described Bishop’s arrest for drunk driving.
STUART TABOR
SPECIAL TO THE DAILY NEWS
MANHATTAN
A Manhattan man was arrested shortly after 2:00 A.M. yesterday when his Porsche Carrera slammed into two other cars on the Triboro Bridge, and he then fled the scene.
Darwin Bishop, age 45, of 32, East 49 th Street, was charged with driving under the influence, driving to endanger, leaving the scene of an accident and resisting arrest. Police apprehended him after a high-speed chase that ended in Astoria, Queens.
Despite a prior 1981 conviction for assault and battery, Bishop was released today on personal recognizance after posting $250,000 cash bail.
Estelle Marshfeld, 39, was transported from the scene of the crash to the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, where she is listed in guarded condition, with injuries to her chest and abdomen. There were no other reported injuries.
A photograph showed a very different Darwin Bishop from the unflappable man I had seen earlier in the day on Nantucket. His head was down and his hands were cuffed behind him as two police officers escorted him into the Twenty-third Precinct station. Bloodstains covered the front of his blue and white pinstriped shirt.
I kept looking at the image of a drunken Darwin Bishop with bowed head. He had seemed so starched and buttoned-down in his Nantucket digs. Invulnerable. The picture made him real to me because it confirmed what I had long believed: Everyone — rich or poor, black or white, educated or not — is in emotional turmoil, in some sort of pain. For years I had doused mine with booze and cocaine. Bishop obviously had had his own trouble with alcohol. Now he was high on money, a drug at least as intoxicating.
But maybe that meditation on humanity was only part of what kept me looking at the photograph. Maybe I liked seeing a humbled version of Bishop because the thought of him with his new bride, Julia, irked me.
I wondered why Julia Bishop had made such an immediate and powerful impression on me. She was stunningly beautiful, but that didn’t feel like the whole reason. It didn’t even feel like half the reason. I thought back to our conversation in front of the Bishop estate and realized that, within those few minutes, I had come to feel that she was suffering and that she might need my help. And, for me, a woman in distress is the ultimate motivator.
My mind wandered to my mother, a weak person who had the unattractive habit of locking herself in the bathroom when my father was three sheets to the wind and looking for somebody to hurt, no doubt to avoid the hurt festering inside himself. I was the only other one in the apartment, the top floor of a run-down tenement house in decaying Lynn, Massachusetts, and my father invariably spent his rage on me, until he was spend and fell down, or fell off into a drunken slumber. And even though my mother was not a loving person, nor brave, nor responsible enough to get us out of that house and out of harm’s way, she was my mother and I loved her. And that made me feel a little bit like a hero as the blows landed. And with all the time I spent on Dr. James’s couch, untying the knots in my psyche, I was never able to free myself from that double bind of pride and pain. I am still happier to suffer than to watch a woman suffer.
I shook my head and refocused on the computer screen image of Darwin Bishop being led away in cuffs. I wanted to find an article that would fill me in on what sort of sentence he had received for his crime. I spotted one entry slugged Bishop’s Day in Court , clicked onto it, and got a nice glimpse of how money speaks in the courts — or whispers behind the scenes. The entry was for coverage in the New York Post six months after Bishop’s arrest, buried as the second-to-last item in the ‘Local Notes’ section of the paper. It told of the case against Bishop being dismissed. He didn’t get a day of probation, let
STUART TABOR
SPECIAL TO THE DAILY NEWS
MANHATTAN
A Manhattan man was arrested shortly after 2:00 A.M. yesterday when his Porsche Carrera slammed into two other cars on the Triboro Bridge, and he then fled the scene.
Darwin Bishop, age 45, of 32, East 49 th Street, was charged with driving under the influence, driving to endanger, leaving the scene of an accident and resisting arrest. Police apprehended him after a high-speed chase that ended in Astoria, Queens.
Despite a prior 1981 conviction for assault and battery, Bishop was released today on personal recognizance after posting $250,000 cash bail.
Estelle Marshfeld, 39, was transported from the scene of the crash to the Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, where she is listed in guarded condition, with injuries to her chest and abdomen. There were no other reported injuries.
A photograph showed a very different Darwin Bishop from the unflappable man I had seen earlier in the day on Nantucket. His head was down and his hands were cuffed behind him as two police officers escorted him into the Twenty-third Precinct station. Bloodstains covered the front of his blue and white pinstriped shirt.
I kept looking at the image of a drunken Darwin Bishop with bowed head. He had seemed so starched and buttoned-down in his Nantucket digs. Invulnerable. The picture made him real to me because it confirmed what I had long believed: Everyone — rich or poor, black or white, educated or not — is in emotional turmoil, in some sort of pain. For years I had doused mine with booze and cocaine. Bishop obviously had had his own trouble with alcohol. Now he was high on money, a drug at least as intoxicating.
But maybe that meditation on humanity was only part of what kept me looking at the photograph. Maybe I liked seeing a humbled version of Bishop because the thought of him with his new bride, Julia, irked me.
I wondered why Julia Bishop had made such an immediate and powerful impression on me. She was stunningly beautiful, but that didn’t feel like the whole reason. It didn’t even feel like half the reason. I thought back to our conversation in front of the Bishop estate and realized that, within those few minutes, I had come to feel that she was suffering and that she might need my help. And, for me, a woman in distress is the ultimate motivator.
My mind wandered to my mother, a weak person who had the unattractive habit of locking herself in the bathroom when my father was three sheets to the wind and looking for somebody to hurt, no doubt to avoid the hurt festering inside himself. I was the only other one in the apartment, the top floor of a run-down tenement house in decaying Lynn, Massachusetts, and my father invariably spent his rage on me, until he was spend and fell down, or fell off into a drunken slumber. And even though my mother was not a loving person, nor brave, nor responsible enough to get us out of that house and out of harm’s way, she was my mother and I loved her. And that made me feel a little bit like a hero as the blows landed. And with all the time I spent on Dr. James’s couch, untying the knots in my psyche, I was never able to free myself from that double bind of pride and pain. I am still happier to suffer than to watch a woman suffer.
I shook my head and refocused on the computer screen image of Darwin Bishop being led away in cuffs. I wanted to find an article that would fill me in on what sort of sentence he had received for his crime. I spotted one entry slugged Bishop’s Day in Court , clicked onto it, and got a nice glimpse of how money speaks in the courts — or whispers behind the scenes. The entry was for coverage in the New York Post six months after Bishop’s arrest, buried as the second-to-last item in the ‘Local Notes’ section of the paper. It told of the case against Bishop being dismissed. He didn’t get a day of probation, let
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