Joseph Teller - Bronx Justice

THE TENTH CASE

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DEPRAVED INDIFFERENCE

Available November 2009

To Sheila, who put up with me back then, at a time

when I’m sure I was impossible to put up with.

And to my children, Wendy, Ron and Tracy,

who must have suffered mightily by having a father

absent in more ways than one, but never complained

about it, then or since.

1: IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

2: NO DOUBT WHATSOEVER

3: EIGHTY YEARS

4: HEDGING BETS

5: THE LITTLE BLACK BOX

6: LAST CHANCE

7: THE BRICK WALL

8: NIGHTS ON THE COUCH

9: THE FREE LOOK

10: A STUBBORN FOG

11: BOARD GAMES

12: DISCREPANCIES

13: THE CYCLONE

14: FAMILY AND FRIENDS

15: DARREN

16: THE OTHER MAN

17: LOW BLOWS

18: THREE PITIFUL WEAPONS

19: THE SHORTEST DAY

20: IN THIS HEART OF MINE

21: MURDER BURGERS

22: A NEW YEAR’S TOAST

23: NO PLACE TO BE

24: JAMMED UP PRETTY GOOD

25: THE NICEST THANK-YOU

26: ELEVEN POINTS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Jaywalker is dreaming when the ringing of his phone jars him awake. Something about hiking with his wife in the Canadian Rockies. He understands right away it has to have been a dream, because his wife has been dead for nearly ten years now, and he hasn’t hiked the Rockies in twice that long.

Groping in the darkness for the phone, his first fear is for his daughter. Is she out driving? Riding with some pimply-faced boyfriend who’s had his learner’s permit for two weeks now and thinks of driving as some sort of video game? Then he remembers. His daughter is in her early thirties. She has a husband with no pimples, a child of her own, a career, and a house in New Jersey.

“Hello?” Jaywalker says into the phone, then holds his breath and readies himself for the worst. The clock radio next to the phone glows 3:17.

“Pete?” says an unfamiliar male voice.

“I think,” says Jaywalker, “that you may have dialed the wrong number. What number were you trying to—”

The line goes dead. No “Sorry,” no “Oops.” Just a click, followed by silence and eventually a dial tone.

Jaywalker recradles the phone. He lies on his back in the dark, feeling his pulse pounding in his temples. Relief and annoyance duel for his attention, but only briefly. For already, Jaywalker is elsewhere. He’s lying in bed in the dark, to be sure, but somehow his hair is brown instead of gray, his face less lined, his body more muscular. And his wife lies beside him, her warm body pressed against his back.

“Who was it?” she asks him.

“A mother,” he says. “A mother whose son has just been arrested. A rape case. And it sounds like a bad one.”

“For them,” says Jaywalker’s wife. “But that means a good one for you, right?”

“Right,” agrees Jaywalker. He’s not yet thirty, this younger version of him. He’s been out of Legal Aid for a little over a year now, struggling to build a practice on his own. And struggling is definitely the operative word here. So he knows his wife is right: what’s bad for the young man and his family is at the same time good for the lawyer and his. One of the strange paradoxes of criminal law that Jaywalker will never quite get comfortable with: that his earning a living is dependent upon the suffering of others.

What this younger Jaywalker doesn’t know, what he has absolutely no way of knowing at this point, as he lies in the dark, is that this new case will be different, that it will mark a crossroads in his career and in his life. Should he live to be a hundred, no case that will ever come his way will end up affecting him as this one will. Before he’s done with it, and it with him, it will change him in ways that will be as profound as they are unimaginable. It will transform him, molding him and pounding him and shaping him into the lawyer and the man he is today, almost thirty years later. So this is more than just the case he’ll forever wake up to when the phone rings in the middle of the night. This is the case that he’ll retry in his mind over and over again for the rest of his days, changing a phrase here, adding a word there, tweaking his summation for the hundredth—no, the thousandth—time. And long after he’s grown old and senile and has forgotten the names and faces and details of other cases, this is the one that Jaywalker will remember on his deathbed, as clearly and as vividly as if it began yesterday.

That the case had come Jaywalker’s way at 3:17 in the morning, while unusual, was not entirely unprecedented. That it had come by way of his home telephone was actually rather typical. Jaywalker had early on developed the habit of giving out his home number liberally. It was but one of many things that distinguished him from his colleagues, who never would have thought of doing such a thing, the functional equivalent of a physician’s house call. Moreover, as technology advanced, with the advent of beepers, pagers, car phones, cell phones and BlackBerries, Jaywalker stuck to the practice with characteristic stubbornness, continuing to invite clients and their families to call him at home whenever the need arose. As it had apparently arisen for Inez Kingston on that particular night in September of 1979.

Then, as now, Jaywalker had answered with a fearful “Hello?” notwithstanding the fact that he knew his daughter was safely in bed upstairs and wouldn’t even be of driving age for another twelve or thirteen years. Whatever the circumstance, there seems to be something about the midnight phone call that inspires instant dread.

“Mr. Jaywalker?” the woman had said.

“Yes.”

“This is Inez Kingston. You represented my son Darren last year. Maybe you remember.”

“Sure,” said Jaywalker. “I remember.” The name did sound familiar, though if pressed, he would have had trouble attaching a face to it, or recalling what the charges had been and how the case had turned out.

“I’m afraid it’s Darren again,” she said. “They’ve got him at the precinct. They say he raped some women. They won’t tell me any more.”

“What precinct?”

“The Forty-third.”

Jaywalker jotted down Inez’s number in the dark, something he’d learned to do. Otherwise, brilliant ideas that came to him in the middle of the night had a way of vanishing before morning. Written down on paper, they tended to lose some of their brilliance, but at least they survived.

He found the number for the 43rd Precinct. He knew from the precinct number that it had to be somewhere in the Bronx, but other than that, he didn’t have a clue. Ninety percent of his practice was in Manhattan, which he liked to think of in sports language as his home court. Of course, at this particular stage of his career, the math wasn’t all that hard to do: it didn’t exactly require a calculator to convert nine out of ten cases into a percentage.

He reached the precinct and had the desk officer transfer his call to the squad room. There a detective confirmed that they did indeed have a Darren Kingston locked up. He’d been booked for five separate rapes and would be making court in the morning.

Jaywalker thanked the detective and called Inez back. He told her what he’d been able to find out, and offered to meet her in court at nine o’clock. Before hanging up, he told her not to worry. Like most people, if you woke Jaywalker up in the middle of the night, he could be pretty stupid.