The drive from I Sodi on Christopher Street to the Greek Orthodox Cathedral uptown took nearly half an hour. Traffic was a standstill on Seventy-Fourth Street, so Michael paid the taxi driver and walked the last two blocks. An ambulance, its red lights flashing and sirens screaming, was burning rubber as it drove past him. Two NYPD police cars were sitting in the middle of the one-way street, blocking off all traffic behind them. An officer was leaving the church, taking his time while the horns from at least four blocks of stranded cars blasted away. Michael considered asking him what had happened but decided to proceed into the church and find out himself from Father Papadopoulos. He passed through the tall, heavy wooden doors and into the Byzantine Empire, as he often referred to Greek churches. Despite being dressed in a dark blue suit, he felt underdressed for the formality typical of the ancient church. Seeing a priest in his full regalia of robes and vestments, passing quickly from the vestibule of the church, Michael called out, “Father Papadopoulos.”
