Let the Great World Spin

by Colum McCann

  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 McCa_9781400063734_4p_04_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:39 PM Page 261

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  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.

  —

  t h er e wa s a l way s 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 McCa_9781400063734_4p_04_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:39 PM Page 262

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  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 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 McCa_9781400063734_4p_04_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:39 PM Page 263

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  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 in-stilled 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, Soder
berg, 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. Some-McCa_9781400063734_4p_04_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:39 PM Page 264

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  thing 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.

  —

  — c r imina l c our t a r r ai g n m e n t Part One- A, now in session. All

  rise.

  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.

  —Quiet, please. The Honorable Judge Soderberg presiding.

  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.

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  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.

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  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. Sun-bathing 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 il-lustrious 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 accel-erate 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.

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  —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 l evel?

  —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.

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  —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.