It was a straight legal argument on a disputed point in the Byzantine case law on search and seizure, and as I went through it, summarizing what I had written in my ten-page brief, I knew the judge would rule against me, and I knew he knew it, too.
The defense made the motion; the state opposed the motion; the judge, after both sides had filed their written briefs and made their oral arguments, denied the motion. That was how you set into motion the legal machinery by which one day, perhaps five or six years from now, the Supreme Court of the United States would decide that the existing law, or the way in which that law had been interpreted, was in some respect invalid. It was what held the whole thing together, this knowledge that whether you practiced in downtown New York or in some dusty, windblown town in the high desert of eastern Oregon, no one had the power of final judgment. You could appeal and appeal again, appeal until you finally had the chance, a chance that might come once in your life, to argue a case in front of the nine justices of the only court from which there could be no appeal.
If you were serious about your work, if you were serious about yourself, you wrote every brief, and you made every oral argument as if you were already there, in front of the Supreme Court itself. You stood in an empty courtroom, in front of a judge you sometimes suspected had not bothered to so much as glance at the written brief you had submitted, a judge who might be a friend or an enemy, someone you might play cards with in your spare time, and you always began, “May it please the court.”
It went like clockwork. I argued, the state argued, and I argued again. The judge had no questions he wanted to ask and, passing the file to his clerk, announced in a cool, deliberate manner that, in the phrase uttered so often it had become engraved in my mind, “Having listened to the arguments of counsel, and having been advised of the premises, the court finds that the defendant has failed to show why the evidence alluded to should be suppressed. The motion is therefore denied.”
Gathering up my papers, I dropped them into my briefcase, and then, putting it behind me, turned to go. It was like stepping into a hole. The weight that was supposed to be at the end of my hand was not there. Half the leather handle had ripped away from the briefcase and was dangling from my hand like a fallen climber clinging to a rope. Reaching down, I scooped it up and with my hand around the bottom held it next to my side.
“You were very good, Mr. Joseph Antonelli.”
I knew who it was before I looked, the voice I used to listen to in the middle of the night when I was still young, the voice that could now make me remember things I thought I had forgotten. Sitting alone at the end of the spectators’ bench closest to the door, Jennifer laughed at the surprised expression I had not been able to hide.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as she began to walk toward me. Holding her hands in front of her, staring down at her shoes, a mirthful look on her face, she slid first one foot, then the other ahead. I watched her come, wondering at the mischief going on in her mind. “When did you get back?”
“A couple of days ago,” she said, looking up. As soon as she saw me, her expression changed. “What is it? Why do you have that funny look on your face?” she asked, cocking her head.
“I was thinking about the agonies of self-doubt and suspicion I would have gone through-that I used to go through-when you went away somewhere and I didn’t hear from you the moment you got back.”
She wrapped her fingers around my arm and gently squeezed.
Then she let go and the catlike grin again spread over her mouth and her eyes began their cheerful dance. “Did I ever tell you that before you ever asked me out, before you even knew I was alive, I was dreaming about you and about the things that would happen, things I would do that would make you notice me, make you want to be with me and love me the way I already knew I was going to love you?” Her hand was on my sleeve again, and as she pressed her fingers tight, she tossed her head.
“And did I ever tell you that I was doing exactly the same thing, dreaming about what I would do to make you want to be with me, fall in love with me as desperately as I was in love with you?” I asked.
The door on the side opened and the clerk bustled in to collect something she had left on her desk.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked as we left the courtroom.
“I called your office and your secretary told me you were in court this morning. I thought it would be fun to watch.”
I shifted the briefcase to the other arm and held the door for her.
“It was interesting. You seemed so serious. It was you, and it wasn’t you. It’s funny. I used to think about what you’d be like when you were older, and then, watching you, I kept thinking about what you were like when you were younger.” Trying to keep hold of the thought, she stopped and turned to me. “I see you the way you were, and when I do, I start to see you the way you’ve become. Does that make sense? To see you both ways at once, as if all the time between then and now vanished? That you’ve always been both what you are and what you were?”
We stood outside in the late morning light, not quite certain what to do next.
“I’m parked down the street,” she said.
“I don’t have to go back to the office for a while.” After an awkward pause, I added, “I mean if you have time.”
Aimlessly, we wandered down the street. My hand brushed against hers, and once or twice she touched my sleeve, gently tugging it to emphasize something she said. We passed a cafe, noticed it was largely deserted, and without a word about what we were doing, turned around, went inside, and took a booth at the back. A stoop-shouldered, blunt-eyed waitress, her mouth twitching at the side while she listened, took our brief order.
Soundlessly, her eyes locked in a petrified stare, she brought two sand-colored mugs and a grease-stained coffeepot. Setting the mugs together at the edge of the table, she filled them full and, taking the pot away, left them there.
I crossed my eyes and made a face as I shoved one cup toward Jennifer and dragged the other one toward me. She started to laugh, then covered her mouth with her hand. I took a drink and then put it down. It had a stale bitter taste and I wanted to take it back and ask for a fresh pot. Jennifer put her hand on my wrist. “It’s all right,” she said after she had taken a sip. “It isn’t that bad.”
I shook my head in disagreement, pushed the cup out of my way, and leaned forward on my elbows. “How was your mother?”
“Fine. I told her I’d seen you.” She paused, amused at something that had been said. “I told her about our first date-what I said to you when you brought me home.” Her eyes stayed on me while she turned her head slightly to the side. “She said that the next time I wanted to invite you to spend the night, I didn’t need to ask.” Her eyes flashed for just an instant, and then she looked down and stirred cream into the coal black coffee. “And what have you been doing while I was gone?”
“Not too much. I got so drunk the night we had dinner and you had to go home early that I had to call for help. Howard Flynn-there’s a story-took me home and put me to bed and came back the next morning to take me to work.”
“You got drunk?” she asked, a look of alarm in her eyes.
“Close enough. First time in a long time.”
“But why?”
Somewhere below the surface of my conscious mind I knew the answer, but I was not ready to put it into words, and I was not sure I ever would. After all this time-a lifetime-Jennifer was back, and things I thought were dead had come back to life.