May 19, 1965

Rhoda Fine drove slowly along the winding, tree-lined road back to her home in Chappaqua. She had just bought a brisket of beef for Seymour’s dinner. That was his favorite meal, and Rhoda wanted to cheer Seymour up. He had been so depressed lately, picking on her and the kids, sometimes bursting into tears. But they understood he was under a lot of pressure because of the bribery investigation by Special Prosecutor Wright’s office.

Rhoda still didn’t understand how it all had happened. The only thing she knew was that Seymour had not been himself since he received a subpoena from Wright.

And then, all Seymour had told her was that this Wright son of a bitch wanted him to admit that he had bribed Judge Tauber. Seymour told Wright that he never bribed the judge, that he had just made up that story about fixing the judge to ream a few more dollars from his client. But Wright refused to believe him. Wright told Seymour he’d be indicted for bribing a policeman; that the policeman was ready to testify against him. And still Seymour refused to admit he’d bribed the judge. There was no bribe, Seymour screamed to Rhoda as he paced their bedroom night after night, pondering what to do.

Now Seymour faced not only losing his license, but disgrace and imprisonment. In addition, he was almost broke—they had always lived right up to the hilt of their means—and Seymour wasn’t making any fees now. On top of that, the lawyer representing Seymour wanted six thousand dollars. And that was a professional courtesy, less than half the normal fee. Some courtesy, Rhoda thought bitterly.

A car came out of a narrow side road and Rhoda had to swerve to avoid it. She thought she’d better concentrate on her driving rather than on thinking and rethinking Seymour’s plight as she had done every day and night for the last three months.

Seymour had gone to see his lawyer today, to prepare for the trial. What an ordeal that was going to be. They had already contacted their rabbi and friends, to see whom they could use as character witnesses. Seymour was so humiliated, he had already lost fifteen pounds, and was constantly tired and irritable. That was why Rhoda wanted to get Seymour’s mood off the floor, at least for tonight.

As she turned into the long gravel driveway leading to their house, she saw Seymour’s car in front of the garage. He had returned earlier than he thought he would. The house was a beautiful colonial, about fourteen rooms, with a barn where Debbie, their youngest daughter, kept her pony. Would they be able to stay here if Seymour lost his license, she wondered. She hoped they wouldn’t have to give it up. It had taken so many years for them to be able to live in Chappaqua. How awful it would be, she thought, if they had to move back to an apartment in the Bronx.

Rhoda parked her car next to Seymour’s and walked to the front entrance, wrestling her key from her bag as she juggled the bundles in her arms. The carved front door had solid brass trimmings. Just inside that door, in the now-dark foyer, a crystal chandelier her mother had given them as a housewarming present hung majestically in the center of a graceful circular staircase.

Debbie probably wasn’t home from volleyball practice yet. All their other kids were at college, so she, Seymour, and Debbie would have a lovely dinner, and try to forget the heartache that Wright creature had brought them.

Rhoda turned the key in the front lock, still juggling her bundles. She eased the door open with her foot, bracing the packages against her body so they wouldn’t fall. The door swung open. There was a light on in the den to the left, but no light in the foyer. She didn’t have a free hand to flip the switch, but she knew the way to the kitchen in the dark.

“Seymour,” she called as she walked slowly. “I’m home.”

There was no answer.

Suddenly Rhoda bumped into a heavy object that shouldn’t have been in the middle of the foyer. What was that, she thought to herself, reeling backwards. She peered into the dark to see what it was. She heard a noise, a creaking from the landing above.

“Oh, my God!” she thought, burglars.

Suddenly, whatever it was that she had bumped into now bumped into her again. What was this? She reached a few fingers out and touched something that felt like … a shoe. A shoe … in the middle of the air …?

Rhoda screamed. She ran in terror to the light switch ‘and flipped it on.

“Oh, Seymour … oh, Seymour … oh, Seymour …” she screamed, moaned, cried as she sank to the floor. “You son of a bitch, J.T. Wright, you should have cancer everywhere in your body! Oh, Seymour, Seymour.…” she sobbed as the body of her husband swung lazily on the end of the rope attached to the landing above. “You son of a bitch, Wright! You motherless, soulless son of a bitch …”