Free Courthouse by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

Mayor’s office. Deputy Mayor Anthony Lanza, seated at his desk, in shirt sleeves, his tie loose at his neck, was startled by the Mayor’s abrupt entrance. He had been reading a letter, dictating notes to a secretary who sat in a chair opposite Lanza’s desk.
    â€œExcuse us, Marcy,” the Mayor commanded the secretary.
    The secretary said nothing. She rose and left the room quickly.
    â€œWhat the hell’s the matter, Scott?” Lanza asked.
    â€œTell him,” the Mayor directed George.
    â€œWe’ve got another riot over in The Tombs,” George repeated. “Worse than Monday’s.”
    Lanza stared at George for a moment, letting it sink in. His mouth soured.
    The Mayor was angry; he started to pace. “Jesus H. Christ!” His right fist came down into the palm of his left hand. “Is it the eighth floor again?”
    â€œNo. The third, fourth, seventh, and ninth,” George replied reluctantly. “Stein said they’re wrecking the whole place.”
    Lanza almost pushed his finger through the top of his desk as he pressed the button next to his phone. His secretary’s voice answered over an intercom speaker.
    â€œGet Commissioner Stein on the wire right away,” Lanza directed. “And hold everything else.”
    â€œFour floors now,” the Mayor repeated, reeling from the blow. He absently reverted to a nervous habit usually repressed—he began repeatedly to rub the skin under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose.
    The intercom buzzed, Lanza pushed the button on his desk and listened.
    â€œCommissioner Stein isn’t in his office,” the secretary’s voice announced to the room. “He’s gone to The Tombs personally.”
    â€œWell, tell them to find him and have him call me immediately,” Lanza directed. “Immediately! He told you four floors, George?”
    â€œThat’s what he said. They’re wrecking four floors. I have no idea if they have hostages or what the hell’s going on.”
    â€œGeorge, go into the goddamn Blue Room and tell the reporters what the hell’s going on,” the Mayor directed painfully. “They’ll know in a few minutes anyway. Tell them, under the circumstances, we’ll have to check this out before we continue the conference.”
    â€œRight, Mayor.” George turned and left hurriedly.
    The Mayor slumped into the chair on which the secretary had been seated. He and Lanza looked at each other blankly for a moment.
    â€œGoddamn it,” the Mayor shouted. He stood up so quickly that he knocked over the chair on which he had been seated.
    â€œTake it easy, Scott,” said Lanza.
    â€œTake it easy? Take it easy? The place is coming down around our ears, more each day, and you tell me to take it easy.” The Mayor paced two yards and turned back. “And it couldn’t happen at a worse time. Westom, Wesson … just called about his campaign contribution.”
    â€œWescomb,” Lanza corrected.
    â€œWescomb, Wesson, whatever the hell it is. He just called. George spoke to him. Christ, we can’t afford to have any more of this shit. Not now. Not with the campaign looming up. We have to keep Wesson on the bandwagon.”
    George returned, closing the door behind him.
    â€œWhat happened?” the Mayor asked.
    â€œHalf of them were gone already,” replied George. “The other half didn’t even wait for me to finish speaking.”
    â€œThat’s what I mean,” the Mayor turned to Lanza. “They’ll have a field day on this. Especially people like that bastard Dworkin across the hall. With his law-and-order pitch, he’ll have plenty of new ammunition to start throwing at the conservative home-owners in Queens and Brooklyn.”
    â€œYou want me to go over to The Tombs, Mayor?” asked George.
    The Mayor thought, then nodded. “Since you worked out the settlement with the inmates