Let The Great World Spin: A Novel - By Colum McCann Page 0,128
related.
—Keeping it in the family, Y’r Honor!
—Miss, I’ll ask you not to speak again.
—But you axed me a question.
—Mr. Feathers, instruct your client, please.
—But you axed me.
—Well, I will axe you, yes, young lady.
—Oh, she said.
—Okay. Miss … Henderson. Zip it. Do you understand that? Zip it. Now. Mr. Concrombie. Go on.
—Well, Your Honor, after studying the file, we don’t believe that the People will be able to sustain our burden of proof. Beyond reasonable doubt.
—For what reason?
—Well, the identification is problematic.
—Yes? I’m waiting.
—The investigation revealed that there was a matter of mistaken identity.
—Whose identification?
—Well, we have a confession, Your Honor.
—Okay. Don’t bowl me over with your certainty about this, Mr. Concrombie. So you’re dropping the case against Miss, uh, Miss Jazzlyn Henderson?
—Yes, sir.
—And all parties are agreed?
A little nodding field of heads around the room.
—Okay, case dismissed.
—Case dismissed?
—You serious? said the young girl. That’s it?
—That’s it.
—Done and dusted? He’s cutting me loose?
Under her breath he was sure he could hear her say: Getdefuckouttahere!
—What did you say, young lady?
—Nothing.
The Legal Aid lawyer leaned across and whispered something vicious in her ear.
—Nothing, Your Honor. Sorry. I said nothing. Thanks.
—Get her out of here.
—Lift the rope! One coming out!
The younger hooker turned to her mother, kissed her square on the eyebrow. Strange place. The mother, beaten down and tired, accepted the kiss, stroked the side of her daughter’s face, pulled her close. Soderberg watched as they embraced. What sort of deep cruelty, he wondered, allows a family like that?
Still, it always surprised him, the love these people could display for each other. It was one of the few things that still thrilled him about the courtroom—the raw edge it gave to life, the sight of lovers embracing after beating each other up, or families glad to welcome back their son the petty thief, the surprise of forgiveness when it shone in the core of his court. It was rare, but it happened, and like everything, the rarity was necessary.
The young hooker whispered in the mother’s ear and the mother laughed, waved over her shoulder again at the white man in the spectators’ section.
The court officer didn’t lift the rope. The young hooker did it herself. She swayed as she walked, as if she was already selling herself. She brazened her way down the center of the aisle toward the white man with graying flecks at the side of his hair. She took off the black shirt as she went, so that only her swimsuit could be seen.
Soderberg could feel his toes curl at the sheer audacity of it.
—Put that shirt back on, right now!
—It’s a free world, ain’t it? You dismissed me. It’s his shirt.
—Put it on, said Soderberg, leaning close into his microphone.
—He wanted to dress me up nice for court. Didn’t you, Corrie? He got it sent down to me in the Tombs.
The white man was trying to drag her across by the elbow, whispering something urgently in her ear.
—Put on the shirt or I’ll pull you up on contempt…. Sir, are you related to that young woman?
—Not exactly, said the man.
—And what does not exactly mean?
—I’m her friend.
He had an Irish accent, this gray-haired pimp. He raised his chin like an old-fashioned boxer. His face was thin and his cheeks were sunken.
—Well, friend, I want to make sure that she keeps the shirt on at all times.
—Yes, Y’r Honor. And, Y’r Honor …?
—Just do what I say.
—But, Y’r Honor …
Soderberg slammed the gavel down: Enough, he said.
He watched the younger hooker as she kissed the Irishman on the cheek. The man turned away, but then took her face gently in his hands. A strange-looking pimp. Not the usual type. No matter. They came in all sizes and packages. Truth was, the women were victims of the men, always were, always would be. At the essential core, it was idiots like the pimp who should’ve been jailed. Soderberg let out a sigh and then turned toward the assistant D.A.
An eyebrow raise was language enough between the two of them. There was still the matter of the mother to take care of, and then he’d get to the centerpiece.
He flicked a quick look across at the tightrope walker sitting at the benches. A befuddled gaze on the walker’s face. His own crime so unique that he surely had no idea what he was even doing here.
Soderberg tapped the microphone and those in the courtroom perked up.
—As I understand it, the remaining defendant, the mother here …