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| Quid Pro Quo |
By:
Raz D'mello |
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Quid Pro Quo
If lawyers were considered sharks, than Victor Mason was the great white. Few could argue as convincingly as him. It wasn’t that the city lacked great lawyers. There were men or for that matter, women, who could dispute, debate and squabble for all they were worth and even win. Some of them would mostly win. But Victor Mason was simply amazing. Hundreds flocked to see him argue in a court of law. And people who saw him couldn’t get the cold probing eyes out of their minds, nor could they forget his ominous prowl around a hapless witness, his snake like counter moves, his compelling voice which sometimes became a hiss or his astounding ability to turn a losing argument on its head. It was the sheer knack of thinking on his feet that made him a stellar attraction and a courtroom drama, riveting. He was middle age, good looking and sharp. His little tuft of grey hair, which he swept back while arguing in court, had acquired a cult status. Victor Mason considered the law as his personal mistress. He made love to her, watched her as she arched her back and shuddered in his arms, teased her into an orgasm, and then just as she was aroused and about to explode, he would sometimes step back and torment her. The court was his playhouse. And the law, his toy.
There was one more thing about Victor Mason that was remarkable. He had never lost a case in his life.
He was proud of his unblemished record. His clients were all rich and the affluent. Victor’s love for money and fame was almost manic. He never believed in fighting cases for free. The poor be damned. They were the scourge of this world. His world. He had spent most of his life defending thieves, killers, kidnappers, fraudsters and rapists. But he defended them at a price. He felt no guilt. So if you committed a crime and had money, go on a vacation. Victor Mason would save your ass.
But little did he know that eventually, every one has to pay the price. Even Victor Mason.
His wife had died after giving birth to a baby girl, Victoria. His in-laws didn’t want the child to be influenced by a megalomaniac father, so appealed for custody. Victor had argued the case and won the right to bring up his daughter. Now Victoria Mason was the only thing he had. He was very possessive about her. He loved her with an insane intensity and couldn’t bear to see her in pain. He had once slapped a doctor who had injected little Vicky her first vaccine. After all, she was his flesh and blood.
There were women trying to be Mrs. Victor Mason. He did not care for them, except may be for Rebecca. She was a bright young PHD student doing corporate law. She had come to him for project assistance and it was apparent that she idolized him. He liked Rebecca, for she was exactly his opposite. She was soft spoken, warm and full of values. He knew if ever he had the time to consider women, Rebecca would surely be the top contender. He needed someone like her to balance his life.
They say God compensates the poor with the power to curse.
One morning an old woman pushed the door of Victor Mason’s office. She hesitated at first then entered it. She was not a wealthy woman and easily contrasted the heavy opulence of the office. She wanted to meet Victor Mason but was stopped by the security. She requested, pleaded but was not allowed inside his sacred law chamber. Hearing the commotion Victor barged out. Almost in tears, the old woman told him how her only son was falsely implicated in a killing and now faced the death penalty. She had given up hope, and then she had heard about the great Victor Mason. Now he was her only hope. She knew it in her old bones, that if anyone could ever save her son from the gallows, it was Victor Mason.
“What will you give me in return?” Victor mocked her in front of the security, some wide-eyed law students and a few of his clients and their kin. She looked up at the star lawyer through warm tears, “I have nothing to give you, Mr. Mason…except the prayers of a grateful mother.” The poor old woman extended her hands, her palms curved towards heaven. “Give me back my son and I’ll pray for you…”
Victor Mason looked at her with a quiet contempt. He laughed slowly, the mirth building in his gut, then his throat and finally it burst out. He gave out rasping sounds then guffawed loudly, his body shaking with the effort. Victor Mason was laughing at poverty, its helplessness, its wretchedness, its audacity to enter his office and expect to be entertained. Watching the great man feeling amused made everyone join in the revelry. They sounded like a thousand hyenas, warped and diseased with wealth. Everyone laughed for whatever they were worth. She stood and looked at them, distraught and pathetic, an old mother of an innocent son, who was about to die. They threw her out and warned her never to return. Victor Mason had no time for the city’s filth.
The next day she waited for him near his car. He dismissed her again, brandishing his cigar and then sped off. She tried two more times, and then gave up. She retreated into the dark shadows of the city, grieving privately, an old destitute resigned to her fate.
Victor Mason always arrived at the courts with an entourage of students, staff and admirers. Today was no exception. He emerged from his sedan and climbed two steps at a time, circled around a corner and half ran into a corridor, with fluent practiced ease. His entourage followed a step behind. Suddenly he saw her. He almost ran into the old woman as he circled into another winding corridor. She sat in the corner, a huddled mass of old clothes and pain. She was waiting for him. He lurched forward and struggled for footing from the sudden stop, but managed to avoid her. He was just inches away from her when she did something unexpected. She reached out to him and her fingers scraped his left trouser. He recoiled at her touch like someone dodging a leper. He looked at her in disgust and hated her even more. With his entourage at his heels, he walked quickly down the remaining passage. But before turning into the final corridor that led to the court, he glanced down at her. And for a moment their eyes locked. He could make out her cold gaze wanting to burn him and her lips moving silently…and then her weather-beaten face vanished behind a wall of grey concrete.
The poor old woman had cursed Victor Mason. She had cursed him from the pit of her miserable existence. That was her revenge. That was the only retribution of the helpless. She only cursed because she had too, for she knew its consequences. She cried out in anguish, a deep primeval cry of a desolate mother. She had every reason to. Her innocent son was hanged that day, in the early hours of dawn.
Victoria looked beautiful in the warm sunshine. She laughed and ran into her father’s arms. She was all of fourteen. He fondled her hair and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then overcome by a sudden gush of emotion, he put a thin necklace around her neck. It had a `V’ engraved in the centre and it glinted in the afternoon sun. As Vicky got ready to go back to boarding school, he became dispirited. Victor Mason could not see her go but had no choice. It was just a matter of six months. Then she would be home forever.
Once while arguing in court, Victor Mason felt a sharp pain in his leg, then it had gone just as it had begun. It was a crazy pain that rose from his ankles and parked itself in his head. First he had ignored it but of late it had become worse. His head felt like pins stuck all around it with someone pulling them out one by one. During those periods he couldn’t think, couldn’t see, as his vision became a blur. The pain came without warning.
Then the impossible happened. Victor Mason lost a case.
He got irritated, irrational and paranoid. All in the space of a month. Then he lost another case. It was big news in the legal circles, may be on par with the Titanic tragedy. Then he lost his third case in a row. The utterly unthinkable had just occurred. Victor Mason went into a massive depression. He lost his appetite, his confidence and the aura. He became a nervous wreck and went into self-imposed exile. The pain kept haunting him like the bite of an infected animal.
Doctors were mystified and found no illness. Victor Mason was fine according to medical science. But no one could explain the pain spells, which were now so powerful that he became temporarily insane. During those spells Victor Mason was left alone. Quarantined like a rabid dog.
The ordeal lasted for almost six months. By now the world had relegated him to its backyard. It had no time for lost heroes. As then as it happened one morning, Victor Mason got out of bed feeling his old self, once again. It was as if nothing had happened to him. The last six months were just a bad dream and now he had woken up. He had never felt so good. Feeling a rush of blood in his veins he got ready for battle. There were a few cases still waiting for him. He had super loyal clients. One particular case was urgent. It was rape and murder. If convicted, the goddamned rogue would be a prime candidate for the electric chair and would earn a bad name for the prestigious company he worked for. So the company owner wanted his man acquitted. He had money, lots of it. Victor Mason would definitely save his man in court. The crime was already committed and the victims were long dead anyway.
He dressed for battle and arrived in court. There was a hush as Victor Mason entered, everyone was there to see him perish or rise like the proverbial phoenix. There were reporters, cameras and a sea of curious spectators waiting to bury him or herald him as the greatest lawyer the world had ever seen. He took a deep breath, taking in the atmosphere as an addicted actor surveys his audience. Then he began.
The accused was a brute of a man. Massive shoulders, rugged features and probably with brains the size of a peanut. A drunk and he probably did drugs. He drove a truck for his boss and during one of his journeys had picked up a couple of stranded girls on a highway, then raped and brutally strangled them. He even disfigured their faces with acid. Now he laughed in the court and displayed a hideous gold tooth, secure in the knowledge that Victor Mason would save him. And he did. Against all odds, Victor Mason saved his client who had raped and killed two innocent girls. He had argued brilliantly, with the touch of yore, establishing a rock solid alibi for his client. In the end he had proved his client was not driving that particular truck at all, but was on another call, two hundred miles away. He also had the register entry to prove it. The killer was acquitted. It was vintage Victor Mason. He was back.
Cameras clicked, reporters surrounded him and law students screamed in hero worship. Newspapers carried his photos and headlines proclaimed him the messiah of the doomed. Ironically, Victor Mason became a selfless God.
It was late evening when he returned home and lighted a cigar. He felt a little tired but was elated at the turn of events. He invited Rebecca for dinner. But he knew there was one person missing in the celebrations. Little Victoria. Her memory was one of the things that had helped him get back on his feet, after those horrible six months. A sweet ache filled his heart at the thought of Victoria’s final homecoming. She would soon be at his side, remaining there always, until some wonderful prince took her away into a crimson horizon. Tomorrow he would call her hostel.
He called only to be informed that the hostel had closed a week ago for vacations. Victoria had already left for home. He called her cell phone but it simply emitted a nonsensical beep. Strange, he thought, might be she decided to visit a classmate and then come back. Kids nowadays were getting impossible, he shrugged and smiled. He got concerned when she did not arrive till late afternoon. He called up her friends and teachers. The last time anyone had seen her was with another girl and they had gotten in a car, headed for home. Two girls…broken down car…highway. The thought made him immobile, sparking a cold current in his brain. Suddenly he was sweating and the cigar tasted bad in his mouth. His ankle registered a tingling pain, it was the spot where the old woman had touched him. No…it can’t be, go way you old wretch…I am not afraid of you. But he couldn’t make her go away. She was sitting in a corner of his drawing room, her cold unblinking stare burning a hole inside him, except there was no one there. Yet he sensed her presence. Trembling with a fear he thought he was incapable of, he called the cops.
The morgue was a building eroded by time. It was gray and it smelt of death. It was all around him. This was the final destination of missing people. Praying softly, Victor Mason entered the cold chamber. The stench frightened him and made him feel guilty. This place was his trial room. It was God’s own court of law for modern day Saturns like him. He remembered how he had defended hard-core killers and rapists. Now their victims cried for justice in a single chorus, a heart-wrenching howl of vengeance. Wiping his face and covering his nose, he stood near the steel crypts, which housed the unclaimed dead. Slowly the morgue assistant drew the metal coffin out. Two bodies. He slid the white cloth away to reveal a girl. Stranger. The next figure was covered with a spotless white cloth. He felt his legs shaking and melting under his weight. He felt a cold wave travel up and down his spine. Suddenly he pulled off the cover. The shriek sounded like someone had been electrocuted without warning. The cries rang inside the decaying building and echoed in its long empty passages. It was the cry of shock beyond belief. Victor Mason was on his knees besides the strangulated body of his daughter. Her face was disfigured by streaks of dried acid. But around the neck was a thin necklace with a `V’ engraved at its centre. It still glinted in the dull light of the morgue, a stark reminder of that warm sunny afternoon when he had seen his daughter last. Sweet Victoria. She would never come home. She was raped and killed on a lone highway. He had absolved the man who was responsible for it. Victor Mason had defended his daughter’s killer and set him free. He suddenly laughed aloud. It was not laughter but a protest of a devastated father mourning the enormous loss of a child. His only child. Victor Mason had turned insane. His mind surrendered the last remains of his sanity to the overwhelming grief and numbing shock. But just before he went insane, Victor Mason sensed her presence. He finally understood what the poor old woman had done to him. She had cursed him. But now it was too late. Her only son for his only daughter.
There were cameras, reporters, law students and curious spectators. But this time there was no Victor Mason setting the courtroom alight. Instead there was a man, cowering and hiding from the strange bright lights, laughing hysterically and still brandishing a cigar. The great Victor Mason was led to a waiting van with an iron mesh. The cameras clicked furiously and people craned their necks for a last view as the van made its way to the city asylum.
Somewhere in the dark shadows of the big city sat an old woman. Her eyes were until now, alive. But now they appeared glazed, staring at nothing in particular. She had been sitting there in the biting cold, hungry and thirsty, but strangely she felt nothing. She was just waiting and holding on to that last trace of life before it slipped away. She was waiting for the curse to come alive. It had not failed her. It was a thing from God, to the people he loved the most. The curse kept her warm.
The next morning, the streets would be swept clean and somebody would remove the dead body of an old and poor woman. One more destitute. She had no use for the big city now. No one would miss her anymore. But at least, she had ensured that her innocent son had finally received justice. He did not die in vain. |
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