“After the Jeffrey Simmons case was closed,” Howard says, ignoring Irv, “there have been calls—high level and important calls—for greater attention to the use of force by the police, as well as renewed concerns about racism and insufficient attention to cases involving black victims. The Jones family deserves justice, Irving. If the system tries to give you time on Dr. Jones’s case, it might look like we’re privileging the white perpetrator over the black victim by dragging our heels. I might also add,” says Howard, “the white male perpetrator over the black female victim. A white male who is a foreigner, and a victim who is American. Time is not on your side, and it is not ours to give. I suggest,” says Howard, “that we not stand with the arrogance of King Canute, who tried to hold back the waves.”
Cory’s victory over the tape dispenser is—as Irv had anticipated—a Pyrrhic one, as he is now bleeding. He has inserted his index finger into his mouth and instinctively turned toward Irv, who is now shaking his head at him.
“The thing is, Howard,” says Irv, “people always remember that story incorrectly. It wasn’t true that Canute commanded the waves to stop out of vainglory only to realize his own limits. It’s by a strange twist of fate we think of him as a negative example. It was quite the opposite. He sat on his throne on the shore of England and showed his subjects that the waves would not obey him—quite deliberately and theatrically. He then declared to his kingdom, and I’m quoting from memory here, Howard: ‘All the inhabitants of the world should know that the power of kings is vain and trivial, and that none is worthy the name of king but He whose command the heaven, earth, and sea obey by eternal laws.’ Unquote. More or less. So I beg to differ, Howard. I say, let King Canute be our guide. We too must recognize that there is but one King who commands over all of us, and we must obey the foundation of His law, and hold fast to our greatest truths. And if unto you, O Howard, the world delivereth a giant shovelful of shit and a fan against which to throw it, you might remind them of the good Lord Jesus Christ and our requirement to be actually good to one another, and not only appear to be so in the media—so says Proverbs 902 . . . 10. And if they are unconvinced by that, you can also remind them that the motto of the New York State Police is ‘Excellence Through Knowledge’ and has been since 1917. I do not like the way this case is becoming about optics rather than justice. I believe in my heart of hearts, dear Howard, that if we hold fast to the simple things, we will bring more justice to this world so help me God. You mark my words.”
“Who taught you to talk like this, Irv?”
“The Jesuits at Loyola—though you need to load them up on Glenlivet if you want to hear the really good stuff.”
“Don’t fuck this up, Irv.”
“Amen, Howard.”
Shop Talk
Irv directs Cory to put a white board and worktable in the jail cell, but the desk won’t fit, so it takes Cory the better part of three hours to unscrew the legs thanks to his cut finger and the stuck screws that probably haven’t touched oxygen since “I Like Ike” pins were all the rage.
Once the command center is set up, Irv lays out the map with Sigrid’s marks. He’s asked Cory to run a long cord for his old mint-green Cortelco, which he’s placed on the corner of the desk; it has a pleasing heft and a sculptural certainty that he now uses to hold the map corner in place.
Irv never has liked modern telephones. The built-in loudspeakers deny privacy and also rob him of the tactile experience of being on a phone, not merely talking into one. It’s a bit like smoking. Who would smoke if you couldn’t hold the cigarette? Waving it around, hanging it from your lips—that’s where the fun is. Life has always seemed more real when you’re contending with gravity. Because in the end that’s what’s gonna get you.
He considers using his gun as a counterweight for the other side of the map but thinks the better of it. It’s a pity, though. It would have been the first time it proved useful for something.
Sigrid arrives at the station at eleven a.m.—not ten, as Melinda had—and she explains that it is five in the afternoon back in Oslo and she’s having some sleeping troubles. Irv nods. It could be the shape of the earth conspiring against her. It may also be worry. He’s seen women who are broken from the inside out and watched them apply a thin layer of paint to their lips and eyes and cheeks—not to attract attention but to divert it. Sigrid may be tired but she is unbroken and tries to divert nothing. “We’re going to need a picture of you for this plan to work. Something for the flyers we’re putting up.”
Sigrid nods and asks for coffee, suggesting they revisit that discussion when she’s had time to wake up a bit, during which time Irv holds up his iPhone and snaps a picture of her.
“Ah . . . wait a second,” Sigrid says.
Irv does not wait a second and instead shows the photo to Melinda, who is standing nearby, and this makes Melinda’s face contort to the point where she excuses herself from the cell.
“Let me see that,” says Sigrid.
“All in good time.”
“You can’t use that,” Sigrid says, and Irv smiles at her as he says, “What?” while his iPhone says SWISH! and the picture of Sigrid is sent into the metaverse.
“What were you saying?” Irv asks innocently.
“Who did you send that to?”
“Frank Allman, out in Saranac Lake. Though maybe, out there in the blue sky, Duane Allman too. We miss you, Duane.”
Sigrid sits
