Jason Pinter - The Fury

The 4 train took us to Canal Street. For some reason, passing by the massive pillars and intricate scrollwork adorning the Supreme Court building reminded me I hadn't yet served jury duty since arriving in New York a few years ago. I could already imagine the tremendous sense of irony I would feel upon signing that jury slip.

Maybe if I was lucky it'd be juror appreciation day. Get a free coffee mug and everything. Leave this mess with something memorable.

The Manhattan Criminal Courthouse towered above the city skyscape, with four towers encircling a larger center with floors in decreasing size, as though you were viewing a staircase to the sky. In front were two massive granite columns, and the whole structure was designed in an art deco-style.

We entered the lobby through glass doors and made our way to the security stand. We showed our identifi cation, which the security guard scrutinized intensely and matched to his logbook before writing us passes.

After that we passed through a series of metal detectors and, after a search of my bag and Amanda's purse, we were headed toward the Manhattan Detention Complex, aka the Tombs.

A tall guard in a neatly pressed blue uniform accom panied us to an elevator that looked like it was built into a brick wall. I noticed he did not have a gun on his holster. Instead, there was a Taser, a can of Mace and a thin cylinder about a half inch in diameter and six inches long. The guard noticed I was staring at it.

"Expandable baton," he said. "Officers have been complaining about the longer ones for years. They're heavy as my mother-in-law and an incredible nuisance.

These puppies are compact and pack a hell of a punch."

"Can I try it?"

"No."

We got on the elevator and the guard pressed Down.

We waited just a few moments before the doors opened up.

"Not a lot of elevator traffic," I said.

"Anytime I see the elevator going up from the lower levels and I'm not in it," he said, "we've got problems."

"I hope that's not a regular occurrence."

He didn't answer me. I'd begun to get used to people tuning me out.

By staring straight ahead I wasn't sure if he thought that was a stupid statement, or one that struck a nerve.

As much as I hated embarrassing myself with silly comments, I hope it was the former.

Once the elevator opened, the guard led us through a long, musty tunnel. At the end was a series of metal bars, not unlike those on an actual jail cell. Beyond we could see several more guards, and the unmistakable orange of prison jumpsuits. The guard took a key card from his pocket, slid it onto a keypad and unlocked the door. Opening it, the guard ushered us into a smaller room lined with metal benches. Guards took both of our bags and patted us down. Guards with shotguns and handcuffs adorned the walls, their eyes traveling the length of the room and back again, dispassionate.

Security cameras with weapons.

We sat down at a table at the end of the room. There were two other people seated at a table twenty feet from us. An older balding man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit, thick glasses and a thick paunch sat, chin in his hands, while a bejeweled woman many years younger (with many half-priced plastic surgeries under her belt) rattled on about something the man couldn't have seemed less interested in. In fact, he looked slightly relieved that he would end the night in his cell as opposed to in bed next to her.

We sat waiting. I wanted to take Amanda's hand. Felt like I needed to hold on to something that was right.

Being here in this place accentuated my simple need to feel like I was a part of something wholesome and decent.

Amanda represented everything I had in that department.

Soon I heard a jangling of chains, and my father appeared behind a set of metal doors. Two guards were poised on either side of him. They looked somewhat disinterested, but the tense muscles in their forearms told me differently.

They led him over to our table, hands under his elbows as he struggled to walk with chains binding both his wrists and ankles.

Finally he took a seat across from us, and I could see what this place had done to him.

My father looked pale. Thin, reedy. He was never a very muscular man, but any tone he had seemed to have dissipated over the last week. His hair was stringy and looked unwashed. His eyes wandered around the room.

They looked scared, as though he expected something or someone to jump out of the shadows.

I wondered just what kind of hell this man was enduring here.

Part of me, and man I wished I didn't feel this way, wondered if it was penance.

"Henry, good to see you, son." He smiled weakly as he said this, and I knew he meant it. Those were the warmest words my father had spoken to me since…I couldn't recall when. And it was a shame they came under these circumstances.

"How you holding up?"

He made a psh sound and leaned back. "S'not so bad.

You see all those movies where guys get gang-raped in the shower and they're all getting stabbed waiting on line for food."

"Nobody's tried to hurt you, have they?" Amanda asked.

"No…well, one guy did get stabbed in the shower, but I didn't know him."

My mouth dropped as Amanda looked at me. "We need to get you out of here," I said.

"Well, what in the hell is taking you so long?" he shouted. The other couple turned and started. I heard a rustling as two guards moved closer. He looked at them and shrank back. Suddenly the warmth was gone. This was the man I grew up with. But that didn't mean he was a murderer.

"We're working on it," I said.

"How's your attorney?" Amanda asked. "Has he been to see you regularly?"

"He's been down here two or three times. How the heck should I know if he's any good?" my father seethed. "I mean, he knows more about this legal stuff than me, but so does the janitor here. He could be the smartest damn lawyer in New York or the dumbest and I wouldn't know the difference between him and the Maytag repairman."

"What's his name?" she asked.

"Marvin something. Marvin Fleischman."

She shook her head. "Don't know him."

"Have you spoken to Mom?" I asked.

"Once," he said. "Her sister drove in from Seattle."

"She didn't want to be here?"

"I wouldn't let her be here," he said.

"If you're worried about the money, she could stay with me," I said.

"She's not here because I don't want her to be. The house won't take care of itself. Bills don't send their own checks."

"People can help you and her, Dad."

"We don't need people. We're fine."

"Clearly."

"These public defenders," my father said. "Do they know their ass from their elbow?"

"Depends," she replied. "A lot of lawyers go the PD route because they believe everyone deserves a fair trial and good representation. Believe it or not, a lot of lawyers enter the profession for the nobility of it. Of course, a lot of them go the PD route because it's a guar anteed paycheck, as opposed to private practice where you run the risk of getting stiffed on your bill by a client who can't pay. And…" She trailed off.

"And what?" James Parker said.

"And some of them, well, let's just say that govern ment work does not always attract the best and the brightest." My father slumped into his chair. I got the feeling he thought this Marvin Fleischman fit the latter category. "But seriously, Mr. Parker, every lawyer is dif ferent. You could get great representation from a PD."

"So," I said, "let's hope you got a guy who graduated from Harvard Law with a summa cum laude in nobility."

The noise my dad made said he wasn't quite expect ing that to be the case.

"Listen, Dad," I said, "we've found out a lot. About

Stephen, his family. I think he was mixed up in some pretty bad stuff."