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Volume 25, Number 1 & 2 (2001) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum JUSTINE LOWELL B. KOMIE Harvey picked up his phone. “Alicia, do you sew buttons? Do you have anyone in the pool who does buttons?” “I don’t do buttons, Mr. Wexler, but I’ll check, sir.” “I bought this jacket in London a month ago, and the buttons are falling off.” He put down the phone. “Now tell me about your Hall of Justice, David. What is it, a Hall of Fame for Lawyers? What’s this about a restraining order?” “I’ve spent the last three years promoting it, and it’s supposed to open this weekend but I’ve just been enjoined by my partners from opening it. Lawyers and their families from all over the country are coming here to Chicago tomorrow for the opening. It’s a building I’ve developed—a huge glass tower in the shape of the Goddess of Justice, ten stories high, a glass tower. She’s blindfolded and holding scales. It’s by the expressway in Northbrook. Haven’t you seen the construction?” “I’ve seen it, but I thought it was a parking garage. It’s covered with scaffolds.” There was a buzz, and Harvey answered his phone and switched it on so David could hear. “None of the secretaries sew, Mr. Wexler, but one of the young lawyers, Linda Whitaker, has volunteered and she’ll be in in a moment.” “Do I know her?” “No, she’s only been here two weeks. She’s in our litigation department.” “Can she sew a button?” “She volunteered, Mr. Wexler. I would think it’s implicit.” He turned in his seat and folded his suntanned fingers and nodded his head at David Epstein. “A glass tower in the shape of the Goddess of Justice. Are you practicing law or just doing these crazy deals?” There was a light knock on the door and Linda Whitaker appeared. She seemed to be about 25 and wore a purple tailored suit. She smiled as she looked over Wexler’s luxurious office. “I brought my sewing kit, Mr. Wexler. Now where’s that button?” “Linda, while you’re sewing, could you look at a restraining order? My client, David Epstein, has been served with this restraining order.” She took a long needle from her sewing kit, and threaded the needle expertly in one motion. She put on her glasses and while she sewed she read the restraining order. “I don’t think they have a case here. They say there’s a dispute over your developer’s fee. You claim you’re due $75,000 as a developer’s fee when the project opens. They say you agreed to take an equity position in the project and that you’re not entitled to a developer’s fee. This kind of suit isn’t justiciable in chancery.” She wound the button expertly with thread, snipped off the excess, and handed Wexler his jacket. “Where’s their irreparable damage? This isn’t an emergency, it’s just another dispute over money.” “When’s the hearing, David?” “Tomorrow morning at ten.” “I’ll get it dismissed, Mr. Wexler. I’ll have it dismissed by 10:30.” “Linda, that’s terrific. Do you need anything from David other than a retainer check? I think five thousand should cover it.” “I don’t have five thousand dollars, Harvey.” “Well, maybe twenty-five hundred.” “I don’t even have twenty-five hundred.” “Well, what are we talking about, Dave?” “We’re talking about a free wall space in the Hall of Justice for your firm. You can advertise a panorama showing, say, a meeting of your management committee, with a plaque, WEXLER & WARFIELD, CHICAGO, NEW YORK, LOS ANGELES.” “We also have offices in London, Dubai, Singapore, and Tokyo.” “Okay. CHICAGO, NEW YORK, LOS ANGELES, LONDON, DUBAI, SINGAPORE, AND TOKYO. Lawyers from all over the world will see the panorama and bring you business.” “Linda, you go look at it.” ONE HOUR LATER Linda Whitaker and David drove out to the site of the Hall of Justice. As they sped toward it, in his old yellow Alfa Romeo Spyder, they could see the mammoth glass figure of the Goddess of Justice sparkling on the horizon a mile away. It was just as he described it, a colossal lighted glass sculpture of the blindfolded Goddess, holding the scales of justice in one hand and a sword in the other. It glowed blue and slowly revolved over the highway, lighted by spotlights from the ground below which was a kind of park framed with trees and blossoms and a huge reflecting pool reflecting the figure of the Goddess on the water. “It’s just beautiful, Mr. Epstein,” Linda said as they drove into the parking lot. “Please call me David.” “It’s just beautiful, David. How does it revolve like that?” “Actually, it’s solar actuated. It catches the rays of the sun and stores them all day, and we use that energy at night to run the solar engine. It’s absolutely fuel-efficient and environmentally perfect. Even the glowing blue color, a Chagall blue, comes from the solar energy system.” “And what is she holding—a giant pair of scales?” “Yes, and they move almost imperceptibly. You can even step out onto them and look out at the horizon or up at the Goddess’s eyes, although she’s blindfolded. She can’t see you, but you can see her.” “She almost looks like the Statue of Liberty, the same tiara.” “She does have the same tiara, but she has her own personality.” “Aura.” “Yes, she does have her own aura.” “Like Aurora, the Goddess of dawn.” “Yes, that’s a good analogy.” They stood, looking up at the glass Goddess in the warm, spring moonlight. Just then a guard suddenly appeared. It was Morris, the guard he hired as gatekeeper, a seven-foot man who looked like a gentle Talmudic scholar infested with gigantism. “Morris, it’s me, Mr. Epstein, and this is my lawyer, Miss Whitaker. Linda, this is Morris, the gatekeeper of the Hall.” “I’m pleased to meet you ma’am. Things are quiet here tonight, but tomorrow is the opening and there might be vandals. Tonight, just a few old people who want to dangle their feet in the reflecting pool. I told them no dangling. Keep your shoes on. Also some homeless people in cardboard boxes. They’ve camped out under the folds of her glass toga. I told them no camping under the toga. Tomorrow we’re having lots of corporate big shots here, fancy lawyers and their families and clients. This reflecting pool must be kept clean, calm, and serene. We don’t want any cardboard shacks under the toga.” “Just as calm and serene as the reflecting pool at the Washington Monument.” “Exactly, Mr. Epstein.” At that moment a dwarf of a man, wizened and bent over, came down the path. He was dressed in a long woolen overcoat, even in the perfumed spring air. “You got a cigarette?” he said to David. “Who’s this, Morris?” “He’s my assistant, Samuel, Mr. Epstein.” “Do you really need an assistant?” “He’s the assistant gatekeeper.” Linda smiled at David. “Do you know the story by Kafka of the Hall of Justice and its gatekeepers? The man seeking entry to the Hall of Justice waits forever, and ultimately shrivels up and dies. Samuel and Morris look like they stepped right out of that story.” David pointed to the pedestals of lawyers surrounding the pools. Some of them were empty. “Maybe I should put Kafka up there. I’ve got Holmes, Cardozo, Brandeis, Thurgood Marshall, Clarence Darrow.” “No women?” “Well, the Goddess of Justice is a woman.” “Justitia, a Roman goddess. But you should have other women lawyers. Shakespeare’s Portia, certainly Anita Hill, Sandra Day O’Connor, Hillary Clinton, Janet Reno . . .” “Do you want to take a skiff over the pool? We’re going to offer rides.” Morris held the skiff, and Linda and David got in. Morris acted as the boatman; Samuel, the assistant gatekeeper, pushed them off with his foot. Morris poled them past a group of old people huddled together in the darkness. The huge boatman shined a flashlight on them. “Please, please, you old people, do not dangle your feet in the pool. Please do not wash your feet in here.” They floated over to the dock, and David held the skiff while Linda jumped off. Morris tipped his hat, handed his flashlight to David, and poled away. “Here, Linda, there’s a moving sidewalk here. I’ll switch it on, and we’ll take a tour.” “Okay. Could you hold my backpack for a second while I look in my purse for my glasses?” David examined the pack. “At what age should a lawyer give up a backpack and switch to a briefcase?” “I don’t know, maybe when I’m older. Like 30 or 35. I love my backpack. The other day I was in court and I met my clients dressed in a suit with my backpack. They go ‘Our lawyer isn’t here yet. He isn’t here.’ I go ‘I am your lawyer. She is here.’” David turned the switch, and they began to move toward the main gate. Samuel, the little assistant gatekeeper in the overcoat that looked like a shroud, suddenly popped up and stopped them. “Tickets,” he wheezed. “Samuel, why in the world would we need tickets? I’m the owner and developer of this place.” “Everyone needs tickets to everything.” “But we don’t have tickets.” “All right—give me a dollar.” “I won’t give you a dollar. I am the owner.” “I am the assistant gatekeeper.” “I know you’re the assistant gatekeeper.” “We got justice in here. No one gets in without a dollar.” “David, here’s a dollar. Give it to him. Stop arguing.” The little old man took the dollar and bowed with a flourish and grinned his gap-toothed grin. “You should have Moses up there on a pedestal Mr. Epstein. He was the first law-giver. What kind of Hall of Justice is this without Moses?” They entered a tunnel of darkness on the moving sidewalk that took them to the first panorama, and stopped. There were animated figures of young people behind the glass, like models in a lighted store front. “What are they doing?” Linda asked. “What’s that glop they’re putting on their faces?” “That’s a gray cosmetic.” “They look so sallow and gray-faced.” “That’s the point of it.” “And the machines spraying their hair?” “Styling mousse.” “And those pin-striped suits on the rack?” “Pin stripes for the men, and black suits for the women.” David pushed a button, and the moving sidewalk went up a rise to the next panorama, a window of models of the same lawyers, at their desks in the library of a Wall Street law firm. It’s four in the morning; they’re asleep at their desks, heads buried in their hands. A catered midnight snack lies uneaten on silver trays on an immaculate white table cloth spread across the top of the bookshelves. A fresh change of clothes for each lawyer hangs in the library closet. The lights of New York blink through the windows. A constant film runs on a screen like a movie in a darkened jet. Films of senior partners on exotic vacations, walking on the Great Wall of China, exploring lamaseries in Tibet, spooning goblets of caviar at the Ritz in Paris, their wives constantly holding silk parasols to avoid the shower of money that follows the partners everywhere, even in cathedrals or museums. There is always a shower of money sprinkling over the partners and their families. The young lawyers sleep at their desks, pin-striped, gray-faced, and hair-glossed. They stared at the New York panorama, and then David pushed the button again and they moved over another rise. The space was vacant, with a sign “To Let—Your Law Firm’s Message Could Be Here,” and a phone number. “Linda, this is the space I could give Wexler & Warfield. We could have photographs of each of your locations, a photo of the London office, Tokyo, photos of all the managing partners. We use wax models made by the same model maker that makes the models for Madame Tussaud’s in London.” He shined his flashlight on the dark space. She squinted through her glasses. “Actually, it looks quite nice. And the head of our Executive Committee is named Melvin Waxman. So a wax model of Mr. Waxman would really be cool. And a brass plaque, WEXLER & WARFIELD, CHICAGO, NEW YORK, LOS ANGELES, LONDON, DUBAI, SINGAPORE, TOKYO. It would look neat. Mr. Waxman and Mr. Wexler would like it. I think it’s definitely a done deal, David.” The next display was a large slate-gray machine that looked like a huge commercial dishwasher or a hospital CAT-scan machine, some-thing you might stick your head in that would send laser beams of X-rays into your brain. It had an opening that was built into the glass display window of the panorama so a viewer could put his head into the machine. The front of the machine glowed with red and blue lights blinking on and off. “It’s a ‘Go and Like’ remover. It enables you to permanently remove the words ‘go’ and ‘like’ from your vocabulary. Also, there’s a switch for the removal of ‘cool.’” “It’s like so weird!” “There’s another switch for ‘weird’ and ‘freak me out.’ For instance, if you want to say ‘I go—it’s so weird, it like freaks me out,’ in describing this machine, you stick your head into it, and those words would be permanently removed from your brain. You could never say them again.” “If I stick my head in there, I’ll never, ever say ‘go’ or ‘like’ again?” “Never.” She stood at the machine and hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.” “Okay. I just wanted to show it to you.” He started the people-mover again, and they began to move away from the glowing machine. “Could I just stick a finger in it?” “No, you have to put your whole head in it. It operates on the brain.” “You know, David, this is a really strange place, do you know that?” “It’s a strange place, I’ll admit that.” He moved them up a floor and they were in a huge, cavernous hall, filled with inflated rubber arms and legs, and neck and body braces hanging from the ceiling. As they moved along the walk, they kept bumping into the dangling inflated arms and legs. They’d bump against them with their foreheads like they were traveling through a sea of inflated beach-toys. “This is the Hall of Trial Lawyers. I’m sorry, duck your head—I can see that they’ve hung these inflated limbs too low. Watch it—there’s a huge neck brace back there. Just push it aside.” He heard a popping sound and then several more, and a hissing noise. Some of the inflated limbs had popped and deflated. They were hung over an arc of lights and a display of photographs. “These are photos of personal injury lawyers from around the country who contributed to this Hall. It’s a Pantheon of Injury Lawyers. Each photo also has a copy of the largest check they’ve ever received. Some are ten, twenty, fifty million dollars. But the heat from the Pantheon, the lights in the arcade, is rising and causing the displays to pop. I’ll have to turn off the lights in the arcade or get smaller bulbs.” They rode over a little bump and were now inside a huge plastic replica of a mouth with gums and several plastic teeth. “What’s this place? It’s like we’re inside a huge plastic mouth.” “Well, it’s the Hall of Dental Malpractice.” He shined the flashlight on the tongue and uvula and then on several photographs of lawyers. “We don’t have too many contributors. It’s a rather arcane specialty.” Again they moved over another small rise up into a tunnel of diffused green light that led to a room of almost complete darkness. The walls of this tunnel were shadowed with green and hung with photos of lawyers that were barely visible in the green murk. “This is the Hall of Legal Malpractice,” David said, probing through the green fog with the flashlight. “It’s probably one of the fastest growing specialties in the country. These are photos of lawyers who contributed to this panorama. I’ve received more contributions to this hall from the insurance industry than for any other panorama. All the walls in here are papered with money.” “It looks to me like I can just pluck one of those bills right off the wall.” “Don’t try.” She put her hand out toward the money, and he grabbed her arm and pulled her hand back just as a school of fish suddenly came snapping at her fingers. “What in the world was that? Those vicious, ugly fish?” “The money is only reflected on the surface of the walls, which are really not walls but giant glass tanks filled with client fish. They’re more vicious than piranhas. So as you reach for the bills appearing to float on the water, you might lose your fingers or your whole hand to the client fish. I’ll have to adjust these safety railings.” He shoved the lever forward and they moved up another rise and suddenly they were in a brightly-lit tunnel. There was the sound of laughter, music, glasses clinking, an orchestra playing. “This leads to the ballroom and then from here we can walk out onto the scales of justice, if you’d like to see the view.” They slowly moved toward the laughter and music and then they entered a huge ballroom with a low, glass ceiling. Couples were dancing, but the women were crouched over. The men were standing up straight, but all the women were stooping with hunched shoulders as they danced. They were all wax figures. “What’s this?” she asked. “It’s an opera. You’ve heard of A Masked Ball by Verdi—well, here you notice all of the men at this ball are also wearing masks. The mask of cordiality, pal masks, mentor masks, sharing masks—and you can see over there a stairway and an escalator. Only men are permitted to go up that stairway. When they do, their masks are abandoned. The women just keep on dancing and dancing alone and twirling hunched over under the glass ceiling.” “Well, I see you can stand here David, but I can’t.” “That’s true.” “It’s grotesque. I’m all hunched over.” “Just keep your head down for a moment and we’ll walk over here and step outside and you can straighten up and stand on the scales and get some fresh air.” “No, David. I have acrophobia. I can’t go out on the scales. Let’s just get out of here. I’m tired of standing in this stooped position.” He moved the lever forward, and they passed through another tunnel that led up to the tower. Linda immediately straightened up. It was very dark, and out of the darkness a light shone in their faces. Samuel was standing there again in his old overcoat with his flashlight. “Stop! I am the assistant gatekeeper. You cannot come into the tower without making arrangements with me.” “Samuel, it’s me, Mr. Epstein. I am the owner.” “I know it’s you, Mr. Epstein. I am the assistant gatekeeper.” “I know you’re the assistant gatekeeper.” “You cannot go into the tower, Mr. Epstein, without buying an amulet.” He opened his tattered coat and there were several charms and amulets pinned to the inside with large safety pins, also several tiny vials in pockets. “For ten dollars I will sell you an amulet that will put you in touch with any lawyer in history. You want to talk to Hammurabi?” He held out a glittering ebony scarab. “I’ll put you in touch with Hammurabi. You want Thomas Jefferson?” He held out a whistle. “Blow this, you got Jefferson. You want Abraham Lincoln?” He held a coin bank, a replica of the Lincoln Memorial. “Put a coin in here, you got Honest Abe. Any lawyer you want—I got him. If you want a woman lawyer—I got her. You want to talk to Marilyn Quayle? Shake this bell and you got Marilyn Quayle. Shake two bells and you got Marilyn and Dan—take any lawyer, Mr. Epstein. Take one.” “Okay. Kafka. I want to talk to Franz Kafka.” “For him you drink this potion, and it’s fifteen dollars.” “I thought you said ten.” “I said ten, but for Kafka you need a potion, and potions are fifteen.” Linda intervened. She opened her purse. “Here’s twenty dollars, Samuel. Don’t argue with him, David.” “For twenty dollars you get a choice of two lawyers. I can give you Kafka and also maybe Clark Clifford, or maybe Roy Cohn. Pick one, any lawyer in history.” “Gandhi,” David told him. “I pick Mahatma Gandhi.” “Here, drink this. One vial for Kafka, one for Gandhi. For another five dollars you can send them a fax, and they’ll be here in one minute.” “Not another dime.” Linda handed the little gatekeeper a five-dollar bill. “Fax them,” she said. “No, we don’t fax direct. First we fax our man at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. You leave a message with him, and he will put it in a crevice in the Wailing Wall. He will contact them. Also you can fax a prayer if you want to. Like ‘Bless our Hall of Justice.’ We will fax back a blessing.” Samuel twirled and spat on the ground twice. “We will bless this place and bring you Gandhi and Kafka, but you better do it now, Mr. Epstein. Morris tells me trouble may be coming.” “Here’s thirty dollars, Samuel.” Linda handed him another five-dollar bill. “Fax Jerusalem, say a blessing, bring Gandhi and Kafka in on the deal. Do anything you have to, but keep this place open one more day so I can go to court in the morning.” Samuel’s eyes crinkled, and he took the two vials from his coat and gave each of them to David. “Drink one of these before supper and either Gandhi or Kafka will appear and give you advice. I will fax Jerusalem. A scroll will be prepared. The tower will stand for one more day. I will invoke G-d’s blessing. If I can get in touch with Him. If not, I will call Moses, although I haven’t seen him for 4,000 years.” “You’re 4,000 years old?” “Give or take a few years. Drink Mr. Epstein. Drink the potion.” David touched a vial to his lips. Samuel put the money in his pouch and jumped aside. The people-mover lurched forward and began slowly up a twisting chamber filled with gray cigar smoke. Linda and David began to cough and choke in the smoke-filled chamber and then suddenly they broke through the smoke and were up in the tower behind the Goddess’s eyes. There was a glass case in the center of the room. Rays of orange light flowed into the room like light flows into the high windows of a cathedral. “Look at that toga on the model of the Goddess in the glass case,” Linda whispered. “It’s not exactly something you’d get at The Gap. Look how gray her face is. She looks just like those lawyers we saw with the gray glop on their faces. Are you okay?” “I feel strange. Very strange.” “What do you mean?” “I think I see the face of Gandhi down on the reflecting pool.” “Where?” “Down there. On the surface of the pool. He looks like he’s framed with fire.” “I can’t see him.” “Can you hear him?” “No.” “I can. It’s almost as if he were up here in the tower with us.” Suddenly the reedy voice of Mahatma Gandhi filled the room. “Ah, Mr. Epstein! Don’t worry; the lady cannot hear. Only you have sum-moned me.” “Yes, Mr. Gandhi. You were a lawyer before you became a vision-ary.” “Yes, a solo practitioner in Delhi. I had a little office along a canal behind a newspaper shop. I wove cloth there and practiced law.” “And what advice can you give me, sir?” “Advice—” Gandhi adjusted his spectacles and pulled his white sheet over his thin shoulders. He held his hands before him clasped in prayer. “—my advice is, the white rose has three petals. One is for wisdom, one love, the other is a mantra.” “What is the mantra?” “The mantra is, ‘Never take a postdated check.’ You must chant that to yourself every day you practice law. When I was in Delhi I could paper my office with postdated retainer checks. Only take rupees. Take the cash, and let the credit go.” “Is that it?” “Omar Khayyam said that and he is indeed older and wiser than I am. ‘Ah, take the cash, and let the credit go.’ These are pearls of wisdom for the lawyer.” “Is there anything else?” “One other. If you drink the water of roses, watch out for thorns in the bottom of the bowl. Here you have built a beautiful tower, almost like the Taj Mahal, but you really have nothing here for the people. Not even a fountain in which they can bathe their tired feet. Nothing for poor people. So your tower will fall unless you modify it.” “How to modify it?” “Ah, that is the question I cannot answer. Only the white rose knows, and that is why it always remains silent.” There was a puff of smoke, and Gandhi vanished. “Oh my God,” Linda said, “I thought I saw the model of the Goddess Justitia get up out of the glass case and leave! There was a puff of smoke and she just got up, put her sandals on, and stretched and left.” “What?” “While you were talking to Gandhi, there was a puff of smoke and she just opened up the case and left.” Linda pointed to the empty glass case. “She’s gone. This place is so weird! Samuel, the potion, Gandhi, the sleeping Goddess—” She knocked on the heavy wooden door. “Samuel, let us out of here!” “Take the parachute,” the little old man piped. “Parachute? David, what’s he saying?” “We have another ride here, a Golden Parachute ride. Corporate lawyers and law professors and their families ride down from the tower on golden parachutes.” David led her out to the parachute ride and strapped them in it, and slowly they descended on two vertical wires with a golden parachute blossoming above them. They could see far out onto the expressways, rivers of cars streaming toward them, the glow of the skyscrapers of the city in the distance. Then they softly hit the ground and were greeted by Morris, the giant gatekeeper. “They’re here burning our law books, Mr. Epstein, the poor people starting bonfires. They keep piling books on and burning them! All our law books. I can’t stop them. They’re getting ashes in the pool. The poor people—I can’t even see them. Also, I think someone threw a brick through one of the panels in the back. I’ll show you.” The misshapen giant gatekeeper slowly walked ahead of them with a hand-held speaker. In the shadows of the bonfires he looked like a swollen elephant swaying through the burning grass of a jungle floor. “Attention, poor people. You must stop burning our law books. We’re on to you and have called the police. All you poor people, all you homeless people, the park is closed as of right now. All old people dangling their feet in the pool must stop and leave the premises. All homeless people sleeping here must clear out. The park is now closed. The Hall of Justice is closed. You must leave the premises immediately.” Morris pointed his flashlight at a section of broken glass in the folds of the Goddess’s toga that had been smashed by a brick. Someone had scrawled the words “JUSTINE” in whitewashed letters above the tiers of broken glass. There were shards of glass everywhere. “Vandals,” Morris said. “I told you they’d come. I sent Samuel to turn off the engine. We can’t let the Goddess revolve anymore. We’ll board up the glass, Mr. Epstein. The audience won’t see the broken sections if we stop her from revolving. We’ll call a board-up service tonight.” “David, if you want to call the police, use my phone.” Linda opened her backpack and handed him a portable phone, and he put on his glasses and dialed 911. His head felt like it was filled with burning hummingbirds. “Hello, police, this is David Epstein of the Hall of Fame of Lawyers on the expressway. We’re having trouble here. Vandalism, bricks thrown through glass, people trespassing.” He handed Linda the phone. “They’re coming. You don’t have to wait. You have to prepare your argument.” “David, there’re cabs in front of the hotel over there. I really should go to the office and then to the health club. I’ll just jog over and get one. Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Linda looked up at the glass Goddess which had now stopped revolving. The Goddess’s face was hidden in a wreath of smoke from the bonfires. “Maybe you should also call the fire department. I’ll call them for you. There’ll be help here in a minute. Also, don’t worry about tomorrow. You’ll give your dedication speech and you’ll get your check.” She shook his hand and began to jog away through the park and he stood and watched her. Just then a drifting blackened page of the Code of Federal Regulations fell on his head like a piece of volcanic ash. THE NEXT MORNING was beautiful, blue skies, lovely spring weather, sunshine. The Goddess sparkled in the sunlight, and Linda was true to her word. She arrived at the park at 10:45 in a black limousine. He walked through the blossoming apple trees to meet her. She handed him the order permitting the park to open, and a check for $75,000. She also gave him an envelope. “This came for you at the office. Give them a really good speech, David.” She got back into the limousine behind the smoked window glass, waved, and in a moment she was gone. He opened the envelope. There was a ticket on a United flight to Los Angeles at 7:00. A note was stapled to the ticket with a name scrawled on it— “Justine.” He walked through the trees past the pool, out of the park, up the stairs to the dais built for the opening ceremony. There were thousands of people waiting in the sunshine. He went up the stairs to the lectern and waved to the crowd. The broken glass in back of the Goddess had been boarded up and covered over with quickly planted shrubs and trees. No one knew about last night’s vandalism. He held his hands up to the crowd. There was applause and cheering, balloons floating, and signs dancing in front of him. SOUTH DAKOTA BAR. LOS ANGELES WOMEN’S BAR. YOUNG LAWYERS OF DALLAS. He cleared his throat. WASHINGTON D.C. TAX BAR. PATENT AND TRADEMARK ASSOCIATION OF BOSTON. COMMERCIAL LAWYERS OF GEOR-GIA. Off to the side behind a cordon of police in white helmets there was another group holding signs. JUVENILE COURTS ARE CESSPOOLS. NO ACCESS TO JUSTICE FOR THE POOR. INSURANCE COMPANIES OWN THE COURTS. BIG BUSINESS OWNS THE LAW SCHOOLS. A band was playing desultorily. In the front row his partners and their wives sat glaring at him. Their children in Harvard Law and Yale Law sweatshirts were staring at him from their parents’ knees. The crowd was spotted with silk parasols of corporate wives, and the noonday sun was bright as the Goddess sparkled in the reflecting pool, and huge fans blew confetti over the audience. He could see Morris and Samuel standing on ladders and feeding bags of confetti into the fans. Behind him the empty golden parachutes were billowing in the wind, moving up and down smoothly on their cables. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming. Thank you. This is indeed a very special day for all of us, the opening of a national Hall of Fame for Lawyers, a Hall of Justice. Nowhere else in the country do we have a monument like this, a beautiful tribute to the concept of equality before the law.” “What’s in it for the poor?” a loud voice boomed. There was applause, and a few catcalls. “On behalf of myself and my partners,” he smiled down at them, “I want to announce that all rides on the reflecting pool today will be free, and there will be free flowers for the ladies and fountain pens for the men. For every man a fountain pen, for every lady an azalea, including all the members here of various poor peoples’ coalitions. There will be fountain pens and azaleas for everyone. Also, for those of you brave enough to try our parachute ride down from the tower, you will also ride free of charge.” There was a cheer from the audience and more applause. “You can’t buy us with fountain pens and azaleas, Epstein,” the same loud voice came booming again. “Also free hot dogs and soft drinks on the first floor at the tent just under the Goddess’s toga.” This time there were fewer catcalls and hisses. “For those with a taste for wine there will be two champagne fountains and canapes in another tent. Also free of charge.” The shards of confetti flying over the crowd from the huge fans now became shredded tiny pieces of currency, as Morris and Samuel began to feed bags of currency into the fans. The wives of corporate lawyers automatically lifted their silk parasols, and the Hawaiian delegates released white doves, which flew up and away into the sunlight. The passengers watched the fall of the tower with calm detachment, sipping soda, drinking beer and wine and eating chips and peanuts. Only a baby’s crying and hiccups broke the silence. He closed his eyes and turned the earphones to a classical channel and listened to Ravel’s “Bolero.” He looked out at the vague patterns of the night sky and the traceries of God. He took the $75,000 check from his pocket and looked at it. It was postdated.” “Men don’t cry,” he told himself. “Men never cry.” So here he was, on his way to L.A., with nothing in his pocket except a postdated check and an overdrawn Visa card. He stared out at the clouds again. There was a face forming in the dark-tinged puffs of clouds. Who was it? The thick dark eyebrows and pale face, the piercing black eyes. The “Bolero” on the headset stopped, and the voice of Kafka came through the earphones. “You faxed me, Mr. Epstein?” “Yes. I did. Some time ago.” “The message just came to me. What’s your question?” “Where did I go wrong? You built your tower. It’s still standing. Me—my tower fell in a day. My partners and their wives are suing me. I’ve got a worthless check. Where did I go wrong?” “First of all, you must realize that there is no Justice. If you think you can build a tower to Justice—forget it—you can’t. There is no such thing as Justice.” “So what should I have done?” “Go to Hollywood and build a tower up in the hills, where they have the HOLLYWOOD sign. Build a tower there, but don’t dedicate it to Justice; dedicate it to Condominiums. Condominiums for elderly lawyers.” “Condominiums for elderly lawyers, that’s your advice?” “Yes, condominiums for elderly lawyers.” “What about the poor people?” “There are no poor people in Beverly Hills.” “I see what you mean.” “Also, hire one of the security services that protects the stars’ homes to protect your condominiums. And this time no reflecting pool, David. Maybe a swimming pool surrounded by palm trees, with razor wire in the palm fronds. That’s Capitalism. That’s Economic Determinism. Forget Justice.” “One other question.” “Yes?” The dark face of Kafka began to fade, and the voice was growing weaker. “Who is Justine?” “Justine is Justitia, the Goddess of Justice. She just shortened her name to something Americans can pronounce.” “She was in the glass box. Where did she go?” “Where did she go? She’s a stewardess on your flight. Turn around, David. But stay away from her. Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s nothing but trouble. You can never please her. She always demands perfection. In seeking Justice and Love we always demand perfection and we always fail.” The clouds dissolved, and Kafka’s sad, dark face was gone. David stared at the beautiful stewardess serving in a blue uniform, a white silk blouse with a white bow, a short skirt. Her hair was tied in back with a black velvet ribbon and a white silver clasp. When she saw him she came over to his seat, looked at him sadly, and touched his hand. Her face was covered with a gray cosmetic and her long, tapered fingernails were painted with gray enamel. “Go away, Justine,” he said. “Leave me alone.” “Justine,” 21 first published in (9) Student Lawyer 18 (May 1993), collected in The Lawyer’s Chambers and Other Stories, pp. 101-120, and expanded into the novel, The Last Jewish Shortstop in America (Chicago: Swordfish/Chicago, 1997) Lowell B. Komie © [1994] |
