I thought about how, when I was a squirt, minor bad things like misplacing a pair of gloves that still spanked, the price of which I’d been explicitly and repeatedly informed, would happen with alarming frequency and how I was often, as a result, placed on the defensive. For the defense: they lost themselves, you still love me? ¡Of course papi! how much? This much. but there are mommies who are bigger than you and can stretch their arms wider, do they love their kids more than you?
First up following The Pledge was Malkum Jenkins and 111 Centre Street, one of two buildings in New York County where state criminal cases were heard and home of Part 28 where Jenkins was presumably waiting. Part 28 belonged to Judge Sizygy and Friday meant it was his calendar day which in turn meant there would be a slew of teens and their families behaving like heated molecules inside his ridiculously tiny courtroom. (The thinking went something like this: let’s take the JO [juvenile offender] part, the part that figures to attract the highest number of interested observers—familial and otherwise—due to the age of the defendants, and stick it in a courtroom appreciably smaller than any other so that inevitably the audience on calendar days [remember, Friday] will spill out into the halls creating barely-restrained chaos, won’t that be fun?) And Sizygy was probably the best judge around. He took an interest in the defendants and tried to help. He kept their families informed and even fielded questions from them. He took his time on every case, careful to do the right thing. He was, in short, a good man whose basic decency made contact with him a desirable pleasure. Everyone hated going there.
Malkum had to go because four months earlier he’d sold to an undercover during a buy and bust. He was arrested and charged with Sale 3° and some 18B got the case but no matter since Jenkins was nothing if not routine and thus entitled to the standard outcome for sixteen-year-olds who look disproportionately at the floor and sell the product that sells itself. Standard outcome was adjudication as a youthful offender, meaning no criminal record, and five years probation. YO and probation meant Malkum stayed pure and out of jail but with someone to watch over him: a probation officer or PO, where we were all the kids had them. Twenty-one days, that’s how long Malkum reformed before we met. Once again he’d sold to the only customers who complain and his sweet deal had turned acrid. This time there was no ROR at arraignments. Instead he received $5,000 bail and a head start on his expected jail sentence. YO eligibility had been exhausted too, meaning the minimum was one to three years in state prison plus whatever he got on the forthcoming VOP or violation of probation.
Malkum’s predicament required that I employ the signature move of public defenders everywhere, unseemly begging. So I begged the DA—a decent, mousy woman with a visible heart—and she agreed to offer the kid an open C, meaning no mandatory minimum jail sentence, with the judge to determine his sentence. Then I begged the judge to send the case to Sizygy who had put Malkum on probation in the first and now represented our best chance at mercy. Several weeks later Sizygy was looking down at me shaking his head like the guy lending you money again even though you’ve never before repaid. But I had checked shame at the door and said judge this is Rene Collis from YOUTH FIRST and I think this is exactly what Jenkins needs because he’s not a bad kid and they have drug testing, job training, and counseling and what say you? Sizygy agreed and Malkum was released to the program but not before confessing and with his sentence pending. Complete the program he was told. Show me something and you’ll get another chance at probation, albeit as a felon this time. Of course, screw up and . . .
Now we were there for the first update from the program and the mere sight of Malkum sitting in the audience, wearing a green-polo-shirt-with-white-tie ensemble, represented an initial victory:
“Well good to see you,” I said.
“yeah, hi.”
“How’s the program?”
“it’s ahhight.”
“You been going?”
“yeah i be going like every day.”
“Really?”
“swear.”
“And? Do you like it, is it good, what?”
“i don’t know.”
“Well can we at least agree it’s better than jail.”
“no doubt.”
“Progress, who you living with?”
“my moms.”
“Who else?”
“my grandmother and my little brother.”
“How you getting along with your mother?”
“she all mad i ain’t working and shit.”
“When were you working?”
“like before i got locked up i was making mad money selling.”
“Yeah and look where you ended up.”
“i know. i ain’t trying to go back to that. i’m looking to stay clean but my moms is hassling me about money twenty-four/seven yo.”
“Tell her to call me. Never mind, I’ll call her. For now just do whatever this program says or you’re going to end up going back in, all right?”
“yeah.”
“Is Collis here?”
“?”
“The guy from the program?”
“oh yeah. he said to tell you he would be right back.”
“Did he say the update would be good?”
“yeah everything’s good.”
“Okay have a seat I’ll sign your case up. My guess is we’ll be here awhile.”
A good guess it turned out, with the judge taking his sour time and an endless procession of kids who could be doing better with some of them disappearing through the doors at the rear of the courtroom to the accompaniment of blubbering mothers. It was alternately excruciating and boring until I saw Garo Conley seated in the jury box and lecturing. Those around him occasionally opened their mouths and nodded in the negative, a common reaction in his vicinity. I wanted to hear so I sat behind him and his main audience.
“Macaroni and Cheese,” Conley said.
“Come again.”
“Macaroni and Cheese. It’s an actual color. I did my research and those are the exact words used by Crayola to describe a color and moreover that’s the color I’m proposing.”
“Macaroni and cheese?”
“Yes a nice vaguely-copper type orange,” he said. “Like those chicks that spend too much time absorbing fake sun at salons. Maybe a little more reddish come to think of it.”
“Why that color?”
“Why not? It’s an attractive enough color. The color isn’t the important thing anyway. The uniformity is what matters.”
“Good God.”
“I’m serious, imagine looking out into this courtroom’s audience and everyone’s the same color.”
“Imagine it? I don’t have to. They already are the same color. Black, like me.”
“That’s silly. First of all, strictly speaking, nobody’s black, not actual black. But fine, imagine not just the audience but every single person you encounter being Macaroni and Cheese Orange.”
“You’re insane.”
“Insane? It’s called progress. All thanks to our friend deoxyribonucleic acid. Extract 44 discovered in ’44 and you don’t actually think that was a numerical coincidence do you? I’m talking about a second, this time lab-propelled, genesis. You’ll be able to choose the genetic qualities your child will have. Think about that for a minute. Everyone will be attractive, intelligent, athletic.”
“Macaroni and cheese?”
“Macaroni and Cheese, right. Everyone.”
“And?”
“And? And no more accidents of birth, that’s and. What do you think makes life so unfair. The world we live in will finally be just. We’ll make it that way genetically.”
“But what does all that have to do with what I’m talking about?”
“Well that should be obvious. Since in the near future, there’ll be no significant physical differences between people, the statement you just made would be meaningless. Remember it won’t be a case of just the people in the audience of this courtroom looking alike, everyone the
world entire will look alike. Gazing at another will be like gazing in a mirror, you might as well discriminate against yourself. Racism will be stamped out. I’m talking about it no longer existing!”
“Must we all look like you though?” a third party joined in.
“No, like a good-looking orangey person. You’re laughing Henry but it’s the only way. You have to remove the factual basis for racism and if four hundred years from now everyone looks the same that’ll do it. Otherwise forget it. You can’t regulate how people feel. The best you can hope for, in the absence of genetic manipulation, is what we have now.”
“Which is?” asked Henry.
“Who’s we?” the third added.
“We is this country. I’m not concerned with anywhere else. And what we have here is a situation where racism still exists but it doesn’t really interfere with anyone’s life. Oh Casi I didn’t see you back there. This is Henry, Henry this—”
“Whatever,” they said in unison and I never did get that third guy’s name.
“What are you saying exactly?” said Henry.
“What I’m saying—and don’t go crazy on me—is that racism as an active, noxious force endorsed by society and government, subtly or otherwise, no longer exists the way it did for example in the nineteen-twenties. We’ve addressed these things. There’s no longer segregation, for example, no one’s being told to give up his or her seat on the bus. Today, a group calling itself the freedom riders would look ridiculous, they’d have no cause.”
“I can think of a dozen new ones they could take up,” said Henry. “And you talk as if these situations are so remote they have no relevance to today. First, from the perspective of a nation’s history these things happened yesterday. The desegregation you’re so proud of was like pulling fucking teeth. Not until 1954 did the Court hold that six-year-old black kids were not being equally protected when they were forced to go to different and inferior schools than white kids, 1954! Although the decision was unanimous, the law clerk for one of the Justices advised him that the schools should remain separate rather than impose government mandated desegregation. That law clerk is now the Chief Justice of the current court! Of course the schools reacted to this ruling with deliberate speed and it only took about twenty years for these southern schools to be dragged before a court one by one until they were all in compliance. This included a charming incident I’m sure you’ll recall where the Governor of Arkansas placed the armed Arkansas National Guard in front of a high school to keep black children from entering an all-white school. Note, Conley, that I’m talking about governmental action here not private attitudes. In ’63 George Wallace—the goddamn governor of Alabama and a constant presidential candidate—used his inaugural platform to proclaim his love for segregation now, tomorrow, and forever and his constituency cheered.”
“I’ll tell you Henry I think you’re making my point for me,” Conley was quieter now, less excited. “The very reason the things you just mentioned seem so outrageous is that they would be unthinkable in today’s society. That’s the very definition of progress. Remember, I’m the one who thinks that racism will always exist until eliminated genetically, so of course I concede that racism continues to exist in private individuals. I do maintain, however, that with respect to our social structure it’s gone. The government does not endorse it and the laws are in place to oppose it. A lot of credit goes to the people who were instrumental in changing those laws.”
“And who were in several instances smoked for their troubles,” said the third guy all happy with his contribution.
“Yes. But the laws and society were changed and I no longer think it’s accurate to term our government or society racist in the same sense the term might’ve been accurate fifty years ago. Do the laws always work? Does everyone follow them? Of course not, but that doesn’t seem to be the most important issue as I see it. All we can do is set up a system that’s as fair as possible. Listen no system can guarantee that there won’t be some fat, toothless, inbred piece of shit from West Virginia who wants to kill all black people. All it can do is give everyone a fair opportunity. We have that.”
“We don’t have that,” said Henry.
“We do Henry! Look at you. You’ve been an attorney for twenty years and have done very well for yourself, you could buy and sell me were it not for the fact that I’m not currently for sale. Racism hasn’t prevented you from achieving quite a bit within the framework of our system and it doesn’t prevent anyone else from achieving the same things. The reason is all the impediments have been removed. Listen I don’t dispute that there were some serious problems in the past. The battle, which undoubtedly was righteous and constituted an absolute moral imperative, is over however, and we’ve gone as far as we can until science takes over. Now sit back and let The Human Genome Project do the rest.”
“Hold on. Just stop right there because everything you’re saying is wrong and wrong in important ways. The fact that there are successful people who look like the people in this audience means next to nothing. One of the things the Board of Ed argued against Oliver Brown was that the separate schools didn’t harm children like his third-grader Linda. After all, they said, didn’t George Washington Carver among others achieve greatness in spite of facing even greater obstacles than the kids then attending the lesser, segregated schools. Well many years have passed and the stakes are different but you’re rehashing the same argument and it’s weak. The relevant question is not whether back then a few extraordinary individuals could overcome a system strongly weighted against them or whether today an admittedly far greater number requiring far less talent can succeed. The real question is whether it’s harder for the people in this audience to succeed be they extraordinary, average, or below average. If it is, and I think it obvious that it is, then that’s untenable in a country that purports to provide equal opportunity for all. Now of course you’ll dispute my claim that it is more difficult to succeed for them. You say the battle’s over. I say not only is it not over but you yourself are stationed on the frontline of the battle and have been all these years. This room and the criminal justice system as a whole is the frontline. This is where modern-day segregation lives on.”
“Well that’s quite a bit hyperbolic don’t you think?” said Conley.
“Is it?” He began to read from a pamphlet in his lap that had undoubtedly started the whole thing. “Let’s take the example of Washington,” he said, “our nation’s capital named after our first president. Well the National Center on Institutions and Alternatives looked at them. What they found is that fifty percent of black men ages eighteen to thirty-five in D.C. were either incarcerated or under probation or parole supervision. Our government controls one out of every two such young men in that area.”
“That seems way too high. Besides even if you’re correct you’re referring to a small sample that may not accurately reflect—”
“Fine, nationwide the number is one out of three. Additionally, Justice Department statistics show that nationally about eight out of ten such men will spend some time incarcerated during their lifetimes. What this does is—”
“That number seems a bit high. That can’t possibly—”
“Please Conley,” the third party rejoined the fray. “Why are you making him spout all these stats? Even if they would seem extreme to the average person you can’t tell me that you, with this job, are surprised by these numbers, or that you truly doubt their accuracy. Like he says, look in the audience of this courtroom for Chrissakes. Go in the back and look at the pens. I worked arraignments last week. I did about thirty-five cases and all but maybe three of them involved minority defendants.”
“Has your experience been any different Conley?” said Henry. “Think of your caseload.”
“I don’t think of my clients in terms of their color,” he smiled, “they’re all just people whom I have the highest obligation to defend.”
“Well humor me for a moment and estimate what percentage of your case
s involve black defendants.”
“Okay I accept your numbers. It does appear that roughly eighty to eighty-five percent of our clients are black but what does that mean? More importantly, why is that the case? I don’t think, for example, that the police, who are often themselves black, at least around here, are ignoring crimes committed by whites or purposely looking to arrest more blacks than whites. The only logical conclusion if you agree with those figures is that blacks must be committing more crimes than whites. If that’s the case then it is more difficult to be black in this country but it’s not really the result of racism but rather the result of being part of a ravaged community. A community ravaged from within by its own members.”
“The problem is those numbers don’t accurately reflect the discrepancy you’re referring to so something else seems to be at work,” Henry said. “And moreover the discrepancy itself may be further evidence of what I’m alleging. More importantly, what I’m saying is these aren’t just statistics, they have profound human effects.” He looked to the third guy for some more support. “Because what happens as a result of—”
“Isn’t that your kid?” Conley was looking at the defense table then me.
“Curses,” I said. My kid was Jenkins who was standing at the table looking helplessly at the judge and wondering where I was. I slithered out of the jury box and stood behind the defense table at Malkum’s side just as Sizygy was asking which attorney belonged to the case. Greetings were exchanged and Collis began his update speech. Things were not going as swimmingly as Malkum had painted but overall he was doing fairly well and Collis, who wore an absurd, stop-sign-red scarf, had a rare contented air that filled the courtroom. Malkum looked down at the table intently, eyes averted and knuckles cracking. But well enough is never lonely for long in this racket so Sizygy decided he’d chat Malkum up:
A Naked Singularity: A Novel Page 10
