suddenly.
“I’m gettin’ the fuck out of here,” he announced. “I don’t want to be around you fucking mud people and all your bullshit universities.”
Jesse rose from his chair and stood in front of Bernard, blocking his pathway to the door.
“You’re gonna hear me out, Bernard. If you move one more inch I’ll send the doctor and Eddy outside and they’ll close the door behind them. It’ll be just you and me. Ten minutes from now, everybody—every black, brown, yellow, and red man on the mainline—will know that their favorite prisoner, mr. supreme, got his ass kicked, one on one, by his own lawyer. Believe me, Bernard, it will be my pleasure.”
Bernard and his lawyer were face to face, their noses still almost touching. Bernard’s face was glowing a beet red around a clenched set of tan, pitted teeth. His eye had swollen shut. Bernard felt the heat in his own face and was proud of the feverish, crimson blush. Blood in the face was the mark of a true white man. No one else could blush like this, not Hindus or Mexicans or Jews.
Bernard Skelley looked down into Jesse Pasadoble’s face and despised it. It was so goddamn brown… so inhuman. But the son of a bitch didn’t seem to be afraid. Bernard considered punching that face—a quick left jab, then a right. But something held him back, kept him from the risk. Why, Bernard wondered sadly to himself, did that traitor Max Schmelling have to go and lose to that black monkey Joe Louis? The whole American South had once gathered around their radios to pray for Max Schmelling. His father had wept with each telling of this tragic story. Every real human being had suffered so much from that defeat. Then there had been those other losers Henry Cooper, Ingemar Johansson, and Jerry Cooney.
“If you hear me out,” continued Jesse in a calmer voice, “we’ll be gone in ten minutes and you can go back to your cell with all of your personal bullshit intact.”
Bernard slowly lowered his body back down to the chair behind him. Jesse nodded toward the doctor.
“Mr. Skelley,” said the doctor in a professorial monotone, “on the test that I administered a few weeks ago, you got thirty-one correct answers out of a possible one hundred. Your lawyer got ninety-seven correct out of the same one hundred questions.”
“I missed three?” exclaimed Jesse. “I demand a recount.”
“It is my strong suggestion, therefore,” continued the doctor. “that you let your lawyer handle your case. You have to fight with your best weapon, Mr. Skelley. You know his reputation. I’m sure that some of your friends in the jail have told you about Mr. Pasadoble. Think of it as your using him to get out of jail. Can you do that? Can you use him, Bernard?”
A small smile began to cross Bernard Skelley’s lips. Even a clouded mind like his realized that this day could be salvaged. After all, he wasn’t paying anything for the services of Jesse Pasadoble. The smile grew wider. He could easily think of his brown lawyer as a slave. This whole building was filled with niggers in black robes and judges with tits. His slave lawyer would know how to handle those kinds of people. He could use him.
“Defend me!” he said suddenly. “Y‘all do what I say, now, y’hear? I order you to defend me.”
Bernard turned his head toward the wall and spat. A huge wad of speckled spit stuck to the wall, defying gravity. Proud of his work, Bernard turned toward his lawyer and grinned a wide, broken-toothed grin of disdain.
“No doubt about it,” said Jesse in a low voice, “the lower your IQ, the more you need to floss. Now, here is how we’re going to work this. There will be no more of these useless interviews. I will write out my questions to you on a sheet of paper. I will put a signed court order on the outside of the envelope telling the sheriff’s department that they are not to read the contents of the writings, though they may perform a cursory tactile search for
“I’m gettin’ the fuck out of here,” he announced. “I don’t want to be around you fucking mud people and all your bullshit universities.”
Jesse rose from his chair and stood in front of Bernard, blocking his pathway to the door.
“You’re gonna hear me out, Bernard. If you move one more inch I’ll send the doctor and Eddy outside and they’ll close the door behind them. It’ll be just you and me. Ten minutes from now, everybody—every black, brown, yellow, and red man on the mainline—will know that their favorite prisoner, mr. supreme, got his ass kicked, one on one, by his own lawyer. Believe me, Bernard, it will be my pleasure.”
Bernard and his lawyer were face to face, their noses still almost touching. Bernard’s face was glowing a beet red around a clenched set of tan, pitted teeth. His eye had swollen shut. Bernard felt the heat in his own face and was proud of the feverish, crimson blush. Blood in the face was the mark of a true white man. No one else could blush like this, not Hindus or Mexicans or Jews.
Bernard Skelley looked down into Jesse Pasadoble’s face and despised it. It was so goddamn brown… so inhuman. But the son of a bitch didn’t seem to be afraid. Bernard considered punching that face—a quick left jab, then a right. But something held him back, kept him from the risk. Why, Bernard wondered sadly to himself, did that traitor Max Schmelling have to go and lose to that black monkey Joe Louis? The whole American South had once gathered around their radios to pray for Max Schmelling. His father had wept with each telling of this tragic story. Every real human being had suffered so much from that defeat. Then there had been those other losers Henry Cooper, Ingemar Johansson, and Jerry Cooney.
“If you hear me out,” continued Jesse in a calmer voice, “we’ll be gone in ten minutes and you can go back to your cell with all of your personal bullshit intact.”
Bernard slowly lowered his body back down to the chair behind him. Jesse nodded toward the doctor.
“Mr. Skelley,” said the doctor in a professorial monotone, “on the test that I administered a few weeks ago, you got thirty-one correct answers out of a possible one hundred. Your lawyer got ninety-seven correct out of the same one hundred questions.”
“I missed three?” exclaimed Jesse. “I demand a recount.”
“It is my strong suggestion, therefore,” continued the doctor. “that you let your lawyer handle your case. You have to fight with your best weapon, Mr. Skelley. You know his reputation. I’m sure that some of your friends in the jail have told you about Mr. Pasadoble. Think of it as your using him to get out of jail. Can you do that? Can you use him, Bernard?”
A small smile began to cross Bernard Skelley’s lips. Even a clouded mind like his realized that this day could be salvaged. After all, he wasn’t paying anything for the services of Jesse Pasadoble. The smile grew wider. He could easily think of his brown lawyer as a slave. This whole building was filled with niggers in black robes and judges with tits. His slave lawyer would know how to handle those kinds of people. He could use him.
“Defend me!” he said suddenly. “Y‘all do what I say, now, y’hear? I order you to defend me.”
Bernard turned his head toward the wall and spat. A huge wad of speckled spit stuck to the wall, defying gravity. Proud of his work, Bernard turned toward his lawyer and grinned a wide, broken-toothed grin of disdain.
“No doubt about it,” said Jesse in a low voice, “the lower your IQ, the more you need to floss. Now, here is how we’re going to work this. There will be no more of these useless interviews. I will write out my questions to you on a sheet of paper. I will put a signed court order on the outside of the envelope telling the sheriff’s department that they are not to read the contents of the writings, though they may perform a cursory tactile search for
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