My New American Life (24 page)

“Brilliant!” Carl gazed worshipfully at his wife.

Lula said, “How much work could there be for an Albanian translator?”

“You'd be surprised,” said Savitra.

“My God, yes,” said Carl. “The coke trade and the heroin traffic and now, I was just reading, organized burglary rings—” He stopped himself in midsentence. Had he insulted Lula's homeland? “Listen to me. I'm sorry. It's like assuming every Italian has ties to the mob—”

“Not at all,” said Lula. “Don't worry. Anyway, if our Albanian crime rate means more work for court interpreters—” She smiled so they knew she was joking and would be charmed by her lack of hypersensitivity about her native land.

Savitra's women's group met in the evenings. When Lula explained about not driving and the late-night buses, she was excused from going. It seemed like bad luck to sit in a room with women whose problems were worse than her own, though she knew that many Americans believed this was how your luck improved.

Savitra said she would e-mail Lula about the court interpreter position. Lula wrote down her e-mail address as if she were a person who was constantly fielding messages about job opportunities.

In the car going home Zeke said, “Considering how many bands there are, what's the statistical probability of finding kids who listen to the exact same music I do?”

A hundred percent, thought Lula. Hadn't Harmonia Bethany liked, or pretended to like, Zeke's favorite group?

Zeke said, “What kind of coincidence is that?”

Lula said, “Speaking of coincidence . . . Guess who I met? Remember that girl Savitra whom Don brought to Thanksgiving? She married a professor at the school. A philosophy teacher.”

“I saw you talking to that young couple,” Mister Stanley said. “I thought the woman looked familiar, but . . . married already? Thanksgiving was just six weeks ago. I wonder why Don didn't mention it. Though why should he? He's got more important things on his mind.”

Lula thought she detected a faint note of satisfaction, possibly because Mister Stanley's fellow single dad had lost his girlfriend to a more age-appropriate husband.

Mister Stanley said, “I'm very glad you met some nice kids, Zeke. But liking the same bands is no reason to go to a college.”

Zeke said, “It is, if it's the only school that accepted me. And when did I say that the kids were nice?”

“You chose the school,” said his father. “We chose it together.”

“It's fine with me!” yelled Zeke. “I like it! Now please leave me alone!”

“You know,” said Mister Stanley, “the funny thing is, architecturally, it looks a little like the place where your mom is staying right now.”

“Great,” said Zeke. “My college looks like a mental hospital.”

“A treatment center,” said Mister Stanley. “And I'm talking about the buildings, not what goes on inside.”

Lula imagined a student staggering from the recoil of a gun and another holding her forehead as blood poured through her fingers. Lightning doesn't strike twice. Lula had to find another job before she turned into Mister Stanley.

The next morning, when Savitra's e-mail arrived, Lula was astonished. “Hi Lula!” the message began. Savitra sent Lula a link to a site with information about New York and New Jersey court interpreters. It wasn't exactly a real job; you only worked when they called you. It was the first time Lula had come across the phrase
independent contractor
. What an appealing expression, with its dual associations of freedom and construction, though
contractor
made her think of Alvo, which she tried to avoid. All you needed to be approved or semi-approved or conditionally approved was to demonstrate that you were fluent in both languages and could speak and read English, especially the English that Americans used in courts. In New York there was an oral exam. You had to watch a film in which actors played witnesses from your home country, and you had to interpret, showing you knew all the technical terms like
plea bargain
and
bail bond
and
plaintiff
, which Lula had learned from TV crime shows.

She puzzled over the Web site's suggestion that would-be applicants attend trials to familiarize themselves with court procedures. No one in Albania went near a court unless they were in handcuffs or were suing to get back their land. Here, except for family court, trials were open to the public. Lula asked Mister Stanley to tell Don that she was curious about how a democratic legal system functioned, and Mister Stanley reported that Don was delighted by Lula's interest. In his opinion, the Lower Manhattan courts would offer her more than Newark. Mister Stanley also approved of Lula's project, but he still hoped she could get home in time for Zeke's return from school.

“I promise,” Lula said.

Chapter Thirteen

L
ula waited patiently to send her purse along the conveyor belt and pass through the metal detector. It was relaxing to shuffle forward along with her fellow creatures, even the resentful ones who didn't want to be here. The guards didn't care how inconvenienced the prospective jurors were. They cared if their cell phones took pictures. Lula's phone did not take photos, which she announced—boasted, really—as evidence of her innocent intentions. She imagined that the look that passed between her and the guard was fraught with something more personal than his appraisal of her level of terrorist threat. The molecules in the overheated air seemed to thrum with the excitement of this intriguing alternative to watching the timid winter light do its cameo turn on Mister Stanley's lawn.

She gathered from the elevator conversations that her fellow passengers would be shocked to learn that she was voluntarily doing what they so wished to avoid. When the crowd turned in one direction, she headed the opposite way and found herself in a room not unlike the one in which they'd held Zeke's college tea. There was plenty of space on the benches. No one noticed Lula as she found a seat.

The judge's little gray head looked like a smoky bauble balanced on the edge of her desk as she instructed the jury about the seriousness of their duties and how the job they'd been asked to perform reflected the beauty of democracy and of their judicial system. She told them how grateful their country was for the sacrifices they were making. Lula tried not to be cynical, tried not to think the judge was just trying to make everyone feel better about missing work. When the judge asked the jurors to take care of themselves for the duration of the trial, to be careful crossing the street at lunch—at which they were not allowed to discuss the case—she wasn't threatening them with certain death beneath the wheels of the speeding Mercedes that would run them down if they even thought about voting to convict.

An African guy was being tried for resisting arrest after he was caught selling fake designer purses. Everywhere it was a crime not to do what the police said, just as everywhere cops could throw you in jail if they didn't like your face. But this vendors' license thing—that was really too much! The world's sidewalks were clogged with people selling hot dogs and halal lunches, bananas and bracelets. In Tirana you bought everything on the street, from olive oil to tampons. The moment her friend Dunia had fallen in love with the United States was the moment when she'd bought a knockoff Louis Vuitton satchel from a guy on Third Avenue.

The defense lawyer wore a pinstripe suit and a bouquet of dreadlocks, a fashion choice that suggested a proud idealistic character but an unrealistic nature and perhaps a deficient desire to win. Twice he quoted Descartes, maxims with an unclear relevance to the case. Lula imagined everyone speaking Albanian and tried to decide what she would and wouldn't translate in order to keep the African guy from going to jail for grabbing an armful of imitation Guccis and taking off when the cops demanded to see his vendor ID. But her opinion wasn't the point. She'd read on the Web site that the job was to translate without judgment, editing, or interpretation. It would be soothing to shift from language to language without the constant mental yakkety-yak about what was true or false.

The prosecution's first witness was a cop who appeared to be chewing gum even when he wasn't. He was sorry to have to say that the defendant threw a punch. Mr. Descartes asked how someone could throw a punch while running, and the cop explained, as if to a child, that first the defendant threw a punch and then he ran. The second cop, a skinny Asian kid, corroborated his partner's story, which he would have done if his partner said that pigs flew out of the defendant's ass.

There were no witnesses for the defense. No one who'd seen the incident came forward. The judge said, “Mr. Mamdani, do you wish to testify on your own behalf?”

Mr. Mamdani shook his head no.

The lawyers gave quick summations. No one's heart was in it. After more instructions from the judge, the jury retired for deliberations. Lula wanted to find out how the story ended. A guard came over to her and said, “This might take a while. You can go grab lunch.”

Lula said, “I hurt my foot at the gym.” No one had sworn
her
to tell the truth.

“You take it easy then, baby,” said the guard. Lula closed her eyes and rested until the courtroom filled again and the judge asked the foreman to read the verdict.

“Not guilty,” said the foreman, a gangly hipster whose wrists showed beyond the frayed cuffs of his sweater. How had they chosen him as their leader, and more surprisingly still, how had they reached the right verdict?

The lawyer hugged his client, who recoiled from his embrace. Only then did the defendant turn and look back at the court. Lula saw that he was crying. What satisfying drama! Justice served, a life saved, the capricious abuse of authority subverted once again. Was there another case that Lula could watch and be home in time for Zeke?

In the next courtroom, a kid was on trial for selling a joint to an undercover cop. In his opening remarks, the elderly defense lawyer informed the jury that though they might not know it, and though he was legally enjoined from saying so, he thought they should be aware that they might be voting to send his client—this boy—away for life. The judge sighed and told counsel he didn't care how close to retirement age the lawyer was, he had half a mind to cite him and he could go to jail instead of his client, because he had sworn an oath to uphold the legal system, whether he agreed with it or not and regardless of the frustrations that must come with being a public defender nearing retirement. The way the judge made “public defender” sound like a synonym for “loser” made Lula think that the two men had a history that preceded this case. When Lula left, the judge was still berating the lawyer.

On Tuesday, Lula watched a consumer protection group's suit against a Chinese manufacturer of toxic baby bottles. In theory it should have been interesting, the health-conscious ideas of one country versus the cowboy production goals of another. But there didn't seem to be any actual people involved; none of the lawyers were Chinese, nor was there an actual baby who had been harmed by the bottles. So she found a courtroom in which a doctor was being sued for botching a woman's gastric bypass surgery. Lula was transfixed by the woman's narrative of what food did on its way from her mouth to the bag hidden beneath her parrot-green dress, but it depressed her to wonder what she would do if the plaintiff was Albanian, and she had to find the English terms for all the digestive parts.

The next morning, the ice flowers on her window almost persuaded Lula to stay home. But she put on her warmest clothes and a hair-ruining woolen hat and submitted to the three buses and the biting wind. As she came in from the cold, the courthouse lobby seemed especially steamy and vibrant. The briefcases and purses jittered along the conveyor belts like amusement-park patrons waiting for a ride to start. Even the metal detectors looked as benign as garden trellises, and the guards on duty smiled.

Already Lula felt as if she were going to a job she was good at, and loved. A golden aura surrounded the passengers jammed into the elevator, and in its glow she marveled at each person's particular beauty. What a gorgeous variety these American faces had! This morning, at the very moment when she was debating whether the warmth of her hat (which she pulled off, running her fingers through her flattened hair) was worth the insult to her vanity, these people had been in their homes, perhaps in front of their mirrors, making all the tiny choices and adjustments that would determine the faces they showed the world. How wondrous it all was, how mystifying in its vastness and strangeness! What had caused her to feel this sense of promise and even of joy? Did there have to be a reason? Or could you wake up one day and see the world differently without it signifying a brain tumor or the onset of mental illness?

Lula wandered into a courtroom where a woman was suing the owner of a corner grocery because she'd slipped and hurt her leg on a broken jar of pickles. The woman overdid the limp with an aggressive swagger that made it seem as if she were about to shake her cane at the jury—evidence of bad advice, or no advice, from her lawyer.

Why should Lula stop at translator? She was smart, she'd been a good student, she could be a judge! Don and Mister Stanley would help her, and someday she would repay them, not just financially but in ways they would value more than money.

The store owner's lawyer asked why the plaintiff hadn't produced one medical expert, which seemed like a good question, until the plaintiff's lawyer asked if his colleague was aware that expertise cost money, which his client didn't have. Which also seemed like a good question.

With no idea who was telling the truth, Lula was glad to leave it to the jury, another American grab bag, men and women, old and young, black and brown and white, all listening intently and occasionally asking for things to be repeated. When the trial broke for lunch, Lula felt like celebrating.

Luckily, lunch was the number-one topic in the elevators, and even in this short time she'd overheard several debates about where to find the best Cantonese noodle soup. What better way to honor her affection for this country than in an affordable restaurant surrounded by fellow immigrants from all over the globe, gathered at communal round tables to warm their faces in fragrant saunas of chicken broth?

Lula should have known better than to be seduced by soup. If she'd stayed put, as she had yesterday, she wouldn't have been part of the lunch crowd filing out of the building. She wouldn't have spotted Leather Jacket—Genti—on his way in, stalled in the security line, anxiously monitoring the basket in which his beloved coat was about to roll on without him. Genti didn't see Lula, which gave her a moment to decide whether to ignore him and keep going. The flame died under the noodle soup, the healing broth stopped bubbling.

She had to call Genti three times. Finally he heard her. He almost smiled, then looked worried.

“Little Sister, what brings you to this lowest circle of hell?”

Just being in this American palace of justice made her feel simultaneously emboldened and protected. She grabbed Genti's arm and yanked him toward the door, an awkward ballet made clumsier when Genti stopped to rescue his coat from the conveyor belt and shimmied into its narrow sleeves as they crossed the lobby. Lula tried to telegraph the fact that she and Genti were old friends, meeting by happy accident, instead of Albanian terrorists recognizing each other by some prearranged code signal.

She said, “I'm applying for a job in court. And you? Why are you here?”

Genti raised one eyebrow. “Arkon's in serious trouble. His trial starts today.”

“Arkon?”

“I mean Alvo.”

Lula hadn't even known her fantasy boyfriend's real name. “What did he do?”

Genti checked to see if anyone was listening. “Nothing. Guilty in the first degree of the crime of being Albanian.”

“I get that. But what are the charges?”

“The guy fell on his sword for us. Me and Guri are not even implicated in their made-up lies. Even so, little bitch Guri is shitting his pants. He's hiding out in Allentown, Pennsylvania, pretending his granny's deathly ill. If his granny dies, it will be his fault.”

“Made-up
what
lies?” asked Lula. Let it be a civil case. Let the guy whose air conditioner Alvo installed backward be suing.

“I told you. Nothing,” said Genti. “Not paying off the right guy. Come listen. Our brother's facing serious jail time.”

Serious jail time was not about an air conditioner. “What's he charged with?” Lula asked twice more, the first time almost inaudibly, the second time louder than she intended. Fear flashed across Genti's face. The fear of being embarrassed.

“Breaking and entering. Possible sentence fifteen years or more of—” Genti's fingers puppeted violent anal rape. Now it was Lula's turn to look around, embarrassed.

“A dog got injured in one of the break-ins. One of the break-ins we didn't do. A scratch. The dog probably cut itself shaving. Is that even a crime? But they found a bullet in the wall.”

“From the gun?” asked Lula.

“What gun?” asked Genti.

“The one you left with me.”

“Who remembers?” said Genti.

“I do,” Lula said. “Let's go.”

Genti peeled off his jacket again, and together they rejoined the line filing toward the metal detector.

The near-empty courtroom seemed like a hopeful sign. Alvo's case wasn't drawing the yelping packs of reporters.

“Where is he?” Lula whispered.

“There,” said Genti.

“Where?”

“Over there, goddammit!” said Genti. A few people turned. Was this how it was going to be for the rest of the day, she and Genti embarrassing each other like an old married couple, squabbling and talking too loud as they watched their Albanian brother get put away for so long that when he got out he would be an old man wanting a twenty-year-old girl or probably, after jail, a twenty-year-old boy? Lula imagined visiting him, their palms pressed against the glass. Someone would have to tell her the right name to give the guards.

Everyone faced forward. None of those heads was Alvo's. Or Arkon's. They were in the wrong courtroom. Genti was a moron.

“I don't see him,” she insisted.

“There,” said Genti. “Look again. The dude dyed his fucking hair.”

That was the missing puzzle piece. Alvo's hair was as black as Zeke's.

“His lawyer told him redheads always lose. Statistics. Hair color is everything. Natural blonds are the winners. After that comes gray.”

“Where did he find this lawyer?”

“The Bronx,” said Genti. “Where else?”