Some Great Thing Page 4

  Corbett protested, “But I was gonna put them back.”

  “Then why were you holding them?” asked the judge.

  “I was just trying to get my letter back, and I’d a been cutting down my chances if I’d put back the letters I kept sucking up, Your Honour!”

  “You were fishing for a letter you had just posted?” the judge said. “Can you prove it?”

  “No, Your Honour, I never got it. I got arrested.”

  The judge cupped his chin in a palm. “I’d send you away for thirty days, were it not for the fact that I, too, have been tempted in the past to retrieve correspondence in the exact same fashion.”

  Mahatma and the reporter to his left both got that down word for word. The judge said, “Although I hasten to add, for the benefit of all those in the courtroom, I repeat, all those present, that I have never acted on such an impulse. So while I congratulate you for your ingenuity, I must warn you not to do it again. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honour.”

  “I’m giving you an absolute discharge, Mr. Corbett, but I’m warning you that if I see you again within twelve months, you can expect harsh treatment. This court has no time for foolishness.”

  “Call number 91,” cried the court clerk.

  Whispering to the reporter next to him, Mahatma asked, “Don’t the prisoners come up in the order listed on the page?”

  “No, they come up random. Why? You lookin’ for somebody?” Mahatma shrugged. “I’m waiting for the Dwight Matthewson case,” the brat said.

  “What’d he do?” Mahatma asked.

  “Caused a public disturbance. But he’s black.”

  “So what?”

  “Everybody knows Judge Hill gives black guys a hard time. Say, who are you, anyway?”

  The judge rapped his gavel on wood. The next prisoner stood taller than both guards. “That’s him!” the brat whispered.

  “State your name,” the prisoner was told.

  “Dwight Matthewson.”

  “Are you represented by counsel?” the judge asked.

  “I don’t want a lawyer. I want to get this over with.”

  “You’re making a mistake,” the judge warned him.

  “I want this done with,” Matthewson repeated.

  “Read the charges,” the judge said.

  A clerk read out: “Dwight Matthewson, you have been charged in the City of Winnipeg, on or about the 18th day of July 1983, with causing a public disturbance, to wit, screaming and shouting in the mayor’s office. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  “I was there,” Matthewson said.

  “Nobody asked if you were there,” the judge said. “What we need, Mr. Matthewson, is your plea.”

  “I did what I feel is right. My plea is guilty. Sure I—”

  The judge cut him off. “Guilty!” He turned to the Crown attorney “What happened, Mr. Peters?” The Crown attorney said Dwight Matthewson had stormed into the mayor’s office, brandishing a placard and hollering that racial minorities were barred from jobs at City Hall. Judge Hill cleared his throat. The brat elbowed Mahatma. “You listen to me, Mr. Matthewson. Wouldn’t you agree that yours was an act of colossal stupidity? Waving a placard around and shouting like a child. There are more civilized ways to express one’s beliefs, wouldn’t you say? Hmmm? Speak up!”

  “I need no lesson in civility from you.”

  “Don’t be smart with me, Mr. Matthewson. I won’t put up with it. You are a disgrace to your race. If everybody started busting into offices, waving signs and impeding business, we’d have anarchy! We’d have a nation of boors. Have you considered that? No! Well, you will now! Three weeks in jail ought to smarten you up, Mr. Matthewson.”

  Matthewson’s jaw sagged. “Three weeks? I have a family, I—”

  “Think about that next time, Mr. Matthewson.”

  The guards led Matthewson out. “Told you he was a bastard,” the brat said. Mahatma finished writing and got up. “Who do you work for, anyway?”

  “The Herald.”

  “The Herald? You’re not Mahatma Grafton?”

  Mahatma raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

  “No offence, man. You did a good story on that guy with the vacuum. That’s why I was pissed off. I don’t have anything against your name. It’s just a little weird, that’s all. You’re not riled, I hope?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” The young man with ears like satellite dishes offered his hand. “Edward Slade. Winnipeg Star. I do cops and robbers.”

  “Whaddya got for page one?” Betts asked.

  “Corbett got an absolute discharge,” Mahatma said.

  “No more than four inches. Anything else happen?”

  “This judge called a black prisoner a disgrace to his race and jailed him for three weeks just for causing a public disturbance.”

  “I bet the judge was Melvyn Hill.”

  “You know him?”

  “We call him Thrill Hill. We get a story every time he opens his mouth. Give it eight inches.”

  An idea came to Mahatma as he returned to his desk. He raced back to the Institute of Public Protection.

  Judge Melvyn Hill sat at an oak desk in a small office. Several shelves of legal texts loomed behind him, as well as a portrait of the Queen and another of Prime Minister Trudeau. He was out of his robes this time, wearing a tweed suit. He had large temples and hollow cheeks. He removed a pair of reading glasses, held them in his left hand and said, “I don’t speak to the press.” Mahatma, standing at the door, wondered if that were a dismissal. “I have absolutely nothing to do with reporters,” the judge said, examining papers on his desk. “They never get anything right. They shouldn’t be allowed to work until they complete graduate studies at a reputable university. That would straighten them out. The number of times I’ve been misquoted would make your head spin.”

  The judge ranted on about the media. Then, suddenly, he stopped, lifted his head to aim hazel-green eyes at Mahatma and raised his chin a notch. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Mahatma Grafton.”

  “Any relation to Ben Grafton?”

  “My father.”

  “Well come in, lad. You should have told me so. Your dad’s an old friend of mine. We go a long way back.”

  “I’ll tell him I was talking to you.”

  “Yes, do that. Do that. Tell him Judge Hill sends his regards. Now, have a seat, young Grafton. What may I do for you?”

  Mahatma sat down, fingering his notepad. He wondered if he should open it. He had a feeling the judge would talk. “It’s about the Matthewson case.”

  “I don’t discuss particular cases. But I will say this: as a rule of thumb, I lean harder on Negro offenders than non-Negroes. I hold an extremely responsible position. People follow every word I say. I will have no one, and I say no one, accuse me of favouring people of my race. And, by the way, I don’t approve of the word ‘black.’ ‘Negro’ sounds much more civilized.”

  Mahatma wrote as fast as he could, wincing with expectation. The judge would surely berate him, throw him out, insist it was off the record. But the judge kept talking. He said Negroes had to earn respect in the world. It was high time they did something for themselves. He had been born of illiterate parents and look what he had become—a respected citizen, a judge, a linchpin of democracy. No sir, he would not tolerate foolish acts by Negroes, for whom criminality was doubly shameful. Mahatma wrote so fast that the bone in the knuckle of his middle finger ached. This was a national news story! It would embarrass the hell out of the judge. But he deserved it. Listen to the pompous fool!

  “Take me,” the judge said. “How would I have advanced in this world if I hadn’t displayed exemplary behaviour? My record to date has been spotless, but I still haven’t been promoted.”

  “Promoted?”

  “Appointed to a higher judicial level. With all my experience, I still haven’t moved up. Not even to the Court of Queen’s Bench.” Mahatma asked how l
ong Melvyn Hill had been a judge. “I’ve been on this bench longer than you’ve lived, I bet. I was appointed to this bench in 1960. When were you born?”

  “Fifty-seven.”

  “See what I mean? So it irks me a little. I’m qualified. I’ve never been criticized. I deserve to be promoted and it’s unfair that I’ve been overlooked.”

  “Why do you call it a promotion?” Mahatma asked.

  “It’s more power. More prestige. More money. I call that a promotion.”

  “But judges don’t usually move from provincial to federal courts,” said Mahatma, who thought, I can’t believe it, I’m actually using something I learned at university.

  “It can happen,” the judge said.

  “But it hasn’t for you because of your race?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You said—”

  “Let’s say it’s partly because of race. You journalists really can’t accustom yourselves to nuance, can you?” Mahatma grinned. He felt a great story brimming. The judge rose to dismiss him. Mahatma was sure the judge would insist now that all this was off the record. But Melvyn Hill did nothing of the sort. He merely repeated his greeting to Ben Grafton. Mahatma went on to write the line story on page one for Wednesday, July 20. Canadian Press picked up the story and it landed in ten more dailies. Reporters from all over the country began phoning the judge. But Melvyn Hill refused to take any calls. He had his secretary advise Edward Slade to give Mahatma Grafton’s article a close reading if he wanted information on the subject.

  At The Winnipeg Star Slade crashed down the telephone. “Fucking ‘close reading,’” he muttered. “Grafton wouldn’t even have picked up on that scoop if I hadn’t told him about Matthewson!”

  At The Herald, Chuck Maxwell was the first to congratulate Mahatma. “Stick by me, Hat. Follow my advice and you’re heading for great things. You’ll do better than me, in life.”

  Mahatma told his friend to shut up and took him out for a beer.

  The Institute of Public Protection, where several provincial judges worked, and the Winnipeg City Hall, where the mayor worked, faced each other across a courtyard. About fifty yards long and wide, the courtyard had a fountain, a pay phone, three benches and five trees. The day after buying a thirty-five dollar Blow-Joe megaphone, Jake Corbett left Frank’s Accidental Dog and Grill at 10:00 a.m., walked south on Main Street and turned right into the courtyard. Then he phoned The Herald. “I’m having a demonstration at City Hall. Guaranteed page one.” A gruff voice mumbled “Damned dingoes” and hung up on him. Jake gave up on The Herald and turned on the megaphone. “Justice for the poor! Welfare is discriminating me to death! No more overpayment deductions! Justice for the poor!” Five people heading into City Hall paused to watch. Jake turned the volume button to max and emptied his lungs. He hollered for ten minutes. Then, resting on a bench, he saw a CBC-TV car on Main Street. Jake delivered another blast. His voice bounced off City Hall, ricocheted off the opposite building and came echoing back from behind him.

  The mayor had gone south of the border to meet the mayor of Fargo, North Dakota. He had done this without any border troubles, despite The Herald’s recent article about him during his trip to Nicaragua.

  Sandra Paquette liked having the mayor absent; she got more work done that way. But today she had a splitting headache. That amplified whining came right through her window. She looked down at the courtyard. A few pigeons clustered near Jake Corbett. He took a heel of bread from his pocket and threw it to the birds. She had to credit the guy for his persistence. He probably did have serious welfare problems. Three minutes after Jake Corbett began hollering, the telephone rang in Sandra’s office. A male voice, middle-aged or older, barked at her. “Connect me with the mayor.”

  “The mayor isn’t in today. May I take a message?”

  “This is Judge Melvyn Hill of the Provincial Court, and I won’t stand for any run-around. It behooves you to connect me this instant with the mayor!”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. Men! It behooves you to blah blah blah…“I’m afraid there’s no way to reach him. He is in the United States.”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Sandra Paquette.”

  “Who is that idiot outside? I can’t hear myself think!”

  “That’s Jake Corbett.”

  “I want you to march down there and have him cease that foolishness!”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but…”

  “I want that commotion to cease this minute!”

  Seeing a woman approach him, Jake Corbett stepped up the commotion. “Mr. Corbett! Can I talk to you a minute?” Jake kept bellowing. “Would you like an appointment to discuss this with the mayor?”

  “Justice for the poor!”

  Sandra sighed and walked away. Her phone was ringing when she entered her office. “Call the police,” the judge demanded. “That man is causing a public disturbance.” “I’m not sure the mayor would approve of that,” Sandra said.

  “Silence that ragamuffin! This minute!”

  Sandra found it pleasing to stonewall the judge. “I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it. If you wish to leave your telephone number, the mayor will get back to you—” The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

  Jake paused. His lips and throat were dry. His leg was sore. But the megaphone was holding up. He was admiring a white stripe on the bell horn’s red surface when somebody called his name. Twice. He turned around and looked up at the fourth floor of the building opposite City Hall.

  “Hey, you! Jake Corbett! Cease that commotion this instant!”

  Jake stared up at the brown-skinned face of an older man leaning out a window. It looked like the judge he had seen in court. Grateful for the attention, Jake directed a blast at the Negro. Funny how there seemed to be a lot of Negroes around Winnipeg these days.

  Don Betts had been listening to the police radio. “Hey,” he shouted, “something’s going on at City Hall!” Surveying the empty newsroom, he groaned. No Quotes Hailey was out. Helen Savoie was out. Chuck Maxwell was in, but he was useless. “Mahatma!” Betts ran up to him. “Get off the phone. I have something for you.”

  Mahatma Grafton saw Jake Corbett put down his megaphone. “Hi,” Jake said, “they’re gonna arrest me.” A police cruiser pulled up on Main Street. Mahatma saw Judge Melvyn Hill confer with the driver. Jake Corbett jumped up and shouted again into his megaphone. He shouted in the name of dignity. He shouted in the name of justice. He shouted until he was put in the police cruiser and driven away. Judge Melvyn Hill returned inside his building. Mahatma strolled over to a young woman standing near the doors to City Hall.

  “Hello,” he said, “I’m with The Winnipeg Herald.”

  “I know,” she said, smiling. “Mahatma Grafton, right? You were here the other day, when the same guy broke up a reception with his vacuum cleaner.”

  “I remember seeing you there too,” Mahatma said, “but I don’t know your name.”

  “Sandra Paquette,” she said. “I’m the mayor’s assistant.”

  They shook hands. She stood about five-five, had a slim figure and long brown hair parted in the middle. She had a generous smile, with a touch of blue-eyed humour that seemed to say, Welcome to the funny farm. The introduction relaxed Mahatma. “So what happened?” he asked. “Why was everybody out here? I even saw Judge Hill out here.”

  “Got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then come up to my office. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Jake Corbett got his name on page one of The Winnipeg Herald two days later, but it bugged him that the story came out all wrong. All Mahatma Grafton wrote about him was that a lady judge had given him a suspended sentence for making a racket in the courtyard. And the rest of the article talked about the Negro judge. People quoted in the article were saying judges weren’t supposed to call cops on people. But there was nothing about the welfare people docking five percent from his cheque every month. Jake had some big thinking to do. He w
as going to have to drill it into the public’s brain and judges’ brains and reporters’ brains that the welfare people were chopping five percent off his necessaries of life!

  The day after he had Jake Corbett arrested, Judge Melvyn Hill turned on his TV twenty minutes ahead of time. He had told his secretary he might be on the news. He had also told his neighbour. Melvyn would certainly have told his ex-wife to see the news, if he knew her telephone number. But she had left him with no indication of her whereabouts. His first wife had done the same thing. First Eileen and then Doris had left him without notice, in the middle of the day, while he was working. Both had cleared out his furniture.

  Melvyn sighed and lay back in a chair, waiting for the news. Earlier that day, when Mahatma Grafton had phoned to ask why he had ordered the arrest of Jake Corbett, Melvyn had been feeling lonely. It was a slow day at work. He wanted to call up old friends to say hello, but he had no such friends. Except maybe Ben Grafton and Fat Harry Carson. And Melvyn hadn’t seen them for years. So Melvyn was happy to hear from Mahatma Grafton. He was happy to talk. He said he saw nothing wrong with calling the police on Jake Corbett. The noise had been driving him crazy! No, he had no comment about whether judges should intervene in such a way. By the way, was this likely to be in tomorrow’s paper?

  When he saw he didn’t make the six-thirty news, Melvyn Hill turned off the TV. He had no appetite. It had been a horrible day. Leaving the office at five in the afternoon, the judge had been stopped by a pimply Indian on Main Street.

  “Hey, mister, I just lost my job, can you spare some change?” Melvyn kept walking, keeping his head up. “I say, mister, got a spare quarter?”

  Melvyn stopped and looked into the lad’s sullen face. “I’ll have you know that I don’t give money in the streets. I am a judge!”

  “You’re no judge.”

  “Yes I am. I’m one of the highest people in this province, and I don’t hand out money on the street. But I will buy you a sandwich if you wish.”