by Barbara Hall
“We can do that,” Nora said. Her calligraphy business had taught her how to write quickly and clearly. She could keep a neat and beautiful account of the whole thing, like a monk inscribing a Scripture.
“Okay, so good night.”
Poppy and Nora both hugged Simone. Then they went to their cold, air-conditioned rooms. The light on Nora’s phone was flashing. She called her message center and had two messages. One was from Boo, her raspy voice intruding on the evening like a jackhammer outside the window:
“Your children are fine, and I have decided not to bother teaching them any discipline. That’s your job. Michael has settled down some, and Annette still has a very smart mouth, but that’s for you to deal with, not me. I assume you’re still coming back on Friday, like you said. Okay, well, tell Poppy I said hi.”
Nora smirked, registering the omission of Simone.
Then there was a male voice talking, and her heart jumped around inside her chest. It sounded like Cliff, the same brusque, confident tone, the tone that suggested she had disappointed him without meaning to. It took her a second to realize that she was imagining this, and that the voice sounded nothing like Cliff’s. In fact, it was softer and more solicitous, almost shy:
“I just wanted to call and say I was thinking of you. I was hoping you’d be in and maybe we could get together because I really liked seeing you last night. If you have any free time tomorrow, get in touch with me. I’d like to see you again. Well, I guess that’s it. I hope I’ll talk to you soon. And don’t go walking around by yourself, okay? I might not be there to save you.”
He never identified himself, but she knew it was Leo. She played the message back several times, and she lay on the bed listening to it, as if it were some pleasant dream she had the ability to revisit, over and over, until it became real.
8
“All rise for the Honorable Louis LaSalle.” Nora jumped to her feet and realized that everyone around her was a little slower to rise. She had the feeling she might be arrested if she did not behave herself in the courtroom, but the people around her, including Poppy and Simone, seemed to feel no such trepidation. They seemed skeptical, even grudging in their attempt to show respect.
The courtroom was nicer than Nora had expected it to be, even though the decor obviously dated back to the fifties. The walls were paneled, the gallery seating was done in a dark-red vinyl and the chandelier that hung down from the ceiling was a minimalist globe. There was a portrait on the wall of some grizzled judge, with a look of avuncular concern. There were two attorney’s tables, just like on TV. At one sat Margaret Marquez-Pratt, looking very professional in a gray suit with a cream-colored blouse. Her hair looked more styled today and she was wearing lipstick. Beside her was a young man, another attorney, wide-eyed and fresh-faced, as if he had just walked out of law school. His hair was prematurely gray and blown dry. His face was very round, made to look more so by the large round glasses he wore. Nora certainly would not want her fate to rest in his hands, though Margaret seemed perfectly capable of getting her job done.
At the other table was the defense attorney. He was older but had one of those youthful Southern faces, full of guileless curiosity and well-meaning determination. He wore a seersucker suit, and his mousy brown hair defied his obvious efforts to comb it down. Then, next to him, was Quentin Johnson. Nora tried not to stare at him, but she couldn’t help it. He was nothing like the monster she imagined. He was not a large man, probably no more than five feet seven or eight, no more than a hundred fifty pounds. He wore a starched white shirt and tie and black dress pants. He was handsome, with coffee-colored skin and sleepy eyes and a straight posture. Eight away Nora knew this trial was going to be problematic. She was Simone’s best friend, yet, looking at the defendant, she had trouble believing this man had committed any terrible deed. The troubling questions resurfaced in Nora’s mind about whether Simone could have fought him off. For one thing, Simone was taller than he was, and arguably stronger. No doubt she was smarter. Couldn’t she have reasoned her way out of the situation?
Don’t think like that, she reminded herself. After all, no one had heard the facts yet, and she couldn’t pretend to know what it felt like to be surprised by violence on a dark street. The men who had nearly mugged her had appeared equally harmless.
She glanced at Simone, who kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. She was wearing a loose-fitting floral dress, with her black hair caught up neatly at the back of her head. No jewelry, no makeup except for a pale-colored lipstick. She had never seen Simone dressed this way, and it disturbed her. She had obviously been coached by her attorney. But what was so wrong with that? The object was to get this man convicted. And if Simone needed to change her image to realize that goal, then that was fair enough. No doubt Quentin Johnson had done the same thing. Surely he didn’t walk around in the world wearing a shirt and tie.
The judge, the Honorable Louis LaSalle, was a short, heavyset man with a mean, jowly face. He wore black-rimmed glasses pushed up on his forehead, a shirt and tie under the ubiquitous black robe. He reminded Nora of a preacher, and she fully expected him to give a benediction or ask them to open their hymnals to a certain page. Instead he gave a dismissive wave, and everyone sat down again.
“Okay,” Louis LaSalle said with a heavy sigh. “Let’s get through the docket as fast as we can. We have a jury trial today. Where is Marcus Solomon?”
“Your Honor, if I might make an argument in favor of rearranging the docket,” Margaret said, standing. “The victim in the case of the People versus Quentin Johnson is from out of town, and we need to get to her case so she can return to work. She cites financial hardship . . .”
“We all have financial hardship, Ms. Marquez-Pratt. I’m sure Marcus Solomon is not being paid for his time spent in court.”
“But Your Honor, if you would consider . . .”
“Ms. Marquez-Pratt, we are not going to spend my time with you telling me how to organize the courtroom. Now, where is Marcus Solomon?”
A heavyset black woman, badly dressed and harried almost to the point of tears, rushed forth.
“Your Honor, Mr. Solomon assured me he would be here on time. As of this moment, I cannot account for his where-abouts. However . . .”
“He is up on armed robbery, is he not?”
“Yes, sir, though the people have offered a plea of carrying a concealed weapon, which we are prepared to accept. Or we were prepared to accept . . .”
“So his lack of appearance indicates a violation of bail . . .”
“Yes, sir, but he lives in Saint Bernard’s Parish, so maybe he hit traffic.”
“I live in the Parish, Ms. Forster. The people should at this time consider withdrawing the plea.”
Suddenly there was a scuffle at the back of the courtroom, and a young man rushed to the front. He was breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his brow. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, a tall black man wearing jeans and a Chicago Bulls T-shirt.
“Here I am, Your Honor.”
“Good of you to make it, Mr. Solomon.”
Nora caught her breath. She recognized him right away. It had been dark, yet she knew that face. He was one of the men, one of the three who had asked her for the time on St. Ann Street the night she met Leo Girardi.
Marcus Solomon and his attorney whispered for a few moments, and then they stepped forward together.
“At this time, Your Honor,” said the attorney, “we are prepared to accept the plea. We request probation of no less than twelve months.”
“Mr. Solomon, you are aware that you are pleading guilty to a charge of carrying a concealed weapon.”
“Yes, suh,” Marcus said, in a tone that sounded purposely submissive, almost slavelike, Nora thought.
“No one has coerced you in any way to accept this plea?”
“No, suh.”
“You understand that I could sentence you to as much as one year in county jail.”
At this Marcus looked sur
prised and leaned over to consult with his lawyer. Then he nodded and said, “Yes, suh.”
“Given that this is your first offense, I sentence you to one year of probation. During which time you are to report to your parole officer on a twice-weekly basis, and you are to abide by all restrictions placed on you by the court. Understood?”
“Yes, suh.”
It occurred to Nora that this man was about to walk out of court, having brandished a gun somewhere, having nearly robbed her or done something far worse. And the judge was about to put him back out there, to do further harm. It wasn’t fair. It was scary, in fact. She looked at her friends, but they were staring straight ahead, not really listening.
Nora stood, before she realized what she was doing.
“Your Honor,” she said.
She could feel everyone in the courtroom turning to look at her.
“May I approach the bench?”
Louis LaSalle looked at her. “Who are you?”
“I’m . . . I’m no one, really, but I’d like to approach the bench.”
More out of surprise than anything else, the judge waved her forward. She felt her heart hammering as she walked through the swinging doors, past the lawyers, up to the judge’s bench.
“Your Honor,” she said. “I’m a visitor from out of town, and the other night, I was walking down St. Ann Street, in the Quarter . . .”
“Wait a minute. Who the hell are you?”
“I am Nora Braxton. I’m just a tourist. But this man, this Marcus Solomon, he tried to rob me.”
The judge stared at her. “Did you report this to the police?”
“Well, no, but that’s only because I was saved by a cab driver. I was a little bit in shock. But the thing is, you can’t put him back out there. He’s dangerous.”
The large black woman was standing beside her now, breathing hard. “Your Honor, I object to this disruption,” the lawyer said.
“I don’t understand. Are you some kind of witness for the state?”
“No, I’m here on another case altogether.”
“Your Honor, this is outrageous.”
“I just can’t stand by and watch him get released,” Nora said. “I didn’t realize he was trying to rob me at the time, but now I know . . .”
“Ms. Braxton, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please go back to your seat before I have you evicted.”
“But Your Honor . . .”
“Are you hard-of-hearing? Shall I have the bailiff detain you? Go away, now.”
Nora went away. When she turned back, she saw her friends staring at her, both of them wearing a look of surprise and dread.
Nora kept on walking, past them, out of the courtroom, into the cavernous hallway. The criminal courts building was beautiful and stately, vast in its emptiness, in its lack of warmth. It reminded her of all those presidential homes and capitol buildings she had visited on field trips in Virginia. She knew she was in the presence of the law, and she knew it should scare her. It had, when she had first entered it that morning. But now that she had seen Marcus Solomon, she realized her connection to the legal system. Before, she had felt completely alienated. She had never been in a courtroom, had always gotten out of jury duty, had never even had a traffic ticket. Now here she was, tied into the legal system in a state as strange as Louisiana. Her breath was coming hard and fast. She walked straight to one of the large windows and looked out. The hallway was populated by lawyers and their clients, criminals and families of criminals, and, at the far end, a group of students on a field trip, she had to assume. She was not at all sure how she had gotten here or what she was doing.
The day felt all wrong anyway, and she had been embarrassed half the morning because she was not thinking of Simone at all, not thinking of her case, not worrying about the outcome. She was thinking instead of Leo. She had called him right before breakfast. He had answered in a brusque, harried tone.
“Yeah, hello?”
“Leo, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me.”
“Hi, it’s Nora.”
There had been a long pause, and finally he had said, “Oh, yeah, hi.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back last night. I got in too late.”
“That’s okay.”
He waited. She waited. She thought he might have something to say to her, but he didn’t volunteer it. Maybe she had dreamed it, that sweet, solicitous quality she had heard in his message. What was going on?
“Well, you said you wanted to see me again, and I wondered if you were still interested in that.”
Leo cleared his throat. She could hear his child calling for him, over the din of a television set.
“Yeah, look, I was kind of drunk last night. I mean, can we talk later?”
“Oh. Okay.” There was another pause, and out of desperation she had said, “Yes, we had a few drinks last night, too.”
“You and Poppy?”
“Me and Poppy and Simone.”
“Who’s Simone?”
“That’s our other friend. We came to help her out. It’s a long story.”
“I’d like to hear it, but I have to take my kid to school.”
“Okay, whatever.”
“I’ll call you later. Is that okay?”
“Yes, I’ll be here . . .”
“So, good-bye.”
And he had hung up, just like that. Everything that happened after that had seemed like a dream. She had had breakfast in the courtyard with Simone and Poppy. They had discussed the weather, how they had slept, how the trial might go, what they would do in the evening when it was over. She had heard it all but not been a part of it. She had stored it away. Her mind was stuck in that place, where Leo had quickly gotten rid of her.
Why had she put her faith in him? Had the whole episode with Cliff taught her nothing? Men were not to be trusted. They were always looking for a way out. They said things, and they made promises, and then they felt shamed by their confession, their willingness to be vulnerable, and they took it back. She hated him. She hated Cliff. She had promised herself never to trust another man. Even her own son was untrustworthy. He had turned on her. Why wouldn’t he? It was what men did. She considered, briefly, the possibility of becoming a lesbian. But she didn’t like women much better, and anyway, she did like having sex with men. Liked it better than being angry with them. She had thought of sleeping with Leo since she had met him. She wanted to see that happen. She was determined, despite his efforts to humiliate her.
Cliff had always said she was afraid of sex. She didn’t think so. She was afraid with him, maybe, because he was so rule-oriented, so rigid in how he went about it. She had to do everything perfectly. There was no room for play. If she moved in the wrong direction, pushed when she should have pulled, sucked when she should have breathed, laughed when she should have kept quiet, he would tell her about it, in no uncertain terms. He would shut her up, angrily, and sometimes he would say, “Don’t you know what you’re doing? Are you new at this? For God’s sake, pay attention.”
Cliff had trouble coming. They both pretended it wasn’t a problem. They pretended it was stress, it was fatigue, it was his blood-pressure medication, it was her own fault, her own unimaginative approach to sex. But it wasn’t any of those things. The problem was that Cliff had trouble coming, and nothing she could do would have ever solved that. She didn’t really care; she would have been patient. But he was so ashamed of it, he never gave her the chance to fix it.
Once they had tried to address the problem by buying sex toys. But it had all been so awkward and cumbersome and hilarious. Trying to get the vibrator to work, trying to figure out the butt plug, trying to slide on the edible panties, trying to get the penis ring on his cock, attempting to put a cough drop in her vagina . . . They had spent an entire week doing this, and it always made Nora want to laugh, and she felt that if they could only laugh about it, everything would be fine. But each failed effort made Cliff more a
ngry and more embarrassed, and though she tried to reassure him, nothing ever worked. She tried to believe it wasn’t her. All the magazines said it wasn’t her. Therapists said it wasn’t her. Everyone said it was some other deep-rooted problem, something connected to Cliff’s childhood, or his work problems, or their unrealistic expectations. Nora didn’t think she had unrealistic expectations. She thought that if he came in some form or another, once a week, she could be happy. Once a month, she considered, toward the end of it. She asked him, over and over, if he was really gay. She would have been glad if that were the answer. She could have released him, could have let him go without blaming herself. But of course he wasn’t gay. He was able to fuck the waitress, and other women, too, she suspected, and some prostitutes, she ultimately discovered, finding his credit-card statement. (Hookers took credit cards? Yes, of course they did. They’d go out of business otherwise.) It was hard for her not to acknowledge that it was indeed her. Once, toward the end, she had asked him what was going on, if they could ever expect to have a decent sex life again, and he had said, “Look, Nora, I wish I were attracted to you, but I’m not. I still want to stay married, though. I love you. Lots of people have sexless marriages.”
Nora had indulged this proposal at the time, for her children’s sake, and also because she was too embarrassed to admit she didn’t think she could do without sex. Wasn’t it selfish to leave a man for that reason? Wasn’t marriage supposed to be more than that? Her parents had hated each other, after all. She was certain they had stopped having sex long before she was conscious of what it all meant. They weren’t happy but they stayed together. Her generation was supposed to be different, though. She was not all that experienced when she had first slept with Cliff. She had remained a virgin in high school, had slept with her first date in college, a soccer player named Frank, who was nervous and skinny with a penis so thin, she now realized, it hardly made an impression on her. Four others had followed, only one of which was a one-night stand, and then there was Cliff, who had functioned quite properly in college, sexually speaking. It was only later that he seemed to lose interest.
