A Naked Singularity: A Novel (17 page)

“Wait, you were there?”

“Yeah, I was his second-seat.”

“Pray tell.”

“Really?”

“You’re surprised?”

“I guess it’s okay right? Anyway, it was an attempted murder where our guy was made an offer just prior to starting trial. So we spent the whole morning trying to talk the guy into a plea but he was adamant about going forward. Now when you have a disease you know the symptoms, and when someone with the same affliction comes along you’re quick with the diagnosis. I’m looking at Lee and I’m totally seeing the signs. For one thing he’s begging this guy to take the plea. I mean actual begging. It was very uncomfortable. He’s doing this even though the guy didn’t really have a bad case and the offer wasn’t very good at all. Well the guy doesn’t take the plea and we’re supposed to start picking. Lee was literally green at this point. He was like shaking and stammering. He started telling the judge he couldn’t start. The judge is like
you’re starting
and calls for a jury. That’s when Lee fainted. I had never seen an actual person faint before, have you? It’s not like in the movies where the person gracefully falls perfectly backwards. The way Lee fainted it was as if all his bones had been suddenly suctioned out of his body.”

“Then what?”

“The case was adjourned and on the next date the guy took a plea. I suppose the fainting unnerved him.”

“Nobody’s fool he.”

“No, we told everyone Lee had been feeling ill but if you were there the real reason he fainted was obvious. Don’t tell anyone. I saw the writing on the wall though. That would be me someday so I think I should get out before someone gets hurt. So I’m leaving.”

Just then a burly court officer asked me to talk to a guy in the back who was making a commotion. The guy was in on a fugitive warrant from North Carolina. He’d been popped for having an open container of beer in the park. The police ran his information and found a warrant from North Carolina for a rape case. He was
remanded
(held without bail) in anticipation of North Carolina authorities picking him up and extraditing him back to their jurisdiction to face their version of justice. He had been in two weeks he said. But it wasn’t him; he had never been to North Carolina. He was a different Edward Hill. He was a good one. Why was it taking so long? His lawyer said it would be straightened out when they compared his prints to those of the NC Hill. His lawyer was Solomon Grinn and his note to me was consummately useless.

When I came out from the back Linda was gone. Realizing it was for good kind of made me sad and sad in a way that was completely out of proportion to our relationship since we’d never really spoken much until arraignments the night before. This was one of my many problems. I could barely know someone—even border on disliking them—but if I then knew I was never going to see them again, those last few moments could make me pretty sad. For two years I barely exchanged words with Linda. Then two minutes before her final exit she opened her skull in front of me, as if I cared, to reveal that what I thought was gutless was gut-wrenching instead. I did Hill’s case and a few others then my replacement arrived. Was I aware why we’d been pressed into duty he was asking but I was busy staring out the window:

The window is a vertical rectangle showing an alley’s airspace. Beyond it stir a great many white circles but out there the world’s been inverted so that snow falls up. The circles appear from behind the bottom glass then rise, circuitously but inexorably, until out of all view, ascending from the littered street like loosed souls seeking heaven.

I was late for that death penalty meeting and when I walked into the conference room the speaker looked at me and stopped speaking, a formidable opponent to any stealthy entrance. I caught up. There were five groups of three attorneys each. Each group would work on the appeal of an Alabama death sentence. A member of the group would go to Alabama to meet with the client. The group would write and file a brief on the appellant’s behalf and a member of the group would argue its merits before the appropriate Alabama appellate court.

My teammates were Melvyn Toomberg and Joe Ledo with our work product incredibly due in what felt like hours. The other catch was that after signing up to be part of our group, Ledo had subsequently quit about a week back. He had gone to Hollywood where he would write scripts with fame and fortune to follow meaning our three was two. Although Toomberg was more like one and a half there being no room in his cranium for anything other than The Law and his office therefore constantly housing a line of people hoping to hear his take on a legal issue which take he always preceded with a
don’t quote me
although you could do just that as he was always right.

We got the files that day including a complete transcript of the trial. I rifled through it: Twenty-two-year-old Jalen Kingg it said. Sentenced to death it added quickly. Melvyn and I were of like mind. We would read over the weekend and talk on Monday.

As I walked out I saw Solomon Grinn who had been with the office seemingly before there was a right to counsel. The only thing skinny on this clown was his beard.

“You have a guy Edward Hill?”

“Yeah what’s going on? He get picked up?”

“Picked up? He says it’s not him.”

“Oh that’s right. He’s probably full of shit but I did put that on the record at arraignments. He wouldn’t waive extradition so now they have to get a Governor’s warrant to get him back to South—

“North.”

—Carolina, right.”

“Well has the DA compared his prints to the Carolina prints?”

“I don’t know what they’ve done but I put it on the record that he says it isn’t him.”

“Yeah but I think you should call the DA and make sure they compare those prints. All they have now is a name match. They have ninety days to get a Governor’s warrant and that’s how long they’ll probably take. Meanwhile this guy might be in for no reason, think about that. I said all this to the assistant in the part and the judge but you know how that is. You’ll probably want to stay on top of it with the assigned assistant.”

“Yeah maybe you’re right.” He was looking away now, smiling at some other meathead and not really paying attention.

“So you’ll do that or should I?”

“What?”

“You want me to do it?”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I’m not currently overcome with confidence you’re going to take care of this.”

“Listen I’ve been doing this since before your father—

“Fuck off,” I said leaving.

Would I work with him on the case? I was back in Swathmore’s office. Death in the case he was mouthing about and death all around me too. Brown plants that had never been watered and ancient files closed tight and stamped ARCHIVE for good measure. I was opening and closing a binder on the floor with my foot and full of answers then questions. Yes I knew the case. Her own goddamn son. Wearing a yellow fisherman’s cap like Paddington Bear while it happened. Seven years old. But wasn’t Susan Hyves working on the case with him? Really? When did she leave? Hadn’t he fretted this morning that I was too busy? Oh this was why? No, just asking. Yes. I would forget the murder two and work on this case instead. I would read it over the weekend and we would talk next week. Thanks, I guess, and all that.

From opposing ends, purple angelfish swim towards each other against a loud blue backdrop. Their mouths pucker then close again and again (breathing?) as they rush to meet in the middle. Just before making aquatic contact they veer off wildly in opposite directions swimming off the screen to be immediately replaced by others. The replacements look the same but aren’t.

In front of this screensaver sat Conley and Debi Podurk and to their immediate left was Troie Liszt a new attorney who always wore white sneakers in court. They sat in the pink office that served as our Athenian Academy. (The walls of Conley’s office were white like all others but immediately outside his sole window was a tremendous U.S. flag flapping in the constant wind and often completely obscuring the world outside; Conley kept the lights off but the room was rarely dark because angry-white solar rays would pierce through the red fabric of the flag and emerge to color the room rose.) Conley and Debi were supervisors entrusted with the responsibility of assuring the smooth functioning of the office so, as such, they had no actual work to do and what they did in lieu was sit in that office and debate everything from the ponderous to the absurd. Liszt was one of the constant visitors and contributors but everybody was welcome and seemingly everyone joined in at some point or another. There were unspoken rules. Debi and Conley could never agree on anything no matter how minor. If entering mid-debate you were not to interfere in any way with the gaining momentum by asking people to repeat arguments or by raising work-related issues. Lastly, you were expected to yell often and occasionally take an indefensible position you didn’t wholeheartedly believe for the sole purpose of spurring passion and entertainment.

“The great unknown,” said Debi.

“Oh please,” said Conley. “You say that in hushed tones as if you’re saying something truly awesome or meaningful.”

“And you say what?” asked Liszt.

“I say that this great mystery that everyone tries to attach to it is totally overrated,” Conley said this as if he were reminding all present that a triangle has three sides. “Speaking generally, death can be one of four things, three of which are highly palatable. First, it could turn out that death is really not much different than what we call life.”

“Isn’t it by definition very different, as in the opposite?” Liszt said.

“No. Not at all. Put aside for the moment spurious linguistic arguments. It could turn out that when you die you actually continue to function in essentially the same way albeit in some other form of reality. So while everybody’s looking at your old body and bemoaning your absence you’re actually doing quite well but doing it somewhere else. Note that this is not a bad situation. It’s like moving from New York to Los Angeles. It takes some getting used to, at first you may be miserable, but eventually you adjust and the weather’s better to boot.”

“Of course your loved ones stay in this reality,” said Debi.

“
What-
ones?”

“Loved ones.”

“Loved ones? Big deal, you make new friends. The second possibility is the one these religious kooks like Cleary try to sell you on. You know what I mean. Everybody’s had harp lessons and white is everyone’s favorite color. Peace, love et cetera abound. Although consummately boring, this possibility clearly beats the hell out of our current situation so again no complaints there right?”

“Not for most,” said Debi.

“The third possibility is more like a tremendously strong probability and is the one all sane, sentient beings should subscribe to. In this one death is a real end. No more consciousness, no more anything. This one scares the shit out of people but it shouldn’t. Someone explain to me what’s so bad about not existing? I know it’s bad to be sick or in pain. I know it’s bad to be sad or in other psychic pain but I can’t for the life of me get too worked up about the possibility of not feeling anything. As human beings we don’t sit around in dread recalling the days before we existed.”

“To recall something you have to experience it. To experience something you have to exist,” said Debi.

“Precisely. If death is an end to all experience then that’s not bad at all.”

“Some of us enjoy life and its experiences and don’t want them to end,” said Liszt.

“That’s absurd. Do you wake up after a long dreamless night and complain that you haven’t experienced anything in the past ten hours? Of course not. A good deep sleep is as good as it gets. If death is just the longest, deepest sleep then sign me up right now, it’s got to be better than this.”

“I think we can all agree that you in a long, deep sleep is an attractive option,” said Debi.

“Finally, comes the only possibility we should actually fear, the fourth and final one,” said Conley, content for the moment to ignore. “In this possibility, death
is
a state of being and it
is
worse than life. Take your pick. Constant pain, psychological torture, whatever. There you have it. There goes the mystery. One of those four possibilities will be the truth just wait and see which one it is.”

“Even if we gave you that these are the only four possibilities,” said Debi.

“You have no choice,” said Conley. “They’re the only ones.”

“Even so. Why would that signal the end of mystery? It’s no minor thing to wonder whether you’re going to be in a state of constant agony, bliss, or somewhere in between for a long time. Given those stakes, I think our preoccupation with the subject seems just about right.”

“Oh relax. Three out of four possibilities is great! You can’t ask for better odds than that. Given those odds, the way we cling to life borders on the embarrassing. I have an ancient uncle lying in a hospital bed severely decomposing but pulling out all the medical stops in an effort to last a few more weeks. He’s got a hole in his throat for breathing, a bag coming out of his gut for shitting and he wants to know when he can go home. Why? He prefers certain and constant agony to a seventy-five percent probability of pleasant death! Where’s the placid calm that’s supposed to attach to the near-dead? To me it makes little sense. Some degree of curiosity is normal but the obsession my God. The books, the, the religious nonsense, the—”

“The DVDs” Liszt jumped in. “The other day I rented a DVD called
UNFIT FOR TELEVISION: DANCES WITH DEATH.
It was bizarre. It was all this video footage of people basically dying.”

“Nothing’s more basic,” said Conley.

“For example?” said Debi.

“One dude was attacked by a shark, you saw copious blood in the ocean.”

I was looking at what had no doubt caused this conversation. Television was in Conley’s office holding rerun images of Rane’s handiwork. Edwin Vega as Superdad behind the counter with both hands on his neck. He looked like so many people I knew. The action had been paused but I knew the ending. On Conley’s desk, the paper was open to a picture of Baby Tula and the offsprung story.