“I spent that weekend-three nights that seemed like three years-surrounded by drunks, derelicts, people who could barely function, men who had lost the capacity to distinguish between what happened forty years ago, before they had become addicts and alcoholics, and what was happening right in front of their eyes. They were the victims of their own self-inflicted madness.
“On the bench next to me, a bleary-eyed old man scratched the gray stubble on his cheek, trying to remember where he was.
He opened his toothless mouth and, glancing up at me, began to talk in a rapid senseless monotone. At best, I could make out every third or fourth word as he rambled along, stopping every so often to ask, in a sudden burst of lucidity, ‘Don’t you see?’ He would wait until I gave some sign, a nod, a shrug, a smile, something that showed him that I understood, that I sympathized with what he was telling me, before he lost himself again in his own incoherence.
“He babbled on and on, stopping every once in a while to see if I was still listening, an endless monologue that had meaning only for himself. Gradually, his voice grew fainter, as if he was slowly drifting away. ‘Don’t you see?’ he asked, suddenly alert.
Then, without waiting for my response, he closed his eyes and a moment later began to snore. His shoulder slid up against my chest until the back of his head, greasy gray hair matted to his whitish skull, was directly below my chin. Careful not to let him fall, I got to my feet and left him slumped on the hard wooden bench, a harmless old man who, when he was not crawling into a bottle, was being shoved into a cell. I found myself wondering what stories he thought he was telling me in that torrent of unintelligible speech.
“I found a place on the other side of the cell, as far away as I could get from the stench that emanated from that shit-splattered toilet. The windows high above were black with the night and the dim gray yellow illumination from the single electric bulb lent a spectral quality to things that even in the clear light of day would have been troubling enough. How was it possible that human beings could of their own volition have been reduced to this? How was it possible that the only thing we could think to do about it was to take them, throw them in jail for a few days or a few weeks, and then put them back out on the street to do the same thing all over again? That old man I had left lying on the bench somewhere in the darkness would spend the rest of his life either drunk or locked up and no one seemed to think a thing about it. That was the first time that I began to think that the law itself could be the worst crime of all.
“I became aware that I was being watched. A few feet away from me, sitting straight with his back against the cement wall and his hands extended to his knees, a gaunt figure was staring at me. As soon as he saw me look, he came over and without a word sat down next to me the same way he had been sitting before.
” ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Steelhammer,’ he said, his eyes focused straight ahead.
“Ignoring him, I started to move away. ‘We have an appointment, Mr. Steelhammer,’ he said, turning his head toward me.
‘I’ve been waiting for you since yesterday when my wife called you.’
“I shook my head to let him know he was making a mistake.
” ‘You’re my lawyer,’ he insisted. ‘The trial starts tomorrow.’
” ‘I’m not Mr. Steelhammer. I’m not your lawyer.’
” ‘Just a minute,’ he said, quite serious. ‘I’ll ask my wife.’ Squinting his eyes, he started moving his lips, noiselessly, like someone forming the words they are reading from a book held right in front of them. His lips stopped moving, and his eyes opened wide.
‘Yes, now I understand.’ His gaze raced from one side to the other.
Then he leaned over and whispered, ‘She told me that you didn’t want to use your real name in here. What shall I call you?’
” ‘You just talked to your wife?’ I asked. ‘Where is she?’
” ‘In Rome. She’s a nun,’ he replied. ‘She’s the Pope’s daughter,’ he added, eager to share this proof of his own importance.
“Madness has a logic of its own, and there was nothing to be gained by insisting on the rules of reason that every normal person follows without a conscious thought.
” ‘I’m not your lawyer. I was sent here to make sure you were all right. Mr. Steelhammer will come tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. In the meantime,’ I cautioned him as if it were a matter of the gravest importance, ‘you are not to talk to anyone about this.’ He followed every word with obedient eyes. ‘Silence is the key,’ I insisted.
” ‘Silence is the key,’ he repeated, nodding to himself. Without another word, he went back to his place on the bench, stretched his hands out to his knees, and, perfectly content, started once again the endless wait for someone who would never come.
“If I slept at all that night, it was only for a few minutes at a time. Chased by nightmares, men cried out like children, lonely and afraid, or woke up with a start, screaming obscenities or throwing wild punches at anyone they thought had disturbed their rest.
“I stayed in that holding tank-that dungeon-all weekend long, living a slow-motion death. They never moved me to a cell of my own; they never let me shower or change my clothes. Monday morning they let me go, but not until nine o’clock when, as the jailer reminded me when he gave me back my briefcase, I had only thirty minutes to get to court.
” ‘Why wasn’t I let out two hours ago? That’s the normal time, isn’t it? Seven o’clock?’
“He was reluctant to answer, but finally relented. ‘It wasn’t up to me,’ he explained as he emptied out the contents of a manila envelope. I picked up my keys and then my wallet. ‘Judge Jeffries signed the order.’ He hesitated, a question in his eyes. ‘You’re not really going to go to court like that, are you?’
“I had not shaved since early Friday morning. I had not brushed my teeth or even washed my face and hands. My hair felt like it was alive, infested with a million microscopic organisms on a feeding frenzy. I itched everywhere. My suit was in ruins, rumpled, wrinkled, soiled with sweat and God knows what else. My black wing tip shoes were dirty and scuffed. One of them was dis-colored with a stain left when one of those drunks sitting next to me had urinated down his leg.
“The more he looked at me, the more sympathetic the deputy became. He offered to help. ‘I’ve got some things in the back. A razor, an extra toothbrush.’
” ‘Thanks,’ I said, as I turned to go, ‘but I think I owe it to the judge to let him see me the way I am.’ “
Three
Adrink in his hand, Harper Bryce let his eye wander across the bar and grill. A few more people had come in while we talked, a blast of late winter wind announcing each new arrival, and it was now almost half full. It was one of those places that stay in business for years, seldom empty but never crowded. The dishes had been cleared from the table, and the coffee had gone cold, but no one felt any pressure to leave. We could sit there all day if we wanted, talking among ourselves, and no one would think twice about it.
Pushing up the sleeve of his shirt just far enough to steal a glance at his watch, Jonah Micronitis started to say something, another reminder that it was getting late and there were things they had to do. Time was money, and money, for Jonah Micronitis, had always been everything. Asa Bartram ignored him. With a slight movement of his head, and an even less discernible movement of his hand, he stopped him from making a sound.
“Did you really go to court, Calvin’s court, like that?” Asa asked, encouraging me to go on. His arms, folded together, rested on the table. A faint smile flickered at the corners of his broad mouth. There was a look of nostalgia in his aging eyes, as if he had been reminded of some indiscretion of his own, some act of defiance which he had grown too prudent to commit, but on which he still looked back with pride.