The name of this particular superstition is Eastside News, so named I'm sure because it's just a few blocks from Paterson Eastside High School. Not only does it have every conceivable magazine in the entire world, but there is a sign proclaiming it to be “Paterson's Only Out-of-Town Newspaper Stand.” I can easily understand why there is no competition for this honor; in all the years I have been stopping here, I've yet to see anyone buy a Des Moines Register.
The proprietor of Eastside News is Cal Morris, a forty-five-year-old African-American. After all this time I consider Cal a friend, though my knowledge of him consists of his occupation and the fact that he hates the Knicks and Rangers. I also once overheard him talking about his football exploits at Eastside High, though that would have been about ten years before I was there. In any event, we never talk about these things. Cal seems like a nice enough guy, but his role in my life is strictly to satisfy my superstitions.
As I said, I'm late, so I quickly initiate the rest of the ritual.
Cal is ringing up another customer, but he sees me out of the corner of his eye.
“How they hangin' today, Cal?”
“Low, Andy, mighty low.”
“Gotta hoist 'em up,” is my practiced response.
“I try, but they keep gettin’ lower.”
We both laugh, though neither of us have thought this is funny for a few years. I buy a Bergen Record, which is what serves for the local paper now. I remember when there was a Paterson Evening News and a Paterson Morning Call, but both have long ago ceased to exist. The Record doesn't have the feel of a local paper, but it covers the national news pretty well. Besides, I'll be in court all day and won't have time to read it. I just feel silly stopping at the newsstand and not buying a paper.
The Passaic County Courthouse is a venerable old building, and to say it is the most impressive in downtown Paterson is to shower it with faint praise. My father once told me that the stature of the building and the courtrooms it contains can work against defendants, particularly those charged with relatively minor offenses. A juror looks at the majesty of the place and says, “This must be an important crime if it's tried here. Let's throw the book at the bastard.” These days the person usually representing the bastard is me, Andy Carpenter, attorney at law.
Today my client is Carmen Herndez, a twenty-three-year-old Puerto Rican immigrant accused of breaking into a jewelry store. There wasn't exactly a pitched battle in the legal community to land Carmen as a client. I got the assignment because his mother is Sofý, who owns a fruit stand next door to my office. What I know about Sofý she works sixteen hours a day, has a smile on her face every morning, and gets summer fruit before anyone else. I also know she asked for my help, and money wasn't an issue because she doesn't have any. What I don't know is whether her son is a crook. But that's what we're here to determine.
This is the third and last day of the trial. The Assistant DA, Norman Trell, has done his usual competent job of presenting his competent case to this competent jury, and soon they will be sent in to competently deliberate and find Carmen guilty. The only thing standing in the way of all this competence is my summation.
I take a quick glance at the large door in the back of the room, though I know it won't be opening for three minutes. I then take another look at Carmen, wearing a suit as if it is the first time in his life he has ever worn one. It probably is; that suit was hanging in my closet until the trial started. Carmen is six foot four and I'm five foot eleven; he looks like he spent the last six hours in a dryer.
I stand and begin my summation, walking toward the jury, though I know I'm about to be interrupted. Their faces are bored, their eyes glazed, twelve poor slobs who couldn't get a doctor's excuse or a valid note from their boss to get them off jury duty. To these concerned citizens, the only positive aspect to this upcoming speech is that it is the last one they will have to hear.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you've had to listen to a lot