That was how Arthur passed the time, discussing things and chatting with Ibrahim, reading poetry, on the lookout for any movement of the Armenian’s men, taking refuge in his memories, awaiting news from the lawyers Diana had hired to get him out of there. In the meantime, he curled up with his notebooks.
During what had so far been three years of captivity, he’d started writing again. It was hard at first, like turning on a tap that hasn’t been used for years and waiting impatiently for the water to flow, when all that trickles out are a few drops; likewise, his first verses were awkwardly constructed, with unclear images, and then little by little the old spirit returned to his mind and the wheels of poetry began turning once more — first timidly, and then with increasing courage. After a few weeks, the young poet whose life Arthur had too soon cut short emerged from the ashes. He struggled to satisfy his hunger with what was available in the prison library, so he had part of his personal collection brought in, savouring especially the poetry of Rimbaud.
Ibrahim observed that slow, silent invasion of space, overtaken by an army of books and notebooks, with a faintly disconcerted smile.
‘I’d never have guessed you were such a poet,’ he admitted.
Arthur nodded.
‘In one way or another, we all carry within us the totality of all men. Why we allow some to thrive and kill off the others is an unsolved mystery.’
Finally he got word. The request for pardon his lawyers had lodged with the Ministry of Justice was being processed by the Council of Ministers, but in order for it to be ruled upon they were requesting a hearing.
Before leaving the cell, Arthur perfunctorily adjusted the knot of his tie, sneaking a look at his reflection in the window. He felt strange in those clothes, after so long. The stiff collar of his shirt rubbed against the stubble at his Adam’s apple, and he felt the weight of the jacket on his hunched shoulders. He’d decided to wear a good suit, even though his lawyer had advised against it — especially the tie. ‘It projects an air of arrogance, and that’s one thing judges and prosecutors do not like.’ The lawyer had also asked him not to shave that morning. Bags under his eyes and the grey growing in on a three-day beard would help make him look vulnerable, distraught, as though he’d spent the night tossing and turning, worried about his immediate future. Arthur had refused to follow any of that advice. He flicked an inexistent speck of dust from his lapel with the back of his right hand, and for a moment his eyes rested on the white-gold band on his ring finger.
He looked like a different person. Everyone looked different. But they were all still the same, and that must have given him the courage he needed as he held the metal door handle, momentarily unable to turn it.
‘It’s going to go well,’ said Ibrahim. He’d helped him dress and was now calming his nerves.
‘You think so?’
The Muslim man nodded, displaying his gum disease.
‘Of course. It always goes well for the rich, and you’re rich, right? Well then, nothing to worry about.’
Arthur embraced Ibrahim.
‘You’re a real friend.’
Ibrahim made no reply, but his hooded look did it for him. He diverted his attention to the half-open cell door.
‘You have to make a good impression on the outside.’
His court appearance had been scheduled for eleven o’clock, but the transfer was taking place more than an hour ahead of schedule to avoid his being mobbed by the press.
‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ his attorney warned him, already gowned. His prominent cheekbones stretched the pale skin on his face taut, giving him the air of an edgy anorexic. The man was constantly flicking his hair back with a nervous gesture, jiggling his expensive watch as though it were a bell bracelet. Lefthanded, he wrote with a gold pen, and exuded a subtle lemon scent with the faintest hint of coffee and blonde tobacco. He spoke slowly, enunciating carefully as though he were at a business meeting, going over each agenda item one by one. He had them all written down in his planner and followed the list with the tip of his pen as he spoke.
‘That’s what you’re getting paid for, to make it easy,’ Arthur replied. The lawyer’s affected mannerisms and excessive theatricality annoyed him.
‘The fact that the deceased were both so young — especially the girl — goes against you, Señor Fernández. What’s more, just today I was informed that the boy’s mother’s lawyers lodged an objection to the pardon. The mother is asking that you serve your entire sentence.’ He periodically glanced at Arthur over his stylish glasses, to ensure his client understood what he was trying to say. He wasn’t really seeing him. Arthur was just an object, a problem to be solved in the most brilliant way possible.
Arthur tightened his jaw.
‘So what do I have going for me?’
The attorney cleared his throat.
‘To begin with, the fact that I’m defending you. With a little luck, I’ll get the judge to impose some precautionary measures and you’ll be able to leave prison until the final ruling is issued. As shocking as the case is, these were indeed accidental deaths — involuntary manslaughter — and you’ve served three quarters of your sentence.’
The lawyer tossed his head for the nth time, forcing his wayward hair into place, and gave a little shrug, as if he’d forgotten one minor detail.
‘Another thing that might play in your favour is mentioning the Aroha situation — only if it’s strictly necessary, of course.’
‘Not a chance,’ Arthur whispered, eyes boring into the attorney. ‘I thought I made that very clear. My daughter is off limits.’
The lawyer gave Arthur a disconcerted look, as though he didn’t understand why the man was unnecessarily complicating the situation.
‘Listen, you want to get off, right? That’s why you’re paying my firm’s retainer, which isn’t cheap, and that’s why they asked me to represent you here today. The judge might need to be reminded of your pre-existing circumstances, of what led to the fateful day of the accident.’
‘Forget it. End of subject,’ Arthur repeated, unyielding.
The lawyer shook his head in resignation. Whatever, his expression seemed to say.
The courtroom was small, with creaky wooden floors and a long prefab table at which sat the judge, prosecutor, and a court clerk. To the left a young woman was taking notes and consulting a small red book that must have been the penal code. She was the lawyer involved in the private suit being brought by Gloria A. Tagger, the dead boy’s mother. Representing the six-year-old girl, Rebecca, who had also died in the accident, there was no one. Her father, the Armenian, had sent the judge a letter stating that he didn’t believe in the justice of the state, he believed in his own justice. And one way or another, he was going to see that it was served.
At an identical table sat Arthur’s lawyer and an intern, whispering something into his ear and casting glances around like a conspirator. They were all wearing the long black gowns designed to instill fear or imbue authority, or both. On the wall before them hung a picture of the king formally opening the judicial year, and two flags. It was all clinical, silent, procedural. There was almost no one in the public gallery: a couple of kids who might have been law school students, spiral notebooks at the ready so as not to miss a single detail of the show.
The hearing began, opening statements were heard, and when it was Arthur’s lawyer’s turn, he addressed the judge with a somewhat condescending smile. He removed his glasses slowly, with exaggerated theatricality, and tut-tutted, looking annoyed.
‘My client was sentenced to four-and-a-half years for the deaths of Ian Mackenzie Tagger and Rebecca Luján Montes, and has already served well over half that time, with favourable recommendations from the parole board. He has paid the millions imposed as compensation to both of the families affected by the tragic fatal accident, which he caused and for which he was charged with involuntary mansl
aughter on 18 January 2001. My client is a respected member of society, a well-known entrepreneur with no prior convictions. He has a permanent address and sufficient funds to meet any guarantee this tribunal might require — whether handing over his passport, paying any bail the court might set, or accepting other control measures imposed upon him. My client has most definitely, profusely and publicly, made known the remorse he feels. For all these reasons — bearing his personal circumstances in mind — it is our consideration that his appeal for pardon be granted by the Ministry of Justice. Thank you.’
After this statement came others, for and against. Expert opinions were given — findings presented by psychiatrists and psychologists — and guarantees of further compensation to the families of the deceased. The court noted the objections made by the lawyers for the family opposed to granting a pardon, then came a recess and the closing statements. Both sides spoke in legalese, which was like a monotonous drone, the words enunciated with zero emphasis by either party. No one cared about anything but the fastidious following of procedure.
Arthur closed his eyes, trying to escape. He didn’t feel nervous, nor was he heavy-hearted. Sitting there on the wooden bench between the two police officers guarding him, he got the impression that nothing happening there had anything to do with him. It was as if, despite being the protagonist of the whole event, the bit players had stolen the show, discarding him, and the final outcome didn’t depend on him in the slightest. He gazed at the photos the experts had taken the day of the accident, numbered and pinned on a corkboard, which an officer had wheeled in and positioned so that everyone could see. Specialists spoke of mathematical formulas, calculating trajectories and braking distances, offering hypotheses and numbers that some then refuted and others confirmed, depending on their need to demonstrate his guilt or innocence.
None of it had anything to do with him. None of them was even close to understanding what had truly happened that rainy morning.
Two hours later, the hearing was over, the ruling made.
Arthur’s lawyer smiled on the way out, as though the two of them had just enjoyed a picnic on the beach together.
‘That went well. If I were you, I’d start packing my bags.’
He was trying to be funny, but the glint in Arthur’s eyes froze his smile.
‘Why are you so happy, counsellor? I killed two people, and now they’re going to set me free. Isn’t the idea that people go into law because they believe in the justice system?’
‘Exactly. I do believe in the system. It was an accident. You were drunk, it was raining hard, and the street was in a terrible condition. Those kids started crossing the street before the light at the crosswalk had turned green. It was all a series of unfortunate coincidences that resulted in tragedy.’
‘Is that the conclusion you’ve come to, after all your reflections?’ Arthur asked sarcastically, pointing to the attorney’s planner. ‘I read the appeal, there’s no need to parrot it back to me. I’m not the judge so you don’t have to keep playing your role on my account. Come on, you can do better than that. You think you can walk in here with a holier-than-thou air like you’re above good and evil and absolve me of my sins just because you questioned me a couple of times?’
He could see his attorney was growing increasingly uncomfortable.
‘I’m not judging you. That’s what the judge does. I acted impartially.’
‘You don’t have a fucking clue.’
‘There’s no need to be vulgar, Arthur.’
‘Oh, yes, there is. It’s the only civilised thing I can do.’
His last few nights in jail, Arthur could hardly sleep. Every minute of every hour was like a re-enactment of those other nights — the terrible ones when he thought it would never end. He talked and smoked with Ibrahim, bestowing guilt-ridden affection upon him, tainted by the evidence that Ibrahim’s words were true: Arthur’s money and influence were indeed getting him out of there much sooner than the wheels of justice would ever turn for his cellmate. They never brought up the reasons they were in prison, never tried to proclaim their innocence or guilt. On the inside, certain things were simply not talked about — and when they were released those same things would lose all meaning, so there was no need to express them verbally to begin with.
Dawn often took him by surprise, having lain awake all night. And that particular morning — red clouds in the distance — was going to be stormy. The floodlights on the perimeter wall were trained on the empty prison yard and benches lining the wall. A cat prowled the ledge slowly, knowing it was still his domain for a little while longer. To the right, casting his flashlight back and forth, was the swaying silhouette of the guard on duty. There was one hour left until the siren would blare and the world of artificial serenity would vanish into thin air. Other sounds, the everyday sounds that slowly enveloped him, gave it all an air of normality: the clanging of gates on the cellblock, the orderly’s footsteps, the coughing of prisoners in nearby cells … even the sound of a transistor radio filtering under the metal door like a distant murmur.
Arthur sat on the edge of the cot and placed his bare feet on the green cement floor. Someone must have thought that painting in that colour would make it seem like a meadow. The ground was cold. Ibrahim’s body was barely visible in the dark, an arm wrapped around his pillow. Arthur heard him sigh before turning over and going back to sleep, and he took advantage of the solitude that afforded him to write a letter.
He’d been contemplating it for days, and the need he felt to write it had intensified when he found out he was going to be freed. Common sense told him that whatever words he might scribble were uncalled for, might even be counterproductive. It makes no sense to stir things up once the dust has settled, unless you want the dust to rise once more. He had no desire to reopen wounds that hadn’t even scarred over. So what was it that he was trying to do? He himself was unsure of his intentions, as he leaned toward the window to capture what little light he could from the weak glow of the searchlights and put pen to paper. He could have done it after he was out of jail — but by then the impulse would have faded. He had to do it there, between those four walls, by the barred window, with the smell of incarceration permeating their sheets, their clothes, their skin; he had to do it before it all faded away, vanishing as if it had never occurred.
He wrote for twenty minutes, hardly even pausing to consider his words, simply transferring them onto paper as they gurgled forth chaotically, like haemorrhaging blood.
When he was done he felt no better. He slipped the paper into an envelope and collapsed onto his cot, eyes open. He could still get an hour’s sleep.
But something made him sit up. He heard the metallic sound of the bolt in the cell door sliding back.
Arthur turned to the small square of light on the floor and suddenly knew that something was wrong. This was not the time for a headcount, and even if that’s what it was, no guard showed up inside a cell without announcing his arrival. Silently, he woke Ibrahim and pointed to the door. In the crack of light coming in, they could see someone’s shadow.
Slowly, cautiously, as though attempting not to be heard, the intruder pushed the metal door ajar. The enormous figure in the doorway, its shadow projected onto the cot, was certainly not a guard: guards aren’t skinheads, guards don’t have spiderweb tattoos on their faces. The man held something in his right hand — an icepick or sharpened piece of glass. He must have been thrown off by seeing his target standing there before him, and that brief moment of hesitation was enough to allow Arthur to dodge the man’s first thrust. After lunging at the air, his attacker froze for a split second.
This fleeting moment of hesitation allowed Arthur to reach the man’s side and, before he had a chance to react, punch him in the kidneys — hard. Like some surreal scene out of a silent movie, the attacker’s hands flew to his side and he opened his mouth wide in a silent howl. A blow like that would have felled a
normal man, but the giant wasn’t about to submit. He clenched his teeth and charged Arthur, pinning him to the wall. Arthur was bigger than most of the other inmates in the cellblock but looked a wimp compared to this guy. He pummelled the man’s head, punching his ears and trying to jam his fingers into his eyes, but it did nothing to diminish the strength and impact of this brute, who was grunting like a wounded boar, thrusting his blade at Arthur’s face as Arthur tried desperately to dodge him.
And then, suddenly, his attacker opened his eyes wide, his pupils dilating as if something inside him had exploded. He gurgled briefly and spat a sludgy clump of blood onto Arthur’s face before collapsing sideways, lifeless on the floor. From the other side of the cell, Ibrahim watched the slow death rattle wrack the man’s body, an icepick sticking out of his neck. Ibrahim trembled with the exertion of that thrust still coursing through the muscles in his neck. He wiped bloodstained fingers across his face — for a moment making the dry hollow of his scar look like a crimson river — and crouched beside the body to check his vitals.
‘Is he dead?’ Arthur asked, panting.
Ibrahim nodded, thinking fast.
‘The guards will be here any minute, we need to get rid of it somehow, and quick. If they connect you to this, you can forget about walking out through the big door.’
The Heart Tastes Bitter Page 6