In the morning, through his court-appointed lawyer, Gilda Meyers, Sovereign pleaded not guilty due to compelling extenuating circumstances, and the prosecutor didn’t argue about low bail.
He immediately went to see an old friend from college, Lena Altuna. Lena had been a public defender for fifteen years before she went into business for herself.
“I don’t know, Sovy,” the forty-seven-year-old New Yorker said.
“You don’t know what?”
“This will be a hard enough case to win without you paying for Miss Loam. The guilt lies with either you, her, or both of you together conspiring against Mr. James. He is the victim no matter his intentions.”
“But I don’t believe she was trying to hurt either one of us,” Sovereign argued. “At least not physically.”
“Shouldn’t you know that before championing her case? Especially since it will weaken any argument you might make.”
“Get somebody to bail her out,” James offered. “Tell them to have her get in touch with me and I will make up my mind whether or not to help in her defense.”
“That’s not an advisable course, Sovereign.”
Lena had olive skin and incongruous green eyes. Her face was long and filled with longing — longing for justice, Sovereign had often thought. They saw each other only at five-year class reunion parties. Every time they met she went on long diatribes about how the nonwhite, poor, and elderly populations never got a fair shake.
Sovereign liked her commitment; he had felt that his secret actions at work equaled hers. Now, however, he doubted himself.
“While I was blind she was kind and generous to me,” Sovereign said. “I can’t turn my back on her without finding out her motives on my own.”
Lena stared at James for a while before saying, “All right, Sovy. You win. I’ll have someone post her bail. But she will be advised on the case as her lawyer sees fit.”
“Just tell her I’d like to talk to her too.”
He could lie down without dizziness or masturbation. Sleep, however, hovered somewhere in the darkness of the room. He was awake and afloat on a stream of unbidden thoughts. He remembered times with his family, and at school with other children who had faces but few names; he thought of teachers who scolded him for mistakes and ignored his every success. Or maybe, Sovereign thought, his school chums did have names that he hadn’t bothered to learn, and the teachers were just doing their jobs. These thoughts led to his grandfather and the ragged hole left by his sudden death. Sovereign was angry most of the time — angry at everyone except Drum-Eddie.
Three weeks before Eddie left the house and didn’t return, four weeks before the FBI came looking for him, Eddie found Sovereign at the Clairemont branch of the San Diego library. Nineteen-year-old Sovereign was studying a guidebook for the SAT exam and scowling.
“Don’t look like no good book to me,” Eddie had said.
The conversation came back as whole cloth, like many a forgotten and submerged experience had since James first visited Offeran.
“Need to,” Sovereign said. He had been paring down his sentences lately. He had read that people talked too much and should concentrate only exactly on what they intended to say.
Drum-Eddie was handsome and easygoing. He turned the chair across from his brother and sat astride it backward.
“How come you didn’t take the test before you graduated, like everybody else?” Eddie asked.
“Thought I was gonna join the marines. Thought I would go to school on the G.I. Bill and then I wouldn’t have to go to Daddy for the money.”
“But he got the money all saved up. All Daddy do is save money.”
“I wanted to do it on my own.”
“So how come you didn’t sign up on your eighteenth birthday?”
They hadn’t talked much in the previous six months. Eddie spent a lot of time out of the house with new friends and interests. He rarely came to the boxing gym anymore.
“I got flat feet and a heart murmur,” Sovereign James said. “The recruiter told me that if we were still at war they’d’a taken me in a second. But now they cuttin’ back.”
“But that was a year ago, JJ. Why it take you so long to apply to college?”
“I’ve been thinking. What do you want, Eddie?”
“I got somethin’ to tell you, bro.”
“What?”
“I’m gonna go on vacation. I might even retire.”
“Retire?” Sovereign didn’t add that Eddie was only seventeen, because this was an obvious fact and there was no need to state it.
“So you might not see me for a while, man,” Drum said, ignoring the implied critique. “Remember that I will always be your brother.”
In the morning Sovereign was still thinking about Eddie, about how he looked up to him even though he was younger.
He lay back in the bed awake with eyes closed. He couldn’t see but he wasn’t blind either. This reality seemed like some important philosophical premise but he couldn’t unravel it.
Eyes still shut he climbed from the bed and made it into the kitchen without running into anything. He approached the far west window of the living room and then opened his eyes upon south Manhattan. It was bright but early. Cars wended down the West Village streets and people walked with purpose. Across the street and a few floors down a woman was running full-out in her living room, on a fancy treadmill. In another room, but still the same apartment, a man was serving breakfast to two small children at a round table just large enough for a family of four.
Sovereign opened the window, imagining that he could see the sibilant sounds curling in on the currents of air that rolled in over his shins, ankles, and feet.
He was naked, brawnier than he had been before the episode; that was how he had come to think of his blindness — an episode. Looking down at his uncircumcised penis he smiled. Then he gazed at a plump man walking up Washington Street in a stride made circular by the girth of his thighs. He carried a brown briefcase and wore an unprofessional baby-blue suit. The woman was still running on her treadmill while the father and the children talked and talked, ate and talked.
With the breeze on his knees and people filling his eyes, Sovereign felt love welling up in his chest. The bumblebee had been replaced with hummingbird-like passion. He didn’t know anything about the people he saw or the origins of the sounds the city made, but that didn’t matter. The police could come and arrest him; they probably would. Some judge might well send him to prison. He didn’t want to go — but even the prospect of incarceration couldn’t dim the beauty of the world he beheld...
“Like God,” he whispered, “beholding creation and not able to tell the difference between what He made and who He was.”
The phone rang and Sovereign started but didn’t know it. He turned and looked at the phone and it rang again. He walked from the window a little reluctantly, feeling that he was in some ways a deity abandoning his subject.
“Hello?”
“Mr. James.”
“Miss Loam.”
“I’m so sorry...”
They talked on the phone for more than an hour. She had been released late the night before and interviewed briefly by Stanford Miles, a colleague of Lena Altuna’s.
“Mr. Miles told me that you paid my bail and wanted me to call but he said that that wasn’t a good idea. He said that if we were talking the court might say that we planned to hurt Lemuel. So I went ovah to my friends Monique and Simba’s house and stayed with them last night. I didn’t know if I should call you but I had to at least tell you I was sorry.”
“The only reason to be sorry is if you’ve done something wrong.”