Colum McCann - Let the Great World Spin (29 page)

be held over until night court.
—Well, if you do get him, give him my business card. Tell him there’s
a steak on the house. And a bottle of Château Clos de Sarpe. Grand Cru,
1964.
—He’ll hardly tightrope after that.
Harry’s face creased into a suggested map of what it would become
years later: full, sprightly, generous.
—What is it about wine, Harry?
—What d’ya mean?
—What is it that cures us?
—Made to glorify the gods. And dull the idiots. Here, have a little
more.
They clinked glasses in the slant of light that came through the upper
windows. It was as if, looking out, they might’ve seen the walk re- enacted
up there, on high. It was America, after all. The sort of place where you
should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted. But what if you were the
one walking underneath? What if the tightrope walker really had fallen?
It was quite possible that he could have killed not just himself, but a dozen people below. Recklessness and freedom—how did they become a cocktail? It was always his dilemma. The law was a place to protect the powerless, and also to circumscribe the most powerful. But what if the powerless didn’t deserve to be walking underneath? It sometimes put him in mind of Joshua. Not something he liked thinking about, not the loss at least, the terrible loss. It brought too much heartache. Pierced him. He had to learn that his son was gone. That was the extent of it. In the end Joshua had been a steward, a custodian of the truth. He had joined up to represent his country and came home to lay Claire flat with grief. And to lay him flat also. But he didn’t show it. He never could. He would weep in the bath of all places, but only when the water was running. Solomon, wise Solomon, man of silence. There were some nights
he kept the drain open and just let the water run.
He was the son of his son—he was here, he was left behind. Little things got to him. The mitzvah of
maakeh.
Build a fence around
your roof lest someone should fall from it. He questioned why he had
bought the toy soldiers all those years ago. He fretted over the fact that
he’d made Joshua learn “The Star- Spangled Banner” on the piano. He
wondered if, when he taught the boy to play chess, he had somehow instilled a battle mentality? Attack along the diagonals, son. Never allow a
back- rank mate. There must have been somewhere that he’d hard- wired
the boy. Still, the war had been just, proper, right. Solomon understood it
in all its utility. It protected the very cornerstones of freedom. It was
fought for the very ideals that were under assault in his court every day. It
was quite simply the way in which America protected itself. A time to kill
and a time to heal. And yet sometimes he wanted to agree with Claire that
war was just an endless factory of death; it made other men rich, and
their son had been dispatched to open the gates, a rich boy himself. Still,
it was not something he could afford to think of. He had to be solid, firm,
a pillar. He seldom talked about Joshua, even to Claire. If there was anyone to talk to, it would be Harry, who knew a thing or two about longing
and belonging, but it wasn’t something to talk about right now. He was
careful, Soderberg, always careful. Maybe too careful, he thought. He
sometimes wished he could let it all out:
I’m the son of my son, Harry, and
my son’s dead.
He lifted the glass to his face, sniffed the wine, the deep, earthy aroma.
A moment of levity—that’s what he wanted. A good, quiet moment. Something gentle and without noise. While away a few hours with his good pal. Or perhaps even call in sick for the rest of the day, go home, spend an afternoon with Claire, one of those afternoons when they could just sit together and read, one of those pure moments he and his wife shared increasingly as their marriage went along. He was happy, give or take. He was lucky, give or take. He didn’t have everything he wanted, but he had enough. Yes, that’s what he wanted: just a quiet afternoon of nothingness. Thirty- odd years of marriage hadn’t made a stone out of him, no. A little bit of silence. A gesture toward home. A hand on Harry’s wrist and a word or two in his ear:
My son.
It was all he needed to say, but why complicate it now?
He lifted the glass and clinked with Harry.
—Cheers.
—To not falling, said Harry.
—To being able to get back up.
Soderberg was beginning to swing away from wanting the tightrope walker in his courtroom now: it would be too much of a headache, surely. He would have preferred to just fritter the day away at the long bar, with his dear friend, toasting the gods and letting the light fall.

—
—criminal court arraignment
_{Part One- A, now in session. All}

The court officer had a voice that reminded him of seagulls. A peculiar caw to her, the tail end of her words swerving away. But the words demanded an immediate silence and the buzz in the rear of the court died.

He knew immediately he had the case. He could see the reporters in the pews of the spectator section. They had that jowly, destroyed look to them. They wore open- neck shirts and oversize slacks. Unshaven, whiskied. The more obvious giveaways were the notebooks with yellow covers jutting out of their jacket pockets. They were craning their necks to see who might emerge from the door behind him. A few extra detectives sat on the front bench for the show. Some off- duty clerks. Some businessmen, possibly even Port Authority honchos. A few others, maybe a security man or two. He could even see a tall, red- headed sketch artist. And that meant only one thing: the television cameras would be outside.

He could feel the wine at his toes. He wasn’t drunk—nowhere near it—but he could still feel it swishing at the edges of his body.
—Order in the court. Silence. The court is now in session.
The doors creaked open behind him and in slouched a line of nine defendants toward the benches along the side wall. The usual riffraff, a couple of con men, a man with his eyebrow sliced open, two clapped- out hookers, and, walking at the rear of them all, a grin stretched from ear to ear, a slight bounce in his step, was a young white man, strangely clad: it could only be the tightrope walker.
In the gallery there was a stir. The reporters reached for their pencils. A slap of noise, as if a liquid had suddenly splashed through them.
The funambulist was even smaller than Soderberg had imagined. Impish. Dark shirt and tights. Strange, thin ballet slippers on his feet. There was something even washed- out about him. He was blond, in his mid- twenties, the sort of man you might see as a waiter in the theater district. And yet there was a confidence that rolled off him, a swagger that Soderberg liked. He looked like a small, squashed- down version of Joshua, as if some brilliance had been deposited in his body, programmed in like one of Joshua’s hacks, and the only way out for him was through performance.
It was obvious that the tightrope walker had never been arraigned before. The first- timers were always dazed. They came in, huge- eyed, stunned by it all.
The walker stopped and looked from one side of the courtroom to the other. Momentarily frightened and bemused. As if there was way too much language in this place. He was thin, lithe, a quality of the leonine to him. He had quick eyes: the glance ended up on the bench.
Soderberg made a split second of eye contact. Broke his own rule, but so what? The walker understood and half nodded. There was something gleeful and playful there in the walker’s eyes. What could Soderberg do with him? How could he manipulate it? After all, it was reckless endangerment, at the very least, and that could end upstairs, a felony, with the possibility of seven years. What about disorderly conduct? Soderberg knew deep down that it’d never go in that direction. It’d be kept a minor misdemeanor and he’d have to work it out with the D.A. He’d play it smart. Pull something unusual from the hat. Besides, the reporters were there, watching. The sketch artist. The TV cameras, outside the courtroom.
He called his bridge over and whispered in her ear: Who’s on first? It was their little joke, their judicial Abbott and Costello. She showed him the calendar and he skimmed down quickly over the cases, flicked a quick look at the sin bin, sighed. He didn’t have to do them in order, he could juggle things around, but he tapped his pencil against the first pending case.
The bridge stepped away and cleared her throat.
—Docket ending six- eight- seven, she said. The People versus Tillie Henderson and Jazzlyn Henderson. Step up, please.
The assistant D.A., Paul Concrombie, shook out the creases in his jacket. Opposite him, the Legal Aid attorney brushed back his long hair and came forward, spreading the file out on the shelf. In the back of the court, one of the reporters let out an audible groan as the women stood up from the bench. The younger hooker was milky- skinned and tall, wearing yellow stilettos, a neon swimsuit under a loose black shirt, a baubled necklace. The older one wore a one- piece swimsuit and high silver heels, her face a playground of mascara. Absurd, he thought. Sunbathing in the Tombs. She looked as if she had been around awhile, that she’d done her share of circling the track.
—Aggravated robbery in the second degree. Produced on an outstanding warrant from November 19, 1973.
The older hooker blew a kiss over her shoulder. A white man in the gallery blushed and lowered his head.
—This isn’t a nightclub, young lady.
—Sorry, Your Honor—I’d blow you one too ’cept I’m all blowed out.
A quick snap of laughter circled the room.
—I’ll have decorum in my court, Miss Henderson.
He was quite sure he heard the word
asshole
creeping out from under her tongue. He always wondered why they dug such pits for themselves, these hookers. He peered down at the rap sheets in front of him. Two illustrious careers. The older hooker had at least sixty charges against her over the years. The younger one had begun the quick portion of the slide: the charges had started to come with regularity and she would only accelerate from here on in. He’d seen it all too often. It was like opening up a tap.
Soderberg adjusted his reading glasses, sat back a moment in the swivel chair, addressed the assistant D.A. with a withering look.
—So. Why the wait, Mr. Concrombie? This happened almost a year ago.
—We’ve had some recent developments here, Your Honor. The defendants were arrested in the Bronx and...
—Is this still in the complaint form?
—Yes, Your Honor.
—And is the assistant D.A. interested in disposing of this on a criminal- court level?
—Yes, Your Honor.
—So, the warrant is vacated?
—Yes, Your Honor.
He was hitting his stride, getting it done with speed. All a bit of a magic trick. Sweep out the black cape. Wave the white wand. Watch the rabbit disappear. He could see the row of nodding heads in the spectators’ area, caught on the current, rolling along with him. He hoped the reporters were getting it, seeing the control he had in his courtroom, even with the wine at the corners of his mind.
—And what’re we doing now, Mr. Concrombie?
—Your Honor, I’ve discussed this with the Legal Aid lawyer, Mr. Feathers here, and we’ve agreed that in the interests of justice, taking everything into consideration, the People are moving to dismiss the case against the daughter. We’re not going to go further with it, Your Honor.
—The daughter?
—Jazzlyn Henderson. Yes, sorry, Your Honor, it’s a mother- daughter team.
He flicked a quick look at the rap sheets. He was surprised to see that the mother was just thirty- eight years old.
—So, you two are related.
—Keeping it in the family, Y’r Honor!
—Miss, I’ll ask you not to speak again.
—But you axed me a question.
—Mr. Feathers, instruct your client, please.
—But you axed me.
—Well, I will
axe
you, yes, young lady.
—Oh, she said.
—Okay. Miss . . . Henderson. Zip it. Do you understand that? Zip it. Now. Mr. Concrombie. Go on.
—Well, Your Honor, after studying the file, we don’t believe that the People will be able to sustain our burden of proof. Beyond reasonable doubt.
—For what reason?
—Well, the identification is problematic.
—Yes? I’m waiting.
—The investigation revealed that there was a matter of mistaken identity.
—Whose identification?
—Well, we have a confession, Your Honor.
—Okay. Don’t bowl me over with your certainty about this, Mr. Concrombie. So you’re dropping the case against Miss, uh, Miss Jazzlyn Henderson?
—Yes, sir.
—And all parties are agreed?
A little nodding field of heads around the room.
—Okay, case dismissed.
—Case dismissed?
—You serious? said the young girl. That’s it?
—That’s it.
—Done and dusted? He’s cutting me loose?
Under her breath he was sure he could hear her say: Getdefuckouttahere!
—What did you say, young lady?
—Nothing.
The Legal Aid lawyer leaned across and whispered something vicious in her ear.
—Nothing, Your Honor. Sorry. I said nothing. Thanks.
—Get her out of here.
—Lift the rope! One coming out!
The younger hooker turned to her mother, kissed her square on the eyebrow. Strange place. The mother, beaten down and tired, accepted the kiss, stroked the side of her daughter’s face, pulled her close. Soderberg watched as they embraced. What sort of deep cruelty, he wondered, allows a family like that?
Still, it always surprised him, the love these people could display for each other. It was one of the few things that still thrilled him about the courtroom—the raw edge it gave to life, the sight of lovers embracing after beating each other up, or families glad to welcome back their son the petty thief, the surprise of forgiveness when it shone in the core of his court. It was rare, but it happened, and like everything, the rarity was necessary.
The young hooker whispered in the mother’s ear and the mother laughed, waved over her shoulder again at the white man in the spectators’ section.
The court officer didn’t lift the rope. The young hooker did it herself. She swayed as she walked, as if she was already selling herself. She brazened her way down the center of the aisle toward the white man with graying flecks at the side of his hair. She took off the black shirt as she went, so that only her swimsuit could be seen.
Soderberg could feel his toes curl at the sheer audacity of it.
—Put that shirt back on, right now!
—It’s a free world, ain’t it? You dismissed me. It’s his shirt.
—Put it on, said Soderberg, leaning close into his microphone.
—He wanted to dress me up nice for court. Didn’t you, Corrie? He got it sent down to me in the Tombs.
The white man was trying to drag her across by the elbow, whispering something urgently in her ear.
—Put on the shirt or I’ll pull you up on contempt. . . . Sir, are you related to that young woman?
—Not exactly, said the man.
—And what does
not exactly
mean?
—I’m her friend.
He had an Irish accent, this gray- haired pimp. He raised his chin like an old- fashioned boxer. His face was thin and his cheeks were sunken.
—Well, friend, I want to make sure that she keeps the shirt on at all times.
—Yes, Y’r Honor. And, Y’r Honor . . . ?
—Just do what I say.
—But, Y’r Honor . . .
Soderberg slammed the gavel down: Enough, he said.
He watched the younger hooker as she kissed the Irishman on the cheek. The man turned away, but then took her face gently in his hands. A strange- looking pimp. Not the usual type. No matter. They came in all sizes and packages. Truth was, the women were victims of the men, always were, always would be. At the essential core, it was idiots like the pimp who should’ve been jailed. Soderberg let out a sigh and then turned toward the assistant D.A.
An eyebrow raise was language enough between the two of them. There was still the matter of the mother to take care of, and then he’d get to the centerpiece.
He flicked a quick look across at the tightrope walker sitting at the benches. A befuddled gaze on the walker’s face. His own crime so unique that he surely had no idea what he was even doing here.
Soderberg tapped the microphone and those in the courtroom perked up.
—As I understand it, the remaining defendant, the mother here...
—Tillie, Y’r Honor.
—I’m not talking to you, Miss Henderson. As I understand it, counselors, this is still a complaint with a felony. Is it going to be acceptable to dispose of it as a misdemeanor?
—Your Honor, we already have a disposition here. I have discussed it with Mr. Feathers.
—That’s right, Your Honor.
—And...?
—The People are moving to reduce the charge from robbery to petty larceny in exchange for the defendant’s plea of guilty.
—Is this what you want, Miss Henderson?
—Huh?
—You are willing to plead guilty to this crime?
—He said it’d be no more’n six months.
—Twelve is your maximum, Miss Henderson.
—Long as I can see my babies . . .
—Excuse me?
—I’ll take anything, she said.
—Very well, for the purpose of this plea, the outstanding charges are reduced to petty larceny. Do you understand that if I accept your plea pursuant to this decision you’ve made, that I have the power, that I could sentence you to up to one year in jail?
She leaned over quickly to her Legal Aid lawyer, who shook his head and put his hand on her wrist and half smiled at her.
—Yeah, I understand.
—And you understand you’re pleading to petty larceny? —Yeah, babe.
—Excuse me?
Soderberg felt a stab of pain, somewhere between the eyes and the back of the throat. A stunned flick. Had she really called him
babe
? It couldn’t be. She was standing, staring at him, half smiling. Could he pretend that he didn’t hear? Dismiss it? Call her up in contempt? If he made a fuss, what would happen?
In the silence the room seemed to shrink a moment. The lawyer beside her looked as if he might bite her ear off. She shrugged and smiled and waved back over her shoulder again.
—I’m sure you didn’t mean that, Miss Henderson.
—Mean what, Y’r Honor?
—We will move on.
—Whatever you say, Y’r Honor.
—Keep your language in check.
—Cool, she said.
—Or else.
—You got it.
—You understand that you are giving up your right to trial?
—Yeah.
The Legal Aid lawyer’s lips recoiled as they touched, accidentally, against the woman’s ear.
—I mean, yessir.
—You have discussed pleading guilty with your lawyer and you are satisfied with his services? You are pleading guilty of your own free will?
—Yessir.
—You understand that you’re giving up your right to trial?
—Yessir, you bet.
—Okay, Miss Henderson, how do you plead to petty larceny?
Again, the Legal Aid lawyer leaned across to school her.
—Guilty.
—Okay, so very well, tell me what happened here.
—Huh?
—Tell me what occurred, Miss Henderson.
Soderberg watched as the court officers moved to reduce the yellowback form to a blue- back for the misdemeanor crime. In the spectators’ section the reporters were fidgeting with the spirals on their books. The buzz in the room had died slightly. Soderberg knew that he would have to move quickly if he was going to pull out a good performance for the tightrope walker.
The hooker raised her head. The way she stood, he knew for certain she was guilty. Just by the lean of the body, he knew. He always knew. —It’s a long time ago. So, I was, like, I didn’t want to go to Hell’s Kitchen, but Jazzlyn and me, well me, I got this date in Hell’s Kitchen, and he was saying shit about me.
—All right, Miss Henderson.
—Shit like I was old and stuff.
—Language, Miss Henderson.
—And his wallet just jumped out in front of me.
—Thank you.
—I weren’t finished.
—That’ll do.
—I ain’t all bad. I know you think I’m all bad.
—That’ll do, young lady.
—Yeah, Pops.
He saw one of the court officers smirk. His cheeks flushed. He lifted his glasses high on his head, pinned her with a stare. Her eyes, suddenly, seemed wide and pleading, and he understood for a moment how she could attract a man, even in the worst of times: some layered beauty and fierceness, some history of love.
—And you understand that by pleading guilty you are not being coerced?