He smiled brightly and extended a hand. “I’m Vinnie. I’m in the restaurant business, but I’m starting to write screenplays on the side. I figure, hey, everybody else is.”
“I write for a soap.”
Usually, when she said that, eyebrows rose. Wasn’t she prostituting herself? Why didn’t she write novels? Publish arty stories in little magazines? She’d done both. She wasn’t cut out for the life of the starving artist.
But Vinnie said, “Cool.” Then he said, “Could I borrow a quarter till after lunch? I don’t have any change, and I need to make a phone call.”
What did she look like, a bank? “I think I gave all my change to somebody else a few minutes ago,” she said. But then she dug in her purse and came up with a shiny new quarter that had been hiding in a corner.
But before Vinnie could make his call, an officer of the court sauntered from behind the tall wide desk at the front of the room and began calling names from the summons slips he pulled at random from a bingolike contraption. They were to answer to their names, then follow him to a courtroom where they would be judged on their worthiness to judge another.
Juan Reyes. Kashonda Smallwood. Gillian Holch. Duncan McKenzie III. Ellen Bradley. Yolanda Ramirez. Estelle Krim. Angela Wong. Jacqi Albano. Rita Sitnick. Vincent Gallo.
“That’s me.” Vinnie waved at the clerk.
Clare Meacham.
Clare groaned and raised a hand. She couldn’t get stuck on a jury. Not now. Please, God.
The woman Clare had given change to reentered the room just as the last of the forty names was being called. Wilma Paris. “Oh, Lord,” she cried. “Wouldn’t you know? And my boss just said he’s going to kill me if I don’t get my butt back to the office.”
*
Behind the judge, huge letters spelled out “IN GOD WE TRUST.”
Vinnie pointed at the words, whispered to Clare, “What about the atheists? They in deep do?” They were two of the twelve seated in the juror’s box, the remainder of their panel of forty spread across the spectators’ seats.
Frowsy-haired Judge Rabinowitz frowned over her horn rims at Vinnie. Their instructions had been to listen up, no eating, no sleeping, no talking. The judge had just finished introducing the prosecution, the defense, and the defendant, and outlining the bare bones of the case.
The defendant—a big handsome black kid, about twenty—was charged with attempting to hold up a Korean grocer. He’d purportedly used a gun: the plaintiff, a short but muscular man, had answered with a whirling baseball bat.
This
was the stuff of real life, thought Clare.
This
was material. How would it work? Dirk follows Carol out of the restaurant. She runs into the Korean store. They’re caught smack in the middle of the holdup. Carol grabs up a tray of hot sweet-and-sour pork from the steam table, heaves it at the robber…
The judge had chosen to conduct the voir dire herself, questioning the twelve citizens in the box:
Do any of you know me, the defendant, the plaintiff, either of the prosecution or the defense attorneys, or any of the witnesses I’ve just named?
How?
Do you know the area, Broadway between Bleecker and Third, where the incident took place?
What is your knowledge of that site?
Are you related to any law enforcement officers, and, if so, how?
What is the nature of your employment?
What magazines do you subscribe to?
Have you ever been the victim of a street crime?
Have you ever been the victim of a crime involving a gun?
Wilma Paris, the advertising account exec to whom Clare had given change, had a brother who was a cop, and she said it was her belief that cops lied as much as anybody else.
Vinnie Gallo said he himself, as a customer, had been held up at gunpoint in a Korean store. By a kid. With a gun. (Clare wasn’t sure she believed him.)
Clare declared that she herself didn’t know anyone in the courtroom. She lived in the Village and had walked by the crime scene many times but wasn’t certain if she’d ever stopped in. She was not related to any police officers, nor did she know any personally. She was the head writer on
Real Life
. She subscribed to
The
New Yorker, New York, Saveur, Soap Digest
, and
Conde Nast Traveler
. She had lived in Manhattan eighteen years and had never been the victim of any crime whatsoever.
(Unless you counted having her heart run over and squashed flat by one Dr. David Teller, who was not a defendant here today.)
At the end of the questioning, Clare was excused with no explanation, along with Vinnie and Wilma. Thank you. Good-bye.
*
Back in Room 1517, the chairs where Clare, Vinnie, and Wilma were sitting had been taken. Clare scanned the room. There was an empty bloc of seats back toward the windows, near the young Hispanic woman watching TV. She headed for them. She had to get to work.
But Vinnie and Wilma were close on her heels.
“I can’t believe they didn’t take you,” said Vinnie. “Me, that’s one thing, but you? You’re perfect, except for that part about living in Manhattan for years and never even having your purse snatched. That made you sound like a liar.”
Wilma leaned across him, interrupting. “I want to ask you about
Real Life
. My mom is a huge fan. She’ll be so excited when I tell her I met you. You really make up all those stories?”
“I’m afraid so.” Clare grimaced.
When I can. When I don’t have writer’s block. When I’m not scared to death. Depressed. Sleep-deprived. On jury duty.
“She’s writing right here.” Vinnie pointed at the computer in Clare’s hand.
“I don’t know how you do it,” said Wilma. “I’m an account exec. Not a creative bone in my body.”
“Mine, either,” said Clare.
“Come on.” Vinnie laughed. “You’re just being modest.”
“No, I’m not.” And then it just spilled out, the whole nine yards of her pathetic tale. How she was upset about her personal life and hadn’t been sleeping well. How she had only a week left to revamp
Real Life
, to make it hotter than O. J., bigger than real life. How she didn’t have a clue.
“You can do it,” said Vinnie. “I know you can.”
“I don’t think so.” Clare shook her head.
Just then, an officer stood from behind the long desk. “Lunch break,” he announced. “Be back at two-thirty. Did anyone not get a list of restaurants in Chinatown and Little Italy?”
The whole room stampeded for the door.
Except Julia, the young Hispanic woman in the row behind them, who was plugged into the earphones of her little TV. “Jesus!” she screamed. “I can’t believe it! Shoot the fucker!”
Mid-flight, people stopped and stared.
“Shoot him! Don’t let him get away with that!”
The officer started toward her.
“Kill the son of a bitch!” Julia shouted.
“Miss?” The clerk tapped her arm. “You’re going to have to quiet down. And you can’t use that kind of language in here.”
“What?” Julia jumped and jerked out her earphones. “Was I loud? I’m sorry. But I get so excited at my program. That Dirk! He’s such a…” She caught herself. “…bad person. I can’t believe Carol lets him get away with that…stuff!”
“Oh, Christ!” Clare slapped a hand to her mouth. “She’s talking about
Real Life
.”
Vinnie grabbed both Clare and Wilma, then leaned over Julia. “Miss? You wanna go to lunch with us? My treat.”
*
Vinnie took them to a restaurant where he was obviously known, Luigi’s on Mulberry Street. Restaurants were the only thing that remained Italian about Little Italy. The old families had long since moved to Staten Island, and the real estate was being swallowed up by the Chinese. But that didn’t stop the tourists, especially the ones who imagined gangland hits over every plate of meatballs and spaghetti.
The food at Luigi’s, old-fashioned red-sauce Italian, was good enough to please the most demanding mobster. Vinnie had ordered a giant antipasto platter for the table. “Have some more coppa,” he urged, pouring the Chianti. “And peppers. These mushrooms Luigi said he smuggled in from Italy last week. Finish them up. Then we’ll get down to work.”
“Work?” asked Julia, her eyes big as she looked up from her plate. It was clear this meal was a special treat for her. She was very impressed by Luigi’s. Not to mention Vinnie.
“Sure,” said Vinnie. “We’re going to write Clare’s story.
Real Life
is getting itself fixed right here. Right now. At this table.”
Clare almost choked. Just as the food and the wine and the company were beginning to make her feel a little human, Vinnie had to bring that up.
“You think we can’t?” Vinnie reared back in his chair. “’Cause we ain’t professional writers? I’m telling you, we can, and we will. We are the people. The people who know about real life. We are your friggin’ audience you don’t ever give no respect.”
Clare raised her glass. “Hear, hear.”
*
“I don’t like the idea of using the stickup in the Korean store,” said Julia, sipping her coffee.
“Why not?” Wilma asked.
“The stickup is real,” insisted Clare.
“It’d be more real if somebody got killed. In my neighborhood, every time there’s a stickup, somebody gets killed.”
“So who do you pick to die?” Vinnie signaled for more grappa. “You got the black kid. You got the Korean. You got Carol and Dirk.”
“Carol,” said Julia.
Clare put down her glass. “Why Carol?”
“’Cause she’s a wimp,” Julia said. “Take today’s show. Dirk tells her he’s marrying another woman, what does she do? She just leaves the table. Carol makes me sick.”
“Oh, really?” said Clare, a little defensive. “What do you want her to do? Kill him, like you were saying back upstairs?” Clare pointed a thumb in the direction of 100 Centre Street and the courthouse. At least she thought it was in that direction. She was getting pretty loaded.
“Yeah,” said Julia. “Kill him.”
“How? When? Where?” asked Wilma.
“How? Pick up a knife from the table and stab the sucker. When? As soon as he said he was dumping her for another chick. Where? In the gut.”
Clare thought about that. How would that have gone down, the two of them in Bar Pitti having dinner when David had made his announcement? He had ordered the veal. There was a sharp knife at his place. It certainly would have been possible. Of course, she’d be in Rikers now. Or wherever it was they locked up female murderers. The Tombs, maybe, right next door to 100 Centre.
“If she’d killed him in the restaurant,” said Wilma, “then they wouldn’t be in the Korean store together.”
“Screw the Korean store,” said Julia.
Clare said, “Look, folks, we can’t go back to the scene in the restaurant and do it differently. It aired today, remember? Then there are three more weeks of shows already in the can. That’s where we have to pick up.”
“Okay, so what happened after Carol ran out of the restaurant?” asked Julia.
Clare could tell from Julia’s tone that she was thinking, I bet not much. And she was right. “But it’s not my fault,” Clare insisted. “This was before they wanted the show to pick up speed. To be more like real life.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Wilma.
“Dirk’s ex-wife, Molly, who has always hoped that Dirk would come back to her, is shattered when she hears that Dirk is marrying yet another woman. She flips out and has to be institutionalized. She ends up in the hospital where David does most of his cosmetic surgery, and she rages in while he’s in the middle of doing somebody’s face. The patient, who is Richard of Richard and Paula, has been in a terrible skiing accident and ended up with no nose.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” said Vinnie.
“Who’s David?” asked Wilma. “You said David was performing the surgery.”
Clare blushed. “I meant Dirk. David’s my real ex-boyfriend. The real plastic surgeon.”
“And did David dump you like Dirk dumped Carol?” Wilma asked.
Clare nodded.
“Then forget what I said,” said Julia. “Let’s get him back in that Korean store and shoot that sucker full of holes.”
“I like the Korean store, too,” said Vinnie, knocking back the last of his grappa. “But now it’s two-fifteen, and we’ve got to scoot back over to Centre Street.”
*
Back in Room 1517, the four of them clustered in a corner. They were picking up speed. Dirk lay dead in the grocery store, and they were arguing over whether or not the Korean grocer or Carol subdued the shooter, when the court officer stepped from behind the desk and called their names once more and they had to file into another courtroom.
This time, the defendant, as Judge O’Banion explained, was a twenty-two-year-old man who, when his girlfriend jilted him, had thrown her in front of a subway train which cut her to ribbons.
The four cowriters stared at one another. Dirk, mouthed Julia. It’s even better. It’s perfect.
They couldn’t wait to get out of that courtroom and back to
Real Life
.
Vinnie had said that he thought the jiltee was justified. Wilma had said that her eighty-six-year-old mother was once dragged by a train and she just couldn’t listen to the testimony. Julia’s lie was that she had gone to high school with the victim. Clare said that she was obsessed with this case, had followed every smidgen of news about it, and thought the defendant should be strung up. They were all excused.