Dead Man's Thoughts Read Free

over again, this time knowing we were on our way to the last meal we’d ever share, knowing that in two days Nathan would be murdered, I wouldn’t wish for talk. I’d stick with the silence.
    We’d been colleagues at Legal Aid for four years, lovers for about two. He was older than most of us, forty-eight, with graying Brillo hair and a face that somehow, despite the crags and wrinkles, belied his years. About two inches taller than my five-five. Not exactly the tall, blond, all-American boyfriend I’d dreamed about back in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. But then I was a long way from Chagrin Falls in more ways than one. For now, Nathan was what I wanted, a cozy old-shoe affair. Maybe not passionate but safe and comfortable.
    He’d been a successful criminal lawyer in Manhattan for about fifteen years. Name in the papers, heavy cases. Drug dealers. Black Panthers. Then he’d had a nervous breakdown. Quit practicing law. When he was ready to take it up again, he came to Legal Aid.
    His cases were legendary. Like the time he crumpled his client’s written confession into a ball and kicked it around the courtroom to show the jury how worthless it was. Or the time he compared the People’s witness, an informer, to Barabbas—which meant his client was Jesus. He was one hell of a lawyer. Maybe in some ways I was dissatisfied with myself because I compared myself to him. I didn’t have what he had. What it took.
    We turned from Court Street onto Atlantic Avenue and went into a place called The Casbah. Indian-print wall hangings, tin lamps with cutout holes for the light to flash through, spicy smells, and high-pitched, oddly soothing music. It wasn’t crowded; Monday night at nine o’clock isn’t exactly prime time in Brooklyn. I ordered a glass of white wine; Nathan raised his bushy eyebrows at me but said nothing.
    â€œI can’t take this anymore, Nathan.” I tried to say it matter-of-factly, but a certain shrillness crept in. “All this game-playing with people’s lives. I’m burning out.”
    â€œWhy do I have the feeling I’ve heard this before?” He said it with a smile, but there was a hint of weariness too. He was right; I’d been complaining to him far too often lately.
    â€œI got sick of law once myself,” he said. “You probably heard I quit for a while.”
    I nodded. He was speaking casually, yet for all our closeness he had never mentioned his breakdown before.
    â€œOne reason why was an arson case I had. An abandoned building. A derelict died from smoke inhalation. My client, the owner, collected a bundle in insurance. I’d represented some pretty nasty people in my time, but this case got to me.” His brown eyes were locked with mine. His voice was low but full of a passion I’d never heard before.
    â€œWhen I was a kid, about ten or so, we were burned out of a building. In Brownsville. Nobody was hurt, but we lost everything. I can remember my mother crying into her apron. Over the lost photograph albums of her family. She said it was as if they’d been put in the gas ovens all over again.” He cleared his throat. “For the first time in my life, I was face to face with the kind of work I was really doing. And I hated myself for doing it.”
    â€œWhat did you do?”
    â€œWon the case,” he said simply. “Then I threw up in the toilet and left the job for a while. I was pretty messed up. Started doing some crazy things—” he trailed off. I had the feeling he wanted to say more, to tell me something even more personal. But I could only wait until he was ready.
    The hummos arrived. Nathan tore a piece of chewy pita and dipped it, stirring the orange-colored oil into the paste and lifting the bread to his mouth. Hungry as I was, I didn’t follow his example. Instead I sat back expectantly, waiting for him to finish his thought.
    â€œI came back,” he told me,