Part 18 (1/2)

Chapter 12.

Padre's Marfa on West El Paso Street across from the G.o.dbold Feed Store had once been the place to die for in Marfa. It used to be a funeral home. It was now a restaurant/bar/live music venue. Outside, the white adobe gave it the appearance of an old Spanish mission; inside, the wood bar and neon signs gave it the appearance of an old Texas honky-tonk. Book fully expected his intern to break out latex gloves, but she apparently satisfied her sanitary concerns by wiping down the entire table and then her gla.s.s, utensils, and chair. They sat at a table along the wall opposite the bar; Sean Lennon sang onstage.

'He's John Lennon's son.'

'Who's that?'

'Ms. Honeywell, please tell me you're not serious.'

Her innocent expression.

'What?'

'John Lennon? The Beatles?'

'Wait, don't tell me. He's dead.'

'He is, shot by an insane fan in nineteen eighty.'

'I wasn't born until nineteen eighty-nine.'

'Still, you haven't heard of Rock Hudson, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Donald Judd, Andy Warhol, or John Lennon?'

'If it's not on Twitter, I don't need to know it. And, Professor, I can name a dozen people everyone my age knows but you've never heard of.'

'True enough, Ms. Honeywell. But what about the events of the day? What's happening in China, North Korea, the Middle East ... or the east and west coasts of America?'

'I especially don't want to know that stuff.'

'Why not?'

'Because it's all bad stuff. Last time I watched the news on TV, I had to get a prescription for an antidepressant. A ma.s.s murder at an elementary school ... politicians pus.h.i.+ng the country over a fiscal cliff ... suburban stay-at-home moms reading p.o.r.n, which really creeped me out, by the way. Who wants to know that stuff? My generation turned off the TV, Professor.'

'Willful ignorance.'

'Willful ignorance' is a legal term, also known as 'conscious indifference,' for intentionally not knowing some fact, typically CEOs intentionally avoiding knowledge that their companies' subcontractors produce their apparel in Asian sweatshops or that nicotine is addictive, thus allowing the CEOs to testify under oath, 'I didn't know,' when in fact the correct response was, 'I didn't want to know.'

'Exactly,' his intern said. 'We live our lives that way. It's safer.'

Book gestured at her hand sanitizer. 'You sanitize your hands and yourself from all the bad things in life.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'You're not experiencing the world you live in.'

'It's your world. Not ours. Your generation screwed it up. Not us.'

'You could change the world. Make it a better place.'

She appeared bemused. 'Please, Professor.'

'You're a law student.'

'I'm in law school because I possess the two attributes required to gain admission to the finest law schools in the country: A, I'm book smart, which allowed me to score high on the LSAT'-the Law School Admissions Test-'and B, my daddy can pay the tuition. Anyone with those two attributes can get into any law school today. You don't have to know what's happening in the world ... or care.'

She was right. And a typical law student. A few students like Ms. Garza and perhaps Mr. Stanton seemed engaged in the world outside the law school, but only a few. Most were singularly focused on grades: those in the top ten percent of their cla.s.s would have jobs upon graduation; those who were not would not. So they had no desire or time to keep up with current events. They did not watch the news or read newspapers. They read casebooks. Torts. Contracts. Property. Civil Procedure. Criminal Procedure. Con Law. For three years, the study of law const.i.tuted life.

'Well, John Lennon was a musician, singer, and songwriter, one of the best ever.'

'If you say so.'

They had first tried the outdoor patio with Christmas lights strung overhead and gravel underfoot and Willie Nelson on the jukebox, but the tables were taken by artists on iPads and hippies past their prime and a young woman who looked out of place in a glittery red c.o.c.ktail dress; her black cowboy boots said she was making a fas.h.i.+on statement. A pit bull wearing a red bandanna lounged beneath her long crossed legs; a metal sculpture of a sombrero-clad mariachi stood behind her. The dance floor and adjacent game room with pool tables, shuffleboard, and foosball were crowded with young women in short-shorts and young men in jeans and boots and T-s.h.i.+rts. Of course, Book also wore jeans, boots, and a T-s.h.i.+rt. But he was a skinny law professor; they were thick-bodied roughnecks who worked the fracking rigs. Some wore red jumpsuits with Barnett Oil and Gas stenciled across the back. Their waitress was an artist; waiting tables was her night job. Book had ordered the tuna melt on sourdough, a cold pickle, and iced tea. Nadine went for chips and queso, frito pie with cheese and onions, chili cheese fries, a chocolate soda, and a moon pie. Book circled Becky Oakes's face in the funeral photo then consulted his pocket notebook.

'What did we learn today, Ms. Honeywell?'

'Are we going to have a pop quiz every night, Professor?'

'We are indeed.'

She exhaled dramatically.

'A, Tom Dunn is a creep.'

'Agreed. What else?'

'B, either he's a liar or Nathan Jones was a liar.'

'Nathan said he showed his proof to Dunn, but Dunn denied it.'

'My money's on Dunn. He's the liar.'

'Agreed.'

'We talked to the sheriff, Nathan's senior partner, and his secretary, but we uncovered no proof of contamination or evidence of murder. All we have is coincidence.'

'Nathan's wife seemed convinced that he was murdered.'

'She's emotional about his death. Which is to be expected. But we can't be. What did you always say in cla.s.s? ”We're lawyers. We must keep our heads while everyone around us is losing theirs.”'

'You took my cla.s.s?'

'Last year.'

'At least you listened.'

'Can I eat my moon pie now?'