“Give!”
“I’m human today, for the first time,” I say, feeling the warm, dirty wrinkle of the bill in my hands.
SEVENTEEN
They were having a parade. They were naked in the middle of the street. The banners they had were bright and up in the air, not down around their waists like they would be in a painting. He saw them, the strong, hairy, hard man bodies and the smiles. He chanted with them.
The East Village, they called it. East because it was like Eden, and Village because it was a primal place where people go around without clothes. He pulled off his clothes and followed with the others and went home with one of them and had sex with him and stabbed him and cut off his head and hands.
“I call now to the stand,” Lynda Barnett announced,
“Peter J Dance, brother to the accused.”
The rumble that went through the crowd had the sweeping momentum of a wave. Azra sat up with the rest of the people and shifted in his seat to get a better look at the man walking down the center aisle. He was tall and lean, with Azra’s build. Older by perhaps eight years, Peter Dance had a flat ring of black hair laurel-like around his head, and a shiny bald top. His eyes were haunted, his feet lagged behind him, and between slightly parted lips showed a row of stumpy teeth. His clothes hung on him as if he were a hanger instead of a man.
“I object, Your Honor,” said District Attorney Franklin, standing. “This witness was not on the defense’s list.”
Azra nodded in agreement.
“Your Honor,” Barnett explained, “I was unaware of this witness until late yesterday. The status of my client as an amnesiac leaves a great deal of doubt about his past. It has been a long, difficult process investigating that.”
“But, Your Honor, if this witness appeared just yesterday, how can Counselor Barnett be sure of his identity?”
“Counselor Barnett, you will provide the court with documentation as to the identity of this witness.”
Lynda Barnett nodded. Her head was bowed in thought behind her briefcase. The gold and green embroidery of her vest reflected sunlight beneath her chin, nostrils, and brows. It looked as if she were staring down into a treasure trove. She produced a folder of papers and approached the bench. “I would like to enter into the record these copies of Mr Dance’s identification. This packet includes, among other things, two birth certificates issued from Fort Atkinson Memorial Hospital, one for Peter James Dance in 1964 and another for his brother, William Bruce Dance in 1972, to the same parents.”
The judge received the documents and slipped on her reading glasses. She perused them, running her thumb over the embossed seals. Lips pursed, she said, “I’ll rule these admissible. Bailiff, please designate these Items 138 and 139 and enter them into evidence. I will review the rest of this packet later. On the basis of this evidence, I will allow Peter Dance’s testimony,” said the judge above her crescent-shaped reading glasses. Counselor Franklin said, “Your honor, I have had no time to prepare for this witness.”
“You can cross-examine on Monday. In the meantime, Mr Dance, will you please take the stand.”
Peter Dance took his place on the witness stand.
“For the record of the court, please state your full name,” said the bailiff.
“Peter James Dance,” said the man in quiet nervousness, adding afterward, “esquire.”
Judge Devlin quirked an eyebrow. “You’re a lawyer?”
“Um – no, ma’am.”
During the resultant ripple of amusement, the bailiff swore him in.
“Counselor, proceed with your questioning.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Barnett, beginning to pace. “Mr Dance. Mr Peter Dance, how old were you when you last saw your brother?”
The man blinked in thought, cleared his throat, and said, “Twenty-five, when Billy was seventeen.”
Azra watched the man like a hawk. Donna clutched his arm.
“So, you are eight years older?”
“Objection. Leading.”
“It’s simple mathematics.”
“Overruled.”
Barnett continued. “And how old are you now?”
“Forty-four.” The man gestured toward the defense table. “So you must be thirty-six, Billy.”
The public defender pressed. “And what had happened to Billy at seventeen?”
“Don’t know. He disappeared. Billy’d always been a problem. He didn’t live with us – with me and our stepdad – but in the boys’ school. Dad would bring him home sometimes, but not much. Then, at seventeen, Billy disappeared from Boys Town. Dad said he ran off and would be back. His friends said he’d been talking about joining the circus. I thought he was dead.”
“Why did you think he was dead?”
“He’d almost got killed five or six times before then. Our stepdad used to beat us pretty bad – Billy especially. He did more wrong than I ever did. Dad said Billy’d never live to graduate high school. Guess you showed him, huh, Billy?”
Judge Devlin said, “Will the witness please address his comments only to the counselor asking the questions?”
“Sorry, Judge,” Peter Dance replied, hanging his head. Then he looked up, wide eyes fixed on Linda Barnett. “I mean, uh, please tell the judge I’m sorry.”
Linda nodded, smiling despite herself. “You said ‘Billy did more wrong’ than you did. What kind of ‘wrong’ things did Billy do?”
“He was a little fag. That’s what Dad called him. Little Faggot.”
“Tell us about your stepfather,” Barnett said.
“Objection. What’s the relevance?”
“I’m attempting to establish Billy’s motives for running away.”
“Objection overruled. Continue, Counselor.”
“I still object. The question is vague.”
“I’ll restate. What did your stepfather do for a living?”
“He’d been a mechanic. Worked at J and C Garage. He called it Jesus Christ Garage.”
“Was he working there when Billy disappeared?”
“No. He’d been laid off three years. There was food stamps and public aid for a while, and he worked odd jobs. He used to beat us a lot then. Before, he wasn’t home so much and didn’t beat us so much. But he never beat us on Friday or Saturday nights, except on our feet. He didn’t want us to show bruises for Sunday.”
“When did your stepfather start calling Billy the Little Faggot?”
“After Dad got into the Klan.”
Through the hushed gasp from the spectators, Barnett continued. “When did he get involved with the Klan?”
“When I was twenty-two, so Billy must have been fourteen. That was just after he caught Billy sexing David Bergmeyer from up on the pavement. Fags and Jews. He beat both of them. The Bergmeyers tried to sue, but he burned them out. That was what got him in the Klan.”
“Did your stepfather have any other nicknames for Billy?”
“He used to call him, ‘Little Killer,’ or the ‘Little Motherfucker.’”
“Why?”
“Because he’d fucked up our mother. That’s why we were orphaned. Billy killed her by being born.”
“You said something about Billy joining the circus?”
“Well, yeah, the circus. But I knew what Billy really meant. He was talking about the service. I’d been in for two years, and Billy always said he wanted to go. He liked guns and stuff, and he said he wanted to join the Marines because it would be like being in the circus, only you got to shoot people.”
“So Billy joined the Marines at eighteen?”
“Right. That’s what we found out later, when he was twenty. We got this postcard from Baghdad.”
“So, he fought in the first Gulf War?”
“Objection. Leading.”
“Overruled.”
“Yeah – the good one. Desert Storm. He fought in that one is what the postcard said. The one and only postcard. We didn’t hear then for a year, and I tried to find out where he was stationed, but by then the Marines said they didn’t have no record of him.”
“Why didn’t they have any record?”
“Objection. How can the witness speculate about the reason the Marines didn’t have records?”