The One-Eyed Judge

by Ponsor, Michael;

  “Listen, Sid—”

  “You know, Linda,” Sid broke in. He hesitated, then plunged. “I’m beginning to think, maybe, I just wanted to see something horrendous, something truly monstrous. I might have. I’m not sure.”

  “What are you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you that this shrink of ours is good, Linda. Some of what’s coming back are things I’d rather …” He hesitated. “Stuff I’d rather forget.”

  “Ah.”

  “I don’t remember sending the flyer in, but, to be honest, I do remember thinking about sending it. Just wondering. You know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I was such a fucking disaster last spring after Mom up and died. She was …” He took a sip of coffee to steady himself. “She was in the bathtub.”

  “Oh, Sid. God. That must have been …”

  “After they hauled her off, I was alone here in the house with the smell of her underwear and her bathroom and all her crap.” He waved toward the upstairs. “Her clothes in the closet and her drawers. I couldn’t bring myself to touch any of it. Pretty soon, I don’t know, I just hated the world and everybody in it, especially myself. I started sitting all day at the computer. Dr. Katzenbach thinks I wanted to see something that was as ugly as I was feeling.” Sid took a swallow of coffee and set his cup back down. “It sounds like psychobabble, but it may be true. Maybe I was just bored. I could have done anything. So, it could be I’m, you know …” He opened his hands out, palms up. “Maybe I’m guilty. I don’t know.”

  “You went through a tough time,” Ames said.

  “Yeah, very tough. Problem is …” Sid scrubbed at his temples with his fingers, trying to rouse his brain. “While I remember looking at a lot of repulsive stuff, late at night, and visiting some incredibly disgusting chat rooms, I don’t remember mailing that goddamn flyer.” Sid picked up his coffee cup, raised it to his mouth, and set it down. “The coffee’s getting cold.” He nodded at Ames’s cup. “Want me to give it a shot in the micro?”

  “I’m fine.” The key thing was to keep Sid talking.

  “I can’t see myself pleading guilty to that.”

  “You don’t need to plead to anything, Sid. But there are risks.”

  “Exactly. What chance do I have at a trial?” He gaped at her for a few seconds, then slumped back. “I’m up shit creek whatever I do.”

  “Well, that’s why—”

  “I mean, isn’t my life basically over?” Sid counted out the points on his fingers. “I mean, first of all, look at me. One: The bruises will get better, but I’ll still look like a laboratory rat. Two: I never got married, so I’m a kook. Three: I lived with my mom. That’s even worse. Four: There’s tons of gossip about me at the college. That I’m gay and hitting on students or that I’m gay but too uptight to admit it.”

  “They can’t put that into evidence.”

  “Maybe not, but it shows you how people react. I mean, look at me!” He tapped himself on the chest. “I’m the child molester from central casting. Five minutes in the courtroom with me, and the jury will be ordering out for tar and feathers.” He paused and continued more quietly. “I’m not gay, as a matter of fact. I sort of wish I was. It might make things easier. And I’m not into kids exactly. I’m just …” He hesitated. “I’m odd. I do weird shit.”

  “You have a right to be odd, Sid. It’s in the Constitution.”

  “Um, excuse me, Mom?” Ethan was standing in the doorway. “Is there more butter?”

  “In the kitchen, next to the toaster.” Sid rocked forward, pointing. “In the dish with the little pig on top.”

  “Thanks.” Ethan turned out of the room.

  Sid looked after him. “If he’s interested in the harpsichord, I could teach him a little.”

  “Uh, no, Sid. That won’t be happening.” Ames shook her head and repeated. “That will not be happening.”

  “I see.” Sid looked down gloomily. “Of course.”

  It was obvious what he was thinking. “Nothing to do with the charges, Sid. I just keep home and work very separate. You have to understand. Today is a total fluke.”

  “I understand.” He clearly didn’t believe her, and he was right. It was true that Ames kept the parts of her life separate, but it was also true that the nature of the charge against Sid meant that an especially broad, dark, and deep line marked the boundary here.

  “Okay, back to business. Listen to me now, okay? You may be up the creek, Sid, like you say. But how far up the creek? A little history.” She sipped her tepid coffee. “Child pornography became a growth industry at the Department of Justice once it hit the Internet. The DOJ has this initiative called Project Safe Childhood, and they are on the hunt, big-time. Right now, you’re facing a minimum sentence of five years and a potential maximum that’s in the stratosphere, a real life-killer. If you plead, I might be able to talk Campanella—”

  “That fuckhead.”

  “Right, but he could save your butt. I might be able to talk him into recommending something below the minimum, something you can survive. If you’re thinking of pleading, now’s the time to do it. Don’t pass up the chance to help yourself, okay?”

  Sid looked at Ames with a numb expression. “So, let’s play this out. If I stand up in front of the world and say I did all this—I chatted, I downloaded, I ordered the DVD—I’ll still go to prison.”

  “’Fraid so. But for less time.”

  “How much less?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a lot less.”

  “And they’ll still revoke my tenure and fire me, and I’ll still have to register as a sex offender for the rest of my life, and all my friends will think I’m a glob of snot.”

  “I don’t know about Amherst or your friends, but you will have to register, yes.”

  “All because I might have wanted to look at something really, really ugly.”

  “In a way, yes.”

  A long silence followed. Sid closed his eyes and placed his hands in his lap, as though he were trying to pull his mind away. This was certainly peculiar, but Ames was glad to see that at least he was not going to start crying. Some clients did. Sid just looked like he was preparing himself to step through the looking glass and drift off into an alternate world.

  Finally, he opened his eyes and spoke. “So, like I say, my life is over. God gives some people pancreatic cancer. I get this.”

  “It’s not over, Sid.”

  “So you say.” After another silence, Sid nodded at the plate. “Should I bring more?” Ames realized that she had eaten the remaining half of the original muffin, then the second, entire muffin, and finally, somehow, the third and last muffin after that. How could this have happened? The plate held only a few crumbs. She’d be on short rations for a week.

  “No thanks. I hate myself enough already.”

  “‘Frailty, thy name is woman.’”

  “Stuff it, Sid.”

  “I was just quoting Hamlet.”

  “Yeah, well, look what happened to him.”

  Sid closed his eyes again, taking long, deep breaths. He seemed to be preparing himself to take the big dive and agree to plead. Getting this out of the way would put Ames in a better position to negotiate with Campanella. After a long thirty seconds, he said, “Can I tell you a story?”

  “Sure.” Ames leaned back, doing her best to look relaxed. “I love stories.”

  “When I was in Vietnam, I was a medic, right?”

  “I know. We’ll be bringing that out at your trial or sentencing, depending on where things go.”

  Sid opened eyes. “No, we won’t.” He looked fierce.

  “You’re the boss.”

  “The only heroes were the ones who came back in wooden houses. Some of them were my friends. They’re still my friends. I talk to them.” He looked around the room. “They’re
here right now.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Sid closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again. “February 1971. The South Vietnamese Army was trying to cut the Ho Chi Minh Trail again. The operation was called Lam Son 719—I forget why—and it was a total fucking disaster. Intelligence was so bad by then, the PAVN knew exactly when they were coming, and where.”

  “PAVN?”

  “People’s Army of Vietnam. The bad guys, supposedly. They were waiting, dug in. The ARVNs—the good guys, supposedly—were outnumbered about two to one. We went in after things fell apart, trying to save a few lives. Our door gunner, Jimmy Cameron, sitting right next to me in the helicopter, got killed. His brains were all over me.” Sid rubbed his shoulder as though he was trying to wipe something off. “I took over the 60.” Ames must have looked puzzled again. “M60. Heavy machine gun on the bird.” Sid took another deep breath, looked to the side, and swallowed. “I don’t even know how many people I killed that day.” He paused, as though he were trying to remember the exact number.

  “It doesn’t matter. On a bad night, I kill hundreds and hundreds.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, tapping the tips of his fingers together and looking at the carpet. “Anyway, we were trying to get the fuck out of there. We’d hauled so many people on board we could barely lift off, and two ARVN soldiers were still hanging onto the skids. About a hundred feet up, one fell off on his own.” Sid paused and looked at Ames. “I kicked the other one off. The pilot was screaming that we were going to go over. Kicked him right in the face.” He paused again, tipped his head to one side, and shrugged. “It was the only place I could kick him, really. I remember how his eyes looked at me just before I gave him the boot, a young kid, scared out of his mind. I watched him fall all the way down, flapping his arms as though he were trying to fly. He bounced maybe eight, ten feet when he hit. I can still see those eyes, like yesterday.”

  “My God, Sid.”

  “Yeah.” He sniffed. “Things come around.”

  “Is that how you got your Silver Star?”

  “That was for something else.”

  The harpsichord started up again a little louder now, more confident. As they listened, a tune hesitantly formed and gathered momentum: “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Sid broke into a broad grin.

  “Some boy you got there.”

  “Sid, listen to me. I know this is tough. It’s always tough.”

  “You know something I’m grateful for? Mother’s gone.” Sid snorted. “If she weren’t dead already, this would fucking kill her.”

  “Do me a favor and knock off the death stuff, okay? This is a big bump in the road, I know. But don’t start thinking about doing anything stupid.”

  Sid said nothing.

  Ames stood up. “Time for me and Ethan to hit the road. Think about what I said. We need to strike while the iron is hot. I’ll call you after I get together with Campanella.”

  “That shithead.”

  “Yeah, but, like I said, he could be your guardian angel if we play this right.” Ames turned toward the kitchen and shouted. “Ethan!”

  In a minute or two, Ethan appeared, holding one of the cats against his chest. Ames was distracted and hardly heard Sid say, half to himself, “Believe me, if I do something, it won’t be stupid.”

  20

  Darren Mattoon had been keeping his antennae trained on Claire, and when he spotted her one morning, he could tell it was a good time for another move. Claire was hurrying across campus, looking preoccupied. Her shoulders were pulled up under her ears, hunched against the tingling early autumn damp. A touch at this moment might succeed, but more importantly, if it failed, it would not be resented. He had nothing to lose.

  Darren shifted direction to put himself on a line heading toward her. By good luck, with the cooler days, he had put on his leather bombardier jacket, his current favorite garment. He loved the way he looked in it, but Claire didn’t notice him at first.

  “Hey there, Professor Lindemann.” He spoke jauntily, but he had to tip down and sideways to get into her field of vision. “Are we on planet Earth?”

  Claire looked up and smiled wanly. “Orbiting nearby.”

  “Ah. Everything all right?”

  “Fine. Just things on my mind.”

  “I was hoping to run into you, actually, to ask a favor.”

  “Okay.”

  She looked neutral, which was an improvement. So often, when he tried to talk to her, she’d be giving off this wary, skeptical vibe.

  “Harlan Graves’s granddaughter Samantha is giving a concert this Sunday at Buckley Recital Hall. I’ve met her, and she’s a sweet kid—a little shy and vulnerable, the way people are at that age.” He was encouraged to see Claire nod. “Apparently, she’s quite a decent pianist. She’ll be trying some of Chopin’s dreamier études and nocturnes.” He lifted his hands up and twiddled his fingers. “Maybe a mazurka or two if things get really crazy.” The last remark brought a mild light into Claire’s face. Even in her gray mood, she was very pretty. “Problem is, only a few tickets have sold, and people are afraid Samantha’s feelings will be hurt if she gets a thin house. I was wondering if you had time to attend. The program’s just an hour or so.”

  Claire looked at the ground and thought for a moment. “I guess. David won’t be back from Washington until late. I’m not doing anything.” She nodded, looking up. “Why not?”

  “Good. I’ll come by your house about seven thirty, and we can walk over together.” Darren took a quick look at his watch. “Yikes—I have to scamper. See you Sunday.”

  He wasn’t really in a hurry—class was not for another half hour—but he didn’t want to give Claire time to reconsider what she’d done.

  As Claire sailed off for her office hours, David was at a coffee shop a short walk away in the center of town, consulting again with his old sweetheart, Dr. Susan O’Leary. Susan’s professional training and sympathetic smile were making these occasions a welcome time-out.

  “Here’s what, I guess, scares me and makes me feel guilty.” David rubbed at his eye. “I should probably offer to bring Lindsay and Jordan up here, but I honestly don’t know if I can handle that.”

  “Problems with the Stephensons?”

  “They’re very nice people, but I’m afraid they’re getting burned out. No one thought this setup would go on for so long.”

  “Hmm. Okay. What can I tell you? If the girls do come for any length of time, a couple things will probably be essential.” Susan propped her chin on her hand and looked to the side, sticking her lower lip out to concentrate. The pose made David smile.

  “What’s so funny?” Susan asked.

  “Still the lip thing.” He pushed his own lip out to imitate her.

  “I haven’t changed all that much, David.” She stuck her lip out even farther. “And, let’s be honest, neither have you.”

  “Why mess with perfection?”

  “See what I mean? Still the same old happy actor.”

  Susan took a sip of her latte and broke her muffin in half, giving David a look he recalled very well—not hostile, but not about to be taken in by him. In Africa, her dark brown hair had hung down to her shoulders. Now it was short and starting to go gray.

  “Sorry,” David said. “Shouldn’t have distracted us. A couple things?”

  “First, you’ll want a predictable routine, and second, you’ll need to bring on some good help. If your nieces come for more than a week, and you’re trying to work, a smart, warmhearted nanny or housekeeper will be essential. Also a coolheaded friend to talk to.” She smiled into his eyes and patted his hand. “Maybe we’ll get to see each other more often, bwana.”

  Susan’s daughter, Allison, had entered Williston Academy, a nearby boarding school, that fall. Now that classes had begun, she would have a good reason to start making regular trips t
o western Massachusetts.

  During their two years in Kenya, David had taught at a civil-service training institute in Kabete, in the Highlands outside Nairobi, while Susan worked twenty minutes away at a university extension in a little village called Kikuyu. A couple times a week, he’d motor through the coffee fields on his Vespa to pay Susan a visit. Their love affair faded after they returned from Africa, but gently. No big blowup, just a slow drift off to graduate schools and new relationships.

  “You’re a real friend to help me out here. I appreciate it.” He thanked her in Swahili. “Asante sana, memsahib.”

  “You’re going to have to accept that you can’t fix this, David. It’s not fixable. You just have to listen and take things as they come. And you’ll have to accept that you need help.”

  “Yeah, but, it just … It’s like …”

  She reached over and touched him again, putting her hand on his shoulder and leaning closer. “It’s the two things you’ve always hated: not being able to wrap something up quick and tidy and having to rely on others.” She backed away and held her hands up, spreading her fingers, another familiar gesture. “But that’s what children do, David. They make you confront things you spent your whole life avoiding. If you embrace this situation, it can be a terrific opportunity to grow.”

  “Oh bosh, who wants to grow? They drive me crazy. They go up and down so much, especially the little one, Jordan. And Lindsay is off in her own world ninety percent of the time. I never know what they want.”

  “Ask them.” Susan looked briefly impatient. “It’s not rocket science. Every child grieves differently. Remember the basics: Be truthful, acknowledge that their sadness will never completely go away, and let them talk if they want to.” Her impatience faded, and she looked at him affectionately. “Then, just hang on for dear life, and let time do its work.”

  Susan was noticeably older than Claire, and she wasn’t the knockout Claire was. Her climb to professional prominence and her divorce had toughened her up. Still, she swam for an hour every morning, and it showed. They weren’t in the Eden of East Africa, where they’d held hands under the jacaranda trees, smelling the wood fires in the long evenings before slipping back to her narrow bed. But, as she looked at him, he saw she still had that way of smiling with her eyes that felt almost like being kissed.