Nobody's Fool

by Richard Russo

  In fact, Clive Jr. had pretty much decided to give up genuflecting altogether. So he’d silently accepted the citation, stuffed it into the glove box and, after being instructed by the young trooper to have a good evening, pulled the Lincoln back onto the interstate and punched it back up to cruise control ninety. When the same trooper pulled him over again ten miles farther west on the interstate, he seemed genuinely perplexed. “You’re a slow learner, Mr. Peoples,” he observed, and this time he had Clive Jr. assume the position alongside the Lincoln. It was snowy there on the shoulder, and when the patrolman helped him spread his legs, Clive Jr. had lost his footing and slumped to his knees in the snow, banging his mouth on the roof of the Lincoln on the way. The patrolman allowed him to climb back to his feet then and shined his flashlight into Clive Jr.’s face, revealing the busted, bloody lip. “Tell me what you’re grinning at, Mr. Peoples. I’d like to know.” But Clive Jr. had again said nothing. Instead, he’d turned away from the question and spat red into the snow, one of the more satisfying gestures of his life, he now thought.

  The patrolman had detained him there in the cold for nearly half an hour, talking on the radio, while Clive Jr. first stood in the frigid wind, then finally sat in the Lincoln. Eventually, the cop let him go again, this time with a stern warning. “I think I may just follow you a ways, Mr. Peoples. Do ninety again, and we’ll see who grins.”

  And so Clive Jr. had gotten off at the next exit, headed south along the deserted two-lane blacktops of the western Alleghenies, flying through at two in the morning a series of tiny, dying villages with little more than a dark, run-down gas station/garage/convenience store to offer. America, it occurred to him now, was still full of bad locations.

  Feeling the shoulder again, Clive Jr. pulled the Lincoln back onto the blacktop, surprised by the fact that the car did not react immediately to his command. There seemed to be a split-second delay between his turning the wheel and the car’s responding, which caused Clive Jr. to wonder if he had been in a rut. But when he hit a straightaway, the car felt fine again. The sensation was strange but also familiar, though he had to travel back more than fifty years to locate it. How old had he been at that amusement park when he was placed in one of the brightly painted kiddie cars that slowly circled an oval track? He couldn’t remember, but what he did recall was his sense of disappointment to discover that the little car’s steering wheel was a fraud, that his spinning it left or right, fast or slow, had no effect upon the car’s direction, anymore than the two fake pedals—supposedly accelerator and brake—on the floor had. And he remembered trying to conceal his disappointment from his father and mother, even, perhaps, from himself.

  In a wide spot in the road called Hatch, Clive Jr. flew out of the woods, took the blinking yellow caution light at sixty-five and was just as quickly back in the woods again, tall trees forming a cathedral arch above. Then the three-quarter moon came out from behind some clouds and sat on the Lincoln’s hood ornament, on what Clive Jr. imagined must be the western horizon, lighting his way. He wondered how fast he’d have to go to keep the moon right there, to keep the sun from rising behind him. It would have been nice to prevent another sunrise. Speed, enough of it, could do that. He checked his rearview to make sure that nothing, not even the dawn, was gaining on him, and was gratified to see that the small rectangle of mirror was perfectly black.

  Even had he not been looking at the rearview, it was unlikely that he would have seen the pothole or, having seen it, would have been able to avoid it. The Lincoln’s right front tire hit the hole dead center, the right rear wheel a quickened heartbeat later, sending a shiver throughout the Lincoln and a buzz through the steering wheel and into Clive Jr.’s soft hands. “Ouch,” he said out loud and, hearing his voice, considered it might be wise to slow down. He couldn’t, after all, outrun the dawn. Then he felt the Lincoln on the shoulder again, and felt that too when he turned the steering wheel, the Lincoln did not respond.

  Before him, a two-hundred-yard straightaway and, at sixty-five miles an hour, not much time. Enough, though, to recall Harold Proxmire’s warning to get the Lincoln’s axle checked after Joyce parked it on the tree stump, enough time to imagine what lay ahead at the end of the straightaway, enough time to imagine what it would feel like to leave the road, to be briefly airborne, headlights straining to locate the other side of the ravine, with only darkness and silence below, time to reflect that his own father had been killed going thirty miles an hour on a quiet residential street without the car hitting anything, time to calculate his own slim odds.

  When to Clive Jr.’s surprise the Lincoln’s steering responded again and he took the curve at sixty, sending pebbles screaming off into the dark ravine, he was curiously devoid of emotion, and when he ran his tongue over his swollen lower lip, he was disappointed to discover that very little of the salty blood taste lingered there. By applying pressure on the swelling with his teeth, however, he was able to burst the ruptured skin like a grape, after which his tongue was again rich with the sweet taste of blood.

  Ahead a vista opened in the trees, and far below Clive Jr. saw a major highway running straight toward a glow in the west. It looked like a scene viewed from the window of an airplane. The Pennsylvania Turnpike, he guessed, and Pittsburgh.

  He felt again, without fear, the play in the wheel, that he was neither in nor out of control. So this, he reflected, was what it felt like to be Sully.

  FRIDAY

  Judge Barton Flatt was not a well man. His jowls were loose and jaundiced, and except for a single tuft of hair on his forehead, his hair had fallen out, thanks to the chemotherapy. He was ensconced in a leather chair behind his huge oak desk in chambers, but he was still visibly uncomfortable, as his incessant squirming testified. He had the look of a man in a titanic struggle against imminent flatulence, and the other men in chambers eyed him nervously. In addition to the sick judge there were in attendance Satch Henry, the county prosecutor, Police Chief Ollie Quinn, Officer Doug Raymer in civies and sunglasses, a red-eyed Wirf, who looked as if someone had dressed him while he lay in bed, and of course Sully, in whose honor this meeting had been called. “Okay, boys and girls,” said Judge Flatt, closing the cover of the manila folder on the police report in front of him. “Let’s see if we can’t dispense some small-town justice right here, right now.”

  “Your Honor, could we all sit down, at least?” Chief Quinn requested. Five folding chairs had been set up in a semicircle around the judge’s desk, and all five were occupied except Sully’s. Sully was limping along the back, book-lined wall. His knee was throbbing to the beat of a brass band, and he’d decided it was best to march.

  “Mr. Sullivan,” said Judge Flatt, “would you be more comfortable seated or standing?”

  “Standing, right now,” Sully said, adding, after a moment, “your Honor.”

  “He’s not standing, he’s pacing,” the police chief observed.

  Judge Flatt shifted in his chair, causing the other men to lean back in theirs, as if from a jab. “I may join him before we’re through.”

  “He’s making me nervous, is all,” the chief explained, looking over his shoulder at Sully warily.

  “Everybody who isn’t in jail makes you nervous, Ollie,” the judge observed. “You’re perpetuating a fascist stereotype.” Then to Sully, “Go pace over on that side of the room, Mr. Sullivan. Our police chief fears a sneak attack.”

  “Your Honor,” said Satch Henry, his hand raised like an obedient student in an elementary school. “If you aren’t feeling well, we could postpone—”

  “No, we’re going to do this now,” Judge Flatt said. “Mr. Sullivan here’s already spent one holiday in jail, and I’m not going to feel any more like doing this next week than I do now. Unless you were suggesting this be postponed until next month after I’m retired and you can bring this case before someone more to your liking.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all, your Honor,” Henry said quickly.

  “Good,” s
aid the judge. “Then let’s proceed.”

  Wirf, who had not said a word since entering chambers, examined his fingernails, a trace of a smile on his lips. He and Sully had conferred briefly a half hour before, and Wirf had explained what he thought was likely to happen. “If things go like I think they will, I’m not going to say much (“You never do,” Sully had reminded him), and I don’t want you to open your mouth unless you’re asked a direct question. Just remember, no matter what happens in there, the fact that we’re in chambers to begin with is the good news. Satch Henry knows that, and he’s ready to bust a gut. This thing’s going to go our way unless we mess it up.”

  Sully was less certain. During the last two years, he and Wirf had been involved in a lot of judicial proceedings together, and they’d never yet gone Sully’s way. Still, he had to admit, this was, so far, an auspicious beginning. According to Wirf there was a lot of bad blood between the judge and the district attorney’s office, and it appeared to Sully that this might be true, though Judge Flatt’s tongue was legendary, its targets democratic. Still, Wirf might be right for once. He guessed right on People’s Court every now and then, so why not in a real-life judicial proceeding?

  Judge Flatt slid the manila folder containing the police report across his desk with his index finger in Satch Henry’s direction. “Okay, Satch, I want you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Do you really want to arraign Mr. Sullivan on these charges, put this whole thing into court, spend a lot of taxpayers’ money?”

  Satch Henry went purple. “Your Honor, I believe there is some precedent for indicting and convicting people who assault police officers. Mr. Sullivan has a history of violent behavior. He broke Officer Raymer’s nose and gave him a concussion. Take off those dark glasses, Doug.”

  Officer Raymer took off his sunglasses. He had two black eyes. Green eyes, really, the puffy skin on both sides of his swollen nose having gone from purple to motel green.

  Judge Flatt studied the policeman. “They still call those shiners?” he inquired. “That’s what they called ’em when I was boy.”

  Officer Raymer looked confused by this unexpected question. “I guess so,” he said. “That and ‘black eye.’ ”

  “You ever been in a fistfight before, Officer Raymer?”

  “Sure,” the policeman said. “Lots of times.”

  “What do you usually do when somebody throws a punch at you?”

  Officer Raymer cocked his head and thought about this. “Duck?” he guessed.

  “Why didn’t you duck this time?”

  “Your Honor—” Satch Henry began.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Satch. Can’t you see I’m talking to this man?”

  Satch Henry opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. Wirf allowed himself another trace of a smile.

  “Why didn’t you duck this time?” the judge repeated.

  “I guess I never thought he’d do it,” the policeman sulked.

  “Why not?” Judge Flatt wanted to know. “As Satch here says, Mr. Sullivan has a history of violence. Comes from a long line of amateur barroom pugilists. Why didn’t you think he’d pop you one?”

  “Well, hell, Judge,” Officer Raymer exploded, exasperated. “I was holding my goddamn gun on him. The son of a bitch is crazy.”

  Judge Flatt turned his attention to the prosecutor now. “You say you want this man on the stand, do you? He’s just admitted to aiming his weapon at an unarmed sixty-year-old cripple.”

  “I don’t think I’d describe Sully as a cripple,” Satch Henry said weakly, though the point had clearly struck home.

  “Come over here a minute, Mr. Sullivan,” the judge said. “Pull up your pant leg for these gentlemen.”

  “I’d rather not,” Sully said, feeling rather like a little boy who’s been ordered to drop his trousers in a game of doctor.

  “Do it anyway, Mr. Sullivan,” the judge said. “Come over here where we can all see.”

  Sully did as he was told, putting his boot up on the chair that had been reserved for him, then gingerly pulling his pant leg up until his knee was exposed. He himself looked at the knee for the first time in a while. It looked like an exotic fruit ready to rupture.

  The sight of it affected everyone in the room. Wirf had to look away, and even Officer Raymer winced. Satch Henry was the first to recover. “May it be stated for the record, your Honor, that Officer Raymer is not responsible for the condition of Sully’s knee, whereas Sully is responsible for this police officer’s contusions and concussion?”

  “No, it may not be stated for the record, Satch,” Judge Flatt said, pausing rhetorically. “It may not. Because there is no record here in chambers.”

  “Can I let my pant leg down?” Sully said.

  “Yes, you may,” the judge said. “In fact, I insist.”

  All the other men watched him lower his pant leg.

  “That hurt as bad as it looks, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “I take pain pills,” Sully said, aware of where the judge was heading. “Some days are pretty good. I get through the others somehow.”

  “What effect do the pills have?”

  “They make me sleepy.”

  “Nervous? Edgy?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “You wouldn’t blame the fact that you punched this policeman on the medication you’re taking?”

  “No, not really.”

  “The smart answer to that question would have been yes,” the judge pointed out. “Okay, if it wasn’t the pills, why’d you coldcock this policeman?”

  In truth, the answer to that was so complicated that Sully despaired of ever understanding it himself, much less of being able to explain it to an impatient, sick judge. “I don’t know,” he heard himself say. “I was tired, I guess. It’d been a long day.”

  Judge Flatt paused, and Sully wondered if he was expected to go on. When he didn’t, the judge said, “Okay, Mr. Sullivan,” and turned back to Satch Henry and Ollie Quinn. “I can understand tired. I’m tired myself. Sick and tired. That’s why I’m retiring next month. Because I’m sick and tired and unfit for human companionship. Half the time I feel like shooting somebody myself, which means it’s time for me to step down and leave small-town justice to somebody else, and may God have mercy on his soul. Anyhow, I’m going to make a prediction and then a recommendation and then I’m going to leave it to you to decide what you want to do, Satch. If you insist on going to trial, go, but you’ll go before me, and I’ll tell you right now that you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  “Your Honor—” Satch Henry began.

  “Pipe down, Satch, I got the floor here.”

  Satch Henry piped down.

  “Here’s what we got,” Barton Flatt said. “We got Mr. Sullivan here, who did a dumb thing and did it in front of witnesses. There’s a good chance you could get a conviction, Satch. But Lord love a duck, what a show Mr. Wirfly here could put on. If Mr. Sullivan’s got a history of pugilism, your officer here’s got a history of his own. Just in the last six months he’s terrorized an old woman over a pizza and let a lunatic with a deer rifle shoot out windows on Main Street, assault a young woman and then walk away from the scene. On that occasion he saw fit to leave his weapon in his holster, but later, with Mr. Sullivan here, he not only takes out his firearm, he actually discharges it and the bullet hits a house a block away. You claim Mr. Sullivan here is a menace, but Mr. Wirfly here’s going to prove there’s two menaces at least. Before this is done, you’re going to look like God’s own fool, Satch, and Ollie’s going to look like a fool, and your police officer, who is a fool, is going to look like one too. And unless Mr. Wirfly’s a fool, he’s going to file a countersuit against the police department and city that will make headlines for months in the Schuyler paper, maybe even Albany, not that it will matter to you, Satch, because you’ll be out of office come next November. Don’t set this thing in motion, that’s my recommendation. Settle it here and now and in this room, not that on
e out there.”

  “Your Honor—” Satch Henry tried again, the judge’s voice having fallen.

  “Nope,” the judge shook his head, holding up one hand. “I still got the floor. It’s still mine. And you’re going to listen another minute yet. I’ve told you what’s going to happen, and now I’m going to tell you how to avoid it. I’ve got a half-dozen sensible recommendations, and the first is that we now send Mr. Sullivan and Officer Raymer out, because I don’t think their presence is necessary from this point forward. In fact, Mr. Sullivan’s pacing is getting to me too, and I’ve never much liked the look of policemen in sunglasses.” He turned now to Sully and Officer Raymer, looking back and forth between them dubiously. “If we ask you to step outside, gentlemen, do you think you’d be capable of refraining from further hostilities? I want you to be honest about this, because I can provide you a chaperon if you have any doubts.”