Markowitz Clown Shoes

1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-956474-31-2
Verlag: Heliotrope Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 278 Seiten

After New York attorney Will Ross gains acquittal for a child abuser and the child is subsequently killed, he resolves to abandon law and become a children's entertainer. Will's change of heart and career is a catalyst for his lover, Clara, who quits her prestigious job to pursue documentary film-making. While the couple are united in their fervor for their nascent careers in art, unexpected challenges rip them apart. Feeling abandoned, Will ventures into his new passion, donning clown shoes, picking up his old guitar, and taking on a special guitar student. Only when the boy's life is threatened does Will take up law again, fighting not only to protect the child, but to clear his guilt and free himself to love.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Markowitz, Robert

Leseproben

Tuesday, May 26, 2009 South Salem, NY My inner matador woke me at three a.m., as he usually did on trial days. He poked me with his banderillas. I ascribed it to a nervous temperament but in talking to other attorneys a lot of them had their own internal tyrants. It’s amazing how many future lawyers are swayed by “Perry Mason,” “L.A. Law,” or “The Good Wife” without knowing what the profession really entails. It’s like falling under the sway of a fast-talking pitchman on late-night TV: Do you want high status but have little idea of what to do with your life? Would you like people to stop asking you questions about your career path? Law school may be for you! My first wakeful act was to meditate and pray at my makeshift altar, briefly falling back to sleep twice. Shaded by a brass tree of life, the Divine mother and meditating Jesus were all in favor of me getting more rest, but Sekhmet and Ganesh brooked no nonsense. I got up and stood under the shower, red-eyed from lack of rest. At least, I’d noticed as I glanced around the room, there was no evidence of sleepwalking. After drying off, I dressed in shirt and tie, cool from the closet. Returning to the bathroom to brush my teeth and shave, I nicked myself and clotted the trickle of blood with toilet paper. Frustrated, I waded socks-on into a puddle, and plodded all over the bedroom carpet, leaving footprints. There were no clean socks so I emptied the dirty laundry and matched a pair. Once in my White Plains office, the keys of my MacBook clicked over the hum of the HVAC system. No lights on. Only the gray glow of the screen to keep the wolves of loneliness at bay. I was loath to admit loneliness. I took pride in never feeling that way. Except that I’d been lonely as hell. Reviewing a practically-hopeless, pre-trial motion to exclude 158 tabs of LSD on constitutional grounds didn’t help much, by the way. My paper-strewn oak desk dominated the room. I’d bought it years ago for $180 when I only had $700 in my account. Bookcases lined the walls. Most of the volumes were out-of-date case law reporters or legal encyclopedias that I’d picked up for free. Diplomas framed in black, gray, and red were arranged for easy observation from the client chairs. It may have been some time before I noticed that another sound had blended with the staccato clicks and droning whir. The soft beeping of my phone alarm. Time to go. Without thinking, I picked at the specks of toilet paper still glued to my face, then spit on my finger to remove them. Breakfast was an Egg McMuffin and coffee purchased on the way to court at a drive-thru window. You deserve a break today. Who speeds into a drive-thru when they have time for a break? As I pulled away with my hot little bag, I felt an outburst coming and sealed the open window. “I hate being a damn lawyer,” I wailed. “Objection, your honor, I don’t like your smug face! Objection, prosecutor—I hate your blue suit!” Still driving, I threw my phone at the windshield and it rebounded to the passenger-seat floor. “I hate fighting losing battles! I’m tired of the weight. It’s too damn heavy! When do I get my reward? I want my fucking reward!” I didn’t even know what that would look like. I was weeping as I drove down the tunnel to underground parking, found a space, then lay across the front seats, knees bent toward my chest. My anger turned to cold fear like breathing dry ice. I was pushing back a panic attack. These seismic waves of dread had increased since Joshua’s death. His mother had been a client, and a mistaken judgment of mine had led to him dying at her hands. Maybe now I could just give in. Allow myself to be afraid and deterred. But my current client was waiting upstairs, the acid head. Trippers were curious types—nerdy explorers. This one had made the mistake of Instagramming the location of his adventure in real time and the police found him with 158 tabs. Part of me—the wily, scrappy little savage—was tired of being coerced. He saw his opportunity to strong-arm a bargain. This would be the last trial. No more. Don’t take advantage, the adult in me chided. Take advantage? You’ve run us into the ground, buddy. You want me to get up? Give in. Are you willing to waste fourteen years? This was the adult’s pet refrain. Four years of law school, including a year’s leave, three failed bar exams in three years, and now seven of practicing law. Shove those fourteen years up your ass, counsel. Else, I won’t move. The punk hammered the car window until his knuckles were raw. This was no bluff. Fourteen years. This argument had always prevailed even when it had been thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten. You can’t argue with fourteen years. The kid reared back to smash his fist once more against the window. The stakes were life. The adult sighed. I capitulate. The fancy word was a last attempt to pull rank. Deal, grunted the child. Of course the adult could always renege. But there are dangers when an urchin loses all faith. He really does have the power to bring down the whole operation. The battle had the effect of anesthetizing me. I felt numb rather than scared. I drank my coffee and ate my Egg McMuffin, then took my briefcase and walked toward the courthouse. In the lobby I spied my client. He wore a black top hat, green lion-tamer’s jacket with oversized buttons, orange vest, white gloves, and a purple bowtie which resembled the floppy ears of a beagle. Since he sported a full beard, clown white was applied only around his eyes, setting off the red-ball nose. He was practicing with a color-changing handkerchief. “Peter,” I said. “You’re not dressed for trial.” I guided him by the elbow toward the exit, talking in a hushed tone. “I can’t try your case. I’m going to have to settle it in chambers before anyone sees you.” He grinned, as if upsetting my expectations constituted a win. This was actually a relief. I could probably cut a favorable plea bargain. LSD is an upscale drug of white suburbanites—and don’t think that doesn’t prompt judicial mercy. “Look,” I continued, ushering him outside. “Why are you dressed like this?” “These are my work clothes,” he said blithely. “You told me not to speak in court unless I’m asked questions. This,” he gestured to his outfit, “is my message: The judicial system is the oppressive hand of the bourgeoisie that lashes out at anything it doesn’t understand and attempts to apprehend the human soul by incarcerating bodies. Doesn’t my costume convey that eloquently, Mr. Ross?” His body language said, Let the little people sweep up, I’m too busy being me. “How dare you show contempt for this esteemed institution,” I said, constraining my volume through clenched teeth. “Do you realize that I’ve spent fourteen years—fourteen years—who do you think you are? Timothy Leary? Wavy Gravy? Who are you to ridicule a system that is the very core of democracy? Wear a humble blue suit, Sir! The men in orange jumpers will be throwing a party for you.” His face fell. “Am I really going to jail, Mr. Ross? I can’t. I’m no fighter. They’ll carve me up. I don’t do well in close places!” His eyes throbbed blue against clown white. He searched me pleadingly, eyes resting on my bruised knuckles. I, too, did not do well in close places. Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself. “Look, if you’re willing to plead guilty, I might get you off with a stiff fine and work detail—picking up trash by the highway in a dayglow vest.” “I’ll plead guilty,” he said. “No jail. I’ll die in there. I know it.” Rather than feeling superior to Peter, the opposite was true. I was jealous. “Okay,” I nodded. “Just tell me one thing.” I dipped my head. My voice dropped to a murmur. “Where did you learn to be a party clown?” He told me about an outfit in lower Manhattan that equipped and trained you in one night. I asked for details as if it were just a vague curiosity to me. It was no frills, he said, glancing at my expensive suit and shaking his head doubtfully. “The class was in a basement on the Lower East Side.” “Have you worked any parties?” I asked. “Oh yeah,” he replied, smiling. “Did you love it?” I couldn’t conceal my keenness on this point so I lowered my eyes to his lime-green shoes. “You really want to know?” he asked. “I’ve tried...