Montgomery Paisley is fastening the clasp ofhis enormous old briefcase;
he looks as ifhe’s carrying the folders for every case he’s ever tried.He hoists it up and, with his free arm, gestures gallantly for Daniel to go first.
Judge Hoffstetter’s chambers are really just one room, which he has turned into the Judge Hoffstetter Historical Museum, with pictures of himself on every wall, depicting the highlights ofhis life, from high school baseball, to his induction into the state police, to his marriage to Sally Manzardo and their fifteenth wedding anniversary in Barbados, to his late-in-life graduation from Fordham Law School and becoming a county judge.
Hoffstetter sits heavily behind his desk, opens the top drawer and pulls out a cigarette and a little battery-operated fan, to dispel the smoke.
“You’ve got no case, Mr.Emerson,”he says.
”Do you mind ifI sit?”says Paisley.
”You do whatever you want, Monty.You’re walking out ofhere a winner.”
“That’s highly improper, Your Honor,”Daniel says.
”Counselor, Mr.Paisley has three statements from Leyden Hospital emergency room staff, all ofthem stating that when your client came in after having suffered a head injury in front ofSchmidt’s house she was drunk as a skunk.”
This is not the first time Daniel is hearing this.The whole thrust of his case is to dispel the allegations ofStefanelli’s drunkenness.
“Your Honor, the salient fact ofthis case is not my client’s score on a Breathalyzer test, or the alcohol level in her bloodstream—though no such tests were given to her and the allegations ofher being under the influence ofalcohol are completely without proof.The salient fact is that Mr.Schmidt failed—and, in fact, refused—to remove the snow and ice in front ofhis house, thereby creating a hazard.Anyone could have fallen on that treacherous piece ofpavement.”
“But no one did, Daniel,”Hoffstetter says, smiling.“No one but your booze hound ofa client.”
“Your Honor, I really must object—”
“Don’t bother.”Hoffstetter sighs, shakes his head, and continues.“I must say, Mr.Emerson, I never thought I’d see you in my court arguing a case ofsuch little merit.Why did you go to the trouble ofgetting such a prestigious education ifall you’re going to do is practice law ofthe lowest common denominator?”
Is that what this is going to be about?wonders Daniel.That I went to Co-
lumbia and Hoffstetter did law at proletarian Fordham?Yet there is something weirdly sincere in the judge’s question and it finds its way through Daniel’s customary defenses.He is capable offeeling a bit ofchagrin over some ofthe cases he handles, though, frankly, Lulu Stefanelli’s fall is, he thinks, a decent case, unlike a couple ofthe divorces he’s worked on, or the estate work he’s done for a few ofthe local pashas.
Yet, like many lawyers, Daniel looks back at his beginnings and feels that he has fallen more than a little short ofhis initial goals.In law school, Daniel envisioned himself practicing some kind ofpublic service law, though exactly what kind constantly shifted.Children’s rights.Civil rights.
Environmental law.Something that could make the world a little better.
And in order to practice that sort oflaw he had to be in a major city, New York, Washington.His first job out oflaw school was with the doomed Lawyers’Immigrant Defense Society, which lost its funding six months later.From there he went to a private law firm, with its share ofcorporate clients but with a reputation for doing interesting pro bono work—one of the partners had a son in prison in Malaysia on trumped-up drug charges and it resulted in the inflammation ofthe entire firm’s conscience.
“My client deserves some consideration here, Your Honor,”Daniel says softly, indicating with his tone that he’s ready to deal.Lulu would be happy with Schmidt’s insurance company covering her emergency room bills and maybe coming up with ten or fifteen grand for her pain and suffering.
“All this for a few measly bucks?”Hoffstetter shakes his head.“How the mighty have fallen.”
Paisley speaks from the depths ofhis chair.“We’re willing to pay her initial medical costs, Judge.”
“Let’s not encourage her, Monty.She’ll be throwing herselfin front ofcars and diving into empty swimming pools ifwe go along with her little scheme here.”
“Your Honor—”
“Mr.Emerson, I really did expect better things from you.”
But Daniel persists.He knows he’s getting whipsawed by Paisley and Hoffstetter, but in a few minutes he’s able to go back to the courtroom and tell Rebecca Stefanelli that the other side is willing to settle for med-ical expenses plus ten thousand dollars, and she is so thrilled that she hugs him excitedly and kisses him first on the ear and then on the eye.And a few minutes after that, he’s in his car, driving through a cold, pelting rain, on his way north to Leyden, for his next appointment.The mountains on the west side ofthe river are obscured by mist.A stiffwind comes from the northwest;the trees barely sway, they just bend and stay that way.
Daniel is on his way to his office, where he needs to gather some papers before going to his next appointment.He stops at a gas station a couple miles outside ofLeyden.It’s an Exxon station that used to be run by the father ofone ofDaniel’s boyhood friends and is now owned by a couple ofEgyptian brothers.He pumps a tank ofgas into his car and then goes in to get a cup ofcoffee and a shrink-wrapped bagel.The rain lashes the windows ofthe station.There is a display ofheavily scented carved wooden red roses, drenched in some artificial, vaguely roselike scent; the smell mingles with the smells ofthe coffee machine, the wax on the linoleum floor, and the residual aroma ofgasoline.Both ofthe brothers are behind the counter, heavy men in their thirties, with rough skin, dark, wavy hair, and short-sleeved shirts.
Even when his friend’s father owned this station, it was one ofthe few spots in the area where boys and men could find pornographic magazines.
In the past, the magazines had names likeChic,andCheri.Now, the mag-azines are not only more numerous, but their names are more overt, even a little nutty.Juggs,andBeaver,are next toAss TimeandPink andTight.And though there are precious few black people who live in Leyden, this store stocks a wide range ofAfrican-American porn magazines.
Daniel has been eyeing the black porn covers for quite some time, though he has yet to muster the courage to even browse through what’s inside.But today, after getting his coffee and choosing his bagel, he saun-ters over to the magazine rack.He imagines the Egyptians will be watch-ing him, but it’s something he can live with.
Big Black Butt, Brown Sugar, Black Booty…There is something about the stridency ofthese titles that strikes a reluctantly responsive chord in Daniel.He picks up one ofthe more benign titles—Sugar Mama—and opens it up.
He has never slept with a black woman, never seen a black woman undressed.In high school in the hills ofNew Hampshire, he had a crush on a black girl named Carol Johns.They kissed, she pressed her hand against the fly ofhis jeans.But when he tried to touch her breasts, she moved away and said,“Uh-uh,”and then the next day her brother, an am-bitious, bespectacled kid in a blazer, hit Daniel full force in the back of the head with his algebra book.
The women inside the magazine havenoms de porn,like Afreaka, Supremacy, Kenya, and Downtown Sugar Brown.Afreaka is photographed pulling herselfopen like someone showing an empty wallet.Downtown Sugar Brown has shaved, moist armpit skin that looks like cracked leather, long aqua fingernails, and a barbered crotch greased along the labia.She has hardworking hands, with dark, bunched skin at the knuck-les, a faded butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, long, pendulous breasts, with lusterless coronas.The stretch marks around her hips are like fork marks in brown butter.Daniel feels vaguely sick, reduced, helpless, yet in communion with some reptile selfthat has been waiting for him.He turns the page and Downtown Sugar Brown is joined by another woman—Cydney.They are on their hands and knees on an unmade bed, their long tongues touching.