long dimly lit corridor at the double-glass doors of the courthouse entrance closed against the brilliant afternoon sunlight outside. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Where is Voltaire?” Justo turned back to St. Cloud. “Look, I can’t get the kid to say much, what he does say I can barely make out its meaning. You’ve got to break through to him. Voltaire’s scared, doesn’t trust any of us. Take him into a side room here and win him over, understand? Then we go in to see the judge. At least we get the kid to answer rudimentary questions. Voltaire doesn’t answer any questions the judge can fill in all the blanks. The judge fills in the blanks and Voltaire gets a free ride up to the Everglades detention camp, then is deported straight back to Haiti.
Como te cae eso?
How do you like that?”
“Don’t like it. Voltaire’s too scared to talk. You can’t make a three-legged dog walk straight by cutting off its tail.”
“That’s exactly right.” Justo slapped St. Cloud grandly on the back. “I want you to unscare him. Grow him another leg so he can run away from this whole mess.”
“Maybe? Might not be possible. You found out yet what part of Haiti he’s from?”
“All he does is point on a map, puts a finger on the lower of those two peninsulas that stick out westerly like crab pinchers from the main body of the island.”
“Cibao Mountains?”
“That’s it.”
“Haiti means high land in Indian. Voltaire’s from the highest part of the poorest country in the Hemisphere. Gets to be over six thousand feet up there in those mountains, jungles been burned off, land overplanted a century ago, hardscrabble now.
Paysans
up there have really been isolated, more African than Haitian.”
“
Grande
voodoo.” Justo whistled softly beneath his breath, rubbing his gold bone.
“Mucho mucho grande
. Very superstitious people. God only knows what goes on up in those remote mountains, and he’s not telling.” At this moment St. Cloud wished he had a lucky bone to believe in, anything to believe in.
“They’re here!”
The double-glass doors of the entrance flew open, an armed deputy stepping in from harsh sunlight, behind him in handcuffs the slight black shadow of Voltaire, behind the shadow another armed deputy, all three eclipsing the sunlight as they moved down the dimly lit corridor.
St. Cloud wondered how much time he had to work this miracle Justo expected of him. He congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring along a pint of rum, maybe that would stop his body from shaking and shoot him full of confidence. His fingers clutched the neck of the bottle wrapped tightly in a paper bag. He wobbled with the fidgety fervor of an anarchist about to hurl a Molotov cocktail into the jaws of indecency. As Voltaire’s thin shadow came into stark relief St. Cloud’s fervor was replaced with contempt, contempt for his own meaningless life. Everybody betrays everybody sometime, but St. Cloud knew he had betrayed himself. He was the indecent one, and the handcuffed man-child standing before him, with scabbing wounds healing on a face scourged by starvation and sun, was too pure in his simple act of surviving to contend with.
Justo’s voice brought St. Cloud back from the brink of self-loathing. “This is the prisoner. You’ve got one hour before a Public Defender’s attorney gets here to take the prisoner to be arraigned.”
“Can you remove his handcuffs?”
“The prisoner is charged with murder on the high seas. He’s a very dangerous criminal.”
“Maybe he’ll be more willing to talk if he doesn’t feel like a trapped animal. Besides, where’s he going to go?”
“I’m glad you asked me that.” Justo grinned. He nodded to one ofthe unsmiling deputies. “Release the prisoner and stand guard outside the door to this room behind us while the translator and prisoner have their conference. St. Cloud, you know what you have to do?”
“Yes. We’ve done it before, but it doesn’t
Como te cae eso?
How do you like that?”
“Don’t like it. Voltaire’s too scared to talk. You can’t make a three-legged dog walk straight by cutting off its tail.”
“That’s exactly right.” Justo slapped St. Cloud grandly on the back. “I want you to unscare him. Grow him another leg so he can run away from this whole mess.”
“Maybe? Might not be possible. You found out yet what part of Haiti he’s from?”
“All he does is point on a map, puts a finger on the lower of those two peninsulas that stick out westerly like crab pinchers from the main body of the island.”
“Cibao Mountains?”
“That’s it.”
“Haiti means high land in Indian. Voltaire’s from the highest part of the poorest country in the Hemisphere. Gets to be over six thousand feet up there in those mountains, jungles been burned off, land overplanted a century ago, hardscrabble now.
Paysans
up there have really been isolated, more African than Haitian.”
“
Grande
voodoo.” Justo whistled softly beneath his breath, rubbing his gold bone.
“Mucho mucho grande
. Very superstitious people. God only knows what goes on up in those remote mountains, and he’s not telling.” At this moment St. Cloud wished he had a lucky bone to believe in, anything to believe in.
“They’re here!”
The double-glass doors of the entrance flew open, an armed deputy stepping in from harsh sunlight, behind him in handcuffs the slight black shadow of Voltaire, behind the shadow another armed deputy, all three eclipsing the sunlight as they moved down the dimly lit corridor.
St. Cloud wondered how much time he had to work this miracle Justo expected of him. He congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring along a pint of rum, maybe that would stop his body from shaking and shoot him full of confidence. His fingers clutched the neck of the bottle wrapped tightly in a paper bag. He wobbled with the fidgety fervor of an anarchist about to hurl a Molotov cocktail into the jaws of indecency. As Voltaire’s thin shadow came into stark relief St. Cloud’s fervor was replaced with contempt, contempt for his own meaningless life. Everybody betrays everybody sometime, but St. Cloud knew he had betrayed himself. He was the indecent one, and the handcuffed man-child standing before him, with scabbing wounds healing on a face scourged by starvation and sun, was too pure in his simple act of surviving to contend with.
Justo’s voice brought St. Cloud back from the brink of self-loathing. “This is the prisoner. You’ve got one hour before a Public Defender’s attorney gets here to take the prisoner to be arraigned.”
“Can you remove his handcuffs?”
“The prisoner is charged with murder on the high seas. He’s a very dangerous criminal.”
“Maybe he’ll be more willing to talk if he doesn’t feel like a trapped animal. Besides, where’s he going to go?”
“I’m glad you asked me that.” Justo grinned. He nodded to one ofthe unsmiling deputies. “Release the prisoner and stand guard outside the door to this room behind us while the translator and prisoner have their conference. St. Cloud, you know what you have to do?”
“Yes. We’ve done it before, but it doesn’t
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