“We have a clear vision of a world that is not tainted by nationalisms, gods or the lies of history.”
“History,” John repeated the word. “That’s me.”
“That’s you.”
“And so all of this has been you? My capture, my lawyer, Jose Velázquez in my cell. Even the letters left on my kitchen table.”
“We want you with us, John. If we sit back and leave the world to its own devices — its capitalisms and Holocausts — there won’t be a civilization left. As you said in the first lecture at NUSW: there can be no future without a history and there is no history except for what you can imagine and do fear.”
“I’m not some savior,” John said. “I play with ideas — that’s all.”
“The play’s the thing.”
“I appreciate what you claim is your mission, Mr. Tellman, Ron. I mean I often think what’s wrong with the world is its honesty about desire. Lies and misdirections might indeed make a better tomorrow except that truth cannot be denied. And the truth is — we’re a deeply flawed species.”
“Even DNA can be altered,” the gardener said. “We can remake the history of our genes just as well as we can deconstruct our supposed pasts.”
“Service,” John mused. “Is that the name you were born with?”
“Will you join us, John?”
“No. At least not yet. I’m here in my mother’s old apartment saying good-bye to myself.”
“You will have to make up your mind sooner or later. One must plan for the future. In some cases, yours for instance, that future is synonymous with the world’s.”
31
His fears gone, John took Service Tellman’s words as a great gift for a man in his profession. The simple idea that a cult leader could make himself into a living martyr embodied everything John taught in his classes. To disappear in plain sight and still remain a force was a trick rarely used in a world of absolute rulers, capitalisms and other megalomanias.
John showered and shaved rather than planning his escape. He made coffee, read an old newspaper, then used the smart phone his lawyer gave him to look up Service Tellman and the Platinum Path on its browser.
There were many photographs of the organization’s founder usually in pedestrian poses — as he was coming out of some official door or smiling and turning toward someone at his side. The man in the pictures looked something like Ron Underhill but he had a short beard and a face different enough that one might not recognize him. A razor, a little plastic surgery, tinted contact lenses and the daily blessing of the sun were enough for the chameleon-prophet to continue on his mission unhindered by identity or the stench of his breed.
It wasn’t until John was riding the Number 6 train downtown that he considered running again. The subway car was crowded with well over a hundred passengers.
A young Asian woman in a bright green dress was standing next to him, clinging to the same chrome pole between the center doors of the subway car.
“Nice day,” John said. He was wearing the same soft-milled black cotton jacket and loose coal gray trousers he had on when he met Carlinda Elmsford. His T-shirt that day was navy.
“Beautiful,” the young woman replied.
“The kind of morning that makes you think maybe you should empty out a credit card and buy a ticket for Rome.”
“I like Paris,” she said, giving him a conspiratorial smile.
“Too rainy for me.”
“You going to work?”
“No,” he said, more contemplative than sad.
“You look very familiar. Have we met?”
“I’ve been in the newspapers on and off lately. They found a dead man in a wall in the East Village. I used to work on the other side of that wall.”
The young woman’s eyes widened.
“I’m headed down to the court now,” he said. “The judge has to decide whether or not to accept my confession and the sentence suggested by the ADA.”
“You did it?”
“Yes.”
“And you confessed?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Why did I do it?”
“No. Why confess? I read the articles. There was no witness or physical evidence. There’s no proof.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Executive assistant at Resterly and Lowe. I’m going to law school at night.”
“Born here?”
“Hong Kong. Why?”
“I think it’s the strong green of your dress. It’s a little more... um, forceful than most American-born women would wear.”
“But why confess?” she asked again. “It’s been such a long time.”
“I’ve tried for years to leave it behind me. But I couldn’t escape the guilt. If I confess and take my punishment I’ll have paid my debt and be able to move on.”
“You can’t change what’s done,” she said.
In superior courtroom 10a at 7:47, John was standing next to Nina Forché, across the aisle from ADA Lars and a young woman in a gray dress-suit.
I’d like to come visit you in prison, Hong Li had said when they departed the train at the Brooklyn City Hall stop.
“Why?” he asked as she handed him her card.
“My private phone and e-mail are at the bottom,” she said. “I’d like to find out if you feel that this was the right move after being locked up for a while.”
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Maxwell Halloran,” a uniformed guard bellowed.
Tall and grizzled the judge was light-brown like John. He had high shoulders and an unpleasant turn to his lips.
“Be seated,” the judge proclaimed as he lowered into his broad-backed chair. John felt as if he could see a shimmering aura of importance between him and the judge.
“John,” Nina said. “John, sit down.”
She pulled at his sleeve and he relented, still gaping at the magistrate.
Halloran was glowering at a single sheet of paper that he held up to his face. The room behind the defendant’s table was filled with people come to see the trial of the murderous child grown up to be a college professor. Reporters had assailed him outside the courthouse but two big men who said that they were with his team shouldered them aside and brought him to the courtroom.
“Mr. Lars,” Halloran uttered.
“Yes, your honor,” the ADA replied rising from his chair.
“Is this for real?” he asked waving the sheet of paper next to his head.
John was tickled by the dialect-inflected question. He didn’t wonder about the paper or its intelligence; only the character of his judge.
“Yes, your honor,” ADA Lars apologized.
“The source has been verified and vetted?”
“My assistant took the deposition yesterday afternoon at four p.m., west coast time.”
“And before that the defendant confessed and accepted your offer of second-degree manslaughter?”
“Yes, your honor.”
The judge looked angry but John couldn’t tell if this was his normal expression.
“Cornelius Jones,” Halloran cried.
“Stand up, John,” Nina said.
He did so.
“Yes, Judge?”
“Did you kill Chapman Lorraine?”
The words, yes, your honor were on his tongue but his teeth were clenched shut. Service Tellman was in his mind, Service and Hong Li. He’d followed the rules from Parsonsville to Lower Manhattan; he’d confessed and allowed the courts and police and prison guards and convicts to have their way with his freedom. That was all over. Lorraine was dead, John Woman was alive, and the judge, no matter how magnificent, was no more master over him than the convict Andre had been.