My New American Life (25 page)

Alvo's lawyer wore a pale suit with a cripplingly tight skirt. Combed in a flawless upsweep, her silvery curls gleamed softly in the harsh institutional light. She approached the judge's bench and whispered in his ear. The elderly judge leered besottedly at the lady lawyer.

“Defense has informed me that a translator has been found for his client, who is insufficiently comfortable in English.”

“My man's a genius,” Genti whispered.

“Are you aware of that, Mr. Capone?”

You couldn't make up a district attorney named Mr. Capone! Lula felt another surge of love for her adopted country. Mr. Capone pointed out that when the accused was apprehended, he'd shown an excellent command of English. English curse words in particular. When this got a laugh from some cops up front, Mr. Capone mock-saluted them.

“Assholes!” Genti hissed.

The guard who materialized at the end of Lula and Genti's row informed them: One more outburst, and he'd have to ask them to leave. He himself spoke softly yet managed to create a rumbling in the atmosphere that got the whole courtroom's attention.

Alvo-Arkon turned. He looked haggard, but still handsome, even with the bad dye job. Poor guy! For Lula to assume she'd been rejected was pure self-centered pride. Alvo hadn't been thinking about her. A possible fifteen years in jail trumped a catastrophic first date.

Alvo spotted Genti and raised one shoulder in that corny way that always yanked his friends' leashes. Then Alvo noticed Lula. No surprise. No nothing. You wouldn't buy a fish with those eyes. He didn't know her, he didn't want to know her. Why was she even here?

“Sorry,” Genti told the guard. Then he said, “I fucked your fat slut of a sister,” pleasantly in Albanian so only Lula could hear.

The translator was a parched, round-shouldered gentleman in a boldly checked suit. Not much competition there. What red-blooded court clerk would call this sad sack once Lula was an option? However long it took to get the job, she could still wear short skirts. The translator kept raising his forearm as if to ward off the hail of English. “Please, more slowly, slowly,” he said.

“Mistrial!” Genti whispered.

The clerk read the charges. Not one burglary, but many. All groceries and supermarkets. A firearm had been involved. Lula put her head in her hands. Alvo was also charged with funneling money to terrorist groups in Kosovo.

“Objection!” yelled Alvo's lawyer.

“Objection sustained,” said the judge.

“Now he's screwed,” Lula whispered.

“That part is definite crap,” said Genti. “That I swear on my daughter's life. In my opinion, Arkon could be a lot
more
patriotic.”

“You have a daughter?” Lula said.

“A daughter and a son. The lawyers know it's horseshit too. Why are you closing your eyes?”

To read the print on a sales receipt. Orange juice and cigarettes.

Genti elbowed her. “Pick up your head. Sit straight.”

Mr. Capone called Mr. Aziz. Yes, he was the owner of Sunrise Market at 411 Avenue C. Tears trickled down Mr. Aziz's cheeks when he described how his employee had called at dawn to tell him that there had been a break-in. Thank you, Mr. Aziz. Did the defense have any questions? Come on, thought Lula, no one got hurt, it was only money and minor property damage. Most likely the guy was insured. So who got stung? Some rich insurance company? Alvo was the Albanian-American Robin Hood.

Was there a camera? An alarm? A guard? No, sir, there was neither. There was a dog. A dog? Mr. Aziz's German shepherd had bitten the intruder. The dog had been shot. To death? No, sir, Rex survived. Lula recalled the bandage on Alvo's hand when he'd come to take her to lunch. Even then. But of course even then. He'd asked her to hide a gun.

“They got nothing on no one. Purely circumstantial.” Genti must have watched the same crime shows as Lula.

Alvo's lawyer suggested that her client had been bitten earlier in the day by the dog, which had viciously attacked him, unprovoked, when he'd walked into Mr. Aziz's store to buy a quart of juice. Out of the goodness of his heart, her client had declined to press charges, and now his forbearance was being repaid by this trumped-up case against him.

“Brilliant,” Genti said. “Is that brilliant or not?”

“Not.” Lula looked at the jury. Disbelief on every face.

The lawyers approached the judge, and the next part played out in hushed voices. The judge declared a recess.
State of New York v. Jashari
would resume tomorrow at nine.

“Jashari,” Lula repeated. This judge didn't warn the jurors to be careful crossing the street.

Lula watched Alvo confer with his lawyer until the guards came to take him away. He turned and looked at Lula. This time Alvo saw her. His jaw went slack with longing, and the look they exchanged was almost as good as the sex they never had. With all his heart, he regretted not having gotten back in touch.

Lula almost cried out his name. Passion rose from the embers of their awkward dating history. Maybe things could still work out. Maybe Alvo would get off on a legal technicality. Having realized that he loved her, he would reform, and they would start over, two strangers whom that trusty matchmaker, grand larceny, had brought together in a courtroom.

R
ather than face the buses and the cold, Lula accepted Genti's offer of a ride home. But even before she climbed into the SUV that Genti retrieved from the garage, she realized that riding with him would have its own discomforts.

“Why supermarkets?” she asked, as Genti darted in and out of the traffic that grew thicker and meaner as they headed up the West Side.

“How would I know?” said Genti. “We didn't do it.”

“But why would anyone?” asked Lula, more diplomatically.

Genti's answer was loud music. Fuck you up, Serb bitches. Every boast and threat and off rhyme intensified Lula's gloom.

Genti took the Lincoln Tunnel. The minute they saw the light of New Jersey, his cell phone barked like Charmy Puppy.

“That cop's looking straight at you,” Lula said.

“Let him look straight at my ass,” said Genti. “Hey, boss, how's it going?” Genti switched into Albanian, but mostly he made noises, humming and clucking the international language that signified too bad, not good, we have a problem. “Okay, not to worry, boss, everything will be fine.”

“Was he calling from jail?” Lula asked. “I thought you only get one call.”

“Money works everywhere,” Genti said. “But only so far. The boss says things don't look great. New charges, new evidence. They're trying to connect him to every unsolved break-in in New York and northern Jersey. Little Sister, we need to ask you one last tiny favor. We know you have a good lawyer. The one who got you that work visa overnight.”

“Not overnight,” said Lula.

“Yes, overnight,” insisted Genti. “We remember that first time, your bragging about this legal genius. So now the boss is wondering if you could talk to your boy. Get him to pull a few strings. We would never ask such a thing unless it was life or death.”

Lula said, “My guy's in immigration. It's a whole different field.”

“Lawyers know lawyers,” Genti said. “Just like people know people. Kinship patterns, right?”

“Kinship patterns?”

“I'm taking an introductory anthro course at LaGuardia Community College.”

“Improving yourself,” said Lula. “Hey, watch it! You cut that guy off!”

“I saw the stupid bastard,” said Genti, swerving. “One more thing. The boss said for me to tell you that what happened between you wasn't nothing. That's what he told me to say. Look, I don't know what
did
happen, but the boss said to tell you it—”

“Was not nothing. I heard. I'll do what I can. Are you going to the trial tomorrow?”

“If it's still going on. The whole thing could be over, and not in a good way, by this afternoon. Not to put any pressure on you. But we think your time would be better spent going to see your lawyer.”

“I told you. There's nothing I can do,” Lula said.

“There's always something,” said Genti. “Call him. We'll go back into the city. I'll drive you there. I'll wait and take you home.”

Staring out the windshield, Lula recalled the look on Alvo's face as he'd left the courtroom. Had his hungry stare been for her—or her lawyer? “I'll think about it. I'll call my guy. He's out of town a lot. He works in Guantánamo, where people have
real
problems.”

“Little Sister, trust me. This is a real problem. Tomorrow's too late. I'll take you to his office.”

Lula could have said no. She could have tried to say no. Instead she got her phone and pressed Don Settebello's number. Lula told his secretary she needed to see Don in person. Now. For only ten minutes.

“You're in luck,” said the secretary. “He's just back from Cuba. His schedule opens up around two, two fifteen. He can give you five minutes tops. This better be important.”

“It's life and death,” Lula said.

D
on Settebello liked to give the impression of a guy who worked out of a dusty back office, like a detective in an old movie. But Lula had long since discovered, not entirely to her surprise, that Settebello, Reitman and Leiber was a huge intimidating law firm with a huge staff instructed not to intimidate clients. The scrubbed young receptionist picked up the phone, and a scrubbed young man whisked Lula through a labyrinth populated by other scrubbed young people, all working for Don, not one of them looking up long enough to envy or even notice Lula, the family friend who could breeze into Don's inner sanctum. She was no ordinary supplicant, come to beg Don's help. She and Don and their families had spent Thanksgiving together.

Don's kiss on the cheek said, Hi! I have five minutes.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Lula said.

“What are you doing, Lula?” said Don.

“I've been going to court, watching trials. I like your legal system. Very fair, very humane. I saw a judge tell the jurors to be careful crossing the street. At home that would mean she was threatening them, but here—”

“We try,” said Don. “Some of the time we succeed.”

“Some is better than never,” said Lula. “I was thinking of becoming a court interpreter.”

“Good! I heard you met Savitra. Crazy overachiever, but you have to give her credit. I mean what are you doing
here
?”

“How's Abigail?” asked Lula.

“Fine,” said Don Settebello. “I've got her this weekend. So what's so life and death?”

Lula said, “I know there's probably nothing you can do, but I need to ask you a favor. I have this cousin from home, he's being framed for robberies he didn't commit.”

Don said, “Is this by any chance the cousin who was in your room the night Ginger showed up?”

Ordinarily, Lula admired how quickly Don's mind worked. But this was a little too quick.

“So what have they got on the innocent cousin?”

Lula said, “Some grocery store dog bit him. There was blood at the crime scene. His blood. A guard dog. Actually, the dog bit him earlier in the day.”

It was suicidal to lie to Don. But it was worth a try. She and Alvo were friends. They'd been through something together. Their lives had been threatened—by Ginger. They came from the same place. Blood loyalty was the upside of the tribal psychosis that made people kill nephews and grandsons for fifteen generations.

Don said, “Please. Don't tell me any more. I don't want to know.”

Lula said, “It's political. He's an Albanian patriot.” Was that even true? Or was it something the court made up? Genti had said that Alvo—Arkon—wasn't patriotic
enough
. “He's innocent. I swear. I mean, about the break-ins.”

Don returned to his desk and motioned for Lula to sit. He shut his eyes and massaged his eyebrows. “You know what the most painful part is, Lula? What hurts is how stupid you must think we are. I'm just curious: Do you think all Americans are that dumb, or only me and Stan? Do you think we didn't know you made up those stories you passed off as family history? So fine, everybody takes liberties. Famous writers, as we all know. But now do you really imagine that Don the Dummy is going to believe that your boyfriend or hookup or one-night stand or green-card husband or whoever the fuck he turns out to be is an innocent Albanian patriot framed on a bogus burglary rap?”

“He isn't my boyfriend.” If only she hadn't worn that stupid woolen hat! Maybe if her hair looked better, Don would agree to help her.

Don said, “You know what, Lula? If you'd come into my office and said, Hey, Don, I've been screwing this Albanian dude who's gotten popped for B and E. You know anyone in criminal? Is there something you can do? I still wouldn't have done anything. I mean, I would still be horrified that you would ask me to waste my time fixing—refusing to fix—a case like this when the secret jails and black sites are jammed with waterboarded beat-to-shit miserable motherfuckers, a certain percentage of whom have done nothing wrong except be named Abdullah. But at least if you'd said that, if you'd said that, Lula, I would not have felt, as I do now, personally insulted.”

“I didn't mean to insult you,” said Lula. No wonder Don was famous. He must be a genius at badgering witnesses into saying what he wanted. Lula tried to imagine Don's wife Betsy, whom she'd never met. Then she thought of Savitra, and of Don's hand thumping heavily down on her hand at lunch. A woman would have to be crazy to marry, or even have sex with, a man who would prosecute every lover's quarrel like a criminal case.

Don said, “I haven't gotten where I am without being able to read a situation, and quite frankly, Lula, my reading of this situation makes me feel . . . I don't know what it makes me feel. Tired. Disappointed. It depresses me, Lula. You know that? As we used to say back in the day, it brings me down. You work in the home of my oldest friend. You're family, in a way. You know what I've chosen to do with my life, the problems I've made for myself, the sacrifices, not that they're sacrifices. Someone has to do it. The daily shoveling shit against the tide of government lying, military lying, pointless social lying. And now you're adding your own pathetic little lie about a guy who shouldn't even have been in your room that night Stan's wife went apeshit.”