Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin (28 page)

system, Soderberg, and you’ll be eating pizza in the Bronx. Be careful. Play the game. Stick with us.
And if he thought Manhattan was bad, he should go up to where the real fires were raging, to American Hanoi itself, at the end of the 4 train, where the very worst of the city played itself out every day.

He refused to believe them for many months, but slowly it dawned on him that they were correct—he was caught, he was just a part of the system, and the word was appropriate, a part of the Parts.

So many of the charges were just whisked away. The kids pleaded out, or he gave them time served, just so he could clear the backlog. He had his quota sheet to fill. He had to answer to the supervisors upstairs. The felonies got knocked down to misdemeanors. It was another form of demolition. You had to swing the wrecking ball. He was being judged on how he judged: the less work he gave to his colleagues upstairs, the happier they were. Ninety percent of the cases—even serious misbehavior— had to be disposed of. He wanted the promised promotion, yes, but even that couldn’t stifle the feeling that he had taken whatever idealism he once had and stuffed it inside a cheap black robe, and now, when he went searching, he couldn’t even find it inside the darkest slits.

He arrived at 100 Centre Street five days a week, put on his robe, wore his shiniest shoes, pulled his socks up around his ankles, and prevailed when he could. It was, he knew, about choosing his fights. He could have easily had a dozen pitched battles a day, more if he wanted. He could’ve taken on the whole system. He could have given the graffiti writers fines of a thousand dollars so that they’d never be able to pay it. Or he could’ve sentenced the firework kids on Mott Street to six months. He could’ve sent the drug addicts down for a full year. Chained them with a heavy bail. But it would all rebound, he knew. They would refuse to plead. And he would get the book slung at him for clogging up the courts. The shoplifters, the shoeshine boys, the hotel sneaks, the three- card- monte kids, they were all entitled eventually to say, Not guilty, Your Honor. And then the city would choke. The gutters would fill up. The slime would spill over. The sidewalks would fill. And he’d be blamed.

At the worst of times he thought, I’m a maintenance guy, I’m a gatekeeper, I’m a two- bit security man. He watched the parade come in and out of his courtroom, whichever Part he was in that day, and he wondered how the city had become such a disgusting thing on his watch. How it lifted babies by the hair, and how it raped seventy- year- old women, and how it set fires to couches where lovers slept, and how it pocketed candy bars, and how it shattered ribcages, and how it allowed its war protesters to spit in the faces of cops, and how the union men ran roughshod over their bosses, and how the Mafia took a hold of the boardwalks, and how fathers used daughters as ashtrays, and how bar fights spun out of control, and how perfectly good businessmen ended up urinating in front of the Woolworth Building, and how guns were drawn in the pizza joints, and how whole families got blown away, and how paramedics ended up with crushed skulls, and how addicts shot heroin into their tongues, and how shysters ran scams and old ladies lost their savings, and how shopkeepers gave back the wrong change, and how the mayor wheezed and wheedled and lied while the city burned down to the ground, got itself ready for its own little funeral of ashes, crime, crime, crime.

There wasn’t a bad thing in the city that didn’t pass through Soderberg’s gutter watch. It was like surveying the evolution of slime. You stand there long enough and the gutter gets slick, no matter how hard you battle against it.

All these idiots kept coming from their grind houses, strip joints, freak shows, novelty stores, peep shows, fleabag hotels, and they looked even worse for having spent some time in the Tombs. Once, when he was in court, he saw a cockroach literally climb from a defendant’s pocket and crawl along his shoulder and up along the side of his neck before the man even noticed. When he realized it, the defendant just whisked it away, and continued his guilty plea. Guilty, guilty, guilty. They nearly all pleaded guilty and in exchange got a sentence they could live with, or they went for time served, or they coughed up a small fine, and went along their merry way, a swagger in their walk, out into the world, just so they could turn around and do the same foolish thing and be back in his courtroom a week or two later. It put him in a state of constant agitation. He bought a hand exerciser that fit in the pocket. He slid his hand underneath the slit in his robe and took it from his suit pocket. It was a springloaded thing with two wooden handles that he squeezed surreptitiously under his garments. He only hoped he wasn’t seen. It could of course be misinterpreted, a judge fumbling beneath his gown. But it calmed him as his cases came and went, and his quota filled. The heroes of the system were the judges who disposed of the most cases in the quickest amount of time. Open the sluice gates, let them go.

Anyone who swung by, anyone who participated in the system in any way, got sideswiped. The crimes got to the prosecutors—the rapes, the manslaughters, the stabbings, the robberies. The young assistant D.A.’s stood horrified by the enormity of the lists in front of them. The sentences got to the court officers: they were like disappointed cops, and would sometimes hiss when the judges were soft on crime. The slurring got to the court reporter. The blatant sideswipes got to the Legal Aid lawyers. The terms got to the probation officers. The vulgar simplicities got to the court psychologists. The paperwork got to the cops. The fines— light as they were—got to the criminals. The low bail figures got to the bondsmen. Everyone was in a jam and it was his job to sit at the center of it, to dole out the justice and balance it between right and wrong.

Right and wrong. Left and right. Up and down. He thought himself up there, standing at the edge of the precipice, sick and dizzy, unaccountably looking upward.

Soderberg downed his coffee in one smooth swallow. It tasted cheap with creamer.
He would get the tightrope man today—he was sure of it.
He picked up his phone and dialed down to the D.A.’s office, but the phone rang on and on and when he looked up at his little desktop clock it was time for the morning’s clear- out.
Wearily, Soderberg rose, then smiled to himself as he followed a straight line along the floor.

^{he liked the black}
gossamer robe in summertime. It was a little worn at the elbows, but no matter, it was breezy and light. He picked up his ledgers, tucked them under his arm, caught a quick glance of himself thick- bodied in the mirror, the tracery of blood vessels in his face, the deepening eye sockets. He pasted the last few hairs on his pate down, walked out solemnly through the corridor and past the elevator bank. He took the stairs down, a little skip in his step. Past the correction officers and probation people, into the rear hallway of Arraignment Part 1A. The worst part of the journey. At the back of the court, the prisoners were kept in the pens. The abattoir, they called it. The upper holding cells ran the length of half a block. The bars were painted a creamy yellow. The air was rank with body odor. The court officers went through four bottles of air freshener every day.

There were plenty of police and court officers lined up along the gauntlet and the criminals were smart enough to keep quiet as he went along the chute. He walked quickly, head down, among the officers.

—Good morning, Judge.
—Like the shoes, Your Honor.
—Nice to see you again, sir.
A quick simple nod to whoever acknowledged him. It was important

to maintain a democratic aloofness. There were certain judges who bantered and mocked and joked and buddied up, but not Soderberg. He walked quickly out along the chute, in through the wooden door, into civility, or remnants of it, the dark wood bench, the microphone, the fluorescent lights, up the steps, to his elevated seat.

In God We Trust.
The morning slipped away quickly. A full calendar of cases. The usual roll call. Driving on an expired license. Threatening a police officer. Assault in the second degree. Lewd public act. A woman had stabbed her aunt in the arm over food stamps. A deal was cut with a tow- headed boy on grand theft auto. Community service was handed out to a man who’d put a peephole into the apartment below him—what the Peeping Tom didn’t know was that the woman was a Peeping Tom too, and she peeped him, peeping her. A bartender had been in a brawl with a customer. A murder in Chinatown got sent upstairs immediately, bail set and the matter passed along.
All morning long he wheeled and bartered and crimped and cringed.
—Is there an outstanding warrant or not?
—Tell me, are you moving to dismiss or not?
—The request to withdraw is granted. Be nice to each other from here on in.
—Time served!
—Where’s the motion, for crying out loud?
—Officer, would you please tell me what happened here? He was what? Cooking a chicken on the sidewalk?! Are you kidding me?
—Bail set at two thousand dollars’ bond. Cash one thousand two hundred fifty.
—Not you again, Mr. Ferrario! Whose pocket was picked this time? —This is an arraignment court, counselor, not Shangri- La. —Release her on her own recognizance.
—This complaint does not state a crime. Dismissed!
—Has anybody here ever heard of privilege?
—I’ve no objection to a nonjail disposition.
—In exchange for his plea, we’ll reduce the felony to a misdemeanor. —Time served!
—I think your client was overserved in the narcissism department this morning, counselor.
—Give me something more than elevator music, please!
—Will you be finished by Friday?
—Time served!
—Time served!
—Time served!
There were so many special tricks to learn. Seldom look the defendant in the eye. Seldom smile. Try to appear as if you have a mild case of hemorrhoids: it will give you a concerned, inviolable expression. Sit at a slightly uncomfortable bend, or at least one that appears uncomfortable. Always be scribbling. Appear like a rabbi, bent over your writing pad. Stroke the silver at the side of your hair. Rub the pate when things get out of hand. Use the rap sheet as a guide to character. Make sure there are no reporters in the room. If there are, all rules are underlined twice. Listen carefully. The guilt or the innocence is all in the voice. Don’t play favorites with the lawyers. Don’t let them play the Jew card. Never respond to Yiddish. Dismiss flattery out of hand. Be careful with your hand exerciser. Watch out for masturbation jokes. Never stare at the stenographer’s rear end. Be careful what you have for lunch. Have a roll of mints with you. Always think of your doodles as masterpieces. Make sure the carafe water has been changed. Be outraged at water spots on the glass. Buy shirts at least one size too big in the neck so you can breathe.
The cases came and went.
Late in the morning he had already called twenty- nine cases and he asked the bridge—his court officer, in her crisp white shirt—if there was any news on the case of the tightrope walker. The bridge told him that it was all the buzz, that the walker was in the system, it seemed, and he would likely come up in the late afternoon. She wasn’t sure what the charges were, possibly criminal trespass and reckless endangerment. The D.A. was already deep in discussion with the tightrope walker, she said. It was likely that the walker would plead to everything if given a good enough deal. The D.A. was keen on some good publicity, it seemed. He wanted this one to go smoothly. The only hitch might be if the walker was held over until night court.
—So we have a chance?
—Pretty good, I’d say. If they push him through quick enough.
—Excellent. Lunch, then?
—Yes, Your Honor.
—We’ll reconvene at two- fifteen.

^{there was always}
Forlini’s, or Sal’s, or Carmine’s, or Sweet’s, or Sloppy Louie’s, or Oscar’s Delmonico, but he had always liked Harry’s. It was the farthest away from Centre Street, but it didn’t matter—the quick cab ride relaxed him. He got out on Water Street and walked to Hanover Square, stood outside and thought, This is my place. It wasn’t because of the brokers. Or the bankers. Or the traders. It was Harry himself, all Greek, good manners, arms stretched wide. Harry had worked his way through the American Dream and come to the conclusion that it was composed of a good lunch and a deep red wine that could soar. But Harry could also make a steak sing, pull a trumpet line out of a string of spaghetti. He was often down in the kitchen, slinging fire. Then he would step out of his apron, put on his suit jacket, slick back his hair, and walk up into the restaurant with composure and style. He had a special inclination toward Soderberg, though neither man knew why. Harry would linger a moment longer with him at the bar, or slide up a great bottle and they’d sit underneath the monk murals, passing the time together. Perhaps because they were the only two in the place who weren’t deep in the stock business. Outsiders to the clanging bells of finance. They could tell how the day was going in the markets by the decibel level around them.

On the wall of Harry’s, the brokerage houses had private lines connected to a battery of telephones on the wall. Guys from Kidder, Peabody over there, Dillon, Read there, First Boston over there, Bear Stearns at the end of the bar, L. F. Rothschild by the murals. It was big money, all the time. It was elegant too. And well mannered. A club of privilege. Yet it didn’t cost a fortune. A man could escape with his soul intact.

He sidled up to the bar and called Harry across, told him about the walker, how he’d just missed him early in the morning, how the kid had been arrested and was coming through the system soon.

—He broke into the towers, Har.
—So . . . he’s ingenious.
—But what if he had fallen?
—The ground’d hardly cushion the fall, Sol.
Soderberg sipped his wine: the deep red heft of it rose to his nose. —My point is, Har, he could’ve killed someone. Not just himself.

Could’ve made hamburger of someone . . .
—Hey, I need a good line man. Maybe he could work for me. —There’s probably twelve, thirteen counts against him. —All the more reason. He could be my sous chef. He could prepare

the steamers. Strip the lentils. Dive into the soup from high above. Harry pulled deeply on a cigar and blew the smoke to the ceiling. —I don’t even know if I’m going to get him, said Soderberg. He may