“Hmm.”
“What?”
“Do you think I, as your mother and a black woman, have any clearer sense of what you should do with this plea offer? Do you think I am any more certain of which choice is the right one?”
“I don’t know, Ma, I just—”
“I have no idea what you should do. I’m as outraged and furious as you are, as Vanessa is, as Sidonie is. But I have no idea what the right choice is. Even I, a woman of the community who’s seen it all—who watched my husband being treated as less than the spectacular man he was, who watched my sons harassed by police, bullied at school, and threatened by gangbangers, who watches my daughter destroy her marriage and lose her sweetness because she can’t shake the rage she feels—even I don’t know what you should do. How can she?”
“I know, Ma, I know.”
“Do you?”
He dropped his head. “No. I don’t know anything right now.”
“Christopher, look at me.”
He did.
“Why have you left Sidonie?”
He looked out the window as ebullient college students rushed by in packs of two and three—black, brown, white, Asian; couples arm-in-arm; happy, young, and hopeful—and pondered his mother’s question. “Because I need detachment. Not just from her. I need to move away from whatever it was we were creating, a life that, right now, doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel like it’s mine. It feels like someone else’s, someone who’s no longer there. A guy who could shake things off, who could follow Dad’s example of how to cope. I can’t cope anymore. I can’t. And she doesn’t understand that.”
“Oh, I have a feeling you’re selling her short.”
“Maybe. Maybe I’ll figure that out when all this is over. But right now I don’t want to have to consider her. I don’t want her opinions and fears to impact what I have to decide. It’s my life in the crosshairs, not hers.”
“That’s right, son, it is. So take your time to figure out what you need to. But remember this: life is not a solitary endeavor. We are each obliged to find our way between dark and light, anger and love. If you lose sight of that, you’ll end up as lonely and heartbroken as your sister. I don’t want that for you any more than I do for her.”
DARK AND LIGHT. Anger and love. Was it really so binary, so archetypal, he wondered. Was it possible his mother missed the nuances, lived her life in more boldly defined spaces where conflict could be reduced to either/ors? Maybe at this point of her life, older and less engaged in the cultural zeitgeist that seemed to explode and attack daily, she simply didn’t get it.
Or maybe she was right. Maybe it was that simple.
Lying on his childhood bed later that night, Chris knew time had run out. Philip K. Lewis had texted earlier that evening; they were days from trial, and the chasm opening beneath his feet demanded he choose one side or the other. He hoped that, whichever way he leapt, he’d land on solid ground.
SEVENTY-TWO
HE WAS TAKING THE PLEA. DESPITE ARGUMENTS TO THE contrary, Chris’s consuming fear of conviction outweighed the burden of a humiliating record, of fines and probation. His family grimly accepted the decision, but Sidonie was inconsolable. Her call to Karen was so distraught that within an hour her big sister was on the porch with a bottle of tequila and a large box of Kleenex.
Their conversation led to discussion of their parents and the sad reality that neither mother nor father was relevant enough to be included in this critical event. How strange, Sidonie thought, particularly looking at the circle-of-wagons the Hawkins family made. That her mother was too self-absorbed to even inquire about her life, and likely, if she knew, would offer a tart, “I told you so,” was alone cause for weeping. It was only after Karen pulled up the recent ballroom dancing photos their father had posted on his Facebook page that Sidonie laughed hard enough to stop crying. Yet even with three shots down and bitter humor shared, the theme of the night remained somber.
“He’s not a coward,” Karen asserted. “He’s a realist who understands the playing field he’s on. This is a bench trial, meaning there’s no jury—a judge will decide Chris’s fate. Judges can be mercurial, and when your life is in their hands, mercurial is not a trait you want to gamble with. A bad mood, an unfortunate experience on another case, just a hardline attitude, and a judge can swing from logic and compassion to something else altogether. Do you really want Chris depending on one person—a person who doesn’t know him, who’s basing his opinion on the opinions of others who don’t know him, all of whom may have biases and prejudices—to be the one person deciding if he spends the next year of his life in jail? I wouldn’t. Not in a million fucking years. And I surely wouldn’t if I were a black man.”
Karen was unvarnished when reviewing, organizing, and making clear the theses and theories of her arguments, which made her a good lawyer. It also made her a reality check for her sister. Though Sidonie continued to bemoan the situation, in her heart of hearts she knew Karen’s logic was unassailable. Alone in bed that night, missing Chris and heartbroken that he’d been forced to make this decision, she finally accepted why he had.
SEVENTY-THREE
THE MORNING OF THE TRIAL DAWNED WITH FREEZING drizzle and a cover of thick, dark clouds, appropriate ambiance for the solemnity of the day. Chris had called the night before to let Sidonie know she wasn’t obligated to attend, serving only to further damage her feelings and force a declaration of, “I will be there.” Karen insisted on accompanying her, certain a solid shoulder would be useful.
Lining the hallway between the doors of the courtrooms were benches occupied by anxious, chattering people. Seated on one, in orderly fashion and dressed as if going to church, were Delores, Vanessa, and Hermes. When Karen and Sidonie entered from the elevator, all three stood, introductions were made, and warm, commiserating embraces were exchanged. Sidonie made particular eye contact with Vanessa. While the usual terseness was there, she thought she saw a quick smile, though it might have been wishful thinking.
They were the last case scheduled before lunch, which left them waiting long enough to rattle nerves and raise anticipation. When the door finally opened and the preceding party filed out, they were ushered in without ceremony. Their assigned room was a small, unremarkable space populated by a court reporter, a clerk, the bailiff, and one or two random people who sat hunched over their phones. Perhaps it was all the trial movies and TV shows she’d seen, but Sidonie was surprised by how empty and prosaic it appeared. Vanessa, however, took it all in stride, instructing everyone into seats behind the defense table.
The prosecutor, Brad Reisman, sat alone on his side of the courtroom. Nattily dressed, with a neat comb-over and trim goatee, he appeared frustrated and distracted, turning often to check the door, making frantic notes, occasionally texting from his phone. His face shone with perspiration.
Philip K. Lewis, on the other hand, was a study in composure. Neatly set at the defense side, he was in an uncharacteristically well-tailored blue suit, exuding repose: calm, prepared, and ready to get this done. Chris was seated next to him, attired, as assigned, in a sharply creased suit, courtesy of Delores. Sidonie noted that he looked weary, but still so handsome and dignified. She felt a flush of love and sadness just looking at him. He turned and caught her eye; meager smiles were exchanged. Before she could mouth any words of encouragement, he looked away. She adjusted in her seat and focused in front of her. After an excruciating ten minutes of waiting, Sidonie was shaking so badly Karen reached over and squeezed her hand.
Vanessa rotated to peruse the room; when Sidonie noticed, her eyes followed. It was impossible to miss that no one was seated behind or anywhere near the prosecutor. He looked so harried Sidonie flashed on the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland sputtering about “the Queen of Hearts!”. When his cellphone buzzed, the conversation that ensued, impossible to hear from across the room, appeared to rattle him further.
The bailiff, an imposing man with a smooth pate and booming voice, suddenly intoned, “All ri
se,” snapping the proceedings into existence. As everyone complied, he announced, “The Honorable Howard Gutchison presiding.” The court reporter straightened up as Judge Gutchinson strode imperiously to his bench.
Sidonie’s heart jumped. With his steely expression devoid of any particular warmth, he presented as someone not to be trifled with. Yet after the bailiff announced the case, and the judge asked if the prosecutor was ready to proceed, Brad Reisman rushed to the bench with a clear case of concern, launching into a fiercely whispered discussion. Moments in, the judge motioned Philip to join them. Chris looked back at his family and shrugged, unclear of what was going on.
Vanessa shook her head and leaned into Hermes’s shoulder. When he reached up to pat her cheek, Sidonie was immediately alert to this tender exchange. Had they reconciled? Delores caught the moment too; she turned to Sidonie and the smile she offered seemed confirmation. This elicited a glint of happiness that helped offset the churn Sidonie was experiencing.
Chris stared straight ahead, rubbing his hands repeatedly on his thighs to keep them dry, working hard to calm his roiling agitation. As the judge and lawyers continued to argue his fate, he closed his eyes in an attempt to get grounded in this unfathomable moment. He was drawn to thoughts of his father and brother Jefferson; wondering what they’d have done in similar circumstances, if they’d have understood the decision he made or, conversely, would think him a coward for making it. He hoped he wouldn’t judge himself too harshly when all was said and done. Overwhelmed by the irrevocability of events, he dropped his chin to his chest.
“So, let’s get all these details straight for the sake of everyone who did bother to show up today,” the judge suddenly barked. Clearly exhausted with the lawyers’ whispered exchange, he began addressing them loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the gallery. “Mr. Reisman, your case included scheduled testimony from three eyewitnesses who were supposed to be present at this time, in this courtroom, is that correct?”
Reisman looked miserable. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Yet, as of fifteen minutes ago, one witness recanted in a phone text, claiming she’s no longer sure the defendant is the ‘right guy,’ as she put it, because she just saw another black guy who looks more like the black guy she thinks she saw on the night her garage was vandalized. Do I have that mess about right?”
“Yes. That’s . . . right.”
“Then, in a twist right out of some crappy legal soap, our other two witnesses, the woman who identified the defendant the night of his arrest, as well as the fellow who was positive he’d seen the defendant on other nights peeking into people’s windows, are not here because they’re both, inexplicably, in Hawaii. But you didn’t know that until they called you just a few minutes ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Reisman’s face had taken on an alarming shade of red.
“But, tell me, because I’m the nosy sort, why are they in Hawaii instead of here offering testimony about the defendant they claim has been terrorizing their neighborhood for the last year?”
“I don’t have all the particulars, Your Honor, but apparently they got the dates mixed up . . . they’re on vacation.”
There was a barbed pause.
“On vacation?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
“It seems so.”
“I see. So let’s forget for a moment that they blew off this trial to go surfing or whatever it is they’re doing in Hawaii, but how did these two witnesses who claimed to not know each other at the time of their interviews end up taking a vacation together?”
“I asked that same question and they said they met at the police station, just started talking, and it went from there.”
“Well, good lord, who needs Match.com, right, bailiff?” the judge chortled acerbically. The bailiff nodded as if none of this was unusual. “We’ve got Chicago PD to stir romance amongst the citizens!”
Philip stepped in: “Your Honor, I—”
“Hold on, Mr. Lewis, I want to be stone-cold sure I’ve got this right.” His voice took a decidedly terser edge. “Because I arranged my day to be here for this trial. I rushed my breakfast, didn’t get to my daily Sudoku, even paid my gardener to walk the dog, just so I could be here this morning, on time and ready to fulfill my duty. I assume, Mr. Lewis, you did some version of the same?”
“Yes, sir, though I’m—”
“And I have no doubt the defendant is sitting there with a big knot in his stomach, all ready to defend himself in an attempt to keep his life from going off the rails, is that correct, sir?”
Chris looked at Philip, confused about what was happening or how to respond. Philip nodded like an anxious parent.
“Uh, yes, sir,” Chris answered. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Of course. And the family and friends I see out there—you must have all made accommodations to be here, yes?”
Again, with a look from Philip, they each assented with “yes” and nods of agreement.
“Yet you, Mr. Reisman, are confirming that the only evidence you have in this case is the testimony of your scheduled eyewitnesses, not one of whom has shown us the respect of their attendance.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but trust me, I—”
“How can I, when clearly you can’t even manage your own case?”
In this sharply defined moment, Brad Reisman embodied a person who’d rather be anywhere—literally anywhere—than in front of this judge under these circumstances. “I apologize, Your Honor. I’m as stunned and upset as you are. It was bad enough getting the text, but the call from Hawaii was unprecedented.”
“Indeed . . . unprecedented. Yet here we are. While they enjoy luaus and tropical snorkeling, their case is going down the drain.” He brusquely gathered his papers into a pile. “Since there appears to be no other evidence and no other salient points to make, I suggest, Mr. Reisman, that you spare us further waste of our time and do the only logical thing you can.”
Reisman stood at the prosecutor’s table, downcast in defeat. “Yes, Your Honor. I make a motion to dismiss the case of—”
“Motion granted.” With the slam of his gavel, the judge rose from his bench and swept out, changing the lives of every person seated in the gallery.
SEVENTY-FOUR
THE SURREALISTIC MOMENT THAT FOLLOWED THE JUDGE’S gavel seemed to recalibrate time into something slower and more poignant, with eyes moving to eyes, arms reaching to arms, bodies colliding with bodies, all choreographed by incredulity. This strange and unanticipated twist was followed by the joyful clamor of reality: the case was over. It had been dismissed. There were no fingerprints, no witnesses, no plea deals. Chris was reprieved, free, unencumbered— vindicated. Emotions flowed from gratitude to disbelief to jubilance in the whiplash of the dramatically adjusted narrative.
While Karen hugged a shaking Sidonie, who was too astounded to cry or offer much verbal response, Philip K. Lewis tucked documents into his briefcase with a subtle, satisfied smile, as Brad Reisman fled the courtroom with nary a look back. The Hawkins family huddled together with laughter and cries of thanksgiving. In the midst of their raw and profound expression, Delores opened the circle where Chris was seated and Sidonie stepped inside, waiting for a signal. When Vanessa gave her a good-natured shove toward Chris and she literally fell into his lap, he laughed and accepted her hug, but, in what she felt was a subtle rebuff, lifted her off more quickly than she’d have expected.
A plan was made to gather at a nearby restaurant to celebrate the unexpected victory, but Karen had to get to a civil proceeding across town and had been Sidonie’s chauffeur. Delores, who’d driven up with Chris from Hyde Park, offered to get Sidonie home, as did Hermes, but when Chris didn’t push the point, which Sidonie took as another snub (unintentional—or not), she demurred.
As she and Karen clattered down the steps toward the parking lot across the street, Sidonie defended her reticence by sharing her list of perceived rejections. Karen would have n
one of it. “If you want to get things back on track, little sister, I suggest you put your hypersensitivities aside and leap back in, tout suite.”
But Sidonie held firm. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go; it was that the strain between her and Chris needed preemptive one-on-one to smooth the edges, and he didn’t appear interested in providing any. Which left her sullen. Under the circumstances, it seemed charitable to not inflict that mood on the joyous family.
Just as they were about to enter the parking lot, Chris came loping across the sidewalk. “Sid, are you sure you don’t want to join us?” he asked breathlessly. “This is your celebration too, and everyone would like you there.”
She noticed he left out the personalization of, “I’d like you there.” She hated feeling petty in this monumental moment—and she did— but his distance was tangible and she couldn’t adjust.
“I have a feeling your mom would enjoy some family time for a bit, so go ahead and do that. We’ll have our time to celebrate later.” She hoped that was true. She also hoped he’d say something about her being family. He didn’t.
He looked back at the group. When Vanessa tapped her watch, he turned to Sidonie. “You’re probably right. I just don’t want you to feel left out.”
“I don’t.” She did. “But I was wondering . . . do you plan on coming home tonight?” She hated asking the question but felt it was inevitable.
He took a longer pause than she would have liked. “I’m not sure. This was such a shock. I think I need a little time to process it. Feels like I’m walking on a cloud and it might not bear my weight, you know? Want to be sure it’s real. Philip says it is, but man . . . I did not expect that!” His eyes shone.
Hers welled up. Aside from her own melancholy, she could feel nothing but joy for him. “Me neither. A gift from the gods.”
“No kidding. Anyway, let me have a few days to wrap things up at my mom’s and then we’ll get together.”
The Alchemy of Noise Page 27
