Richard Russo - Nobody's Fool

Sully was less certain. During the last two years, he and Wirf had been involved in a lot of judicial proceedings together, and they’d never yet gone Sully’s way. Still, he had to admit, this was, so far, an auspicious beginning. According to Wirf there was a lot of bad blood between the judge and the district attorney’s office, and it appeared to Sully that this might be true, though Judge Flatt’s tongue was legendary, its targets democratic. Still, Wirf might be right for once. He guessed right on People’s Court every now and then, so why not in a real-life judicial proceeding?

Judge Flatt slid the manila folder containing the police report across his desk with his index finger in Satch Henry’s direction. “Okay, Satch, I want you to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Do you really want to arraign Mr. Sullivan on these charges, put this whole thing into court, spend a lot of taxpayers’ money?”

Satch Henry went purple. “Your Honor, I believe there is some precedent for indicting and convicting people who assault police officers. Mr. Sullivan has a history of violent behavior. He broke Officer Raymer’s nose and gave him a concussion. Take off those dark glasses, Doug.”

Officer Raymer took off his sunglasses. He had two black eyes. Green eyes, really, the puffy skin on both sides of his swollen nose having gone from purple to motel green.

Judge Flatt studied the policeman. “They still call those shiners?” he inquired. “That’s what they called ’em when I was boy.”

Officer Raymer looked confused by this unexpected question. “I guess so,” he said. “That and ‘black eye.’ ”

“You ever been in a fistfight before, Officer Raymer?”

“Sure,” the policeman said. “Lots of times.”

“What do you usually do when somebody throws a punch at you?”

Officer Raymer cocked his head and thought about this. “Duck?” he guessed.

“Why didn’t you duck this time?”

“Your Honor—” Satch Henry began.

“Don’t interrupt me, Satch. Can’t you see I’m talking to this man?”

Satch Henry opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it again. Wirf allowed himself another trace of a smile.

“Why didn’t you duck this time?” the judge repeated.

“I guess I never thought he’d do it,” the policeman sulked.

“Why not?” Judge Flatt wanted to know. “As Satch here says, Mr. Sullivan has a history of violence. Comes from a long line of amateur barroom pugilists. Why didn’t you think he’d pop you one?”

“Well, hell, Judge,” Officer Raymer exploded, exasperated. “I was holding my goddamn gun on him. The son of a bitch is crazy.”

Judge Flatt turned his attention to the prosecutor now. “You say you want this man on the stand, do you? He’s just admitted to aiming his weapon at an unarmed sixty-year-old cripple.”

“I don’t think I’d describe Sully as a cripple,” Satch Henry said weakly, though the point had clearly struck home.

“Come over here a minute, Mr. Sullivan,” the judge said. “Pull up your pant leg for these gentlemen.”

“I’d rather not,” Sully said, feeling rather like a little boy who’s been ordered to drop his trousers in a game of doctor.

“Do it anyway, Mr. Sullivan,” the judge said. “Come over here where we can all see.”

Sully did as he was told, putting his boot up on the chair that had been reserved for him, then gingerly pulling his pant leg up until his knee was exposed. He himself looked at the knee for the first time in a while. It looked like an exotic fruit ready to rupture.

The sight of it affected everyone in the room. Wirf had to look away, and even Officer Raymer winced. Satch Henry was the first to recover. “May it be stated for the record, your Honor, that Officer Raymer is not responsible for the condition of Sully’s knee, whereas Sully is responsible for this police officer’s contusions and concussion?”

“No, it may not be stated for the record, Satch,” Judge Flatt said, pausing rhetorically. “It may not. Because there is no record here in chambers.”

“Can I let my pant leg down?” Sully said.

“Yes, you may,” the judge said. “In fact, I insist.”

All the other men watched him lower his pant leg.

“That hurt as bad as it looks, Mr. Sullivan?”

“I take pain pills,” Sully said, aware of where the judge was heading. “Some days are pretty good. I get through the others somehow.”

“What effect do the pills have?”

“They make me sleepy.”

“Nervous? Edgy?”

“Not really, no.”

“You wouldn’t blame the fact that you punched this policeman on the medication you’re taking?”

“No, not really.”

“The smart answer to that question would have been yes,” the judge pointed out. “Okay, if it wasn’t the pills, why’d you coldcock this policeman?”

In truth, the answer to that was so complicated that Sully despaired of ever understanding it himself, much less of being able to explain it to an impatient, sick judge. “I don’t know,” he heard himself say. “I was tired, I guess. It’d been a long day.”

Judge Flatt paused, and Sully wondered if he was expected to go on. When he didn’t, the judge said, “Okay, Mr. Sullivan,” and turned back to Satch Henry and Ollie Quinn. “I can understand tired. I’m tired myself. Sick and tired. That’s why I’m retiring next month. Because I’m sick and tired and unfit for human companionship. Half the time I feel like shooting somebody myself, which means it’s time for me to step down and leave small-town justice to somebody else, and may God have mercy on his soul. Anyhow, I’m going to make a prediction and then a recommendation and then I’m going to leave it to you to decide what you want to do, Satch. If you insist on going to trial, go, but you’ll go before me, and I’ll tell you right now that you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Your Honor—” Satch Henry began.

“Pipe down, Satch, I got the floor here.”

Satch Henry piped down.

“Here’s what we got,” Barton Flatt said. “We got Mr. Sullivan here, who did a dumb thing and did it in front of witnesses. There’s a good chance you could get a conviction, Satch. But Lord love a duck, what a show Mr. Wirfly here could put on. If Mr. Sullivan’s got a history of pugilism, your officer here’s got a history of his own. Just in the last six months he’s terrorized an old woman over a pizza and let a lunatic with a deer rifle shoot out windows on Main Street, assault a young woman and then walk away from the scene. On that occasion he saw fit to leave his weapon in his holster, but later, with Mr. Sullivan here, he not only takes out his firearm, he actually discharges it and the bullet hits a house a block away. You claim Mr. Sullivan here is a menace, but Mr. Wirfly here’s going to prove there’s two menaces at least. Before this is done, you’re going to look like God’s own fool, Satch, and Ollie’s going to look like a fool, and your police officer, who is a fool, is going to look like one too. And unless Mr. Wirfly’s a fool, he’s going to file a countersuit against the police department and city that will make headlines for months in the Schuyler paper, maybe even Albany, not that it will matter to you, Satch, because you’ll be out of office come next November. Don’t set this thing in motion, that’s my recommendation. Settle it here and now and in this room, not that one out there.”

“Your Honor—” Satch Henry tried again, the judge’s voice having fallen.

“Nope,” the judge shook his head, holding up one hand. “I still got the floor. It’s still mine. And you’re going to listen another minute yet. I’ve told you what’s going to happen, and now I’m going to tell you how to avoid it. I’ve got a half-dozen sensible recommendations, and the first is that we now send Mr. Sullivan and Officer Raymer out, because I don’t think their presence is necessary from this point forward. In fact, Mr. Sullivan’s pacing is getting to me too, and I’ve never much liked the look of policemen in sunglasses.” He turned now to Sully and Officer Raymer, looking back and forth between them dubiously. “If we ask you to step outside, gentlemen, do you think you’d be capable of refraining from further hostilities? I want you to be honest about this, because I can provide you a chaperon if you have any doubts.”