostage. We’ll release two staffers that night, give them a sense that we can compromise.”
Mitkin interrupted, “How much will you have told the media about the movement at this point?”
“Good, Mitch, excellent. I’ll give them the manifesto Thursday morning, mid-morning, just about the time you’re securing your schools. I’ve got Bob Blass’ direct line over at the New York Times. He’ll eat it up.”
Nin repeated the plan slowly, as if repeating directions given to him at a gas station. “Wednesday is hush-hush, then Thursday—”
“What does it say exactly, Ed?” Mitkin was serious.
“The manifesto? You wrote it Mitch, you know.”
“Has it been changed?”
Taughtauer smiled sarcastically. “I’ve got it right here.” He held his forefinger to his head. “Want to hear it?”
They all nodded, all but Mitkin. He sat still.
“First I’ll give them the basics. The Chancellor of the NYC Board of Education, the leader of all public education in this city, and the champion of the world’s most bloated bureaucracy is being held hostage, here, at 555 Livingston Street, Brooklyn, New York. He is being held captive as he has held students captive. The students who bind him are the same students he has pledged to serve. He will be held until it is clear to all bureau-kings and bureau-queens around the city, state and nation, that students have rights, inalienable rights, rights inherited at birth and rights that no man may take with impunity. Students are not second-class citizens. They are children born free, born with dignity and grace, but sadly born into an adult system of living wrought with hate, greed, pettiness, injustice, and market-driven slavery. Today is a new day. Today students can walk with their heads up, their chins stuck out strong and proud. Today all students can proudly say, Change! Change is here!”
Taughtauer looked satisfied. Mitkin had not moved, and continued to watch without expression. Roger Nin spoke up, hurriedly, like a child waiting for his bedtime story.
“What about Friday, Ed? What’s next?”
“Friday we burn it down. We push everyone out the front and we burn it down. I’ll leave last, guns blazing, so the firemen aren’t in too early. I want ashes.” His eyes widened wildly. “Right, Mitch, there must be ashes.” He seemed to purposely break the silence into which Mitkin had sunk.
“I want to go with you, Ed,” said Mitkin. “I want to deliver the manifesto, I want to be the last one out.”
Taughtauer shook his head.
“Why?”
“Students, Mitch. That’s who started this and that’s who’s going to end it.”
“But—”
“I appreciate your work, but you’re better on the outside. You’re pivotal there, right Roger?”
Nin passively nodded his head. “You’re good with the kids, Mitch, and they’ll need you on the outside.” He stopped and looked at Taughtauer. “Will anyone die, Ed? In your heart, do you think anyone will die?”
Taughtauer began to roll his eyes, but refrained. He looked at Ricky and repeated Nin’s question slowly. “Will anyone die?”
The young Ricky Cuevas smiled. “They already have. Lots.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Nin. “But in three weeks will anyone, here,” he pointed across the street, “die?”
Mitkin snapped, “Maybe!” He looked up at Nin with piercing, unforgiving eyes. “So what if they do? What difference does it make? It would only make a difference to someone real invested in this corrupt life. You don’t know anybody like that do you?” Nin shifted restively, looking to Taughtauer for help. Mitkin, still staring sharply, continued with a loud, accusatory tone. “I don’t know anybody like that, Roger. And if I did, I think I’d quickly disassociate myself, wouldn’t you?” Nin looked at Ricky then again at Taughtauer. His eyes dimmed.
“Nobody’s going to die, Roger,” said Taughtauer. “I’ll see to it. Yep, everybody lives.”
Nin fidgeted. “I think it would be better, but that’s not to say I’m afraid of it.” He glanced at Mitkin. “It’s just it would help our case in court.”
“And that brings me to the last of the plan,” said a softening Taughtauer. “We will surrender and go to court. That’s exactly where we want to go. I want this to be in the news for as many weeks, months and years as possible. The powers that be will work hard to forget us and all that we’ve worked for, but in court, day in and day out, they’ll be forced to remember us. I want the headlines to remember us for years, and I want sellout liberal factions to give us their weak-hearted support. And they will, they’ll use us as an instrument in their plan to get what they want, but it will be the same old political power play bullshit. As usual, they won’t care a damn for the kids. They’ll speak up so that later they can speak down to us. Yep, they will all run to our rescue, but this time we use them. This time we get what we want, a new system.” He turned the ignition key and slid the van into drive. “We’ll take the war into the courtrooms, and with so many of us,” he looked at Ricky, “the trials will go on for years.”
“Each year will be a reminder,” said Nin.
“A sour little cyst.”
Mitkin looked at Taughtauer as he drove. Mitkin saw a man who had no plans of being in a courtroom. He saw that Taughtauer had tacked on the stories of trials and judges, and all for the sake of the weak. In his mind brewed something greater than judicial infamy. He was planning something akin to eternal rest. A pang of excited fear sliced through Mitkin’s belly and he longed to take Taughtauer’s hand, not out of friendship or flattery, but because he had in Taughtauer a companion who, like himself, was ready to die, to make the ultimate sacrifice.