Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,127
way too much language in this place. He was thin, lithe, a quality of the leonine to him. He had quick eyes: the glance ended up on the bench.
Soderberg made a split second of eye contact. Broke his own rule, but so what? The walker understood and half nodded. There was something gleeful and playful there in the walker’s eyes. What could Soderberg do with him? How could he manipulate it? After all, it was reckless endangerment, at the very least, and that could end upstairs, a felony, with the possibility of seven years. What about disorderly conduct? Soderberg knew deep down that it’d never go in that direction. It’d be kept a minor misdemeanor and he’d have to work it out with the D.A. He’d play it smart. Pull something unusual from the hat. Besides, the reporters were there, watching. The sketch artist. The TV cameras, outside the courtroom.
He called his bridge over and whispered in her ear: Who’s on first? It was their little joke, their judicial Abbott and Costello. She showed him the calendar and he skimmed down quickly over the cases, flicked a quick look at the sin bin, sighed. He didn’t have to do them in order, he could juggle things around, but he tapped his pencil against the first pending case.
The bridge stepped away and cleared her throat.
—Docket ending six-eight-seven, she said. The People versus Tillie Henderson and Jazzlyn Henderson. Step up, please.
The assistant D.A., Paul Concrombie, shook out the creases in his jacket. Opposite him, the Legal Aid attorney brushed back his long hair and came forward, spreading the file out on the shelf. In the back of the court, one of the reporters let out an audible groan as the women stood up from the bench. The younger hooker was milky-skinned and tall, wearing yellow stilettos, a neon swimsuit under a loose black shirt, a baubled necklace. The older one wore a one-piece swimsuit and high silver heels, her face a playground of mascara. Absurd, he thought. Sunbathing in the Tombs. She looked as if she had been around awhile, that she’d done her share of circling the track.
—Aggravated robbery in the second degree. Produced on an outstanding warrant from November 19, 1973.
The older hooker blew a kiss over her shoulder. A white man in the gallery blushed and lowered his head.
—This isn’t a nightclub, young lady.
—Sorry, Your Honor—I’d blow you one too ’cept I’m all blowed out.
A quick snap of laughter circled the room.
—I’ll have decorum in my court, Miss Henderson.
He was quite sure he heard the word asshole creeping out from under her tongue. He always wondered why they dug such pits for themselves, these hookers. He peered down at the rap sheets in front of him. Two illustrious careers. The older hooker had at least sixty charges against her over the years. The younger one had begun the quick portion of the slide: the charges had started to come with regularity and she would only accelerate from here on in. He’d seen it all too often. It was like opening up a tap.
Soderberg adjusted his reading glasses, sat back a moment in the swivel chair, addressed the assistant DA. with a withering look.
—So. Why the wait, Mr. Concrombie? This happened almost a year ago.
—We’ve had some recent developments here, Your Honor. The defendants were arrested in the Bronx and …
—Is this still in the complaint form?
—Yes, Your Honor.
—And is the assistant D.A. interested in disposing of this on a criminal-court level?
—Yes, Your Honor.
—So, the warrant is vacated?
—Yes, Your Honor.
He was hitting his stride, getting it done with speed. All a bit of a magic trick. Sweep out the black cape. Wave the white wand. Watch the rabbit disappear. He could see the row of nodding heads in the spectators’ area, caught on the current, rolling along with him. He hoped the reporters were getting it, seeing the control he had in his courtroom, even with the wine at the corners of his mind.
—And what’re we doing now, Mr. Concrombie?
—Your Honor, I’ve discussed this with the Legal Aid lawyer, Mr. Feathers here, and we’ve agreed that in the interests of justice, taking everything into consideration, the People are moving to dismiss the case against the daughter. We’re not going to go further with it, Your Honor.
—The daughter?
—Jazzlyn Henderson. Yes, sorry, Your Honor, it’s a mother-daughter team.
He flicked a quick look at the rap sheets. He was surprised to see that the mother was just thirty-eight years old.