Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

“Be glad I did. I found out a lot of interesting stuff about this deal that’s going down and it’s given me an idea.”

“What are we going to do about Rane?”

“How’s about a week from today?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll try that then.”

And the missed Rane counsel visit was one of the many desperate excuses I attempted to deploy early the next day to avoid getting sent out by Judge Bartee on Juan Hurtado. I wanted Hurtado to take a plea because he had no chance. He wouldn’t take the 2 to 4 being offered and was undeterred by the prospect of getting the maximum 3½ to 7 after trial. Failing a plea, I wanted an adjournment to delay my grim task as long as possible. I was destined to get neither.

Which was the reason I was in Conley’s office when Debi came in with the Tula papers but was thankfully not included in any of the discussion as I was on trial and therefore ineligible for messing with. What I was looking for in that office was a book I had on good authority was there. And I was tearing Conley’s office apart looking for it because it represented a last hope at salvation for me and Hurtado. In that book there was supposed to be a lovely paragraph or so. Somewhere in that paragraph there should be a sentence or a string of words in which a judge, a judge known for his commentaries on criminal law and practice, would agree with the premise of the crazy defense I had been concocting since openings and which I would soon be committing to wholeheartedly in my summation. The words had to be in the book I couldn’t find because Toomberg said they were and that was amply good enough for me.

Toomberg told me the words and the book were in Conley’s office when he came into my office a day earlier to ask if I was serious about not working on the Alabama death penalty case with him. I had called Toomberg at home, and told him I categorically refused to work on Jalen Kingg’s case, the same night Uncle Sam and the chimp refused to get out of my way on the Brooklyn Bridge.

We had approached from opposite ends and were now about four feet apart with me in the middle of Sammy and the chimp. Only now instead of the dance I’d expected Uncle Sam and the chimp simply raised their left and right hands respectively creating a little London Bridge-type scenario. I ducked my head to walk under and through the arch leaving its owners behind.

I didn’t tell Toomberg about the chimp when I called him that night even though Alana had already proved unhelpful. I didn’t tell him how, after taking a few more steps on the bridge, I looked back and saw that Uncle Sam and the chimp had reversed course and were now following me. I did tell Toomberg that I wanted no part of Jalen Kingg. I didn’t want to meet him, didn’t want to learn about his life or look at that picture of him in the file anymore or try to prevent this regicide or any of that because what the hell is the meaning of this Toomberg? Is this a joke? What kind of volunteer situation is this? Specifically? Where should I start? First of all, isn’t it reasonable of me to assume, given the fact that we are trial lawyers and not death penalty appellate experts or whatever, that we are responsible for like an early step in this guy’s long, drawn-out appellate process and not his desperate last gasp? What the hell is the meaning of this deal whereby our papers are the only thing between Kingg and an electrode hat? And this file I’ve just reviewed in my less-than-ideal condition is littered with the word denied and are we just supposed to add the final one? He doesn’t need a lawyer, he needs an undertaker. Do I look like a stolid undertaker?

After continuing in that vein a bit, I told Toomberg the true reason I couldn’t work on Kingg’s case. The reason was the rainbow candy. The rainbow candy that Jalen’s mom used to make for him. The rainbow candy made the whole notion of me working on Kingg’s case a pure impossibility. It was no longer a matter of choice or free will once the candy appeared. We were dealing with a genetic makeup, namely mine, that was simply incapable of dealing with matters of this nature. Toomberg understood immediately.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he said sleepily.

“The candy Toom. The fucking candy!”

“What candy?”

“Didn’t you read that letter he wrote his attorney along the way?”

“I don’t know. I know I read everything. Remind me if you could.”

“In one of the letters he writes down what he’s going to request as his last meal. Do you remember that?”

“I do, what about it?”

“For dessert he said he wants the rainbow candy his mom used to make for him. Did you see that part Toomie? Did you see that?”

“I don’t—”

“He says he knows his mom is no longer around to make it but that he’s seen the same candy in the stores.”

“Okay.”

“Christ Toom! What in the world? This guy’s I.Q. is 63. Fucking six three!”

“I know but I would think that would make you want to work on his appeal even more. There’s no way we as a society should be executing people like Kingg. Not to mention the fact that his trial lawyer failed to adequately convey this fact to the jury during the penalty phase.”

“All that is beside the point my large-brained friend. My whole life I can’t deal with this type of thing you understand? You might as well ask me to breathe underwater. I can’t do it.”

“I think I understand. I’ll deal with that aspect of the case. There’s plenty more to be done.”

“I don’t think you do understand Toom. Do you really feel what it means for this guy to be asking for rainbow candy? They’re fucking Skittles. That’s what he’s talking about.”

“I don’t know much about candy.”

“Do you know where he’s getting the goddamn rainbow description from? The fucking commercial! You’ve heard it right? Taste the rainbow ! Those fucking bastards.”

“I don’t own Television.”

“Jalen Kingg did. You can bet your ass on that. His mom did. And somewhere along the line she took to calling the Skittles she gave her son rainbow candy . And she told him she had made it special for him. And Jalen believed her because it was his mom and she was all he had. It brought them comfort. This woman and the son she had at fourteen in their one-bedroom dump. And far away in goddamn L.A. or Madison Avenue is the prick who decided that Skittles would sell more quickly if they promised Jalens they would taste the fucking rainbow which is like a complete fucking impossibility and even if it wasn’t who said a rainbow would even taste good you know? That’s the reason I can’t work on this case. You want me thinking like this the whole time? Did you see what his face looked like in that picture? You see the eyes? Do you realize I’m going to dream about this?”

“Don’t make any rash decisions. Sleep on it.”

Advice I ignored that night and the following two as well. In fact, I didn’t really sleep until I got a verdict in the Hurtado case. Then I collapsed the minute I hit my bed and had a horrible nightmare involving Skittles.

In the nightmare, Uncle Sam and the chimp were referred to but never actually showed their faces. In real life, they followed me. I think following me was Uncle Sam’s idea and not the chimp’s. Because whereas before they walked more or less side by side, now it was clearly Uncle Sam leading the way with the chimp following slightly behind in what looked like a malformed race.

“There’s not going to be a winner,” Debi said. “That much is clear.”

“I agree,” said Liszt as he consulted the big chart on Conley’s wall.

“There has to be a winner,” said contrarian Conley. “Just pick whoever got closest.”