Read Touch (1987) for Free Online Page A

lawyer trying to prove something, another blond girl recording the cases, and a two-hour line--while August Murray waited his turn--of black prostitutes, black shoplifters, black guys who beat up their common-law wives, black people charged with larceny under a hundred dollars, assault and battery, indecent exposure--maybe there were a few white people. Judge Kinsella was swarthy turning gray, supposedly white. The assistant prosecutor under all the hair looked like some kind of hybrid. Black voices--a girl saying, "I'm already doing sixteen to two out to the House." Sullen or half asleep, very few of the voices addressed the court as "Your Honor" or had much to offer in their defense. The voices made sounds. August Murray--waiting through all that, until the court clerk called file number 7753047 and his name--would have a few things to say.
    He stood at the microphone facing the clerk's counter and the judge's bench and waited another five minutes, at least, staring at the judge, trying to get his eye. The judge was talking to a black policewoman, signing a paper, having her swear to something with her hand raised. A black lawyer was leaning on the counter talking to the clerk now. The police sergeant next to the clerk said, "You people back there, take a seat."
    Murray wanted to look around, but kept staring at the judge, waiting for the judge to look up and notice all the young white men in the courtroom, twenty of them among the black relatives of the defendants, all wearing light gray armbands and six of them carrying cardboard signs, turned in, they would hold up at the right time. August Murray wore a long-sleeved brown sport shirt, a white T-shirt showing beneath the open collar. He carried a silver pen and pencil set and two Magic Markers, a red one and a blue one, clipped to his shirt pocket. Around his left bicep was the armband of the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost, a soaring white dove appliqued on a field of light gray felt. He kept waiting for the judge to notice his armband and become aware of all the other armbands in the courtroom.
    But when the judge did look up he didn't seem to notice.
    August Murray stood at parade rest, his brown crepe-soled shoes exactly eighteen inches apart, right hand holding his left wrist behind his back. He would maintain this stance throughout the proceeding.
    The court clerk said, "Mr. Murray, you're charged with assault and battery--" He looked down at the counter again and said something to the police sergeant next to him. Their heads remained together looking down at the file, the clerk turning a page and turning it back again.
    August Murray, staring at the clerk now, was sure they were doing it on purpose. He said to the clerk in his mind, Look at me. Look at me.
    Dark hair in place, combed straight back; no sideburns or excess hair on his face. Clean. Serious. Not about to take any second-class treatment or be shuffled, pushed aside. The clerk would know immediately when he looked at him--
    "Albert--Father Albert Navaroli," the clerk said. "Is Father Navaroli in the courtroom?"
    He was here. Murray had seen the little guinea priest in the hall. The hippie guinea priest and another priest.
    The police sergeant held up his hand. "Come up here please, Father."
    Please, Father-- The cop had said to Murray, "Stand right there." Judged before a word was said, who was right and who was wrong. Nothing had changed at the Hall of in-Justice.
    The clerk said to Murray, "Are you represented by counsel?"
    Murray said, "I represent myself."
    Then a conference between the clerk and the judge before the clerk sat down again and the young assistant prosecutor with his hair touching his suit coat said to the hippie, curly-haired street priest, "Father Navaroli, would you tell us what happened, please?"
    Murray glanced at the priest then. He was shorter than August Murray's five seven and a half, even with all his curly hair. The priest was wearing a black suit with a Roman collar. At his mass