The Laws of Gravity (26 page)

Abigail just smiled, embarrassed.

As he stood up to go a little later, he said, “I’m afraid I can’t call you tomorrow.”

Abigail felt the blood rush to her face. She was surprised at the way disappointment seemed to hit her so hard. “Of course not,” she said. “That’s fine. I didn’t expect—”

“I mean because it’s Shabbos,” he said. “Can’t use the phone. But if it’s all right with you, I’ll call you after.”

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, it’s all right.”

“We should talk about your daughter’s conversion,” he said. “Esther was right, it is important—if it’s important to you.”

“It could be important to my parents,” she said. “Is that good enough?”

“Good enough for me,” he said. “So—we’ll talk.” He bent over, and she nearly turned her face up for a kiss. Luckily she didn’t close her eyes. He shook her hand and said, “Shabbat Shalom.”

“Shabbat Shalom,” she answered.

Julian Takes the Stand

Sol would never know what made him go so early into court that morning. Normally he arrived at eight thirty like clockwork. No sooner, no later. Over the years he’d timed it nearly to a science. But that morning he woke just after dawn, and try as he might, he could not get back to sleep. The sky was a shimmering deep-blue screen outside the window; for once it had not snowed. There was no sense puttering around the house, he thought. He might as well go straight to the courthouse and get some work done.

When he pulled into the Supreme Court parking lot, he thought some terrible event had occurred. It looked like a full-fledged crime scene, with police lights flashing, four or five white Nassau County police cars parked in a line, and the parking lot jammed with newspaper reporters. A decade earlier, a jealous lover had murdered one of the clerks in the Supreme Court building after hours, and it had looked like this—pure chaos.

But when Judge Richter climbed out of his car, five or six flashbulbs went off in his face, and with a sinking heart he realized what had happened: Flannery had tipped off the press. He had told them a minor was
going to testify. For an instant he couldn’t tell if he was blinded by the flash or by his own fury.

“Judge Richter! Judge Richter!” A dozen reporters shouted his name, but he heard them only dimly, as if under water. A crowd had gathered on the courthouse front steps around one thin scarecrowish figure dressed in a dapper blue suit with red stripes. He knew that figure and that suit, and he headed toward it so forcefully that even the reporters and cameramen fell back.

He pushed his way up the courthouse stairs and dragged Flannery inside. He steered his chief clerk by the elbow, past the security guards, past the gaping reporters, the gawking passersby—crowd begets crowd, he thought, and it would take forever to get rid of them all. It was a miracle that neither the plaintiff nor defendant had yet arrived. Another ten minutes and the whole case would have blown up. The judge was four inches shorter than his clerk, but he had the energy of righteous anger driving them both.

“I’ll be right back!” Flannery called to the reporters. Then to Sol, “What’s wrong? Your Honor, what is it? I’m needed here,” but Sol shook his head grimly till he’d steered them both straight into the men’s room next to the lobby, closed the door, and locked it.

Then he stopped to face his clerk. “Pack your things,” he said, his voice low. When Sol was truly angry his voice dropped. If you had to strain to hear him you were in trouble. But Flannery had heard him.

He goggled at the judge. “What do you mean?” he said. “Pack?”

“I mean you’re fired. As of today. This moment. I want you out of here.”

“Justice Richter,” said Flannery. “There must be some mistake.”

“You nearly caused a mistrial. Do you understand that? A woman’s life is at stake! And now a young boy’s future and reputation are on the line
as well. Today’s hearing was closed to the press, to protect a child and to preserve the law. But you had to be out there grandstanding. So I’m telling you to take your fat-assed fiancée and get out of this courthouse before I wring your skinny neck.” Sol found his hands on the clerk’s shoulders as if he were about to make good on his threat.

Flannery shook him off and moved gracefully backward, offended dignity personified. His face was brick red. He tugged down his suit coat and quickly checked himself out in the men’s room mirror. “My fiancée does
not
have a fat ass.”

“Get out!” Sol roared. Flannery bolted. Despite his rage, Sol could not watch him go without some feeling of pity and of loss. He had to steel himself, actually clench his fists, to keep himself from calling after the clerk. He watched the skinny figure cross the parking lot in five or six long strides and climb into his car, an older model Cadillac. Flannery had attached a set of Mickey Mouse ears to his car, he once explained, to make it recognizable in a crowd. Sol watched the Disney head bobble as it wove out of sight.

It took nearly an hour to clear away the crowd from outside the courtroom. Stephanie had intercepted both the defendant and plaintiff and told them to stay away. The police started handing out written citations and parking tickets, and that seemed to do the trick. The journalists scattered, taking their cameras and equipment with them. Sol was more shaken by his run-in with Flannery than he cared to admit. What a fool he was, to have put his trust in such a man! He had considered Flannery almost a friend. Sol asked Frank Zimmer to cover for him, and looking a bit puzzled, the young
part clerk had done the “All rise” in his quiet, even voice. He had pulled together all the needed files for the day; Myra pitched in, too. When she started to ask about Flannery, though, he cut her off. No one had filed a formal complaint about the morning’s disaster, but the judge knew he had a ticking time bomb on his hands. Katrina Turock looked like the cat who’d eaten the canary. For her, this was simply another opportunity. They managed to get the boy safely upstairs without further interference or publicity.

The young witness sat beside his father, his hands folded in his lap. He was doing something curious with the hands, the judge realized, lacing and unlacing them, as if rearranging some design with his fingers. He looked like a nice kid—the kind of grandson he himself would have liked to have. Might conceivably still have. This boy was built just like his father beside him—the same broad shoulders, the same broad nose and deep brown level eyes. His hair was a bit darker and curlier, and he was wearing a navy blue blazer instead of a blue suit like his father. The father’s suit must have cost a thousand dollars, but the kid’s jacket was no bargain either. The boy kept his eyes on his hands.

Nicole saw him come in, and she smiled at Julian, despite herself, but when he didn’t smile back she felt exhausted, as if she’d suddenly run out of gas. She felt that way a lot these days. When she put a halt to all the chemo treatments, she’d stopped feeling so nauseated, and some of the side effects went away, but inside, it was as if her body had dropped another floor on an elevator. The lump on her neck had returned. She had recurring nightmares now, where she came to a stone wall and could not get across it, though she could see Jay and Daisy on the other side, walking in the snow. The court case seemed more and more irrelevant. She kept on with it because she had said that she would, and stubbornness, it seemed, was the very last thing to go. Besides, to walk away from it now would be a betrayal of her husband
and daughter. She’d fight this thing out to the end and try to leave them behind without bitterness. That was what she thought about now. How to exit gracefully, how to leave behind as little damage as possible.

Peter had always prepared her for how this trial was likely to turn out. Another judge might have gone with the first motion to dismiss it altogether. She sometimes wished this one had. She had no false expectations. Still, having Julian testify against her in court brought more bitterness than she’d have expected. It knocked the wind right out of her. Mimi was nowhere in sight. Ari sat stolidly beside his son, one arm curved around his shoulder. He looked more alert, more solidly
there
, than he had for months.

“This,” said the father, gesturing toward the boy, “is what we are trying to protect. This boy and his baby sister, who is too young to be here today.”

Katrina called Ari to the stand. “Please state the age of your children.”

“Julian is eleven,” the father said. “The baby—Arianna—is twenty-two months old.”

“And can you describe the health of your children?”

“Objection,” said Peter. “Compound question.”

“Objection sustained,” said the judge. “The court will hear about one child’s health at a time.”

Katrina rolled her eyes. “How would you describe the health of your daughter?” she asked with deliberate slowness.

“It’s fine,” Ari said.

“And the health of your son?”

“Good,” the father said. “Their health is good. But some months ago, Julian got a lump”—his hand went instinctively to his own throat—“on his neck. A big hard lump on the side of his neck.” One hand hovered toward his son, as if to reassure himself. “The doctor thought it might be
Hodgkin’s. We have the records. We had a biopsy done. That’s when I realized I could not go through with this thing. Life is too uncertain. Things go wrong when you least expect them. What if he really had been sick? What if we needed that cord blood for our own boy, and we had given it away?”

“Objection to everything after ‘We had a biopsy done,’ Your Honor,” said Peter. “We request that it be stricken from the record. Witness may testify only to facts, not opinions.”

“Objection sustained,” said the judge.

“Is it a fact that you decided to withhold the cord blood after this biopsy?” asked Katrina Turock.

“Yes, it is,” said Ari.

“Thank you,” said Katrina. “Your witness,” she added, as she walked back to reclaim her seat. She said it the way a cat flicks its tail.

“Mr. Wiesenthal,” said Peter. “What was the result of that biopsy?”

“Benign,” the father said. “Something called a teratoma.—Like a hair ball, the doctor said. It happens sometimes. Still, it could have been much worse. Much, much worse.”

“Objection,” said Peter. “Witness cannot speculate.”

“Objection sustained,” said Sol.

Katrina Turock was glaring at Peter.

Ari looked rattled. His mouth opened and closed twice. “You understand,” he said. His fingers were gripping the edge of the wood table so hard that the blood left his fingertips. “I’m a father. I only—”

“Objection again, Your Honor,” said Peter.

“Sustained,” said Sol. “Mr. Wiesenthal, you are not to say anything unless you are asked a question.”

Ari nodded.

“I’m done here,” said Peter.

Ari hurried back to his seat. His son kept his head down, the hair falling forward over his eyes.

Katrina rose. “Defendant calls Julian Wiesenthal to the stand,” she said. She looked defiantly at Peter.

“Objection,” said Peter. “Julian is too young to understand the oath.”

“I’m not a baby,” Julian said. He did not say it impolitely.

He looked like a nice boy, the judge thought. Unreadable, that half-babyish, half-teenage face. He felt the wrench inside his own gut when he looked at Nicole’s expression, her lowered head. Had any good come of it? Lieu had asked. Could any good come of it? This rending of flesh from flesh.

“Julian,” the judge said. “Do you know what the truth is?”

“Does anyone?” the boy asked.

“Do you know that it is wrong to tell a lie?”

“Of course,” said Julian.

“So,” Sol continued, in a gentler voice. “You want to testify?”

“I
do
,” the boy said, though his voice shivered a little on the word
do
.

“And you’ve come of your own free will? No one has forced or coerced you to be here?”

Julian shook his moppy head. His mouth was drawn tight. “No one,” he said. His father patted his arm with the hand that draped down over his shoulder.

“All right, then,” the judge said. “Come on up to the stand, and we’ll swear you in.”

The boy looked extremely solemn all during the procedure. He did not glance around the room, nor did he show the slightest inclination to dramatize or show off. He kept his hands clasped together and his eyes fixed on
the judge’s face, which Sol found unusual in someone so young and inexperienced. His granddaughter Iris also had a preternaturally solemn face. Maybe this whole generation was born old. Aside from the small group, the court recorder tapping away, taking notes, and Carter Johnson himself standing guard at the back, the room was empty. Katrina Turock tapped her pencil rapidly on the wood desk in front of her, and then, hearing the sound rebound in the room, stopped.