William Vollmann - The Royal Family

That’s too bad, Ms. Fine. You know what MTR means?

No.

It means motion to revoke. They want to MTR your probation. It’s a real shame. You know, Ms. Fine, if you’re smokin’ crack and you test dirty, they don’t really give a shit as long as you show up for probation. Ms. Fine—

What?

Mind if I call you Sylvia?

I don’t give a fuck.

Look, Sylvia, parole is a totally different matter. With parole, you screw up, you go straight to the pen.

Cut to the chase, pal. I hate this.

I—

I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

You can do up to four violations of probation, so you can do four times as much prison time as in your original sentence, so—

Look, said Domino. Spare me all the motherfuckin’ math. Just tell me what I’m looking at.

Well, as I said, your exposure is four years, but we still might be able to suspend your sentence if we can get the guy who was with you in the car to cop a guilty plea to drug and weapons possession, so if you…

Domino stopped listening.

First, everyone who was anyone had to sit through one of those assembly line arraignments of women in bright orange jumpsuits on which was stencilled SAN FRANCISCO CO PRISONER. They sat with their backs to the spectators. Tyler scanned the backs of their heads, and found a brunette head, two blackhaired heads, a blonde, head and a greyish-blonde head on a long stately neck. The greyish-blonde might have been Domino. But Domino was beside him. Shall we be more specific? Because the first row of seats on each side of the courtroom had been blocked off with yellow tape which read POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS, the two well-wishers sat in the second row with the Queen in the corner holding Tyler’s hand, her head against the wall. Domino sat on his right, swallowing over and over, squeezing his hand.

You doing okay? Tyler whispered into her ear.

Don’t touch me, said the blonde.

If that door doesn’t close and lock, the bailiff was saying, just take ’em to a different office.

Then the voice of justice cried: Remain seated. Come to order. Department Twenty-Two is now in session.

In terror, Domino squeezed his hand.

On the stage of justice where all the dramatic actors played their parts, as conspicuous as the yellow teeth amidst a Haight Street tramps’ white stubble, the judge sat down, and a longhaired young lady, a whisperer, bent over flirting with a lawyer while a walkie-talkie crackled. Handcuff-rings swung in the small of a bailiff’s back.

Your honor, it strikes me that on count two there’s a procedural error, the public defender said.

Tyler barely listened. A moment later the public defender was saying: Your honor, I believe that there are waivers of appearance on all three defendants.

Three defendants! Tyler thought. But there were half a dozen women there. Then he realized that justice was not always slow anymore, that several mini-trials were in progress.

Ms. Kaye, the judge was saying, you ask that your conviction be set aside. But you haven’t been paying restitution.

I been paying in monthly installments, the black prisoner said.

Well, when you want a favor done by the court, you’d better pay what you owe. Motion denied without prejudice.

Yeah, gimme a call, someone’s lawyer was whispering.

The Queen kept shaking her head. Her lips moved silently.

Looks like you’ve got a diversionary felony, misdemeanor loitering, the judge was saying to the next defendant. Tyler held the Queen’s hand.

Finally it came Domino’s turn. The voice of justice said: On the sentencing calendar, line thirty-seven is Sylvia Fine.

Clearing her throat, the blonde rose and approached her punishment. Before, no one knew her from a spectator. Now she was the accused.

Can you see her? Tyler whispered, and the Queen nodded dully.

Ms. Fine, said the judge, you’re charged with one count of resisting arrest, one count of prostitution, one count of possessing an illegal weapon, and one count of possessing a controlled substance. However, there’s now been a conviction on the illegal weapon and on the drug charges, so those have been dropped. Do you have the money to appoint your own attorney?

No, said Domino angrily.

Sylvia Fine. Is that your real name?

Yes.

I see you have a pretty long list of priors. Two felony assault convictions among others. Ms. Fine, since you have two strikes against you, your next petty theft may be worth life in prison. Better knock it off.

Domino was silent.

Ms. Fine, how do you plead to all these charges?

Not guilty, your honor. I never resisted arrest.

We’re down to one count of prostitution and one count of resisting arrest. If you wish to plead guilty, the court will recommend the work project for thirty days. Otherwise, you’re looking at a year in jail. Do you wish to plead guilty?

Yes.

How do you plead, Ms. Fine?

Not guilty, said Domino with a twisted smile.

I thought you wanted to plead guilty.

Okay, whatever. Guilty.

I’ll go ahead and sentence you. Probation denied. You’re sentenced to the work project.

Thank you, said the girl listlessly.

My heart breaks for that child, the Queen said into Tyler’s ear.

Next case. Ms. Browne. Loitering with intent to commit prostitution, on top of the previous charges. They’re recommending a year for this and refiling as a felony. You want to plead guilty now to avoid refiling?

Yes, I would, the brunette head was saying.

Scandalous, how they coach them to implicate themselves! whispered the Queen indignantly. But Tyler’s head ached; he scarcely understood any of it. And as for Domino, to her the judge’s words were like steam from the sewers at Bush and Jones…

Thirty days later, the blonde came home. Nothing could make much of an impression anymore upon her soul’s hardstamped shell except perhaps the forces of petty and determined abrasion. On the thirty-first day, already bored and crack-hungry, she went out to Ellis Street to make money and in a lucky place where the waffle-pattern of windows was reflected in the hood of a shiny red car she was immediately solicited by a Dominican who raped her. The tall man had memorized the Dominican’s license plate number. When the blonde, half dead, told the Queen what had happened, the Queen went to the tall man, who went to Tyler, who ran a reverse trace on his computer, using ROYAL INFORMATION SYSTEMS, change from insecure login to secure login, the icons crawling on his bright green screen until he’d obtained a name and address for the Dominican, together with a physical description which matched Domino’s recollections. — No problem, Tyler said. Happy to help.

The Dominican had a daughter who was just now completing her first year of study at law school in Baltimore. He fully believed and expected that she would graduate at the top of her class. He expected such greatness of her that she had gone to Baltimore to get away from him. It was her image which he now saw in the mirror. Years later, long after his daughter had dropped out of law school to give birth to her illegitimate child, the Dominican told me this story. He was my taxi driver. He said that the spirit of his daughter in the mirror kept her hair pulled back by pink ribbon. She was smiling at him, telling him not to worry. But when he’d told his daughter about it that day on the telephone, she’d laughed incredulously. When the tall man and the other gangster saw him gazing open-mouthed into the mirror, they whirled around, but could see nothing. Then the tall man told the Dominican to stand up and take it. The Dominican rose, attempting to prepare himself. He told me that he was proud that he neither wept nor begged.