“It’s agreed?” Harriet says. “You’ll help your father?”
So my mother is offering yet another version of my family history—the truth, finally?—and a chance to be near Lovely Diamond again. I crave both of those things. But at the moment, there’s something else I want even more, and that’s a chance to get to know my father.
“If Holzner turns himself in, which I can’t believe he’ll really do, I’ll take on the case.”
She actually smiles, which she rarely does, at least around me. The smile fades as abruptly as it appears. She reaches across the table, picks up the photo, and puts it back in the envelope. “You have to get to the jail. Ian is surrendering to the FBI as we speak. He needs you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I fear that the news media will already have picked up on Holzner’s surrender before I get to the Metropolitan Detention Center, the fancy name for the jail that houses federal inmates. But when I arrive, the building’s entrance is clear. As I walk toward security, I hear a clacking of heels on linoleum. Lovely Diamond moves across the room with the determined walk of someone who’s displeased and looking for someone to blame. She’s wearing a white cotton blouse and black pants. Her blonde hair is pulled back behind her ears, and she wears only a bit of lipstick and eyeliner. No matter how plain she tries to appear, no matter how hard she tries to flatten out her body’s curves, people stare at her when she walks into a room. It’s been more than a year since she broke up with me, and the acute pain has faded into an occasional unspecified ache I only later recognize as longing. Sometimes, I’ll sit outside on my balcony, let the soft Pacific breeze caress my face, and pretend that it’s Lovely who’s stroking my cheek.
“What the hell, Parker?” she says, in a tone so strident that she’s probably dashed my daydreams forever.
“Good to see you, too.”
“Lou ordered me down here. Why?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Why else would I ask you?”
I explain in a hushed tone that Holzner is accused of being the Playa Delta Bomber. She’s only thirty-one, so she’s never heard of him.
“This is going to be a cool case,” she says when I finish. She views the law and trial work as grand theater, just as I did before the stage fright hit and all my assumptions about the practice of law evaporated. Then I reveal that Holzner is my father.
She audibly gasps. “Omigod, Parker, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. It’s just a case.”
A jailer escorts us into the cramped attorney meeting room, which is painted in a shade of green the color of bread mold. Sitting on the other side of a conference table is Ian Holzner, already dressed in a loose-fitting khaki jumpsuit, standard issue for recent arrestees.
“We meet again, Parker,” he says. “Harriet said you’d take my case. I’m glad.” He regards us with a relaxed frown that somehow conveys amusement, not distress—odd for a fugitive who’s just been incarcerated after forty years on the run. He’s sitting with his legs crossed upon the chair and his hands folded on the table in prayer pose, making him look more like a guru in an ashram than an inmate in a jail lockup. I introduce him to Lovely.
Without waiting for us to ask a question, he says, “There are two reasons why I turned myself in. The first is that I’m pretty sure the feds were onto me, anyway. Or would be soon.”
“What made you think that?” I ask.
He tenses and then deflates, losing his Zen-like demeanor. “Because of Dylan. He’s . . . he was my son. Your half brother. Eight months ago, he was killed by a rocket-propelled grenade while on patrol in Afghanistan. My picture appeared in the local throwaway paper, and there were people from the military trying to contact me about death benefits. I think the government got suspicious about my identity. There were people asking questions of the neighbors, showing up at work.” He inhales deeply. “Dylan was a good boy, a good son.”
“Jesus,” I say, under my breath. A young man died needlessly, a father grieves, and I’m truly sorry about that. But I also envy my dead half brother because he wasn’t abandoned. You can’t reason emotion away. But a lawyer learns to hide it.
“Tell us your story,” I say. “All of it.”
He says that Martin Lansing was the name of a baby who was born and died on January 22, 1949, the same day he was born. One of the radical “underground railroads” forged the baby’s birth certificate and made a duplicate, which Holzner used to apply for a Social Security number. Holzner appropriated the name Martin Lansing and hid himself in the humdrum of anonymity. He spent years in tedious isolation, continually on the move and working at various low-level jobs. He often survived on a diet of dry cereal and boiled noodles seasoned with salt and garlic. It was an unremarkable existence except for the constant fear and paranoia. He ended up in Utah, working as a ski instructor, where he met his wife, Jenny, who knew nothing of his past. They kept moving, leading an itinerant life, but Jenny wanted to settle down and have children. He got a job in Orange County as an auto mechanic and has been there ever since. Jenny died in 2011 from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma.
“Tell me about Dylan,” Lovely says.
“That’s irrelevant,” I say.
“Everything’s relevant,” Lovely says.
“There’s no need to hear about this man’s son.”
“Dylan looks like . . . looked like you,” Holzner says.
“And that’s supposed to make me feel more like your son? I’m your lawyer and only that.” Maybe I’m not really interested in knowing my father. Maybe I’ve taken the case to ensure that the only thing between us is professional. No rational attorney would defend his parent in a murder case.
“Mr. Lansing, once you learned that you were suspected of the bombing, how did you elude the FBI?” I ask. “Who helped you?”
“I won’t answer that,” he says in a flat tone.
“Everything you tell us is privileged. Answer my question.”
“Doesn’t matter. There are people who could still be hurt, charged as accessories to murder. There’s no statute of limitations on that, right?”
“Rachel O’Brien, Charles Sedgwick, Belinda Hayes were the other principals in your collective. Can they exonerate you?”
“They wouldn’t help me.”
“At her trial, O’Brien said you assembled the bomb and planted it.”
“She lied.”
“Did she lie when she testified that you planted explosive devices in buildings where people were?”
He puffs up, sheds years, and now resembles the radical orator I saw on Wikipedia. “I’m not ashamed of what we did. We waged a just war against the government that even Martin Luther King called the greatest purveyor of violence in the world. Our collective was responsible for nine bombings of federal facilities and corporations in the western United States that supported American imperialism and oppression of the poor and minorities. No one was ever injured as a result of those operations. Not even a scratch. That was intentional. Other than the one that exploded at Playa Delta, I built every one of those bombs. I was good at it. My actions were noble. I don’t apologize for them. But I did not bomb the Playa Delta VA.”
How convenient that he admits only to the crimes for which the statute of limitations has expired.
“If you didn’t, then who did?” I ask.
“No idea.”
“So you want us to get you off on a legal technicality, right? COINTELPRO’s illegal activities? Who cares about the facts so long as the system failed you, huh? Or maybe you don’t want the truth to come out because you’re guilty of murder.”
Lovely starts to say something but catches herself.
“Grow up, Parker,” Holzner says. “So you had a tough childhood. How tough could it have really been? You were a pampered actor making millions and having a bunch of people cater to your every whim. And now you live in a million-dollar condo on the Silver Strand and work when you feel like it. Not such a bad life. Open your eyes and take a l
ook at people who’re really struggling.”
I study his face and see a past that never was, a rescuer who never came, and possibly a murderer.
“You said there was a second reason you were going to turn yourself in,” I say.
“Because of my past, because of my fear, when I became Martin Lansing I never discussed my true political beliefs with anyone, not even my family. I posed as a middle-of-the-roader, the apathetic workingman. I didn’t teach my son to question a government that fabricates justifications for senseless wars. I didn’t teach him to question a government that spies on its citizens.” Though the steel-tough quality to his voice remains, his eyes shine with moisture, but only that, as if he can control the amount of tears that will flow.
“I behaved like my Orange County neighbors would if their children had joined up,” he continues. “Flag-waving, patriotic. Anything to fit in, to make sure I didn’t blow my cover. When Dylan told me he was joining up, I said I was proud of him. I even boasted to people at the shop that my son was going to be an officer in the Marines. I talked about how when he got out he’d be a member of an exclusive club that spawns CEOs and successful politicians. I’d lived a lie so long, I forgot who I really was. The selfishness . . .” He grimaces in disgust. “Because I was a coward, because I ran from Ian Holzner, I killed my own son. So, I am a murderer of sorts, just not the kind you think. And now it’s time to atone.”
We’re quiet for a long time.
“There’s something else, Parker,” he says. “You have a sister. Her name’s Emily. She’s seventeen. A senior in high school. By doing this, I’ve essentially made her an orphan. Unless you can get me off.”
Lovely places her hand on my forearm. “Where’s Emily now?” she says.
“She’s with my boss . . . my ex-boss now, Ernesto. He’s family, her godfather. He takes that stuff seriously.”
“You say you’re doing this for Dylan, but what about your daughter?” I say. “She’s alive and she needs a father and yet you voluntarily put yourself in this place. You’ll probably never be free again. How could you do that to her?”
“Her name is Emily,” he repeats. “And she’s your sister. You can denounce me all you want, can deny Dylan, because what does it matter, but Emily has nothing to do with this. She’s your blood relative. And she can’t stay with Ernesto forever.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“He’s a good guy, but he’s having some problems at home, so she can’t stay there permanently. I want you to make sure she’s okay, Parker. She’s a good kid, but all teenagers struggle, and now she’s got this to deal with. There’s no other family.”
“Why can’t your brother, Jerry, watch over her?” I ask.
“Jerry’s from the past. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”
“I’m from the past, too,” I say. “More accurately, the never-was.”
“Well, now you’re very much my present.”
The only person I’ve ever had to take care of was my mother, and that was when I was a child. When Lovely and I were together, I protected her, but she’s a person who looks after herself. Mostly, I’ve been alone, satisfied with drinking good coffee and reading good biographies and trying interesting cases.
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I say.
“We don’t sign up for a lot of things,” Lovely says. “They sign us up.” She knows. She took responsibility for the ten-year-old son she’d given up at birth.
As usual, when things get difficult, I default to the law. “Give me a name, Ian. A place to start so Emily won’t be an orphan.”
He looks at me with a combination of disappointment and distaste, then says, “Talk to a man named Moses Dworsky. He works in Van Nuys as a private investigator. He was a lawyer once. He represented Rachel O’Brien. He blamed me for the bombing, but I trust him.”
Lovely and I exchange glances. We’ve both heard of Moses Dworsky. I thought the man was dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, a Saturday, I meet Lovely at The Barrista, dodging the news reporters who’ve gathered at the front entrance. She grumbles that she’s missing her son Brighton’s soccer game but in the next sentence tells me how excited she is to work on this case.
The capture of Ian Holzner is already big news, even bigger because I’m on the case. The tabloids and celebrity websites have a bizarre interest in Little Parky Gerald. The usually even-tempered Romulo, who’s working the register, frowns when I walk in and won’t look up at me—his silent indictment for my allowing my legal career to interfere with the shop’s business. It isn’t the first time that it’s happened. As a lawyer, I’ve tried some newsworthy cases. People close to me have died because of them.
I hurriedly brew myself a double espresso and make Lovely one of those cloying chocolaty mochas with extra whipped cream. Together, we escape out the back entrance and get into my Lexus. After a forty-minute drive through Beverly Glen into the San Fernando Valley, we arrive at a seedy strip mall in Reseda.
Moses Dworsky’s office is located on the second floor, over a half-price sushi restaurant and a dry cleaner. We squeeze into a creaky elevator, which seems to take forever to ascend. The doors open onto a dank, mildewed alcove that bears the sign Moses B. Dworsky Private Investigations. Business must be better than I thought, because Dworsky has the whole floor, though his office is furnished in cheap pine that’s been stained dark.
I tried to set up an appointment but couldn’t reach anyone, so this is a cold call. Fortunately, the door is unlocked. There’s no receptionist at the front desk, which is bare except for an old-fashioned telephone that I’m surprised has buttons rather than a rotary dial. In response to my loud “Hello,” a voice bellows, “Please make yourself comfortable in the waiting room. I shall only be a moment!”
Thirty seconds later, a hulking man in his midseventies shuffles out of one of the offices. By the time he’d turned twenty-seven, Moses Dworsky had already become one of the leading activist lawyers of the 1960s, known for his stentorian voice, jarring physical appearance, courtroom theatrics, and confrontational press conferences that often violated judicial gag orders. He was once six-foot-five, but age and hunched shoulders make him look a few inches shorter. He has wispy white, shoulder-length hair that he hasn’t bothered to tie in a ponytail. His huge ears stick out like tail fins on a ’59 Cadillac, and, combined with his enormous nose, give him an elephantoid aspect. His bushy, white eyebrows shoot upward, like weeds sprouting through a crack in the sidewalk. By objective standards he’s an ugly man, but in his heyday he was quite the womanizer. There’s something uniquely attractive about a homely man who exudes power and confidence. Friends and foes alike called him “Militant Moe.” Only foes called him the “Eloquent Elephant.” He glances at me and cements his eyes on Lovely, establishing that he still likes women and that I can still feel jealousy.
In this era of business casual, I’m wearing slacks and a blue shirt, and Lovely is dressed in a rose-print frock. However, Dworsky is wearing a business suit and tie. He peers at us with droopy eyes through a pair of bifocals precariously perched on his nose. In the 1970s and ’80s, he was destined for that rare fame reserved for brilliant trial lawyers who shape their careers by cultivating unconventionality, but he had a fatal flaw—he was a true believer. In 1993, he allegedly relayed a message from his inmate-client to a militant group planning to bomb a military base. The message reaffirmed his client’s views that Islamic jihadists were justified in carrying out attacks on American soil because of the United States’ military presence in the Middle East. The Justice Department charged him with obstruction of justice and conspiracy to provide material support to terrorists. In response, Dworsky insisted that he was merely exercising his and his client’s rights of free speech. He avoided prison only because a federal appellate court overturned his conviction, holding that the search of his law office had been illegal under the Fourth Amendment. That didn’t stop the California State Bar from stripping him of his l
icense on the grounds that his conduct constituted moral turpitude. At first, Dworsky was denied a private investigator’s license, but he miraculously convinced a judge to overrule the state licensing board. He’s been working as a PI ever since.
“I’m Parker Stern,” I say. “And this is Lovely Diamond. We represent—”
“I am not familiar with those monikers, sir.” His pontificating tone and rabbinical cadence is apparent even in this short sentence. He apparently loves hundred-dollar words and avoids contractions in normal speech. He’s one of those rare lawyers who must’ve come out of the womb wailing behind a lectern. Lovely’s boss, Lou Frantz, is another.
“Ms. Diamond and I represent Ian Holzner. She’s with the Louis Frantz law firm.”
He regards her with one eye open and one closed. “You work for Lou Frantz?”
“Yeah. I’m an associate in the trial department.”
“Louis Frantz is a low-class prostitute without the cheap eau de toilette,” he says. “Frantz never held a firm belief that could not be changed with the payment of a five-figure retainer. Although I would wager it is six figures in this era of inflation.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Bah!”
Dworsky is the only person I’ve heard utter the word “bah” who isn’t a pre-1960s movie actor.
“What’s this about Ian Holzner?” he says.
“He’s been in federal custody since yesterday,” I say.
“I did not hear. I do not follow the news.” He raises an arm and thoughtfully strokes his hair, or more accurately, his liver-spotted scalp. After a long silence, he says, “Did Holzner pull a Kathy Power or a Kathleen Soliah?”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Mr. Dworsky is talking about Katherine Anne Power and Kathleen Ann Soliah,” Lovely says. “Power’s group robbed a bank in nineteen seventy. A police officer was killed. She avoided arrest, was a fugitive living in Oregon, but she turned herself in twenty-three years later because she was depressed. Soliah was a member of the Symbionese Liberation Army and was allegedly involved in a bank robbery where a mother of four was killed. Soliah lived as Sarah Jane Olsen, a nondescript Minnesota housewife, until her mug shot appeared on TV and she was captured. Holzner’s mug shot appeared on the same show, but no one ever recognized him.” How like Lovely Diamond to be prepared and have the right answer. She was a remarkable law student and is a brilliant lawyer.
The Bomb Maker's Son Page 3
