Goldenboy by Michael Nava

Jim, isn’t it?”
    “He tried to kill
himself,” I said, sitting down.
    In a gray voice,
Larry asked, “Is he dead?”
    “No. He’s in a
coma.”
    “How did it happen?”
    I explained.
    Larry raised the
cup to his lips without drinking. The robe he wore fell away, revealing his
thin, hairless chest, the skin as mottled as an autumn apple. A few sparse
white hairs grew at the base of his neck. His face showed nothing of what he
felt but the white hairs trembled.
    “How stupid,” he
muttered. “What a stupid thing to do.” “He was afraid,” I said.
    “Well I know a few
things about fear,” Larry snapped. He shut his eyes for a moment. When he
opened them he said, “I’m sorry I said that.”
    “Who better?”
    “No,” he shook his
head. “It’s not the same at all. I’ve had my life, but to throw it all away at
eighteen...” He lifted his fingers from the table in a gesture of bewilderment.
    “If you can’t
imagine the future,” I said, “it must not seem like you’re throwing much away.”
    Larry nodded. “You’ll
have to do something about the trial.”
    “I’ll ask for a
dismissal.”
    “Then what?”
    “I suppose he’ll
revert to the custody of his parents.”
    Larry frowned. “The
perfect son at last.”
    I went upstairs to
get some sleep. As I undressed I remembered the call I received the night
before. I called my office and reached my secretary. I asked whether anyone had
requested my number in the last day or so.
    She went through
the telephone log. There had been someone, a man named King who had insisted on
getting my number in Los Angeles. The name meant nothing to me. I thanked her
and hung up.
    I got into the
rumpled bed, naked between the cold sheets. Outside, a bird cawed. Inside,
there was silence. I closed my eyes and slept a long, black sleep.
     
    *****
     
    Three days later I
was back in court. The press was out in full force. Pisano, the D.A., told the
court he would not dismiss the charges against Jim Pears as long as Jim
remained alive. He put Lillian Fox on the witness stand. She demanded that the
prosecution proceed. I informed Judge Ryan that Jim had suffered permanent, catastrophic
brain damage and was unlikely ever to revive. I asked the judge to dismiss the
charges on her own motion, as the law permitted, in the interests of justice.
However, as she had just finished pointing out, those interests were complex.
    “Your Honor,” I
said, “the medical evidence is that my client is, for all intents and purposes,
dead. I don’t see what more could be accomplished by hounding him to the grave.”
    Pisano was on his
feet. “The medical evidence is not conclusive,” he said.
    “It’s as conclusive
as it’s going to get,” I snapped. “Jim Pears isn’t going to get much deader,
short of driving a stake through his heart.”
    “So dramatic,”
Pisano said, mockingly.
    “You’re just trying
to squeeze another headline from this, aren’t you?”
    The judge broke in.
“Gentlemen, some restraint.”
    “Speaking of
restraints,” I said, angry now, “my client’s wrist is handcuffed to the railing
of his hospital bed. Do the police really think he’s going to rise up and go on
a crime spree? This entire hearing is ghoulish. Regardless of what Jim is
charged with, what he may or may not have done, we’ve reached a point where
simple decency demands that this matter be ended.’’
    “Is that true about
the handcuffs?” the judge asked.
    “Yes,” I replied.
    “It’s standard
operating procedure,” Pisano put in, in his best bureaucratic drone.
    “Even so,” Judge
Ryan said to him, “it’s a little gratuitous, counsel, don’t you think?”
    “Not at all,” he
replied.
    “The motion, Judge,”
I said, “is pending.”
    “Thank you, I’m
aware of that,” she replied, sharply. Then, looking down at some papers before
her, she said, “This matter is scheduled for trial in four weeks. I will
continue it until that date for a status hearing.