The Laws of our Fathers (65 page)

    The following March, as I grew more confident in the foolproof nature of my false identity, I allowed my mother to visit. My father, as I'd imagined, remained at home. By then, I wanted my mom to meet Lucy.

    'This girl?' she asked me the first night. 'Her last name?'

    'Goy, Ma. Her name is goy.' On the whole, my mother behaved with greater aplomb than I would have guessed.

    When I remembered many months along that the V W was still titled to Seth Weissman, I arranged for someone heading East to drive it back to Kindle. She left it with Sonny's Aunt Hen, to await Sonny's return from the Philippines. My only message was

    that Sonny would know what it was for, referring to the money I'd borrowed. I was never certain if I was evincing mettle or loyalty to Lucy or caution of the authorities by leaving no other word or any way to get in touch. But at the age of twenty-three I had begun to think of myself as a realist. Like many other Americans, I had become one in Las Vegas.

    Surprisingly, Lucy and I saw a lot of Hobie. We first spent an evening with him in early September 1970 in a cabin in Humboldt, California, halfway between Seattle and the Bay Area. He told us repeatedly he was happy Lucy and I were together and predicted great things for our relationship. He had passed the summer working for a well-known criminal defense lawyer in Kindle County, Jackson Aires, who at the time was representing a number of Black Muslims. Hobie was now going by the name of Tariq and was considering joining the Muslims himself.

    We had gotten together not so much to make amends as to discuss something we preferred not to talk about over the phone - the death of Cleveland Marsh the previous June. Less than a month after he had been released on bail, Cleveland had been found dead one morning in a private 'sleeping room' at Ciardi's, a gay bathhouse on Castro Street. He was unclothed, and beside him was a pocket mirror on which rested a scalpel, traces of white powder, and a gram of rock cocaine which the medical examiner determined had been cured in strychnine. Cleveland's fame, the lurid circumstances, and the prospect of bad coke on the street all combined to keep the case in the Bay Area papers for days. The medical examiner had found the cause of death to be accidental self-poisoning.

    'Murder, man, straight up,' Hobie said. 'Ain no question.' A summer in a criminal-law firm had imbued him with his usual authoritative voice concerning matters about which I'd heretofore assumed he knew next to nothing. Hobie had even been to the medical examiner's office to look at the records. 'You know, lividity got Cleveland dyin face-down but po-lice find him layin face-up. Body temperature, digestive enzymes, they say man's dead no more'n two hours and Ciardi's close up at 4 a.m. And you tell me how they coulda shut down in the first place with him layin in there? None of this makes any damn sense anyway. Every fool on the street knows somebody just dumped that body in there. But thing is, man, po-lice figure, why sweat it? They're all bent out of shape about Cleveland to begin with, man, cause they think when they busted his ass back in May, he handed them a whole long line of shit bout that bomb and how they had just got to be this white boy's fingerprints on the pieces of the thing. They done their nationwide manhunt and come up with diddly-squat, then Eddgar and his lawyers went truckin in there laughin and scratchin and bail Cleveland out. Po-lice figure Cleveland was just mind-fucking them all along. So hell with his dead ass. That's what the coppers are thinkin. Uppity nigger anyway.'

    With the reference to Michael and the fingerprints, a sober moment passed between us. Hobie had heard my story by then and we both seemed to feel bound together by fortune and the sheer glee of undeserved escape. I finally asked if he knew who it was. He remained at the perimeters of Panther circles and was likely to have asked the question himself.

    'Who what?' Hobie demanded.

    'Who offed Cleveland?'

    'You know same as I do. Feature this: Cleveland snitched out Michael, then Eddgar bails his ass anyway? Only one reason to do that. Eddgar wanted him back on the street so he could deal with him. What white dude you think it was Cleveland was tryin to give the pigs anyway when he dimed Michael? Think Eddgar didn't figure that? Oh, they all made like Cleveland was a hero of the revolution when he come out. And Cleveland, poor motherfucker, he'd believe just about anything so long as somebody was standing there applaudin. But I rapped to Josita, Cleveland's old lady? She told me after they found Cleveland, Huey and them did all kinda head-trips on her, "Don't say nothin," party discipline, that shit, and she's a stone sister anyway. But here's what she was puttin down, dude: was Eddgar what called Cleveland in the

    middle of the night, was Eddgar Cleveland was leavin out to see last time he left their pad. This was Eddgar's thing all the way, man. Makin it look like it some kind of accident went down with a dude who was scorin? You know, Eddgar's done that ten times before, man, this here's his m.o.'

    When we returned to Seattle, I called the Eddgars. I'd had notions of doing it before, but there was nothing for me to say then, other than to demand explanations that would never be made. Now this news, the dark mess of guilt about this death and my role in it, left me anguished. I wanted to do to Eddgar something of what he had done to me. I would not give my name, would speak only a few words: ‘I know about Cleveland. I know why you wanted the bail money.' A declaration that would paralyze him with fright.

    Instead, Nile answered the phone. His wee voice united me at once with the suggestion of perilous loss he always waked in me. When I finally spoke, he knew immediately who it was, even though I'd merely asked for Eddgar.

    'Hi,' he said. He sounded certain I'd called for him. 'Are you someplace?' he asked.

    I tried to say everything I would have wanted said to me. I miss you, Nile. Be a good boy. We all love you. I'm far away but I think about you and I'm going to write. Nearby, I heard June repeatedly asking who it was.

    'Is Michael there?' Nile asked.

    'Michael? No, not right now.'

    'Oh.' He deliberated only an instant and then, without a further word, put down the phone.

    

    

    
Sonny

    

    Every month or so, Raymen and Marietta vow to start again. There's always a new plan. This summer, she was slipping a chemical her sister-in-law gave her into his coffee, so he'd retch whenever he drank. Last week, they swore off credit cards and cigarettes. They're going to pay down their debts, she tells me. They're going to get out from under. She is ardent about this, even as she admits it's tough. Without the ciggies, he's drinking too much, maybe they both are.

    'Are you getting on each other's nerves?'

    'No, no,' she insists. 'He's sayin this here's the best it's been in years. He's happy. My daughter was on the phone with him a whole hour last night? She's thinkin he's a changed man.'

    Leaving yesterday, I had every intention of reading-out Marietta this morning. Call her a busybody, a snoop, tell her to cease meddling. With a night's sleep, though, I was put out mostly with

    

    myself. Late last night, I thought of phoning Seth, then recalled he was out with Sarah. Yet listening to Marietta's proclamation of renewal, I'm nearly moved to tears. There's hope, I think, hope. Everyone wants hope.

    'That's terrific,' I say, as we start into the courtroom. ‘I want to know how this turns out.'

    By the chambers door, Fred Lubitsch is lurking, several yellow sheets - a search warrant - in hand. 'Quickie, Judge, I swear.' I'm glad to see him here, pleased he understands his honest testimony cost him nothing in my esteem. Wells and he want to toss the apartment of a mugger whom they took down an hour ago, on the street. They expect to find the booty of a number of recent armed robberies.

    ' "Subject apprehended at G&G's Pizza Parlor, 4577 North Greeley," ' I read aloud. 'Why do you always get them at pizza parlors, Fred?'

    ‘I guess they get hungry, Judge.' He looks on as I read. 'Trial's still going, huh?' 'Yep.'

    'So, good guys winning?' 'Whoever they are.'

    I eye him without further comment, initial the warrant, and go on my way. I will have to follow Marietta's example. Learn from my mistakes.

    

    Hobie this morning is splendidly turned out - a corner of his silk braces can be seen through his open jacket; a yellow pocket hankie accents his dark suit. He's dressed for victory, a walking celebration. Approaching the bench, a man of many courtroom voices, he adopts his most grandiloquent mode. Beneath the lights, the hankie looks bright as a flower.

    'As the court may have noted, my client is late.' He dips his chin to the defense table, where I had not yet noticed Nile's absence. 'I've asked someone to give him a call. In the meanwhile, Mr Molto tells me he intends to rest. Perhaps we can go on to the motions for directed verdict, while my client's gone. Then proceed to the defense case when he gets here. Should we have to.' With the last phrase, the large reddened eyes, rheumy and mysterious, rise to the bench and meet mine ever so briefly, only to transmit the message that Hobie believes he deserves to win right now. He'd like me to declare a TKO, finding that no reasonable person should convict on the basis of the evidence the state has offered.

    Even Molto sees little reason to object to Hobie's proposed agenda. Tommy reoffers his exhibits, then gathers himself to his feet and announces, 'The People rest.' With Montague and Rudy beside him, I have a momentary vision of the revolutionary trio, the fife and drum and flag bearer, bandaged, gimping along to their own marching tune.

    'The People rest,' I repeat. 'You have a motion, Mr Turtle?'

    He takes some time adjusting himself behind the straight-lined oak podium. He is wearing little octagonal reading glasses that have appeared occasionally during the trial.

    'First of all, Judge Klonsky, I recognize the standard here at the end of the state's case. I know you're not giving us your judgment now. You're just deciding whether the state's evidence, taken most favorably to the state, could ever be sufficient to convict. So I'm not going to bother myself to tell you now what we think really happened here. You got a good taste of that yesterday, but I realize you can't decide the case on that basis right now.

    'What you can decide, Your Honor, and should decide, is that the state's case has failed. And it has failed for one reason, one huge reason: namely, they have chosen to rely on a human being who has been proved to be a terrible liar, a fellow whom we've all met here, named Ordell Hardcore Trent.

    'Now I realize that ordinarily judgments of credibility don't come into play at the time of a motion for a directed verdict. But we all know of cases where they do, where the undisputed facts, the objective truth, show that a witness cannot be believed, and I tell you this is exactly such a case. Exactly.

    'Let us be clear: the state's case rests completely on Hardcore.

    This Miss Bug, Miss Lovinia, she adds nothin to this case, not a thing, because, Your Honor, as we learned from Detective Lubitsch, she didn't do any more'n repeat what the po-lice had told her. Shot-caller said roll, she rolled. Po-lice sang "A, B, C," she picked up the tune. As she said herself in her own truthful way, she ain never said nothin’ gainst Nile.' He rolls the phrase, just so we all know that when he wants, the accent, the words can be his completely.

    'So all we have in the end is this fellow Core. And I won't bother you now to tell you what a terrible, hardened person he is. I won't spend a lot of time telling you he has no respect, no need for the truth, that as far as he's concerned, he shouldn't have any regard for this system - I won't bother with that, because, Your Honor, we proved, we proved he's lying.' At the podium, his eyes tilt up through the watery lower regions of his lenses. 'We' is solely euphemistic. ‘I is the right word. 'Me.' Hobie took Core down on his own. He briefly savors the achievement.

    'He says, Your Honor, my client gave him $10,000 to kill his father. Well, Judge, we know now my client did give him $10,000. We finally found that out yesterday. But not in August. In July. And not to kill his father, but rather at his father's request. And it's not the defense witnesses who say that. It's the state's witness, its star witness, in a phrase, Senator Eddgar. The state's star witness tells us that Hardcore's a liar.' Hobie waves the check around. He again recounts the trail of funds from the State Democratic Party to the Senator's campaign fund and then out and into Nile Eddgar's hands in cash. 'Where else does a probation officer get $10,000? Your Honor, his salary is $38,000 a year, his bank accounts show less than $3,000.' Tommy properly objects that those documents are not yet in evidence. 'Well, his father said he had to borrow money for his rent, his security. So Mr Trent is lying. My Lord, Your Honor, there's dope on that money.'

    'Why?' I ask. 'I've been wondering.'

    'He saved this bag, sure, he saved a few bills so he'd have Nile Eddgar's fingerprints. Judge, a dope peddler like Hardcore - the risk of apprehension and planning for what he'll do, that's as much a part of his profession as you conferring with Ms Raines to decide what case you'll be trying next week.' Marietta's woolly head rises and she sits up straighter at mention of her name. 'Core saved the bag, the bills, so he'd have a sacrifice if he ever got himself in trouble again, and when, sure as night follows day, he got in trouble, he filled this bag, Your Honor, with the money from his own stash. He's a dope-peddling liar, Judge, and this money is a dope peddler's lie. That's obvious.' He spends a few more minutes on other points, then yields to Molto.

    Tommy and Rudy have waited tensely throughout, scribbling notes. If I follow the law, take Core's word for the moment, the case should go on. But there are many judges who would just call it quits, especially since a ruling against the state at this point is not appealable. Fittingly, Molto devotes a lengthy preamble to the legal standard applicable here, before talking about the proof.