Chapter Two

Hi everyone,

Here is chapter two of the novel (if you haven't read chapter one, I posted that a few weeks ago), which I have tentatively titled, "Blind Justice".  I know I've lost some readers in my attempts to branch out, perhaps because people read this blog for the autobiographical entries, or perhaps because I haven't proactively marketed the recent entries out of the awareness that (1) they are unlike my previous stuff, (2) they are frackin' long, and (3) they could probably use some significant editing (these are all fresh out of my brain, for what that's worth).  But I will keep posting chapters, as long as I feel comfortable doing so.

Also this goes without saying (then why say it?), but the "Jonah" character is fictional :) (though for those of you repeat customers, you may see some similarities).  And also it goes without saying that the "opinions" of the characters are not necessarily those of the author :)

Anyway I hope you enjoy it.  I've tried to work in some humor among the intense subject-matter too, both for all of you and for my own sanity.

-JKH

PS My next story will be a return to old form.  I need a break from the novel format, which I find significantly more taxing than the personal stories...maybe because I'm just so much more comfortable talking about myself than other (fictional) people...

************

“Hey Jonah, I gotta go, I’m running really late!”  

Jonah learned quickly after they first met that Peter always ran at least thirty minutes late, and that was on a good day. For Jonah, cleanliness was next to godliness was next to punctuality, and so this relatively small flaw almost ended their relationship in the beginning.

“You embarrassed me tonight,” Jonah scolded Peter, after he showed up an hour late to a law school function, their fourth date. “You showed no respect for me whatsoever.” Having just begun law school, Jonah of course used the biggest words possible at all times. If a word had less than three syllables, it wasn’t worth saying.

Jonah’s tone would have been enough to make any reasonable homosexual run for the door – and indeed, it had made many a reasonable homosexual do so in the past. But instead of running, Peter simply reminded Jonah that he had just spent three hours listening to a lecture on habeas corpus (which he repeatedly pronounced “corpses”), while he tried to wash the red wine out of his shirt. During dinner, an overly eager professor, all brains and all thumbs, had spilled his drink all over Peter’s favorite shirt.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Peter said, smiling graciously. “It’s just an old shirt.”

Slowly, Jonah and Peter came to an understanding, as couples do when they have no other choice. Jonah learned that, indeed, the world would not stop if he missed the opening credits of a movie, while Peter learned that time existed independently of his schedule. And when they moved in together, Jonah pushed all the clocks in the apartment forward a half-hour, which often resulted in Jonah being half an hour early for work. It was a small price to pay, though, for a man who would donate his favorite shirt for habeas corpses.

Peter ran down the stairs, past their new beagle Daisy (who he gave a quick kiss), past Jonah (who he gave a quick kiss), and out the front door, into the darkling Washington, D.C. evening. Realizing that Peter was already gone before he could say good-bye, Jonah shot up instantly from behind his laptop. Before he met Peter, Jonah never shot up instantly for anyone, anything, ever. It was rare enough for him to come out from behind his laptop at all. But that was before.

“Peter!” Jonah shouted after him, as he ran down the front stairs. Peter stopped and looked up towards Jonah, shivering under the thin cloth of his waiter’s uniform.

“Don’t go to work tonight,” Jonah said, picking up Daisy and shoving her face in his, floppy ears and all. “Daisy misses you.”

“I miss you too, Daisy,” he said, flicking Daisy’s floppy ears, then flicking Jonah’s. “I won’t be late. It’s a Senate function, they never last long. Now, put a bunch of House members in a room together, and you might as well call the paddy wagon right now.”

Peter loved using words like “paddy wagon,” “bee’s knees,” and “gasser” in everyday language. 

“Oldies but goodies,” he’d say to Jonah, with a silly grin. “Just like you.”

“I’ll be back around eleven.” And then he kissed Jonah, and he kissed Daisy, and he bounced down the stairs, happy to be going out, happy to be coming home.

Of course, he never came home. Twenty minutes later, the world was on fire. And by eleven that night, that long, eternal night that ended only by necessity and not by demand, Jonah and Daisy were standing in line at the morgue, behind dozens of others, in front of dozens more, waiting to identify the body of the man who finally got Jonah out from behind his laptop.

****************

Jonah woke up to the sounds of Monday morning in New York City, which were essentially the sounds of New Year’s Eve anywhere else.

“Yo dude, I’m so fuckin’ wasted!” shouted one joyful reveler from the street below, who was coming out of the aptly named Ship of Fools Bar and Tavern, conveniently located on the first floor of Jonah's building.

Unable to trek to the city on less than a week’s notice to find an apartment before moving there, Jonah relied on his sister to search for him, a favor that he would have to repay for years to come. She found a comparatively expensive, relatively nice, completely liveable space five floors above Second Avenue, with high ceilings, lovely loft space, and a kitchen apparently built for dwarves.

“I know the kitchen is small,” Laura said, when Jonah got his first look at the apartment. “But check out the exposed brick walls! You’re so lucky!”

Jonah figured that he was paying about eighty bucks per brick for his wonderful luck. But he kept that little observation to himself; he was grateful for Laura’s help, as he had always been since the day their father had threatened to drive them up a tree on the way to Cape Cod, and Laura had shielded him from the onslaught in the backseat. Growing up in a constant state of war, Laura acted as a human shield, even when she was not personally in the crossfire. And now that Laura had devoted her life to social work – a noble cause, but an uneconomical one – Jonah was constantly vigilant to make sure that he did not flaunt his choice of career – potentially ignoble, but not necessarily in a financial sense.

“It’s great, Laur,” Jonah said, somewhat sincerely, though simultaneously terrified at the price tag, which would have been eminently manageable in his previous job but now came perilously close to extravagance. After graduating law school, Jonah stuck around DC for a few years, having decided to take the road most traveled and joining a prominent, once white-shoe, now raging liberal law firm steps from the White House. He spent three years in document review hell, stuffing his checking account full of cash as fast as he could, only pausing every once in a while to walk Daisy, or visit the cemetery (usually with Daisy in tow). But he wasn’t there only for the money. After eighteen hours reviewing random e-mails and business prospectus, he rarely had the time or energy to devote to mourning. He might not be able to stop the dreams, but conscious memories were no match for a corporate merger.

A few months earlier, though, Jonah’s dreams started creeping back into his waking life, and suddenly, the eighteen-hour days were replaced by eighteen-hour nightmares. Eventually, Jonah couldn’t separate the reality from the fantasy, and his priorities shifted, until the camel’s back had no choice but to break.

“Jonah, we need you to fly to Cleveland this weekend,” a partner instructed him during their weekly, here’s-how-we’re-going-to-screw-you-over-this-week meeting. Apparently a large pharmaceutical manufacturer was purchasing a small cereal manufacturer. But it was Jonah’s four-year anniversary that weekend – Jonah had planned something special this time, and Peter would be upset if he missed it. So he told the powers-that-be that he could not go to Cleveland that weekend, that the client would have to find someone else to write a memo about the legality of lacing frosted flakes with anti-depressants.

Because law firms are the passive aggressive sharks of the corporate world, Jonah was not fired. Instead, his reviews steadily declined over the next few months, until he was told, in completely uncertain terms, that his reclining office chair would look much better in his next-door neighbor’s office.

Jonah thought briefly about bringing in a folding chair and just sticking it out until they changed the locks on his office door, but it never came to that. A few days later, he received a call from an unexpected prospective employer.

“Hello, may I speak to Jonah Haslap, please? This is Judge Campbell P. Mentrose.” Fortunately, the voice was deep and gruff and unfamiliar – otherwise, Jonah might have thought it was one of his friends playing a prank. They weren’t above crank phone calls, either. Jonah once spent ten minutes searching the firm’s internal directory for I.P. Freely before slamming the phone down to hysterical laughter on the other end of the line.

“Yes, this is Jonah Haslap.” A million questions ran through his head at the same time. Should he have said, “Yes, Your Honor?” Or “Yes, Judge”? Would the judge be offended by his answer? 

Maybe he should have followed up with, “what can I do for you?” Or would that be presumptuous, as if little Jonah Haslap could do anything for such a big important person as Judge Campbell P. Mentrose?

And most importantly – why the hell was he calling?

“Mr. Haslap, I’m looking for a fourth clerk for my chambers here in Manhattan,” he replied, clearing his throat for the third time during their thirty-second conversation. Jonah had the sense that Judge Mentrose had seen his share of battle, courtroom and otherwise. “Would you be interested?”

At that moment, Jonah’s next-door neighbor passed by slowly in front of his door, looking seductively at Jonah’s office chair.

“Definitely.”

“Excellent.” There was some rustling in the background. “You live in DC now, right? Well, the federal government is not as generous as law firms, so you’ll have to pay your own moving expenses, but I promise to take you out for a drink at Forlini’s when you get here.”
Forlini’s? Drink? Moving expenses??

“Um, Your Honor,” Jonah stammered, glad he didn’t forget his judicial etiquette this time. 

“Don’t you want to interview me first?”

“You come highly recommended,” the judge replied, unphased but clearly unwilling to pursue the issue any further. “And please none of that Your Honor crap. My wife heard someone call me Your Honor outside of the courtroom once and basically slapped me back to the Stone Age. She keeps me in line.” Jonah knew what it was like to have someone around to keep you in line, and how easy it was to fall out of line when they were gone.

“So, Mr. Haslap, will I see you Monday?” Also known as, six days from now.
Jonah looked around at his office. There was nothing in it, except useless documents from useless mergers between useless corporations. He didn’t even have a picture of Peter anywhere. He didn’t want anyone at work to ask him about Peter, or any facet of his personal life for that matter, and moreover, he didn’t want Peter to see what had become of his life – pushing papers around a desk eighteen hours a day so that someone in a Park Avenue penthouse could move to a larger penthouse on a higher floor.

Not that working eighteen hours a day made much of a dent in his social life. Most of Jonah’s friends moved away after graduation, while a fresh crop of eager idealists flooded into the city for the ritual sacrifice that measured life in terms of dollar signs. When Jonah was not at work – a rare occasion – his days generally revolved around walking the dog, cleaning the apartment, and when he was feeling especially adventurous, venturing out to the Mall to watch happy couples and patriotic children try to guess the height of the Washington Monument.

Washington, DC was a life once well lived, but now outlived.

“Yes, Your Hon…I mean, sir. You will.”

Jonah was already composing his farewell email to the firm in his head, a tradition that each departing associate engaged in before leaving for greener pastures. Most of the emails consisted of empty gratitude and emptier platitudes, with an occasional undercurrent of recrimination. Jonah was planning to thank his assistant, while working in polite words for “crapfest” and “fascist death trap.”

“Judge,” Jonah paused, uncertain whether he should continue to question this odd and amazing bit of good fortune. But his inquisitiveness got the better of him. “How did you get my resume?”

“Jonah,” the Judge replied, clearing his throat one last time. “The legal world is small. At least, the one that everyone wants to be a part of. Just be happy that you, dear boy, are a part of it.”

It was a complete evasion, but there wasn’t much Jonah could do about it. When God closes a door, he opens a ventilating shaft.

And that was that. It had to be the easiest clerkship application process in the history of time. Most people spend weeks preparing their applications, agonizing over whether their resume looked better in eleven or eleven-point-five size font. Jonah didn’t even have to pay for the cost of a stamp.

After a quick meeting with his supervising partner, Jonah went back to his office, poured a large cup of hot coffee on his treasured office chair, thereby ruining it for eternity, and took the rest of the day off. He’d have to spend most of the next few days packing up his office and his life – there was a good deal of overlap between the two – but this afternoon was for the past, not the future.

************

“I have some news,” Jonah said, softly, picking at some grass under his feet. He was still wearing his suit. Sitting on the grass would probably leave some stains on his pants, but he didn’t care. It was the kind of thing he used to care about, but not anymore.

“It’s a great opportunity.” Jonah felt like he was letting him down, even though he knew that was impossible. He could never let him down. Not then, and especially not now.

“I think Daisy will love it too.” He cleared a little brush off of the front of the stone, frustrated that the caretakers were so lax in their duties lately. Although Jonah imagined that the job was relatively thankless – the residents were notoriously tightlipped – someone had to do it, and if you decided that person should be you, then you should do the job well. The residents might not know the difference, but the visitors do.

After the attacks, the responsibility fell to Jonah to make all the necessary “arrangements,” as if organizing a funeral was a simple business transaction. Of course, Peter had not made any arrangements himself – even if he had lived till an age when arrangements were the norm and not the exception, Peter wouldn’t have done so – and Peter’s parents were too distraught to be much help. So for several days after the attacks, while the rest of the world was glued to their television sets, consoling themselves with empty words of ignorant politicians, Jonah was scoping out cemeteries in the DC-metropolitan area. He finally settled on one a few miles outside of DC in Northern Virginia, within walking distance to the Metro (Peter would not have wanted to be very far from the city, nor would he have wanted to spend eternity in Maryland), but remote enough so that neighborhood vandals wouldn’t be tempted to declare their love for each other on the tombstones.

The casket and stone decision was slightly more difficult. Peter was both simple and extravagant at the same time, the only difference being his attention span for a certain type of product. He would buy an inordinately expensive talking garbage can, but at the same time he only owned two pairs of shoes, because, for some reason Jonah was never able to get out of him, he hated having his feet measured at shoe stores. Jonah finally settled on a mid-level casket and top-of-the-line tombstone. It made sense, really. Only a handful of people would ever see the casket, but the stone was a long-term investment.

Peter’s parents flew in for a few days, and made life as difficult for Jonah as they possibly could. They didn’t intend to, of course; they had always liked Jonah, and Jonah had liked them. But they had just lost their only son, and even when they were fully functional they were barely able to keep themselves together. Jonah wondered how they had managed to raise three children without a plan, a steady paycheck, or a clue. Somehow, though, it worked, even if it meant that they could barely afford the plane tickets to their son’s funeral.

But in any event, Jonah didn’t mind handling – and paying for – everything himself. When all the arrangements were done, there was nothing let to do but mourn, and there would be plenty of time for that in the days and years to come. Some people procrastinate on projects and deadlines, but the smart ones procrastinate on pain.

“Your mother called me last week.” She called at least once a week, just to check in. And unlike Jonah’s own mother – for whom “checking in” meant more questions like, “have you paid back your law school loans yet” and “when are you getting married? Yes, I know you’re gay, but gay people get married too, in some countries at least” – Peter’s mother really was just checking in. They wouldn’t talk about anything too serious, the weather, movies they had recently seen, how home-made vodka was actually superior to store-bought – but the subtext was always there. Peter was always there. Jonah suspected that if Peter’s mother didn’t check in once in a while, she might check out altogether.

As usual, though, Peter didn’t want to talk about his parents. It was too hard, and there was too much silence to fill. So Jonah moved on.

“My father threw his back out.” That happened at least twice a month. “And my mother’s colitis is acting up again.” That happened at least three times a month. “Oh, you should have seen the birthday gift she sent to Daisy, I swear, it had to be more expensive than the one she bought for me last year. I think she might be giving up on grandkids at this point, so I guess all that extra money has to go somewhere.”

An elderly woman walked by, dressed in black, leaning on a wooden cane. She nodded in Jonah’s direction, and hobbled on. Jonah wondered for a moment who she was mourning, or considering her advanced age, who she wasn’t mourning.

“I know Peter wasn’t a particularly religious person,” the minister had said during the graveside eulogy. Of course, the minister didn’t know anything of the kind – he had asked Jonah some questions before the ceremony a few minutes before the ceremony, to “get a fuller picture of who Peter was,” while he sipped a steaming coffee and surveyed the crowd.

“Did he believe in Jesus?”

“No,” Jonah replied, but quickly corrected himself. “At least, I don’t think he did.”

“I see,” the minister replied, blowing his nose into a used napkin. “But he believed in God?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. Peter didn’t like to talk about those kinds of things. Too serious, too uncertain, too irrelevant.

The tenor of the conversation with the minister (who was chosen simply on account of his availability) left Jonah uncomfortable. Would the minister make inappropriate comments, or would he refuse to deliver a proper eulogy, because Peter did not accept the body and blood of Jesus Christ? Jonah had simply trusted in the professionalism of clergymen, but blind faith is often undermined by cold reality.

“But whatever he believed, it doesn’t matter anymore.” Why, Jonah wondered. Because he’s in hell right now? Because he was a soulless, godless, homosexual sinner? Because half of his body is still fifty feet under the Potomac, where it belongs?

“Because he is at peace.”

Jonah would have given the minister an extra tip, if he thought that kind of thing was proper.

A tree next to Peter’s tombstone was beginning to sprout a few leaves. It was only late February, but the past week had been unseasonably warm, so the tree was fooled into thinking it was already Spring. Soon enough, the weather would turn back, and the tree would suffer for its optimism. But for a brief moment, it would flourish, and be reborn.

Jonah glanced at the stones next to Peter’s, both of which were marked by large marble crosses. The woman to Peter’s left had lived until seventy-eight. The man to Peter’s right had lived till ninety-three. Peter brought the median age of the neighborhood down considerably. Jonah pictured the three of them sharing a cocktail and a cigarette, six feet under. If anyone could make decomposition fun, it was Peter.

“I’ll visit as often as I can.” Jonah had spoiled Peter with attention over the previous four years. He spent all major holidays, and most minor ones, sitting in that spot, along with at least two or three Sundays a month. In the beginning, he would bring a friend or two to help pass the time, but Jonah quickly realized that he didn’t need, or want, anyone else there. Except sometimes he brought Daisy, which Peter really enjoyed, even though he had only known her for a few days while he was alive. Jonah would have brought her to visit more often, but dogs aren’t allowed on the Metro, and he was certain one of these times the Metro police would realize that Daisy was not actually a guide dog for the blind.

And anyway, even having Daisy around got in the way of his visits. Most of the time, Jonah spent the visit recounting his day, picking a weed or two that had grown over the stone, always cognizant of the fact that he was, in reality, talking to the emptiness between the blades of grass. But once in a while, Jonah lost himself there among the blades, and he briefly occupied a world that was more than just sore backs and colitis, eighteen-hour days and jealous colleagues. It was a world he had only known for a moment, at least in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment he had lived with both eyes open, instead of one always on the clock. 

Jonah’s cell phone rang, jostling him back into the present tense. It was his supervising partner, probably wondering where he ran off to after their meeting. Jonah stood up and brushed some dirt off his pants, ready once again to keep one eye on the clock. Before leaving, he placed a few rocks on the tombstone, adding to the pile that he had left during previous visits. He was the only one who ever added to the pile. They never seemed to blow away, even in a storm, even the pebbles.

Jonah leaned down, and ran his finger up and down Peter’s name. Beloved son, grandson, brother, and friend. Beloved protector. How many people had Peter tried to save on his subway car, before the smoke became too thick to breathe?

“I just think it’s something I should do.”

I love you.

“It’s something I need to do.”

But I’m not ready to join you.

*******

And so, six days later – six conflicted, “am I making the right choice?” and “what if X, what if Y” days later – Jonah found himself lying in his fifth-floor walk-up with exposed brick walls looming above him, and drunk frat boys looming below. The dream left him unnerved, as usual. Just one time he wanted Peter to stay home that December evening. Just once he didn’t want to be helpless. Then he could give up the dream. Then he’d never need to dream again.
Jonah got out of bed and opened his shades. He looked into the street, onto an increasingly familiar dialogue.

“Hey bro, wanna hit an after-hours party?”

“I can’t dude, I got work in an hour.” The diligent working frat boy then promptly puked into a well-placed pile of trash in front of Jonah’s building.

Jonah pulled the shades closed again, determined not to allow the inebriated, yet vaguely attractive, frat boys distract him from following his new morning routine. In fact, his new morning routine wasn’t much different from his old morning routine, except he didn’t spend twenty minutes standing in front of a mirror, trying to screw up enough courage to face another day of meaningless responsibilities. For now, at least, dread had been replaced by something else. Not excitement, exactly – a true lawyer is rarely excited about work, thought they often lie and say they are – but nervous anticipation.

After dressing, shaving, and combing his hair for the sixteenth time, Jonah realized he was running thirty minutes early. It was a habit he had never quite kicked, and one he didn’t particularly want to lose. So by the time Laura arrived at his apartment – they decided to institute a morning coffee tradition – Jonah was already on his third cup.

“You look so professional.” It was quite possible that Jonah’s sister had never actually seen him in a formal suit before. Or at least, not since his Bar Mitzvah fifteen years earlier, and Jonah imagined he didn’t look very professional in that. Cute, maybe, but not professional.

In the two hours since he woke up, the drunk frat boys and winos had handed Second Avenue over to the suit and tie set (though there was some overlap between the groups). The local Starbucks – as in, the closest Starbucks in a two-block radius – was filled with men and women rushing to work, none of whom had time to hold the door open, say excuse me, or indeed, obey any laws of etiquette. Jonah had to throw a few elbows just to get a Mochafrappucino. Only the first in many elbows that must be thrown on a typical Manhattan day.

“Did you talk to mom yesterday?”

“Four times,” Jonah replied, in between sips of his excessively hot beverage. Everything in New York has to be excessively something. “Eleven, two, six-thirty, and ten o’clock.” Ever since Jonah’s mom had gotten a cell phone the calls had increased exponentially. Apparently, there was a downside to unlimited nights and weekends.

“Yeah, she’s been hounding me too. She basically threatened to commit suicide unless we go out there for dinner this weekend.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

Jonah watched the customers hurry into the store and back out to the street at a dizzying pace, as if their lives depended on making the 8:32AM subway, instead of the 8:33. He noticed a stray string hanging from his jacket sleeve. He pulled on it, which of course only made it worse. The more he pulled at it, the longer it grew.

“Do you have any scissors?”

Laura handed him a pair of cuticle scissors, which he immediately put to good use, and deposited the extraneous string in his empty coffee cup.

“Hey, what was the name of that judge you’re working for again?”

“Mentrose. Campbell Mentrose.”

Jonah noticed more than a few attractive yuppie types rushing by outside the window. He hadn’t dated since Peter died, and didn’t have any plans to start now. But the brain and the body often receive conflicting signals, and occasionally the latter wins out.

“I thought so,” Laura said, taking a newspaper out of her bag. “Your judge has been assigned to the Salaam case.”

Laura handed Jonah a copy of the Daily News. The front page of the paper featured a large split-frame picture; on the left side was a notorious basketball coach who had driven the beloved Knicks into the ground, and on the right side was Salaam. Under the split-frame was the caption, “Who Do You Hate More? New Yorkers React To Pure Evil.”

The story, continued on the following page, recounted the procedural history of the case (in layperson’s terms, of course – this was the Daily News), including a brief recap of Judge Glassman’s murder the previous week (still unsolved, but widely attributed to Salaam’s followers), and the salacious facts surrounding the previous judge’s recusal.

“Is the Salaam case cursed?” the article wondered aloud. “New Yorkers – and, indeed, the world – now waits with baited breath to see whether a similar fate befalls Judge Mentrose.” As if Jonah’s new employer was already a marked man.

There was also a short editorial bemoaning the selection of Judge Mentrose as the presiding judge in the case.

“Of course, the selection of federal judges is done by a lottery system, but the terrorists couldn’t have asked for a better outcome in this case,” the editor wrote, spittle almost jumping off the page. “Judge Mentrose, a Clinton appointee, is a notorious proponent of criminal rights,” hard-liners often use the words “criminal” and “defendant” interchangeably, “and you can almost hear the wheels of justice grinding to a halt at the court today, only inches from where so many lives ground to a halt six years ago.”

In the flurry of activity, Jonah had completely missed the news. It was a rare lapse, and Jonah was now paying for it through an intense tightening of his bowels.

“Wow,” Laura said, putting the paper back in her bag and gathering her things. “That’s great. Though a little scary, you know? After what happened to the last guy?”

Needless worrying, Jonah thought. But he didn’t say it. Maybe he didn’t believe it himself.

“Honey, do you want to lose that finger?”

Jonah looked down at his hand, and realized that he had been tying the piece of string that he come off his jacket around his finger for the past several minutes. The finger was beginning to show signs of trauma. Jonah immediately unraveled the string and put it back in his coffee cup.

Laura and Jonah parted ways at the 86th Street subway station. She was going further uptown, to help people who had recently been released from prison, while Jonah was going downtown, to help put them there.

Jonah squeezed himself onto the next excessively crowded subway, inhaling deeply and contorting his body in circus-freak like positions so that his face came within half an inch of the metal bar hanging down over his head. The woman sitting in front of him gave an annoyed grunt when he inadvertently but necessarily jammed his bag into her chest, and a baby carriage behind him was violently jostled when the man next to Jonah realized he almost missed his stop and bolted for the closing doors. It’s every man, woman, and infant for himself in the urban jungle, Jonah thought. No one forces you to live here. There’s plenty of room to breathe in West Virginia.

It seemed that everyone around Jonah had a copy of the Daily News, with Salaam’s face (and the face of the disgruntled basketball star) staring through him as they hurtled downtown at a seemingly dangerous speed. His bowels still had not unclenched since the coffee shop, though it was unclear at this point whether the continued tightness was due to the news, or to the inhumane conditions of the subway car. Either way, he’d be glad when the trip was over. One down, only several hundred to go.

About half the subway exited at Grand Central Station, along with half of the staring Salaams. Jonah relaxed a bit, and was even able to find a few inches of space to sit toward the end of the car. But then he noticed a man sitting across from him, and the anxiety flooded back. The man was dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, and he was carrying a small backpack. He sat quietly staring into space, no different from the dozens of other passengers surrounding him. There was nothing threatening about the man, except the color of his skin. Not dark enough to be black, not light enough to be white. And he wasn’t Latino, or Asian, or a Pacific Islander. No, Jonah knew well enough where this man was from, because men who looked just like him had been captured on Afghani battlefields, or in Iraqi safehouses, or Miami condominiums. Men who looked just like him had been featured on cable news networks, in tabloids and during emergency announcements from the White House. Men who looked just like him had strapped bombs to their bodies and blasted themselves into pieces. Men who looked just like him had murdered Peter, on his way to a boring Senate function, minding his own business, not planning for the rest of his life and not knowing his life was about to end.

And now, the fate of one particular man who looked just like him was, at least partially, in Jonah’s hands.

Of course, the man sitting across from Jonah did not look just like Salaam, any more than Jonah looked just like any other white guy on the number four train.  Even as Jonah silently indicted an innocent man for an imaginable crime, his ACLU membership card burned in his pocket.  And for a moment, he tried to look at the man without preconceptions, without the past, with fresh eyes.  But the eyes looking back at him were only Salaam's.

Jonah moved nervously in his seat, while the man fidgeted with something inside his backpack. Probably on his way to work, Jonah thought. Maybe his family was still back home, and he was sending them weekly checks to ensure his children’s future. Or maybe he grew up in this country, and could trace his roots back far further than Jonah could trace his own. And maybe this man, like Peter, would have struggled to his last breath to save as many people as he could.

Or maybe the bag had a bomb, and any second this man would press a button strategically located underneath his sweatshirt, and Jonah and all his fellow passengers would be buried in half a casket. 

Jonah got off at the next stop, for reasons no one would ever know but him.  Besides, the next subway would be along soon enough, and better safe than sorry.

PS I Love You

Remember, this is just the first chapter of a novel -- it's not meant to be a stand alone piece.  I have a vision, don't worry.  In fact, I'm having one now.  I'm seeing you, sitting by the fire with a nice cup of cocoa, beginning a journey with me, a wonderful, engaging journey from which you will return a better person than you left.

Or, I'm seeing you sitting by your computer Monday morning, picking your nose and trying to endure the monotony.

Either way is fine with me.

Chapter One

Happy New Year all!  Before you get too excited, the following post is not a traditional "Jonah K. Haslap" tome.  It is, instead, the first chapter of a novel -- a legal "thriller", if you will -- that I've been working on.  I debated whether to share it, considering that you probably read this site more for my shameless self-introspection than anything else, and don't worry, I haven't lost the desire to shame myself more in the near future.  But I'd also like to write a novel as well, something that I can publish without fear of my mother suing me for libel.  So I hope you enjoy this first chapter of an as-of-yet untitled novel, at least, for what it's worth at the moment.

-JKH 

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The boxes arrived in Judge Steven P. Glassman’s chambers on Friday afternoon, just before 5PM. There were at least a dozen of them, labeled with various legal terms that marked several years of investigation. Autopsy 12/28/04. Grand jury minutes 10/4/05. Deposition 2/12/06. Witness interview 4/27/07. They were sealed tight with several layers of tape; it took a clerk twenty minutes just to open one box. The judge was surprised that the boxes didn’t come with a Masterlock.

“Leave them,” Judge Glassman instructed, as the clerk started removing briefs from the first box. “They can wait until Monday.”

But the judge knew that the case that had just arrived at his doorstep could not wait until Monday. The last judge on the case had resigned on the eve of trial, after the New York Times uncovered photographs of his dalliances with several underage escorts. Judge Glassman knew the previous judge well, and was not surprised by the revelation – the man had a curious fascination with Blaire from the Facts of Life – though he was shocked by how quickly the judge had resigned. Federal judges are appointed for life, so it usually takes more than a few scandalous photographs to get them out. Recently CNN had run an expose on a judge in Las Vegas who had been issuing rulings based on advice he received through the Psychic Friends Network, behavior which might befit a president and his wife, but which was most unbecoming in a jurist. The judge vowed to remain on the bench until the stars were in their correct alignment.

Judge Glassman went back to his office, and left his clerks to debate over who would be responsible for the case.

“Wow, I can’t believe we got the case,” the judge heard one of the clerks say excitedly from the other room. It must have been the Columbia clerk, who was the designated emotional basketcase of the group. After considering standard qualifications like grades and recommendations, the judge looked for diversity in his clerks. Not in terms of law school, of course – there were only a handful of (top) law schools from which Judge Glassman selected his clerks. Other law schools might contain diamonds in the rough, but the judge lacked both the patience and the energy to find them. And the judge didn’t care much about ordinary indicators of diversity like sexual orientation and race; what mattered most to the judge was personality.  An African-American Muslim lesbian from Pakistan could be just as pleasant, or just as objectionable, as a heterosexual white male from Alabama. Good breeding isn’t in the blood; it’s in the behavior.

Despite the immense amount of work the next few months would entail, each one of the four were jockeying for the assignment. Personally, Judge Glassman preferred anyone but the Yale graduate, who would spend too many hours needlessly intellectualizing the simplest issue, and require constant monitoring as a result. The Yale clerk was best-suited for the complex and non-time-sensitive cases; she was an academic powerhouse, but a practical nightmare.

But even though he had his own preference, he thought it best to leave the decision to the clerks themselves. This was, after all, the case of the year – maybe even of the decade, or the century. If he chose one of them over the others, he would be playing favorites, and even if he wasn’t always even-keeled, Judge Glassman was always fair-minded. In his opinion, there weren’t enough fair-minded judges on the bench. Despite the lifetime tenure, politics and personality too often got in the way. Of course, the most biased judges were often the most brilliant, and they used their brilliance to mask their agendas, both on the right and on the left.

Judge Glassman saw through the pretense of many on his colleagues, though, and he had little patience for dishonesty in any form. The lawyers who appeared before him knew that, and also knew his penchant for scathing criticism.

“Counsel, next time you appear before me, I’d like you to bring your law school diploma, because I’m not entirely sure you actually graduated,” he reprimanded a government attorney, after the attorney had missed a filing deadline. “Did you graduate, counselor?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I graduated,” the attorney replied, meekly. “From Harvard.”

“Oh, from Harvard,” Judge Glassman said, sneering at the attorney’s name-dropping, which annoyed the judge even more than tardiness. “I wouldn’t share that with too many people, Mr. Prosecutor. Harvard has enough troubles these days.”

A few years back, someone had posted a sign in front of Judge Glassman’s courtroom, saying “Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.” His deputy was about to throw it out, but the judge rescued it just in time and hung it over his desk. It wasn’t an insult; it was a badge of honor.

The judge sat at his desk, listening to the clerks’ bickering in the other room. Besides the sign, his office was a cluttered with memorabilia from various important moments in his life. A souvenir from his trip to the Galapagos. A Mickey Mouse hat one of his clerk’s had brought him from Disneyworld. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of non-fiction books on multiple topics, all of which had piqued the judge’s interest at some time or another, usually in connection with a pending lawsuit. There was even a bag of sexual lubricants in one corner, from a trademark infringement case in which the makers of a certain dairy product sued the lubricants’ manufacturer, claiming that consumers might confuse the products due to their similar slogans, labels, and consistency. The judge found in favor of the manufacturer, concluding that it was unlikely that a reasonable consumer would spread a sexual lubricant on a piece of toast.

But the most noticeable feature of his office was the dozens of pictures that lined the walls, most of them of himself with all of his past clerks and every president since Johnson. Most judges only had pictures of themselves with the president who appointed them; you could almost predict their rulings by the pictures they had in their chambers. But Judge Glassman smiled next to Reagan and Carter, Nixon and Clinton, Johnson and Bush (both father and son). His favorite was the one with Nixon. Shortly before that picture was taken, Nixon had been subpoenaed in the Watergate scandal.

“Can’t you do something about that?” Nixon asked the judge, just before the flash went off. He wasn’t smiling.

From his desk, the judge could see the boxes sitting in the foyer. Hundreds of little pieces of paper, thousands – maybe millions – of words like “heretofore” and “forthwith,” all holding the fate of the most reviled man in America. Of course, in the public’s mind, his fate had been sealed years ago, the moment the bombs went off. Judge Glassman could still smell that moment. It’s the smell that sticks with you, years later. Eventually the debris is cleared, the bodies are buried, and the buildings are replaced with bigger and better ones, symbols that a bomb can destroy our homes but not our spirits. But in fact, the judge thought, our spirits do break, just a little, every time a body is buried. And all the uplifting songs and primetime specials and burnings in effigy can’t replace what can’t be replaced.

The judge realized he had been staring at the boxes for several minutes, and redirected his attention to his rapidly filling e-mail inbox. No time for thoughts of the past now. He – the entire country – had spent enough time in the past. Judge Glassman was determined not to oversee a trial haunted by ghosts and personal torment. They attacked us because our system works, he thought. It’ll work again. He would see to it.

The NYU clerk knocked. He was usually the spokesperson for the group. Probably because he had the biggest mouth, and the least shame.

“Judge, we decided that Allison would be the primary clerk on the case,” NYU said. The judge sighed, resigned to working closely with the Yale one over the next few months. He wasn’t surprised that Yale won. Her pleasing nature ended where her competitive nature began. Yale Law School had done away with grades years ago, ostensibly for purely academic reasons, but the judge suspected that the school had no choice – if Yale students had to compete for grades, the violent crime rate on Yale’s campus would skyrocket.

“We also decided that, considering the amount of work entailed in this litigation” – NYU always talked like a legal brief with legs – “we would take turns helping Allison out with any overflow. We hope and trust that this is an acceptable arrangement to your honor.”
Ah, of course. Everyone wants a piece of the pie. Yes, NYU, it is an acceptable arrangement to this honorable jurist. Also, an acceptable arrangement would include you not kissing my 76-year-old butt at every turn.

“That’s fine, John, thanks.”

NYU went back into the clerks’ office, and was likely already exaggerating his encounter with the judge.

“The judge seemed reluctant to consent to our proposal; however, I explicated the benefits of permitting each of us to contribute to this historic prosecution, and eventually, he relented.”
Still, even if NYU annoyed him at times, the judge appreciated his by-the-book approach to the profession. The judge longed for the days of bow-ties and procedure, wing-tips and rules. There were too many liberties being taken these days. Liberties were for politicians, not for judges. Judges are supposed to keep politicians in check, and not the other way around.

An unopened New York Times lay on the judge’s desk. The day had been so hectic, he had not had the opportunity to even glance at it. The call from the Court Executive had come early in the day.

“Steven, I thought I should let you know, your name came out of the wheel,” the Clerk of the Court informed him. The judge didn’t particularly appreciate being called “Steven” during working hours, but he had known the Clerk of the Court since their law school days, and asking an old friend to call him Your Honor seemed a little too harsh, even for the judge. Still, it would be nice if he did it voluntarily. It’s like receiving a compliment after you asked for it; it never feels the same when you have to ask for it.

“You’ve been assigned to the Saalam case.”

It wasn’t welcome news, at first. Judge Glassman had recently assumed senior status, and he was looking forward to slowing down a bit. Not retiring completely, of course. His wife would never consent to that. Judges (indeed, most lawyers) usually work until their final breath. Not necessarily because they like it, but because it’s all they – and their spouses, families, pets – know. After five or six decades of eating at the same dinner table once a week at most, it was best to keep it that way. Why spoil a successful marriage right before the finish line? There would be plenty of time to catch up, in the next life.

But even more than the late nights and missed box seats that the case would bring, the judge was uncomfortable with its notoriety. Ever since the government had arrested Salaam, not a day had gone by without his name appearing somewhere in the newspapers. Even before he was arrested, the name Salaam had become synonymous with pure evil, a development carefully cultivated by the prosecutors, even before a shred of evidence had been presented against him. 

And everyone shared in the glory when Salaam was finally captured, not in a cave in Afghanistan or a safe house in an Iranian village, but in a modest, split-level house in Miami. The current president had not been elected so much on his own record as Salaam’s.

Yet though the notoriety was unwelcome, it was nothing new to the judge. A few years earlier, he had presided over the trial of a serial killer who had allegedly murdered a dozen small children in ways so horrendous that even the Daily News, a publication not known for its restraint, refused to report the details. After the trial was over, the judge was giving a lecture at Columbia Law School when he was asked how he remained objective in the face of gruesome testimony by the victims’ families, as they described the mangled remains of their children.

“When a defendant enters my courtroom, he is no longer a human being,” the judge answered. 

“He is a hypothetical on a law school exam. The victims, too. They are only words on a piece of paper.”

“But, judge,” the student continued, noticeably uncomfortable with the judge’s response. “Isn’t compassion part of justice?”

“Compassion in the law, yes,” the judge replied, in a measured tone. “But personal compassion, like personal condemnation, has no place in the criminal justice system.”

And Judge Glassman honestly believed that. He believed it when the jury acquitted the defendant – who the judge was certain had committed the crimes. He believed it when his son-in-law was convicted of securities fraud, and he believed it when his own granddaughter was arrested for shoplifting.

And even when he watched the bodies fly through the air as explosions rocked the street beneath his chambers, even when his wife called him hysterical because she hadn’t heard from him in hours, even when there were lines down the block at the city morgue, filled with people who were hoping that somehow, their father had missed the train to work that day, or their daughter had been one of a handful of survivors on the number 6 train, or their husband was lying unconscious at St. Vincent’s and not dead on a slab, he believed it.

Judge Glassman could preside over this case, and he could preside over it fairly. He was perhaps the only person who could.

“You can decline the assignment, you know” the Clerk said, referring to a perk of the judge’s senior status. Before he assumed senior status, the judge wondered if there were numerous, secret perks to being a senior judge. Maybe a separate cafeteria that served filet mignon, or a special elevator with ornate chandeliers, or a secret handshake. But none of those hopes had come to fruition. Another sign that the judicial system, like the country, does not respect its elders.

“No, Daniel, thank you. I’ll take it.” The judge glanced at his calendar, and realized that taking the Salaam case would mean postponing his summer vacation, which was fine with him. The first time he visited the Grand Canyon, he was struck by its awesome beauty, by how an empty valley can be as magnificent as a majestic mountain. The eighteenth time he visited it, he was struck only by the cost of bottled water at their hotel.

“You know, they may have to give you a security detail, like they did for Michael,” the Clerk continued, referring to the secret service agents assigned to Judge Michael Mukasey during the World Trade Center trial, after Judge Mukasey had received numerous death threats. How many death threats would he have to receive before he received his own “security detail,” the judge wondered. Is there a chart somewhere that dictates how many death threats each judge must receive before they are entitled to protection? A slightly competitive part of Judge Glassman wondered whether he would have to receive more or less than Mukasey.

“As long as I don’t have to feed and clothe them,” the judge replied.

“I’m serious, Steven. This isn’t a typical trial.”

No shit, the judge wanted to say. Judge Glassman generally disliked using expletives, which he regarded as lazy argumentation, but sometimes one just fit the situation.

“You’ll be a target.”

“A target for who?” the judge asked, unconvinced that a group of international terrorists would expend the time and energy to take him out. Besides, if he kept eating the chicken marsala they served in the courthouse cafeteria, nature might do the job for them.

“Don’t worry about me,” the judge continued, signaling for his assistant to help him get this guy off the phone. His assistant was not the nicest person, but she was good at getting rid of people, and even the judge – who had told Nixon after their photo shoot that he should “fight his own battles” – was slightly scared of her. But then he remembered that he had given her the afternoon off, just because she asked for it, and he was too afraid to say no.

“I’m tough.” At least, in the courtroom. He had the sign hanging above his desk to prove it.

“But is Laura?” the Clerk asked, referring to the judge’s wife. The judge rarely considered his wife’s perspective on anything career-related, not because she wasn’t smart enough to weigh in, but because she wouldn’t stop weighing in if he let her. “Your decision affects her too, you know. And your kids, too, and grandkids. How old are they now?” His words were careful and measured, as if there was a warning hidden beneath the warning.

“I have to go, Daniel,” the judge said, suddenly becoming eager to end the conversation. It seemed like the Clerk was fishing for something, but the judge wasn’t sure what, and he didn’t want to find out. “Thanks for the heads up.”

The Clerk paused, and after a long silence, wished the judge good luck, and promised to keep the assignment secret until Monday so he could prepare his chambers for the onslaught. The judge hung up, still vaguely unsettled by the call. He supposed he should appreciate the concern, but he refused to condone paranoia, especially not in his courtroom. And after all, the terrorists had better targets than me, he thought. What benefit would they get from killing me? The case would just get transferred to another judge, and they certainly couldn’t kill all the judges in the federal judiciary. Especially not the ones in Texas, who it was rumored carry handguns underneath their robes.

The sun was already setting outside, and it felt like the first snowfall was right around the corner, a bit early in the season but not unheard of in mid-November in New York City. It was on an evening very much like this one, six years earlier, that the ground had shook. Not just the ground under the courthouse; the ground shook under every building in every major metropolitan area in the country. But the courthouse, which was built directly over a bustling subway station, bore the brunt of the impact in this little corner of the universe. The building was closed for five months following the attacks, as the universe reorganized itself into a brave new world. It was a world very similar to, and entirely different from, the one that came before.

“We’re going to catch the monsters who committed these heinous acts,” the President had promised on national television the following evening, even though the killers were also lying in little pieces across the ground, mixed together with little pieces of their victims. But the President didn’t mean the men who had strapped explosives to their bodies and boarded subways, cars, buses, and trains across the country. Those men had turned themselves into walking bombs, and were little more than the sum of the parts they left behind. 

No, the President meant the planners. The brains. The so-called “masterminds,” as if great works of terror require something more than a common goal, and utter desperation. And eventually, the President meant just one man. The mastermind. Salaam.

When the judge was finally allowed back into his chambers after the attacks, he immediately went back to work, and demanded the same from his clerks, often working them through weekends and holidays, weddings and anniversaries, stomach bugs and, even in one unfortunate situation, chemotherapy (he let that clerk go home early once in a while). He didn’t want to make them miserable – well, most of the time, anyway – but he had no other choice. Maybe back in the days of wingtips and bow-ties, judges had time to manage their cases on their own. 

But these days, when every judge has several hundred cases on their docket, when every Joe Six-Pack sued because they were fired from their job, or they broke a leg in front of Burger King, or their coffee was just too hot, dammit – these days, a judge is only as good, or bad, as the clerks who work for him.

The judge unrolled the newspaper and quickly skimmed the first five pages. Everything after those pages was fluff, anyway, and he rarely had time to read anything that didn’t appear above the fold. I need a break, he thought. The case could wait till Monday. It had already waited six years, three more days wouldn’t make a difference. When he came in on Monday though, everyone had better be prepared, on both sides. No one would get a free ride here. As far as the judge was concerned, Salaam was just another defendant, presumed innocent, afforded the same rights and privileges as every other man and woman who had appeared before him in his forty-two years on the bench. Justice is blind, even in the ashes.

And besides, no one could tell him what to do in his courtroom. He was the king of his kingdom, answerable to no one except his own conscience.

The judge stuffed a few briefs in his satchel – he might be taking it easy this weeknd, but he still needed something to read while his wife knitted, during their lovely, silent Sundays – and headed out of his chambers, passing the clerks as he went.

“Have a good weekend,” he said to shocked faces. The judge was leaving at 5:30pm? NYU almost asked him the reason, but even he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“And Allison – be here bright and early on Monday, please. I need you at the top of your game, from here on out.”

It was slightly cruel of the judge to leave with those parting words, which would surely cause the clerk to spend the next two days reading every scrap of paper in every one of those boxes. But in fact, he did need her to be fully prepared as soon as possible, because like it or not, Salaam’s fate hung not only in the hands of the judge and jurors, but in hers as well. These pseudo-adults, who only a few years ago were working at ice cream parlors and smoking pot in their parents’ basements, now largely controlled the judicial system. And there was nothing the judge – or anyone else – could do about it, except trust them to do the job he just didn’t have enough time to do himself.

The security guards politely smiled as the judge exited the main courthouse doors, and entered the frigid Chinatown air. Other judges preferred to use a special entrance designated only for them, choosing to avoid possible encounters with prosecutors or defense attorneys who appeared before them, but Judge Glassman welcomed the opportunity to catch people off-guard, and maybe overhear conversations about him between disgruntled attorneys. It’s not what people say to your face that really counts, but what they don’t say. Besides, he still hadn’t figured out who had hung the sign that now hung over his desk; what’s more, he wasn’t sure what he would do with the culprit if he did figure it out, whether he would buy him a drink or have him disbarred. It would be a spur of the moment decision.

The street was bustling with activity, and the judge instantly cursed his decision to travel during rush hour. But then again, it’s always rush hour in New York City, regardless of the time. The judge walked past his favorite lunch spot and waved to the owner inside, who waved back. He used to wave to the owner and his wife, but his wife was killed in the attacks, so now the owner waved alone.

If it hadn’t been physically impossible for a bullet to magically appear in a person’s chest, no one would have even noticed the shot. The pain itself was negligible; if a woman hadn’t screamed for a doctor, the judge might have just walked it off. But then he grew very tired very quickly, and the warm spot behind his shoulder became hot and then burned through his body, as he fell against the glass of his favorite lunch spot.

The owner of the restaurant rushed out, and propped the judge’s head up on his lap, shouting something in Chinese, or maybe English, it all sounded the same at this point. The urgency seemed excessive, though. This too shall pass. Everything does.

He saw his wife, kids, and grandkids, one at a time and all at once; he saw his chambers and his home, Disneyworld, the Galapagos and the Grand Canyon; and he thought of his assistant, who would probably retire now, since no one else would put up with her mood swings; of the Clerk of the Court, and his curious words of warning; of the bag of personal lubricants in his office, and the shock on the face of whoever found them; of underage escorts, and walking bombs, and the alignment of the stars.

And before he closed his eyes to rest, Judge Steven P. Glassman thought of the dozen or so boxes, still sitting in his office un-opened, and of the next judge – and clerk – who would be responsible for vindicating the living, and avenging the dead.