“Just a minute. What kind of trash barrel is that, Chief? It looks like one of those new plastic types.”
“That’s right, Rabbi. It’s a red plastic twenty-gallon barrel with a cover.”
“Full or empty?”
“Oh, it must have been empty, David,” said his wife. “It was Friday.” She explained to Beam that the trash on even-numbered houses is collected Friday morning. “The husbands usually put out the barrels Thursday night and the wives bring in the empties the next morning.”
“The lady is right,” said Lanigan. “The barrel was empty.”
“So what?”
“So there is a difference,” the rabbi began, his voice taking on the impersonal tone of a lecturer. “There is a difference between a full barrel and an empty one, and an even greater difference between a galvanized iron barrel and one made of plastic.”
“Are you going to pull one of those Talmudic tricks of yours, Rabbi? What do you call it, a pil-something?”
“You mean a pilpul? And why not, if it helps us to get at the truth.”
Lanigan grinned. “The Talmud,” he said to Beam, “is the Jewish book of Law. They have a special way of arguing that the rabbi has used on me on occasion. This pilpul, it’s a kind of hair-splitting that-”
“Rather it’s the tracing of a fine distinction,” said the rabbi reprovingly.
“Well, I don’t mind fine distinctions,” said Beam patronizingly. “But what difference does it make whether the barrel is full or empty, or made of galvanized iron or plastic or anything else for that matter?”
“Actually, there are four possibilities.” The rabbi rose from his chair and, thrusting his hands deep in his trouser pockets, began to pace the floor. “The barrel can be of iron and full or empty, and it can be of plastic and full or empty. The first point to consider is the difference between the full one and the empty one. The full barrel is normally heavy and relatively immovable. The empty barrel is light. That is, of course, why men usually take it out onto the sidewalk; while bringing it back empty is something a woman can do because it does not tax her strength. Now, if the barrel were full, then it could indeed be considered a fixed obstruction. A sober man would no more think of driving his car into it than of driving into the wall. But what if the barrel were empty? Then it is comparatively light, and if he struck it with his car no great damage would be done beyond a scratch or two. And the barrel? Even if it were toppled over nothing would spill out. But-” and he held up an admonishing forefinger, “the sober driver would have no problem in either case. He has more than a foot on either side-plenty of room, even for a driver of my caliber. How about the drunken driver, though? Let us admit that he would have trouble”-he paused-“if it were a full barrel. But he knows it is empty-”
“Just a minute,” Beam interrupted, “how does he know that the barrel is empty?”
“Because it was inside the garage, of course. If it were full, it would be outside on the sidewalk where he’d left it the night before. So here we have a man parking his car in a narrow garage. He knows he has to be careful on one side, but on the other there’s only an empty barrel. Even half sober he’d know that subconsciously, and know it really would not constitute an obstruction. Still, he would probably try to avoid it, and his capacity to steer between the two might be some indication of his relative sobriety. But”-and again he held up a forefinger-“this is not a galvanized iron barrel that could be dented if struck by the car fender and that in turn could damage the car. It is a plastic barrel, an empty plastic barrel. When struck, it yields or skitters away.”
Then, as his voice took on a Talmudic singsong, his forefinger made circles in the air in time to the rhythm of his discourse. “Now if a man would not mind hitting a galvanized barrel because he knew it was empty, then al achas cammo v’cammo”-he broke off and smiled. “I’m sorry, I got carried away. That Hebrew phrase, a common one in Talmudic argument means-er-‘how much more.’ How much more, then, would he be likely to disregard an empty plastic barrel.” Turning to Lanigan, he said, “Because you have expressed an interest, that line of reasoning is very common in the Talmud. It is called cal v’chomar, which means ‘light and heavy,’ and consists of showing that if one argument applies, then a stronger argument of the same sort is even more applicable and can be considered proof. Now from our point of view, the empty plastic barrel is no more obstruction than a beach ball. Hirsh could in fact have struck it, and it could very well have caromed off the fender and come to rest in its present position.”
The chief shook his head in admiration. “He’s got you fair and square, Charlie. The fact that it is an empty plastic barrel just about kills your case.”
“Well, I’m a city boy myself and I don’t know about plastic barrels. But that’s not all there is to my argument by a long shot. How about bringing the car right up against the rear wall of the garage? That’s a mighty neat trick for a guy too soused to know enough not to turn off the ignition.”
The chief looked at the rabbi for an answer but he seemed not to have heard. In fact, he seemed to have forgot they were there, for he was leaning back in his chair, his eyes focused on the ceiling.
“What do you say to that, Rabbi?” asked Beam.
The rabbi disregarded the question.
“There is another facet of Talmudic reasoning,” he said, and his voice was withdrawn as though he were talking to himself. “It is the im kain argument. The words mean ‘if so,’ and it is essentially a sort of reductio ad absurdum. In the present case, it would go like this: if the car was so near the side of the garage, how could he get out on the driver’s side? And if it were so near the barrel, how could he get out on the other side?”
Lanigan looked at the rabbi in surprise. “But you’ve already answered that. You proved that the barrel was no obstruction.”
“It was no obstruction to the car, but it was an obstruction to Hirsh.”
Lanigan was exasperated. “Dammit, Rabbi, you can’t have it both ways. You pointed out that an empty plastic barrel was no obstruction, and now you say it is.”
The rabbi nodded. “Precisely. It was no obstruction to a man driving a car, but it was an obstruction to Hirsh going to lower the garage door.”
“Why? He had only to nudge it aside with his foot.”
“But he didn’t, because it was still there when you found him and took your picture.”
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at,” said Lanigan.
“Include me,” said Beam.
“Very well. Hirsh brings the car to a stop. He can’t get out on the driver’s side. No room. So he gets out on the passenger side. He nudges the barrel out of the way, walks to the front of the garage and pulls the door down. Very good! Now he comes back to the front seat of the car. He passes the barrel. What does he do? Pull it back in position again? Why would he do that?”
“Why-why he must have,” exclaimed Lanigan. “Or maybe when he pushed it away the first time, he pushed it so hard he sent it spinning and-no, that doesn’t make sense either.” He glared at the rabbi. “Dammit, we know he couldn’t get out on the driver’s side. We know that. It was physically impossible. And now it seems he didn’t get out on the other side. But those are the only two ways of getting out of the car, so-”
“Go on, say it. If he didn’t get out on either side, then he didn’t get out of the car. But the garage door was down, so it must have been pulled down by someone else. And that person, in all likelihood, was the driver. And Hirsh was sitting on the passenger side, because he was indeed the passenger. And that in turn could explain how a man could consume a pint of liquor and yet travel by automobile ten miles or more and park his car in his garage. There was no problem because he was not driving; he was being driven. And when they got to the garage, the driver, a much thinner person than Hirsh, got out of the car on the driver’s side, pulled down the garage door and walked away. And Hirsh did nothing about it because he was either too drunk to know what was happening, or more likely, had passed out completely.”