Breaking the Bank (42 page)

Mia sat riveted as versions of this drama unfolded once, twice, three times. The young woman with the ragged nails approached the bench.

The woman with the yarn began tugging on the strand with both hands; Mia waited for it to snap.

Then the officer at the front of the room called out her name:

“Mia Saul.”
It sounded as if she were being summoned by God. Mia stood, inched her way back across the row of bodies—the overweight woman recoiled visibly—and approached the bench. As she moved forward, Mia felt like everyone in the room was staring at her; she imagined that Patrick's smoldering gaze might have the power to burn through cloth, leaving two singed, round holes where it penetrated the back of her coat.

Then she felt a hand at her elbow, and she looked up. Cox. It was Cox, escorting her to the bench. Her breath released slightly. Cox was here; he would know what to say. And indeed he did. His delivery was even smoother, more mellifluous than it had been the first time she had heard it, in Costello's dreary office. He had clearly been practicing, and he glided through the whole song and dance—her heroic plight as a single mom, her seamless alibis—as if he really were onstage. Costello was scribbling madly on a legal pad while he spoke, and even Stuart looked deeply impressed.

“And so I think you'll have to agree, Your Honor, that my client had nothing whatsoever to do with Mr. Wedeen's unfortunate death.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cox, for your stirring presentation,” said the judge. His voice had a thick, almost clotted quality, as if he badly needed to clear his throat. “But there's still the matter of the mysterious ten-thousand-dollar bill, which, so far, no one has been able to explain. And I have to say that the presence of this bill—its origins, its history—fascinates me.”

“Well, Your Honor, that bill—”

“I'd like to hear from Ms. Saul directly, Mr. Cox. I've heard everything you've had to say, and now I think it's time for Ms. Saul to offer her version of events.” The judge turned those big canine eyes in Mia's direction, and for a few seconds, she couldn't say anything.

“Ms. Saul?” He sounded impatient. “We're all waiting.” He gestured to the district attorney on his left and the court officers standing nearby.

Still nothing. Cox was discreetly pumping his clenched fist, in pre-victory mode, and the judge's eyes continued to bore into her. Then she thought of Eden, and she found the words that had been eluding her.

“I do want to explain about that bill, Your Honor,” Mia said. “Even though the story seems to defy explanation.” She launched into the story of the cash machine, its escalating offerings, culminating in the ten-thousand-dollar bill that she sold to Weed shortly before his death. She abandoned the script that Cox had dictated, all the coy little glances, the girlish shrugs, and instead told the story openly and forthrightly, just the way it had happened. She didn't look at Cox as she spoke; she didn't dare.

When she was through, she could feel the judge's silent attention had intensified, like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

“Mr. Cox,” he said at last. “You didn't mention before that your client was delusional—”

“But I'm not,” said Mia firmly. “Not at all. And I can prove it, too.” Had she really said that, out loud, to the judge and everyone else within earshot? Had she just offered to expose her magic, not only to Patrick, who was some kind of weird, kindred soul, but to the world? The judge stared at her silently and she stared back. The last time she had gone by the bank, the machine had been out of order. So her offer was a huge gamble. But hadn't it all been a gamble? A horse race, the Kentucky Derby, waiting for that dark horse to hug the rail in the last lap and burst on through to the finish line?

“Prove it?” the judge asked at last. He looked over at the D.A., who tapped the side of his head, as if he were testing a melon for ripeness, and shrugged. “How?”

“Well, I know this would be unorthodox—”

“Your Honor, you've got to believe this woman. She's telling the
truth.” Patrick's voice rang out from the back of the courtroom, and everyone, but everyone, turned around to stare. “That machine she's talking about? It's for real. I know, ‘cause I've seen it.” He was standing now, arms outstretched beseechingly. The hood of his white parka framed the back of his blond head, a fallen halo.

“Who is that?” growled the judge. “I have no idea,” Cox said.

Fortunately, no one looked at Mia, who was shaking her head and silently saying,
No, no, no.

“Get him out of here,” said the judge. “Now.” Even before he was finished speaking, police officers stationed at opposite corners of the room began to converge.

“You can haul me away, but you can't shut me up,” Patrick said. “Be-cause I'm telling the truth, and so is she. She's not like everyone else, see? The machine gave her that money because it
knew
she wasn't, and then she started giving it away, to people she didn't even know, people like me—”

“Clear the aisle, clear the aisle,” barked an officer. At first, the people in Patrick's row appeared frozen; there was no movement in any direction. Then, as if everyone had been given the cue simultaneously, they all started shoving and jostling in an effort to get out of the way. Patrick remained where he was, calmly watching the exodus. Two officers approached him from either side; one had a hand on his gun. But Patrick offered no resistance to the silver bracelets that were snapped onto his wrists.

“That's right, go ahead and cuff me,” he said, almost tenderly, to the officer. “They cuffed Jesus, too, didn't they? Cuffed him good and nailed him to that cross. But they couldn't shut him up, either, even when those motherfuckers crucified him.” He looked down at his shackled wrists. “That's ‘cause the truth will out, even if you pigs in blue try to stifle it. You can't. You just can't.” He allowed himself to be pushed along the aisle and toward the door. Just before he had been
pushed through it, he suddenly halted, colliding with one of the officers, who grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Keep the faith, College Girl,” he sang out. “I love you!”

No,
she thought again,
no, no, no, no.
But there was another voice, soft and clear, urgently whispering beneath it, and that voice breathed
yes.
If Patrick said anything else, Mia didn't hear it because he was out of earshot now, dragged out the door and along the corridor.

The room erupted in a frantic buzzing. “Did you hear—?”

“Did you see—?”

“Who the hell—?”

“What the fuck—?”

“College Girl? Who's College Girl?”

“Order in the court!” roared the judge. He slammed the gavel down hard, and his long jowls shivered from the impact. “Order in the court!”

“Everyone can sit down now,” said one of the remaining officers. “Show's over.” He began shepherding all the displaced occupants of Patrick's row back to their seats. It took a few minutes, but eventually, people filed back in and settled down. The buzzing and whispering continued.

“Ms. Saul, do you know that man?” asked the judge. He looked to Mia as if he had aged perceptibly in these last few minutes.

“Actually, I do, Your Honor.”

“Then would you please tell me how you know him? And what possible relevance that outburst of his had on what we've been discussing?”

“He's seen the machine in action,” said Mia. “So he knows I'm telling the truth.”

“Ms. Saul,” said the judge, setting down his gavel and leaning over the high podium behind which he sat. He brought his face disturbingly close to hers; she could see the pores on his nose, the tiny black dots on his chin that would, if unshaven, have turned into a beard. “You
seem like a reasonable woman. An educated woman. Do you really expect me to believe that there is a cash machine in New York City that's been dispensing money it does not debit or record in any way, shape, or form?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And that the bank has had no inkling that it's handing out money in this fashion?”

“No, I don't think so,” she said, remembering the cordoned-off machine.

“Let me ask you this then. Did it ever occur to you to
tell
the bank about their error?”

“No, Your Honor.” She felt her whole body heating miserably and wished she could have taken off the coat.

“Why not?”

“It's hard to explain . . .”

“That's what we're here for, Ms. Saul. Explanations.” His face was still closer to hers than she would have liked, but something in his expression had changed. He seemed kinder somehow, almost avuncular. He even reminded her of her own uncle Bernie, with those long, velvety-looking earlobes of his.

“I thought that the money was some kind of signal.”

“A signal? What kind of a signal?”

“Something telling me to hang on. Things weren't going well for me. My husband had left me, my daughter was getting in trouble in school. I lost my job and had to move. The money seemed like it was a gift. Like it was meant just for me.” She paused, steeling herself before she uttered the next, most outlandish revelation of all. “And then, when the machine gave me the ten-thousand-dollar bill, I found out that I was right—it
was
a gift for me. The machine said so.”

“The machine said so?” His voice scaled up in disbelief. “You are standing here and telling me that an
automated teller machine
communicated with you?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“How?”

“Words appeared on the screen.
A gift. For you, Mia. Use it well.
So I really did think the money was intended for me.”

The two bushy caterpillars of the judge's eyebrows arched high in surprise.

“I didn't know why I was chosen to receive it, but I didn't ask. And then when I started giving it away, I thought, well, this seems fair. I'd been given something; it was only right to give something back.”

“So you gave away the money you received?”

“Not all of it. But some of it, yes. To homeless people, cabdrivers, a couple of my neighbors who looked like they could use some help.”

“And you gave money to that man who was here earlier? The one who had to be removed from the courtroom?”

“Yes,” Mia said, “I did.”

“Well, this is all most interesting,” said the judge. Costello was still scribbling away. “But it's very difficult to believe.”

“Come and see for yourself,” said Mia, thinking of that dark horse again, only this time he was going for the Triple Crown. “Come to the bank, and I'll show you.”

The judge looked at her for a long moment, and then he turned to the district attorney. “Do it,” he said. The D.A. looked back at him with a “what the hell?” look, but the judge didn't falter. “Send two of your men over there with her. Tomorrow morning. First thing.” He banged the gavel again. “Court's adjourned for fifteen minutes.” He stood, black robe bunching around his ankles, and disappeared through a door just to the right of the podium. Costello jumped up, dropping her pad on the floor.

There was more furious hissing, but Cox was hustling Mia down the aisle and out of the room.

“What men?” said Mia, trying to match his pace. “What's he talking about?”

“The D.A. squad. They'll go with you to the bank tomorrow morning to see this alleged money machine of yours.” He stopped. “I don't know what you were doing in there, but all I can say is that I really hope it works.”

“That makes two of us,” Mia said. What had she been doing in there? Did she think that the judge would just believe her without proof ? The door opened again, and there were Fred and Stuart. She could feel their questions, rising up like steam from boiling water. But Mia shut her eyes, shut them out. They would have to wait. Right now, close enough to smell, was the dark horse,
her
dark horse, his bright eyes bulging, his great column of a neck in a lather, as he came thundering around the track.

A
LL RIGHT,” SAID
Cox. “Tomorrow morning I'll be at your place at eight forty-five; the D.A. squad should be there by nine. Then we're all going to take a little stroll to the bank and watch the machine perform its hocus-pocus.” He drained the last dark drops from his thick white mug and made a face. “Swill,” he added. “How can this place stay in business?”

Cox, Fred, Stuart, and Mia were sitting in a coffee shop across the street from the courthouse. Fred and her brother both deferred to Cox, who was clearly eager to offer his game plan for tomorrow and then get the hell out of there.

“I have to admit, I'm as curious as the judge to see how this thing is going to play out,” Cox said now. “I'm sure the D.A.'s guys are going to want to speak to someone at the bank.”

“You don't believe me,” said Mia, holding a sugar packet but not opening it. Cox was right; the coffee was undrinkable, no matter what you did to it.

“Come on, Mia. Who in their right mind would believe you?” Stuart said before Cox could answer. “I mean, I'm used to coming up with some pretty wild stories, but this—”

“Can I get youse some more coffee?”

Youse.
The waitress—frumpy, short-skirted, thick-ankled—had just said
youse.
Mia kicked Stuart, gently, under the Formica-topped table. In the past, this was the sort of thing that they would have jumped on and run with; they would have been making
youse
jokes all day long.

“We're okay, thanks,” said Cox. The waitress placed the check on the table and drifted off.

Stuart's eyes remained averted. Mia stared at him, willing him to laugh or at least smile.
Come on,
she thought,
you can do it.
His refusal to acknowledge her was frustrating, even painful. She wanted to kick him again, harder.