Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 33

"I hear the judge isn't much better."

They watched as Strauss approached Fielding and the two began talking. For adversaries, they seemed rather friendly.

"Word is they party together after work at some pub on Montague Street," Connie said.

"Why am I not surprised?"

The door to the judge's chambers opened, and out stepped the honorable Bernard Wilkens, a short, emaciated old man, with thinning white hair, a crooked chin, and a bulbous nose. He ambled up the podium stairs, and sank, slowly, into his chair.

"I wonder if the judge joins them after work," Joshua asked.

Connie giggled, causing eyes to turn their way.

Fielding shot Joshua a disapproving glance, but Strauss didn't seem to recognize either of them.

Joshua kept a straight face. He was no longer afraid. Once he had decided to visit Thompson the night before, he had prepared himself for the worst.

"He doesn't recognize you," Joshua said to Connie, referring to Strauss.

"He will, next time he sees me."

The judge coughed up some phlegm and cleared his throat. "Okay, bailiff, call the next case," he commanded.

The bailiff announced the case and charges. Two guards escorted Willie and his shackles through a door in the front corner of the courtroom, and sat him at the defense table next to Fielding. The judge took the file from the bailiff and began perusing the papers, as a large group of people suddenly paraded into the courtroom. Black people. The judge looked up from his desk. Fielding and Strauss also turned around.

There must have been about fifty of them, all attired in suits and dresses, all observing decorum, quietly entering the room and finding seats. The last to enter was Professor Alvin Thompson. At his side were two white men, also in suits. One of the white men held a large sketch book, the other, a note pad.

Fielding and Strauss looked at one another, then at the judge. Willie turned around and spotted Joshua smiling. He didn't seem to understand what was happening.

"Mr. Fielding," the judge opened, "can you explain what's going on in my court room?"

"No, your honor, I can't."

"Mr. Strauss?"

"Sorry, your honor."

"Okay then, Mr. Thompson," the judge called out, looking directly at the professor, "perhaps you can shed some light on the matter."

It wasn't surprising that the judge recognized Thompson. Over the years, the professor had gained quite a reputation. His charisma had turned his small following of cla.s.sroom zealots into a popular movement, and his face frequented both the tabloids and television.

Thompson rose from his seat. "Your honor, I, and these fellow citizens, and these members of the press, have come here today with the simple and pure purpose of observing this great court and witnessing how justice is performed."

"He should have been a preacher," Joshua whispered to Connie.

The judge appeared dumbfounded, as did Fielding and Strauss. He called the lawyers up to the bench. The room stilled to overhear what was being said.

"What kind of s.h.i.t case is this, Mr. Strauss?" the judge asked the DA, pretending to whisper, but knowing the crowd was listening.

"Your honor, the defendant was found..."

"I don't give a rat's a.s.s where he was found. There's no evidence connecting him to the crime, is there?"

Fielding remained silent.

"Your honor, he was dressed similarly to the a.s.sailant, and has a past record..."

"A past record of what, Mr. Strauss?"

Strauss stood there, embarra.s.sed. The judge looked at Fielding. "And you, Mr. Fielding, what kind of advocacy is this, offering to plead your client in a case as flimsy as this?"

"Your honor," Fielding began to say as the judge interrupted.

"Step back gentlemen!" the judge commanded.

The lawyers returned to their tables. Fielding conferred with Willie for a few seconds, but the kid still didn't understand anything. He listened to his lawyer and nodded.

The judge cleared his throat again, sipped from a gla.s.s of water, and said, "Okay, Mr. Fielding, does your client wish to enter a plea as to the said charges?"

"Yes, your honor," Fielding answered hesitantly. "My client pleads not guilty."

Professor Thompson smiled with approval as the courtroom broke into applause. Judge Wilkins called for order. "Mr. Thompson," he admonished, "you and your entourage will not make a mockery of this courtroom. Am I clear on that?"

Thompson rose again. "Abundantly, your honor. I apologize for this slight outburst. It's just that there has been speculation in the community that a young man was going to be railroaded in this court today, plea bargained for a crime of which there is no evidence against him, deprived of his right to a fair trial and an impartial jury of his peers. These rumors were concerning, your honor. They frightened the people into believing that there is not equal opportunity under the law for both black and white, and petrified them into imagining that a young man's life might be sacrificed in the name of expediency. And now, your honor, the people have witnessed that justice does indeed prevail, that there is equal access under the law for all. I do apologize if they display their grat.i.tude too intemperately for your honor's liking. I apologize profusely."

Next to Thompson, the white reporter with the notepad seemed to be recording every word of the professor's speech. The sketch artist appeared busy as well.

"Boy, this guy's good," Joshua whispered.

Connie smiled.

"I appreciate your sentiments, Mr. Thompson," the judge said, "but this is a court of law, not a place for grandstanding. In the future you will limit your soliloquies to appropriate forums!"

Thompson smiled.

"And as for the concerns of the community," the judge continued, "this court is always occupied with justice. No one, regardless of race, religion, or anything else, gets railroaded inside these walls. No one!" The judge waited a few seconds for his words to be absorbed. "Now, regarding the matter of the State vs. Willie Johnson, trial will be set for..." He stopped to consult his calendar. "February 20th."

A six month delay was not unusual considering the court's schedule, but most of the people in the room didn't know that. They grew restless at the idea that Willie would have to sit in jail awaiting trial for that long. Thompson, however, didn't protest; he knew six months was typical, and he was also confident of his ability to raise money for Willie's bail. He figured that the time would only help Willie's case. Tempers would calm down in the Hasidic community, and maybe he could even pressure the police to do some real investigating.

Strauss rose to his feet. "Your honor, in the matter of bail..."

Wilkins: "Save it, Mr. Strauss. This matter has taken up enough of the court's time already. In consideration of the state's case, which is rather weak at this moment, I am setting bail in the matter of five thousand dollars."

Strauss: "Your honor..."

Wilkins: "That's it, Mr. Strauss!"

With that, the judge stood up and left the court, the guards escorted Willie out, and Thompson stood around congratulating his followers. Fielding marched out in a huff, not even stopping to look at Joshua. Strauss followed quickly behind him.

Joshua and Connie were still seated, taking in what had just transpired, when Thompson approached them. "You best pa.s.s that bar exam, Mr. Eubanks," the professor said. "This boy is going to need a real lawyer in six months, not some flunky. The case is yours, you earned it!"

He walked away before Joshua could even discuss the offer. But Joshua knew it wasn't an offer at all. It was a command, and one which he would gladly accept.

CHAPTER 40.

Rachel and Binny came out of Doctor Silver's office; she, in tears; his mind elsewhere as if she didn't exist. He offered no words of comfort, no gestures; in fact, he had withdrawn from her weeks earlier, just after her third miscarriage.

"Three successive miscarriages over four years suggests the obvious," the doctor had said. "The chance of miscarrying again is high, and the blood loss could be quite dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Rachel had asked.

"To be honest, Mrs. Frankel, it could kill you."

"You mean, we can't..." Rachel had been unable to complete her own sentence.

"I'm sorry," the doctor had said.

Through it all, Binny had sat silently. He was again the person she had thought she would never see again, the Binny of old. And now, this was the Binny she would be stuck with forever.

She knew in her heart she couldn't put all the blame on him. In her despair, she had also retreated. She had stopped taking care of herself and her home, had stopped trying to keep her marriage strong.

And the fighting. So loud, so harsh, so ruinous. Incessant bickering, constant criticism, such had become their only form of communication. She wanted it to stop, and would do anything to make it better. But it was too late. It had taken on a life of its own.

Paul Sims had heard rumors of Rachel's troubles, for there were no secrets among the Hasidim of Crown Heights. The latest chatter predicted an imminent separation. Something about their not being able to have children, and their disenchantment with one another. No one had seen Rachel for months, but Binny was always around. In the yeshiva, on the avenue, taking his weekly meals in restaurants and his Sabbath meals in other people's homes. To all appearances, he was living the life of a bochur, a single man.

Paul's own marriage had its own problems, the result of years of tedium and disinterest, but nothing near the calumny of the Frankels. Chava had given him a second daughter, and he had learned to find unexpected pleasure in his children. But aside from that, he was discontented. Financial considerations had forced him to work for his father, managing four apartment buildings in Crown Heights. Basically, he saw himself as nothing more than a glorified "super." The only saving grace was that it kept him busy, away from Chava.

He worked all day, studied in the yeshiva most of the night, and usually saw his daughters after they were asleep, or on Shabbos. As for Chava, she had plenty to keep her busy; she seemed to accept the life G.o.d had given her.

Paul had never stopped thinking about Rachel. Often, late at night, awake in bed, he imagined her there with him. s.e.x had stopped with Chava after the birth of their second daughter, and this was his only release. Thankfully, Hasidic couples slept in separate beds.

He always believed Chava to be asleep while he indulged his fantasies, but he'd occasionally been mistaken. Sometimes she was wide awake, pretending to be asleep, listening. His intemperance both humored and humiliated her. Part of her wanted to be next to him, to have a husband who desired and craved her. And part of her was glad; better he have himself and leave me alone.

Isaac and Hannah Weissman were worried about their daughter. They had watched with anguish as Rachel's marriage deteriorated. They had tried talking with her, and Isaac had even spoken with Binny on more than one occasion, but their efforts were to no avail.

Hannah visited Rachel daily. It disturbed her that Rachel was always at home, always alone. She tried to suggest going out together, shopping, lunching, whatever. But Rachel was never in the mood.

Isaac would see his daughter some evenings and on Shabbos, but his conversations with her were spa.r.s.e. The Weissmans had been having Sabbath meals together as if Rachel had never married. Except for the fact that the meals were always served in Rachel's home, for she didn't feel up to leaving. The table was usually subdued. Isaac no longer sang his melodies. The knowledge that he would never have grandchildren had opened old wounds, had infuriated him towards his G.o.d, had soured him on life and hope. He tried desperately not to show it, not to let his daughter see his disappointment. But there was only so much one could hide.

One afternoon in early October, Esther Mandlebaum came over to deliver the news to Rachel: she had become engaged to Stephen Butler.

"Esther, you're crazy," Rachel responded angrily, no trace of jest or sarcasm.

Esther knew that Rachel wasn't really angry with her. She understood how anger had become Rachel's only way of relating these days. She walked over and shook her friend. "Rachel, you must come out of this slump! I've just told you I'm getting married and you're not even happy for me."

"Are you happy for yourself?"

"Sometimes."

"Sounds good to me."

"Ah, we're beginning to feel a mite better, are we?"

Rachel offered a slight smile.

"Now that's more like it," Esther said. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you go pretty yourself up, and we'll go out on the town tonight, just you and me, to celebrate."

"I don't think so."

"Why not? Come on, you could use it."

"I don't go out on the town."

"That's part of the problem, deary, all those do's and don'ts of yours. How about we forget the rules for a bit and just have a good time, come on!"

"I'd really rather not."

"Please, for me." Esther wasn't going to give up.

After a little more prodding, Rachel agreed. She showered, put on some make-up, and tried on three dresses before she was finally satisfied. Esther agreed on the choice.

"Okay, let's go," Esther said as she reached for her coat.

"No, wait!" Rachel went back into the closet and removed her sheitel from its box.

"Oh no, not the wig," Esther protested. "You can't wear that thing."

"Esther, I'm still married," Rachel said. "For however long that lasts," she added with a touch of acrimony.

"But the wig, you simply can't."

Rachel placed the wig over her hair, fussed with it for a while, then said, "You're right, I can't." She replaced the wig in the box, went back into the closet, and emerged with four hats. "Okay, which shall it be?" she asked.

Esther made a face, but didn't object. She realized there was no way Rachel was leaving the house without a head covering, and a hat was certainly better than a wig. She looked at the four hats; she had to admit they were all stylish and tasteful. Rachel tried one on, looked in the mirror and scoffed at the clashing colors. The second wasn't much better. But the third, a carmine beret, was just right for her ruby lipstick and royal blue dress. Esther had to admit, it worked.

"Where are we going?" Rachel asked.

"How about the Village? I know some places where we can have a splendid time."

"I'm sure you do."

Esther picked up the phone and called a car service. Rachel walked into the kitchen, opened one of the cupboards, and removed a Rosenthal sugar bowl. The gold trimmed set of dishes had been one of many gifts from her in-laws, and the delicate bowl had always seemed a most appropriate place to keep the "petty" cash. "How much do you think we'll need?" she asked Esther.