Final Appeal

“Eletha, I didn’t know you went to school.”

“I thought Armen might’ve told you.” She picks up a bagel half and spackles it with whitefish salad.

“He didn’t, but why didn’t you?”

“It’s a secret.” She bites into her sandwich, but I’m still too surprised to start mine. “In case I flunk out.”

“You won’t flunk out.”

“You never know. The whole damn thing was Armen’s idea. Now he’s gone.”

“But I think it’s wonderful, Eletha.”

“You don’t have to do it, girl. Three nights a week I get home at eleven o’clock. I gotta take two buses, then transfer to the subway. Malcolm’s in bed, I don’t even get to see him. If I’m lucky, I got an hour left to fight with Leon. I figured if I got an associate’s degree, maybe I could transfer the credits and go on to college, then who knows.”

“Maybe to law school?”

She smiles. “Maybe.”

“That sounds great. I think it’s great.”

She puts down her sandwich. “Nah, it was a pipe dream. The only reason I didn’t quit was Armen. He’d have been on my case forever, like he was till I quit smoking. That man was too much. He paid my tuition for me, clear through to graduation.”

“But why does he pay it at all, if I can ask?”

“I couldn’t afford to, so we had an agreement. He lent me the money and I paid him back in installments. When they told me it was all paid off, I started thinkin’. Maybe it was a suicide. Maybe he was fixing it so I couldn’t quit after he was gone.”

It can’t be. “Maybe he just wanted you not to worry about it.”

She shakes her head. “I feel like quitting anyway.”

“Don’t. He wouldn’t want you to.”

“I know that.” She bites into her sandwich.

“El, can I ask you a question?”

She nods, her mouth full.

“How much money are we talking about for your tuition?”

“Couple thousand a semester.”

“Where would Armen get that kind of money?”

“He makes a fine livin’, hundred thirty thousand a year, and he saved like a fiend. He never spent a dime, that man.”

It doesn’t make sense. Why would Armen save if he had over half a million dollars? “He was a saver?”

“Always. But he was cheap, they all are.”

“Who’s they? Judges?”

“Armenians. You should see, when they’d have a dinner, I’d be countin’ dimes on my desk. Who had the iced tea, who had the wine. I’m serious.”

“That’s racist, El.”

“I know. But it’s true.” She laughs.

“Did his family have money?”

“No. Susan’s did, but he didn’t.”

“So how much did he have saved, do you think?”

“Maybe fifty–sixty thousand. He told me not to worry about it, he’d take care of Malcolm’s college. I worried plenty, but I don’t make enough to save shit. Why?”

I look down at a half-eaten pickle. “Just curious.”

We split up after lunch because Eletha has to run an errand; she promises me she’ll take the back entrance into the building, because there’s no demonstration there. As I reach the courthouse, I consider doing the same myself. The mob has grown. People spill out past the curb and into the street, filling the gaps between the TV vans and squad cars. The police ring the crowd, trying vainly to keep it out of Market Street.

I cross against the traffic light, which turns out to be advisory anyway. A gaper block stalls traffic up and down the street. As I get closer to the courthouse, I see that something seems to be happening. The chanting stops suddenly; the crowd noise surges. Reporters and TV cameras rush to the door. I pick up my pace. It looks like breaking news, maybe the panel decision. My pulse quickens as I reach the edge of the crowd. I look for the hot orange cones that mark the walkway into the courthouse, but they’ve been scattered.

“What’s going on?” I say, but am shoved into a woman in front of me. I turn around to see who’s pushing. A cameraman stands there, and a lawyer with a trial bag.

“Sorry,” says the lawyer, sweating profusely behind horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s this person behind me.”

“No!” someone screams at the head of the crowd, and then there’s more shouting and pushing. The mob’s moving out of control. I feel a sharp elbow in my back. It knocks me off balance.

“There’s a decision!” someone shouts up front; then there’s more yelling, even screaming. I feel panic rising in my throat as the crowd swells toward the door, carrying me with it, almost off my feet.

Suddenly there’s a painful whack at the back of my head. I feel faint, dizzy. Everything gets fuzzy. My arms flutter, groping for anything to stay upright.

Gunshots ring out like distant firecrackers, and there’s screaming and shouting, also far away. Strong hands catch me from behind. Someone says in my ear, “This is a warning. Let the judge rest in peace.”

The words and the pain melt together.

And then slip beyond me.

  17

I wake up on a green plastic couch in a room I’ve never seen before. My head hurts, but I can see everyone clearly. Standing over me are Eletha and the law clerks. Behind them are a few marshals I don’t know, and the big mustachioed one, Al McLean, who was on duty the night Armen was killed. I’d been meaning to talk to him. His shrimpy sidekick, Jeff, sits silently in a chair nearby.

“Auntie Em, Auntie Em,” Artie says, but nobody laughs.

“Hey, baby,” Eletha says soothingly. She sits on the couch beside me.

“What happened?”

“You got caught in a riot, child. I shoulda walked back with you.”

“Fifteen people were wounded,” says Ben, from over Eletha’s shoulder. “They ran out of ambulances, that’s why you’re here.”

“Where?”

“Our lounge,” McLean says, which explains the odor of stale cigarettes.

“I still say she should go to a hospital,” Eletha says loudly, in McLean’s direction. It takes me only a second to picture the fuss she must have made before I woke up.

“Somebody had a gun,” Sarah says. “Two people were shot. Demonstrators.”

The gunshots I heard. “Are they okay? Are they dead?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

Then I think of the warning just before I blacked out; it sends a chill through me. Was the person who warned me also the shooter? “Did they catch who did it?”

“No. No suspects, either. They don’t know if it was a demonstrator or just some nut.”

“And Hightower, the panel affirmed?”

“Names on a caption, Grace,” Eletha says.

My head begins to pound dully. “Which means Hightower dies.”

“Not so fast,” Sarah says. “Robbins dissented. It’ll be appealed to the Supremes.”

“Finis est,” Ben says with satisfaction. “All they have to do is find a vein.”

“Ben, stop it,” Sarah snaps.