I pointed at my chest. “Me?”
Octavia squirmed in her seat. I had never seen her uncomfortable before.
“I’m a direct person. I don’t mind telling you the truth. I know you’ve noticed me staring at you. You remind me of a young man who mugged me after a parade on the avenue years ago. Took a family heirloom. A stopwatch that belonged to my mother.”
My mouth swung open at the accusation. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or yell.
“This one?” Octavia said. “He’s safe as they come.”
“That’s right.” I patted my chest. “I’m firm catastrophe warden for the fifty-ninth floor.”
“Three years running,” Octavia said.
Eckstein raised his hand. “That’s not the reason I’m not going with Seasons. It’s your firm profile. I’m sure you know by now how important a strong respect for diversity and community involvement is to us here at PHH. That comes from the board, not me.”
“What did you think of our materials?” Octavia asked.
“The numbers don’t convince me that Seasons has been dedicated to it for long enough. Offer your services again next year, and we can reevaluate.”
Eckstein got up. His upper lip curled. “For what it’s worth, the marketing campaign disgusts me, but it’s also exquisite—it’s just the kind of thing people in this town respond to.” I thought he might spit on us, but instead, he left.
Octavia and I walked down the hall. I moped. Octavia fumed.
I was the first to speak. “What do you think we should—”
Octavia shot a look of disgust. “Those bastards. Armbruster and his frat boys are going to have a field day when they hear about this. You think the firm wants me to succeed? They would just as soon have me sit quietly in the corner during shareholder meetings, batting my eyelashes and laughing at all their jokes. I’m the one who made them bring in you and Dinah and the rest of them. They would love if the firm were lily-white forever. Now this Eckstein thinks I’m some kind of poser, and you’re asking me what to do. How about you bring some ideas for a change?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No. It’s not your fault.” Octavia stopped and placed her palms against the wall. She wasn’t breathing. I was about to ask if she was okay when she kicked the metal panel that covered a fire extinguisher. She kicked the panel repeatedly until her shoe flew off. The panel was dented.
I grabbed her arm. “Stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”
She kicked the panel with her other foot and swiped hair out of her eyes. “I’m not going down quietly. It’s always men standing in my way. Well, not this time. I’ve only just started.” She told me to meet her in the garage and entered a restroom.
In the lobby atrium, a woman in a skimpy purple getup and matching fur coat stood on a temporary stage. She was thin, pale, and being questioned by a swarm of reporters.
In the garage, I was almost to Octavia’s Aston Martin when someone called to me. “Excuse me, but Ms. Breedlove would like to speak with you.” A man walked toward me from the stairwell. He wore a plastic purple kilt and a helmet with built-in sunglasses.
“Who?” I asked.
An entourage stepped out of the garage stairwell. There was something Picasso-esque about the group of young people with their architectural hairstyles and violet-color-schemed clothing. They arranged themselves on either side of the door. A musical cue, like digitally altered flutes, played from one of their devices. A musical herald.
Crooked Crown, her platform heels clicking on the cement, entered. Beneath her purple coat, which I now realized was more of a shawl, she wore a form-fitting outfit composed entirely of sizable purple patches, some of which seemed made of taffeta, others wool, and still others lace. Yet the patches exposed portions of skin in her R- and X-rated areas. This was to say nothing at all of the monitoring collar she wore around her neck.
Last year she had attacked a police officer while taping a locally shot live TV special for NBCBS. Most people would have gotten years in prison or been put down in the case of repeat offenders. But her record label lawyers had worked a deal that required she (1) dump a few hundred thousand dollars into the City coffers, and (2) not leave the City until the judge decided she’d suffered enough.
“Who are you?” she asked, her hips swinging like church bells as she approached. There was something otherworldly about her. “I saw your face on a billboard whilst being driven.” That was another thing I joshed Penny about: her phony British accent. But she had the involuntary effect that all celebrities had on me. Each time my cheeks flushed, and my IQ seemed to drop by a third. She must have seen the firm billboard that Octavia had put up.
I said I was a lawyer. I gave her my card.
“How do you live in this place?” she gestured as if to suggest my bed was stashed behind a pickup. “This town is like a vulture burning the flesh from my soul.”
“I get by,” I said.
“Do you know who she is?” the one in the kilt asked.
I told them I did.
“Only Crown, dahling,” another of the entourage, a girl wrapped in a purple cylinder, said. “She dropped the Crooked part when she went solo.”
“I fancy your style,” Crown said. “It’s rare that a body captures my attention. I wager you’re wondering why I’m here. Can I sign anything for you?”
“Sign?”
“My autograph. People seem to like when I do that.”
“Well, I don’t have—”
Crown raised a hand to her shoulder. One of her people placed a marker in her hand. She uncapped the marker, grabbed my shoulder with her free hand, then drew on my jacket what appeared to be a backward C.
14
I was a killer in court, a master of oratory, an unstoppable disciple of Cicero, Nelson Mandela, and Sukarma Kamenetz. But I hated going to court. Why? If you watched enough award-winning films or read a bunch of crime thrillers, as I did as a boy, you would get the distinct impression that courts of law, indeed, the entire system of codified expectations, was fueled by the search for truth. This was not so. Our courts were powered by two things and two things alone: fear and fear itself.
In court, I was afraid of everyone: the client who relied on my competence and zeal; the armed bailiff, whose job it was to subdue zealots like me when we overstepped our bounds; my opposing counsel, whose raison d’être was to cut my limbs from my body until I was nothing but head and torso; and the judge, whose duty was to pound me into the floorboards like a railroad spike. My opponent feared their own client, the bailiff, and the judge as I did. And even the judge feared the appellate courts that could overturn any decision with impunity. And the appellates feared, presumably, God. But who did God fear?
Dinah Viet Dinh sat to my left, fondling rosary beads, our elbows rubbing. We were on a pew in one of the lower chambers of City District Court surrounded by dozens of other attorneys. We were the only two non-whites in the hall. Not that I was counting.
It was Rule Day, a time for prayers and complaints to be heard. Every lawyer in the room had filed a pleading during the prior month, motions to stop things, motions to start things, injunctions against up, exceptions in favor of down. All throughout the hallowed courthouse, on each of the five floors, counselors perched on the edges of their seats, ready to grumble and carp on behalf of their patrons.
“Jesus Christ.” Dinah Viet Dinh folded a sheet of blue paper and slid it into her little metallic purse. “Does he ever show up on time?” The woman in the row in front of us, a blonde in a yarmulke, glanced back at Dinah. When the woman turned away, Dinah snarled her lips. Dinah was right, of course. Judge Lordes was notorious not only for showing up long after scheduled hearings but also for faulting lawyers who did the same. His disciples—for example, the court reporter who never pronounced my name right—ratted out the tardy. If the judge learned that y
ou’d arrived, say, ten minutes late, he might kick your case to the back of the docket, make you wait until the end of the day to be heard. One poor sap complained about this treatment and was sent to the north tower brig on contempt charges. He was supposedly still chained to his cell like some anchorite. More than likely court legend. But maybe true. I hadn’t seen the guy in at least five years.
Dinah and I were there on separate cases. If it were anyone other than Dinah, I would have been pissed. Callower, for example, tended to bring his intemperance to court. Last time, he slipped a silver flask into my trial bag to avoid a snooping bailiff. And Pavor was just as likely to duck out at the last moment and ask me to cover for him. Not Dinah. She was a pro. She took the calling as seriously as I did. Still, today there was also something a little off about my friend. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was. New eye shadow?
Dinah was involved in a settlement involving some local musician. “So what’s your problem?” she asked.
“No problem,” I said. “I’m ducky.”
“You’re nervous.”
“Am not!”
“Are too!” Dinah nodded toward my lap. I was unwittingly doing that thing I did when I had pregame jitters: crafting origami out of court papers. It was something I’d learned from Penny back when we were dating. I tucked the last edge of paper underneath, creating a powder-blue butterfly. I unfolded the paper until it was again a show-cause pleading.
“What are you here for?” Dinah asked.
“Hitch,” I said.
“Jesus Christ.” Karol v. Hitchens Corporation was an all-purpose punchline. Had a bad case? Least it wasn’t Hitch. Ran up astronomical expenses on a file? What did you think this was—Hitch? Long wait for a ruling from the Supreme Court? Poor sucker. Hitch will come down before you get word.
Over the last fifty years, nearly every attorney who worked at the firm touched the file at one point or another.
The plaintiffs in my case had sued after their house was atomized by space junk. My client’s entire defense of the claim was based on the argument that a falling satellite was an Act of the Big Fella Upstairs. Sometimes while puttering around His workbench, He dropped things: screws, satellites, asteroids. No mortal creature could be liable for an accident set in motion by a celestial butterfingers. Just ask the dinosaurs.
I glanced at the roll call screen on the wall. Dinah’s name scrolled past, followed by the real name of Crooked Crown.
“How could you not tell me you’re representing that singer?” I asked. “I mean. She’s on TV every day.”
“It’s no biggie. The firm is representing her. So technically you’re her lawyer, too. She’s kind of not as much of a douche as I thought she would be. She came to my apartment the other night when Pa—when this guy I’ve been seeing was there. We lit a few up and played with tarot cards. You mumbled something about needing my advice. Well?”
I explained how Octavia and my visit at PHH had imploded. “Octavia is pissed at the situation, pissed at me, too,” I said. “And that Eckstein treated us like we were telemarketers.”
“You’re toast,” Dinah said. “She’s going to fire you. You should start looking for a new gig, maybe like a teaching job or something at a bank. I have a hookup— What?”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“Your problem is that Eckstein wants you to be different, so be different. Go volunteer at a school for delinquents or raise money for a Little League team like car dealers and moving companies do.”
An idea hit me. “Supercargo!” I said. Dinah stared at me in confusion. “My cousin’s been asking me to get involved with his civil rights group for years.”
Dinah laughed. “I wouldn’t buy you as an activist.”
“Have some faith. I’ll be the most activistic person you’ve ever met.”
“Thine eyes of mercy toward us,” Dinah said, playing with the last bead of her rosary. “And after this our exile—”
“All rise.” The court crier, a man wielding a ceremonial truncheon staff, opened the rear chamber door. We all stood.
A black-robed figure stepped into the room and quickly ascended the steps to the bench. This detail caught my attention more than any other: the judge had very bony hands.
“That’s not Lordes,” I said.
“Nice going, Dr. Watson,” Dinah said. “Has your investigation revealed anything el—”
“In re Tyresha Breedlove-Eckstein,” the judge said.
“Jesus Christ,” Dinah said, gathering her purse and briefcase. She passed the bar and took her place behind one of two counselors’ tables. “Dinah Viet Dinh on behalf of the petitioner, Your Honor.”
As she launched into her argument, a surprisingly poetic, roaring soliloquy on the dangers of avarice, I realized that I was only slightly prepared. Of course, I had read the plaintiff family’s latest brief in my case—they alleged res ipsa loquitur, the idea that some offenses are so obvious and indefensible, there is only one side to the story. And you, defendant, must pay all the monies. But it struck me just then the precariousness of my position. If I lost the hearing, the firm would finally realize how clueless I was. They would recall Franklin or Riley or find some other fresh-faced indentured servant. I’d be out on the street. Nigel and that spotted face of his would never be corrected, perfected.
He sat on the head of a stone lion in City Park. He seemed younger than he should. More innocent. “Come on, Dad,” Nigel said. “You can see me!”
“Am not?” I asked.
“Wake up.” Dinah shook my arm. I glanced around the room, which had taken on a sickly green hue. Most of the other lawyers were staring at us. The plaintiff family’s lawyer was already in position at counsel table one. Why wasn’t Dinah at the podium? I was in the front row? I’d seen Dinah at the podium just now? But she was at my side? I had the same emerging-from-the-depths feeling I had every morning when I awoke. Like I was piloting a submarine from the bed of the Dead Sea. Dinah jabbed her elbow into my ribcage. This was happening more and more frequently. Time jumps. Spatial hiccups. Distorted sensory processing. Brought on by Plums and Japanese women? No. Jo Jo’s Geishas. But I couldn’t remember if I’d had one that morning. Or maybe I’d had three?
I wiped my forehead on my suit sleeve and walked to the free counsel table. If there was only one really important rule in running onto the playing field, it was, Don’t let them see you stumble, don’t falter, get to the huddle in a calm, orderly fashion—women and children first.
This ship is unsinkable. I smelled delicious maple bacon.
The opposing lawyer stood up and took her place at the podium microphone. It was the woman in the yarmulke. She smiled, introduced herself, and pointed in my direction a couple of times. I wiggled my fingers at her.
“—a clear-cut instance of fault occasioned by wantonly negligent actions,” she said.
A fly buzzed my ear. For a moment, I saw the whole insect, the antennae, the wings, and the hind legs quivering with life. It was tired, hungry, nervous. I caught the fly, in the palm of my hand—in one quick snap—and squeezed. A burst of energy faded in my palm, which prickled as it cooled.
The plaintiff’s lawyer went back to her seat. I stood up and wiped my hand on my coat. Two pulsing stalks of light on her back at the shoulder blades. The plaintiff’s lawyer seemed to have blue butterfly wings sprouting from her back. But some Muppet inside me yelled that this did not compute and that I’d gotten a bad Plum before, so I’d better find my center and dunk that ball!
“Your response, counselor?” The judge was an undifferentiated blob of robe and shadow by then.
“I thought—” I grabbed the podium and clutched it. I felt like I had grabbed the vibrating world by the neck. The room stabilized. “I thought you’d never ask.” Cotton mouth. I spritzed Binaca. Shit. It tasted like bacon.
15
I read somewhere
once, perhaps in Family Health magazine (or was it Hearth and Home?), while waiting in some foyer for a Plum to kick in, that museums are proof of humanity’s narcissism. A museum with its glass display cases and terse, descriptive cards is a way of declaring how important we are. We rock. We matter. On approach from the Oort cloud, aliens probably wouldn’t be sure whether we were an intelligent species. They would scream across the sky, in their aluminum saucepans, atomizing entire shopping districts—bye-bye Dolce, poof goes Gabbana—until they came across a museum, at which time one of the horrified Plutonians would exclaim, “Stop the culling, Xerblatz. We have made a horrible miscalculation. These creatures feel.” A museum is proof positive of a community’s heart and values, its history, manner of speaking, culture, its soul.
Of course, a museum is also a boneyard.
The Musée du Nubia du Africq, also known as the Musée or the MdNA (the second d was omitted), was founded before most of the City’s blacks were swept out of the main body of the City and into the Tiko or the hinterlands. The museum founders must have somehow sensed what was coming, the way a bird intuits the coming of a particularly harsh winter.
In their panicked foresight, the founders of the Musée collected core samples of blackness from various eras and areas of the City’s history: a sepia-toned color wheel used by a protester during the Brown Bag Riot of ’24; a set of turntables owned by DJ Oya; an ankle monitor worn by the City’s last African American mayor before her unfortunate demise; a chisel purportedly used by the Invisible Artist, who engraved the Sky Tower’s calcified walls with gargantuan abstract faces that peered vacantly into the hinterland swamps until the faces were sandblasted off by management. In this way, the MdNA was something like Noah’s Ark. Only the Musée saved Nubian gewgaws, not stone tablets. Also, the waters were not liquid but purely metaphorical. The reversal of white flight, a white scourge.
I had heard others complain about this passage of our village’s history, but I was of the belief that history is neither good nor bad. History is landscape. History is backdrop. It is context. Anyone who peers into a canyon and finds something hateful in it is seeing their own reflection.
We Cast a Shadow Page 11