Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

“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.”