by Chris Leibig
Then I saw her and instantly knew her name. Salome. She danced alone, moving rhythmically but slowly, both aware and uncaring of the others. She wore a heavy mask—a smiling, blue demon head. My hands froze at the first sight of her. When she saw me, Salome went limp and fell to the ground like a bird shot from the sky. Friendly revelers removed her mask, helped her to her feet, and found her a spot to sit on a curb off to the side of the dancing circle. The party continued, with me now by Salome’s side. My heart sang. The best way I can describe it is recognition. I think she could see the person I really am.
There was no need to speak in words. Salome was a stranger and, to my eyes and senses, not even Roma. But sitting silently on the curb a foot apart, our auras clung together above the crowd in exhaustingly rapid communion.
Our auras joined the street dance, doing precisely in life what the festive devils and dragons mimicked through art. Our bodies clung to each other and moved away from the crowd slowly, making our way down a narrow alley. My heart burned for the first time with the most pleasant of emotions—was it love? How could it be that I had found perhaps the only person on Earth with whom I could share this form of love?
Salome had beautiful, dark skin. She was both spiritually and physically inviting, and her hands began to caress me rapidly—a surprise which guided me back to one of the brick walls of the alley. And I lost all control. What happened next I can hardly call sex. It was a frenzy of transcendent jubilance reserved only for gods. But I am still very inexperienced with physical matters. Our ecstasy reached higher and higher levels, and Salome and I were light years away as our empty human vessels thrashed together down on Earth. When I glimpsed back into the mundane present, I realized I was holding Salome’s limp body. Even as the trajectory of our clinging auras continued up and up, I had accidentally squeezed the life out of her.
As my senses returned, I again heard the music from the street, and Salome’s aura had fled. I ran. I threw myself into the corner of our room and wept. Before falling asleep, I decided to turn myself in the next morning.
Before contacting the police, I had to report to work to get our final pay—for Paul. We trudged through the square in Palermo. He was unaware of the previous night’s events. It was New Year’s Day and, yes, the chicken factory was open for business. Cans, bottles, and confetti still littered the street. I glanced down the alley. Salome’s body was gone, no doubt discovered shortly after I had made my escape. Perhaps her family, her aging German father and her African mother, knew by now she was dead.
I stood still and breathed rhythmically. I imagined my mother kneeling beside me, her elegant finger directing me towards a flower or bird. Soft eyes. I saw it then. My thrashing of Salome’s body looked like rage, not love. The celebratory shouts, the drums, and the firecrackers made it impossible for me to tell if Salome had even cried out. Paul kicked a beer can down the street towards a sewer. He faked a right-footed shot, and then pushed the can with his left into the corner of the sewer. He raised his arms and ran back to me, laughing. “Gooooooooooooal!” He didn’t see my tears.
Forgive me, mother. Miguel, God, Jesus, whoever is out there. I deserve death or imprisonment for what I did to Salome. But to abandon Paul to a city orphanage would be to condemn him. I cannot leave him. If there is a God, he gave Paul to me, and for what purpose could that be but for me to protect him? I grabbed Paul’s hand and pulled him away from the mouth of the alley, looking around to see who may have observed my interest in the accursed scene.
Paul shoveled shit while I discussed the matter of our pay with the assistant manager of the factory. My next move would cost a minimum of ten thousand pesos, far in excess of the pay we had coming. The manager, Jorge Ramos, was a rail-thin man with a sick wife and three children, two of whom were severely mentally retarded. He slaved as we did, barely a full tier above us in the city pecking order.
I could read Jorge like a book. From day one, I had known he fancied me above the other workers, even above the teenage girls whose fresh faces and muscled bodies had not yet begun to fade under the weight of the stress. Paul shoveled, humming to himself from the wide and rather empty factory bay. He scraped the shovel across the floor, creating a grating metal-on-concrete sound that rattled Jorge’s thin nerves. The skeleton crew of New Year’s Day shift workers meandered about in their own little trances, robotically performing their tasks.
It was then that I made my deal, owning Jorge’s mind for a fleeting second, just long enough for him to believe he had thought of the idea. Jorge had a key to the safe, and we both knew the payroll cash was in it. Within minutes of my brief mind invasion, Jorge and I were in the back office. He spun the dial of the bulky metal box that doubled as a table in the corner of the office. I stood behind him, transcending as far out of my body as possible in anticipation for what I was about to endure.
Then he was all over me. My openness to him made his mind soar with the melody of an orchestra that hadn’t played in years. Its rusty strings rose in harmony like they never knew they could. He scratched, rubbed, and clawed his way around my clothes. Once we were both naked, he bent me over the cluttered desk and awkwardly, painfully, found his way inside me while I tilted just so. He thrust quickly over the course of about two minutes. His joy reached the stars, a fact that rendered the experience a bit less disgusting to me. He finished and panted loudly as he pulled up his pants. He eyed the cash on the table. I entered his mind one more time, only to implant a critical jab, something that would affect his behavior in a way he would not consciously understand. I’ll kill you if you try to break our deal.
Once dressed, he looked at the money one more time. He weakly thanked me, without meeting my eyes.
As luck would have it, a ship heading north, with stops at various points along the coast and ultimately docking in Miami, boarded today.
The massive vessel, aptly named La Liberación, towered above the water, its pristine black sides seamlessly reaching the sky. Paul and I boarded across the riveted metal walkway each holding small, nearly empty suitcases. Sharply dressed detectives and uniformed policemen watched us board, but despite their hawk-like stares, their linear minds sought different sorts than us. I smiled right at an old cop as I handed over our tickets at the booth beside the rickety metal ramp onto the ship. His eyes looked past me—in search of a murdering rapist.
Paul marveled at the ship as we ascended. “How do they build it?” At the top of the winding ramp, a ship’s mate sat at a small folding table, taking tickets. By the time we reached him, it was plain to me that Paul and I needed to sign our names to a manifest of some sort. When the mate took our tickets and shoved his clipboard towards us, I saw that he required only names and ages. The ruffled papers looked no more official than the handwritten pricelist pinned to a fruit stand on the road to Buenos Aires. Nevertheless, with police scheming about, our real names needed to remain in Argentina, as far as I was concerned. I quickly invented new ones and neatly wrote them for both of us. As for ages, I told the truth for Paul and made myself an adult. We had good, new names, strong ones, reflecting our hopes.
The crew of the La Liberación, a cargo ship, was rough looking but jovial enough men with absurdly thick forearms. They bounced around the deck performing hundreds of little tasks. Our fellow passengers appeared mostly lone business types who know the routine. Our room was small, an enclosed booth really, with the orangey aroma of peace and boredom.
Hours ago, Paul and I leaned against the rail on the polished wooden deck, watching Buenos Aires disappear. While our homeland melted away under the cloudless sky, I felt an inexplicable sensation. As my mother said, I am not alone. Salome cannot be the only one. Thus, recognition, even acceptance, is possible. Suddenly I laughed.
“Fucking happiness!” I cried out across the water in English. A crewman, leaning against the rail and smoking a fat cigar, laughed at me in a way that filled his own heart for just a moment. The pleasure of an adult at the joy of a naïve child, maybe indeed I a
m good, God’s soldier and not the devil’s.
Or maybe Paul and I are like magical spies, dodging and weaving just under the gaze of the world.
CHAPTER 9
SAM GUZZLED A BOTTLE of water and then another, tossing the empties onto the passenger side floor of the Escalade as he sweated in the overly cautious suburban traffic. He parked across the street from the Church of the Holy Angels at eight fifteen, lit a cigarette, continued drinking water, and watched for the next half hour.
About eight forty-five, Camille stepped out of the church, flagging him towards her. Her long, thin arm and fingers made the wave sort of otherworldly at that distance, like a painter’s abstraction of a pretty woman waving made artistic by its oversimplified exaggeration. Sam pulled the Escalade into the parking lot and could tell that she intended to approach his window in front of the church—or, put another way, she did not plan on having an involved meeting.
“Really sorry, Sam. He came early, seven thirty. And Andrada heard the confession.”
“It’s okay.” Suspicious.
“But we may have caught a break.” Camille pulled a stapled paper bag from her briefcase and handed it to him. “The guy wanted communion, and Father Andrada obliged. I usually wash the communion chalices. This is it. Clean before today, used by our man. His saliva will be on the rim.”
“You get his tag number?”
“I watched him leave from the window but didn’t see a car. He disappeared out of view towards Woodburn Road. You didn’t ask me to get a tag number.”
“You got the phone records?”
In her oxymoronic mix of rough and soft, laid back and elegant, Camille stepped back as if to walk away.
“This is a process, counselor.”
Sam watched her closely. He noted his own hesitancy to treat her like a regular client—in other words, to take charge of her.
“It is a process, but do you know what an important part of the process is?” She leaned back into the Escalade, her elbows on the window jamb, awaiting the answer. “When I ask you to do things, it’s to help you. I really need you to do them.”
They watched each other for a moment.
“Well? Let’s have it,” Sam said.
“Have what?”
“What’d the guy look like?”
“Oh. I guess he just looked like a young guy. Early thirties maybe? Normal build. Brown hair, average length, but hard to tell ’cause he wore a hat. I only saw him from a distance. I’m sure he didn’t see me or know that anyone but Andrada was here.”
Sam spun the Escalade out of the church parking lot. He pulled out Sherita’s file and began to glance through it while driving.
•••
“She can plead straight up,” Chadwick Sparf said. “Distribution of coke. She needs to go away. And forget about bail, she’s on probation. You know our policy—two-time drug losers got to go away. By the way, you look like shit.”
Chad’s small, black eyes looked over Sam’s shoulder for the next lawyer to reject. The prosecutor Sam had hoped for, born-again Sally Ann, had been replaced by Chad, the worst possible draw. Chad was a Revenge of the Nerds-type prosecutor, still punishing defendants for the fact that he was relentlessly bullied growing up. Sam had unique insight into Chad’s rather simplistic psyche, having attended grade school and junior high with him until Chad left for some kind of a special school to escape the abuse by other students. Sam had not been one of the bullies, exactly, but he hadn’t been any hero either. Sparf’s behavior towards Sam fluctuated between punishing and nervous because Sam knew about his difficult and humiliating past. Sam sympathized with Sparf in a way, but not too much. Sure, he had been abused. But not by the defendants he locked up. Not by Sherita Owings.
Sam had heard that when Sparf once spoke at a prosecutor’s conference, his topic had been Never Live a Lie, meaning never let guilty defendants off on lesser charges. Poor Sparf. Even other prosecutors ridiculed his rigidity.
“Seriously, Chad, take a second to look at this case. It’s basically entrapment as to distribution. She’s a relapsed user. You guys shouldn’t be offering triple the street price to a user. No junkie can resist. Raise the price you’re willing to pay any higher, I’ll score and sell it to you.”
“And I’ll lock you up. Now, out of the way, I’m busy.”
Sam stood completely still in front of Sparf. Sam’s briefcase, a four-thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton, hung as it always did over his shoulder on a leather strap. The briefcase was part of his uniform, his armor. He always wanted his hands free. People in control were not constantly shuffling items around from one hand to the other. Like his thousand-dollar suits, odd for a guy who didn’t own a single nice item of casual clothing, the fancy briefcase was part of a simple mental game. There may be tension underneath, but never, ever on the surface.
Sparf juggled his disorganized files in search of the next one he needed. Sherita’s returned to the bottom of his stack.
“Think on it, Chad. I have to be in Courtroom C for a plea. Back in ten.”
Sam touched Chad gently on the shoulder, a sign of friendship and acceptance. It was something he had begun to do as a new attorney, making physical contact of some sort with those he sought to persuade, hoping he could feel something flowing from him to another through the touch. There was compassion in it, but something else, too. An invitation. A jab, as he sometimes thought of it. A jab towards the right answer, like one might use to silence a snorer. Sam believed it often worked, could sometimes feel it work. In the end, despite the bravado, a guy like Sparf, deep inside, still yearned for affection.
Sam turned and walked down the hall, reflecting on the best way to handle Sparf and spring Sherita.
Norwood Kapalka paced back and forth in the corner near Courtroom C. Amelia stood near him, clearly trying to calm him down. Norwood’s confined paces reminded Sam of a confused hamster in a small cage. As Sam approached, he banished Sparf and Sherita, Camille and Andrada, and Torres and Buterab from his mind. He zeroed in on the problem before him. Kapalka, Amelia’s client, was a nervous wreck. He was about to plead guilty to smacking his wife. After an anger-management class, the charge would be dismissed and removed from his permanent record. It was a normal but good deal for a guy who admitted to the police that he hit his wife and was really sorry about it. For Amelia, though, Norwood was a difficult client, high maintenance and a whiner who wanted to talk about his marriage more than the case. Sam could tell from a distance that Amelia’s plea deal was not the thing worrying Kapalka. He was still hung up on whether his wife was cheating on him, still trying to get his head around the suspicion that was ruining his life.
“Norwood, relax,” Sam said. “This is gonna be easy, easy. You’ll be out of here in ten minutes.”
“I know.” Kapalka’s eyes were watery and he gripped a sealed envelope tightly. “I need your advice. On whether I should open it.” Norwood’s hands shook. Amelia, annoyed, looked at Sam, inviting him to step in.
“You didn’t,” Sam said. But Sam could see that he had. He’d gotten a paternity test done on his six-year-old son. “Norwood—”
“I know, I know, but I told you, I think she had an affair back then. It’s been driving me crazy. I can’t sleep, I can’t—”
“Give me the envelope.” Norwood limply raised his hand, and Sam took the crinkled envelope and smoothed it out. Diagnostia, Inc. Private and Confidential Genetic Testing. “Never heard of them, and I’ve used labs around here lots of times. For cases.”
“It’s up on twenty-nine, near Falls Church. Very small. Private. So what should I do?”
Deputy Plosky, standing outside Courtroom C called out, “Almost ready, Amelia? Judge is ready to do that plea.”
Amelia shuffled her feet. Her nervousness, her stress, scented the air. She simply was not used to it yet, the constant little tensions of the job. Not enough time for anything, but everything must happen. The cases got called; the decisions got made, ready or not. Sam sighed. He so
ftly rubbed the envelope. He touched Kapalka, trying to get a feeling. All he felt was shivering.
“You’ve been with Davorka for nine years, right?”
“Right.”
“You love her.”
“Yes.”
“You love your son.”
“Yes.”
“You have no actual evidence she’s cheating on you, now or ever.”
“I guess not.”
“She forgives you and wants to stay with you.”
Kapalka looked down. “But I need her to be straight with me.”
Sam held up the envelope. “Norwood, all you need is to be straight with yourself. Either stay with her or leave her. But the answer won’t come from a DNA test.” He balled up the envelope and whipped it in the direction of the trash receptacle. It bounced against the wall and ricocheted into the narrow opening.
Kapalka gritted his teeth. “Okay.”
“Nice shot, Young,” Plosky said.
Sam’s phone buzzed. “This is Young.” Amelia and Kapalka entered the courtroom.
“Sam, where are you?” Public Defender Michael Simmons. His boss. “I haven’t seen you in days.”
“I’m at the courthouse, representing clients. You know, my job.”
Simmons was always in a hurry, always speaking as if he were rushing off to an emergency.
“I’m assigning you a new case. Gilbert Hogman. He’s in the mental unit, shitting and pissing all over his cell. Go over there and see him today. See if he needs a competency evaluation.”
“I’m pretty busy. Can someone else do it?”
“You have a way with nut-job clients. If he needs a mental eval, we can file for it today and get him to a hospital. Every day he’s in the jail is a risk he’ll rack up more charges. And well … never mind. It’s gotta be you.”