Some time ago there was a tremendous scandal that rocked the New York art world to its superficial core. It seems that a famous artist was accused of throwing his newly wed wife who was also an artist out of the window of their 38th floor penthouse on the upper eastside on a warm spring night. The art world was torn between those who thought that the artist did indeed throw his wife out of the window, and those who thought that she was drunk and either tripped and fell out the window or committed suicide. They simply did not want to face the fact that their friend had indeed murdered his wife in a drunken rage. Most of those who thought him innocent were rich and well connected artists, gallery owners and other privileged folks who also happened to be his friends. The people who thought that he had indeed murdered her were of course her family, feminist friends and other poor struggling artists and writers who were very fond of her. The poor dead wife had not yet made her way into the higher levels of the art world and was seen by some as a hanger on and worse. They said that she was a meager talent who had gotten where she had by being married to her much more famous and somewhat older husband. They said that she was a slut and had slept her way through the art world with any one who could help her career. I knew the husband slightly but had never met the wife (she had expressed interest to mutual friends about us getting together but alas her sad fate intervened before we could meet) and although he was somewhat pleasant when sober (which wasn‘t very often), he became very argumentative and violent when he was drinking. I kept my distance from him after one incident in a bar in the early 1970‘s, when he became enraged at me for some reason, broke his wine glass and angrily shouted at me that he would cut my “pretty Jewish face” I long forgot the reason for this incident, but when hearing of the death of his wife, I immediately thought that he had indeed picked her up (she was a little woman) and tossed her out their bedroom window. I was of course not alone in this opinion. The 911 calls and his later statements did not match and Earl’s face and arms was covered in scratches which he said he got moving some furniture. “What did he do move the couch with his face?“ One friend of Irene’s asked. As it happens the night of the “murder” two of my close friends were to have dinner with the couple and as they made their way to their apartment, they were surprisingly met by the wife as she landed naked with a thud not too far from where they stood. Upon seeing their friend splattered on the sidewalk, they both promptly fainted badly hitting their heads on the sidewalk. When they came to they were surrounded by cops, doctors, photographers of all kinds, and lots of gawkers. My two friends heads were bleeding from their fall and since Paul had dropped the good bottle of wine they had just bought, some of the glass had hit them on their faces and bare arms. Both Paul and Mary were also covered with lots of blood from their dead friend along with bits of her flesh and brain matter. Mary’s blond hair was spotted with blood and stuff and Paul’s ashen face was also covered. Moaning and groaning the two of them were put in an ambulance and taken to a nearby hospital where they were examined and cleaned up a bit. They were then taken downtown to be questioned by the police who kept them there most of the night and early morning asking them many questions. I found all of this out the next day when Paul called me freaked out of his mind. “We were covered in blood and stuff, and the cops just wouldn’t let up, as if we had tossed her out of the window.” “They wanted to know all sorts of stuff, like was he an angry guy, did he drink a lot, did they fight, was he cheating on her?” “Poor Mary was just plain nuts, I mean she had gone to school with Irene and for her to see her friend smashed like a pumpkin on the sidewalk in front of us was just to much for her to bare.” “She‘s going back into therapy and I may have to join her, God Ira Joel we’re so fucked up over this.” Earl was arrested and bail was set for over one million dollars, which a rich artist friend of his put up, and Earl was out. The papers were full of it, and every night the Television news ran stories on the “Killer artist and his naked dead wife” As I said the art world was torn to pieces over this, friendships were ended, arguments at dinner parties got loud and violent, protests were held by the friends and family of Irene’s and finally Earl had his day in court. His high priced lawyers paid for by his rich gallery dealer decided to plead his case not in front of a jury but just the judge, and because there was only circumstantial evidence Earl walked out a free man. “Murderer” Irene’s mother screamed at him as he left the court. “You will pay for this don’t worry you son of a bitch you will pay dearly for killing my sister” Blanca her younger sibling yelled at him. Earl stopped showing his work, and disappeared into the world taking his nightmares with him. .