Cycling to Asylum Read online

  I’ve been on edge, ever since the night a few weeks ago when Laek came home late, shaking from head to toe. That was fucking scary. I reacted instinctively and took him in my arms. I understood he was in no shape to talk. Well, mostly I understood, because for me, being in no shape to talk would have meant either I was unconscious or my tongue had been cut off. But people are different and sometimes Laek doesn’t like to talk. That night, what he needed was physical comfort. Thinking about that now, I start to reach for him, but then pull my arm back. If only it were so simple.

  On my bike ride to work, I chew over all the possible reasons that Laek still hasn’t told me what happened. After what we’ve been through together, how can he not trust me? I listen to the background music of dissonant honks, screeching brakes and rumbling motors, and murmur “Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you too,” as a series of drivers nearly kill me while I go around the double-parked cars. I burn two consecutive red lights, then adjust my mask while I wait out the next one, drumming impatiently on my handlebars. I’m stuck behind a family box vehicle painted a hot pink camouflage and emitting a “baby on board” holographic bumper sticker right over my face. Could there be another reason Laek hasn’t confided in me? I weave around the monstrous pink car, trying to make some progress, but I’m getting nowhere. I’m not getting anywhere in my analysis either, the same questions cycling around in my head.

  During the rest of my bike ride, I review the facts of my three cases, rehearsing what I plan to say in court. I’m on autopilot and don’t consciously focus on my surroundings again until I roll off the Brooklyn Bridge bike path into Manhattan. At Foley Square, for good luck, I glance up at the majestic Federal Courthouse followed by the State Supreme Court. These buildings are surrounded by an uneasy mix of City cops and private security, as well as concrete anti-terrorist barricades posing as works of art.

  I continue up Centre Street to arrive at my destination: 111 Centre, the hideously ugly office building that’s home to the New York City Housing Court. If it weren’t for the metal fence surrounding the whole thing, it would be a place where people could keep out of the rain.

  Urban myth has it that before the fence was constructed, people who were homeless used to shelter themselves against this very building where, in all likelihood, they received their eviction orders. Then one day, the City was planning some kind of victory march downtown. Lots of press was expected, so a general cleanup order was given and the homeless, along with the garbage, were carted off. The fence was constructed, supposedly as a temporary measure, but has stood here ever since, mute testimony to the City’s intolerance of irony.

  Waiting to be checked in by the court officers, I look over at the non-attorney line snaking out the door. I wonder how many litigants will lose their cases on default today because they didn’t factor in enough time for security.

  My third case is the most difficult—an eviction of a tenant living in public housing. Before “the Projects” were privatized, these hearings were nothing more than rubber stamps. At least now the landlord can be forced to prove its case, just as any private landlord would be.

  I slip in just before the second call of the calendar. My client is sitting in the last row. I can tell she’s relieved that I’m at least dressed up and wearing shoes and that my hair’s tied back into a tight bun of curls instead of spilling out all over the place.

  The judge makes us go out into the hallway to see if we can settle. My adversary, Eric Broder, is strutting around in his shiny black shoes, saying I’d do well to tell my client to accept the offer he’s made—permanent exclusion of her eldest son, James, from the apartment building and grounds, in default of which, she and her three younger children will be evicted from their home. “Management’s agreement with the City requires zero-tolerance drug policies.”

  This is bullshit, as we both know, but I have to at least go through the motions. “At sixteen, James is still a minor,” I point out, “and the alleged drug sale is for such a minuscule amount he’d’ve made more money selling his old screen games.”

  “The amount doesn’t mean shit under the law,” Broder responds.

  “Look, even if my client were to agree to exclusion, how’s she supposed to enforce it? Suppose James comes onto the property to visit his friends or see his siblings in the playground? Let’s talk about something less draconian, a probationary period, for example.”

  “Zero tolerance, that’s it.”

  “There are three younger children in this family, all in local schools, and there hasn’t been a single complaint against any of them.”

  “Your client should have learned to control the oldest one, and anyhow, if this is how he turned out, the other three will probably end up the same. Who asked her to have four kids on the government’s tab? Last time I looked, abortion was still legal in this state.”

  I’m through with this conversation. I look him straight in the eye. “Ready for trial,” I say in the same tone of voice someone would say, “Fuck you,” and this is exactly how I mean it. I turn my back on him, walk into the courtroom and catch the judge’s eye, giving her a subtle shake of the head. I don’t know who’s less interested in trying this case today: the judge, my adversary or me.

  I slide into the smooth wooden bench and tell my client what happened. She asks me what to do. I explain that it’s her decision, but the worst thing would be to agree to something, then violate the agreement. She’d be out on the street in a second flat that way.

  She sighs. “We have to fight it, then.”

  The court officer calls us up and Broder presents his case. Then it’s my turn to speak.

  “Your Honor. This is Grace Johnston, the respondent.” I nod towards my client.

  “Pleased to meet you, Your Honor, ma’am,” she says.

  “Ms. Johnston has been a tenant of the subject premises for fifteen years, is a member of the tenants’ council and a volunteer at the on-premises Senior Center. She’s raised four children in this apartment, including James and his three younger siblings.” I then list them all by name, age and year at school. “Grace Johnston is a model tenant, never late with her rent, a good neighbor, and aside from this one incident, there’ve been no other complaints against the family. If necessary, my client is ready to go to trial and will demonstrate that she’s never permitted drugs in her home and that anything illegal that James may have done happened outside of the project grounds and was a one-time occurrence.”

  “That being said, Your Honor,” I continue, “I have just this morning received unfortunate news of developments on James’ criminal case. It seems he’s been found guilty. I’m beaming the decision to your screen and counsel’s screen now. James is sure to get a minimum ten years’ imprisonment—that’s mandated now, is it not, Mr. Broder?” I ask, turning to him. Before he has a chance to answer, I continue. “Given these facts, I’m not sure what point would be served by a stipulation of exclusion nor a decision on this matter. The situation has evolved beyond that now. James won’t be seen on the premises for some time, and the remaining occupants, Ms. Johnston and her three young children, have done nothing to merit eviction.”

  My client is crying quietly beside me as what I’m saying begins to sink in. I take one of her hands and squeeze. “But if opposing counsel has nothing better to do, we’re ready for trial right now. We’ll see what the police have to say about James’ activities and, in particular, where they took place. They’re outside waiting to testify, I assume?” I glance over my shoulder and then back at Broder. He doesn’t answer.

  “Are your witnesses here, Mr. Broder?” the judge asks, raising her eyebrows.

  “Your Honor, I can have them here by this afternoon. And I can present the rest of my prima facie case this morning.”

  “That’s not acceptable. Your case was scheduled for 9 a.m. It’s already been adjourned twice on your application. I have other matters in the afternoon. And I agree with respondent’s counsel that there’s little point in all this. You
seem to have your exclusion. Unless you have allegations against …” She looks down at the file. “… Ms. Johnston and her other children?”

  I consider pointing out that no such allegations have been made, but I keep my mouth shut. When things are going well, the best thing to say is nothing.

  “No, Your Honor,” Broder concedes.

  “In that case, I will consider a motion to dismiss. Or would you prefer to discontinue?”

  Broder looks like he’s swallowed something bitter, but discontinuance is a better option for him. “Fine, Your Honor, a discontinuance without prejudice to bringing a new case.”

  “Of course. I believe the next one is yours as well, Mr. Broder?”

  My exit cue. “Thank you, Your Honor.” I put my arm around my clients’ shoulder. “Come with me to the women’s room,” I whisper, leading her out of the courtroom. I take her to the elevator to bring her to a bathroom on another floor of the building. Satisfied that none of my adversaries are in one of the stalls, I turn to her.

  “I’m so sorry you had to hear the bad news about James like that.”

  She leans over the sink. I’m afraid for a minute that she’s going to throw up, but she just splashes some water on her face. I look away, keeping myself busy by reading the old-fashioned electronic message board which warns us not to drink the tap water.

  “Listen,” I continue. “I may have made it sound worse than it was in front of the judge, so … well, talk to James’ lawyer, he’ll explain. Also, there’s this new program I know about for youth offenders. Very small, experimental only. But not military, don’t worry. Here, hand me your screen.” I tap the information in for her. “Speak to James and his lawyer and if there’s interest, you have the contact info. You can mention my name.”

  “Thank you.” She takes her screen back and clutches it tightly. “Can I go home now?”

  “Of course. Be sure to contact me if there’s anything new.”

  “Thank you so much, Ms. Wolfe.”

  “Janie. You promised to call me Janie. I’m glad I could help.”

  I watch her leave the bathroom, head held high and back straight. No, she’ll never call me Janie. I wash my hands, but it doesn’t wash away my feeling of shame. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the need to play with the truth in the work I do, but I have no real moral qualms about it. Not how I do it, anyway, never actually lying, merely presenting my clients’ situations in a way that encourages a more just result.

  What I do feel bad about is how, standing in front of the judge and that fuck Broder, I gave the news of James’ verdict, with his poor mother standing there, totally unprepared, knowing that she’d be shocked and heartbroken and react exactly as she did. Even if it was to help win her case, it was a heartless thing to do. Consciously or not, Becky Johnston can’t help but keep her distance from someone like me who can be so cold and calculating, and I don’t blame her. One more pyrrhic victory under my belt.

  I arrive at my office in Bushwick, the upset stomach I always have before court replaced with the slight tension headache I always have after. I wave to Alma at reception and place my wrist in front of the scanner. I push the high-security door open and head for the shoddy stairwell. Magda hears me coming down the hall and invites me into her office, asking me how it went. I tell her about court and then ask what she’s up to.

  “Trying to resolve a few of my older welfare cases, but it’s impossible. Mira, Janie, you’ve got to hear this.” She touches her call screen. After a couple of rings, a computerized female voice comes on, saying:“You have reached the Office of Employment Assistance, Training and Disability Support. Please enter your party’s code by voice or touch now. Para continuar en español…”

  “Employment assistance and training?” I snort. “Another new name for welfare?”

  “Yeah, EAT DIS! is what we’re calling it.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I laugh.

  “Wait, though, listen.”

  “If you are calling to report a welfare fraud, please enter one. If you are calling to terminate assistance or because you have found a job, please enter two. If you are being sanctioned and wish to arrange compliance, please enter three. If you are looking for daycare, please note that all waiting lists …”

  I begin my own set of choices: “If you want to be fucked in the ass, please enter one. If you want it in the mouth, please enter two. If …”

  “Stop, stop,” Magda begs, laughing helplessly. “No really,” she says, terminating the call. “It’s not funny. I keep finding myself bounced to the AI agent with the most limited repertoire of responses. Not only that, but if your voice is too deep, the system doesn’t even recognize the speech. Javier over at East Harlem had a client who had to talk in falsetto the whole time.”

  “That’s bizarre.”

  “Yeah, it’s probably the number of voice templates they used in designing it. That’s what Sara thought. Saved money that way, I guess.”

  “Or maybe they did it on purpose to discourage men from applying for welfare.”

  “You have a diabolical mind, you know that?”

  “That’s why you love me. Hey listen, we should probably get back to work. But how would you and Sara like to hear some edgy music tonight? ”

  “Any band I know?” she asks me with a smile.

  “Yeah, my group’s doing a gig in Williamsburg. It’d be nice to see a few familiar faces in the crowd. Or any faces.”

  “Is Laek coming?”

  “He was supposed to, but now …”

  “Did you two have another fight?”

  “How come you and Sara never seem to fight?”

  “Oh we fight, all right, but neither one of us likes to go to bed mad. So someone always gives in, and then the other one apologizes too. Making up is always nice.”

  “If it were up to me, I’d never go to bed mad either. Maybe it’s a girl thing.”

  “Hmm, I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Maybe it’s just that Laek and I are so different.”

  “Different how?”

  “Well, you know, he’s a guy, I’m a woman.”

  “You’re teasing now.”

  “He’s tall, I’m short …”

  “Janie, you are positively obsessed with your height. But seriously, I think the two of you are like peas in a pod.”

  I shake my head. “Come on, you know my quick fuse and total lack of patience. Meanwhile, Laek’s so Zen it’s scary. And he’s so … so in the present physical moment. Half the time I have no fucking idea where I am in real-time/space. I mean, even now, I’m still picturing what happened in court and at the same time thinking about tonight, the music we’re going to be playing. I should be here, in this conversation with you.”

  “You’re here too, don’t worry. And of course you and Laek are different. I mean, Laek is … no offense, but I don’t know anyone who’s quite like Laek. The important thing is that you both have the same values. And that you actually follow your values, all the time. You take this for granted, but to the rest of the world, it’s striking. I mean, look at me and Sara. I’m a welfare lawyer and she’s a wetware engineer, working for a company profiting off of other people’s genetic material. At least you two don’t have to argue about the value of your work.”

  “Maybe that’s not enough.”

  “You’re just going through a rough patch. Didn’t you tell me that something was up with Laek?” I nod. “And anyhow, values are not all you have in common.”

  “What else?”

  “Music. You have the exact same taste in music, which is pretty remarkable, given how eclectic your tastes are.”

  “Hmm, maybe there’s hope for us after all.”

  I return home late after the gig. Laek’s lying on his stomach asleep, the sheet crumpled around his hips. I touch the smooth skin of his back lightly, but he doesn’t stir. I get into bed beside him and inhale his scent in the bedclothes—warm and sweet, like soap and clean cotton and something else, di
stinctly him. I lie awake for a long time, finally falling asleep, exhausted, and all night long, over and over in my head, I hear the songs we played that night.

  In the morning I wake up early, feeling as though I haven’t rested. Laek is still sleeping deeply, but during the night he’s turned to face me, his knee resting heavily on my calf and his hand lightly touching my shoulder. He’s done this unconsciously in his sleep, without thought or intention, but even so, I decide to take it as movement in the right direction.

  FOUR

  Simon

  Before daring to escape The Cube, I make sure to turn myself totally invisible.

  I breathe in a bunch of air and tell my heart to beat slower and quieter. Then, I make my head disappear. Next, I go down my body and do the same thing to each part of me, all the way to the tips of my toes. When I’m finished, I lift up one foot and put it down softly, then spread out my arms. Nothing. I’m like smoke. The air passes through me.

  I sit up and, quick as invisible lightning, I’m out of The Cube and into freedom. The darkness is heavy as a wet blanket. I slip through it like a phantom.

  I’m in the long skinny hall. The wood feels smooth under my feet as I slide along it. Before long, I’ve made it to the big screen. I sit down behind it. Even though I’m invisible, I still try to make myself as small as possible by folding my legs up and scrunching my shoulders together. I know not to use voice activation. Instead, I touch the screen and make the contrast as low as possible. Luckily, I have super-powerful eyes—which is also how I spied the password a few nights ago from all the way across the room.