The Shakespeare Incident

by Jonathan Miller

“Your nai nai better be coming from Hong Kong to bail us out,” one said to the other. “Is that her at the doorway?”

  “Is this the courtroom?” a soft voice asked from the doorway.

  Denise looked back as an ancient Asian woman entered the narrow courtroom door, hobbling on a walker. Could that be Professor Kang? The professor had been in her fifties, but this woman looked much older. Could anyone really age that much in two years?

  The other Asian defendant frowned. “I’ve not seen my grandma since I was two years old. I don’t know what she looks like, just that she’s old.”

  The old woman frowned at them.

  “I don’t like that look,” the first defendant said. The other didn’t get a chance to reply.

  “All rise,” the James Bond bailiff announced. Judge Shahrazad Sanchez entered. She wore long sleeves even in this heat and had taken out her nose stud. The hole hadn’t healed yet.

  “Are we going to do the miscellaneous hearing about Ms. Song first?” Jane Dark asked.

  “I think we have a resolution to that,” the judge said. “Could the parties approach?”

  Denise stumbled on the way to the bench. Was the judge going to lock her up before court even started? The judge hadn’t gone totally mainstream, she had a fresh tattoo of an avenging angel on her hand that held the gavel.

  The judge turned on a white noise machine so no one could hear them except for the new bailiff who was now behind them. This bailiff had a pair of handcuffs instead of a boomerang.

  “Bad news,” the judge said. Denise put her hands behind her back, ready for them to be cuffed.

  “So, you’re granting my motion, your honor?” Jane Dark asked. “Can we remand Ms. Song right here in the courtroom?”

  Remand meant locking her up. The judge then smiled at Jane Dark. “The bad news is for you, Ms. Dark. Ms. Song, I apologize to you. All your paperwork is in order. We have a signed affidavit allowing you to practice signed by your mother’s power of attorney, Susie Song, whose name I recognize from her golf days and that insurance commercial. Another attorney, a Luna Cruz, will be responsible for your supervision right now. I’m certainly aware of Ms. Cruz, she’s one of the finest attorneys in the state.”

  Why would her mother have a power of attorney unless she was at death’s door? Or already dead. The fact that her official supervisor would be her aunt rather than her mother really made her nervous.

  “We will be vacating the miscellaneous hearing regarding Ms. Denise Song’s ability to practice in this jurisdiction,” the judge continued, rubbing her tattooed hand. “She’s good to go. Let’s get this one over with. You may proceed with the arraignment for Mr. Denny Song.”

  “But you said,” Jane Dark began.

  “That’s all Ms. Dark,” the judge cut her off. “The affidavit signed by the power of attorney, Susie Song, has been approved by the New Mexico Supreme Court. Luna Cruz signed off on the clinical law student form. All is in accordance with the local court rules here in Hidalgo County. You have friends in high places, Denise Song.”

  Denise and Jane went back to their respective tables. The woman on the walker clearly wanted to say something to the judge, but the bailiff signaled for the old woman not to disrupt the courtroom.

  “Are you really sure that’s not your Nai Nai from Hong Kong?” the first Asian defendant said. “She’s really trying to get the judge’s attention!”

  “All Nai Nais from Hong Kong look the same,” the second replied. “That could be her. I don’t know.”

  “Your damn family is so messed up,” said the first.

  “You were the one who thought we should bring weed on the train through the asshole of America.”

  “Order in the court!” the judge yelled. “Denny Song, please come up to the podium for arraignment with your umm… representative.”

  One of the guards dragged Denny up to the podium.

  “Appearances?” the judge asked.

  “Jane Dark of the Attorney General’s Office for the Great State of New Mexico.”

  “Denise Song, a clinical law student operating pursuant to Rule 5-110.1 of the New Mexico Rules of Criminal Procedure for the District Court under the auspices of supervising attorney Jen Song, I mean under the supervision of supervising attorney, Luna Cruz. I’m appearing for the defendant, Denny Song, who is present and in custody.”

  She heard some mumbling from the back of the court and turned around. The old woman was still trying to get everyone’s attention by shuffling her walker.

  The judge banged her gavel. “Ms. Denise Song, I’m up here. Look at me. Do you waive a reading of the defendant’s charges?”

  “We waive reading and enter a plea of not guilty on all of them!” She knew she was supposed to do something more right now but froze in the heat of the moment.

  “The waiver is noted. Next case! State v. Shifman!”

  Gollum rose up. “My turn. I’m getting out!”

  “I got to get out of here!” Denny said. “Tell the judge! I think someone can take third party release for me.”

  “Can we address conditions of release?” Denise asked, still at the podium next to her twin. Third party release? To whom?

  The judge frowned. “There’s a no bond hold on the defendant after the pre-trial detention hearing. Counsel you were supposed to get us new information regarding conditions of release. Have you done so?”

  Denise turned and scanned the courtroom, praying that Cordelia had come so she could at least argue that Denny had someone to be a third-party custodian.

  Unfortunately, Cordelia was nowhere to be found. Worse, Fally was there. “Keep him in, keep him in,” he had the Groundlings chant. “Keep him in!”

  “You in the back,” the judge asked. “Do you wish to address the court?”

  “You heard us,” Fally said. “He’s a little liar. Keep him in. Denny’s a menace, he was my stepson for a while and he’s no damn good. Neither is his sister.”

  “Thank you,” the judge said. “Anyone else wish to address the court?”

  “Back there!” Denny said, hitting Denise in the side with his handcuffs as he turned to look at the old woman.

  The judge pointed to the old woman on the walker. She had now propped herself up on her tippy toes, leaning toward the judge.

  “Ma’am, you in the back,” the judge said. “You’ve wanted to say something about the case of State versus Denny Song?”

  The old woman moved to the aisle, so she was clearly visible to everyone in the courtroom. “I can take custody of Denny Song,” she said in a wavering voice.

  The two college kids looked back at her. “That’s definitely not my Nai Nai,” the second Asian student said to the first. “I know my Nai Nai’s voice and that’s not her. I have no idea who that is.”

  Denise wiped her eyes and finally got a good look at the old woman. No, it wasn’t Professor Kang. The woman clearly had a spark about her, indicating some familiarity, but it was weak as if the woman was at death’s door. But who could it be?

  The judge pounded her gavel. “Your name, please, and your relation to the defendant?”

  “My name is Jen Song, I’m his mother.”

  Denise nearly fainted. It was Jen Song all right, but something terrible had happened to her in the intervening year. This forty-something woman could pass for eighty. Cancer? Radiation poisoning? A broken heart for abandoning her daughter?

  Jen Song fumbled with her walker as she got into the aisle and tried to walk forward, but then she stopped. Before Denise could say anything, her mom, their mom, stumbled and dropped to the floor.

  “Is she dead?” Denny asked.

  No one answered.

  PART III

  THE TEMPEST

  Chapter 23

  In a town without an emergency room, it was unclear where Jen Song might spend her f
inal minutes on earth. A dust storm to the west precluded a trip to Tucson, so Jen was transported by ambulance east to Las Cruces, about two hours away. She would end up at Centennial Hospital, across the freeway from New Mexico State University.

  Once she knew the location on her maps app, Denise drove the Lexus at its maximum velocity on I-10.

  Her phone rang as she passed the Lordsburg City Limits. It was Rita. “Auntie Denise, your mom made the news. There was even an alert on the news and everything. I hope she’s all right. I didn’t realize what a big deal she was. They had a link to the story when she had a big case with your Auntie Susie the golfer.”

  “Susie Song is my first cousin, once removed,” Denise said. “Not my auntie.”

  “Anyway, Auntie Denise, I hope your mama’s all right!”

  “Rita!” Rayne picked up the phone. “Stop bothering your auntie! Sorry about that, Denise. I heard. Is your mom OK?”

  “We don’t know yet. I’m on my way right now to the hospital in Cruces.”

  “We’re in Cruces. It’s where my mother’s campaign office is. If there’s anything you need, we are here for you. Anything at all.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Denise said. “You’re a good friend, Rayne. You too Rita.” She could hear Rita crying softly. Why was the poor girl taking this so hard? Curious about the story, Denise searched for it on her own phone. While a story did appear, it had the ominous word “developing story.”

  Rita couldn’t possibly have read it yet. There was so much about the girl she didn’t understand.

  * * *

  Centennial Hospital was a large white building, lined by palm trees, across from a Hilton Garden Inn. They could have been in a new Phoenix suburb with all the xeriscaping.

  Denise parked in the lot in the heat of a 105-degree day, but, inside, the hospital had the air-conditioning cranked so high she felt goosebumps. Her spark didn’t work here in the lobby; there was too much sickness coming through the air.

  Denise approached the front desk to ask about her mother. Portia—an elderly lady in a pink vest—responded that she couldn’t give out that information without a HIPAA waiver from the patient. Denise sat down in the lobby to consider her options.

  She was soon joined by her cousin, Dew, who lived just down University Boulevard, right off the NMSU campus. Dew wore a Pokémon t-shirt and shorts and stank of stale coffee and foreign cigarettes. Her brownish hair was tortured into faux dreadlocks dyed blue. They hugged and then sat in silence.

  Denise approached the concierge at the desk again. Portia reiterated her original statement. Denise sat down and swore.

  “I’ve never seen you like this,” Dew said, playing with a dreadlock.

  “I’ve never been like this,” Denise said. “I don’t know what to feel.”

  “My mom’s on the way,” Dew said. “Get ready for Hurricane Luna.”

  * * *

  By the late afternoon, the next members of Team Song arrived. Jen’s half-sister Selena and her wife hurried into the hospital. Selena was totally Latinx and had married a Native American woman named Heidietta, the sister of the famed MMA fighter Heidi Hawk. Denise definitely saw a resemblance between Heidietta and her self-defense sensei up in Albuquerque. Could it have been Heidi herself?

  An hour later, the one and only Hurricane Luna made landfall. Everyone rose out of reflex. Luna Cruz had once been a judge, a district attorney and a CEO; she commanded every room. Luna wore her usual black with discrete but shiny turquoise earrings. Luna hugged her daughter, Dew.

  “Hey Luna,” Dew said. She joked that she only called her mom “Mother” when she deserved it or was trying to get something.

  “My little Sacka-dacka-dew,” Luna replied to her daughter, a childish term of endearment.

  Luna merely touched Denise’s shoulder with a cursory squeeze. “Denise.”

  “Aunt Luna,” Denise replied.

  Luna must be back with Dan Shepard, Marley’s father. Dan walked a few yards behind the hurricane in his own eye of the storm.

  Denise could still read Dan like an open book. He had dated Jen Song before he met Luna. The complicated relationships were creating a bit of conflict between him and Luna.

  “Why don’t you just go back to the hotel, Dan? I’ll rent a car,” Luna said.

  “You aren’t even in this story,” Dew added, twisting the knife in.

  Shepard checked his phone after it let out a tone of an old song of some raspy voice singing that he believed in a “Promised Land.” Denise couldn’t tell if it was Bob Dylan, Bob Singer or one of those old white guy singers whose first names started with a “b.”

  “I’ve got to be somewhere else, anyway. Mitch Garry needs help with some client named Sage Cage whose accused of killing a woman at a nursing home. This could be the big case. I just hope that author in Albuquerque doesn’t write about this one.”

  Denise vaguely recalled something called the Rattlesnake Lawyer series by some unknown attorney-author up in Albuquerque that supposedly dealt with Shepard’s adventures. She hadn’t read them of course. Nobody did. She also sensed something about a funeral, a rattlesnake funeral, but that would be a story for another time.

  “No one cares about an underachieving middle-aged lawyer with white male privilege,” Dew added, biting down on one of her blue dreadlocks. “I doubt anyone will ever write about you again.”

  Shepard asked the security guard about something, and then hung his head and left. “We’ll see about that,” he whispered to the wind.

  Shepard gone; Hurricane Luna had now hit the front desk. “What’s happening with my sister?” she demanded.

  “Sister?” Portia was confused. Luna Cruz was Latinx, and Jen Song was marked down as Asian.

  “She’s my half-sister,” Luna said. “The good half.”

  It took Portia a while to find the patient, which made Luna even more impatient. Portia signaled to the small but wiry security guard to escort the Song clan to a neutral corner of the lobby until a doctor could come out. His name badge read Perea, but he looked more like a Piranha. Small, but tightly muscled; his skin was mottled from faded acne. He must have been aware of the resemblance because a sticker under his name badge advised people to CALL ME PIRANHA. The sticker had a picture of a cartoon fish. If it was supposed to put people at ease, it failed.

  Denise could see why Centennial needed a Piranha to guard its doors. There were several prison facilities nearby, in this border area—both Federal and State. Several times, Denise saw EMTs coming in, dragging gurneys with people hand-cuffed to the sides. Law enforcement scrambled to keep up with the gurneys, and family members followed behind them.

  Piranha kept track of every police officer, every patient, and every prisoner coming and going. He took away several weapons from the family members who might be there to finish the job on a rival. He might not be a doctor, but it was his hospital.

  Finally, around six in the evening, two doctors came out to the lobby. The younger doctor introduced himself as Dr. Schwartz. His hair was already receding but was curly around the sides. He looked like he should be doing stand-up comedy as opposed to emergency medicine. He was Denise’s age, and was accompanied by an older, female doctor, Dr. Patel. Dr. Patel stood behind Dr. Schwartz, holding an iPad, as if grading him.

  “She’s in a coma,” Dr. Schwartz said. “At least she’s stable. We have no idea what caused her illness but suspect a link to radiation poisoning. There’s not much we can do except keep her well.”

  “Is she going to die?” Denise asked.

  “Her long-term prognosis is not good.” Dr. Schwartz looked back at Dr. Patel, who nodded. “Six weeks max perhaps. But we’ll keep her comfortable. We’ll observe her here before deciding whether to move her to hospice.”

  “Hospice here?” Dying in the desert sounded much more depressing than dying in the misty pines
of the suicide forest of Aokigahara. “Will she ever regain consciousness? I want to say good-bye.”

  “I can’t make a prediction on that at this time,” Dr. Schwartz said.

  As the two doctors walked away, the older woman gave pointers to her student. “So, what should I have said instead?” he asked.

  Denise didn’t listen. Her mother’s death should not be part of a medical school class.

  “Are you OK, Denise?” Luna asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  * * *

  Around eight that evening, young Dr. Schwartz—under the supervision of his mentor—let Team Song visit Jen in a private room. The room had a view of the Organ Mountains to the east, with the full moon rising over the granite formations resembling organ pipes.

  The private “suite” was barely big enough for all of them, especially with all the modern medical equipment crowding the petite woman in the bed. Denise still had difficulty grasping that this wizened figure was her once-glamorous mother. Jen Song had been the original Laser Geisha Pink back when Luna, Jen and Selena had billed themselves the Laser Geishas. Her hospital gown was pink at least, but Denise could see faded bloodstains.

  Denise could feel an energy emanating from her mother, an energy so strong that Denise couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t read it. Why hadn’t she ever felt this before? Had her mom stifled her own spark?

  “Don’t get too close to her!” Dr. Patel ordered. “Not everybody in the room at the same time.”

  After rotating in and out of the room for a few minutes, Luna and the others went back downstairs. Luna mentioned an arrival of someone else who they’d meet in the lobby.

  “I’m staying here till they kick me out,” Denise said. She had nowhere else to go anyway—nothing in Albuquerque and a brother in jail in Lordsburg. She wasn’t comfortable with this instant family after being all alone for so long.

  Alone with her mother, the coast relatively clear, she pulled up a chair close to the bed.

  Denise struggled to keep her eyes open for the next few hours. At midnight, a very tall, middle-aged Asian woman with a cane entered the room. This woman was younger than her mother and shared her unhealthy skin. This poor woman was also bent over like a question mark.