White Tears

by Hari Kunzru

  —Looks like that’s the guy. The perpetrator. Nasty-looking son of a bitch. They found him close to the scene with, shall we say, certain items of hers. Got a record, too. Real ghetto type.

  —He killed Leonie.

  —That’s right. You’re free to go. I’m sorry that we had to keep you overnight.

  Blank. Say something. Still blank.

  —But Leonie is dead.

  —Unfortunately so. But try to see it in a positive light. At least it weren’t you what done it. We won’t need to detain you any further.

  —Detain me?

  My hands, my fingertips.

  —Look at the boy. Never seen anyone so reluctant.

  —Go on, get out of here!

  Ha ha ha ha!

  Ha ha ha ha!

  Ha ha ha ha!

  —Knock it off, Bob.

  Clear fluid, coming from my ear. A long low roaring and a higher tone, an insect whine.

  —Look, I’m sorry we had to get rough on you.

  —About. About this man.

  Not a man. A black shape with two eyes.

  —How do you know he killed her?

  —He had her things.

  —What’s his name?

  —Honest answer, it don’t matter. Put it out of your mind.

  —Is it Charlie Shaw?

  —Like I said, it’s nothing for you to worry about. Just leave all that to us.

  —Charlie Shaw. Are you telling me to my face that Charlie Shaw killed Leonie?

  —Look at you, all self-righteous and spoiling for a fight. You have every reason to feel sore, I suppose. Best I can tell you, crime like this, passions run high. You got to cut the department some slack. A lot of feelings around this sort of thing. Guy in the picture, he’s a knucklehead. Long list of priors. And now, thanks to you, he’s off the street. So it’s a win. You got to think of it the right way.

  —You arrested Charlie Shaw. You have him in custody.

  —Looks like you didn’t do it, kid. Just sign the paperwork and we’ll have you on your way.

  —Where is he? What facility?

  —I don’t have that information, but if you call the number, the switchboard or whatever, they’ll set you right. That’s it, your name on the line there.

  It was some kind of waiver. I didn’t read it. I expect it said that I was never there and none of what happened happened and in any case no one would believe me if I told. My hand held a pen. The lead detective slipped the signed paper into a folder.

  —I’m sorry for your loss. She was a good-looking girl.

  I sat in my chair, unable to move. Though I didn’t dare look up at him, I could feel the change in the detective’s bland blunt face, the weight of his frown.

  —Move along, son. It’s time.

  O Death spare me over.

  Another detective leaned over me. I did not look up. A forearm on the table, skin the color of brick. A hand gripping the handle of a mug that said Number One Dad. I still could not move. I thought it must be a trick. Any moment, when they saw that I had let down my guard, the mood would shift and the pain would start up again. I struggled to keep my composure, always on the verge of moaning or flinching in terrorized anticipation. I stared down at my hands, their raw pink knuckles, the blue veins, terrified that I would see them begin to change, all my security slipping away.

  —My advice, the man murmured into my ear. Go to church. Drop some money in the collection plate and leave your questions with it. Go live your life.

  Move along. As if it were all settled. Time for me to move along, when nothing was settled at all.

  I stood up unsteadily from the table and walked through the crowd of men. Each pace was an effort. I expected to be tripped, taken down. I did not believe for a second that my reprieve would last.

  MOVE ALONG.

  Excuse me, excuse me.

  It is daytime and I’m standing on the sidewalk outside some police precinct. What city? A dun-colored block. Office buildings and a parking lot with a chain link fence. Tall weeds grow up through the sidewalk. After the catastrophe. I don’t seem to have anything with me, no phone, no wallet, no box of records. I’m not wearing shoes. I am not sure why I am here. Something happened, something in the past. I am in pain. My whole body feels pulpy, disarranged.

  A lawyer is waiting on the sidewalk. A man dressed as a lawyer, in the costume of a lawyer. Sharp suit and tie pin and rapacious cuffs. He approaches, grinning like a long lost friend. It is as if he has been superimposed on the blasted streetscape, a man moving through another context (a meeting room, a restaurant) that would allow for such apparent ease and expansiveness.

  —The media are all at the other precinct. We asked the Police Department to tell them they were holding you over there.

  He’s carrying two large cups of coffee. All I’m seeing, really, is the coffee.

  —Sugar’s already in that one.

  Reaching out my arm is painful. I only have hearing in one ear. There is a whisper in the other, a flutter of static. Media, I ask. What media? To hear when he speaks, I have to hold my head at a certain angle.

  —Look, can I drive you somewhere? They’re probably already on their way over. The PD only stalled them as a favor to us. Out of respect for our privacy.

  He can’t be much older than me. Handsome, alpha, well-adjusted. A perfectly symmetrical face in a frame of accurately cut dark hair. When I look away it is hard to retain the details of his face in my mind. All I am left with is a sense of attractiveness, plausibility, an invitation to trust without any of the accompanying qualities (reassurance, warmth) which actually inspire trust.

  —Our privacy?

  —The family. I represent the Wallace family. And yours, of course. Your privacy. The privacy of all those affected by these terrible events. Please, my car’s just here.

  I nod, mutely. It hurts to breathe. I want to get in a car and go home. I want someone to pick me up and drive me to an orderly suburban house, to sit in a kitchen and eat a sandwich and drink a glass of orange juice. We pull away from the police precinct and the solid sound of the doors locking is so comforting that I begin to cry. The lawyer pretends he has not noticed this. After a while I collect myself. We drive out of town along a straight road lined with junkyards. I ask if he knows where my things are and he says what things.

  —My clothes. I left my stuff at the motel. I have no shoes.

  —Sure, buddy. Thoughtless of me. Let’s get you fixed up.

  We pull in at a big box store and the lawyer buys me shoes and underwear, a polo shirt, toiletries, a little rip-stop nylon hold-all to put it all in. I change in the bathroom and wash my face and brush my teeth and plug my ear with toilet paper, muting the roar and the whine. Dressed in my oversized new shirt I feel like a service sector employee. Hellomynameis. When I’m finished changing, I watch the lawyer for a few moments from the doorway before I step back out. He is tapping keys on his phone, pacing to and fro just inside the sliding doors, bathing in the chill of the air-conditioning. Everything about him is precise. The knot of his tie, his unblemished skin. Some men thrive under discipline. They express themselves through correctness. All that pent-up energy is probably released by playing some slightly esoteric sport (fencing, pelote) on weekends.

  —You look a lot better.

  —I just want to go to bed.

  —Rough night. I get it. How about some breakfast? I need to talk to you. It’ll only take a few minutes.

  A big grin. Overdoing it. I realize he is nervous. There is something he wants. We drive a tortuous route out of town, taking turns on small rural roads that run between fields of soy and corn. Finally we pull over at a diner, an old wooden shack with peeling pink paint and a barbecue pit in the yard. Inside it is crowded with solid citizens, the atmosphere a steamy fug. An obese young cashier is wedged behind the register at the door. Beyond him, in some kind of open kitchen, women are frying steaks in iron skillets. As we wait, the lawyer sends more texts, updates to whoever is
controlling him. The walls are covered with framed photographs, crowded together in drifts and clusters. Black-and-white eight-by-tens of forgotten singers and actors, groups of men holding fish, giving the thumbs-up. White people together, at work and leisure down the generations.

  We squeeze through to our table. The lawyer takes off his jacket, revealing a pair of suspenders embroidered with the crest of some team or society. He orders breakfast. I have to turn slightly to the side to hear him talk. He says my privacy matters. He says the family wants to help me protect myself.

  —Did he do it?

  —Who?

  —The man they arrested. Charlie Shaw.

  —Try the tamales.

  Above our table are pictures of judges, an astronaut. I eat a little food. I am very hungry, but the inside of my mouth is raw and my tongue is swollen, so it hurts to swallow. The lawyer notices that I am in pain. He adopts an expression of concern.

  —What kind of health insurance do you have? I’ll give them a call, get them to cover some out-of-pocket expenses.

  —I don’t want a doctor. I want to see Charlie Shaw. How would I do that?

  —Why would you want to? I mean, come on. You’re being too hard on yourself. You don’t need to take every burden on your shoulders. You know?

  —No, I don’t. I don’t know. How would I find out where he’s being held?

  He sighed.

  —About all that. I understand you must feel very emotional right now. This is an emotional time for you. For all of us, but you especially. My own personal opinion? You should take a step back. The family is grieving for a beloved daughter, as well as their son. Can you imagine what they’re going through? The last thing they need right now is intrusion, and the potential media interest is, well, you understand. It’s not what anyone wants. So they’re worried about you. You don’t have the same resources, so you’re more vulnerable to—to press intrusion.

  —Intrusion.

  —Violations of your privacy. At this difficult time.

  —Why would I worry about my privacy?

  He shows me an email on his phone. “From the personal office of Donald Wallace III.” Rich people grow organizations around themselves like hair or fingernails. This personal office, this tentacle of Carter’s father, has authorized a monthly transfer into my account. Enough money, I quickly calculate, to cover rent and living expenses.

  —Forget about him, the killer. Go away and rebuild your life. Don’t get involved in any of this. In return you can look forward to a little stability. You’re freelance, right?

  I nod. I feel very tired.

  —So you’ll appreciate some regular income. I mean, I know how it is.

  —Oh yeah?

  —Well, not personally. I have a couple friends, entrepreneurs, you know.

  I am not sure what relevance his friends have to me. I nod again.

  —Great. The conditions are straightforward. When I say forget about this, that’s exactly what you do. No matter what you see or hear or read in the paper, you keep quiet. You don’t speak to the media. If anyone from the media tries to contact you, you do not engage in conversation. You put the phone down and call me straightaway. You don’t attend the funeral. You don’t try to contact any member of the family, except through me. If you have any business to transact with the family, you can do so through me. It is strongly suggested that you do not base yourself anywhere in New York State or the State of Mississippi, but I will need to have your location, phone and mailing address and so forth so I can get in touch. We just want to help you to put this behind you, which I’m sure is what you want to do anyway. Start afresh.

  —Did you say don’t attend Leonie’s funeral?

  —That’s right.

  —So Leonie’s dead.

  —Yes. Are you feeling OK?

  —And they don’t want me at her funeral?

  —It’s going to be private. Immediate family only, is what I understand.

  —Tell me what happened to her.

  —I’m sorry, but I don’t know all the details.

  —They don’t want to talk to me? Who is they? Cornelius or the parents? I was with her, you know? They need to understand that. We were together.

  —I’m sure I didn’t mean to imply anything.

  —But that’s what I’m saying.

  —The family takes the view that, although they bear you no ill will, it is best to maintain some distance from you at this time.

  —This is all Cornelius. That motherfucker. And not contacting any member of the family would include Carter?

  —From what I am given to understand, Carter is no longer capable of making decisions for himself. His father holds power of attorney. He is authorized to act on Carter’s behalf. The Wallace Family wish you to respect their privacy in their time of grief, just as they are respecting yours.

  —Fucking Cornelius.

  —Sure, man. I hear you. But this is coming from Mr. Wallace senior. I have some documents for you to sign. Basically what I just told you, plus language that confirms that the payments are in no way an admission of fault or liability for anything that may have happened to you.

  —For how long would I get these payments?

  —Indefinitely, as long as you comply with the terms of the agreement.

  He unzips an expensive-looking leather portfolio, and takes out some papers.

  —Also, with the understanding that this invalidates any existing contract between you and Carter Wallace.

  —What existing contract? You mean our music? There wasn’t any contract as such.

  —I see.

  —That’s my—that’s our music. I own half. That’s how we do. Fifty-fifty. Straight down the middle.

  —But you have no written contract specifying those terms?

  —No. We never needed a contract. He was my friend.

  I begin to hear myself, like every rube in every movie. I hear myself becoming a cautionary tale.

  —Carter’s lawyers handled everything with the labels.

  He nods.

  —That would be our firm.

  I realize I am being fucked. The Wallaces are fucking me. It has, says the lawyer, been interesting to hear me clarify. I have confirmed his understanding of the situation. He talks about subsequent to this and further to that, and then into my lap he drops “the younger Mister Wallace’s incapacity” and the news that “his copyrights” have “been assigned to a 501c3.”

  —Since it looks, sadly, as if Mr. Wallace has entered a persistent vegetative state, the family has decided to create the Carter Wallace Foundation, to work on releasing his music and honoring his creative legacy by providing scholarships to deserving young student musicians from a minority background. By accepting this payment, you assign to the foundation whatever rights you hold in your joint endeavors.

  —Carter’s dead.

  —Technically, no.

  —But this foundation would own the music we made together.

  —Correct.

  —As a sort of monument to Carter.

  —Yes.

  —All rights.

  —In perpetuity. I understand that Carter Wallace was primarily responsible for the creative content of your musical productions, and you acted in a technical capacity.

  —You piece of shit.

  —I beg your pardon?

  —I made that music. I made the sounds that made that music. I made the machines that made the fucking sounds. That is my fucking music.

  He is not fazed. He does not flinch or even alter his expression.

  —The Foundation’s mission is to ensure that Carter Wallace’s unique creativity is recognized and honored. However, we foresaw that you might view yourself as a collaborator, and so I’ve been authorized to offer you a one-time payment of seventy-five thousand dollars, nonnegotiable, on condition that you sign today.

  My ear hurts. I tilt my head to see if it feels any better.

  —I’m not signing.

  —It really is n
onnegotiable. And the offer won’t be repeated if you do not sign today.

  —I said I’m not fucking signing.

  I’m raising my voice, but the people at the other tables take no notice. No one even turns around. The lawyer sips his iced tea. I often suspect that I make no impression on others. Gestures that ought to have an impact seem to fade before they reach their audience, before they bridge the gap between me and the world of the living. This lawyer can take my music away, the music I made with Carter, the evidence that despite what people say, we were partners, that Carter respected me and I understood him better than anyone, and when I shout out in protest the man doesn’t even feel the need to acknowledge my anger. He just lets me wind down my spring and adjusts his tie and carries on.

  —You should really take this seriously. It is a one-time-only offer. Not wishing to be blunt, but you don’t have any resources to fight a copyright case. And of course, if you did decide to go that way, the discretionary monthly payment would be withdrawn.

  That is the price. My music is not my music. I have never even been friends with Carter. I am to make myself vanish from the Wallace family’s gilded life. The lawyer speaks, his words moving in and out of audibility as I shake my head in disbelief.

  —We were like brothers.

  —Honestly. Look at your circumstances. This is the best deal you’re going to get.

  I am so tired. At least I now have a figure. A dollar amount. I have always wondered what my friendship with Carter was worth.

  —Cornelius must really hate me.

  —I couldn’t speak to that.

  —He locked me out of my studio. He took everything, equipment I built from scratch. And now he gets the music too? Unreal.

  —I assure you, the Foundation is very respectful of your friend’s musical legacy. We’ve already been in touch with several of the artists he worked with. There are some great ideas. A box set. A tribute concert. Look, I can probably get you another twenty-five K to buy yourself some new gear, set up another studio, maybe in LA.

  —You don’t know what you’re saying.

  —I’m saying you need to sign this paper and move on. It’s the only sensible play.

  —You don’t understand. The data. Just the sample libraries. Thousands of hours of my life are in those libraries. None of that is replaceable.