He filled out a request for a copy of the article and paid the fee.
While he waited, a library volunteer delivered a book to him, one of the three in English. He sat on a bench in the court yard. It was a quiet morning and there were no other readers. The sound of the water calmed him. He leafed through the book, too scared to read it. Sentences about the slaughter of children caught his eye. A youth named Yonatan, the youngest son of Azariah Gette, escaped the slaughter of village students because the security police mistook him for a teacher. After the massacre, the government returned the children’s clothes, shredded by bullet holes. The security police demanded bribes of $50.00 per bullet hole before releasing a child’s corpse to its parents for burial. One child, four children; bullets, a bomb; Ethiopia, Alabama. And in Boston outside Mayor Charlie’s city hall a black man attacked with the American Flag. Mabi read until, again, he wished he had never learned how to read.
In the middle of the book, photographs. Faces, black faces, faces with the same noses and lips and hair he saw every day on Blue Hill Avenue; but they were the faces of Falashas from Ethiopia. A caption: “School children in the Falasha village of Wallaca.” Wallaca. He thought his eyes were tricking him, making him see things that weren’t. He rubbed them, closed them, opened them; but the words did not change. The village of Wallaca. Before or after the massacre? he wondered. He counted the children. Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine pairs of eyes looked sadly at the camera, wishing they could climb inside the magic box and go wherever the picture went. One boy, a gap between his front teeth and a mouth shaped like an egg lying sideways, reminded him of Badger. Is Silvy Falasha? He rubbed his fingertips across their cheeks as if he could comfort them across time and space. If this picture be old enough, he thought, maybe Gideon and Hannah be in it; but if it be too new, these kids may all be massacred. He held the book to his chest as if his heartbeat could transmit life to nameless children from another world, another time, nameless children who lived his past, nameless children who never would have been massacred if Wallaca was part of the Trojans’ turf. He wished he could wish them all back to life.
-2-
By sunrise Friday morning, Maddie had prepared and mailed photocopies of her statement to Rabbi ben Reuben, Moskovitzky, Duncan, Harriman, and Trish, two copies to each, one mailed from her neighborhood post office, the other from the post office in the first floor lobby of the Federal Court-house; then, with her mind at ease knowing neither Mabi’s fate nor hers depended on whether the horseman stopped or passed her by, she walked to Pemberton Square where the Single Justice Session of the Supreme Judicial Court convened daily at 10:00 a.m. on the fourteenth floor of the New Court-house. Maddie didn’t care for the New Court-house. Nor did she care for appellate court-rooms. They lacked jury boxes.
In the court-room, a court officer interrupted his reading about the launch of the first space shuttle to peek at her from behind a page of the morning paper. Bonturo tried to cover up his shock at her appearance by playing tic-tac-toe at the counsel table. A young reporter from the press pool dozed on a back bench, his eyes closed. Maddie wished he had a camera so she could flaunt her new hairless style to the world.
“I heard you were going to Washington,” Bonturo said with a hitch in his voice.
“Bald is beautiful. You should try it.” She arranged her files on the table designated for appellant’s counsel, positioning the papers so the lectern and microphone blocked Bonturo’s view. Paranoia was one of the more endearing qualities of trial attorneys.
The royal blue curtain behind the bench parted and Justice Alexandra Pallas, the second woman appointed to the Supreme Judicial Court, ascended the bench. A month shy of fifty, she was still attractive, her eyes icy blue with a hint of the softness that would be brought out by candlelight. During oral argument, her smile disarmed attorneys. Neither her gender nor her beauty preoccupied her. A black robe is not high fashion, she replied to a television reporter who asked if she thought she was too glamorous for the Supreme Judicial Court.
“Is an interlocutory matter like this ripe for appeal?” Justice Pallas asked.
“Judge Gomita certified a question of law to this court,” the clerk replied.
“I will hear you, Ms. Devlin.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Maddie rested her arms lightly on the lectern but stood erect so she would not appear to be leaning. “Judge Gomita denied bail because he thought there was a high probability Mr. Levy would flee before trial. He arrived at this conclusion . . .”
“Do you disagree with the proposition the likelihood of flight is a sufficient legal basis to deny bail?”
“No, and that’s why I request you remand this matter to Judge Gomita so I may present additional evidence to prove Mr. Levy will not flee.”
“What type of evidence?”
“Evidence which establishes Mr. Levy’s innocence and the guilt of someone else.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Maddie saw motion, but she did not look in Bonturo’s direction. She did not want to break eye contact with Justice Pallas. She needed to sustain it. Eye contact transformed the hearing from an audience to a dialogue.
“Do you know who murdered Charles F. Sullivan, III?”
“I believe I do.”
“You harbor some doubt?”
“A scintilla’s worth.”
“Shouldn’t you present your evidence to the police or the district attorney?”
“I have made it available to Detective George Harriman of the Boston Police Department.” Maddie adjusted the gooseneck microphone. “The Torah desecrated in the Chelsea synagogue was desecrated with Charles Sullivan’s blood. The rampage in Chelsea was perpetrated by the Trojans, one of Boston’s street gangs. I have personally received death threats from two people at the top of their leadership structure.”
Justice Pallas poured herself a glass of water and Maddie felt the inside of her mouth go dry. “You are asking me to take a lot on faith.”
“I am not asking you to bail Mr. Levy. I am only requesting a remand so I can present my evidence to Judge Gomita. Avram Levy is a very devout Jew, Your Honor, and is studying to become a rabbi. He is also a member of the synagogue in Chelsea and regularly attends services there. It is inconceivable he, either acting alone or with the aid of a street gang, would murder Charles Sullivan and use Charles’s blood to perpetrate such a heinous anti-Semitic act, especially one directed at his own congregation whose members will testify he is well liked and well respected. Mr. Levy does not have the criminal pathology necessary to commit such a crime. The persons who utilized Charles Sullivan’s blood to desecrate the Torah must be the same persons who killed him. It is the only conclusion that makes sense. This is the essence of the evidence I wish to present under oath on remand. Mr. Bonturo will, of course, have an opportunity to cross-examine.”
“I have some trouble with a blanket accusation directed against a large group even if you characterize that group as a street gang.”
“I have identified the individual who, in my opinion, killed Charles Sullivan to Detective Harriman, but I prefer not doing so at this hearing because the press is present.”
Justice Pallas swiveled her chair sideways, leaned back, and looked up at the ceiling. “What do you have to say, Mr. Bonturo?”
Bonturo rose and began speaking before he reached the lectern. “Thank you, Judge. Everything Ms. Devlin said sounds plausible on the surface, but she has not presented one scintilla of independent evidence to corroborate any of her statements. If she is concerned about the press, I request you close this hearing and require her to present her evidence here and now.”
“I do not countenance banning the public from my court-room, Mr. Bonturo.”
“It will take some time for the police to corroborate these allegations,” Bonturo said. “Mr. Levy must be retained in custody until the investigation is complete.”
Justice Pallas stood and paced behind the bench. “I’m not being asked to release Mr. Levy. I’m being
asked to remand this matter to the Superior Court for further hearing. Please focus your argument accordingly.”
Bonturo’s hand accidentally bumped the microphone and a hollow sound echoed throughout the court-room. “Sorry, Judge. The presentation of evidence on remand may prejudice future proceedings in this case, deprive Mr. Levy of a fair trial, and fabricate an issue to obtain a reversal of his conviction on appeal.”
Justice Pallas leaned on the back of her chair and peered down at Bonturo. “I find it comforting the prosecution is so solicitous of the legal rights of the defendant. You may avoid those problems, Mr. Bonturo, by assenting to Mr. Levy’s release on bail?” Justice Pallas rapped her gavel twice.
“But, Judge . . .”
“This matter is remanded to Judge Gomita for further proceedings.” She was off the bench before Bonturo could register his objection.
“Attorney Devlin.” The reporter leaned over the railing separating public seating from the enclosure reserved for attorneys. “What’s your evidence?”
“Come to the bail hearing,” Maddie replied. “If you’re lucky, it may be this afternoon.”
“I want next Monday,” Bonturo said. “The police need time to investigate your allegations.”
“An innocent man shouldn’t be kept in prison one extra second.” Maddie had not expected it to be so easy to finesse Bonturo into a confrontation in front of a reporter.
“If your evidence is made public,” Bonturo said, “he’ll be freed at the expense of arresting and convicting the real killer. You’ve got to consider the public interest.”
“Believe me,” Maddie said, “not even Maddie Devlin could find a loophole in the case against the real killer.” She smiled at the reporter. “What did you say your name was?”
“Scott Dunleavy.”
“I’ll be watching for your by-line.”
*
Judge Gomita scheduled the remand hearing for the following Tuesday afternoon at 2:00 which mollified Bonturo because it meant the district attorney’s office would have time to conduct its investigation. The police wanted to sequester Maddie in a hotel where it would be easier to maintain tight security, but she refused. Death had passed her by and would not return, not for a while at least, because she had important work still unfinished. This was how her da must have felt on Guadalcanal. Nevertheless, she allowed C. J. Ant to be appointed associate counsel to handle routine court appearances prior to the remand hearing.
Saturday morning’s Boston Globe would carry Scott Dunleavy’s by-line on the front page in a story so exclusive the Globe managed to keep it from the broadcast media, but not from the Herald-American which quoted Rabbi ben Reuben praising Maddie as the Ruth of Boston’s Jewish community.
Outside, the heat refused to abate.
-3-
Boston’s heavy traffic, especially its double-parked delivery vans, jaywalking suits and skirts racing from one important meeting to the next, cabbies who usurped all lanes of traffic, and busses that lumbered in and out of traffic from stop to stop, slowed Mabi’s rush to share his discovery with Silvy. He might as well have been on the Central Artery or Storrow Drive inbound at 5:00 p.m. On Blue Hill Avenue, a bus driver not intimidated by his horn, cut him off, then stopped in the middle of the street to pick up and discharge passengers. His car’s air conditioner sucked in exhaust fumes, bringing tears to his eyes as had the photo of the children of Wallaca now hidden inside his shirt. Their somber faces, the sadness of their eyes, their stolen childhood, the premature finality of their ajal, burned against his skin like a slaver’s hot branding iron. They were dead but he was alive because Hannah and Gideon had escaped and the parents of these children had not. He knew why he lived and Billy Sunshine died, why he lived and Luke Shaw died, why he lived and Mayor Charlie’s kid did not; but he didn’t understand the luck, the fate, the accident of circumstance, that spared him but not the children of Wallaca. So he could become a blood-bought soldier in the army of Allah? Fuck that.
At the corner, the traffic light turned red. There had to be more to it than blind fate. The bus driver shifted into neutral and gunned the engine. Mabi’s car filled with fumes. He cried, but his tears did not wash away the sting. He felt close to the twenty-nine children of Wallaca, closer than to Badger or Spider or any of the Trojans, closer than to Silvy. He wished Jim Ed were there to share the moment. Fucking tiger. They were his bloods, Jim Ed’s bloods, not street bloods, but true bloods, blood of his blood, blood of Jim Ed’s blood, bonded to him by more than skin color or neighborhood or any fucking book. He pulled over to the curb. The more he cried, the more his eyes stung. He was them, they were him, his past, his present and, now, his future.
-4-
Mabi found Silvy in a park down the street from the day-care center taking a late lunch break. The back slats of the park bench where she sat were split and splintered. Someone had knocked off the cement arms; chunks of cement bouldered the ground. Broken glass, green and brown and clear, mostly wine or beer bottles, sparkled in the sunlight. Years earlier during election season, Mayor Charlie had had the benches repaired. The wooden slats had been painted deep green and the grounds cleaned up. New grass had been planted, as well as flowers, shrubs; but the city never repaired the vandalism of kids in the ’hood trying to prove they were tough enough to be Trojans. Whose backyard I be burning?
“Silvy? Something to show you.” She chewed her sandwich like he wasn’t there. He slipped the photograph out from his shirt. It had puckered from his sweat. “The kid on the far right, he look like Badger. Maybe you Falasha.”
“My people are from Alabama.” She ignored the photograph.
“Those kids are from a village called Wallaca.”
She folded the wax paper from her sandwich and put it in her lunch bag. She peeled an orange, collecting the rind on a napkin.
“I’m asking for help, Silvy. You making me beg for it?”
“I once said I’d give Leroy Wallaca every ounce of help I had; but Mabi, well I wouldn’t spare him a drop of water in the middle of the Sahara Desert.” She sat erect and in her bearing he saw a queen every bit as regal as the Falasha queen Yehudit he had read about in the library that morning.
“Changing from Mabi to Leroy ain’t like switching on-off.”
“What comes easy goes easier.”
“Why you turning white on me, bitch?”
“Turning white? Some things don’t have colors. Right and wrong for one. Good and evil for another. Go. Do whatever you think be written in that fucking book. I’ll keep my future to myself, thank you.”
Mabi’s shoulders sagged as he returned to his car. He no longer knew what to believe. He understood now the truth of ajal. You’re born, you live, you die, life goes on. Life goes on. It didn’t for the children of Wallaca, but who gave a rusty fuck? Sure as shit no one in Boston or anywhere else in the fucking universe other than the village of Wallaca except maybe himself, maybe Hannah and Gideon, maybe Jim Ed if he had lived. He felt as spaced out as if he had shot up pure grade. He hoped when he crashed he’d land in a righteous place.
-5-
Later that afternoon, clearheaded and clear-eyed, Mabi landed at al-Saffah’s.
“Welcome, my son,” al-Saffah greeted him. “You look in mourning. Perhaps my hookah will cheer you. I have a fresh tin of Sobranie Black and Gold.”
“You ever hear of a black tribe called Falashas?”
Al-Saffah’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “Who told you about the Falashas?”
“Trojans used to be Zuluz. We into African tribes. Study up on them.”
“A pitiful tribe. Blacks masquerading as Jews.”
“Suppose a Falasha comes saying he’s a true believer in Allah, you treat him same as me?”
Al-Saffah bowed his head as if he were praying Allah would reveal the right answer. “No. I wouldn’t. Let me ask you a question. Would you permit a Caucasian to join the Trojans if he said he was black but for the color of his skin?” Al-Saffah paused to let Ma
bi ponder the question. “There are preconditions which must exist for true belief to be present. If we don’t insist on them, we’d be misled by every charlatan who mouthed the words we wanted to hear.”
Preconditions. Mabi hadn’t considered preconditions. He had just believed. Just acted out of faith. Silvy believed in Jesus. He believed in Allah. He thought she was wrong. She thought he was. She had faith. What did he have? If everything in the universe had its unique ajal, did Allah?
Al-Saffah rested his fingers on Mabi’s forearm. “A Jew, whether raised a Jew or not, could never embrace the purity of Islam just as a Caucasian, even if raised by blacks, could never be black. A human raised by wolves does not a wolf become. It’s the Tarzan myth, one of the oldest in the world; but it overlooks one elemental truth: you are what you are, not what you say you are.”
Mabi leaned against the Koran bookstand. “If I said I was Falasha, would that put me on the wrong side of your jihad?”
The Fire This Time Page 34
