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And that inevitably would lead those who had voted “no” to suffer a similar fate in the committee of which they were chair.
It was then possible that bigger and bigger waves of childish tit-for-tat “no” votes could roll through many other committees, threatening to bring city business to a halt.
Well before that happened, it was the responsibility of the city council president to step in, first attempting to get the various factions to make amends, then, failing that, going so far as reassigning members to different committees.
Including, if necessary, an adult variant of the parental disciplinary tools of “time-out” and “grounding”—the removal of the committee chairs themselves.
William G. Lang had been voted by his peers as the city council president, and in that capacity Lang, quickly collecting political favors, had awarded the chairmanship of the City of Philadelphia Housing and Urban Development Committee to the city councilman (at large) who had requested it, one H. Rapp Badde Jr.
—
“Rapp, this is not good,” Jan Harper said, waving her cell phone in front of his face. “I’ve gotten a bunch of e-mails asking for confirmation if you’re going to appear at”—she paused, and then read from the screen—“‘the rally where Reverend Josiah Cross will talk about today’s murders and his calling Philly cop Matt Payne ‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘Public Enemy Number One.’”
“I know. That’s why this”—he held up his Go To Hell phone, mocking her—“was Carlucci’s new adviser calling.”
“Don’t you be a smart-ass with me, Rapp,” she said, narrowing her eyes and slightly cocking her head. “This ain’t gonna be my cross to bear, if you get my point. When the hell did you say you were going to participate in something like that? What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.”
“That’s right. You certainly weren’t thinking.”
“No, I mean I wasn’t planning I’d be at that, or any other, damn rally. I’ve got too much other stuff going on. I just now heard about it from this new guy Stein. And I need to call him back quick. What he said was . . .”
When Badde finished repeating the conversation, Jan shook her head.
“How do you get involved with all these jackasses like Cross?” she said, her tone disgusted. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do, first call back Stein and then . . .”
—
Two minutes later, Badde was back on his Go To Hell phone, and the moment Stein answered, he announced: “Okay, Monday afternoon is Feed Philly Day. I’ll be back for that, and we can meet then.”
Stein did not immediately reply.
“I’m sorry,” Stein then said. “You said Monday afternoon is what?”
“It’s our annual Feed Philly Day. We park a delivery truck full of frozen turkeys in front of the Word of Brotherly Love, and pass them out to the citizens. And we—are you aware that there are people who don’t even have a stove or oven, and many more who may have one but can’t afford the power to use them?—we will serve a thousand holiday dinners at the fellowship hall. Do you know what a difference that makes in the lives of our citizens, especially during the holidays?” He cleared his throat, then self-righteously added, “That’s how one who truly cares is supposed to reach out and make a difference in the community, something beyond the usual constituent services.”
Stein was quiet a moment.
“All right,” Stein finally said, “I’ll be there. But today is Saturday. What about today’s rally? I’m not at all suggesting the rally should not take place. It is certainly the mayor’s position that there are too many murders, and that if Reverend Cross can help address that—and address it constructively—everyone will be better off.” He paused, then in a stronger tone went on, “But the mayor will absolutely not tolerate the targeting of the police department and its officers. This demonizing is destructive. And besides being ethically wrong, it’s also factually incorrect. As chairman of CPOC, Cross must know how few homicides are actually committed by police each year and that—at least in the last ten years—all have been cleared as justified.” He paused again, then added, “Since you’re on the Public Safety Committee, you should know how many.”
There was a long moment’s silence, and when Badde realized that he was expected to answer, he said, “Well, not off the top of my head, but I’m sure you can tell me. As I said, I’m deeply involved with other city committees and can’t be expected to remember all the minutiae from every one.”
He’d pronounced minutiae “minn-you-tee-uh,” and now could be heard softly uttering, “Huh? It’s ‘min-eww-sha’? Oh.” Then in a louder voice said into the phone: “Such minutiae from every one.”
“Only nine all this year,” Stein said, and then blurted, “And that’s hardly trivial information. So you need to rein in your goddamn man. And now.”
“What I can do,” Badde said after a moment, “is call and attempt to persuade Reverend Cross to focus on the wider topic, and not the department.”
“Fine. You do that. And have him return my call right after you do. Now, I’m going to touch base with Councilman Lane, whom I know is very concerned about today’s events.”
From the far side of the airplane, Badde heard a vehicle approaching. When he looked to the nose of the jet, a shiny gold Jeep Wrangler with oversized tires rolled into view, then stopped near the tip of the wing.
“I’ll make the call,” Badde said into the phone, “and get back to you.”
Badde listened, heard nothing, then realized that Stein had hung up.
Jan, he saw, was surveying the Jeep. The sport utility vehicle had had its doors removed and there was no top, only a foam-padded roll-bar above the seats. Neat lettering along both sides of the hood read QUEENS CLUB, A ROYAL YELLOWROSE RESORT.
