Angel Landing (10 page)

“You'd better learn your lesson,” Danny Finn said without looking at his son.

“Let's go,” Morrison said to Finn.

“Wait a minute.” Finn shook off the officer's hand. “Don't I get a lawyer?”

“Come on,” Morrison said easily.

Finn felt the old gathering of anger in his chest; there it was in his lungs and under his skin, circling his heart.

“I have rights,” Finn said. “I'm entitled to something.”

“I'll give you something.” Danny Finn advanced toward his son, waving his fists.

“I want a lawyer,” Finn said to Morrison.

“You'll get one,” Morrison answered.

“Court-appointed,” the lieutenant called from the desk. “All minors are entitled to court-appointed attorneys.”

“I'm not moving,” Finn said. “You can't make me.”

Morrison touched Finn's arm lightly. “Don't cause trouble,” he said to Finn. “Believe me. It's just not worth it.”

There was a circle around Finn: Morrison was to his right, the older officer was behind him, his father stood in front of him, and the desk lieutenant had begun walking toward the circle.

“All right,” Finn said. “I'll go.” As he followed Morrison, Finn's face was quiet, but inside no part of him was calm.

Finn stayed in the County Juvenile Holding Center for two weeks, but not until the morning of his court appearance did he meet his lawyer. Finn walked into the meeting room, and the thing inside his chest weighted him down like lead. The court-appointed attorney was studying Finn's folder; he didn't look up when the boy sat across from him.

“Car theft,” the lawyer said. Finn sat still and waited; finally the lawyer looked up and slowly removed his glasses. “Car theft,” he repeated.

“That's right,” Finn shrugged. “That's what they say.”

“You'll get one to three at a school upstate.”

“Do you want to hear what happened?” Finn asked.

“I know what happened,” Finn's attorney said. “Car theft.”

Finn turned away. He had nothing else to say to his lawyer, and there was no point in talking, or in trying to explain, not even once they were inside the courtroom. The judge was fidgety, anxious for his lunch hour, and the hearing was soon over. After the arresting officers made their statements, Danny Finn was called to the bench. He was dressed in a blue pin-striped suit he had not worn since the funeral of an uncle in Brooklyn; while he gave his testimony, he eyed his son as if Michael were a wild animal who might spring at any moment. Danny Finn spoke slowly; he hoped only that his son would be taken someplace where the boy could learn his lesson, and learn it fast. Finn, himself, paid no attention to what his father said, he didn't listen to a word. Instead, the boy looked out the window and watched a row of bluejays sitting on a telephone wire.

By this time, Finn had no hope. He no longer dreamed at night, and he couldn't remember the time when his dreams were filled with the sound of the ocean. When the judge announced Finn's sentence, the boy did not have to listen to know he had been sold out—by his father and his court-appointed attorney, by the judge and by laws which he knew were not made to protect him. It did not matter to him that he had been given a short sentence—only one year upstate—with good behavior he would be back in his parents' home, back at his old high school, in less than eight months. Finn did not hear the name of the institution he would be sent to; he did not care how far outside of Albany the place was or what facilities they had for boys like him. He was too busy to listen to the judge; he was watching the sky, through the courtroom window, concentrating only on the low clouds which moved like a white sea right outside the courtroom.

THREE

F
INN'S PAIN HAD TRANSFORMED
the room; his memory had leapt across the white walls, the frost on the window was the same shade of blue as his eyes. I watched him without daring to breathe: he was still the child bleeding in the emergency room, still that boy listening to the slam of the screen door behind him. Outside, it had begun to snow, but here, in my office, it was as hot as that Indian summer day when Finn ran away for the last time.

“I'm sorry,” I said to that boy who stood above Montauk Point, waiting for night to fall. He was there, in the parking lot edged with freedom, surrounded by a secrecy sweeter than oranges and honey.

“Don't be sorry,” Finn said. “I didn't tell you that for pity. That's just the way it was. The way it still is,” he said. “When you're dangerous they can sense it. When you're angry they know. And they'll know about Angel Landing, they don't need any proof.”

“You can fight them,” I said. “Carter will help.”

“How do I fight?” Finn asked. “How do I plead? I'm guilty.” He shook his head sadly. “I am.”

It was true and there was no way to change it, even if he was only guilty of anger in the first degree, guilty of a rage purer than heat.

“I wish I could just make your anger disappear,” I said. “And maybe, in time, it will.”

“I think I've had it,” Finn said. “I want to stop talking now.”

I looked at my watch; it was time to meet Carter. “We have to go,” I said.

“I don't know,” Finn whispered. Beads of light fell across his face, but the scar on his left cheek was hidden; he looked like a man who had been trapped between the darkness and the light.

I put my files away, reached for my coat, and then went to the door. “We really have to go,” I said. We left Outreach together. On Main Street the snow was heavy; we walked blindly to the lot where Finn's car was parked, we were close to each other, fighting the wind, inhaling flakes of snow each time we breathed. When we reached the Camaro I waited inside while Finn cleaned off the windshield with his hands. We could have been anyone: friends, a couple, two people who had known each other for years ready to drive to the market, to dinner, to another state.

Alone in the car, I grew curious. I examined the leftovers from Finn's life which littered the Camaro. Empty soda cans and crushed cigarette packages, a toolbox on the floor of the rear seat, a woolen blanket. Only the barest signs of life. Quickly, still watching as Finn went around to clean the rear windshield, I opened the glove compartment. There were no clues: a Rolling Stones tape, a map of New York; matches and maps instead of souvenirs and mementos. I clicked the lock shut just as Finn opened the door. When he sat behind the wheel and rubbed his frozen hands together his breath filled the car, it steamed up the mirror, the windows grew foggy and the world outside grew oddly dim. On the way to the Cove Theater the streets were slippery, drifts had already begun to form on the sidewalk. We didn't say a word until Finn parked in the movie theater lot.

“Don't worry,” I said to Finn. “Carter is easy to talk to.”

Finn held tight to the steering wheel, paralyzed, rooted. I touched his shoulder. I left my hand there, lingering. “I'll be with you,” I said.

We walked hand in hand to the ticket booth, but we didn't dare look at each other; we pretended that our hands were crazy rebels, our fingers had minds of their own, they alone had decided to touch. The film playing was a French drama, subtitled; the price of admission was only a dollar fifty, but I refused to let Finn pay for me. And when I had convinced him that I didn't mind paying for myself I realized I didn't have a cent in my pocket; I hadn't had time to think of anything as practical as money.

“Just this once,” I whispered as Finn paid for our tickets. As if there would be other times, as if we would continue to go to movies together, monthly, weekly, every night.

The theater was nearly empty: a few old women in heavy winter coats, a teenaged couple sat in the last row, already whispering and sighing. Carter sat on the left side, his boots propped up on the seat in front of him.

“That's him,” I nodded as I led Finn down the aisle. I sat in the middle, between Carter and Finn; introducing them just as the lights went down.

“I was starting to get worried,” Carter said, stroking my leg. “I thought you two had decided to run out on me.” He reached across and shook Finn's hand. “I've been looking forward to this. Natalie has told me all about you.”

“Oh?” Finn said, staring at me.

“Not all,” I whispered. “Just some basic information.”

“Aren't you going to ask me if I've found a lawyer?” Carter said.

“Have you?” I asked.

“I haven't found a lawyer,” Carter grinned. “I've found
the
lawyer. Reno LeKnight.”

“That's amazing,” I said. Reno LeKnight had defended some of the most famous criminals on the East Coast; one year he had flown to Utah to defend a man known as the Saline Killer. LeKnight had worked for activists of the left and the right, and although his politics were questionable, his winning streak wasn't—he played for keeps, his record was a hundred percent.

“You're going to have Reno LeKnight defending you!” I beamed at Finn.

“Who is he?” Finn asked.

“He defended the Saline Killer,” I said. Michael Finn shook his head. “The antiwar activists in New Haven?” Finn shrugged. “Well, he's famous,” I said. “And he wins.”

“How much does he charge?” Finn asked.

“Don't worry about that,” Carter told Finn. “Reno will have to contact you. I'll need your phone number.” Finn wrote his number on a scrap of paper Carter had handed him. “I've got to tell you,” Carter said, “I think what you did was terrific. A really courageous act.”

“Oh yeah?” Finn said cautiously.

Carter slipped the paper with Finn's number into his work-boot. “For safekeeping,” he explained. “You know, I can arrange to get you on the Soft Skies speakers' roster after your trial,” he told Finn. “We might be able to work something out. I've been looking for a good assistant. Someone with your sort of background.”

“I'm not interested,” Finn said quickly.

“When I think of the political implications of your trial my head spins.” Carter sighed.

“I'm not interested in politics,” Finn said.

“Oh?” Carter said, annoyed. “What about the fate of mankind? Interested in that?”

“Carter,” I warned, “this hasn't been easy for him.”

“It hasn't been easy for any of us,” Carter said. “Do you know anything about radiation?” he asked Finn.

I could almost see Finn retreating, swallowed up in distrust. It was too much for him to think about the fate of mankind, he could barely stand or examine his own dreams.

“I don't want to talk about this,” Finn said, too softly for Carter to hear. “I can't talk about it.”

“I can give you statistics that will make your hair curl,” Carter went on. “The stillborn children and animals, the deformed lizards and birds; radiation levels that will last forever.”

“Forever,” Finn said, slowly, as if tasting the word.

Carter grew more and more excited. As I often did, I now envied Carter his ability to care; somehow he was convinced that he would change the world. “You can really help,” Carter was saying to Finn. “You can get on the witness stand and let people in this town know how easily accidents can happen in a power plant.”

“Please,” Finn said. “Please.”

“Your trial is going to blow this town right open,” Carter grinned.

“Listen,” I said to Carter, “I think we should go home.” As Carter's voice rose, moviegoers began to notice us. An usher patrolled the aisles, glaring at Carter's boots resting on the faded velvet seat in front of him.

“Home?” Carter said. “I've got to go to Manhattan to see Reno LeKnight.”

“Right now?” Finn said. “Tonight?”

“Can't you do it tomorrow?” I asked Carter.

Carter shook his head, then he leaned over and kissed me. “Thank you,” he whispered into my ear. “Thank you for giving him to Soft Skies. You don't know what this means to me.” Carter threaded a scarf around his neck. “LeKnight will want to meet with you this week,” he told Finn. “Either at his office in Manhattan or his beach house. But don't worry—I'll arrange the meeting, I'll take care of everything.”

Finn and I both stood to let Carter pass. “You're terrific,” Carter whispered to me. “I'll call you tomorrow,” he nodded to Finn as the two men shook hands once more.

When Carter had gone, Finn and I stayed on. We sat side by side, aware of the absence of Carter's body, the absence of his hope.

“Do you want some popcorn?” Finn asked.

“I don't think so,” I answered. Carter was out in the parking lot, starting his old MG. Although the roads were treacherous, and the drive would take nearly two hours, Carter would sing all the way into Manhattan, he would step on the gas, a man with a mission.

“I don't feel so good,” Finn whispered. “I can't breathe.”

The air inside the theater did seem too heavy, as if it was years old, breathed in one too many times.

“Let's get out of here,” Finn said.

We stood and found our way back up the aisle. Once outside, breathing was much easier; the snow came down harder than before.

“Don't forget our appointment on Thursday,” I reminded Finn. “At two.”

“I'll drive you home,” Finn said to me.

I shook my head. “Someone could see us together. I have to remain objective if you want me to be a witness at your trial.”

“But it's snowing,” Finn said.

“I can walk.”

Finn nodded and turned up his collar. I watched as he went to the parking lot; I could see him beside the Camaro, his long hair as wet as if he'd just stepped from a shower. Without bothering to make certain no one was watching, I walked to the car and got in. Finn didn't look up as I walked across the parking lot, he didn't smile when he saw me get inside. And when he got in and sat behind the wheel he didn't flinch or say a word; he started the engine and we left together.