Juice (25 page)

“It just doesn't seem so clear any more. I'm becoming the villain of the piece.”

Davis waited without speaking.

“Go ahead,” Harrison said. “Get it over with. Wait a minute. Leave me a cigarette.”

“Cigar all right?”

“Yes. Thanks. Good luck.”

“Good luck,” Davis repeated thoughtfully. “That's kind of you. Winkelmann is unfortunately unreliable. He may froth at the mouth and pick up the phone and call a constable. What then?”

Joe smiled. “Then I'll be back at work tomorrow, a free man. I'll find a slot for you. You can read laxative commercials.”

“A glorious career in public health,” Davis grinned. “All right. Sit tight. Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

Davis walked toward the house. He was sharply conscious of an unpleasant inner excitement; his arms swung stiffly. He took in a deep breath. The evening had turned cool; he was grateful. He went up the walk, rang the doorbell, and waited.

“Now what?” Winkelmann said. “Oh! You! Good Lord, Davis, don't you know—”

“You'd better let me in,” Davis said.

“Absolutely not,” Winkelmann said. “This is the most outrageous—”

“Rhein was here,” Davis said. “Equally outrageous. I don't mean to be disrespectful, and I'm trying not to be dishonest.”

They were silent then, gauging each other in the pale night; they were tired. “Come in,” Winkelmann said.

“One thing leads to another,” Davis said, proceeding to the study. “Every event modifies all subsequent events.” He waited. Winkelmann closed the study door. Davis said, “The poor man never even finished his brandy.”

“What is it?” Winkelmann said. “Sit down, John. I'm tired of this whole thing, you know.”

“So am I,” Davis said. “No actresses. No bastards. The case lacks human interest. No Dostoevskian poignancy.”

“Politics,” the judge said.

“Politics? Nay, statesmanship. The lion and the fox. Or was it the hedgehog?” Davis dropped heavily to the sofa, with an orator's gesture. He sprawled, recumbent, and stretched his legs. He scratched his head, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“As usual,” Winkelmann said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Excellent,” Davis said. “The inadequacy of human communication has never yet mattered in a courtroom.”

“You sound a little bitter,” Winkelmann said. “Coffee? Brandy?”

“No, thank you. And I am a little bitter. I've been pushed into a corner. Divested of my free will. Divested,” he muttered, frowning. “Undressed?” He brightened. “Disweskited. Officer, quickly, I have been disweskited.”

“I don't know what that means,” Winkelmann said, “but I don't see why you're bitter. You'll win your case.”

A smile came to Davis' face; it broadened. “Of course,” he said. “I'd forgotten. It's all taken care of.” His eyes widened; he nodded happily. “Solidarity forever. My client will be freed. The high resolution will be once more perverted by translation into the language of event. Shelley called translation a crucible; so it is, here as elsewhere. We are all immoral. We revere life, but we eat meat and swat flies and give our dogs a vermifuge.”

“What are you talking about?” Winkelmann asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Davis said. “Got a chicken? Let's sacrifice a chicken. I'll read the entrails. I read entrails very well. I'm curious about tomorrow morning.”

“I don't have a chicken,” Winkelmann said.

“I suppose it's democracy that does it,” Davis said. “I am no fool. I know better than to contradict mankind's—and particularly American mankind's—certitudes, of which the first is that mankind—and particularly American mankind—is capable of moral intelligence. Democracy, after all, equips great numbers of people, with moral intelligence, and the morally intelligent man inevitably sees the advantages of democracy, chief among which is that it equips great numbers of people with—yes. You understand.”

“Not one word,” Winkelmann said.

“It's all right,” Davis said. “I didn't mean it. I'm tired. What did Rhein have to say?”

“I don't think you should know.”

“You're right. Anyway I do know. Heads will roll, he said. The people will lose faith in their ward heelers. Prominent grafters will be jugged, or whatever. Tell me: Justice Borden is retiring, isn't he?”

“Yes,” Winkelmann said. “Why?”

“You may move up, I gather.”

“Well, it's possible, but—”

“But you wouldn't move up if a big scandal broke. Perjury, for example. Subornation of perjury. Juice and so forth.”

“I hope never to be involved in any such scandal,” Winkelmann said.

“Certainly not,” Davis said. “And I hope never to have to expose one. Though it may be a necessary evil.”

“Expose one?” the judge said. “Expose one? What are you talking about? This case will be closed by eleven-thirty tomorrow.” He leaned forward; his nostrils were wide, and his eyes frightened. “Why are you here?” he cried. “What do you want?”

“I want my client convicted,” Davis said.

“There's a chance,” Davis said to Joe Harrison. “A good chance. The best, in the circumstances.” It was almost eleven, and they were turning up the Harrisons' driveway. “But it's still up to you. Today you were sure, and tonight you're wavering, and God only knows about tomorrow. You'll have to tell me, one way or the other, before the old man comes into the courtroom. You know, I'm tired. People like you are exhausting.”

“Rhein will pay you well,” Joe said. “Might as well earn it. Although at this rate you won't get a penny out of him. I may have to pay your fee myself. I can't afford it.”

“It isn't the money, it's the lack of principle,” Davis said. “Get out of the car. You're home. I want to see my girl.”

“She's gorgeous,” Joe said. “I meant to tell you.”

“She is,” Davis said. They stepped out of the car. “And smart. Except she runs around with a lawyer who goes to a lot of trouble to get his clients hanged.”

“You planning to marry her?”

Beneath the outdoor lamp Davis gazed at Harrison with melancholy loathing. “What is it with you anyway?” he said. “Your early life? The formative years? The father a man of rare rectitude? I can see him—the abiding influence. The youthful escapades: stealing peaches from old Mr. Vecchio's fruit stand; the return of the booty, the contrition, the high resolve; the father saying, ‘No hairbrush this time, my boy, because you've played the man.' Then advice to the teen-ager off to the university. Then the gambling debt; the pregnant serving maid; the timely intervention of the old man. Repentance, true repentance, high resolve again, the moral trauma. Is that it?”

“No,” Joe said.

“Of course not,” Davis said glumly. “Open the goddamn door.”

They walked in; the women looked up, and Davis smiled. “There is yet balm,” he said. “You, the brunette, come here.” He embraced Mrs. Newbery gently and kissed her cheek.

Joe smiled wearily at Helen. “It was a hell of an evening,” he said. “I don't know. I'm not sure any more.”

“Whatever you say,” she said. She was pale. “You're tired.”

“Very tired,” he said. “Are the kids all right?”

“Yes. They're asleep. There were only a couple of calls. One good and one bad. The nine-o'clock news was about like the other.”

“Good,” he said. “It could've been worse.” He turned to Davis. “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks,” Davis said. “You take one, and go to bed, and try to sleep. Don't want to be fuzzy tomorrow.”

Joe nodded.

“Thanks for everything,” Helen said. “Take care of him,” she said to Mrs. Newbery. “I'll see you at the courthouse.”

“Good,” she said. “Thank you for the evening.”

“What'd you talk about?” Davis asked sourly.

“Clothes.” Helen smiled.

“Sure,” he said. He looked from one to the other of them. “Landauer,” he said bitterly. “Landauer was the beginning of the end, wasn't he?”

18

Joe slept badly. Mornings were never congenial, and this one was less encouraging than most. His head would not clear. When Helen had left the bathroom and joined the children downstairs, Joe walked in to meet his image and found it pale and puffy. He looked round-shouldered; there were wrinkles in his neck; even the hair on his chest seemed limp. The morning light was not helpful: the day was clear, but light lay flat and colorless on the white porcelain. And the normal acceleration of waking was retarded. Usually his mind closed with the first of the day's problems as he brushed his teeth, but today his mind balked. Even the shower did not bring him to life; the shave was a chore; and when he combed his hair he saw that his eyes were bloodshot. He stood, without vitality in the wash of sterile light, and made a last attempt to bring his being into focus. Then he returned to his room, dressed slowly, and marched automatically to the kitchen.

He sat among strangers. He ate eggs among familiar, acceptable, comfortable strangers. He was not (and not for the first time) fond of them this morning. They were his. They were not he. No textbook or tract would change that. Wistfully, momentarily, he missed the consolations of religion; but he had lived his life without them. Prayer would have been of no more help than the sight of an eagle on his right hand or the sudden blossoming of a lotus among the window-boxed begonias. The thought of miracles, however, caused his lips to curve in the morning's first tentative smile; it was the embarrassed smile of the goodhearted culprit.

Now that he had begun to function, he said, with his mouth full, “Good morning,” and was answered. His wife smiled, answering his own mysterious (sleepy? clever?) grin. His son and daughter observed him cautiously; there was already a brittle quality to the day, and sudden motion—or sudden judgment, he thought—might reduce it to unmanageable shards. It was sufficient that he ate, that he felt appetite and was able, mechanically and emotionally, to satisfy it. There was fulfillment in the skilled manipulation of knife and fork, he decided. Through his inertia it was borne in on him then—by the smell of coffee—that he should not be eating, that melancholy and tension should have deprived him of hunger.

Instantly he was hungrier. “I want two more eggs,” he said, “and more toast. How are you all? Sleep well?” He rubbed his son's head—he was doing that more and more often—and stroked his daughter's, smiling. They were not he; but they were his. This Sally, tall and silent and even now a bit languid, whose swains would someday rouse him to secret enmity. This David, stocky and loud and even now a bit oafish, whose mistresses would someday rouse him to secret envy. And this Helen, good to know, or to touch, or simply to look upon, who could, as she did now, bring love to the breaking of a hen's egg.

“What's going to happen today?” Dave asked. “Can we help?”

“You can't help,” Joe told them. “Eat up. You'll miss your bus. But thanks for the offer.” He smiled for them. “I don't know what's going to happen, exactly. It's a little like a test in school.”

Sally, who knew that it was not at all like a test in school, smiled in return. “You look tired,” she said. “Didn't you sleep well?”

“Not very.” Those were disconcerting moments, when the wife's question from the daughter's lips, the wife's expression on the daughter's face foreshadowed the woman and hinted at his own mortality. “I'll wake up in an hour or so. I'm not used to being home during the week.”

“I like it,” she said. “It's nice to have a man around the house.” Joe restrained his laughter.

“I'm around the house,” his son said. Sally did not answer.

“Hurry up,” Helen said. “Get your books. Lunchboxes are ready.” The children patted their mouths with paper napkins and left the table. “Your eggs,” Helen said, serving him, “and coffee.”

“It's nice to have a woman around the house,” Joe murmured.

“She's funny,” Helen said. “She'll be married at sixteen.”

Joe snorted. “To the Kallikak boy. No, thank you. I'll keep her for myself. When I think of the time and money I've invested—”

“And what happens to me?”

Joe circled her hips with one arm and pulled her against him. “There are homes for people like you.”

She rubbed his head, as he had rubbed his son's. “Threats, always threats. Eat.”

He ate. The children returned, kissed him, accepted lunchboxes, and clattered out of the house toward the road. Helen sat across from him and sipped coffee.

“Where's the paper?” he said.

“Here.” She reached behind her.

“Am I in it?”

“Yes. A small paragraph.”

He shrugged. “My own paper. I'd be curious to see the others.”

“I'm sure Rhein called them all,” she said.

“Free press.” He smiled. “I suppose you're right. Professional courtesy, we call it.” He had been turning pages; he stopped. “Page eight. Buried in the shipping news.”

He read the paragraph.

In Los Pinos County Courthouse yesterday Judge Francis Winkelmann granted a twenty-four-hour recess in hearings on a manslaughter charge against Joseph Harrison, managing director of the Pacific American Network. Mr. Harrison, who was involved in the accidental death of Walter Storch of Ashford, appeared to break down suddenly under the strain of the first hearing. His attorney, world-famous West Coast lawyer John James Davis, announced that Harrison's nerves had been strained by the accident and that he was in no condition to go on.

“Dignified,” he said. “Restrained. Two column inches. Rotten prose even for a newspaper.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.