Gods Go Begging by Alfredo Vea

walls, were lumps of clay now -senseless, dumb and cold.
    “I don’t think the prosecutor will ask for the death penalty. Aside from stealing Twinkies and Kool-Aid from the corner store, the kid has absolutely no prior convictions. He’s never been arrested. Jesus, he sure as hell started right at the top. A real child prodigy. Why the hell couldn’t he have gone the traditional route? Start out by stealing tires and move up to an entire car? The DA might go for LWOP though,” said Jesse, referring to a life sentence without any possibility of parole.
    “I have to go up and visit Calvin tonight. I promised his mother. God”—he exhaled deeply—“I’m not really sure that I have the energy for another life makeover!”
    Everyone at the table understood what Jesse meant by the phrase “life makeover.” It referred to the agonizing, time-consuming process that he had developed over the years to prepare all his clients for the rigors of the courtroom and for the frightening possibility that a semiliterate, bookless, wordless, and thoughtless young man who was accused of premeditated murder would have to take the stand and explain himself to twelve people—twelve white people who would never deign to set foot in his world, who would clean their shoes if they ever did. Twelve people who would swear an oath to judge Calvin fairly, without preconceptions or prejudice, but who would also lock their car doors if they noticed him walking nearby.
    “But that’s not the worst part,” he said. “I have to go visit the supreme being, too.”
    “Oh shit!” moaned Newton. “I was wondering who had that idiot’s case. Oh Jesus, Jesse, you’ve got my sympathy! Make sure you bring up some Handi Wipes and a bottle of spray disinfectant! That dude is bad news.”
    “Not to mention breath mints,” smiled Jesse. “It seems that the price of racial supremacy is a set of really bad teeth. I’m bringing up more than Handi Wipes. I’m bringing up alcohol swabs and a battery of IQ tests, graded, stamped and sealed by Dr. Wooden.” Jesse looked at his watch. “In fact, I’m meeting the doctor and my investigator up on the seventh floor in just about ten minutes.”
    “The IQ tests again.” Newton laughed.
    “Yeah,” answered Jesse. “Normally I have to pull this arrow from my quiver once every two or three years. Lately it seems like I’ve been doing it once a month. It’s like I said before, stupidity is its own best defense.”
    “I’m surprised the supreme being would ever agree to it,” said Matt, whose distaste for the man was obvious.
    “I goaded him into it,” said Jesse. “Actually, it was quite easy to do. Besides, this test was fun. My guess is that Dr. Wooden pulls the questions from one of those trivia games or from his history books. Who was Berengaria of Navarre? Name the sons of Eleanor of Aqui tane. What was the Counter-Reformation? Now that I think of it, this is the second time this year I’ve had to do it. I swear, I almost died laughing when I got to the question that asked us to list the twelve tribes of Israel.”
    “Hell, I couldn’t answer that question,” exclaimed Freya Horne. “Could you?”
    “Of course.” Jesse laughed and winked at her. “Even the least-educated Mexican peasant can answer those questions! But you should’ve seen sweet mr. supreme when he got to that question. I thought he was going to explode in the interview room. The veins on his red neck were just about to burst and all of his tattoos were stretching. But the question after that one was even worse. ‘Name three jazz musicians who rose to prominence during the Harlem Renaissance.’ The supreme being almost shit in his Christian Identity pants. When we got to the questions about syncopated rhythms, Red Garland’s right-hand technique and cigar-cutter saxophones, he smashed his pencil lead on the paper. It’s taken some time, but I think I have my relationship with the supreme being all worked