The Bomb Maker's Son

by Robert Rotstein

  The meeting lasts another ten minutes, mostly with Dworsky telling us how much he’ll be able to help our case. Despite the professions of loyalty to Holzner, Dworsky can’t mask his belief that our client destroyed O’Brien’s life.

  When we leave, Lovely narrows her gray eyes in consternation and says, “You’re keeping him on because you want to keep a potential enemy close, right?”

  I nod.

  “Good call.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We spend the next days researching Rachel O’Brien’s 1976 trial, scouring the Internet news archives and even scrolling through archaic microfiche at the downtown library. During the nine-week trial, the government called twenty-three eyewitnesses to testify to the horror and carnage, a ploy to enflame the jurors’ passions. The judge was a young man named Carlton F. Gibson, a recent appointee. Because Gibson handled the O’Brien case, he’s drawn US v. Holzner. He’s now in his mideighties.

  The trial lasted so long because Moses Dworsky put all of the witnesses, victims and innocent bystanders alike, through grueling, often cruel cross-examination. He questioned their memories, attacked their political views, accused them of lying for the publicity, and even dismissed the severity of their injuries. He filed obstructionist legal motions, engaged in bombastic oral arguments, and held press conferences that violated the judge’s gag order and so got him thrown in jail for contempt. He tried to wear the jurors down, to rub them the wrong way so they would become callused to the evidence. Most importantly, he laid the blame on Ian Holzner.

  Belinda Hayes dropped a dime on Holzner, or so said the media. She was a principal in the Holzner-O’Brien Gang. She’d been kicked out of the Weather Underground as insubordinate, used heroin, and worked as prostitute to finance the revolution. At the time of the O’Brien trial, she was already serving her five-year prison sentence for conspiracy. She testified that Holzner carried out all the important phases of the Playa Delta attack.

  Contrary to what most lawyers would’ve done, Dworsky called O’Brien to the stand. Admitted terrorists usually don’t make good witnesses, but she came across as a naïve young girl who’d fallen under the emotional and sexual thrall of the mesmeric Holzner—exactly as Dworsky described her to me a few days ago. When the jury found O’Brien guilty of conspiracy, even reporters who early in the case had believed in her guilt were surprised that she wasn’t acquitted of all charges.

  Was my father truly so wrapped up in childish war games that he couldn’t tell the difference between murder and revolution?

  Now, Lovely and I sit in the “conference room” across from Dworsky’s corner office. The windowless space has the feel of a utility closet. The table is covered with storage boxes, each bearing the label US v. O’Brien.

  Lovely removes the lid from one of the boxes so gingerly you’d think the cardboard was sizzling. “I hate document reviews.”

  “I do, too, but it has to be done. Let’s find the trial transcripts.”

  We spend hours reviewing documents. Lovely and I have been moving in different directions for so long that it’s nice to share a common goal. The files contain voluminous and bombastic motions to exclude evidence and witnesses; attempts to disqualify Judge Gibson based on bias; accusations that the FBI agents engaged in police brutality; reams of prosecution documents quoting the homicidal rhetoric of the Holzner-O’Brien Gang; and scores of press clippings alternatively praising Dworsky’s trial abilities and denigrating him for obstructing justice. But no trial transcripts.

  At around eleven o’clock, Eleanor Dworsky walks into the room carrying two cups of coffee and a box bearing the words Etiwanda Donuts. “I know it’s not what you’re used to, Parker, with that upscale coffeehouse of yours. But this is the best we can do in this lower-class neighborhood of ours.”

  I thank her and take a sip of coffee, burning my tongue. Why do these junk-food shops make their coffee so hot? They burn the beans and ruin the taste. I open up the box and notice that the assortment of doughnuts has already made a grease stain in the cardboard bottom.

  “You can have mine, Parker,” Lovely says.

  These doughnuts are so laden with fat that I can’t disagree with her decision to refrain, which doesn’t stop me from grabbing a blueberry-buttermilk bar and taking a huge bite. It tastes heavy and overly sweet—perfect, in other words.

  As Eleanor is about to leave, I quickly swallow and ask her, “We’ve been through these boxes and can’t find trial transcripts. Any idea why?”

  “Moses anticipated that question. He told me to tell you he never ordered them. He was on a shoestring budget and was confident he’d avoid the first-degree murder rap. After that happened, he agreed to waive O’Brien’s right to appeal in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. He says you should ask the US Attorney or contact the court reporter about the transcripts.”

  “We already tried that,” Lovely says. “The US Attorneys says they don’t have it. The court reporter has disappeared. We also looked for the transcripts in the federal court archives. They gave us some story about a flood in the warehouse back in the early eighties. We need to talk to Moses about this. When’s he coming back?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Eleanor says and walks out.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  When I was a kid, Southern California was rarely humid, but lately every August seems to have a monsoon feel. I exit the dank parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Mall and have to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. The Xanax–Valium cocktail I’ve been prescribed has left me half anesthetized, as if I’m a video-game player watching a Parker Stern avatar cross the street. I’m also feeling numb because inevitable defeat instills resignation, not fear. And defeat is inevitable today. I’m about to walk into the federal courthouse and make a fool of myself by asking the judge to release Ian Holzner on bail and put an admitted bomber, a suspected murderer, and a four-decade fugitive back on the streets.

  I pass the TV-news satellite trucks parked outside the courthouse. Lately, the news reports and Internet blogs have been calling Holzner the progenitor of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh and the Boston Marathon terrorists. A dozen reporters are waiting near the courthouse entrance, and when they spy me, they hurry down the concrete stairs and stick microphones in my face. No comment. I don’t like the media, and, anyway, what’s there to say?

  I take the elevator to the second floor and walk down the corridor to the courtroom of the Honorable Carlton F. Gibson. Lovely Diamond is waiting outside.

  “Finally,” she says. “I thought I was going to have to handle the hearing myself.” She’s upset with me and has been for several days. She wants me to go see Emily Lansing, my half sister. I just haven’t had the time, or so I tell Lovely and myself.

  “Is this still about Emily?”

  “It’s about your tardiness.”

  “What’s your problem? I’m ten minutes early.”

  “That’s not early for court. Ninety minutes is early. Ten minutes is late.”

  What stings about her statement is that she’s quoting me when I was her law-school professor.

  “The US Attorney needs to talk to you before the hearing starts,” she says.

  “About what?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. She said she’ll only talk to you or Lou. She’s a real bitch, actually.”

  “Did Frantz talk to her?”

  “He’s here but says it’s your show.”

  That’s a surprise. Lou Frantz craves the spotlight more than any other lawyer I know. I was sure he’d try to horn in on my case.

  Lovely turns abruptly and marches into the courtroom. I follow and find the gallery packed with news reporters, curious spectators, and courtroom regulars who flit from trial to trial craving the excitement they see on Law & Order but rarely find in a real courthouse. The disheveled, basset-eyed orator Louis Frantz, my nemesis and now advisor, is sitting in the third row with his arms crossed and an irritated look on his razor-sharp face. Mariko Heim and her Assemb
ly enforcers have commandeered four seats in the back row. Why are they here? When I pass her, she glances in my direction and then dismisses me with a severe turn of the head.

  Marilee Reddick, the United States Attorney, pops up out of her chair and blocks our way before we can check in the with the court clerk. Reddick and I were law-school classmates. Her most distinctive feature is her silver-sand gray hair, cut pixie style. She still weighs no more than a hundred and five pounds. There are a few more wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and a softer chin, but she has the same determined black eyes, the same grin that can be disarming or devastating depending on her objective.

  “What is this bullshit, Parker?” she says in a whisper so precise that despite the packed courtroom, I’m sure only I can hear her. Reddick hasn’t changed in another way—she spews out more profanity than anyone I’ve ever met.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  “What about you?” she says, pointing an accusing finger at Lovely. “Because this is bullshit.”

  I hear Lovely breathing heavily beside me. She sometimes has a temper.

  Fortunately, Reddick realizes it and takes a conciliatory step backward. “It’s your funeral, Parker,” she says.

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “So you claim.” She leans in close and says, “On another matter, I was wondering whether your client would be interested in pleading guilty in exchange for a life sentence rather than the death penalty. He deserves to die, but a plea would save the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”

  “Let’s check in, Lovely,” I say. I don’t know what Reddick has in mind, but I’m not going to reward her gamesmanship.

  Lovely glares at Reddick but soon turns and follows me. Lawyers are supposed to present two business cards, one for the clerk and the second for the court reporter. Lovely presents hers, but I don’t carry any. Until a few days ago, my only office address was The Barrista Coffee House in West Hollywood. So I begin filling out a yellow Post-it with my information. As I’m writing, the courtroom goes quiet so suddenly that the drop in decibel level actually hurts my ears.

  I look up to see three marshals in blue blazers escorting Ian Holzner into the courtroom. There’s a collective whoosh of air and a secondary gasp from those in the gallery who are slow to comprehend. Holzner is handcuffed and in leg irons, and he’s dressed in his orange jail jumpsuit. I sent over a suit and tie for him to wear. His head is down, and he’s shuffling as if in pain, like a movie extra playing a jailbird in a thirties gangster film. He bears no resemblance to the acrobat who only a week ago vaulted over my balcony wall and somehow landed unhurt a story below. The sight of my father in chains slices through the anesthetizing fog that’s been keeping my fear at bay. My legs quiver and nearly buckle. Pride is a much-maligned emotion, but it serves a purpose, because now my pride won’t let me succumb to stage fright.

  I walk over to Reddick. “What’s this about?”

  She looks like she’s about to swear at me again, but then her face relaxes. “Jesus, you really didn’t know. Talk to your client. That’s his wardrobe choice. Chains and all. We’d hoped that you could get him to dress properly. As I said, it’s your funeral. Or more accurately, your client’s.” She turns her back on me and sits down.

  Courtrooms are bastions of tradition. Criminal defendants have to respect that. Which means that the skinhead gang member with a Mohawk must come to court looking like an investment banker, that the promiscuous party girl has to dress for church. I wanted Ian Holzner to dress as if he were attending his daughter Emily’s wedding.

  I take a seat at the table farthest from the jury box but in the jurors’ line of sight. The defendant has the right to face his peers, though there will be no jury today. Lovely leaves an empty chair between us. The marshals shepherd Holzner over and direct him to sit between Lovely and me. When one of the marshals bends over and makes what’s nothing more than a halfhearted attempt to remove the handcuffs, Holzner pulls away violently.

  “Why are you doing this?” I whisper to Holzner. “Other than sabotaging your standing with the judge and the public?”

  “I’m honoring my son Dylan’s memory,” he says. “I’m a political prisoner who’s exposing a country that would send him to his death for the oil companies and financial conglomerates.” He raises his arms and gently touches my shoulder with his bound hands. “And know this, Parker. It’s just the beginning.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was a time when I delighted in the clerk’s solemn announcement that court was in session, in the metallic click of the lock on the chambers door, in the judge’s ascent to the bench. Ever since the glossophobia struck, the intercom buzz makes my muscles tense; the door’s opening is sniper fire aimed directly at the center of my chest; the judge’s entrance transforms me into a callow law student first-chairing the trial of the century. I never know whether to feel cowardly for experiencing the stage fright or brave for fighting it.

  When the clerk calls, “All rise,” everyone in the courtroom stands—everyone but Ian Holzner, who remains seated at the table with his head down. It’s the ultimate act of disrespect, but it also distracts me from the fear.

  In federal court, a magistrate judge usually conducts routine bail hearings. But our case has been assigned to District Judge Carlton F. Gibson, and he’s made the exceedingly rare decision to conduct the bail hearing himself. Ever since he was appointed to the bench over forty years ago, he’s relished handling high-profile cases. The walls of his chamber are covered with photographs of him and celebrities who’ve appeared in his courtroom—actors, singers, reality-TV stars, a software magnate, and a couple of crooked politicians.

  He was an all-conference lineman at a small college in El Paso, Texas, just across the border from Juarez, and he often talks about his stellar football career while court is in session. He fancies himself bilingual in Spanish and English. Once, when he got tired of an attorney raising repeated hearsay objections, he left the bench, got down in a three-point stance, and challenged the attorney (a former college-football player himself) to block him. The poor lawyer refused, of course, and ended up losing the case. His client appealed the ruling, arguing that Gibson’s antics showed judicial bias. The appellate court held that the actions might have been peculiar but didn’t indicate bias. Judges give their brethren a lot of leeway.

  “United States versus Holzner,” the judge says, reading from notes and blinking his puffy eyes on every other word. He rubs the top of his head, which is bald except for a ring of feathery white hair. “Counsel, have you ever appeared in this courtroom before?”

  “I have, Your Honor,” Reddick says.

  “Of course you have, Marilee. You’re the US Attorney. I know that. I was speaking to defense counsel, Mr. Parker.”

  “Parker Stern for the defense,” I say, making it sound like I’m announcing my appearance rather than correcting him. “It’s been a while, Your Honor, but when I was with Macklin & Cherry, I appeared before you on a case for Lake Knolls.” Knolls is a former actor who was elected to Congress and then got into some trouble a few years ago because of his secret relationship with the Sanctified Assembly. There’s a photograph of him and Gibson hanging in the judge’s chambers.

  Judge Gibson scrutinizes me as if I’ve said something offensive, half stands, and peers down at me. His bulbous nose twitches scavengerlike, and for a moment I think he’s going to climb over the bench and challenge me to a tackling drill, and while I’m decades younger, I don’t know that I’d come out on top. But then he sits back down, nods, and smiles knowingly.

  “I know you, Parker Stern. You were that kid actor who went underground.”

  I’m not sure whether his reference to going underground is inadvertent or a dig at Ian Holzner.

  “Let’s proceed,” he says. “This is a bail hearing. Let’s hear from the government. Pronto, Ms. Reddick.”

  Reddick goes to the lectern, juts out her chi
n, forcefully pulls down the hem of her black jacket, and puffs out her chest, a series of maneuvers that makes her resemble a gender-confused bantam rooster. “The government opposes bail, Your Honor.” Her alto voice is so smooth and deferent that it seems impossible that only minutes ago she was hurling invectives at me. “Holzner’s been a fugitive from justice for decades, so he’s clearly a flight risk. He’s a master of flight. His crimes are some of the most heinous in American history. He slaughtered innocent people believing he could ignite a revolution to overthrow the United States government. He’s not entitled to bail.” Her lips curl in a slight victory smirk, an expression she used in law school when she’d put something over on someone.

  The judge squints one eye as if he’s looking down a gun sight. “Do you find something funny about this, counsel?”

  Smirks and sneers are implements in an attorney’s courtroom tool chest. So Reddick didn’t do anything differently from what most lawyers do every day. Judge Gibson doesn’t like her. Or maybe they’re friends and he wants to prove he’s not biased. The reason doesn’t matter. A legal proceeding is just a set of probabilities sometimes thwarted by the whims of gods you say you don’t believe in but really do. So I’m hopeful that the judge’s reaction to Reddick is a small indication I can defy the odds and win bail for Ian Holzner. I don’t necessarily believe Holzner should be free, but it’s my job to free him. Besides, I like to win.

  Reddick tugs at the hem of her jacket again, gives a slight shake of the head, and lowers her jaw almost imperceptibly. It’s a small sign of submission. But she’s facile, able to regroup so quickly that I’m probably the only one in the courtroom who noticed the glitch in her presentation—other than Judge Gibson, I hope.