Acre Under a Green Sky

My father made Luka promise not to say anything to anyone until they could talk again. Secretly, my father was still hoping to salvage this case –– to win –– in spite of Luka's insistence that they make his confession public as soon as possible.

My father was still arguing his case to Luka as they passed us sitting there in the outer office. They barely afforded us a look. Luka was like a child trying desperately to understand some bizarre adult reasoning.

Just minutes later, my father joined us in the hall outside the courtroom.

"I need a drink," my father said, "Lots of drinks."

We went to a restaurant across the street from the courthouse. It was next door to a movie theater showing "Mr. Roberts". We could have seen that movie and had dinner in the time it took Luka to tell his story. We sat in a big corner booth, and I ordered a cheeseburger and a coke and my father ordered a scotch rocks. My grandfather just waved the waitress away. He wanted to know what was going on with the case. I squinted at my grandfather –– totally unaware of the alarm that had gone off in my brain.

My father craned his neck to see if anyone was within earshot; then he said, "Luka did it!"

"No, he didn't!" I said.

No one understands blind denial better than I do. I was a walking testimony to it that day. Luka did not kill his family. My denial was rock-solid and unbending. No amount of proof could have convinced me that Luka was a murderer. I was deaf to the facts. They didn't exist. I would not accept the proof of my own eyes and ears that day. I racked my brain for some argument to contradict Luka's story: and when I found it, I clung to it like a piece of driftwood in a raging sea; and believe me, we do cling to our denial as if it were a life preserver. I wrapped my arms around it and rode it out the whole time we spent there in that restaurant.

My father ignored my proclamation and gave me a dinner roll to shut me up. I didn't care if they ignored me or not. I knew what I knew.

The restaurant was dimly lit with small rose-colored glass lanterns on each table, and we had picked the darkest corner; perfect for intimate conspiracy; whispers and secrets. An unseen piano player seemed to be looping the same blues number seamlessly. I liked the music; but for the life of me, I couldn't see where it was coming from. I turned away from the table and got up on my knees to look over the back of the booth, but still I could not see him. He must have been in the busy bar area far across the room. The restaurant was empty with tables all aglow for no one. I saw the waitress approaching with our drinks and sat myself down.

All this time, my father and grandfather had been whispering to each other in that cryptic language grown-ups think we kids don't understand.

"But they have the proof! Both the robe and the orchid are just sitting there in the Police Property Room." My grandfather was whispering so harshly that even the waitress pulled back; and my father gave my grandfather 'the look' with the sideways nod in my direction that said, "Not in front of the kid!" What fools grown-ups are!

The waitress gave me my coke in a tall glass all dressed up like a cocktail with a straw and a swizzle stick on a sissy little napkin. My father's glass was shorter with lots of ice and very little scotch.

"Quick!" he said to the waitress, "Bring me another one."

"And I'll have a black coffee," my grandfather said without looking at her.

The waitress gave me a folded cloth napkin and silverware and smiled at me as if she knew exactly what I was going through. I liked her immediately and wanted to follow her back to the bar where the music was coming from, but of course I couldn't.

All I could do was sit there and try not to look at those two fools whispering in shorthand. My grandfather was feigning ignorance of all that we had heard earlier, and I couldn't figure out why. He just sat there listening with that inscrutable look on his face. His reserve struck me as totally inappropriate and frightening. My father looked like a fool encoding information we already had. It was then that a strange thought occurred to me. Was my grandfather taking my father's face apart feature by feature? He looked like he might be. Maybe, he was more hurt by my father's harsh words than he had let on back in that outer office. One thing was certain. There was something dark and scary lurking just under the surface of their civilized talk. Subtext can be like invisible fingers around a child's throat. We may not know what's going on, but we know something's going on.

My grandfather soon tired of censoring himself for my benefit, and insisted he be able to speak freely. My father gave me two quarters and told me to play something on the juke box. I told him there was no juke box; that someone was playing a piano –– couldn't he hear it? His frustration was a joy to me.

"All right," my father finally said to me, "But you have to promise not to repeat one word you hear."

"I promise."

"Swear! Not one word! To anyone!"

"I swear!"

I crossed my heart and hoped he'd die. Why was I suddenly so angry with him? I wasn't the one he badmouthed back in the judge's chambers. What spell was my grandfather casting now?

"This case has attracted a lot of business our way," my grandfather was saying.

"Really? What kind of business?"

"What kind would you expect?! Criminal cases. But there's a more important point here. Your client has not had a fair trial."

"What are you talking about? He's had a great defense up to now."

"Yes, given the facts as we knew them, but we didn't have the true facts, did we? I mean, if you knew he was guilty from the start, you would have approached this case very differently."

"I'll have to petition for a new trial."

"Right! Just send a postcard to "Fat Chance; Box 404; Harrisburg, PA."

"So, what are my options here?"

"You could always win the case. It's as good as won already. It certainly would open up a bright new future for you."

"What about Luka?"

"Explain the facts to him. You're never going to get another jury, and this jury sure as hell ain't gonna let him walk once they know the truth. The man was out of his mind, wasn't he?"

"Of course he was. The man is no more guilty of murder than I am. But I'm getting all mixed up here. Luka wants to tell the truth."

"Fine. Let him confess all over the place ––after the verdict comes in. Save his ass first –– then his soul."

"I can't think straight. Right now, I should be over in Bradley's office telling him everything I know."

"And Luka spends the rest of his life in jail. Is that justice?"

"I have to do the right thing," my father said.

"Don't be a fool, son. You've got to be careful doing the right thing. You just might feel compelled to do another right thing and then another; and then where will you be?"

"I'm sure I could get a new trial under the circumstances –– a proper trial."

"Presuming anyone believes you didn't know he was guilty from the start, and no one will. Besides which, my boy, you've already called in all the favors the Attorney General will allow. You got the death penalty thrown out. You got the D.A. you wanted. You got the murder weapon found where it was actually found. And now, you want a new trial?! I don't think so. Win the goddamned case! Become a star! You deserve it."

"Are you playing devil's advocate with me? I'm having a hard time reading you today."

"Do what you want to do. It's no skin off my nose."

I have no idea how many times that poor waitress had to come and go with drinks for my father; but when we rose to leave, my grandfather insisted on driving us back to Waterstop to pick up Danny and Baby Ruth at the office. He would bring my father back to Lincoln the next day for his car.

I loved my grandfather's Cadillac. It was big and luxurious and it rode like a cloud. I crawled into the back seat and opened all the ashtray lids and put down the arm rest. I pressed down the two cigarette lighters until they clicked and opened the windows all the way. This was going to be fun.

But when my father got into the car on the passenger side, it ceased to be fun. Something was wrong. I had never seen my father when he wasn't in the driver's seat. In control. And suddenly, I realized that that was exactly what I had seen in the courtroom earlier that day after Luka collapsed: my father; not out of control, but no longer in control either. Losing control; and now here he was being driven by my grandfather.

I don't know at what point the timbre of their conversation changed, but it was frankly a relief to have a little open hostility flowing back and forth between them up there in the front seat.

My father was put on the defensive. Somehow, he was responsible for this new development in the case. They argued the whole trip back to Waterstop. Had it not been for that piece of driftwood I was clutching, I might have cared. I might have taken sides, but as always I was on Luka's side.

Finally it came down to this. If my father hadn't thrown those pictures down on the table, this never would have happened. My grandfather had to do some scrambling, but he finally came up with the definitive moment when all blame descended like a flock of birds onto my father's shoulders.

"I didn't see you making a move to scoop them up," my father countered, "You just sat there staring at Luka like he was bewitched or something."

"How many times have I heard you lecture about broadcasting those photos?"

"Right! You're right! It's all my fault. I blew it!"

"You know, son, you can be damned self-righteous at times. And ungrateful."

"You didn't even want me to take this case!"

"And I was right, wasn't I?! It's blown up in your face."

"Right! You knew that Luka was going to confess at the eleventh hour!"

"I knew it was a risk! And I don't like risks. You know, I don't like risks."

"The truth is you don't trust me. You didn't trust me to do it right. Well, I'm fucking winning this case, and that's what's really pissing you off!"

My grandfather was so angry, he nearly went off the road. I don't know why I chose that moment to pipe in as if I had been a participant all along. I was suddenly caught up in the temper of the moment.

"Yeah well, if Luka did it; then who killed Janet? Tell me that!" I shouted, glad to finally set that driftwood free.

My outburst dampened my father's fury for an instant. He laughed and turned toward me with his elbow over the back of the seat.

"Good question," he said, "Who do you think killed Janet?"

"The killer; that's who! The killer."

"At least, you still have that going for you," my grandfather said, "The unknown killer out there. Though you came damn close to screwing that up, too."

"What the hell does that mean?!"

And a whole new round of accusations and recriminations was set off as if by a bell. I'll never know if it was a calculated move on my grandfather's part or not, but it sure seemed to me that he was the instigator.

When we stopped for the light at the corner of Main and Pine in Waterstop, my father insisted on getting out of the car. He slammed the car door on us, and I jumped over into the front seat next to my grandfather and watched my father walk down Main Street toward the Royal Grill like his ass was on fire.