He nodded as if I’d said something significant. The air between us was thick with unspoken words. I reached over and touched his arm briefly. He smiled.
“Did you always want to be a lawyer?”
“No, I drifted into it from graduate school. I wanted to change the world and law offered more opportunities than history.”
“Did you know you were gay when you started law school?”
“I’ve always known.”
“It doesn’t seem to be a problem with you.”
“Is it with you?”
“No one ever prepared me for it,” he said, “or the experience of feeling different even though you don’t appear different to other people.”
I nodded. The sexual aspect of homosexuality was, in many ways, the least of it. The tough part was being truthful without painting yourself into a corner: I am different, but not as different as you think.
Aloud, I said, “It’s schizophrenic, isn’t it?” At once Hugh’s face changed. The placid blond handsomeness dissolved and was replaced by anger.
“Don’t use that word around me. You don’t have any idea of what schizophrenia is like.”
“I just meant-”
“That it’s an identity crisis? It’s the end of identity. It’s death.”
Startled by his outburst, I mumbled an apology. The fierceness went out of his eyes but not the distance. The intimacy between us was shattered and I could not think of any words to call him back.
“I’m all right, just sort of keyed up, I guess. I should be going now.”
“I’m really sorry, Hugh,” I said, again.
“You couldn’t’ve known,” he said, more to himself than me. “I’d like to see you again. I’ll call.”
“Sure. I’d like that.” We stood facing each other, but it seemed absurd to shake hands, so we just smiled, like two strangers who had collided by accident.
A week after Hugh’s nocturnal visit, I met Aaron Gold for drinks at a bar on University Avenue called Barney’s to talk about my future, again. Gold had been in solo practice in San Francisco for a couple of years before joining his current firm, and I relied on him for advice on setting up on my own. His years as an associate with a rich, prestigious firm had not eradicated his memories of the privations of his first practice.
Gold liked advising me. It allowed him to relive his days on his own when he expected to build a powerful firm from his own ambition and drive. In the end, he decided the world was insufficiently impressed and he signed on with a firm in town. A good firm, the best in the area and successful enough to have branch offices, but, after all, not a New York firm or even one in San Francisco.
His choice puzzled me. As an editor of law review, Gold could have written his ticket anywhere in the country, but he stayed in our backwater university town far from the centers of the power and influence he’d once set out to dazzle. And he had become a real company man, absolutely dedicated to the firm
We were getting along pretty well, Gold and I, I thought as I stepped into the bar from the muggy August afternoon. However, some aspects of my life remained a problem for him as I discovered again when I brought up the subject of Hugh Paris.
“You went to bed with a client?” he asked incredulously as the startled cocktail waitress brought our drinks.
“He’s not a client,” I said after she’d gone. “I didn’t take his case.”
“It’s the appearance of impropriety you should be concerned about.”
“Look, I haven’t exactly advertised the news. I was just telling you.”
He set his drink down and asked, “Why?”
“You asked what was new with me. I told you.”
“Some things you can omit.”
“Listen, Aaron, I get to thrill to your accounts of your latest girlfriend, but you treat me like a eunuch. You confide in me, but I can’t confide in you? Are we friends, or what?”
He rubbed his forehead and sighed, dramatically. “Yes, we’re friends. It’s just that — well, in addition to the fact that you’re gay — this Paris guy sounds like trouble. You should marry or something.”
“Hugh’s all right,” I said, defensively, and added, “and as for marriage, you’re nearly six years older than me and not married.”
“That’s different. I got into law late and I have to make up for lost time if I want to make partner before I’m forty. Then I’ll marry. A man can marry at any time.”
“If it makes you that uncomfortable for me to talk about being gay, I’ll stop talking about it.”
He waved his hand as though waving away a fly. “It’s part of your life. It’s just difficult. Give me time.”
“I told you ten years ago.”
“What, in law school? Everyone was something in law school. Marxists, feminists, homosexuals — I was a socialist. It was all theory, then. It didn’t mean anything. I never thought you were serious. Let’s have another drink.” He summoned the waitress.
“Did we sell out?”
“Sell out what?” He lifted an eyebrow. “What did we have to sell? Nothing. We had nothing. It’s now that we all have something to sell, and to lose.” He raised his glass and touched it against mine in an ironic toast.
For the next two days, I reviewed my options. Setting up practice in San Francisco was out of the question because of the expense and the fact that there were too many criminal defense lawyers there already, scrambling for a living. When I’d been transferred out of the Public Defender’s office in San Jose, I had burned too many bridges to find my way back. So, for the time being, I decided to stay where I was.
I rented a suite in an office building within walking distance of the courthouse. I bought a desk, installed a phone, and had a nameplate nailed to the door. My business cards were in the process of being printed. All I needed were clients. Since my practice had centered in San Jose, I had very little local reputation and knew I would have to rely, initially, on appointments to criminal cases from which the public defenders disqualified themselves. I had already decided that I did not want a civil law practice.
Appointments represented a steady source of income. Lawyers were appointed from a list maintained by the judges; one applied to be placed on the list. Appointments were sought after and placement on the lists was dictated by political considerations, which, in the world of a small town, meant appeasing those in a position to make life difficult for you. For the judges that meant the D.A. and the public defenders who not only belonged to the same union, but, between them, handled virtually all the criminal matters. The judges were unlikely to appoint any lawyer who had antagonized one or the other office. Therefore, I found it necessary to go make my peace with my ex-employer. I had set up an appointment to see Frances Kelly, to ask her pardon and to get her as a reference.
I climbed the five flights of stairs to the public defender’s office in the courthouse. By the time I got there I was sweaty from exertion and nervousness. The reception room was almost empty as I stepped up to the counter and gave my name. The receptionist was new. It had been a little less than a month since I’d quit but it seemed like a year, chiefly because nothing had changed. Even the calendar on the wall was still turned to July. A couple of my ex-colleagues passed through on their way to court. They saw me but said nothing. Omerta, I thought — apparently, I had become a non-person.
Fifteen minutes later, Frances’s secretary appeared and led me to her office, never once acknowledging that she knew me. I wondered if I would get the same reception from Frances. I knocked at her door and entered on her command.
She greeted me with friendly curiosity, rising slightly from behind her desk, extending a braceleted hand. “You look well,” she said.
“Thanks. So do you.” And, in fact, she looked as sleek and opulent as ever, carrying her avoirdupois like a summer parasol. We exchanged civilities and a little office gossip and then, mentally clearing my throat, I shifted subjects. “I have a favor to ask.” She smiled. “But first I want to apologize for the abruptness of my departure.’’
“You’re forgiven,” she said.
