Blood Acre

by Peter Landesman

  A man has straddled the bowl overhead, his pants shackling his knees. Nathan rolls away just in time, gathering his blazer and finding himself against the opposite wall squatting beside the axwielder. The murderer smells of swamp and unholy death. But then Nathan compares favorably the cuts and scratches on his own arms with his neighbor's and turns aside to dream old dreams of Sid Frankel's face as he led a prosecution witness to stand the truth on end, to look for all the world like confusion and certain acquittal.

  The kid hanging from the window bars holds on as long as he can then drops to the floor. "Man, that's beautiful."

  His name is sounded and he rises and enters the wrong end of the arraignment hall and sits on a bench, his face hidden from the gallery like a game-show mystery guest. Shoulder to shoulder with wife batterers and car thieves, weekend warriors, others who may have done worse. No one has done nothing. At his back, he knows, is the matinee audience of mothers and sisters. The dignitaries in the front row, the private lawyers and Legal Aid catching cases, nod Nathan's way and whisper among themselves. The court officers are smugly amused at this little soap opera, a ripple in their days of sodomizers and pickpockets.

  "Mr. Stein." It is a small voice at the end of the bench. Possibly the voice of conscience, he believes, a voice he had spent his life drowning and refashioning in the guise of Puccini and Coltrane. But Nathan leans, just to be sure: Regina Nunez, Amparo's peasant cousin, sits at the end of the same bench holding her swollen belly in her hands. His face heating with embarrassment, Nathan gives her a little wave.

  "Amparo-" the girl begins to explain, her expression dark, full of foreboding.

  "I wanted to help you today," he tries to explain.

  In through the crack in the door flood commitments and forgotten pledges, but they are too much and so amount to nothing, easily forgotten. Nathan offers no defense. Briefly, he considers a plea. Then he simply leans back, out of the girl's peripheral view, ending his torment.

  Claire, though, can't be far away, he knows. He peeks over his shoulder, and there, in the front row, in her nimbus of virtue and decorum, sits his own counsel, Ruth, in black dress and pearls, a manila folder in her lap. But she is too stiff, too indignant, as if she's stonewalling someone's gaze. And as Nathan untwists he catches in the corner of his eye a flash of red hair. A stack of manilla folders and yellow legal pads clutched to her chest like a shield, Claire is staring at him, her face blank with disbelief.

  Nathan grabs the back of the bench and begins to stand. Two court officers half rise, hands on the stocks of their pistols, and he lowers himself, clutching his own thighs, surprised to find them sinewy, atrophied.

  At the bridge officer's call, four of Nathan's neighbors rise. Boys with round faces, hands clasped with contrition and eyes filled with mischief. Four attorneys-friends, colleagues, sworn enemies of Milton-meet them elbow to elbow in the middle of the floor and escort them like groomsmen to the table and face the black-robed judge and the calendar Scotch-taped to the front of her bench. A dozen women in the first rows of the gallery lift their chins to hear. Their hair teased and their faces freshly painted; their church clothes unearthed and pressed for their brothers and sons. Five court officers rise together, hands poised near their guns, covering the angles between the suspects and the gallery.

  At his lectern, a rookie assistant district attorney with slick blond hair reads from a manila folder a harrowing tale of a posse of young men roaming the subways, leaving a trail of fear and broken ribs and empty pockets. These four young suspects surrounded a couple and threatened them with box cutters. Removed from said couple's possession: one radio, one watch, one wallet containing thirteen dollars cash. The audience utters not a sound. One attorney after another, feverishly picking over the files-some of them, Nathan knows, for the first time-speaks in reverent tones of his client as a community asset, of his rock-solid family. Two of them work as stock boys in a warehouse. At 2 A.M. they were merely returning from work, your honor. They were imploring the alleged victims for change to make phone calls home, nothing more, they were late, their mothers-all present, your honor, to show their support-were worried. Panhandling at best. The box cutters not weapons but tradesmen's tools, evidence of their willingness to work for their families' survival. The whole thing was a misunderstanding, an overreaction. You honor, everybody is worked up over the case of the Riverside Drive jogger. These men are not animals. We're all a little tense, all a little trigger-happy.

  Nathan would like to laugh. He could have done better.

  The judge, grim-faced, does not lift her eyes. Bail is requested at $10,000 each by the assistant district attorney. A collective gasp rises from the women relatives. The judge grants the A.D.A.'s wishes without hesitation and the women begin to wail. They reach over the partition. They hug each other. The victimized boys glance back, all innocence and light. The court officers hold their ground as the women exit weeping.

  Nathan hears his name and immediately rises. And immediately the floor seems to fall from him. He watches his feet cross the floor. Ruth grabs his elbow smelling of flowers and country nights, of the perfumed nylons that contain her thighs. Nathan, for a moment, shuts his eyes.

  "Are you going to be all right?" Ruth asks.

  He stands rocking from side to side before a judge he has danced with in court often enough and eviscerated just as often outside of it. He's made fun of her pocked face and heavily painted lips, her floppy jowls and buoyant hairdo. But she's no joke now. She levels at him a scrutinous glare, as though consid ering all the battles she's lost and all the directions she can now go. Sweat traces the back of his head.

  Ruth leans in to whisper: "The disciplinary committee called."

  Nathan waves his hand.

  "It's not just not filing 1099s."

  "They have nothing."

  "They have fraud."

  "They have nothing."

  "They have larceny by false promise."

  "It's nothing."

  "Trickery by deceit."

  "The burden of proof is too high. The disciplinary committee is not reasonable doubt. It's moral certainty."

  Ruth shifts on her feet. "They have it, Nathan. They have moral certainty."

  Nathan presses his lips together like a prig. "Moral certainty," he says, and lowers a brow at her, as though to say, Don't be dramatic, what is that?

  The bridge officer states: "Docket number ending 483. The State of New York vs. Nathan Stein. If the attorney has not yet appeared before the court."

  "Ruth Gutman appearing on behalf of Nathan Stein."

  Nathan sneaks a peek at the legal pad in her hands. On it is written nothing at all. Nathan manages a rueful smile. Touché. "Where's Milton?"

  Ruth squeezes his elbow.

  "Counsel, do you waive the reading of the rights and charges?"

  "So waived.”

  "Where is he?"

  Ruth subsides into a berated doctor's stony silence.

  The judge, leaning forward, glowers. "Step up, counsel."

  Ruth and the A.D.A. approach the bench.

  "What the hell is Mr. Stein doing before me?" the judge asks.

  "Mr. Stein was taken into custody this morning at his office," the A.D.A. states. "Judge Acevedo so ordered because Mr. Stein has failed to produce tax returns she requested."

  Ruth turns aside so that Nathan can hear: "Mr. Stein is a respected attorney."

  "I know what Mr. Stein is," grumbles the judge. "I understand there is also a disciplinary action filed against him. What is the nature of the proceeding?"

  The A.D.A. breaks in. "A pattern of various client abuses, your honor. Theft of bond. Larceny by false promise. Theft by deceit."

  Ruth does not flinch. "Mr. Stein is an upstanding member of the community. He's stood before this bench on a number of occasions. His community ties are manifest. He is not a flight risk. I urge you to release my client on his own recognizance while he works this out with Judge Acevedo."

  "Step b
ack, counselors. For the record. People?"

  Back at the lectern, the A.D.A. duplicates his performance in a slurred monotone: "Charges of contempt against Mr. Stein derive from his failure to produce tax returns requested by Judge Acevedo.

  "Mr. Stein is a respected attorney, your honor."

  The judge has hunched over, going at her paperwork with a bureaucrat's joyless determination. Scratching out a note, she does not raise her head. "Nature of proceeding?"

  "A pattern of client abuse, your honor," the A.D.A. says, the efficiency of his performance bordering on neglect. "Theft of bond. Larceny by false promise. Theft by deceit."

  Ruth clasps her hands behind her back, rises up on her toes and down. "Mr. Stein is an upstanding member of the community. He's stood before this bench countless times. His ties to the community and its ties to him are manifest. All his family and friends are here in this city. He will not flee. He doesn't even like to travel. Your honor, you should release Mr. Stein on his own recognizance."

  The court clerk is whispering in the judge's ear, handing her a sheet of paper. The judge looks it over, initials it, returns it with a smile.

  Ruth sighs. "Mr. Stein is an upstanding-"

  "I heard you the first time, counselor. People?" With her eyes the Judge cues the A.D.A.

  "Your honor, the people request Mr. Stein serve the maximum thirty days unless he produces his tax returns."

  Ruth knows, apparently, as Nathan himself knows, that to fight is pointless. Still, there is the show. Nathan nudges her onward.

  "Your honor, Mr. Stein will not flee," she says quickly. "He has"-she hesitates, continues-"nowhere to go."

  Nathan bobs his head in full agreement.

  But the judge has turned to her clerk before Ruth is done. "Mr. Stein shall remain incarcerated while in contempt up to but not beyond the maximum thirty-day period. We'll have a recess here."

  "I'll need a couple hours," Ruth tells him.

  "I have some money at the property desk. It's fifty thousand, no forty, maybe thirty. It should be enough."

  "It's not enough. It's not going to get you out of this."

  Thunder shakes the panes of the courtroom. The lights dim, flicker, then surge as before.

  “What will?"

  Ignoring him, Ruth gives the ceiling a dirty look. "Maria's wake is at three o'clock."

  "Today?"

  "They want to get her in the ground. New Life Missionary Baptist Church in Bushwick."

  "Well, they wouldn't want me there."

  Ruth's black eyes darken deeper with a disapproval Nathan knows well. "Benny will be there. And what about her will, Nathan?

  "Will?"

  "They want to know where it is."

  "She didn't have anything worth leaving, Ruth."

  "They want to know what it says."

  "Where is Milton?" he asks.

  She looks at him. "I'll need a couple of hours to arrange everything. Sit tight. Don't get hurt in there."

  "Don't worry. I've made friends."

  "What about the will, Nathan? You didn't answer my question."

  "You didn't answer mine. Where's my father?"

  Ruth sighs, squeezes his elbow, hushing him. "It'll be over soon. "

  "Nathan."

  It is Claire, he sees, standing at the gate. In a boyish reflex of embarrassment he blushes and stands to his full height, trying for any advantage. Are her eyes really sweeping over him sympathetically? Then the light goes out and they harden, and as quickly as she opened to him she has sealed shut again.

  "I told you I'd make it to Regina Nunez's hearing," he says.

  "Look at you, Nathan. Finally in handcuffs."

  "Contempt of court has a nice ring to it," Nathan says.

  "Tax evasion doesn't. And whatever else. Even when you think you're coming through on your white horse to save Regina Nunez you are incapable of not screwing it up. Eventually you get in the way of everything good you try."

  He bends forward, near her ear. "Come with me," he says, believing, for once, at his own risk, his own certainty. Then he sees her expression, and reality, the day, comes crashing down around him. She has begun to walk away. "Claire," he says quickly. "Then do me one favor. Maria's memorial service is at three. Obviously, I can't make it."

  "You have got to be kidding."

  "She respected you."

  "That's not fair."

  "It's true. She deserves attendance-" he begins to say, then stops himself. But it is true. She deserves. "Somebody's got to be there.

  He cranes his neck, catching the double doors at the back of the courtroom beating like wings then punching closed. In the little square window Claire's hair recedes, flecks of light in the murky hallway, the catch of his life, slipping away.

  12 Noon

  He runs toward the sound of her retreat, her clippety-clop across the mosaic floor of the courthouse atrium. "Claire!"

  She turns. Her wild red hair, her eyes red-rimmed and damp. "Errol? What are you doing here?"

  "Where is he?"

  "You mean Nathan." Claire sighs. "News certainly does travel fast. So the celebration has extended to Brooklyn. But isn't there some place you should be? Your family-"

  "What about the bail?"

  "You think that judge would deprive herself of the pleasure of saying to Nathan, 'Bail denied'? Now that he's in the system she'll put it to him every chance she gets."

  Santos peers at her. "I don't understand. This isn't funny."

  "You don't think Nathan arrested for contempt of court is funny? "

  "Contempt of-?"

  “-court. Not that there isn't a soul on earth Nathan isn't contemptuous of." She lifts a hand and presses the back of it cold and clammy to his cheek. "You have bigger fish to fry right now. You didn't sleep at all. I felt you tossing and turning all night. Nathan can take care of himself. It'll be good for him."

  Santos's face goes blank. He touches her elbow. "Look, where are you going now?"

  "Back inside. I have to clean up that little mess of Nathan's. Poor pregnant kid he's left rotting-what's wrong? Please, Errol, go home. You look terrible." He doesn't seem to be responding. She sighs, looks at her watch. "I have ten minutes."

  They stop at the door, beyond the metal detectors, to gaze outside. Sculpted regiments of black cloud march across the sky beneath the overcast. The McDonald's across the street lists like a plastic Ark, its playground drowned. A trail of penny candy stores, five-and-tens, discounters, makes it way upstream against a current of water and its attendant trash.

  "My god, if this isn't Hell," Claire says.

  He takes her briefcase and puts it on the floor then takes both her hands in his. "I have to ask you something."

  She looks at him first in one eye then the other and back, to confirm. "I don't like what I see."

  "They were out together," he says. "He and Isabel."

  "He's always out. And never alone, let me add."

  "They were out that night."

  "What night?"

  "Saturday night."

  "Who told you that? Saturday night Isabel was dead. What are you saying?"

  "I can't get into that."

  "Oh, no, please do."

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. "This is ridiculous."

  "Nothing, you should know, if it's about Nathan, is ridiculous," she says, then stops and tilts her head, as if to inspect from another angle. "Christ, Errol, you're investigating him. Now look, listen to me. Nathan is a lot of things but he's no"-she laughs nervously-"murderer. He couldn't have done tbat. He doesn't have it in him. He talks and talks and has all these grand plans, but he never goes anywhere except to the opera, and that ridiculous mansion of his. He's steeped in gooey nostalgia. He's lost in it. He wouldn't harm a fly."

  "I want to know one thing. I want to know if you ever in the back of your mind believed that Isabel was-"

  She puts a hand to his chest, stop: "Are you asking me if he and your sister could have been sleeping toge
ther, because as unpleasant as the thought might be to you, knowing Nathan and that father of his, I'm sure you don't need me to give you the answer. After all those years of you and him running wild. It was inevitable. I don't know why you let her work in that place."

  "I know they were sleeping together. That's not what I'm asking you."

  Her breathing slows with the realization of someone who has considered all avenues of attack except this one, the one great perilous possibility, unspoken and unaddressed and feared all the same.

  He says, "Nathan told me she is-was-related to him." Then, looking at her, seeing the change in her face, in the shape of it, the color, he stops talking, bows his head.

  "Interesting," Claire says scientifically. "I thought you were about to ask me if your sister was Milton Stein's daughter."

  "That is what I'm asking you."

  "You're right, this is ridiculous."

  "You know what I'm saying."

  "You bet I do. Is that what he told you? Because you know how he lies. You know how he creates his life as he walks down the street. It's all that opera he listens to. He thinks he's Rudolfo, he thinks he's Marcello, he thinks sometimes he's Romeo."

  "I am not talking about opera. I am not talking about a story. This is real. You know them as well as anyone. Everything you've heard, everything you've seen, could it be possible-?"

  Claire leans forward, whispering, "I would like to know what it is you imagine you're saying."

  "Just tell me if it's possible and I'll tell you what it says."

  She lurches. Her hand appears, as someone else's, an attacker's, from below, clamping over her mouth, choking off a cry.

  He studies her there in her cage.

  "And do you know what that would make you?" she manages to say, her voice hardly a whisper. "I figured Milton had to have children all over town, but are you his, too? Are you and Nathan brothers?