Chapter 24

The trap had been set for Mrs. Robinson, she who was among the faceless and the numberless. Had she lived in that faraway country, Mrs. Robinson would have been forced to flee with the refugees of her village before the invading barbaric hordes. As luck would have it, Mrs. Robinson lived in the United States of America, the Great Machine, where her grandson had been caught by the police with a handful of unregistered guns in her car. So the gears ground as the great engine of government targeted Mrs. Robinson by instituting proceedings to take legal possession of her impounded vehicle.

As I opened the case file that had been placed on my desk, the gleaming teeth of the trap spread before me: the assigned police investigator had concluded that Mrs. Robinson was not an innocent owner of the vehicle, which would have removed the car from the reach of the civil forfeiture proceedings. Mrs. Robinson wasn't innocent, the investigator would insist on the stand, because she was merely a straw purchaser - the vehicle had tinted windows that were too dark for Mrs. Robinson to use. Thus, the car was really the property of her reckless grandson. And with that, the arresting police officer would testify on the stand that he had caught the grandson and four other boys in the car with four unregistered - and loaded - handguns (after a lawful traffic stop, of course). The judge would virtually decide on the spot that I had won my case and that Mrs. Robinson would have to get herself a new car.

Only reality turned out differently. I telephoned Mrs. Robinson one evening. Age was in her voice, the age of spent autumn leaves blowing in a winter breeze. She had indeed purchased the vehicle but she let her grandson use it, who would run errands for her. Sometimes he would go to "other places." But she used her vehicle to get to her place of work, a day care center, and to her evening classes where she was continuing her studies in childcare. I asked her how she got to all these places now that her vehicle had been impounded for a few months. "It has been hard," she replied.

And with those words, Mrs. Robinson brought down The Age of Detachment, which crumbled all around me like the walls that Fortress America was constructing to reject the faceless and the numberless.

It did not take long for me to notice that the courtroom I entered was about the same size as the nightclub. My mind had done a splendid job of conversion. Sitting in the jury box, compressed as only Ideas can be, were the faceless and the numberless: the Mexicans with their scarred hands; the disenfranchised poor and elderly with no official identification; the black homeowners facing eviction; American children poisoned by toxic lead toys; the child soldiers of Liberia; innocent and dead Palestinians; and the discharged Marines gripped by PTSD.

I faced a panel of three judges, who I suspected were the masters of history, although one of their blurred faces reminded me of my father. Plainly I stated in my opening argument the theory of the case so no one would suspect my strategy. I called my first witness, the police officer, who performed as anticipated and described the grandson, his little friends, and the handful of weapons he found on them. Then I called the star witness, the investigator, and proceeded to destroy his credibility. He had to admit that, although the vehicle's windows were tinted, he did not in fact know how dark they were. He had not seen the actual vehicle but had relied on another police report - inadmissible hearsay. He hadn't verified if Mrs. Robinson was truthful about her employment and her schooling. Then I completed the sabotaging of my own case during closing argument by urging that the judges exempt Mrs. Robinson's vehicle from seizure by the city.

There was pandemonium in the courtroom. The authorities threatened arrest for treason. The masters of history restored order long enough for me to take the witness stand in my own defense. My duty, I argued, was to the truth. It was for me to target the insistent rot that had a hold of the Great Machine, slowly rusting its gears until we the members of our society began to forget our relationship to one another and the various duties that we owed to each other, and particularly to the faceless and the numberless. It was the Great Machine who had failed many like Mrs. Robinson's grandson and like Moonface. Since I witnessed the truth, I had to tell it. No witness to history can remain detached. All witnessing is an act of participation within the Great Machine. Therefore, as far as I could manage, I would strive to be an agent of cleansing.

Back at the office, I rejected the police investigator's recommendations and declined to prosecute Mrs. Robinson. We met in my office, Mrs. Robinson and her old husband, to sign the settlement agreement that would instruct the police department to return the vehicle. Though tired, Mrs. Robinson smiled and thanked me in that quiet way that can move mountains and restore life to those who had been walking too long in sadness.

When the Robinsons left, it occurred to me that I could not recall the last time I had seen the man in the mirror with his sad eyes of experience, nor heard the whispers of the sadness that liked to linger in the corners of my apartment.