“So you mean even if she shows,” Roach asks, “it won’t matter?”
“Probably not.”
“Why the fuck not?” Dutchboy; he doesn’t get it at all.
Lone Wolf says nothing; his eyes are flat, fixed on me.
“Because …” I am getting a migraine the size of Rhode Island. “Because you can only go to the well so often; they don’t let you keep coming back whenever you feel like it. We could’ve been denied the first time, our original petition. We were lucky to get back in. They don’t give you a second chance in this game; not usually,” I conclude miserably.
“But she admitted she lied,” the kid says.
“Doesn’t matter.” We all turn to Lone Wolf. It’s the first time he’s opened his mouth. “Does it?” he asks me.
“No.”
“Why?” Dutchboy persists.
He doesn’t understand, this twenty-two-year-old man-child. Doesn’t want to; to understand, understand and thus acknowledge, is to be resigned to never leaving this place, outside of being carried out in a coffin.
“There’s a procedure,” I explain. I want them all to understand; everything I know. “There are rules laid out for an appeal. You can’t keep going back to the courts every time you think you have something new, especially if you’ve already gone to them with a specific, like we did with this perjured testimony. Otherwise people would spend their whole lives doing it, and the state could never kill anyone or bury them alive in joints like this forever, and the state doesn’t like that. The state wants its pound of flesh.”
“So even if the whole case is built on a lie,” Goose asks, “it doesn’t matter if they can slide by on a technicality.”
“That’s right.” He knows; he’s always known.
“I can’t believe this,” Roach says. He’s shaking, his leg tap-dancing under the table. He’s the most volatile of them, he could go right now.
“It’s like that movie,” Dutchboy says. “About that guy in Texas. You know.”
“The Thin Blue Line,” Goose prompts.
“Yeh. That guy’d still be in there. ’Cause some punk lied and the cops wanted to believe him. Like us. Shit, I’ll bet this kind of shit happens all the time,” he marvels.
“No,” I tell him. “Thank God it doesn’t. But it does sometimes, and each time is too much.”
“Especially when it’s you,” Roach says.
“So even if she shows,” Goose repeats; he wants to be absolutely sure he knows what’s going on; “even if she shows and swears on a stack of Bibles, it won’t matter now.”
“I can’t say. But the odds are against us,” I tell them. “Not only because she didn’t show this time,” I elaborate, “but because she’s a liar, she’s saying ‘I lied then but I’m telling the truth now.’ One cancels the other. Who’s to say she’s telling the truth now, that she wasn’t telling the truth then, and is lying now? It’s happened before.”
The silence fills the room.
“So now what?” Roach finally asks. “What do we do now, just fucking lie down and wait to die?”
“No,” I say, “we keep going. There’s other avenues. I’m certainly going to try to find her and force another hearing, but even if that doesn’t happen there are other avenues. Years of them.”
“Technicalities,” Lone Wolf says flatly.
“Mostly,” I concede. “But they have worked before.”
“Yeh,” he sneers. “To keep ’em from dropping the load on you. A lifetime inside instead of the death penalty. Whoopee,” he adds without mirth.
I tell them straight: right now it’s all we have.
We talk a little longer. Human contact of any kind is gold to them. Then there’s nothing more to say. They’re led out, handcuffed and manacled, taken back to their cells, not to see each other again for God knows how long.
Lone Wolf’s the last to go. As he’s shuffling out, the heavy chains hanging from him like shrouds, he fixes me with a look.
“What’s the point?” he asks.
“You’re still alive, man.” I make my point as forcefully as I can. “Anything’s possible as long as you’re still alive.”
“Depends,” he says. “On what side you’re standing on.”
They take him away.
I’m scared. It’s dangerous to hold out hope to a desperate man and then yank it away. It makes him crazy. It would make me crazy.
Crazy people do crazy things. Fuck the consequences.
IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT. I sit in my dark office and look out over the town, what I can see of it from here, the dark adobes, in the distance the state offices, all dark now. I’m alone.
I feel that I’m at a crossroads in my life. I have felt that before, it seems to be a continuing motif in my life, feeling that I’m at a crossroads and thinking about being at that crossroads, wherever it happens to be at the time. I’ve always had a strongly melodramatic side to my personality; it’s served me well in the courtrooms but has, I’m afraid, now that I’m finally looking at it, hurt the rest of me. It has cost me dear relationships. It has forced me to imagine slights where none were present, or were small. I have had the need to build my molehills of annoyance into mountains of pain, until the pain became real and I lashed out at the causes of it, not at myself, the core cause, but at the reasons I’d built up in my mind. I am one of those people who would cut off his nose to spite his face. I have never gotten past that childish pose. There is something in me that wants to hurt me. A psychologist would probably say I don’t feel worthy of good things, so I make sure I don’t get them. That may be. But it is costing me the most important things in my life, the things that, when I’m not reveling in my self-pity, make me feel good, feel alive. I’m full of bile towards Andy and Fred, but I liked them once, there was a lot of strong feeling between us, we created something important together that had some lasting power; it outlasted me. And I fucked it up. It wasn’t them; it was me. It’s been so long since Patricia and I split up that I don’t remember the specifics anymore, but I’m sure there was much of the same behavior; the preening, the need to be on-stage all the time, to be top dog, to bully and control. I concede that it undoubtedly would have ended the same way, ultimately, but I know that the reason I feel unresolved about it is because of who I am and how I was. Not a man; not a real man.
I’m afraid I’m going to be that way with Mary Lou, and I don’t want to be. I’m beginning to fear that part of my destiny in life is to fuck up the things that mean the most to me. That scares me.
All this started hitting me as I drove back from prison this afternoon, finished the day, said good night to Susan, diddled around, pretending to work. I didn’t want to leave tonight; I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t want to stop thinking about this stuff; going home, going to bed, will end it, this episode, and who knows what the morning will bring?
What happened was, I was thinking about the bikers on the drive back into town. About the raw deal they were getting, how it was cutting their lives short, how hard it was on them, them more than most, because they were outlaws, outlaws in the romantic sense of the word, whose very essence is to run wild and free like mustangs, and how being caged up was for them more than being in a physical box, it was shutting down their souls, their core beings. And without really realizing it I was empathizing with them, being an imaginary one of them, an outlaw lawyer and his outlaw biker clients; and I was liking the connection: the Hunter Thompson of lawyers. Conjuring about riding on a motorcycle across the mountains and valleys, a biker chick behind me, hugging my manly back, drinking and whoring and all that good shit. Of course, it would not be a vocation like theirs, but an occasional fantasy, one I could dip in and out of at will. It would be neat, like being a rock star would be neat, hanging out with Mick Jagger and the boys. An outlaw celebrity.
And then the absurdity of it hit me. The bullshit absurdity of it. These men aren’t romantic heroes; they’re criminals. They rape and pillage and hurt people, and take delight in do
ing so. I’m forty years old and that’s what I aspire to? How immature am I, not even deep down but right up front? Would I want my wife (if I ever have one again) or my girl-friend, or for that matter any lady-friend of mine, or worst of all, God forbid, my daughter, to be with one of those men for one second? Fuck, what is wrong with me that this kind of silly, shallow, chicken-shit imagery is attractive to me? What’s missing in me that feels the need to emulate or admire one shred of their beings?
So that’s why I’m sitting here. Because I feel the need to think about these things.
I want to grow up, is what I think it is. I’m tired of this life I’ve been living, this eternal provoking, chasing demons that don’t exist, making them up so they then do exist, and letting them push me around. Tired of fucking up my life in the noble cause of teenage romanticism. Part of me has never gotten past that kind of shit and it’s got to end. James Dean is dead; or something.
I drink, therefore I am. I play at being the badass, I bail out, I want never to have responsibilities; real ones, that hurt but can’t be helped. I wear a tie but deep down think of myself as a road warrior. The eternal kid.
But shit happens. Life goes on. I am not a romantic outlaw, and those men in jail, much as I want to help them and will do everything I can for them, are not me. Not the slightest bit.
We will go on, still tied in a sense, but separate.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Claudia, happy birthday to you …” A cappella yet. Her friends sing her birthday to her, still pre-teens and so hip, they own the world.
Eleven years old. My child who is no longer a child, who is changing before my very eyes. Since I don’t see her every week like I used to (a month can go by, more, although I try religiously to be with her one week-end a month, my frequent-flyer miles’ll buy me a trip around the world pretty soon) each new time we get together is a shock, because the change is startlingly visible, she’s at a time in her life where things move fast, like the stop-action photography they use in nature documentaries, watching the flower grow and unfold in thirty seconds, the clouds move across the sky from dawn to dusk in an eyeblink. On her last visit here she confided in me that one of her friends, who’s just a couple months older than Claudia, had started her period. I winced, visibly. Now there’s three of them, as if once it gets started it becomes an avalanche. Biologically capable of having babies? And they want bras, period or not, tits or not. Training bras in the fifth grade; I took her out to the mall one Saturday afternoon, she ran across some of her friends, after the giggling and gossiping and catching up they gravitated to the lingerie section, checking out the starter bras, snickering to beat the band, looking around to see if the parents were watching. Claudia seems less into that stuff than most of them, fortunately; at least what I know from what I see and what she tells me, but I’m not sure if she tells me everything anymore, like she used to. Each time we see each other now there’s that period of adjustment between us; an hour or less, but it’s palpable, it hangs over us, I’m not part of the routine, I’m not there for her, whether I want to be or not. She’s still an innocent, I can tell from her conversation, even when she’s trying to be grown-up. Her mother was a late bloomer, it could be two or three more years before she has to worry about Tampax and the rest. Still, when your own mother has silicone tits, you know the score. I read recently (I notice stuff like this that I never noticed before) that there’s an epidemic of early maturation which has to do with the stress that kids are under these days, that they’re being forced to grow up faster. I don’t know, I think kids have always led desperate lives; I do know I want to hold onto her childhood as long as I can.
It’s a warm day. The party’s north of town, at my friend Lucas’s ranch (the erstwhile hippie developer), the fellow whose streams Claudia and I were fishing when the body of Richard Bartless was found and everything started. It’s a beautiful spread, besides the stables and houses there’s a tennis court, a swimming pool, and a Jacuzzi. Lucas not only remained my client and friend when I broke off from the firm, he steers business to me, often at the direct expense of Fred and Andy. Lucas gets a kick out of that. He thinks they’re puritans, too quick to condemn. That’s ’cause I drink with him and they don’t; I like to read a valuable lesson in this.
He and Dorothy don’t have kids of their own, they’re way too hedonistic to let anyone else into their lives, but they’ve always loved Claudia, they lavish presents on her at any opportunity, and today’s no exception: they’ve given her a $500 Kachina, and a squash-blossom necklace. She’s old enough now to appreciate such things, and she ooohs and aaahs over them appropriately.
I should, but don’t, protest such lavishness from them. I wouldn’t let anyone else spoil her this way, but I figure one set of rich godparents is permissible. You have to get along with all kinds in this world, she might as well get used to it properly.
The party is half a dozen of Claudia’s best friends, all girls. All so happy to be with each other. Seattle’s okay, but this is home.
The ranch is all decked out, rodeo-style. Each girl has been assigned a horse of her own for the day. We spend the morning riding up into the foothills to the east, seven little girls in jeans and riding helmets, guiding their horses up the trails. I bring up the rear, video camera on my shoulder, trying to keep the image steady as I chronicle everything about the day for posterity, for her to look at when she’s grown, for her kids; for myself when she’s grown and much farther away than a two-hour plane ride.
“My dad’s cutting the cake,” she tells everyone. “Save me the piece with the rose, daddy.”
The girls are in their bathing suits. It’s late afternoon, hot. The party’s winding down, we’ll eat our cake and ice-cream and head on home. Without meaning to, I notice the shapes of some of her friends.
They have curves, some of these children. Budding little breasts and hips. They don’t seem to be aware of any sexuality, but maybe they are; I don’t know. I do remember kissing girls in fifth grade, and making out in sixth. And I lived in the country.
“Delicious cake,” Ellie Godswiling says. We’re sitting on lounge chairs at the edge of the pool. Her daughter is one of the guests. Ellie’s come to help schlepp some of the girls home.
The girls are sprawled out on the grass nearby. They’re talking freely, laughing, unselfconscious. I’d asked Claudia if she wanted any boys. ‘Boys would be a drag,’ she’d told me. ‘It would all be posing. I want to be the center of attention.’
“Is it home-made?” Ellie asks.
“Sure,” I say. “From scratch.”
“I didn’t mean you,” she says, blushing slightly. “I thought maybe your girl-friend baked it.”
“Girl-friend?”
“Claudia told Maria you had a steady. Someone from work,” she says, half questioningly.
I look up at her, squinting against the afternoon light. Is she coming on to me? She’s my age, divorced, zaftig in a nice way.
“Not really,” I lie lazily. Nothing’s going to come of this, I just feel like playing, to see where it might go.
“Oh,” she says.
“It’s store-bought. From Lukavitch,” I say.
“No wonder,” she exclaims. “Theirs is better than home-made. My home-made anyway,” she says, smiling tentatively. I think she is on the make but doesn’t know how to go about it; probably isn’t dating much, maybe not at all. She leans forward slightly as she delicately forks some cake into her mouth, showing me a glimpse of cleavage. Big, soft breasts, lightly freckled on top. She’d be a loving, sloppy fuck, not to be attempted in total sobriety.
I could do that. I could work it out so we were thrown together tonight. A generous offer on daddy’s part: we’ll continue the party at my place, Claudia can have them all over for pizza, I know she misses her friends and wants to see as much of them in the limited time she’s here as she can, she’s told me so. I get jealous sometimes, wanting her all to myself, but there’s tim
e for me. She makes sure of that, too.
The girls are old enough to be left alone for a little while in the evening, and I’d make book that Ellie would find a way to show up, she’d have some excuse, like she was afraid I didn’t have enough cups or plates or Cokes. We could leave the girls and go to a nearby bar for a quick drink, to escape the commotion. One drink would lead to three, she’d be too high to drive, I’d offer to give her a lift home, it’s not far. And then of course walking her to her door, since I’m a gentleman, and then a friendly goodnight kiss, which would turn to passion and groping and all the rest. I could do that, but it would be cruel. Even so, I could. Sitting here looking at her freckled breasts and soft, heavy body, the prospect is mildly exciting. Mildly.
What would be truly exciting would be to jump Mary Lou’s bones and go for one of our marathon fucks. We had agreed to stay apart for the weekend. She didn’t want to horn in on Claudia’s time with me. A noble gesture, more noble, as I sit here pondering it, in the thinking than the actual doing. Claudia’s becoming more comfortable with Mary Lou, but when I’m with both of them my attention’s divided. Claudia deserves me to herself on her birthday. If I get desperate I can swing by Mary Lou’s Sunday evening after I put Claudia on the airplane.
I put the thought of fucking Ellie out of my mind. If she were to rape me I couldn’t resist, but the new me wants to be good. I’d like to believe that I’m strong enough to pull that kind of behavior off; I never have been before.
“Did you have fun, dad?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“It was the greatest party I’ve ever had,” she tells me.
“I’m glad. You sure did okay with the loot.”
“I love my new doll.”
The Kachina’s sitting in the place of honor on her shelf, right next to Teddy and Penguin, her oldest and favorite dolls, the ones she takes to bed with her at night.
“And the necklace,” she says. “Lucas and Dorothy are nice.”
“They love you. You’re practically a daughter to them.”
“I only have one daddy,” she says, snuggling up to me. “And he’s the greatest.”
Against the Wind Page 32
