Concert of Ghosts Read Online Free Page A

asked.
    Tennant stood up. “My lawyer hasn’t arrived yet.”
    The judge frowned. “And who exactly is your lawyer, Mr. Tennant?”
    â€œFrank Rozak.”
    â€œRozak?” the judge asked. He looked at the prosecutor. “Is Frank Rozak known to you, Mr. Kant?”
    Kant shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”
    The judge turned his attention to Tennant. “In what circumstances did you appoint this man?”
    â€œHe came to my cell earlier this morning.”
    â€œAnd he offered to take your case?”
    â€œHe did.”
    The judge was silent for a time. “Is he a local man? Somebody from another town? An import?”
    Tennant, who kept glancing at the door, said, “He told me he lives here.”
    â€œPeculiar,” said the judge. “I know every lawyer in this town, Mr. Tennant, and I’ve never heard of one called Rozak.”
    Tennant thought: They’ll clear this up in a moment. They’ll see a mistake has been made. Why wasn’t Rozak breezing into court right now, apologizing for being late? Did I imagine the man? No, Rozak had been real, all the way from the pain-swollen hands to the big open smile to the supreme air of confidence.
    â€œIs it possible you got the name wrong?” the judge asked.
    â€œIt’s possible, I guess.”
    The judge looked at his watch, tapped his fingers. “Did he give you a card? A phone number?”
    Tennant shook his head. “He said he was called Frank Rozak. I didn’t ask for ID, he never offered any.”
    Stakowski spoke quietly to one of the uniformed cops. Tennant couldn’t hear what was being said. The judge, dismissing the cop, stared curiously at Tennant.
    â€œIt seems there’s no record of anyone visiting you in your cell, Mr. Tennant. A visitor would have been logged. There’s no such entry.”
    In a dry voice, Tennant said, “Obviously there’s been some kind of … oversight.”
    â€œOr some kind of mischief,” said the judge.
    â€œMischief?”
    Stakowski ignored Tennant’s question. “In the circumstances, which I find somewhat odd, the court will appoint an attorney on your behalf. At least until your Mr. Rozak decides to show himself.”
    Bewildered, panicked, Tennant heard himself try to explain that Rozak was simply delayed, he’d turn up any moment, it was just a matter of time, but the legal proceedings, like a circus performed solely for the benefit of the clowns and acrobats themselves, went on as if he’d ceased to exist. A small bald man in a brown suit, a certain Harcourt McKay, was produced from among the spectators and appointed Tennant’s attorney of record. Much conferring went on around the judge’s bench between McKay, Kant, and Stakowski, three men who whispered in the manner of conspirators. Tennant, deflated, disappointed, puzzled, sat down. Rozak had vanished. But the show had to go on.
    As if he were listening to words being ferried toward him by a frail breeze, Tennant heard bail being discussed. Figures were bandied around. He had the impression he was in some kind of auction room. A hammer would come down when agreement was reached. The house and land were acceptable collateral for bail, although Kant, plagued by the peculiar syntax of a man who can’t see the end of any sentence he begins, grumbled about the accused’s reliability. Mumble mumble. Drugs. Mutter mutter. Serious business. McKay, who had a pompous delivery, claimed he needed time to study his client’s case and the nature of the charges.
    Judge Stakowski, seemingly weary of a business that had upset the smooth running of his court, and unwilling to perplex himself further over the mystery of Frank Rozak, set trial for a date six weeks hence. Tennant was enjoined to remain at his present place of residence and appear on the appointed day and time. In the meanwhile he was not permitted to leave the state, and if he