Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,124

motion, for crying out loud?

—Officer, would you please tell me what happened here? He was what? Cooking a chicken on the sidewalk?! Are you kidding me?

—Bail set at two thousand dollars’ bond. Cash one thousand two hundred fifty.

—Not you again, Mr. Ferrario! Whose pocket was picked this time?

—This is an arraignment court, counselor, not Shangri-La.

—Release her on her own recognizance.

—This complaint does not state a crime. Dismissed!

—Has anybody here ever heard of privilege?

—I’ve no objection to a nonjail disposition.

—In exchange for his plea, we’ll reduce the felony to a misdemeanor.

—Time served!

—I think your client was overserved in the narcissism department this morning, counselor.

—Give me something more than elevator music, please!

—Will you be finished by Friday?

—Time served!

—Time served!

—Time served!

There were so many special tricks to learn. Seldom look the defendant in the eye. Seldom smile. Try to appear as if you have a mild case of hemorrhoids: it will give you a concerned, inviolable expression. Sit at a slightly uncomfortable bend, or at least one that appears uncomfortable. Always be scribbling. Appear like a rabbi, bent over your writing pad. Stroke the silver at the side of your hair. Rub the pate when things get out of hand. Use the rap sheet as a guide to character. Make sure there are no reporters in the room. If there are, all rules are underlined twice. Listen carefully. The guilt or the innocence is all in the voice. Don’t play favorites with the lawyers. Don’t let them play the Jew card. Never respond to Yiddish. Dismiss flattery out of hand. Be careful with your hand exerciser. Watch out for masturbation jokes. Never stare at the stenographer’s rear end. Be careful what you have for lunch. Have a roll of mints with you. Always think of your doodles as masterpieces. Make sure the carafe water has been changed. Be outraged at water spots on the glass. Buy shirts at least one size too big in the neck so you can breathe.

The cases came and went.

Late in the morning he had already called twenty-nine cases and he asked the bridge—his court officer, in her crisp white shirt—if there was any news on the case of the tightrope walker. The bridge told him that it was all the buzz, that the walker was in the system, it seemed, and he would likely come up in the late afternoon. She wasn’t sure what the charges were, possibly criminal trespass and reckless endangerment. The D.A. was already deep in discussion with the tightrope walker, she said. It was likely that the walker would plead to everything if given a good enough deal. The D.A. was keen on some good publicity, it seemed. He wanted this one to go smoothly. The only hitch might be if the walker was held over until night court.

—So we have a chance?

—Pretty good, I’d say. If they push him through quick enough.

—Excellent. Lunch, then?

—Yes, Your Honor.

—We’ll reconvene at two-fifteen.

—

THERE WAS ALWAYS Forlini’s, or Sal’s, or Carmine’s, or Sweet’s, or Sloppy Louie’s, or Oscar’s Delmonico, but he had always liked Harry’s. It was the farthest away from Centre Street, but it didn’t matter—the quick cab ride relaxed him. He got out on Water Street and walked to Hanover Square, stood outside and thought, This is my place. It wasn’t because of the brokers. Or the bankers. Or the traders. It was Harry himself, all Greek, good manners, arms stretched wide. Harry had worked his way through the American Dream and come to the conclusion that it was composed of a good lunch and a deep red wine that could soar. But Harry could also make a steak sing, pull a trumpet line out of a string of spaghetti. He was often down in the kitchen, slinging fire. Then he would step out of his apron, put on his suit jacket, slick back his hair, and walk up into the restaurant with composure and style. He had a special inclination toward Soderberg, though neither man knew why. Harry would linger a moment longer with him at the bar, or slide up a great bottle and they’d sit underneath the monk murals, passing the time together. Perhaps because they were the only two in the place who weren’t deep in the stock business. Outsiders to the clanging bells of finance. They could tell how the day was going in the markets by the decibel level around them.

On the wall of Harry’s, the brokerage houses had private lines connected to a battery of telephones on the wall.