“Okay, George. I’m sorry you can’t make it. Thanks for calling.”
“See you soon,” Talbot said, and he hung up.
Hank replaced the receiver on its cradle. “Who else did you invite?” he asked.
“The Cronins.”
“They haven’t called yet?”
“No.”
“Think they will?”
“I don’t know.”
He went to her and took her in his arms. “Are you angry?”
“No. Just a little sad. I rather liked this neighborhood.”
“Stop talking as if we have to move out tomorrow.”
“That isn’t what I meant. I didn’t think the people here...” She shook her head. “Is it wrong for a man to do his job the way he feels it should be done?”
“I always felt that was the only way to do a job,” Hank said.
“Yes.” Karin paused. “So the hell with them. I’m selfish enough to want Abe’s company all to ourselves, anyway.”
“Sure,” Hank said, and he smiled.
“Only it makes me wonder. If these high-minded citizens of Inwood, these pillars of the community, these people who are shaping thought — if these people can behave this way, can we expect any more from the kids living in Harlem? Maybe there doesn’t have to be a reason, Hank. Maybe people would much rather hate than love.”
“I doubt it,” he said, and he smiled again. “I’d much rather love, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re a sex fiend,” she said. “One day you’ll be exposed and locked up for the rest of your natural life.”
The telephone rang.
“That’s the Cronins,” Hank said. “That should make it unanimous. We now know that everyone on the street thinks we should bury Morrez in a hurry and forget all about him. And maybe we should put up a statue in the park to the three kids who killed him. Do you want to answer it, or shall I?”
“I’ll take it,” Karin said.
“Bury Morrez before he begins to stink. Pat the young killers on the back and say, ‘A job well done, lads.’ And thereby win the acclaim of McNalley and Pierce and all the pure-white Protestants in the neighborhood.”
“The Cronins are Catholics,” Karin said. “You’re beginning to sound like McNalley.”
“I was using a figure of speech,” Hank said.
Karin lifted the receiver. “Hello?” she said. She listened for a moment and then, still listening, she nodded knowingly at Hank.
Nine
Judge Abraham Samalson sat in the outdoor slate patio of the Bell house in Inwood, a brandy snifter of cognac in his delicate hands. The sky to the west was peppered with stars, and the judge tilted his bald head and examined the heavens, and all the while he rolled the glass of cognac in his thin hands, and occasionally he sniffed at the bouquet, and occasionally he drank. Music came from the hi-fi setup inside the house, oozing onto the patio, where Karin had planted a wild array of summer-blooming flowers that formed the flanking walls of the terrace. The open side of the terrace faced the river and the New Jersey cliffs on the opposite shore.
“That was a nice job Barton did on you in the newspapers, Hank,” Samalson said.
“Oh, very nice,” Hank agreed.
“I think it’ll work in reverse for you. It makes you sound very dashing and romantic. Who is there in the entire city of New York who hasn’t longed to lift the skirts of an Irish lass? Not that I believe a word of the story’s implications. But it serves to illustrate the dangers of incompetent composition. Barton starts out to kill you, and what does he achieve? He creates a romantic figure.”
“I didn’t think the story was so romantic,” Hank said.
“You’re too sensitive. The Mike Bartons of America are people to laugh at, not to hate. Give Barton a trench coat and a juicy piece of gossip and he’s happy. He can play at being a reporter.”
“I think he’s a dangerous man,” Hank said.
“Only if we take him seriously. If we laugh at him, the danger is immediately dissipated.”
“I wish I could agree with you, Abe,” Hank said.
“You never did agree with me, so I see no reason for you to begin now. You were the most argumentative student I ever had in any of my classes, and I taught law for fourteen years. I might add, in the fairness becoming my role as a magistrate, that you were also the most promising student I ever had.”
“Thank you.”
“I think I can safely say, in fact, that in the fourteen years I taught law I had only six students who I thought should be lawyers. The rest should have been shoe clerks.” Samalson paused. “Or is that a prejudiced statement?”
“A bit snobbish perhaps, but...”
“I’m referring to Danny Di Pace’s father. He runs a shoe store, doesn’t he?”
“Oh. Yes.”
“What sort of a person is he?”
“I’ve never met him.”
“He must be — Well, forget it.”
“What were you going to say?”
“Only that delinquency doesn’t simply spring from the soil. If a kid turns bad, chances are nine out of ten you’ll find some sort of trouble with the parents.”
“So what do we do? Prosecute the parents instead of the kids?”
“I don’t know what we do, Hank. The law makes no provision for the allocation of blame. If three men conspire together to commit a murder and only one of them actually pulls the trigger of the gun, the three are nonetheless tried for acting in concert. On the other hand, if parents, through neglect or overindulgence, or just plain indifference, produce a boy who stabs another boy, the parents are not considered the lawbreakers. But have they not, in all fairness, contributed to the crime? Weren’t they, too, acting in concert?”
“You’re saying we should arrest the parents, too?”
“I’m saying nothing of the sort, and I won’t have you pulling any of your trick shyster-lawyer questions on me.” Samalson chuckled. “I’m simply asking a question. Where does the blame begin? And where does it end?”
“That’s the big question, Abe. Answer that one, and you can start your own TV quiz show.”
“I get that question every day in my courtroom. And every day I make my decision, and I pass my sentence as specified by law, the punishment to fit the crime. But sometimes I wonder about justice.”
“You? Abe, you don’t!”
“Ah, but I do, and this is strictly out of school and if you ever repeat it to a goddamn soul, I’ll tell the newspapers that you once prepared a theoretical defense of the Sacco-Vanzetti case.”
“He never forgets a thing, Karin,” Hank said. “He’s got a mind like a blotter.”
“Spongy and blue,” Samalson said.
“I’m interested to know why you doubt justice,” Karin said.
“I didn’t say I doubted it, I said I wondered about it.” He turned to Hank. “Are you training her to be a shyster, too?”
“She’s the best damn lawyer in New York,” Hank said. “You should hear some of our arguments.”
“Well, how do you wonder about it?” Karin persisted.
“Look at her,” Samalson said. “Like a terrier with a bone, anxious to start gnawing at it. I wonder about justice, my dear, because I’m not sure I’ve ever dispensed real justice in my courtroom.”
“And just what is real justice?”
“Real justice is nonexistent,” Samalson said. “Is retribution justice? Is there justice in the Bible’s eye for an eye? I doubt it.”
“Then where is there justice?” Hank asked.
“To be just is to be actuated by truth and lack of bias, to be equitable and evenhanded. There is no such thing as justice.”
“Why not?”
“Because men administer justice. And there is no such thing as a truthful, equitable, evenhanded, unprejudiced man.”