April 9, 2012
MY CLIENT is not moved to reflect. He does not linger on details. He knows that he has stomped, has graduated, has profited. He does not know how to describe his tenement in the Bronx, in the late 1950s, early 1960s. The building apparently contains no frying onions, no garlic. No doors open into other lives, other dramas. His father teaches him to crack a billy club against another second graderís skull, and thereby retrieve his stolen coat. But my client does not describe the other childís face, nor his fatherís, nor the swing of the club, nor anybody's loss.