by James Boice
—Where is everybody? he asks Potter.
—They took over Union Square and Bryant Park today. Grand juries are secret, they don’t know you’re here.
They sit on a bench in the hallway outside the grand jury room waiting to be called inside.
—They’re in there talking about me?
—Yes, they are.
—How long’s it been going on?
—Four days. And now here you are. The headline act.
They call him in. He goes alone. His attorney has to stay outside. It is silent. There are a bunch of people who must be the jurors and a court stenographer and armed bailiffs and a bald-headed guy in a suit who must be La Cuzio. And that’s all—no one else. No judge or anything. La Cuzio seems to be in charge. It feels somber and pious in here, like church. The jury sits in cushy theater-type chairs staring at him, the man La Cuzio has been telling them about, this callous, evil, murderous, racist demon. He sits in the chair on the witness stand at the front of the room, and one of the members of the jury, a woman in her fifties, swears him in. —Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth... He nods somberly and says he does.
He notes the holstered pistols of the bailiffs. That one there must be a Glock 19, modified with a twelve-pound trigger pull the way most New York City law enforcement service weapons are. There are also a Smith & Wesson 5946, a Sig Sauer P226, and another Smith & Wesson, judging from the shape of the grips. He can feel each gun in his hand, its weight, its texture, the thickness of the polymer. He can feel each nine-millimeter hollow-tip round between his fingertips as he shoves one after another into the clip. Eight, nine, ten... He can feel each gun kicking tight and hard in his hands as he fires, like choking a coyote; he can feel the sound of the shots split his ears, see the casings flip end over end in the corner of his vision up toward his shoulder, some landing warmly on his wrist. He can smell the gunpowder. Can see the iron sights, his target blurred beyond them. He can enjoy the silence that falls when the gun stops firing because you have shot all there is to shoot.
La Cuzio comes up to him and, using his hand to cover the little microphone in front of Lee, he mutters, —I’m gonna enjoy this.
He turns and wades back out among the jurors.
—Mr. Fisher, welcome.
He waits for Lee to reply. Lee leans into the microphone and says loudly, —Thank you. The sound booms out the speakers and the jurors all flinch, hands going to their ears.
—Not so loud, Mr. Fisher.
—Sorry, Lee says.
—Just try calming down. Take a breath. Are you nervous? You want a glass of water?
—No, thank you.
—Sure you do. La Cuzio approaches him, picking up a pitcher of water and a plastic cup from a table on the way. He stands in front of Lee and pours the water into the cup all the way, until it brims over. Then he hands it to Lee and says, —There you go. Drink it.
—I don’t want it.
—I can hear your mouth sticking together, it’s so dry. You must be very nervous.
—I’m sick. I got sick in jail. It’s horrible there. I got very sick. As if on cue, he sneezes.
—Suit yourself. La Cuzio reaches out and takes the cup back from Lee and returns with it and the pitcher to the table. He sets both down and says, —Mr. Fisher, you shot Clayton Kabede, correct?
—Yes, unfortunately I did and I feel terrible about it and wish to God I hadn’t had to.
—What did you use to shoot him?
Lee hesitates. —Is that a real question?
La Cuzio raises his eyebrows, indicating it is indeed.
—I used a gun.
—Where’d you get it?
—I kind of inherited it. It’s kind of something I inherited.
—In your statement to detectives you say it was a decoration. Is that correct? Do you remember saying that?
—I don’t remember much from that night, to be honest. It was too horrible.
—Do you keep all your home decor loaded and oiled and capable of destroying human beings?
—No.
—You did not own a decoration, you owned a firearm, correct?
—I owned a firearm, yes, sir. I never intended to use it.
La Cuzio tells the grand jury, —At trial, the court will hear testimony from forensic firearms experts proving that Mr. Fisher’s so-called decorative family heirloom was in fact fired very often, even as recently as three days before the shooting. The illegally owned gun was a fully functional, deadly weapon kept for one purpose and that was shooting. Mr. Fisher, did you have a license for your gun?
—The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution says nothing about a license.
—Yes or no, please.
—I applied for one. They took my two-hundred-dollar fee and rejected my application without even considering it. That’s how the process works in New York. It ain’t nothing but a charade.
—Was denied a license, La Cuzio translates for the grand jury, nodding as though mentally checking some box. He turns to them. —I remind you that New York City law requires a license for a gun. Owning a functioning firearm without a license—even if it does just look good on your bookshelf—is a felony crime. A felony crime. And Mr. Fisher has just told you he did not have a license. And, Mr. Fisher, when your application was rejected you decided you would just go ahead and have a gun anyway because laws don’t apply to guys like you, right?
—Not at all, Lee says. Then he says, —What kind of guy’s that?
La Cuzio does not tell him. It feels like the grand jury knows what he means. La Cuzio says, —You feel you are above the law, don’t you?
—No, I do not, Lee says, speaking directly to the jury now. —New York decided it was above the United States Constitution. They make you have a license but they have no intention of ever giving you one. Unless you’re a cop. So it’s an illegal gun ban. A violation of our basic rights. We have rights we are born with, and one of them is the right to self-defense. But somewhere along the line, politicians like this one here decided they could violate those rights and throw us in jail if we take issue with it. And if you ask me, that ain’t right. That ain’t right. La Cuzio starts to say something but Lee interrupts him. —Do you have a gun?
—Please simply answer my questions, Mr. Fisher.
—You do, don’t you? La Cuzio protests but Lee talks over him, —He does. I know he does. Know why? He used to be a cop. Know how I know that? I read the news, I pay attention. I read between the lines. So he gets to throw other guys in jail for doing the same thing he does? See, that’s not fair to me. The same cops we read about in the news every day killing unarmed people without justification and without consequence, they get the guns and the rest of us don’t? Cops get to protect their families but the rest of us don’t? Normal, everyday people: our children aren’t as important as cops’ children? Is my son’s life less important than Mr. La Cuzio’s kids? That just don’t seem right to me. It don’t seem right.
La Cuzio is staring down at papers in his hands as he says, —You think you’re a normal, everyday person, huh?
—That’s right. Just a normal kind of guy.
—How many homes do you own?
—Well, eight. No, nine, technically.
—He doesn’t even know, ladies and gentlemen. He’s such a normal guy he doesn’t even know. I wish I had inherited so much money I could lose track of how many homes I own. Maybe then I could do whatever I wanted too, without consequence. Mr. Fisher, how much did you inherit? Before Lee can even answer, La Cuzio says, —Doesn’t even know that either.
La Cuzio is visibly disgusted with Lee. It’s so personal. Lee is wondering if they somehow know each other. La Cuzio puts his hand to his eyes and rubs his forehead. The people in the jury look very uncomfortable. One woman keeps looking at the door. La Cuzio points to Lee without looking at him. —Born rich, white, and male. Doesn’t get more privileged than that, does it? He grew up in a time of peace and economic stability. He foug
ht in no wars, he lived through no political upheaval, he suffered no famine, he faced none of the dangers faced by eighty percent of the world. Clean water. Access to education. Top-notch doctors. Medicine. He had every privilege, every advantage; he was given every benefit of the doubt. He had wealth. He had property. It still wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. He wanted to feel important. And heroic. He felt it was part of his entitlement to feel like a soldier without putting his life on the line for his country. To feel like a cop without putting his life on the line for his city. To feel tough without actually being tough. La Cuzio looks over at the jury. —At trial, the court will hear testimony that Mr. Fisher is known in his community as a reclusive racist, a cold, paranoid person who wants nothing to do with his neighbors.
—I am not, Lee says.
La Cuzio says, —In fact he even once viciously screamed at and chased the young children living in his building for having the nerve to play in the hallway outside his door. One of those children? A young Clayton Kabede, who Fisher would go on to one day slaughter in almost that exact same spot.
—Now hold on, Lee says to the jurors, —I don’t know what he’s talking about. I remember the kids who lived in my building thought I was Boo Radley, you know, from To Kill a Mockingbird? They used to come up to my door and knock and try to get me to come out. It was kind of a game. And once or twice I thought it would be nice to kind of play with them and so I gave them a little knock back. When I did they all shrieked and ran away. It was a game.
La Cuzio ignores him and says, —If you want to put this entitled man and his gun away, now is the time to do it, folks. If you want to make an entitled man who thinks he is above the law finally, finally for once in his life, face the consequences the rest of us have to face, now is the time to do it. The power is in your hands. The choice is yours. Put him away. Don’t let another entitled guy with a gun get away with murdering someone. La Cuzio stops abruptly and looks at Lee. —Mr. Fisher, you’re shaking your head. Do you disagree with what I’m saying?
—Well, yes, sir, I reckon I do.
—I reckon I do, La Cuzio mimics. —You think you’re a real cowboy, don’t you?
—It’s just the way we talk, is all, where I come from.
—Is it? And where’s that?
Lee tells him about the mountain.
—Was it a real mountain?
—Yessir.
—Does it still exist?
—No, sir.
—It never really did, did it? It was fake.
—I grew up on it, so it was real to me.
—It was a landfill. Are you sure that’s the kind of guy you are? A cowboy?
—Yessir.
—But that kind of guy is not real, is he? He’s never existed. He’s a myth, isn’t he?
Lee’s answer is immediate but calm, —He ain’t a myth. He’s real.
—Uh-huh, well, which part do you disagree with? By all means, explain to these hardworking people who have real problems, explain to these people of color, explain to these women, these people who work full-time, more than full-time, these people who have gone through hell and high water to come to this country, these people who are sick and can’t afford treatment, these people who grind themselves to the bone each and every day just to keep their heads above water, who live in neighborhoods where bullets whizz by their heads, where they get mugged, where kids shoot each other to death outside their door, explain to them why you have it so hard that you need a gun. Please, by all means, do what you have foolishly and needlessly and dangerously been trying to do all your life: defend yourself. La Cuzio sits on the corner of the table with an expectant smile like he is about to watch stand-up comedy.
—I don’t know. You keep saying I have so much, but I don’t feel like I have a whole hell of a lot.
La Cuzio laughs out loud, turning toward the jury as if to say, Are you getting a load of this guy?
Lee says, —I mean, my father’s a piece of work, he ain’t never been much of a father to me. My mother never cared about me as much as herself. Neither of them have been in my life since I was a kid. So no family. Several properties, yes, but never a home. No love. So really I ain’t never had nothing at all. Until my son. Now that I have my son, I have everything. Everything. The rest of it—my property, my money, all that—go ahead and take it, I didn’t earn it, it’s never meant much to me. But you’ve already tried to take my ability to keep my son safe, and now you want to lock me up to keep me away from him altogether, just for doing what I have the right to do? You do that, you’re taking everything I have. You’re taking it all. Does that seem right to you? They tell me it’s up to y’all: if you think I did something wrong that deserves going to jail for, then go on ahead and indict me. But if you don’t, then you’re free not to. So I’m asking: Does it seem right to you?
(Sheeple X & XI)
I wander from car to car throwing the fastball: —Please, mang. I been out since six o’clock this morning, mang, looking for a job, mang. I’m tired, mang. I got sick, mang, I lost my job. I ain’t got no family, mang, I’m just trying to get something to eat, mang, I can’t even afford a cup of coffee, mang, please help me out, this ain’t no joke, this could happen to anybody, mang, y’all don’t know how easily, mang.
Car after car and they all ignore me so I get mad, and at the next stop when doors open I steal a white lady’s phone out her hand, book it. Doors close, train continues, white lady still looking at her hand like the phone still in it. Cop chasing me. Shit, they was one right there on the platform, saw the whole damned thing! Now to run the bases, inside-the-park homer, mang! Bounce up the stairs and out to the station, up to the street. Cop chasing. Run into the street, through traffic, cabs almost killing me, cop yelling. Turn real quick, use the phone to snap a photo of him! And then still running, text them shits to all the white lady’s people! Get away, hide out in NY Public Library. Read books, or look at them at least, I can’t understand them shits, mang, foreign language. Looking at teenage tourist ass. I can be charming with the chicos. —Hey, dude, hey, bro, where you from? Why am I so dirty, you ask? Aw, mang, I’m in a band, mang, we been on tour, living that rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, mang, we been in Japan, Paris, Los Angeles. Where you staying, bro?
Go back with two of them. Skinny Oklahoma Justin Biebers, fifteen or sixteen. I use their computer to find some music, say it’s mine, they believe me. One of them’s more into me than the other and it’s the other who’s finer one but you take what you can get, and this one and I start trying to fuck and the finer one sees what we doing and acts shocked and says, —Oh my God, dude, and the one says, —What’s the matter? and the first asks if he’s serious, then leaves.
Then there’s a knock on the door, mang, a mean cop knock. And I’m pulling my pants on and yanking up on the window, but them shits don’t open but an inch or two, mang. I’m trying to squeeze through anyway, mang, and a stern white man voice outside is saying, —Kevin, goddammit, open up this instant!
It’s the dude’s dad, mang, and he got hotel security with him, and I know firsthand that hotel security beat you worse than the cops, mang. And they do, mang. They take me downstairs, beat the fuck out of me, tell the cops I did it to myself and cops believe them, mang. Arrest my ass for rape, mang, they saying the kid fifteen years old, mang, like I’m some old man, but I’m only eighteen, mang.
Put me on the bus with blood and snot dried all over my face and some white fat dude sit next to me and I’m in no kind of mood, mang, and he just look like one of them security guards who was calling me faggot and beating my ass in the basement. So I want this dude out of my sight right now, for real. I want him ejected from the game, mang. I know my life fucked now, mang, I ain’t never getting out, and I’m trying not to cry, there ain’t no crying in baseball, and the only way to not cry is to spit at this dude and scream at him and tell him he is what those motherfuckers told me I was, mang. So I call him that and he ain’t leaving like he need to, so I keep calling him
it. And I can see that he going to cry now too, and that feels good, not being the only one. And he says, voice breaking and shit, —Dude, you understand my predicament here, what am I supposed to do?
That make me go off harder on his ass, but when we get to the Tombs, mang, all I’m thinking is Predicament? What the fuck is predicament? I don’t know the word. I get obsessed with it, mang. I gotta know what predicament mean. It’s like a bug in my ear canal, mang. I ask everyone I can inside: —Hey, bro, what predicament mean? They think I’m crazy. First thing I do they put me back up in Rikers, I don’t even wash the snot and blood off my face, I go to the library, find a dictionary, look that shit up. Definition of predicament is a bunch more words I don’t understand, mang, so I gotta look up each of them too. Now all I’m doing is looking up word after word. Truth is, I like it, mang. I like looking up words. And I start reading. And understanding that shit too. It all clicking for me right now, mang. And I come to realize, mang, my life a whole big goddamned predicament—of my own making, mang.
I start writing, mang. Using the words I’m learning now. I write about baseball, mang. I love baseball, but baseball, mang? Baseball? Back when I played Little League there was this kid on my team and I was in love with him. And I told him that, mang, I told him I love you. It was stupid but I didn’t know, mang—I didn’t know. And he said, You faggot, and he raped me, mang. He beat my ass and raped me. That’s what I get, mang, for not knowing better. And I write about that and people like it, my writing teacher inside here, mang, he sends it to Sports Illustrated, mang, and they publish that shits, mang. And all these dudes start sending me letters up here saying it happened to them too and that what I wrote helped them, mang. And that feel better than anything I’ve ever experienced before in my life, mang, and I decide I want nothing from life but words and helping people, mang. And that’s all I been doing in here ever since, mang, and that’s all I’m gonna be doing rest of my life, mang, either in here or out there but most likely in here, mang: helping people like me out of our predicaments.