A Naked Singularity: A Novel (31 page)

“Why? You could’ve just played it off. Easily too. Someone like you? Nobody would’ve known the difference.”

“Too late, I knew. I knew I had failed. I had to abide by the conditions I’d imposed on myself. I had to be honest or else the whole thing would reduce to mere charade. I knew this particular imperfection hadn’t been planned. It was a mistake. An error beyond my control. Imperfection at a time when my every action was geared toward the pursuit of perfection and what could be more demoralizing? I credit myself for not having immediately broken down into tears. I was furious. At myself. At life. At my lot to be no better than anyone else.”

“What happened?”

“I just told you.”

“I mean the verdict.”

“They acquitted him in like nine minutes but who cared at that point? I bailed out of there in record time. The jurors wanted to talk to me, probably to ask what had gotten me so angry. I went into my office and barred the door. I had a dartboard in my office back then and I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to hit the bull’s-eye with my eyes closed. When I finally did I went home and drank. A lot.”

“Damn, you needed maybe some perspective. You tried a case probably better than anybody else ever has and as a result you got an almost instantaneous acquittal on a dead case.”

“Listen don’t get me wrong. I’m way over it now. But what happened in that courtroom that morning was nothing short of devastating. I had trouble coping. I looked for ways to atone. I thought about writing a perfect appeal. What I found in my preliminary investigation is that writing is an often unsatisfying process even more fraught with error.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“The rest of my practice had gone to shit too. My other clients barely knew my name and I somehow felt bad about this. Acting like such a responsible attorney on the Barnes case made me actually feel like the responsible attorney I was emulating. I wasn’t able to separate the two. Seemed my actions determined my internal state more than the inverse and this new responsible internal state was devastated by the neglect I had visited on my other clients. I was lost. I hadn’t expected to still be doing this job. I spoke to a friend of mine at the time about my predicament. I told her what had happened and why it had me in a tailspin. She was a generally useless person this friend but she said one thing that stuck in my head and which finally allowed me to move on, to set my sights elsewhere. She said I was absolved of all blame because my project stemmed from crime and was therefore doomed to imperfection. In other words, the natural or perfect order of things is law-abidingness and because criminality deviates from this it is inherently imperfect. This imperfection then necessarily taints any attempts at perfection such as mine that stem from crime. Now a greater crock of shit than this is hard to envision but it got me thinking about the nature of crime and for that I am grateful.”

“Grateful why?”

“Let me put it this way. Have you ever imagined what your performance would be like if you were suddenly cast in a different role than defense attorney? I
have
lost cases, though thankfully not many. That said, I am certain that if I was a DA, with the advantages attached to that position, the greatest being the ability to exercise a great deal of control over which cases go to trial, I would never lose a case.”

“
Never
might be too strong a word but in general I agree.”

“What this means is that being a prosecutor is an easier job when the job is defined as the successful acquisition of legal victories. So if you define perfection in one instance as never losing a trial, having a perfect trial record, the prosecution of criminal cases is more susceptible to perfection, whether attainable or not, than criminal defense. Now turn your attention to our clients whose job, so to speak, is to successfully commit crimes. Success obviously involves evading prosecution so in one sense all of our clients are already imperfect failures. Have you ever envisioned yourself, or a comparable other, seriously engaged in the practice of crime? How difficult is the criminal’s job in relation to others in the criminal justice system? Well one thing that seems true about crime as a profession is that you far more often see the types of errors that boggle the mind in their stupidity. So you hear about the bank robber who writes the demanding note on his personal stationery. Or the defendant who wears the proceeds of his larcenous activity, unique lizard-skin boots, to the trial on those charges.”

“Or the defendant representing himself who asks the complainant in an identification case whether or not she got a good look
at him
!”

“Or the robber who parks his getaway car in a tow-away zone with predictable results.”

“Or the guy who stumbles onto a movie set and surrenders to actors portraying cops only to be held for later arrest by the real thing.”

“You get the idea. Is there something about crime that makes not only perfection but simple competence such a challenge? I’ve done my research and it does appear that crime gives rise to a higher incidence of error than your average process. Nonetheless, I think that the commission of a perfect crime
is
possible and I view crime’s imperfect nature as a challenge which can potentially create a higher order of perfection. More importantly, what ultimately proved therapeutic to me and what has taken me to the crossroads I’m at today is the notion that I can kill all of the birds currently fluttering about my head with one large beautiful stone. Incidentally, these birds also circle yours so you’d do well to listen attentively.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What do you mean?”

“What?”

“What birds?”

“Oh, these birds. For one, although I’m by no means poor, I have nowhere near the amount of money I want or deserve. That’s exacerbated by the fact that in my current condition I need to quit my job soon. Of course, for you matters are far more pressing.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Second, there’s the matter of my fascination with the Perfect and my consequent need to achieve perfection vis-à-vis becoming Godlike and so forth.”

“A fascination I don’t share.”

“Nonsense. I seem to recall you saying that what makes a caper compelling is the idea that you can execute it without flaw. Sufficient planning and intelligence were I believe referred to.”

“That’s fantasy.”

“How many trials you done?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, how many jury trials have you done alone or as lead attorney?”

“Twelve.”

“And how many of those have you won again? How many resulted in acquittals?”

“All of them.”

“A perfect record.”

“Whenever I’ve tried a case I wanted desperately to win but—”

“More accurately, you were terrified of losing.”

“Maybe. But in every case my effort was directed towards a particular result in that instance and for that individual, not in service of some higher pursuit of overall perfection.”

“Lastly, there are my thoughts, which I have previously expressed to you, regarding a legacy and the fact that I simply cannot stand idly by watching all sorts of lesser talents build impressive legacies while I prepare to merely disappear without so much as a whimper.”

“So what’s your solution?”

“Imagine you and I committed the perfect crime, bearing in mind my definition of Perfect.”

“What are you possibly talking about?”

“Hear me out. Imagine this crime involved an astronomical amount of money. Now imagine that aside from being committed perfectly, this crime was of such a compelling nature and committed in such a sensational way that it intrigued our information-saturated world with its perfection. With our pursuit of perfection and avarice satiated we could wait for some suitable time when we could not be prosecuted, for example on our deathbed or after the running of the statute of limitations, and we could confess in painstaking detail thereby ensuring our legacy as History’s sole purveyors of perfected crime. What do you think?”

“You don’t want to know. I’ve got to get the hell out of here too Dane. This is like the longest lunch ever and I have work to do.”

“Go ahead I’ll wait for the waiter, it could be hours.”

“Here, this should cover it.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“What about it?”

“Lunch.”

“No. I’ve got 180.80s, I’ll be swamped all day.”

“After work then, drinks.”

“Can’t, I’m meeting some doctor.”

“What’s your ailment?”

“No it’s like a date deal.”

“That word still used?”

“Deal?”

“No,
date
.”

“No. But speaking of ailments, what
is
your current condition?”

“What?”

“The one that necessitates you quitting soon?”

“Oh yeah. I’m dying.”

“You’re what-ing?”

“There’s that bastard waiter, fucking guy should tip me. Let me snag him else I stay here all day, later.”

“Yeah.”

I walked into Conley’s office with a rare legitimate purpose that I immediately forgot when beset by its panasonic air. Inside was the usual trio of Conley, Liszt, and Debi. But also there was Julia dangling a shiny pump off her stockinged foot, Toomberg with a frayed Penal Law in his mitts, and Cleary with his white collar. Cleary got to wear the cool collar because in addition to being a barely competent attorney he was also, I fuck with you not, a Catholic priest. Unfortunately for Father Cleary his true favorite spirits assumed liquid form and underneath his shellacked yellow lid of hair, which seemed to hover in suspension above his perfectly circular melon, his face wore burst blood vessels in the shape of spider webs as evidence.

The clamor was due to Debi and Conley being mid-debate. Should the odds change continually to reflect incoming Tula news, with people allowed to wager at any point up and until a definitive settlement of the issue? Or should a deadline be set at which point no further action would be accepted and the odds frozen?

On one of the rose-colored walls, an oaktag chart had been hung with evident care. From this chart a prospective wagerer could see the various odds and their respective predictions as well as who was aligned with what outcome and at what price. Television had been wheeled into the room and was awake in hope it would soon feed the room much-sought-after information. The debate was quickly settled and it was decided that all bets would be on with no cutoff other than the natural one mandated by the situation.

Soon thereafter a quiet broke into the room. Then all eyes, guided by invisible but persistent gravitons, locked on to Television and the subdued press conference being held within. Now they, i.e. the news, cut back to the studio with the faux NYC skyline background. There the immaculately sculpted head shook no and said, “Again, police are asking for your help. If you know anything at all concerning the whereabouts of baby—”

“I hate that,” interrupted Conley. “Police are asking for my help? When did that become legitimate? Do your own job. What would be the reaction if the newscaster said
public defender Garo Conley is asking for your help. He has a really busy day in court tomorrow and he needs somebody to cover a couple of cases in Part 43
? I would be laughed out of the box. Cops do it and people rush to the phone.”

“We all have an interest in the successful prosecution of malfeasance,” said Cleary. “The hotline number allows the community to vent and feel productive.”

“Community? This is New York padre!” a chorus laughed.

“Unfortunately, the hotline also gives some sick people a forum,” said Julia. “I heard on the radio this morning that somebody called BAD—BABY with an anonymous tip regarding Tula. Apparently he had everyone’s hopes up at first because he seemed to know things that weren’t in the papers. He said he had it on good word that baby Tula was fine and unharmed and he was very convincing. Unfortunately, when they pressed him on his source it appears he cited Ralph Kramden as the bearer of the good news.”

“Not.”

“Yes the fat bus driver with the best friend who works in the sewer!”

“Crazy people,” muttered Debi without smiling.

Debi did everything without smiling and there was more than a little speculation as to why that was, speculation I could have ended at any moment but didn’t. After hearing several people commenting on the fact that Debi never smiled I had grown curious myself and asked her about it in a roundabout joking way that I hoped would insulate me from charges of rudeness. She mumbled something while motioning to a magazine on her table, her voice trailing off as she left the office. When I went over to the magazine I saw the problem. Under the Basic Beauty section there was an article on smiles. The writer couldn’t have been clearer. Smiles were a D.E.E. that should be avoided at all costs. D.E.E. stood for
Devastating Epidermal Event
because it seemed a smile implicated more facial muscles on the average than any other common facial expression. As a result, researchers at Whattsamatta U. or something were prepared to state that excessive smiling could lead to premature wrinkles particularly around the all-important windows to the soul. News taken to heart apparently.

“He was claiming to have spoken to Kramden himself?” asked Liszt. I accidentally looked right at Toomberg. “Got to go,” I whispered and split.

“Can I change my pick to the mother killed the baby herself and concocted the entire scenario as a smoke screen?” I heard Liszt ask from the hallway.

“Wait up!” said Toomberg running out of the office after me and foiling my plan to avoid him. Drats! is what I thought.

“Did you get an opportunity to review the death penalty material over the weekend?” he asked.

“No.”

“We really have to progress on that.”

“Don’t worry Toomie, I’m with you. It’s just that I was swamped.”

“How?”

“Christ Toom. I pulled some kids out of a burning building! Don’t you feel guilty for asking now? Obviously that was followed by all sorts of commendations and meetings with the mayor and the like. It’s been a real whirlwind.”

“Seriously, is it true you’re working on Tom’s case?”