Past Due

by William Lashner

  Let’s go, says my father.

  No, she says.

  But he is pulling her away, away from the man, this room, this house. She is fighting him, fighting him and the old man both as he pulls her away, and then she slips out of his grasp.

  She slips out of his grasp, grabs the box from the old man, swings it back, and slams it into the old man’s head.

  The old man falls to his knees.

  She swings the box again, a corner plunges into his scalp, blood spurts. She swings the box again.

  By the time my father is able to make sense of what he has seen, is able to gather his wits enough to grab her at the waist and pull her away, throw her to the other side of the room, the old man is sprawled dead on the floor, the bloodied box is lying by his side, and her skirt, her blouse, her hands are stained red with the old man’s blood.

  What have you done? he says, staring now at the devastation before him.

  She rises from the floor, slowly, carefully, weaving back and forth as she rises, and when, finally, she is standing, she makes her way to her lover, my father, her lover.

  I didn’t mean to, she says. He drove me to it.

  He steps away from her, backs away until his shoulders are against a wall and the corpse is between him and the girl, his love, the girl in the pleated skirt. But she steps up to the corpse of the old man until she is facing my father, close to my father and she says, It will be all right, Jesse, won’t it?

  My father is paralyzed with loss as she reaches her bloodied hands to touch him, leaves a trail of blood on his arm, his shoulder, his collar. She places her hands at the back of his neck and stands on tiptoes and pulls him to her as she pulled him to her just moments before in the darkness.

  We’ll be forever together, like we said, Jesse, like we promised. Together forever, you and me, like you told me was all you ever wanted, like you made me promise.

  And then she kisses him, while they stand over the old man’s corpse, she promises my father everything he ever wanted just moments before, and she kisses him, and my father, God forgive him, kisses her back.

  “Kissed,” he said in the softest of whispers as I leaned so close the plastic of his mask brushed against my ear. “Kissed her back.”

  It would have been nicely symmetric if the poison of the story had its way with him right then, sent him into respiratory failure, clanging the alarms, bringing the army of doctors and nurses and technicians rushing to that room to battle for my father’s life as I stood by and watched with a horrified silence. But it didn’t right then, not right then. My father whispered, “Kissed her back,” and then his eyes closed and he drifted off to some finer place. And his respiratory rate eased, and his heartbeat slowed, and somehow the level of the oxygen in his blood started to rise. Eighty-eight percent. Eighty-nine percent. Ninety percent. I left my father in the hospital that night with a slight sense of hope that maybe the worst had been revealed and so the worst was behind him.

  But it was a feint, hope with my father was always a feint, and the alarms were sounded not long after I stepped out the hospital’s front door.

  Chapter

  41

  TRAFFIC COURT. ’NUFF said.

  “All rise.”

  About time.

  We’d been waiting an hour for the judge to show his face, all of us assigned to Courtroom 16 in the large brick building on Spring Garden Street. We had stood in a line that stretched well out the door, we had raised our arms through the metal detectors, we had checked our cell phones at the information booth, we had clutched our summonses and found our courtrooms and taken our places on the hard black benches. We were there against our wills, we had better things to do, like root canal and the Jenny Jones Show, but there had been no choice for us, we were required by law to atone and atone we would, for against the traffic laws of the City of Philadelphia we all had sinned. We had driven with suspended licenses, we had driven without insurance, we had driven the wrong way down one-way streets, we had failed to yield, we had parked where we had no business parking, we had driven drunk, God forgive us, for MADD never would. We had run through red lights, we had run through stop signs, we had sped, yes we had, and it had felt good, shifting our gears as the tachometer flared and our hearts sang and our rate of speed flew above the legal limits. But believe us, Judge, the cops were out to get us, the radar guns were off, we didn’t do it, and we won’t do it again. We were good drivers, all of us, despite what our records said, and we were willing to pay the fines, but please, judge, please don’t give us the points, not the points, please.

  “All rise.”

  We rose as one.

  The judge was a creased old man with a sun-lined face and yellow hair combed back over his skull. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. If you saw him on the street you’d feel sorry for him and offer to buy him coffee and an egg sandwich, but here, standing now behind the bench in his black robe, even unzipped as it was, you saw not the face of a homeless vagrant but instead the weathered face of justice. He sat. We sat. His name was Judge Geary, we all knew that because of the plaque on the edge of the bench that read JUDGE GEARY. He took a deep breath through the unlit cigarette, cocked his head like Dean Martin before a song, and said in his croak of a voice, “Let’s go.”

  The gray-haired clerk took the first file off his pile, called out a name in a voice sharp and loud, walked the file to the judge, and Traffic Court began.

  It didn’t take much crushing insight to figure out how Traffic Court worked in Philadelphia. The first names called were all of defendants represented by counsel. The judge would read the offense and shake his head with dismay. The lawyer would say a few rote words in defense. The judge would reduce the fine, order no points be given, admonish counsel to explain to the client what he had done wrong so he wouldn’t do it again. It seemed, in those first few cases, that the judge was in a fine mood at this session and lenience would hold sway. We, all of us, sitting on our benches with our summonses in our laps and our licenses on the line, we, all of us, felt the stirrings of relief. And then the first case was called without representation of a lawyer and things suddenly turned.

  “What were you doing going the wrong way down Locust Street?” said the judge.

  “I was on my way to the doctor,” said the defendant.

  “Answer the question,” barked the clerk.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Pay the fine, full points, court costs. Next.”

  “But Judge—”

  “Next.”

  “Move along,” said the clerk before he called the next name.

  “You know you can’t drive without insurance, don’t you?” said the judge to the next defendant.

  “I couldn’t get it. No one would give it and I had to get to work. I got a kid—”

  “But you can’t drive without insurance. Here you are running stop signs without insurance. What would have happened to the pedestrian you might have hit?”

  “I didn’t hit no—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I slowed down at the stop sign, I did. The cop was—”

  “Give me your license, Ms. Jenkins. Give it right up. You’ll get it back in six months.”

  “But Judge, I got to—”

  “Take the bus. Pay the two hundred, three points, license suspended, and not to be returned without proof of insurance. Next.”

  “But Judge—”

  “Move along,” said the clerk.

  And on it went. And on.

  It was a killing field in there, all manner of defenses shot down by old Judge Geary in the rigid pursuit of fines and points and the gleeful seizure of licenses. Except for those represented by counsel. Because, for some reason, the mere fact of having counsel by your side severely ameliorated the harshness of justice, and not just any counsel, but lawyers who make their living in Traffic Court, lawyers whose practice depends on the kindness of judges, elected judges, judges who must raise money every five years as they r
un for reelection.

  Sniff sniff. What’s that I smell? Crab fries?

  Well, all right, that was the way the game was played. And no, in all my life I had never donated a cent to the campaigns of those noble public servants running for a position on Traffic Court. But still, I was wondering why the clerk hadn’t yet called my name. Before court began I had identified myself as a lawyer, and he had pulled aside my file. In every courtroom in the land where the public stands before a judge, lawyers go first. It wasn’t courtesy, it was custom, and yet here I was, still waiting.

  I drew the clerk’s attention. He was an older man, with big shoes, a tight smile, and a face full of secrets. His silver hair was shiny with grease and pulled straight back like the grill of a sleek old Caddie. He wore his navy blazer with the medallion of the Philadelphia Traffic Court at his breast and a thick ring on his pinkie.

  I raised a finger, looked at my watch.

  He nodded and called another name not my own.

  There wasn’t much more I could do. I sat slumped on the lawyers’ bench in the well, watching the ruthless enforcement of the traffic laws in case after case after case, wondering if ever I would be called, when the back doors of the courtroom swung open and two uniformed cops, with guns on their hips, stepped into the courtroom.

  I sat up straight, passed my gaze over those still waiting for their hearings. Uh oh, I thought, someone is not getting off with merely a fine and points. Someone is in serious trouble. And then the clerk, in a clear, hard voice, called out, “Victor Carl.”

  I stood, moved to the bench, glanced behind me at the cops, standing like sentries in the aisle.

  The clerk handed the file to the judge, whispered something in his ear, the judge’s eyes snapped up to take in the suddenly more interesting sight of me. The clerk slinked back from the bench and took his place beside me as the judge made a quick examination of my file.

  “It appears you were in quite a hurry, Mr. Carl?”

  “Your Honor, I am sorry to say that the police officer was entirely overzealous that morning and I don’t understand how he could have thought to—”

  “You weren’t on Second Street?”

  “I was, Your Honor, and there is a stop sign there, true, but—”

  “You mean to tell me you came to a full and complete stop as per the traffic laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania?”

  “Your Honor, it was early and the street was empty and—”

  “Answer the question,” barked the clerk, and there was something in the tenor of his voice that tolled familiar. I turned and stared at the scowl on his face.

  “I assume that means no, Mr. Carl,” said the judge. “And this other ticket, this red light you ran on Washington?”

  “I was committed to the intersection, Your Honor.”

  “Commitment. I love to see commitment in young people today. Some are committed to helping their fellow man, some are committed to saving the whales. You, I suppose, are committed to the intersection. What does that entail, exactly? Do you freshen up the paint, scrub the lights, pick up trash? And we haven’t even gotten to the speeding charge yet.”

  “It was a short stretch of road and I have an expert who is familiar with police radar technology and is prepared to testify that there was not enough time for the officer to get a fair and accurate reading. Your Honor, I am prepared to contest all these charges, to appeal and force the various police officers to defend their own outrageous conduct. I am prepared to expend the police department’s and this court’s valuable time to exonerate myself and protect my record. But I am willing, sir, to give up that right, for a reasonable reduction in the fine and no points, which I think is only fair.”

  “We aim to be fair here at Traffic Court, Counselor.”

  “I know you do, sir.”

  “Well then, this is how we see fair,” said the judge. “Full fine plus two hundred dollars. Full points. Court costs. If you mean to take this to a higher court, Mr. Carl, I mean to give you something to take with you.”

  I was stunned. I had been on the wrong side of a judge more times than I could count, but this was different, this fusillade from Judge Geary. This seemed personal. I stared at him, he glared back. This seemed personal, for a reason I couldn’t fathom. I had never seen the guy before this morning, never even knew of his existence, and here he was slamming me like I was some sort of serial sniper.

  I stared for a moment longer and then calmed myself. There must be an explanation. He didn’t like my manner, he didn’t like my tie. It happens. Even I didn’t like my tie. Let it go, I told myself, don’t say something you’ll regret. I pursed my lips, bit my cheek until it bled, and then said, simply, in a voice studiously devoid of sarcasm, “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  I glanced at the clerk, glanced down at the ring, glanced up again at the name tag. Geoffrey O’Brien. I’d have to look into him. I started to turn around to leave when the judge said, “Not so fast, Mr. Carl.”

  I turned again to face the judge.

  “Mr. Carl, have you ever been to Lackawanna County?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Lackawanna County.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s a simple query. Have you ever been to Lackawanna County?”

  “What does that have to do with my driving?”

  “Answer the question,” barked Clerk O’Brien.

  “Do I know you?” I said to the clerk. “You seem awfully damn familiar.”

  “Watch your language, boy,” said the judge. “I’m talking the towns of Jessup, Olyphant, Dickson City, Scranton. Lackawanna County. Have you ever been?”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “Scranton’s right up the northeast extension of the Turnpike.”

  “Yes it is,” said the judge. “How about Chinchilla?”

  “The rodent?”

  “The town.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have here in your file a bench warrant issued against you by the District Court of Chinchilla, Pennsylvania, located in the Forty-fifth Judicial District, Lackawanna County, that requires me to immediately place you into custody.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a swollen prostate.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Step back, Mr. Carl,” said the judge.

  “Step back,” ordered Clerk O’Brien.

  Before I could even try to follow their directives, I felt two clamps fasten themselves, one to each of my arms. I instinctively pulled away, to no avail. I spun my head as far as it would go. The two cops. With their jaws jutting out. The two cops. They had come into the courtroom for me. Of course they had.

  “This is all a mistake,” I said.

  “That may be,” said the judge, “but we’ll have to sort it all out later.”

  “Arms behind your back, please,” said one of the cops.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Do I look like a kidder,” said the cop, his face as solid and blank as a brick wall.

  The judge stared at me with hard eyes as I was cuffed, as if I had broken into his house and raped his daughter. Somehow this had become personal between him and me and I didn’t know how, I didn’t understand how. And then I realized it wasn’t personal, at least not between him and me. It wasn’t old Judge Geary who had turned on me like a snarling raccoon. It was something far more dangerous. The law itself, for some reason, had turned against me. First I had been dragged into the District Attorney’s office like a common miscreant and then the sheriff had refused to aid my collections and now a bench warrant had been issued against my person and I was going directly to jail.

  “This is outrageous,” I said. “This is patently unconstitutional.”

  “File your writs, Mr. Carl,” said judge.

  “Oh, I will, you can bet on it.”

  “And we’ll get to them in due course,” said the judge, writing something brusquely on my file as the cuffs bit into my wrists and the police officers led me away to a
door at the side of the well.

  The judge slammed the file shut, handed it to the clerk, and, just as I was being pushed through the door, said, “Next case.”

  Another hesitant defendant came forward, head bowed, license held precariously in his trembling hand.

  “You’ve been a naughty boy, Mr. Dayanim,” said the judge.

  The door closed behind me.

  Traffic Court.

  Chapter

  42

  I SAT IN the dinky little lockup at Traffic Court, leaning forward on the metal bench, my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands, contemplating the sorriness of my sorry life, when I looked up and was blinded by a great flash of light. Satori? No. Slocum.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said ADA Slocum, indicating the instant camera in his hand. “I just wanted to remember this moment, to savor it on those long cold nights when true justice seems elusive.”

  I stood quickly, grabbed hold of my beltless pants to keep them up. “Are you here to spring me?”

  “Your partner called,” he said. “I was in the middle of lunch with McDeiss. It’s not a pretty sight.”

  “I’ve seen the lions being fed at the zoo, I get the idea. Are you here to spring me?”

  “It pains me to say this, Carl, but yes. I am here to facilitate your release.”

  “Good. I’ve got someplace I need to be.”

  “Something pleasant, I hope.”

  “Just a woman.”

  “Nice looking?”

  “She was.” Pause. “So?”

  “It appears,” said Slocum slowly, “a bench warrant was issued early this year in Lackawanna County against a Vincent Carillo, a resident of the City of Philadelphia.”

  “Ah,” I said. “That explains everything. A perfectly honest mistake, because my name is neither Vincent nor Carillo and so, of course, I was cuffed in public and taken into custody and made to sit in this stinking cell for three stinking hours.”