CHAPTER 1
Cosmic Cellmates
October 14, 2020
"God save us from the goddamned puritans."
Freddie can no more see the face of the smartly dressed passerby who uttered this paradox than he can grasp its simple irony. Nor does he attach any significance to the bulky cigar the man brandishes as he talks to the guards at the gated end of the alley. Freddie cares for nothing beyond the fact that this is the last time a prison van will carry him from a penitentiary to the side entrance of a downtown courthouse. This is the last time he will suffer the indignity of having to wear ill fitting jumpsuits and being trussed up in chains like a roasting hog before he can venture beyond the razor wire, the last time he'll be ordered to duck his head through the doorway to that filthy elevator, the last time he'll have to be respectful to that deputy Sheriff who stands too close and smells like toe-jam. After ... well, more days than he can count, this is the last time Freddie will have to stand next to that wormy public defender who shakes hands like a twink.
"Next on the docket?"
This is not the same judge who sentenced Freddie. But he looks every bit as angry at being saddled with his present task.
"State v. Freddie Herzog." The judge peers over his granny-glasses at Freddie in patent distaste, "aka Slinky Sam," then drops his gaze again to the slip of paper his clerk just passed to him. "On August 7, 2006, Mr. Herzog ... I have a date of offense but no offense. What did this man do? Where is his file?"
The bailiff whispers in the judge's ear.
"Do you mean to tell me the court clerk has had this docket for two weeks but can't do me the simple courtesy of producing the man's file?"
The judge yanks his glasses off and gestures with his coffee cup.
"Attorneys approach."
The prosecutor scurries to the bench, Freddie's effeminate defender close on his heels.
"Gentlemen, all I have on this guy is a five-by-eight slip of paper from the Sheriff. I'm trying to make a record here. What crime did this man commit?"
The attorneys trade blank glances, then the prosecutor frantically thumbs through a legal pad and says something inaudible to the judge.
"Well, I have to tell the both of you, this is one hell of a way to start the day. Do we even know the man I am about to cut loose is the same man the jury sent up? Do I look illiterate to you? Of course the name on the Sheriff's inventory matches the one on the federal writ. But it's the surname Herzog that takes me aback. The man sitting at your table in chains is most definitely of Latin descent. How can I be so sure? Look at my nameplate, genius. I think I'm qualified to assess whether or not this man is a Latino. Neither of you brought a file? Enough, I'm going to get to the bottom of this right now. Step away."
As the attorneys saunter back to their respective tables, the judge stretches his neck and drums the bench with an impatient ink pen.
"Will the prisoner please stand?"
At the nod of his epicene mouthpiece, Freddie climbs upright.
"Sir, is your name Freddie Herzog?"
"Yes, that it is, your honor."
"For what infraction are you serving time?"
"Man, I don't know nothing about Algeria."
"Algeria?"
"That math class with them infractions and rations and whatnot."
"What is your mother's maiden name?"
"Mary Magdalena Areces Galaviz, your honor. I ain't seen her since ..."
"Your father?"
"Well, Judge, I don't think she know. But she got a marryin' license say Mary Magdalena Areces Galaviz Herzog, so I guess mi padre be a Hebe."
Freddie's laughter finds no purchase. Hearing the same remonstrative sputter from his attorney that his mother used to make, he does his best to be conciliatory. "And, uh, I mean that with all dual aspect, your honor." A cadaverous hand pulls him down to ear level as his effete representative whispers frantically. "Sorry, your honor, my mouth over here say that's dual respect. Yeah, with all dual respect."
"That's enough, Mr. Herzog."
"Sure, Judge. I'm just saying –"
The judge's gavel rattles the courtroom like a gunshot.
"Shut your mouth, Mr. Herzog. No, no, keep standing; just do so quietly. Now then. For whatever crime of which you were indicted, on December 18, 2009 a jury of your peers handed down a sentence ... which was obviously far longer than your actual tenure in our justice system's various facilities; hence, the endearing catchphrase early release. Pursuant to the federal Criminal Rehabilitation and Reform Act, that sentence was commuted to time served. You are free, sir, to reenter society without restriction. The deputy will now take you to processing, where you will be provided with a new suit of clothes, a prepaid cell phone with five thousand minutes of talk time and, because what little information I have indicates you were on death row, a debit card with a balance of $10,000 to compensate you for the cruel and unusual punishment the State has inflicted upon you."
Less than one hour later (the fastest he has ever been processed), Freddie smoothes the coat sleeve of the hand-tailored worsted wool suit for which he was fitted last Friday. Though he always hated wearing ties, he figures he can find an alternative use for this one, so he tucks it securely into his pocket. With one last look in the mirror, Freddie nods to the attendant who then summons the deputies under whose escort Freddie will, for the first time in his thirty-four years of life, walk out the front door of a courthouse.
No sooner does he emerge into the invigorating autumn air than Freddie discovers his gun-toting contingent is a mere formality. At the base of the courthouse steps mills a crowd which erupts into applause at his appearance. Scraggly college students, who have camped nearby in anticipation of this event, wave banners on which they've painted the threadbare cliché Free at Last. Men bounce toddlers on their shoulders while their enraptured wives throw open palms skyward and shout Thank you, Jesus! A delirious woman haphazardly clad as Mother Earth releases a white dove from a cage containing ten – one for each inmate who will be released today. Feeling a tug at his trousers, Freddie stoops to accept a purple rose from a girl no older than the boy who once gave him something so much more memorable. He then wades into the crowd, where he is conveyed so effortlessly by handshakes and hugs and shoulder claps that he emerges on the other side of the street feeling as though he hasn't made one footfall. But like a vagarious wind, when the next early releasee fills the juridical doorway, all of the well-wishers abruptly turn their backs and forget Freddie ever existed.
All, that is, but one. As Freddie straightens his jacket and ambles toward a café, he fails to notice the immaculate man standing in the dim of a store entrance.
"An historical day, Mr. Herzog, is it not?"
Freddie turns to spy the man he overheard on his way into the courthouse, his face obscured by smoke from his newly lit cigar.
"An unaccountable millionaire signs a piece of paper fifteen hundred miles away and, as a direct result, your life is restored to you and your slate wiped clean. In the United States of America, no less. How does one comprehend such a thing? I call that phenomenal. I call that stupendous. I call that historical."
Freddie doesn't know what to make of his new acquaintance. Middle-aged and just beginning to bald, at first glance he seems an easy enough mark – the skittish sort of fop who might surrender his money and jewelry if a street kid did nothing more than scowl at him. But there is something in the way he punctuated that last word with his cigar that gives Freddie pause. And when the mist clears, with it vanishes any inkling that this man is a sucker. Freddie knows that facial expression – the corners of the mouth upturned ever so subtly, not quite enough to form a smile, and the unrelenting eyes as round and fixed as those of the dead. He's seen that look on the street. He saw it in the pen. And he has always paid it wary respect.
"Yeah, man, that there's what it is – hysterical."
As Freddie shuffles away, the man jaws his cigar and retrieves a PDA from beneath his arm. Before Freddie has taken five steps, he has arrived at the corner deli. Reaching for the door, he hears a new effusion of accolades. He gazes back to see the fickle mob cast the day's second parolee onto the sidewalk, where he encounters the same mysterious greeting as Freddie:
"An historical day, Mr. Versace, is it not?"
As Freddie acquires the nearest vacant barstool, the courthouse door coughs up Peter Mott. Peering in bewilderment at the fanfare, Peter stumbles into the throng only to clear a path for the Sheriff's contingent that just acquired the steps behind him. Still in shock when he is spat out at the other end, Peter yelps in fright when the well groomed cigar toter clasps his shoulder and spins him round.
"Who the hell are you?"
Peter gropes for words as the man fingers his PDA.
"You are not on my list. Your name, sir, I must have your name."
"Puh ..."
"Starts with a P, very good, continue."
"Peter, um, Peter Mott."
"Is that Mott with two Ts?"
"Yes, but why –"
"Move it along, Mr. Mott, we are on a tight schedule today. Go on, beat it."
Sauntering past the same establishment in which Freddie succumbs to a steaming mocha java, Peter gropes for his cell phone. The voice of his administrative assistant lends him comfort.
"Mira, it happened again."
"Oh, thank goodness it's you, Mr. Mott. I've been calling all morning. Where are you?"
Peter surveys his environs in no less wonderment than that experienced by Neil Armstrong on July 20, 1969.
"Downtown. I just left the courthouse. I never go to the courthouse. Unless ... oh, dear God, do you think I was arrested?"
"You? I'm sorry, Mr. Mott, I don't mean to laugh. No, no, no. This is the monthly release day, remember?"
"The prayer vigil?"
"Yes, Mr. Mott."
Peter checks the date on his phone.
"But that was yesterday, Mira."
"That's good news!"
"How is that good news?"
"It means you only lost one day this time."
"Mira."
"Yes, Mr. Mott?"
"When I say I just left the courthouse, I mean I was very recently inside it."
"Well, there could be ... one, two, three ... I can think of a dozen very good reasons you may have entered that structure, none of which have to do with being arrested."
"But that doesn't mean I wasn't."
"Now that is just silly, Mr. Mott. You are no more dangerous than my sister's poodle Honeypea."
Peter loses himself in the latest of many reflections on how honey and peas bear not the slightest relevance to each other.
"Mr. Mott, don't hang up – you're going to be late if you don't find Jesus!"
"My driver is from South America. His name is pronounced Jesús."
"But the pun just doesn't work that way."
"Mira."
"Yes, Mr. Mott?"
"You said I was going to be late. Late for what?"
"Your lunch date with Julia Bross. I just texted Jesús, and he's parked on Hudson just around the corner from the court building."
"Nice catching up to you again, Mr. Mott."
An attentive Jesús guides Peter into the open back door of a nondescript sedan.
"Mira, you've got to cancel that luncheon. I've been wearing the same clothes for two days, I haven't brushed my teeth ... my shorts have bunched up in the strangest spot ... people, Mira, I'm not big on people today."
"Now don't you fret, Mr. Mott. I've restocked your emergency bag as I always do."
"I have an emergency bag?"
The emergency bag is a suitcase that contains Peter's toiletries and two changes of clothes – one casual and the other formal. Mira inaugurated its use the same day she hired Jesús, just hours after Peter's first blackout.
"It's in the trunk, and I reserved you a table at the Hyatt where I also booked you a room so you can be as fresh as a puppy's breath."
"Please cancel the luncheon. I'm not in the mood."
"I will not cancel, Mr. Mott, and I don't care how mad you get."
"How's this for mad? You're fired."
"The hell I am! Ms. Bross is a very nice lady, and I won't have you standing her up."
"Well, I'm not going. Jesús, take me to my office."
"Jesús has his instructions, Mr. Mott. You're going to the Hyatt."
"I pay the man's wages. You hear that, Jesús?"
"No, Mr. Mott. Your corporate trust writes his checks, but he works for me."
"Are you kidnapping me in my own car? By proxy?"
"It's not your car, Mr. Mott. It belongs to your subchapter S. Now you just stop being a fusspot right now and pretend you're the old Peter Mott we all grew to know and love because, if you aren't nice to that sweet girl, I'll be very disappointed in you."
Resigned to his fate, Peter falls back against the headrest and stares out the window. As the car circles the block to exit the one-way street, the realization that thanks to him Mother Earth will come up one dove short distracts Peter just long enough to steal a restorative dream from the muddle that has been his life of late. He drifts back to December 25, 1997. The aroma of the cinnamon and spice tea that had been steeping all night suffused the little house he shared with Deanna, who shivered in giddy anticipation as they watched five-year-old Millie open for her little brother Dylan his very first Christmas present.
"Mr. Mott? Mr. Mott?"
Wiping a tear from his cheek, Peter climbs out of the car and follows his driver into the hotel as though he were walking to his own execution. When the concierge extends the key card toward Peter, Jesús snatches it and leads Peter by the arm into the awaiting elevator.
"Jesús, I'm a grown man. I don't need a nursemaid."
"My mission is to deliver you to Ms. Bross. Ms. Mira was very explicit. According to Ms. Mira, there are seven escape routes between here and there, and it is my job to deter you from those avenues. Here we are, Mr. Mott, Room 302."
"You're not going to bathe me, are you?"
On the main floor, the hostess shows Julia Bross to her table.
Julia's most striking attribute is not the penetrating Caribbean green of her eyes; it is that she is thoroughly at ease with herself. Hence, she commands every situation with such finesse that both friend and foe succumb to her will, thinking every step of the way that it is she who is yielding to them.
"Good morning, ma'am. I'll be serving you today –"
"What's your name, Hon?"
"Christopher, ma'am."
"Ma'am ... Aren't you just a doll? I'll tell you what, Christopher. Don't worry yourself with the menu spiel; I already know what my guest and I will have. Meanwhile, if you'll bring me a glass of house merlot and make sure I never see the bottom of that glass, I'll be your newest best friend."
As her blushing waiter scurries to the bar, Peter ambles to the hostess perch like a scolded schoolboy. Seizing on the hostess' momentary preoccupation elsewhere, he turns away on the hope that his dogged driver has left his post. Jesús scarcely has time to grin at his venerable boss before Julia takes his charge in hand.
"Jesús, you're my hero. Thanks for getting him here."
"Always my pleasure, Ms. Bross."
She guides a reluctant Peter past the stand to a corner table.
"And for the gentleman?"
Startled by the waiter's question, Peter knocks his bread plate to the floor. Before Christopher can react, Julia has retrieved it for him and straightened the tablecloth.
"You mean me?"
"To drink, sir?"
"I ... I don't ..."
"Don't be silly, of course you do. Sweetie, bring him a whiskey soda, and go easy on the whiskey ... let's say half a shot. He's a lightweight."
Peter fidgets in his chair, sets his forearms tentatively on the table, lifts them, plants his elbows in their stead and clasps his hands, but is uncomfortable with that and finally folds his arms in his lap. All the while, he stares at the sugar tray in the middle of the table as Julia studies him over a museful sip of wine. When Christopher brings Peter's drink, with but a glance and a gesture she entices the young man to put the food order on indefinite hold and slink away in silence. She then picks up the sugar tray and casually flings it to the floor, never once averting her stare from her increasingly agitated lunch companion. Peter tries to recover the tray, but she grabs his arm and maneuvers him back into his chair. When his gaze lands on the pepper well, she knocks it over. Peter can take no more.
"Julia, why did you call me?"
"I hear you're looking for more commercial lots, and I've got some killer interest rates."
Peter finally makes eye contact, but for only a fleeting moment as his budding smile fades. "Why did you call me?"
"I wanted to tell you to your face that, in my opinion, she's the epitomal bitch for doing what she did to you."
"Don't say that about Deanna."
"A true lady does not walk away at a time like that."
"You don't know her, Julia. That's not fair."
"I don't have to know her, Peter. I know you."
"You don't know everything that happened."
Julia sets the drinks aside and takes Peter's hands.
