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Volume 24, Numbers 3 & 4 (2000) reprinted by permission Legal Studies Forum OUTLAW(S) KATE NACE DAY * Blue At the corner of West 35th Street and Fifth Avenue, a young woman in a soft lavender dress bent to pick up a toddler, who had sat herself down to play on the warm sidewalk. The little girl squirmed, dirty fingers pushing against the tight grasp. But, the young woman lifted the toddler, whispered, “No,” and with a swing of her hip, turned both their faces to the sun. The young woman pointed to the sky. “Blue,” she instructed. “The sky is blue.” The little girl strained and cried. All she wanted was the colors stirring in the pavement light, now, out of her reach. Jack Williams stood behind his desk. He was tall, taller than she’d expected. Almost handsome, leaning a bit into his desk. His dark, linen jacket still buttoned. His right hand on a coffee mug. A pack of cigarettes and a copy of her manuscript beside. A younger man, standing to Williams’ right, extended his hand, quietly introduced the young woman in black seated to his left and offered his own name. He was the associate editor, a friend of one of her former students from the law school where Claire taught writing. All the calls had come from him, first the commission, then the message on her machine. Telling her it was wonderful, every word, come to New York. Jack Williams looked up and nodded briefly in Claire’s direction. He offered no introduction, no hand in a gesture of welcome. His lips tightened, his cheeks moved. That was his smile. Claire noticed his side tooth was crooked. “So, you’re Outlaw(s).” “Well, yes,” she responded, wondering if this was a habit, calling writers by their writings–the thought itself a confession, that she liked being thought of as a writer– “. . . that’s the title of my article. Outlaw(s).” Jack Williams took her manuscript in his left hand. He waved the pages in the air. Claire heard them rattle. “Dead.” Claire stared back blankly. “Dead,” Williams said again. Claire turned to the associate, who looked away, his eyes to the floor. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Williams went on. “This language is dead. The structure. Footnotes hanging. All these quotations. Dead language. What am I supposed to do?” Claire was still standing. She straightened. “That’s legal writing,” she responded. “It was my understanding that you wanted a legal theory piece on outlaws. That’s the form and structure in my discipline. I thought you understood that. The analytical model requires that you frame the issue–the question, that is–then . . .” “How is this about outlaws?” Williams interrupted, “. . . about pop culture? Pop culture is irreverent. Inexplicable. It feels no need to justify itself.” Pause. “This is static, too clean.” “Well, you need to articulate the rules that govern. Sometimes–as here–the rule has a history. Outlawry was a process in English common law, and early American law, as well, where criminal defendants were declared civilly dead. The history . . .” “That’s an academic approach–‘Civilly dead.’ History’s dead. Don’t lawyers understand that? Lawyers must be the only people left who care about the past. Everything is surface. Transitory. Maybe it sounds shallow, commercial, but the most complex thing our readers care about is the President’s zippo. And even that . . .” The associate cleared his throat. “Legal rules have a history. You can’t . . .” “Dead. History . . . God . . . Humanism. Every generation has its victims. Ask the artists. Andy Warhol. Go to Pittsburgh, take a left on Sandusky and you’ll see a museum, a shrine, only remnants. The only thing left of Pop Art is the pop. And the pop is here.” Williams sighed, lifted her manuscript, and began reading aloud. Claire recognized the passage–a statement of her theory. Williams finished. He dropped the manuscript onto his desk and sat down. “You need some pop in this. These words say nothing.” There was silence. The woman in black spoke. “She’s saying that law creates outlaws. There are no natural outlaws. There must be rules, rules that are violated.” Claire, again, joined in. “It’s important you understand the idea, the theory that there are many kinds of outlaws. The criminal, for example. He breaks the law–he’s an outlaw. Very straightforward. But, there are other kinds of outlaw. The legendary outlaw. He’s not perceived as a thug. He’s the hero. The lone male riding across the plains. Shrouded in mystery. He’s outside the law because the law has failed the people. Robin Hood. Outlaw Josie Wales. He’s part fact, part fiction. He’s fantasy. The law plays a role in the construction of this outlaw as well.” Williams shrugged, then lit a cigarette. Claire breathed in the flash of sulphur and nicotine, the first sweet burn. She wanted to go on, to meet the arguments head on. But, the word “dead” had begun to tire her. Claire eyed the empty chair and sat. She stared at the white curl of smoke from the cigarette. She felt the conversation begin again around her. “But she says there are no black outlaws.” “I think it’s very subversive, here, what she’s doing. Law plays a role in our understanding of race. Law embodies constructions of race . . .” Claire heard it all, feeling removed. She watched the cigarette smoke curl, disperse. The smoke reminded her of her father. His last, subdued years. Out on Sea Dog. The cigarette at the end of the boat ride. She remembered her father’s friends, standing at the back of the funeral parlor, a wall of khakis and green work clothes and ill-fitting jackets. And Mac, younger than the rest, still older than Claire, and the pack of cigarettes–red box Marlboros–in his shirt pocket, as she leaned against him. She almost laughed. Maybe the word “dead” was a gift, a rescue. Claire heard Jack Williams’s voice. “But there are plenty of black criminals.” “Yes, but there are no black outlaw legends,” Claire countered. “We don’t let them become heroes. That was Paul Simon’s Capeman. We don’t want anyone celebrating people of color who break the law.” “We don’t celebrate murderers.” “We do. You know we cheer Dirty Harry. When Eastwood kills the hippie or the black man. He’s a hero because he’s white and straight and male and he’s winning over these other constructions–race, gender, class. Deviance. Law’s playing its role there.” There were a few minutes of silence. The associate and the woman in black waited for Williams. He stamped out the cigarette, sat back in his chair, and looked down at the manuscript. Claire felt her eyelids blinking, her unpolished nails. She was suddenly sure that she had lost the commission. “I’m not sure it works. I like this queer theory bit. And the french feminist theory and the body. I like that. There’s something sensual, messy, artistic. As to the theory, the argument, I’m sure there’s a lot of validity there, but there’s no vitality. Maybe you need to focus in a different way. Focus on one outlaw. Have one outlaw in your mind. The Unabomber, perhaps. Then you can move off . . .” The curl of oblique talk began again. “Her point is that there are many kinds of outlaws. Some people belong to groups that have been outlawed.” “Do you need them all?” “She’s being more subversive. Too many outlaws, not just one.” “Is that why she’s got the “s” in parenthesis?” “Some of the writing’s vivid. Very vivid.” The afternoon sun, reflected in the window across the street, cast a shadow across Williams’ chair. Claire watched as he leaned back into the shadow. “Listen. You’re articulate. Put it in your own words. With some pop. Then bring it back. You still have the job. I’m told you don’t teach in the summer. So . . . around the first week of September.” Claire stared at Williams. He stared back. It was all non-sequiturs. “First week of September,” she repeated. Williams showed his crooked tooth, lit another cigarette. “I’m excited.” The woman in black murmured, passed her notes on the manuscript to Claire, and left. The associate stood, waiting for Claire. She wanted to ask Williams for his copy of her manuscript, for his margin notes. There were questions she should ask. But the associate ushered her out. The door to Jack Williams’ office closed. She felt her face flush. As she reached the elevator bank, she remembered a question, turned to the associate. “What does the magazine’s name mean? Zed?” “Jack. He’s got this thing for old sports cars. I guess he was rather taken with the myths surrounding Colin Chapman and why he called his car Lotus.” The elevator arrived. “I’m sorry,” he continued, his eyes averted, his head nodding back in the direction of Williams’ office. “I didn’t know . . .” “Zed?” Claire repeated, as the elevator door opened. “Oh, I don’t think it means anything, really. One of the staff writers says its about Jack’s little girl, Marie.” “A baby?” It was all non-sequiturs. “She’s here in the office sometimes. Marie had this Irish nanny last year. The story is that Zed’s the way the nanny pronounced the letter in the alphabet. It’s not even a word. Just a sound.” The noises from the street contend with the organ music. In the garden, lilacs–whites and sky blue in full bloom, pink-purples and deep purples–stretching, lifted toward the gothic pinnacles and towers of the church, to the glimpse of the Empire State Building and the shiny, modernist city soaring behind. Lose Claire. Long-legged and young, pass through the blessing gate, enter the close. Steal a flower, pluck it. Just one sweet sky-blue lilac cluster. The music ends. The light turns glassy. Intoxicated, a drunken thief in the garden, in the white light. * Professor of Law, Suffolk University Law School. To the people who believed in this story–Marie Ashe, William Corbett, James Elkins, Russell G. Murphy, Michael Richmond, and Joy Williams–thank you. |
