“Mmm, it does sound nice, and I appreciate the offer, but I never get any sleep around you.”
“I’ll be good.”
“I won’t.” She took my hand off her and squeezed it. “I promise I’ll see you before Thanksgiving, okay?”
“Okay.” I gathered the rest of my clothes and began to put them on.
“Besides,” she said, “these two weeks will give you a chance to catch up on your own work.”
My own work. My own work included a report supporting the same bill Gianna was fighting against.
“In the interests of full disclosure,” I said, “I think I should tell you . . .”
She turned and looked at me, her eyes gleaming with excitement. “Tell me what?”
Maybe she wouldn’t find out. Better yet, maybe I could use her own arguments against her.
“Tell me what?” she said again.
“That . . . that you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met.”
She stared at me without speaking, then slowly sank into the chair next to her. I finished tying my shoes, then stood to leave.
“Bye now.” I kissed her on the forehead and walked out.
8
Ne Cadant in Obscurum
Monday morning I arrived early at the office to work on the War Against Crime report. Obviously, a reduction in violence was not among my goals and objectives for this or any other year. I had conceived of many methods for humans to increase crime while appearing to fight it. The War Against Crime bill contained most of these methods—at least the ones acceptable to a democratic society.
When my secretary arrived, she brought me my mail and a fresh cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Daphne. How was your weekend?”
“Smashing, Mr. Lucifer. And yours?”
“Very good, thanks.”
“I can tell. You’ve been so much less gloomy this last week. It’s a refreshing change, I must say.”
Daphne had been my secretary for seventeen years, since the day I recruited her straight out of community college. The college’s career services department had given me the personality test results of each member of the graduating class. I wanted someone who exhibited no moral values whatsoever except one: loyalty. Within a year I had bought her allegiance with money, respect, and the occasional night of unforgettable sex. After she married, her sexual fidelity transferred itself to her husband, but when it came to important matters, matters of business, Daphne was with me until death.
She picked up the dictation tapes on the side of my desk and started to walk out.
“Hold on.” I poured the coffee into a glass mug, then raised my laser pointer and shone it through the mug. Daphne sighed. A faint red dot wavered back and forth on the wall. “What happened to the coffee I made this morning?” I asked her.
She curled her lip. “There’s not enough creamer in the world to make your coffee drinkable.”
“I don’t take cream, so I’m not interested in that observation. Please find me a stronger cup, something not so translucent.”
Daphne took my coffee cup, tossed her auburn hair over her shoulder, and left without a word. I returned to the chart I was constructing. I had to choose the scale and time frames that would make the rise in crime look most alarming.
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Carvalho, Ms. O’Keefe is here to see you.”
An involuntary grin passed over my face. “Great. Send her in.” I closed the program to hide my work, then stood to greet Gianna.
She entered, then leaned back against the closed door. “Hi,” she said.
“Hi. This is a nice surprise.” I crossed the room halfway towards her.
“Yeah, I was just, uh, leaving work.” She pushed her rumpled hair back from her face and let her gaze travel over my office.
“You’ve been up all night?”
She nodded. “I’m pretty tired, but . . . I’m also really wired.” She looked straight at me and tilted her head. “Really, really wired.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” I moved toward her. Her eyes feasted on my face and body. I reached behind her to lock the door, then stopped. “Wait a minute.” I opened the door and poked my head out.
“Daphne . . . ah, I don’t have any appointments for the next hour . . .” I looked back at Gianna, who had already kicked her shoes off and was sitting on the edge of my desk, swinging her legs like a schoolgirl, “or hour and a half, do I?”
Daphne gave me a patronizing glare. “Let me guess. No interruptions.”
“You read my mind.” I lowered my voice. “But buzz me at ten-thirty, so I can wrap this up before the subcommittee chair gets here at eleven.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t that be awkward?”
I locked my office door and joined Gianna at my desk. “I’m glad you decided to drop by.”
“Uh-huh.” She pulled my head down to meet hers. Though it had been scarcely forty-eight hours since I’d been with her, I kissed her like a thirsty man at a well, and sank into her soft embrace.
“I feel so cheap, so used.”
“Sorry.” Gianna pulled on her stockings. “But I need to go home and sleep for a few hours before heading back to the office.”
“How’s your testimony coming?” I straightened the knot on my tie and combed my hair in the mirror.
“Brilliant. I’ll have those fascists crying in their coffee.”
“What do you have so far?”
“It all depends on which years’ statistics you compare. If you compare today’s crime rates to those of fifteen years ago, it looks like it’s skyrocketed, and everyone panics and starts building prisons and throwing children into them. But compared to a few years ago, the FBI’s numbers show that crime, particularly violent crime, has actually fallen.”
“But the public is afraid,” I said. “You’re not going to win any support by telling them that it’s all in their heads.”
“I know that. The other half of the equation is to show that prevention is the key to stopping crime, and I’m not talking preachy public service announcements. I’m talking about getting at the root of criminal behavior.”
“Which is?”
“Poverty.”
I covered my mouth to hold back my laughter.
“What’s so funny?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“You have a different theory?”
“You mean, for instance, that all humans are inherently evil? That’s more than a theory. It’s a fact.”
“You don’t believe that,” she said.
“I do.”
“Why?”
“Why does anyone believe anything? Because from my point of view it’s true.”
Gianna finished buttoning her blouse. “They say that one’s worldview is a reflection of one’s own self-image.” She looked at me. “Do you believe you’re inherently evil?”
I met her gaze for a few moments, then turned away without answering her. She followed me.
“I think sometimes that you hate yourself,” she said. “You try to hide it under your vanity and arrogance, but they only magnify it.” She slid her warm hand under my arm. “You’re not evil.”
I tensed. “How do you know I’m not evil?”
Gianna didn’t blink or flinch. “Because on rare occasions,” she said, “I can see inside of you.” Her voice stooped to a whisper. “And I know who you really are, underneath your mask.”
“No, you don’t, Gianna. If you really could see . . .” I brushed her hand off my arm and turned away. “You should go now. I have a meeting to prepare for.” I returned to my desk and began to shuffle through a stack of papers.
“There’s a light in your eyes, Louis. You’ve probably never seen it. But I’ve seen it.”
She was out the door before I could respond. After a few moments, I moved to the mirror and examined my eyes.
Nothing. Even the light spilling from the window was sucked deep into my pupils instead of reflecting off their surfaces. Like
two miniature black holes, my eyes consumed every particle of light and hope that dared approach me.
9
Tremens Factus Sum Ego et Timeo
“. . . To summarize, Mr. Chairman, our research indicates that increased penalties for juvenile offenders, including prosecution as adults, incarceration with adults, and lowered minimum ages for the death penalty, have resulted and will continue to result in higher rates of violent crime, as well as higher rates of recidivism.”
I sat in my boardroom, watching Gianna’s testimony on one of the congressional access channels. Her evidence was solid, her analysis was thorough, and she presented her case well, like the brilliant lawyer she must have been. I had taken three full pages of notes during the testimony. Her views were fascinating—ludicrous, but fascinating.
“Furthermore,” Gianna continued, “the shift in juvenile justice philosophy from an emphasis on rehabilitation to an emphasis on punishment represents a dangerous revision of attitude. If our solution to the problem of juvenile crime is to shut these kids away and pretend they don’t exist, then our nation will lose one of its most valuable resources—its youth. Any steps to reduce juvenile violence should be taken in a way that increases, rather than decreases, their chance to become full, contributing members of society. Young lives, representing the future of America, are at stake. I urge you to vote against this bill as it exists. Thank you.”
The camera angle shifted to the chairman, who was watching Gianna with his chin in his palm. He cleared his throat before replying.
“Yes, very nicely stated, Ms., um, O’Keefe. However, this committee has employed an outside research firm to provide analysis of the issue, and from this report it looks like, rather than being too hard on these juveniles when we send them to prison, we’re coddling them.”
Here it comes. I began to twirl my pencil between my fingers.
“Coddling them, sir?” Gianna said. “With all due respect, have you ever been in prison?”
A guffaw broke from the throat of the congresswoman sitting next to the chairman. She beamed at Gianna.
“No, ma’am, I’m happy to report that I have never been incarcerated,” the chairman said. “Anyway, this report shows that the average length of institutionalization for violent juveniles is 353 days. Doesn’t it bother you, Ms. O’Keefe, that a teenager who commits cold-blooded murder could be back in our neighborhoods in less than a year?”
Gianna frowned and tapped her pen against her notepad. “Mr. Chairman, may I see that report?”
“Certainly.” A page passed my report to Gianna. The pencil in my hand spun faster.
Gianna pulled a pair of glasses from her pocket and put them on. I knew she didn’t need them but rather was using them as a stalling tactic to grant her more time to examine the report before reacting. She scanned the introduction, then flipped to the figures. Her brow creased, then she glanced at the foot of the page for the source of the report.
Gianna froze. My pencil snapped.
Her eyes widened for a moment, and she took half a sharp breath before returning to the same cool composure she’d kept during her entire testimony.
“Do you need more time before you respond, Ms. O’Keefe?” asked the chairman.
“No,” she said, “I’m ready.”
I left the VCR to record. On my way out of the office I grabbed my coat and said to Daphne, “I’m going over to the Hill. I might be back later.”
I arrived at the Rayburn House Office Building in five minutes and waited across the street outside the North Entrance. Soon Gianna appeared through the bronze-etched doors, accompanied by a tall, smiling man with light brown hair and tiny glasses. When she reached the landing, she spied me. She barely broke stride, but continued down the stairs to the sidewalk, where she continued her conversation with the man.
He seemed to be trying to convince her to go somewhere. Gianna was shaking her head and gesturing vaguely at the Capitol Building behind me. Then a short black woman in a green suit came out of the building and joined the other two. Their argument stopped, and a minute later Gianna ended the conversation with a nod and a tight smile. Her colleagues waved goodbye to her and walked west towards South Capitol Street. Gianna turned to face me.
“I’m sorry,” I shouted across Independence Avenue.
“You should be,” she shouted back.
She moved up the street towards the crosswalk at New Jersey Avenue. I followed her on my side.
“I had a job to do,” I said.
“I understand that.”
“I had the job before I ever knew you were working on this bill, before I even met you.” I trotted across to meet her on the median strip. She continued walking past me. “But I should have told you.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “you definitely should have told me. Why didn’t you?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Right. And I’m not upset now. After all, I was only just nearly humiliated in front of a congressional subcommittee while being simulcast on C-Span. And there was so little at stake: my job, my reputation, not to mention the millions of lives affected by this bill.”
“How did it go?”
“I shredded your argument like confetti,” she said.
“I see.”
“Those figures were for all juvenile violent crimes put together. You didn’t weight the numbers for the seriousness of the crime. The majority of those convictions were simple assault, so of course that will dramatically lower the average time served. It’s like throwing two oranges in a bushel of apples and then claiming that oranges are red.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“That’s the flaw I wanted you to notice.”
She stopped. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not saying it was a free gift. My report was logically tight, tight enough to fool my client the chairman. But not so tight that someone as brilliant as you couldn’t poke holes in it.”
Gianna pointed her briefcase at me. “Are you saying you threw the fight?”
“Very carefully, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it meant more to you than it did to me.”
“So?”
“Gianna, you know that the truth is infinitely malleable, and that anyone can manipulate the data to fit his or her version of the truth. I didn’t care as much about my truth as you did about yours. So I wanted you to have your way, if you were good enough to deserve it, which obviously you are.”
“I don’t get it.” She started walking past the steps of the Capitol. “People around here don’t do things like that unless they want something from you. What do you want from me, Louis?”
“To begin with, I want you not to be mad at me.”
“I’m still mad at you for not telling me. But I suppose that could have been seen as a conflict of interest. Even now, seeing us together, people might suspect.”
I gestured behind us. “Who was that man you were talking to outside the Rayburn Building?”
Gianna shrugged and looked away. “Just a colleague of mine. You know, what you did could hurt your reputation as a consultant.”
“They’ll have forgotten about it by next week. All I have to do is analyze some issue in a clever way that feeds their belief system. Toss them another bone.” I slipped my arm around her waist. “Besides, I can always find another profession if this one doesn’t work out.”
“You’ve always got your music,” she said.
“You’d rather date a poor musician than a rich consultant, wouldn’t you?”
“I do prefer macaroni and cheese to filet mignon.”
“All right, then.” I pulled her behind a hedge and kissed her nose. “Tonight we’ll eat macaroni and cheese out of a box, sitting on the floor, and I’ll play for you as long as you want, whatever you want, and you can dream your wildest fantasies about shacking up with me in a cramped, drafty sixth-floor walk-up studio apartment, washing my two
shirts by hand and hanging them out to dry on a line in the alleyway overlooking a decrepit pizza parlor, the proprietor of which gives us his leftover garlic bread at the end of the day because he feels sorry for us, and sometimes in the summer we make love on the fire escape because we’ve no air conditioning, and there’s nothing in our apartment but one frying pan, two forks, a used mattress, and a $100,000 Bösendorfer baby grand.”
“I’ll be there at eight.”
“I assume you want to eat it out of the pot,” I said to Gianna as she entered my living room.
“Just give me a fork and a paper napkin, and I’m good to go.” She held up a brown paper bag. “I even brought cheap beer.”
“What better way to celebrate your victory for the vermin?”
“Since I’ve already had a few beers with my colleagues, I’ll forget you said that.”
I took off her coat just as the kitchen timer rang.
“Here, I’ll hang it up,” she said. “You get that.”
I went to the kitchen, drained the tiny macaroni, and added the baby-aspirin-colored cheese powder, along with milk and butter.
“You realize, of course,” I carried the pot of orange ooze out to the living room, “that this is only fun because we can afford better.”
“Of course.” Gianna and I sat on the floor between the chair and the sofa. “I’ve seen too much poverty to romanticize it.”
“But you believe there’s a nobility in poverty, don’t you?” I popped the beer’s top with a short hiss. “A nobility in the suffering of the poor?”
“Are you kidding? No, poverty has a way of trampling the humanity out of people—a lot of people, anyway. I don’t think I could rise above it, personally. I’d be one of those kids popping a complete stranger because he looked at me funny.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Louis, I’m full of rage now, and I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman. I can’t imagine what I’d be like as fourteen-year-old boy with brand-new testosterone coursing through my system and nothing to look forward to in life. Joining a gang and hurting people, it’s the only way for them to get even a shred of power. People need power, and if they don’t get it, they take it. How can society shit on these kids and then expect them to follow its rules?”
Requiem for the Devil Page 8