which case Iris is right there in the house.
He reminds himself not to suddenly introduce a new aspect to the plan; he told himself that all he would do is drive by her house and move on.
Now he is casting about for reasons he might knock on her door, and he forces himself to ignore every spontaneous scenario and to stick with the original plan.
He has seen the house.Enough.Maybe he will return in an hour or so to see ifthe car has returned.Maybe there will be other signs oflife, little changes, clues from which he can concoct a plausible narrative of their day.He steps on the gas pedal, bringing the speed ofhis car up to fifteen, but as he pulls away from the house he is gripped by the idea that Iris is in there, and that all that separates them is fifteen paces and a knock on the door.And though he has promised himself no unplanned actions, he does add one thing to today’s reconnaissance.He dials her number on his cell phone.Yet on the first ring, he feels an overpowering sense ofcreepiness and remorse, and he pushes his thumb against the end call button on his phone with such force that he almost veers into a parked car— an old Mercedes with a bumper sticker that sayscommit randomacts of irrational kindness.
Because he told Kate he was going to do some work, Daniel heads toward his office, for the tiny squirt ofmoral salve it might afford him, though not before driving down Broadway one last time and looking for Iris’s car.He pretends not to see everyone who waves hello to him, and he thinks to himself that ifhe had remembered more clearly all the wav-ing or howdy-doing that goes on in Leyden, he would never have moved back here.Yet to not have moved back here is now unthinkable, a specu-lation that leads to an infinity ofemptiness, like imagining not having been born.The equation is simple.No Leyden = No Iris.Ofcourse, there are a million details oflife and circumstance that had to fall into place to bring him to the spot in which he now finds himself.But in the end it seems to Daniel to come to this:ifhe hadn’t lost that case back in the city, ifhe hadn’t been kicked down the stairs by those three thugs, with their huge hands and reddish eyes, ifhe hadn’t developed the hu-miliating, excoriating fear ofevery dark-skinned stranger he saw on the street, then none ofthis would be happening.
He wonders what Iris will think ofthe story ofhis flight from New York.He wonders ifhe will ever need to tell her.He nervously imagines how it will sound toAfrican-American ears—the panicky white boy packing his bags, quitting his practice, heading for the cornfields and the pastures and the perfect white village with his southern girlfriend and her porcelain daughter in tow.Surely this will have a meaning to Iris somewhat different from the meanings to which he is accustomed, and for no other reason than she is black.He is getting way ahead ofhimself, but he can’t help it.He remembers Kate’s remark about Leroy from the night before:
Let the fight begin.
At last, it is Monday, and Daniel is in court, standing in front ofJudge Hoffstetter.On one side ofDaniel stands Rebecca Stefanelli, who most people know by her nickname, Lulu.She is a five-times-divorced, hard-living woman in her early forties, with red hair and a tentative, defensive smile on her face, the smile ofa woman who has had a number ofunkind remarks made at her expense, and who would rather appear in on the joke than be its unwitting target.On the other side ofDaniel stands James Schmidt, a muscular, scrubbed widower who runs a little lawn mower and chain saw repair business out ofhis garage;Rebecca and James had a brief, more or less geographically determined fling a couple ofyears ago and relations between them have been stormy ever since.
Standing next to Schmidt is a barrel-chested, white-haired, flush-faced old lawyer named Montgomery Paisley, in semiretirement but still mak-ing a handsome living representing the company that sold Schmidt his home insurance.Though summer is long past, Paisley is wearing a blue-and-white seersucker suit and light brown shoes.
Rebecca is suing Schmidt for failure to keep his section ofthe public sidewalk clear ofice.She slipped and fell in front ofSchmidt’s house last March, sustaining a concussion, and she claims to have been suffering from debilitating headaches ever since.
Judge Hoffstetter is manifest in his dislike ofLulu Stefanelli.“Miss Stefanelli,”he says,“I’ll thank you not to wear sunglasses in my courtroom.”
“Your Honor,”Daniel is quick to say,“my client is wearing dark glasses on the advice ofher physician, as a way ofwarding offheadaches.”
“This is not a sunny room, Mr.Emerson.Please instruct your client to remove her sunglasses.”
It’s outrageous to Daniel that Hoffstetter is harassing Lulu about her glasses.Hoffstetter used to be a state patrolman inWindsor County;in fact, it was he who gave Daniel his first and only speeding ticket, twenty years ago, when Daniel was seventeen.In those days, Hoffstetter was a hard, fit man, with an accusatory, military bearing, and he was never without his mirrored sunglasses.Now, however, the judge is fleshy;his eyebrows are a thick tangle ofsilver wire above his professorial half-glasses, his long, porous nose is a ruin ofself-indulgence.
Hoffstetter is silent.He leans back in his creaking chair, taps his fingertips together.He peers at Daniel as ifhe’s about to cite him for con-tempt.But then he sits forward, claps his hands together.
“Okay, you two, chambers.”
“What’s he doing?”Rebecca Stefanelli whispers to Daniel.Her breath has a warm vermouth quality to it and Daniel can only hope Hoffstetter hasn’t gotten a whiffofit.
“Don’t worry,”Daniel says.And when she looks at him questioningly, he adds,“We’re right and they’re wrong and that still means something.”
Montgomery Paisley is fastening the clasp ofhis enormous old briefcase;
he looks as ifhe’s carrying the folders for every case he’s ever tried.He hoists it up and, with his free arm, gestures gallantly for Daniel to go first.
Judge Hoffstetter’s chambers are really just one room, which he has turned into the Judge Hoffstetter Historical Museum, with pictures of himself on every wall, depicting the highlights ofhis life, from high school baseball, to his induction into the state police, to his marriage to Sally Manzardo and their fifteenth wedding anniversary in Barbados, to his late-in-life graduation from Fordham Law School and becoming a county judge.
Hoffstetter sits heavily behind his desk, opens the top drawer and pulls out a cigarette and a little battery- operated fan, to dispel the smoke.
“You’ve got no case, Mr.Emerson,”he says.
”Do you mind ifI sit?”says Paisley.
”You do whatever you want, Monty.You’re walking out ofhere a winner.”
“That’s highly improper, Your Honor,”Daniel says.
”Counselor, Mr.Paisley has three statements from Leyden Hospital emergency room staff, all ofthem stating that when your client came in after having suffered a head injury in front ofSchmidt’s house she was drunk as a skunk.”
This is not the first time Daniel is hearing this.The whole thrust of his case is to dispel the allegations ofStefanelli’s drunkenness.
“Your Honor, the salient fact ofthis case is not my client’s score on a Breathalyzer test, or the alcohol level in her bloodstream—though no such tests were given to her and the allegations ofher being under the influence ofalcohol are completely without proof.The salient fact is that Mr.Schmidt failed—and, in fact, refused—to remove the snow and ice in front ofhis house, thereby creating a hazard.Anyone could have fallen on that treacherous piece ofpavement.”
“But no one did, Daniel,”Hoffstetter says, smiling.“No one but your booze hound ofa client.”
“Your Honor, I really must object—”
“Don’t bother.”Hoffstetter sighs, shakes his head, and continues.“I must say, Mr.Emerson, I never thought I’d see you in my court arguing a case ofsuch little merit.Why did you go to the trouble ofgetting such a prestigious education ifall you’re going to do is practice law ofthe lowest common denominator?”
Yet, like many lawyers, Daniel looks back at his beginnings and feels that he has fallen more than a little short
