Street Legal

by William Deverell

  But Leon hoped he might not have to ask for his continuance. He looked over to where his prosecutor, Genevieve Flagg, was fiddling nervously with her sleeve buttons. The arresting officers were on the phones, trying to make contact with the police van that was supposed to be bringing Johnson in for trial. Flagg’s witnesses were all prepped and ready. It was nearing half past eleven. And no accused.

  It was she, now, who was seeking his consent to an adjournment. Maybe, Leon told her. But let’s wait and see.

  The judge, tiring of his sport with the fraud-case prosecutor, ordered a break. “When we return we will empanel the jury. Mr. Robinovitch, you are counsel on the next case?”

  He rose. “I am, my lord.”

  “And you are ready to proceed?”

  Leon hesitated for only a moment, then took the leap. “Yes, sir.”

  Flagg looked at him with her mouth open, and jumped up. “My lord, I . . .”

  “Yes, Miss Flagg?”

  “Well, there may be some problem locating the accused.”

  “I thought he was in custody.”

  “He is. He doesn’t seem to be at the Toronto Jail.”

  “Then it’s your problem, isn’t it? It’s not Mr. Robinovitch’s. It’s not mine. It’s your problem. And if you knew there was going to be a problem you should have told me. We have citizens waiting. Adjourn until eleven-forty.”

  They all filed from the courtroom. Leon tried to avoid Flagg, but she came flying at him. “You told me you hadn’t even seen this client.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t exist.”

  “Judge won’t dismiss the case, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

  “You don’t know Elliot Packer.”

  At eleven-forty, still no accused. Judge Packer glared at the empty dock, then barked to his clerk: “Call the case.”

  “Her Majesty the Queen against Blaine Johnson.”

  “Miss Flagg, you are appearing for the Crown?”

  “I am, but —”

  “And Mr. Robinovitch, you are here for the non-existent accused?”

  “My lord,” said Flagg. “I am seeking an adjournment until this afternoon.”

  “Perhaps you might advise your employer that these courts are in crisis, Miss Flagg. I have a schedule that would tax the patience of the saints. Now you want me to waste a whole day because of some administrative blunder —”

  Just then there was a rattle behind the door leading to the dock, and it was flung open by two florid, puffing court officers, who dragged in a reluctant young man in handcuffs, pale and shaking. A punk, sporting what they call a rooster-tail, but he had no stiffener in it, and the red hair was losing its dye, flopping onto his scrubby scalp.

  “The Crown is ready to proceed,” said Flagg, giving Leon a secret, triumphant look. Leon guessed she hadn’t looked very hard at those mug shots of the accused. Fifteen years older than this fellow.

  “You are Johnson?” said the judge.

  “Hey, man, is this all part of the nightmare? ’cause if it is, don’t wake me up, I wanna see how it ends, man.”

  “Mr. Johnson!” the judge roared.

  “I’m gonna talk, ’cause it’s my own nightmare and I get to do what I want in it. Bring on the jury, man, let’s get going. Sentence first, verdict after, like in Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Mr. Robinovitch, will you get your client under control?”

  “You mean I got a lawyer? Hey, man, am I glad to see you.”

  Leon, not sure what was really going on here, decided to play this one by ear.

  Johnson, if that’s who he was, kept ranting. “They shipped me up to some godforsaken hole way up north, found out I was the wrong guy, and now they say I got a jury trial today on rape. The only thing I ever raped was my own dink, man, gently by hand. Like this is total bizarro.”

  Packer had gone apoplectic. “That man is in contempt!”

  Leon was beside the accused now. “Shut up,” he ordered.

  Blair Johnstone lowered his voice. “Where’d you come from, man?”

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “I got popped with some joints in my pocket. What I want to know, is this some kind of drug-deterrence program? ’Cause if it is, I wanna meet the guy who devised it, he’s a genius.”

  “Mr. Robinovitch, I don’t permit chats with clients in my court. Just get him under control.”

  By now, the two Metro officers running this case had come into the courtroom and were talking urgently with Genevieve Flagg. Her expression turned suddenly into one of dismay.

  “My lord, I think we have the wrong man.”

  Judge Packer turned so still that Leon wondered if he’d died on the spot. Then he seemed to sag, as if a burden had descended upon him, the heavy weight of his long years on the bench.

  “And what is this gentleman charged with?” he asked in a voice so faint Leon had to strain for it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Half a gram of smoke, man. I’m guilty. Shoot me.”

  “Shut up,” Leon warned him again.

  But he didn’t relent, pleaded loudly: “Hey, judge, man, you can’t do nothin’ worse to me than I been through. I been in the joint for two weeks. I share a cell with a guy called Bung-Hole Bertrand.”

  “Get your client under control,” Packer hissed.

  “He’s not exactly my client,” said Leon.

  “My lord, can we, ah, regroup?” Flagg said tentatively.

  “This is an abomination. An utter muddle! Both counsel, I want you in my chambers. Now!” Packer had risen, and was shouting. “This court is adjourned!”

  “Hey, man, what about me?”

  Packer was leaving but stopped in mid-stride.

  “You’re going back where you came from.” And he walked out.

  The court officers grabbed the man in the dock and started hauling him away.

  “You, the lawyer,” he hollered to Leon, “you gotta help me!”

  “Okay, don’t worry. I’ll be down to see you.”

  But during the half-hour it took for Judge Packer’s vitriol to exhaust itself in his chambers, the young man had been spirited away. The Don Jail, the court officers said. Leon would just have to track him down there tomorrow. This afternoon he was dealing with Herbert Orff and Dr. Kiehlmann.

  ***

  Herbert Orff lived in a lonely little house in East Scarborough surrounded by weedy, overgrown lots — probably, thought Leon, a subdivision that had never got off the ground. He assumed there were not many people wanting to live with the constant roar of the 401 Expressway in their ears.

  Leon got out of his car and tramped along a beaten path to the side of the house, a ragged, patched 1950s bungalow — bare plywood and laths where patches of stucco facing had broken off. Urea formaldehyde insulation showing, deadly stuff — probably affected Orff’s brain.

  Other poisons, too. Leon saw two large spray canisters with DDT. Then he saw the swampy area out back: it seemed an ongoing struggle against mosquitoes had been fought here. The yard was strewn with junk-food wrappers.

  Aside from incessant consumption of Fritos and Cheesies, how did the man pass his leisure time? No automobile — Orff was a user of public transit. He obviously had some money salted away — ten years holding down a union job, and he seemed to live on the cheap.

  Orff came out before Leon could knock. He didn’t seem to want to invite his lawyer in, though Leon was curious. Whatever was inside was obscured by frilly curtains on the windows. Dainty muslin trim, odd for a bachelor. Or in his case, several of them.

  “Mr. Blumberg wouldn’t let me have another day off. I had to change shifts and go on early sewer backups. He called me a schtoonk. I don’t know what that means. He also called me a tutti-frutti
, and I can guess at that. Ever since he heard about my case in court he’s really been giving it to me.”

  “I’m going to see if I can’t do something about that, Herbert.” He escorted him to his heap, his ’71 Chevy. “I’ll have a talk with your union.”

  “They don’t like me either.”

  “They don’t have to like you, Herbert.” Leon, seeking co-operation, was determined to be pleasant. “How did you get along with Dr. Kiehlmann yesterday?”

  “Okay, I guess. I still can’t understand why this is important. I hope I don’t have to take any written tests. I’m not very good at them.”

  As Leon held the car door for him, he noticed a bandage on the fleshy part of his hand, between thumb and forefinger.

  “Did you get in a fight with somebody?”

  “I think I cut myself.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Maybe I was sleepwalking. It’s something I do. It’s my typing hand, it’s really hard to work.”

  Easy access to the 401 meant they made it in jig time to inner Toronto, into the sprawl of the U of T campus, where Kiehlmann taught and worked. All the way, while working through a bag of corn chips, Orff read snippets aloud from his latest copy of The Simple Truth, the newsletter he subscribed to.

  “This one’s about the foreign immigrants, how they’re imposing their customs on us.” Then later, “Here’s an article on how they use subminimal messages on TV.”

  Leon recalled: this character believes television is part of the international plot — but didn’t he see a TV aerial on top of that little house? But maybe Hymie watches the tube.

  They met Hal Kiehlmann in his office. The psychiatrist led them to a small observation clinic in the health centre, where he gave Orff some of the dreaded tests to fill out — the Standard Weschler and a personality quiz.

  In a room adjoining, they drank coffee and watched through a heavy-pane window as Orff struggled with his answers at a small desk.

  “Any ideas on how Mr. Orff took on these extra personalities?” Leon asked.

  “It’s often a strategy for coping with childhood abuse. A person sets up a defence mechanism, using techniques of what we call dissociation and conversion. Bluntly, the guy probably couldn’t deal with his past, never mind his present, so he sought escape into a personality with better coping skills. Basically, he despises himself.”

  Orff seemed hung up on an answer, started sucking the end of his pencil, and Leon could see the psychiatrist was becoming impatient. Finally, Kiehlmann returned to him. Leon could hear the conversation through an open intercom system.

  “Why don’t you relax over there?” Kiehlmann pointed to a couch. “More comfortable.”

  Orff rested his big bottom tentatively on the couch and Kiehlmann took a chair beside him. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve had headaches. Ever since the last time.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t get you something for them.”

  “Mr. Blumberg doesn’t like it when I change shifts. It’s going to affect my next job performance review. Did you read A Thousand Lies Exposed?”

  “Ah, yes, very interesting.”

  “Then you understand what I am up against. They’re trying to silence me. That is what this court charge is all about.”

  “Who is they, exactly?”

  He said peevishly: “It’s all in the book if you’d read it. The power elite. The Jews. The lawyers.”

  “But you have a lawyer.”

  “We need some on our side. After we win, there will be no lawyers. They will be given useful work to do.”

  “That injury to your hand — how did you get it?”

  “I don’t know, I think I went out . . .” Words faded. He scratched his head.

  “Do you mean you left your house?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Tell me, Herbert, do you ever hear voices?”

  “I’m not deaf. I hear your voice.”

  “Do you sometimes hear voices when no one is around?”

  Orff seemed to reflect. “I . . . think so. People. Talking about me.”

  “And who are they?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Okay, Herbert, I want you to relax.”

  Orff hesitated. “There won’t be any tricks?”

  “Lie down, and close your eyes.”

  This was said firmly. Leon observed Orff squinting at Dr. Kiehlmann, whose bearing and military haircut seemed to suggest high rank. After a few more moments of hesitation he stretched out on the couch and shut his eyes.

  “I know what you’re trying to do. You want to hypnotize me. It doesn’t work on me.”

  “Just relax.”

  “I am not going to fall asleep.”

  “Herbert, I want you to help me. I want you to count backwards from five to zero.”

  “I am going to stay awake.”

  “As you start counting, your eyelids are going to get heavy. Very heavy. When you reach zero you will be very relaxed.”

  Orff began. “Five. Four. Three.” He was slowing; the “three” was followed by a yawn.

  “Two. Um, one. Ze—” His head went to one side and his mouth went slack, and Leon heard the soft rasp of a snore.

  “Hymie,” said Kiehlmann, “are you here?”

  No response.

  “Hymie?” Kiehlmann repeated.

  Hymie’s eyes popped open. “Okay, okay, don’t get your shirt in a knot. I’m here.” The tone was insolent, the voice rasping and snide. He sat up and looked around. “I wish that son of a bitch hadn’t brought me here.”

  “What son of a bitch?” said Kiehlmann.

  “Orff. He gives me the creeps.”

  “How does he bring you here, Hymie?”

  “Can’t leave home without him.” He smiled. “That’s a line from a TV commercial.”

  “You watch television?”

  “Oh, yeah, at home. Orff won’t watch TV, though. Thinks it’s destroying his mind.” He chuckled.

  Leon watched all this with amazement.

  “I come out after supper and turn it on, and Orff can’t do dick about it. I come out sometimes at the Waste Management Branch, too, but Mr. Blumberg never notices. I come out when Mr. Blumberg teases Orff. He can’t stand it, but that’s what he gets for being a Nazi scum. I got Jewish blood myself, and I’m with Mr. Blumberg.”

  “Jewish blood?”

  “Can I tell you something in secret?”

  “Secret from whom?”

  “From Orff.”

  “You don’t think I should tell him?”

  “He’d freak out. You see, Doctor, he’s part Jewish, too. His dad was a Hebe. Like me. He went a little bonkers when poor little Herbie was seven and he had to go to this mental home, and his mother was like this fat, scolding German lady — I don’t think she started hating Jews until she married Orff’s dad, but she despised him so much I figure she drove the old guy insane. Anyway, she put Orff in a foster home. None of the relatives wanted him, because he was so screwed up.”

  Hymie leaned closer to the psychiatrist. “But he doesn’t remember this. He doesn’t remember his father was Jewish. And why we can’t tell him is he’d probably kill himself. Good riddance maybe, but what happens to me?”

  “You don’t think highly of Mr. Orff.”

  “He uses me for his own ends. I don’t trust him.”

  “How did Mr. Orff get along with his foster parents?”

  “They were weird, Doc. Like, who else would have this fat nutty kid except the bottom-of-the-barrel foster home. Doesn’t nobody check on them places? Made him dress up like a little girl sometimes. You see Orff, he has this problem with women, can’t stand to be around them. I’d say from what I seen at the office the feeling is mutual.

  “Or he’s
afraid of them?”

  “I don’t know. I like ’em.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, there’s one special girl, Dottie.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s kinda skinny. I keep telling her she should put some meat on. Dottie tells me her problems. I tell her mine. There’s nothin’, you know, real sexual.”

  “Where do you see Dottie?”

  “Oh, she lives with Mrs. Pinkerton. Nice lady. I go visit, oh, maybe five, six times a month.”

  “Where is that?”

  “I don’t wish to involve her.”

  “I see. When were you last with Dottie?”

  “Last night.”

  “Was that when you got that injury to your hand?” Kiehlmann asked.

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Franz.”

  “Franz?”

  “Yeah, he goes out with Dottie, too. But Franz, he’s a shit.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Yah. Dis is Franz.”

  Before anyone had a chance to blink, Orff had assumed his third personality, complete with what seemed a ridiculously put-on German accent.

  “Franz . . . ah, yes, do you know where you are?”

  “In der crazy hospital, mit der lunatics. I hear everything.”

  Kiehlmann cast a somewhat nervous eye towards Leon, and cleared his throat.

  “Well, you’re in a clinic. You know why you’re here?”

  “Yah, Orff, the stupid guy, he bring me here. Mit der son-of-a-bitching Jew lawyer.” His face became daubed with the colours of rage. “I hear you talk to Hymie. You vant to hear about Hymie? He is filth! Scum of the earth!” He raised his little fists in the air and brought them down. “Rotten filth! Ve vill destroy!”

  “Franz?”

  A high, almost girlish response: “He doesn’t want to talk to you any more. He has a headache.”

  “Who . . . are you?”

  “I’m Susie.”

  Susie. Kiehlmann drifted another look towards Leon. The guy was swarming with people, a little village. The doctor had hinted he might find other life forms in this weakly integrated personality.