by Liam Durcan
This was a bias, and it was likely wrong, but it was based in part on the fact that in the two minutes Patrick had known him, Lindbergh succeeded in giving off an aura of a man perpetually trying to stifle a yawn. His lips were drawn, barely meeting to keep his teeth hidden. At first Patrick had to consider whether Lindbergh was grimacing, if the chief counsel was in terrible pain.
Lindbergh’s office was larger than Marcello’s, or so it seemed, although Lindbergh moved with an economy that could create a false impression. Patrick searched the office for something of scale, a bookcase or a window, and these elements seemed similar to those in Marcello’s office. He was becoming too familiar with these offices.
Patrick knew Elyse had probably interviewed Lindbergh in the course of researching her latest article. The climax, really, of her story. And although he didn’t seem like the sort of person who could carry the story, maybe Elyse had found something fascinating about Lindbergh, a childhood trauma or personal tragedy, a thin wedge of personality she’d use to split open the story. More likely, she had gathered a hundred factoids about the man, which she would scatter throughout the feature to flesh out the barrister as she went along.
“Firstly, welcome to Den Haag, Dr. Lazerenko,” Lindbergh said, his hands folded on a tidy desk. “Mr. McKenzie, my associate, should be here any moment. He has asked to sit in on the meeting. I hope you don’t mind.” Patrick was shaking his head just as the door opened behind him. Lindbergh stood and Patrick pushed himself out of his chair. “James, this is Dr. Patrick Lazerenko,” Lindbergh said and swept a hand toward Patrick. By the time Patrick had got to his feet, McKenzie was already in his face, a snapping-turtle handshake making the violation of personal space complete. McKenzie was tall and athletic-looking, probably the type who enjoyed regularly beating people at games of squash.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Patrick. Elyse Brenman has told me a lot about you,” McKenzie said and sat down in the chair next to Patrick, across the desk from Lindbergh. Ah-layze. He spoke with an accent that Patrick guessed came from South Africa or New Zealand. Just the mention of Elyse and McKenzie’s wide, almost lurid grin led Patrick to consider that he was the person who’d taken that picture of Elyse on the sailboat. This epiphany discouraged Patrick and started a parade of other mysterious and equally unpalatable mental states, jealousy for whatever sort of relationship this man had with Elyse, embarrassment for being jealous, outrage at himself and amazement for concocting all of this out of nothing, all in the moment it took to shake hands.
“What happened to your face?”
“I was assaulted.”
“Here, at the tribunal?” McKenzie asked, flatly enough to make it sound not without precedent.
“No. Outside. I was mugged.” McKenzie winced in commiseration.
“I like your work,” McKenzie said, and Patrick dreaded having to smirk his way through another tired recounting of the “porno studies” before McKenzie and Lindbergh got down to whatever good lawyer/bad lawyer shtick they had planned. But then he fired an aside at Lindbergh. “Dr. Lazerenko once delivered a paper called ‘The Neural Basis of Utilitarianism.’ Very interesting. But that was the last of his publications,” McKenzie continued, talking to Lindbergh in a way Patrick understood to be staged. “After that, our friend left academia and went to work for the dark side.”
“I moved on,” Patrick added.
“You sued your department.”
“I had to. To be able to pursue my own research.”
McKenzie smiled in a way that reminded Patrick of nature programs. Stalking calm. “They were preventing you in some way?”
“Departmental politics can be complicated.”
“Is that why you were suspended?”
“That was appealed and overturned.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then why did you ask why I was suspended?”
“I know the details, but the context can be different.” There was a pause as McKenzie surveyed him. “Has Mr. di Costini spoken with you?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask about what?”
“Don’t you have to disclose evidence to each other?”
“If the contents of those discussions aren’t going to be used as evidence, no. And Mr. di Costini hasn’t declared.”
“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.”
Lindbergh stepped into the fray. “Please, this is informal. Not a deposition, even. So please, I suggest we all relax. I should give you some background information, some context, as you say. Mr. McKenzie and I have worked on this dossier for more than four years, and in that time I’ve spoken to many people who’ve known Mr. García de la Cruz, from his time in Honduras and after. I asked you here because I think it is valuable to hear the entire story. It was my understanding that you were not in contact with the Garcías for years, so you can imagine my surprise when you arrived at the proceedings, unannounced. Here is an opportunity I cannot pass up, I said to myself. I must speak with this young man who knew García.”
“I don’t know what I can tell you. I knew him after Honduras.” Patrick frowned. He could have used a glass of water. “I was a teenager. I worked with him for a couple of years. I dated his daughter.”
“And you have a high opinion of him.”
“Hernan is a good man.”
“Yes. Yes. The verb tense is much appreciated. More specifically though, he made an impact on you.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow you.”
“It’s not unusual for such a man to be a role model for an impressionable youngster,” Lindbergh said, never making eye contact, the weight of his gaze like a finger on Patrick’s Adam’s apple. “That’s my point, Dr. Lazerenko, you didn’t become a greengrocer, now, did you? No, you became a physician. And if he mentored you in this way, if he confided in you, admitted certain things, well, those are details the tribunal would naturally be interested in.”
“Hernan never spoke about Honduras, if that’s what you’re asking.”
The fingers on Lindbergh’s right hand made a flicking movement, cleaning invisible crumbs off his desk. “Let us for a moment put aside the facts of the case. I would like to know your opinion. When you worked with him, did you think of him as a doctor?”
“Not really. I knew he’d been a doctor before, though.”
“How did you know that?”
“I heard. I heard things around the store.”
Lindbergh lifted his index finger. “Dr. Lazerenko, we know about the people who came to see him. I suspect you thought of him as a doctor because he thought of himself as a doctor. Doctors are like that,” Lindbergh stage-whispered. “They hold on to that identity. I understand that. That’s ego. He had ego enough to think he could practise medicine. He offered medical counsel, he saw patients in the back room of his store,” Lindbergh said in mock horror. “That isn’t the urge to help. That is more than simple ego. That is a doctor revelling in his power, above all things. We thought you would have some insights into that.”
Not for the first time, Patrick wondered about Aguirre, if the man was still alive, twenty years after that day in the fields. Maybe he’d seen him already and not recognized him among the other witnesses at the tribunal. It occurred to Patrick that Aguirre could have not only witnessed everything that happened that day, but perhaps even seen Patrick watching events unfold. Belatedly, he thought having a lawyer present would have been a good idea. It was seven in the morning in Boston. He looked at his watch and wondered whether someone from the firm Neuronaut retained was available to help him through the nuances of international subpoenas. Marcello had been less than helpful.
“I don’t think I can help you,” Patrick said, summoning what he hoped was a look of helpless disappointment. Patrick felt Lindbergh examining him. He wanted Lindbergh to say something. But instead of words, Lindbergh smiled, his face smooth save for a vertical crease forming on the lower part of his forehead, the smallest fault line on a visage of lawyerly equanim
ity. It disappeared. Patrick stood up: “If you don’t have anything more to ask me, I’d like to go.”
McKenzie and Lindbergh offered their hands. McKenzie softened his grip, and Lindbergh bared his tiny Scandinavian teeth into what Patrick understood to be a smile. The goodbyes were perfectly pleasant and indefinite.
ELEVEN
Patrick left the building again, well aware that his pass to the administrative floors conflicted with his pass to the public galleries of Courtroom One. The guards were amused, and one of them gave him a half-wave as he ceremonially exited and turned around to once again present his passport.
On one of the benches outside the courtroom, Celia and Roberto sat eating sandwiches half-wrapped in foil. The approach to the foyer in front of Courtroom One was from the side, and they didn’t see Patrick as he arrived. Patrick stopped and hung close to the wall and watched them eat for a moment. It was oddly intimate and was beginning to feel a touch voyeuristic when he noticed a third person standing with them, someone he didn’t recognize. The man was dressed in a suit, looking immune to the fatigue that branded family and friends of the trial’s participants. Was he a crank who had recognized the Garcías, insinuating himself with small talk until he had a chance to become a bigger nuisance? Their conversation appeared to be amicable. It occurred to Patrick that this was Celia’s husband, freshly flown in from wherever to lend support. The inevitable comparison to himself ensued; the man was thankfully shorter. He was better dressed and looked confident in his suit. A man for whom wearing an expensive suit was not a special occasion. He was Celia’s husband, though there was nothing intimate about the scene. Seeing them all together made Patrick feel alone. But the man bent to shake Celia’s hand and Roberto’s after that, a series of gestures that seemed to reset all possibilities and gave Patrick a pulse of undiluted glee. The man was an acquaintance. A well-wisher. Patrick waited until the man walked past and down the stairs to the building’s lobby before approaching the Garcías.
Celia reacted first; caught in mid-bite, she raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement. Roberto lifted a hand and kept eating. She turned to her brother and said something that drew a curt response. The only word Patrick heard from her was “Now.” Roberto stood abruptly, extended his hand and mumbled “Sorry” through a mouthful of food. Patrick had shaken quite a few hands already today but he didn’t mind another. It was worth it just to see the family dynamic in action.
“He apologized already,” Patrick said to Celia.
“I heard. A phone message. Very commendable,” Celia said, not hiding her sarcasm from Roberto.
“Did you speak with di Costini?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“We talked about different approaches,” Patrick said, hoping that would be enough. But Celia wanted more. Watching her made him remember the stress of having to speak to the families of seriously ill patients, how they would parse whatever was said for any hint of hope. Hope was then amplified into certainty, which was the weapon they would beat you with when things went wrong. “I don’t think it’s going to help. The work I do is all experimental. I don’t think the court would accept using it even if we could apply it to the case in some way.” Patrick sat down. “It’s just that he’s not saying anything. I mean, all the technology in the world isn’t going to exonerate someone who refuses to defend himself.”
“We can’t make him talk,” Celia said, and at this Roberto snorted in disgust. Celia fixed her brother with a withering glance, a clear warning about breaking rank. Roberto accepted her wordless rebuke without further reaction. More evidence of the apparent re-ordering of authority in the García family, it made Patrick want to change the subject.
“So who was that guy you were talking to?” Patrick asked. Roberto looked away and started eating his sandwich again, apparently happy to cede this duty to Celia.
“Just someone we know.”
Roberto kept his eyes averted. Patrick could hear Celia breathing heavily through her nose.
“That was Caesar Oliveira from the Democratic Voice. They’re a group who’ve been helping us.”
Patrick turned his head to scan the foyer, trying to affect a tone of neutrality. “Di Costini told me about them. I knew they were here, but I didn’t know they were here.”
“Oh, they’re everywhere, Mopito,” Roberto said, just loud enough to be heard. Celia acted as if he’d said nothing.
A few of the tribunal’s regulars congregated in front of Courtroom One’s gallery doors. Though the gallery was never full, they jockeyed to get nearer to the door as the security officer produced his key. The urge built to say something nasty to them, tell them to get a life, but Patrick thought better of it. Celia packed up what was left of lunch and noticed Patrick eyeing the uneaten sandwiches.
“Are you hungry?”
“I haven’t eaten today.”
“Here,” she said, unwrapping one and handing it to him. Roberto got up, saying he was going to find seats.
The sandwich was made with one of those heavy flat “brodts” that did nothing to dispel the rumours that baking with yeast was illegal in some parts of Europe. Trying to chew the bread was like enduring another beating. Patrick passed on the second half.
“Where’s Nina and Paul? Do they ever come to the trial?” Patrick asked, flipping megaton crumbs off his lap.
“They’re at the park,” she said. “There’s no way I’d let Paul see any of this and Nina’s too pissed off to sit through it.”
He wondered again about Paul’s father, where the man was as Celia ate her sandwich and Paul played somewhere in a Dutch city park with his aunt. The father would be here if he was still with her, whoever he was. He’d be here, Patrick thought. I’m here.
Celia stowed the leftovers in a plastic bag. She hadn’t changed in that way, had never been the sort of person to put up a fuss about where she was eating. A proper meal meant only that you sat and ate what you liked with people you liked. A restaurant, a picnic table, a bench somewhere, these were all simply changes in venue. She had been just as undiscerning about the food they’d eaten together. None of it had mattered, which he remembered thinking was unusual at the time, as in other parts of her life–her art or the way she organized the physical space of their apartment–she had definite opinions and was exacting in their pursuit.
They’d eaten hundreds of meals together, surrounded by family or strangers in a cafeteria somewhere. Others, alone. The meals weren’t memorable, and other than the fact that he’d shared them with Celia, he could only remember the physical spaces–the Garcías’ kitchen, the back porch of his mother’s house on Hingston, a balcony over Lorne Crescent. He’d choked once, and remembered the small punch in his throat when a peanut had gone down the wrong way. Celia saved his life with the Heimlich manoeuvre that time, wrapping her arms around him and hoisting with a vigour and effectiveness that impressed him almost as much as the return of oxygen to his lungs. Yes. Of all the food he’d eaten with her, he remembered the peanut. And he didn’t even get to swallow it.
She was gathering the rest of her belongings and getting ready to head inside to a seat with Roberto, a place where Patrick figured he’d not be welcomed by either. But standing there, he felt rumbles of emotion like distant geophysical events. It must have been the concussion and its effects: dis-inhibition, emotional incontinence, lack of self-reference. Don’t cry for christsake. The sight of her putting away the uneaten sandwiches and stuffing her sweater into a bag made him want to tell her to stay. In this nondescript foyer he felt an infantile need to grab her and sit down again. We don’t need to say anything, he thought, just stay here with me. But she readied herself to move. She was going, and every gesture of departure set off tripwires of memory.
It was Hernan and Marta’s twentieth anniversary, and they had decided to take a rare night off, leaving for dinner earlier that evening. Neither Madame Lefebvre nor Jimmy Padopoulos could work that night, so prior to setting off, the Garcías had convene
d with the children in the store and gone through what amounted to a briefing session about how the evening would go: Roberto was in charge, and a babysitter had been arranged for Nina. After closing the store, Celia and Roberto would go home and relieve the babysitter, Mrs. Robitaille from down the street. After that Roberto was free. Celia crossed her arms and groaned at the implication. The phone number of the restaurant was tacked to the board behind the counter. With that, the Garcías had escaped, smiling madly at the thought of their liberation.
Roberto lasted an hour before he announced he was leaving. He had a new girl and was in his Outremont phase now–methodically working his way through the districts of his new city like a census taker with only one question on his mind–and that night he had a party to go to. Celia threatened to call the restaurant, and even Patrick recognized the futility in the gesture. Roberto smiled and walked out as she held the phone receiver poised by her ear. He wasn’t stopping. Still, she put the phone down only when he was out of sight.
Usually Patrick would have gone home at nine, but he stayed that night until Le Dépanneur Mondial closed. He was bored, his parents were only coming back at the end of the week, and he had nowhere in particular to go. The thought of an evening with Celia, even with her mood soured with anger at her brother, was still promising.
Less than a week had passed since they’d spent that afternoon together with Hernan at the migrant workers’ dormitory, and in that time, neither of them had spoken of it. It was understandable for Celia, he reasoned–the visits bored her and she had been visibly angry at her father. But it was different for him. He had arrived home stunned from all that he had seen, fully expecting he would have nightmares, the terror of the sick man’s moment of death replayed endlessly. But he had awoken the next morning after a night of sound sleep with an unquestionable sense of well-being. Eventually, he understood that he didn’t feel this way in spite of what he’d been through, but because of it. That day with Hernan–tending to the workers, watching him argue with Aguirre so that the food they brought would be accepted–had been an immersion in the adult world. His first real test. Hernan had trusted him enough to bring him along, and when Hernan had tended to a dying man, he’d seen that. Patrick had been there and seen a man die. A body completely still, one arm hanging off the edge of the cot. That initial sense of shock at what he’d seen became something else; it was the wisdom of life and death. And Hernan had allowed it to happen. And now, Patrick walked the aisles of Le Dépanneur Mondial a different person, a man really, revelling in the glow of the newly initiated.
