Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Forty-One

"Sir, would you like to see a menu?"

Ryan Phillips IV shook his head no, slamming back the last of his whiskey and tapping the glass on his table. He did not know bar speak. Thus, he was not aware that the menu offer was the server's polite way to drop him a hint that he needed to slow down to a sipping pace.

The young opera singer, who until a few weeks prior had exuded the stink of success and confidence like testosterone, was not a habitual daytime or excessive drinker but found himself at a bar while the sun shone brightly outside for the second time since his personal business had been put on Front Street in the form of a competency hearing brought by his parents in Cook County Civil Court. He had drawn a line in the sand, daring them to challenge his right to make himself white. And they'd called his bluff.

Nearly two weeks into what amounted to a trial of his sanity, Phillips needed something to dull the humiliation of being mentally and emotionally dissected in front of two hundred people, most of them strangers, five days per week. McGillycuddy's was one of only two taverns he knew that was open just about twenty-four hours a day. And he'd already been caught by his attorneys at the other one.

"You know you should take the lady up on her offer. You ain't in no condition for a courtroom, son."

The voice came from a neighboring booth. Even at noon on a sunny day, Phillips had to squint to see the speaker, an elderly black man in a light blue Super-100s wool blend suit. He wore a matching fedora, yellow shirt and perfectly knotted blue and yellow-striped necktie. He was a dandy in the classic sense of the word and had an air about him that would have been appreciated by the world's great majordomos. In another life, he and Bertie Wooster probably would have been great friends.

He waved gently at Phillips, motioning for him to come over.

Phillips, though a grown man, was also an adherent of the "stranger danger" philosophy and normally would have taken such an invitation as a sign that he needed to move further away. But he pushed back against his fear and slid into the man's booth, opening his mouth to introduce himself as he sat. But his host was quicker on the draw.

"K'waisi Harambe. And you are Ryan Phillips IV. I know who you are, young man."

Phillips tentatively shook the hand that Harambe offered, and said nothing.

Only the waitress's return broke the awkward silence, as the two men studied each other – Phillips unable to change his puzzled look, Harambe as even as a professional poker player.

"Um, what all do you know, Mr. Harambe?"

It wasn't an unfair question for Phillips to ask. Clearly, Harambe wanted to talk, and if he knew Phillips' identity, then he must have known about the courtroom shenanigans.

"I know that you have a voice from the gods. But I have a better question for you, young man. What do you know about me?"

He could guess, but guessing had gotten Phillips in trouble lately. So, he said nothing and shrugged, as the waitress returned with two Bloody Mary cocktails. It wasn't something that would get Phillips sober, but munching on the drink's giant pickles, thick-cut bacon slices, and celery sticks at least gave him a distraction as he sat back and listened to as strange a story as he'd ever heard...other than his own.

###

At twelve-eighteen p.m., from her perch in Branch Thirty-Two, Judge Fogg informed her clerk, court officers, and attorneys for both parties of her plans: If Phillips was not back in court by one-fifteen, she would issue a bench warrant to have him forcibly taken into custody and committed for a seventy-two-hour psychiatric hold and examination. It would be a controversial move, as the involuntary hold is a gesture typically reserved for criminal defendants, not non-violent civil litigants, but also because it would effectively end the case of Phillips vs. the World.

So, it was with great relief to all aware of what would happen, that at one-twelve, Phillips strode into the courtroom, a little glassy-eyed, but otherwise no worse for the wear. If anything, it seemed his back was straighter and head higher than either had been since the first day of the hearing. Anyone within a few feet of him might have realized that what seemed to be glassy, tired eyes, were actually steely and determined.

But it wasn't Phillips' presence that had the courtroom in shock. It was the sharply dressed older gentleman who gingerly took a seat on the witness stand in a powder blue suit, yellow shirt, and perfectly matching yellow- and blue-striped diagonal necktie, with a perfectly dimpled double-Windsor knot. His silken gray hair lay smooth against his skull. A tiny pale green carnation adorned his left lapel. And on his lap rested a fedora that would have made the Rat Pack proud.

Attorneys for both sides had protested when Phillips told his team that K'waisi Harambe was to be his next witness and that he intended to end this hearing today as his own last witness.

Phillips' lawyers argued to the judge that he didn't know any better and wasn't in any position to alter his – really, their – courtroom strategy. His parents' lawyers, for their own self-centered reasons, argued the same. They simply weren't prepared to consider a different approach from Phillips' team. And while, in the real world, the response to such complaints is typically "tough luck!" the American legal system actually requires opposing sides in a formal legal proceeding to give reasonable advance notice of case theories.

There are exceptions, though – like when one side or the other can argue with a straight face that they had no intention of suddenly altering their theory or strategy and that whatever new opportunity presented itself had arisen suddenly and without warning. Even then, it's within a judge's right to delay proceedings for an hour, a day, or days, if she wants...or not at all.

Fortunately, after Phillips convinced his team that his threat to protest by refusing to assist in his defense was serious, his team convinced Judge Fogg that there was no way they could have seen the old man in the blue suit coming.

Considering that it could make for bad public relations, Phillips' parents and their legal team decided not to press their objection to the new witness either. To do so could make it look like they had something to hide and wanted to beat their son on an uneven playing field.

And that's how, after a thirty-minute recess that saw both legal teams scrambling for conference rooms, Harambe found himself with his right hand raised and his left hand resting on his lap because on principle, he refused to swear on the Bible or any other religious text. Still, he promised to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

No one spoke. It seemed as though no one breathed. Might some in the gallery have known Harambe? 

Finally, "Sir, could you please tell the court your name, and for the record, spell it?"

He smiled.

"My name is K'waisi Harambe. K, apostrophe, W, A, I, S, I – H, A, R, A, M, B, E. That final syllable is pronounced 'A' like hay."

"And who are you, Mr. Harambe?"

A nervous giggle disturbed the air, as the slight, elderly man looked both perplexed and amused at the question.

"I told you, I am K'waisi..."

"No," Phillips' lead attorney interrupted. "I mean, 'Who are you?' Some of us here today live in this community – the Greater Chicago Metropolitan Area, Chicagoland. But most of us will one day go to our graves relatively unknown. That won't happen to you. You are a known commodity here. As immodest as it may seem, would you mind telling the court how and why it is that you are well known?"

Harambe took a deep breath, took in his captive audience, and with a resigned sigh –or maybe it was barely suppressed excitement– began to speak.