Adam Ferguson

         Jake closed his eyes in the back of the car.  It was a bright spring morning, the sun all awkward angles through his eyelids.  A late night drinking session the night before had him feeling slow, with a hangover struggling hard to be felt through a buffer of painkillers.  He forced himself to take another bite of the dry roll he had seized for breakfast.  His stomach slowly settled as the bread absorbed some of the bile and alcohol left over in his stomach.

         He switched on his cell phone, pressed quick dial without opening his eyes.  "Morning, Clarice," he said before his secretary could say a word.

         "Good morning, Jake.  You should give Mr. Thomas a call right away.  He's already stopped by your office twice." 

         Jake squinted at his watch.  It was only nine-thirty.  "Just tell Marty I was out drinking last night."

         Clarice paused.  "You want me to tell the firm's senior partner that you're late because you were out drinking?" 

         "Drinking with a certain person.  He'll understand."  Jake flipped the phone disconnected, closed his eyes once more and allowed himself a small smile.  He had spent the night barhopping with Ben Calhoun, the Undersecretary of Urban Affairs for the new president.  And a friend of Jake's from law school.  Jake had never really liked Ben in law school, always trying to suck up to the professors and almost anyone else.  But Ben had liked Jake—everyone liked Jake—and Ben had finally sucked up to the right person before the last election.  Now, with Ben's help, Jake was going to make partner by next year.

         His phone rang again.  Jake picked it up without opening his eyes. 

         "Jake—Good morning."  Marty sounded curious.  Good.

         "Hey Marty.  Great news."

         "What's that?"

         "Later today, Judge Rawlings is going to dismiss the case against the gun manufacturers."

         "What?!"  A happy, if shocked, pause.  "You're kidding.  How do you know?"

         Jake felt the car pull up to the sidewalk.  He opened his eyes, nodded his thanks at the car service's driver and stepped onto the pavement.  For some reason he glanced up.  The skyscrapers around him revealed only the sky directly above, a deep blue sky remarkably free of pollution.  Through the slowness of his hangover it seemed surreal.  Doubly so, as he had spent so little time outside lately. 

         "One second, Marty."  Jake paused for a moment on the sidewalk.  A handful of people were gathered in front of his building's revolving door, listening to an old man shouting.  Jake wondered what he was saying.

         "Jake?"  Marty repeated.  "How do you know what Rawlings is going to do?"

         Jake put one finger in his free ear and stepped a few feet away from the crowd.  What was he thinking?  You didn't keep a senior partner waiting while you watched some street crazy.  Not when you'd been slaving for six years and were this close to making partner.  "Ben talked to Rawlings about the case.  And he happened to mention that there's a Supreme Court vacancy coming open..." 

         At that moment the old man turned to face Jake, and Jake paused in mid sentence.  He understood now why people had gathered around the man.  The old man's furious blue eyes pierced him, and for a moment, he felt he couldn't move.  "Jake Singer.  This is not the sacrifice God wants."  The man's voice was strident but controlled, with none of the mumbling incoherence Jake expected from a street person.  His eyes held Jake for another moment, and then, with a surge of panic, Jake remembered Marty. 

         "Um.  Marty, I'm having a problem with my cell phone.  The signal is fading every few seconds.  I'll be in the office momentarily."  He cut the contact before Marty could respond and looked at the old man.  "How did you know my name?"

         The street person ignored him and turned back to the rest of his listeners.  "God doesn't want your quarters, while your stock options are destroying souls." 

         Freed of the man's gaze, Jake shook his head.  Jeez.  His hangover numbness was turning into a real headache and he wasn't even at work yet.  Before going crazy the old man had probably worked in his office or something.  He wore the remains of a suit, which may once have been nice.  His face was difficult to see, obscured beneath a raggedly cut beard.

         Seeing the building's security man, Sandy, on his way to clear the crazy away, Jake stepped towards the revolving door.  He'd tell Sandy that the guy was harmless and then he'd get to work. 

         "Don't do me any favors, Jake!"  The old man snapped.  "You can't serve the merchants of death, of hard iron and bullets, and then placate God with your petty kindnesses." 

         Jake spun around.  How did he know that Jake was working on the gun manufacturers' case?  It hadn't even gone to trial yet.  The old man was answering no questions, though.  Red-faced, he thundered at Jake, and all of his listeners.  "God doesn't want your charity when you retire.  Not if it's a million public libraries or food banks.  He wants your life!"

         "Is there a problem here, sir?"  Sandy arrived outside slightly out of breath.  He was a heavyset black man who rarely moved from behind his desk.  Jake shook his head and shot him a quick, embarrassed smile before walking into the building.

         From the lobby he turned and watched Sandy reach for the old man.  The sun sparkled strangely on the glass, and for a moment Jake had the illusion that Sandy's hand caught fire.  Sandy quickly pulled his hand back, and the old man moved a few yards away.  Jake shook his head, and stepped into the elevator.  It was going to be a long enough day without worrying about every crazy on the street.

         It was comforting to reach the office, full of quiet morning bustle.  Jake had never intended to stay in corporate law for this long—he had only gone into corporate to pay his law school debt down as fast as possible.  Still.  By now, the firm felt more like home than his apartment did.  The last weekend he hadn't worked had probably been the firm's annual retreat in January.  He dropped his jacket on his desk and walked down the hall to see Marty.

         "Jake.  Good to see you."  Marty glanced up from his desk.  He was a tall man, with professionally sincere blue eyes, currently red-rimmed with lack of sleep.  "So our case is going to be irrelevant in a day or two?"

         "That's right.  Rawlings is going to dismiss the case over a finding of fact.  He's determined that our clients were credible when they said they couldn't foresee that the guns would fall into the hands of criminals.  And now that Congress has passed the law protecting gun manufacturers from future litigation..." 

         "Our clients are basically golden." 

         "Right."  Jake cleared his throat.  "There was one thing." 

         Marty ran his hand through his full head of silvery hair.  "Yeah?"

         "Calhoun asked me to deliver a message.  It's about the campaign."

         "Of course.  You can assure him that the gun companies will be particularly big contributors next year."  Marty examined his fingernails and Jake distractedly noticed that they were beautifully manicured.

         "Marty," Jake bit his lip, an old nervous habit.  Maybe it was just the hangover, but suddenly he felt sick to his stomach.  "The cities had a good case that the gun companies were deliberately marketing their products to urban youth.  You know. The case could have gone on for years."

         Marty smiled.  "You're concerned that we'll lose our fee.  Don't worry.  We're going to bill the companies very highly for the next few days of work.  Everyone wins."

         "Right."  Jake hesitated.  Of course he had known the firm would be compensated.  He wasn't sure exactly what was bothering him.  For some reason he kept thinking of the old crazy on the street.  "You don't think there will be any problems when Rawlings gets this appointment in a few months?"

         Marty's smile twitched, and almost disappeared for an instant.  "Problems?  So Rawlings gets appointed to the Supreme Court two months after he dismisses a politically contentious case.  So what?  Shoot, Jake, no one cared when Congress passed a law protecting gun manufacturers from exactly this sort of case.  No one's going to care about this."

         Marty shrugged and looked out his window.  "Political contributions happen—that's what lobbies are supposed to do.  That's democracy."  Jake followed his gaze below them to the St. Patrick's Cathedral glittering with gold fire, the morning sunlight setting its trimmings ablaze.  "And you and I will finally get a chance to catch up on some sleep." 

         Jake forced a smile.  He really didn't know why he was feeling so squeamish suddenly.  "Yeah.  Thanks, Marty."  It wasn't like he had had much to do with the president's action anyway—the president was a long time friend to gun companies.  Jake had simply arranged the particulars to their firm's advantage. And if he hadn't worked on the case, there were plenty of other associates at the firm who would have leapt at the chance to work this closely with such a big client.

         "One more thing.  I want you to get some notes together on similar decisions in the past.  I want to be ready to," Marty waved his hand vaguely in the air, "you know—applaud the dismissal when the press calls me for comment."

         When Jake got back to his office he discovered his computer was already on.  "Clarice," he called.  His secretary came to the door, and Jake gestured at his computer screen.  "Who's the joker?" 

         His screen saver had been changed.  Large yellow letters marched across the blue screen.  "...THIS IS NOT THE SACRIFICE GOD WANTS THIS IS NOT..."

         Clarice's voice sounded strange.  "No one's been in there this morning but you, Mr. Singer.  You can't hide from God's word."

         "What?!"  Jake looked up at Clarice incredulously.  "What did you say about God's word?"

         "I just said no one's been in there this morning."  Clarice took a step back.  Her eyes were wide behind her glasses—as though Jake was the one babbling about ‘God's word.'

         Jake took a deep breath.  "Sorry, Clarice.  I must be hearing things." 

         Clarice nodded, continued to back away.  Jake looked back at his computer screen, which had somehow just reverted to the usual Microsoft screen saver.

         Jeez.  That man this morning had really rattled him.  Talking to Marty about ethics and Clarice about God.  He must be cracking up.  Jake shook his head and began to catch up on other business.  As usual, he ordered in lunch and worked through his lunch hour.

         By the afternoon he was ensconced in the firm's law library, painstakingly compiling a list of precedents for dismissals of similar cases.  His headache had dissipated as the day went on, but the hangover slowness remained, making everything take longer to finish than it should. 

         Jake whistled tunelessly as he worked.  He liked working in the library—he enjoyed the solid smell of the old, leather-bound law books, and the freedom to spread his notes over the entire oak conference table.  Within an hour he had sketched out Marty's speech.  Not that it really mattered.  Findings of fact were almost impossible to appeal to higher courts.  After Rawlings' decision, the cities who were bringing suit against the gun manufacturers were just out of luck.

         He switched on the radio when he returned to his office to type up his notes.  NPR was doing a special on Stravinsky, which he had been looking forward to all week.  Strangely, though, there was no music when he turned the radio on.

         Instead a man's nasal voice explained, "unlike the Greek prophets, biblical prophets weren't fortune tellers.  They were people chosen by God to spread his word.  Sometimes they're pagans who don't even believe in God.  They have no choice—" Jake distractedly switched the channel. 

         He heard a few beats of a Mozart cantata on the classical station, and then the same man's voice continued.  "Choice in the matter.  They could resist but they'd get swallowed by wh—."  Jake switched the channel again, and then again.  "Whales, spit out where" ... "God had told" ... "them to go."

         He abruptly turned off the radio.  His face felt flushed and sweat dripped down the sides of his torso, under his armpits.  He walked to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on his face.  Maybe someone had slipped acid into his takeout food or something.  He looked closely at his pupils to make sure they weren't dilated.  They weren't.  The toilet flushed, and Marty walked out straightening his tie.

         "How's the life going?"  He smiled pleasantly.  "Sacrificing it to God?" 

         Jake kept calm.  There was no way he was going to crack up on the brink of being offered partner.  Let it happen next year if it had to happen.  "Sorry, Marty—what was that?"

         "The work.  How's the work going?"  Marty laughed but there was a note of appraisal in his glance.  "You're too young to go deaf."

         Jake's laugh was so forced he thought his throat might crack.  But he patted Marty on the shoulder.  "It's almost done.  I'll have the notes on your desk in a few moments."

         "Great.  You want to give me the sound bite version now?" 

         Jake blinked twice, trying to focus.  "Sure.  This judgment basically confirms what our clients have been saying all along.  They didn't do anything wrong.  The cities were just trying to legislate through the courts, which of course, we believe is fundamentally wrong.  Rawlings' finding of fact properly refers the matter of restricting gun distribution back to the Congress where it belongs."

         Marty nodded slowly, smiling.  "Nice.  And of course the Congress has, in fact, already decided this issue with the new law last spring."

         "Exactly."

         "Sounds good."  Marty nodded to him and they both walked back to their offices.

         He brought his report to Marty and left work early, at just after 7:30.  He hadn't known he was looking for the crazy man until he left his building and found himself scanning the pavement.  The sidewalk was empty, but he saw what looked like a bundle of clothes lying in the dumpster shadows down the street.

         He approached the dumpster, and the pile of clothes resolved itself into the bearded man from that morning, now huddled amid ragged blankets.  But he looked different.  His eyes were glazed and he looked up at Jake without a trace of anger.  Even his voice had changed, grown weak and quavering.  "Hey, man.  You got some change?"  Jake gave him a dollar, feeling a strange letdown that the man was just another bum.

         His wallet wasn't back in his pocket when he heard.  "This is not the sacrifice God wants!" 

         A strong hand turned him around, and he found himself confronting the blazing eyes of this morning.  The man had stood and his face was transfigured by the air of concentration with which he looked at Jake.  "So saith the lord.  Don't think to placate me with the token of your Mammon god.  Neither shall my fury be calmed with gifts to charity."  His voice rose to a thundering shout.  "This is not the sacrifice God wants."

         The man's biceps were as skinny as Jake's wrists, but he picked Jake up effortlessly, his hands tightly grasping Jake's shoulders.  Jake heard his suit jacket tear as he came off the ground, surrounded by the man's rank scent.  Yet he didn't struggle and responded in little more than a whisper.  "What's the sacrifice?  What do you want from me?"

         "God wants your life.  Your life."

         It surprised Jake how easy it was to break the man's grip, to just walk away from him.  His life?  It sounded almost tempting.  He wondered suddenly why he was so eager to make partner.  More money to spend on his stereo system that he was never home to listen to?  He shook his head and filled his lungs with the cool evening air, just slightly tainted with the automobile smell of midtown Manhattan.  These sorts of stupid doubts were the reason he usually worked late.  Once he made partner he'd work less.  He'd finally let his sister set him up with one of her social worker friends.  Jake looked back at the man, but he was sitting on the pavement once more, all fire gone. 

         He rode the subway home instead of taking the car service, eager simply to be around other people.  He wondered how his sister was doing.  She had called a week or two ago, but Jake had been too busy to call back.  Jake couldn't remember the last time he had seen her.  Not since she moved out to Brooklyn around New Year’s.

         He was thinking of her when he noticed the huge new mural painted on the wall of his station at 96^th Street.  In it, the Manhattan skyline was clearly visible beneath a rain of magma, loosely drawn into the shape of a fist.  Jake was scarcely surprised to read the caption.  "This is not the sacrifice God wants."  The artist's tag was clear in simple block letters below the picture. "The Prophet." 

         Jake walked straight home, stopping only to pick up a couple packages of pre-made sushi at the deli closest to his building.  He ate in front of his new digital television, barely tasting his food as he tried to focus on CNN.  They should have something about the case by now.

         Sure enough, at 9:38 there was a spot on Judge Harold Rawlings announcing that he was dismissing the case municipalities had brought against gun manufacturers.  At 9:41 Jake's cell phone rang.  Caller I.D. identified the caller as Marty, still at work.  Jake muted the television and picked up the phone. 

         "You see the spot on CNN?"  Marty said.

         "I sure did."

         "Congratulations, Jake.  You did good, really good."

         "Thanks, Marty."

         "The companies know who to thank.  They've designated some stock options specially for you."  Marty's voice lowered.  "Just between the two of us, I've talked it over with Herb and Allan.  If you keep up your record you're definitely up for partner within the next few months."

         "That's great, Marty.  I appreciate that."

         "You deserve it.  I'll see you tomorrow.  Just one more thing."  Jake's grip on the cell phone tightened, he wasn't sure why.  "Do you really think this is what God created the world for?  Stock options in a company that profits from death?  A high-rise apartment eleven floors above people dying of hunger?" 

         Jake looked at the receiver in disbelief.  The voice sounded like Marty, but the caller display showed no caller.  He really was going insane.

         He went to his window and looked out.  There was no one going hungry on the Upper East Side.  Jake could see a lone panhandler sitting on Lexington's sidewalk, but he certainly wasn't starving.  Behind him the T.V. spontaneously switched its volume back on.  The newscaster said angrily, "Shall he who has all judge the poor unworthy?"

         Jake shivered.  He would take a few days off.  Fly to Boca to see the folks.  And find a new psychiatrist.  He probably shouldn't have stopped with the last one.  Behind him the newscaster continued.  "You can't flee the Lord's challenges.  This is not the sacrifice God wants!"

         Far below him the panhandler got to his feet and shambled off.  Jake unplugged the television and the voice went silent.  But only for a moment.  When it resumed, it was speaking in his own voice through his own mouth.  Jake tried to clench his jaws but failed.  It felt like he was vomiting up the words—the uncontrollable need to open his mouth, the convulsive action of his stomach and throat.

         "THIS IS NOT THE SACRIFICE GOD WANTS," he thundered.  "THIS IS NOT THE SACRIFICE."  He found himself opening the window and sliding onto the windowsill.

         His next door neighbor, Florence, began to bang on the wall between their apartments, and he felt a distant feeling of relief that he wouldn't have to explain this to her.  All the same he managed to bring his voice to a more moderate volume.  "My creations, boys and girls younger than thirteen, will get guns due to your work.  Shoot each other and die, or go to jail for the rest of their lives."  A pause and then he whispered.  "I want your life."

         Jake put his legs out the window and leaned forward.  Eleven stories below a woman hurried home with her arms full of groceries.  He watched her walk past as he inched his bottom further onto the window ledge.  Another millimeter and he would slide off.  He closed his eyes and the voice—his voice—screamed, "This is not the sacrifice I want!"  An immense wind forced his head back against the building. 

         The wind pinned him against the building, until suddenly, abruptly, he relaxed.  The instant he stopped struggling, the wind died and he was able to lean forward sufficient to bring himself inside.  He gingerly touched the back of his head and brought his hand away sticky with blood. 

         Jake no longer moved his lips, but he could still clearly hear the voice.  "I demand your life.  No false gifts of pride, of pain, of death.  These are no better than the smoke of burnt animals.  I want your life."

         At last the voice left, and Jake slumped to the carpet of his apartment.  He crawled into bed barely conscious and slept deeply, like a drowning man finally surrendering to the sea.

         He got to the office early the next morning.  Seven o'clock and Marty wasn't in yet.  Jake made one phone call, a pile of faxes and then watched the sun wash his office white.  He felt content and sleepy, avoided thinking about the voice.  His call was returned and Jake answered a few questions, made a lunch appointment. 

         At last Marty came in.  He immediately entered Jake's office, put a wrapped gift on his desk.  "This is the firm's thank you."

         "Thanks Marty."  Jake returned his smile for a split second and then looked at the partner seriously.  "I heard an interesting radio show yesterday.  Do you know what a prophet was in the Bible?" 

         Marty shrugged.  "Sure.  Like a fortune teller."

         "Not really."  Jake forced himself to meet Marty's eyes.  "More like a person possessed by God.  They didn't have any choice." 

         "That's interesting."  Marty's phone rang down the hallway and Marty looked towards his office.  "I should get that."  He cast Jake a quick puzzled look.  "You okay?"

         "I'm fine."  Jake said. 

         He picked up his brief case and walked out of the office as Marty hurried towards his ringing phone.  No doubt the firm would do its best to kill the story.  But Jake had faxed his testimonial to every major paper in the country.  One would carry it and then they all would have to.

         The firm's receptionist, Lauren, looked up as he walked towards the elevator.  "Leaving already, Mr. Singer?"  Her voice was soft and throaty, and for the first time he noticed her eyes were a beautiful dark brown. 

         "That's right."  The elevator doors opened just as Jake reached them, without him even glancing at the buttons.  From the other end of the office he thought he heard Marty shout his name.

         "Tell Marty I didn't want to do it," Jake said, stepping into the elevator.  "But it was the only sacrifice God would take."

         The elevator doors closed, and he was left with an image of Lauren, her mouth slightly parted about to ask a question.  As if he had the answer.

 

 

Copyright 2006, Adam Ferguson

Adam Ferguson writes from Pennsylvania where he makes his home.