By Silent Majority Page 4

“Yes. Very. Wouldn’t you be? I mean, aren’t you? I want to volunteer.” Daniel replied.

  “Yes. I am. What I’m trying to say is that there are many ways to serve. Which would you like?” Dr. Comsky pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. He waited for Daniel’s answer.

  “I would like to lead a group of men into battle. As an officer,” Daniel blushed as he listened to his own words.

  “Daniel, then I have bad news. Well, you didn’t think you would have problems with your knee? Your cartilage has degenerated. There is some hope in new technology called arthroscopic surgery. You won’t be able to lead a group into battle. I’m sorry.”

  “What?” Daniel said in shock. “I was a varsity letterman at Yale.”

  “I know. A runner, right? I can see from your X-rays. Can you run anymore?”

  “Not as fast as I used to but—” Daniel’s voice cracked, “A leader is a leader.”

  “Daniel, you can lead. But the troops need someone physically capable as well. Your X-rays don’t lie.” Daniel looked down at the floor. It was hard for him to comprehend.

  “I can be physically able. I’ll work at it. Persistence!”

  “It’s not a matter of conditioning. The sad thing is, the more you work out, the more damage you will do to your knee. You’ll need to have surgery one day.” Daniel noticed the slight Polish accent that the doctor had acquired from his parents.

  What does the stupid Polack know? They piss in a fan to take a shower. You can get a one-armed Polack out of a tree by waving. Commie, Soviet puppet. Scum of the earth. Cong sympathizer.

  “I can do! Give me the chance. Please, Doctor, I can show you. Anything,” Daniel pleaded.

  “Please, son. There are other ways to serve without so much risk to your life. Not everyone can be a fighter. A boy of your intelligence . . .”

  “I can do all your tests, Doctor!” Daniel stepped off the table and looked into the eyes of the Polish doctor. Daniel stared intently. He noticed the hairs the doctor missed shaving. The doctor took a deep sigh and would do as Daniel wished.

  “Come here, son. Squat down.” Daniel leaned against the wall and slid down to a level as if he were sitting without a chair. The doctor watched Daniel’s balance intently. He could see Daniel suppress the pain by watching his face.

  “You can’t do it. Son, please, the pain is not worth it. Stand up.”

  “I can do it,” Daniel squeaked out. Commie, Comsky. Deny the Army a good officer. Cong. Commie, Comsky, Cong.

  “Can you bend forward?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on. Do it.” Daniel leaned forward. The pain in his left knee was unbearable. He reflexively dropped to the floor. Still, he persisted. He was a soldier. Pain is gain. If this was the worst pain he experienced from the war, then he would be lucky. Daniel’s face reddened. He began to sweat from the pain.

  As Daniel collapsed it was the biggest disappointment in his life—he couldn’t hold out. Couldn’t hold on just a little longer. He was a quitter. The result—no glory, no service. For the first time in his life Daniel didn’t get what he wanted. Something he had his heart set on. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he did not want to show anger or sadness. He could at least act like a soldier with discipline and honor here. Daniel stood up. He took the medical report from the doctor, saluted him, and walked out.

  Weeks later, in the mail, Daniel received a letter from the Army. He wanted to pretend to show no concern, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was mostly apprehensive (what kind of assignment could he get); and, eager. He opened the letter slowly. Maybe, the Army reconsidered.

  There was only disappointment. He was rejected. The Army didn’t even need him for supply. He just couldn’t get through basic training. What would everyone think? Who was everyone? Only his mother would be happy. Her dream came true. There was no one home at the time, so Daniel gave up on the notion of Army discipline and cried. In the glimmer, a moment of honesty, Daniel felt relieved.

  The disappointment consumed Daniel for months. The picture Daniel drew in his mind was defaced by the very entity that asked him to create it. All the propaganda, the recruitment effort asked Daniel Carlson: what could I do for my country? His country bluntly answered, not much. Daniel knew he could do more.

  CHAPTER 4

  Three-L

  The first year they work you, the second year they scare you, and the third year they bore you. The same formula seemed in place with Daniel Carlson’s law career, which was well into his third year at Harvard. He finally got over his emotional defection from Yale, and made the prestigious Law Review, the highest law school honor society. He was beaten out by his best friend, Peter Spark, for editor. Spark delegated most of the responsibility to Daniel as assistant editor. In the end, though, it was better for Daniel. Spark was a few years older. He was hired for a part-time position through the Pound Placement Office clerking for Atkins, Hoffman, Young, Baker and Lewison. Spark convinced Daniel the experience would be good for the sole purpose of ruling out the private practice of law in a national firm that had more than three hundred lawyers. Daniel wasn’t particularly excited about working for a private firm—in all honesty he wanted to teach—but that was where the money was and he could litigate cases as well.

  Daniel maneuvered himself to do work in the litigation department. His research skills were comprehensive, and he could write well. He honed his oratory skills within the past two and one half years in law school in intensive mock trial sessions.

  The firm had just begun filing motions on what had been dubbed, the “Blackwell” murder. A homeless man murdered in Roxbury and dumped into the sewer. It took a basket, rope, and five men to pull the John Doe out of the sewer. It also took a week to identify who was the victim. As a replacement name, a detective in the Boston PD named it the Blackwell murder.

  This case had no glory and no media coverage. A murder of a homeless man in Roxbury was common—and even less news. Atkins Hoffman et al. agreed to accept the pro bono case by the Suffolk County Court. They would defend the suspect, another homeless man, Michael Mandell. Daniel was assigned to help a lawyer interview Mandell that afternoon.

  Daniel Carlson and Peter Spark left a Law Review meeting and started walking toward the Harkness Commons.

  “That’s great. So, he is not going to testify?” Peter asked.

  “I would think we’d have to.”

  “So you’re going to do it. You’re selling out your best buddy Peter to go work for a private firm. After all we’ve been through—Property, Evidence, Trial advocacy with Zimet.”

  “Don’t give me that through-the-trenches stuff. I haven’t decided that I’m going to work for Atkins. Besides they haven’t made me an offer.”

  “You know they’re going to offer you a position, Daniel.”

  “But I like litigation, what’s the big deal? This has been a confusing time. I don’t want to miss any opportunities. However, it seems that if I take one option all the options disappear for the rest of my life. Nobody wants used merchandise. Once you commit to a track, you’re on that track.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t necessarily kiss teaching goodbye. You could always pick it up once you’re successful enough to live off a teacher’s salary. As a man in the heart of government, you could do that. As you know, my vote is for Senator Bratton. Make it the best with Bratton,” Peter joked. “He’s coming to HLS.”

  “Yes, and I told you a thousand times I’ll hear him speak.”

  “I’m going to introduce you to him,” Peter said. “Think of the opportunity. Do you want to get guilty men freed? Or—”

  “Lie, cheat, and steal from the American public?”

  “Pick your poison, Daniel.”

  As the future attorneys walked outside the Harkness Commons, they saw a motley crew of vociferous antiwar demonstrators. Most of the marchers were undergraduat
es protesting the war in Vietnam. In 1972 public sentiment was turning against the war. A dozen students were marching in a circle with signs. As Daniel and Peter walked by the demonstration one of the protestors yelled at them: “Don’t allow the murderers in Vietnam to continue their rampage!”

  “We’re not. The Americans are fighting the Viet Cong and trying to stop those murderers,” Carlson yelled back.

  “Let them be Daniel,” Spark said.

  “I’m talking about the Americans. The American soldiers are the murderers!”

  “What did he say?” Daniel asked Peter. He was in disbelief and was stopped in his tracks.

  “Daniel, forget it man,” Peter said.

  Daniel walked over to the skinny man who was holding a sign.

  “The Americans aren’t the murderers. They’re fighting for a cause. And if you weren’t such a girl,” Daniel flicked the man’s pony tail, “you would get off your ass and help them.”

  “I burned my draft card, pal,” the protestor said almost nose to nose with Daniel. Another female protestor walked beside him.

  “More like rolled it and smoked it,” Daniel replied. Peter laughed right in the protestor’s ear. “I was in the Army for three years, man,” Peter blurted.

  The woman said, “You were a fucking baby killer! Baby killers!”

  “Yeah! Murderer! Pig!” The crowd chimed.

  “I was in the reserves, bitch!” Daniel said as he poked the girl with his index finger to the top of her chest. More protestors gathered around them.

  “And you! You support that Capitalist instigator of world terror, Senator Bratton,” the protestor slapped Peter’s campaign button on his chest, with the palm of his hand.

  “Lick me, pal,” Peter said as he punched the guy to the left of the protestor who insulted him. The battered protestor was shocked and hurt, and fell to the grass. The woman then kicked Daniel Carlson in his bad knee and he screamed. He hurled back and punched the chief rabble-rouser in the nose. A major rumble ensued. Daniel and Peter were flailing their arms and kicking their feet. It was two against twelve, and Daniel and Peter were doing well. After three minutes of rolling around, every protestor was getting their turn.

  Finally, the university police arrived. Daniel Carlson and Peter Spark, the newly invented activists, ran and occasionally looked back. Peter took the lead. Daniel had problems keeping up. They ended up ducking into an empty classroom in Langdell Hall. The men laughed while they caught their breath. Both were laughing in between inhales. Peter turned and tried to make out the reflection of his face, which had a strongly noticeable scar from his eye down to his lower jaw, in the window. Daniel never asked how he got the scar. He detected Peter was very sensitive about it.

  “So, what are we going to do about the cops?” Daniel asked.

  “Fuck ‘em. If they ask, we’ll say that they started it.”

  “That’s a little bit of a lie.”

  “So? There were over ten guys, versus two. Who are the cops going to believe, law students or some stoned hippie fucks? Don’t worry about it, man. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Well, you got to admit, that was fun,” Daniel said with a smile.

  “Good friends bail you out of trouble. Great friends are with you when you’re in trouble.” Peter replied.

  Carlson, dressed in a three-piece suit, entered the office where he worked. He followed Barry Farkis into the interviewing room. Farkis was a hardworking attorney in his mid-thirties who had thinning brown hair, and was about to be considered for partnership with the firm.

  Carlson and Farkis walked into the small suite where the client, Mandell, and his assigned social caseworker were waiting. Farkis was surprised that Mandell had taken a shower and looked somewhat presentable in the issued orange jumpsuit. Carlson had a legal pad ready and eagerly awaited the questioning and strategy session.

  “Mr. Mandell, this doesn’t look good for you. Witnesses saw you and the deceased arguing hours before the murder. Do you know what the deceased means? Anyway other witnesses said that you owned the knife that the victim was murdered with. It also has your fingerprints all over it. However, I think I can work on a plea agreement.” Farkis said this in a way that made it seem it was well rehearsed and well thought out. Farkis’ whiny voice along with the waving of his hands, decorated with many rings and a gold Rolex (which he didn’t earn but was given) made it seem that he was anything but sincerely concerned about the case.

  “Wait a second. I think I want another attorney,” Mr. Mandell said to his social worker.

  “Mr. Mandell under the circumstances taking this case to trial will ensure you do at least twenty-five years.”

  “You’re not even goin’ to listen to my side of the story? You’re supposed to be helping me, man. But if you have better things to do than I’ll take my chances with a public pretender.”

  “I agree,” the social worker said. “We appreciate the court assigning this case, pro bono to your firm, but if you won’t pursue this case vigorously, and give Mr. Mandell the process he deserves as a citizen, and as a black American, and as a homeless person, whose rights are constantly abused in this—”

  “Alright! Take a breath,” Farkis said. “This is not a racial issue. It is not a homeless issue. I’ll be happy to hear Mr. Mandell’s explanation. And if he wants we will go to court with his defense. Satisfactory? Good. Start anywhere you like.” Farkis rolled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. He then put his hands in his lap. Daniel turned and raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay. This is what went down. I lent the son of a bitch my knife. I mean I lent the deceased,” he paused on the word, deceased. “Somebody else must’ve killed him. I was just minding my own business, all day long and next thing I know the police is harassing me. Telling me I did it. Harassin’ me. Sayin, ‘You the spade with the blade.’ They were looking through my stuff, where I live. And then they brought me to jail.”

  “With all due respect to everyone’s race and shelter status. It sounds weak. How do you explain the fight earlier? And your prints are all over the knife the police say was a match.”

  “I fought with the man. But we fought all the time. I never threatened him or nothing. Ask anyone.”

  “Mr. Mandell, when you say fight, does that mean you argued verbally, or with physical force?” Daniel asked.

  “We were just talkin’. See first, the man asked for the knife to build something. So I let him borrow it. In fact, that’s what we were arguing about. I wanted it back. He was stalling me. The prints were on the knife and that’s why they’re pinning this on me. But it was my knife, so my prints should be on it. Their case is weak. They got nothing on me. No reliable witnesses. He used to physically fight with a man named Horace all the time. He could’ve done it. I swear it wasn’t me.”

  Daniel Carlson wrote down some notes and on the top of the page wrote Reasonable Doubt.

  The hall filled up with law students of every year. It’s one of the few times all the students were together for some function. Most classes are segregated by year. No mingling allowed. This event was a special Harvard event. Judges from the community took their seats, along with University officials. Even Harvard’s President Bok was in attendance. When a Senator comes to Harvard, particularly one of its own, it is a big deal. The man who would deliver a speech, as an HLS alumnus, was Senator Bratton. It was election season and the Senator was beginning at the base of his support—Harvard. Not that there were many voters from Florida there, but some alumni give money to the campaign just because Bratton is an alumnus. More importantly, Bratton was planning someday to run for President—the more name recognition, the better. Most importantly, it raised money for Harvard. Students were free. Everyone else, pay a little something, with a cocktail hour later.

  Daniel sat next to Peter. Peter had a glow about him. Peter was so excited and proud that he was going to work for t
his great man. A Senator who worked closely with Truman, Nixon, and Kennedy. A man who could be President. He was proud that he would be an aide to the Senator after he graduated. The job was a risk, of course. It was contingent on the election results. But since Bratton was well-supported and, more importantly, an incumbent, Bratton would probably win.

  Daniel’s curiosity was peaking, but he was not about to abandon a future with trial work and one day a seven-figure income. Peter, however, had a not-so-hidden agenda for Daniel. Peter planned that Daniel would join the Senator’s campaign. Every chance he’d get he would give Daniel the pitch. Since Daniel was from Florida, it would be an advantage with the Senator.

  Peter’s fiancée, Melissa, sat next to him. She was a lovely girl and wasn’t necessarily cut out for a world of politics that Peter planned to be a part of. She also wanted to be a teacher. She loved kids and figured with Peter working as an aide, she would be able to be a teacher in a local elementary school. She would grade papers and plan a curriculum at night while she waited for Peter to come home.

  Melissa came from a large family in a small town in rural Kansas. She went to Kansas University for her first year of college. Did well enough to transfer to Radcliffe College for women at Harvard. It was in her first year she met Peter. She was smart, in an academic way, but Peter knew things about the real world that she found very impressive. He was older and a war veteran. Instead of being a lost soul, he went back to law school, at Harvard no less. She continued to work hard at being sophisticated. Slapping the rural out of her system. Cambridge being world’s away from Lawrence, Kansas. Peter could be her ticket out of a simple and boring life. She was eager to help Peter find a place with Senator Bratton.

  The Senator was in his fifties. He was a distinguished looking man still with gray sideburns. He spoke about the future of America. He recounted the great strides in Civil Rights and the worldwide fight against communism. He illustrated with great eloquence the plans for the future and his vision of the geo-political world. The Senator avoided talking about Vietnam or the Arms race, which was somewhat of a fiasco in the public eye. Finally, as a great strategic ending he declared that the men and women of Harvard should lead this great nation into the wondrous era of the future. Everyone rose to their feet and the Senator accepted the grand applause. Daniel could hear the background noise of protest outside the hall. The noise unconsciously inflamed him.