The Bomb Maker's Son

by Robert Rotstein

  “I completely agree that there isn’t anything humorous about this case,” she says. “Ian Holzner is a retrovirus. His crime was an early symptom of a disease that’s infected this country, namely terrorism. He was a coward, targeting not the military or the police, but civilians working in clerical jobs at a facility intended to assist military veterans and their families. He launched the attack in the city where he grew up, a small town having nothing to do with the government or the Vietnam War effort. He’s cheated justice far too long. The government seeks detention without bond under sections 3142(e) and 3142(f)(1) of the Criminal Code because the defendant is both a danger to the community and a flight risk.” She shakes her head slowly, well-timed courtroom theatrics. “No, Your Honor, this is no joke. A virus like Ian Holzner is no joke.”

  “Muy bien, Ms. Reddick,” the judge says. “Let’s hear from the defense.”

  I stand and will my legs not to buckle. When I get to the lectern, I interlace my fingers and squeeze tightly so that if I have hand tremors, people are less likely to notice. “Your Honor, the United States Attorney said nothing about the defendant as a human being, and the beauty of our criminal-justice system is that the Constitution orders us to treat all people accused of a crime as human beings. By calling him a virus, she denied his humanity. So let’s talk about who Martin Lansing, the human being, really is. Mr. Lansing is a hardworking man who—”

  Reddick hops out of her chair. “Your Honor, I object to Mr. Stern’s use of that name. The real Martin Lansing was a baby who died in infancy. It’s offensive for Ian Holzner to continue to use that innocent child’s name, and I’m not going to sit idly by and let counsel use the name to try to deflect attention away from his client’s crimes.”

  “The defendant has been known as Martin Lansing for forty years,” I say. “So by using that name I’m only—”

  “I’m Ian Holzner, not Martin Lansing,” Holzner shouts. When I turn and look at him, he’s standing up.

  “Mr. Holzner,” the judge says. “I instruct you not to speak again unless you’re given permission to do so. You’re represented by counsel, and you will speak through them. Do you understand that?”

  Holzner doesn’t respond, just stands there with his head bowed.

  “My client does understand that, and certainly won’t interrupt again,” I say.

  The judge looks at me with justified skepticism but nods for me to continue. I wait a moment, and from the clanking of chains realize that Holzner has sat back down.

  “As the Court well knows, in this day and age, bail is the rule rather than the exception,” I say. “And yes, Mr. Holzner was a fugitive, but he’s lived in the same location for over twenty-five years, raised a family, held a stable job as a mechanic, and has been a productive member of the community. The crimes alleged in this case occurred forty years ago, and in those four decades, he hasn’t gotten so much as a parking ticket. Mr. Holzner’s son gave his life in the service of his country. There’s no merit to the government’s argument that a sixty-five-year-old man who’s lived an exemplary life and who’s raised a son to be a Marine officer is a threat to the community. I say that fully cognizant of his behavior today, which is a result of grief over his son Dylan’s death and nothing else. The alleged crime, certainly, is serious, but the evidence is weak, the product of illegal activities by a clandestine organ of the FBI. And he’s got a teenage daughter whom he loves and takes care of. He’s her only surviving parent.”

  “Suppose that’s true, counsel,” the judge says. “Your client has been a fugitive from justice all this time. Doesn’t that automatically make him a flight risk? Why should I release him? Por qué?”

  “The best evidence that he’s not a flight risk is that he turned himself in and so voluntarily subjected himself to the judicial process. He’d still be free if he hadn’t done that.” I glance at Holzner, and for the first time since the hearing began, he’s looking up not at the judge, but at the frieze above the bench, a painting of the Hellenic deity Themis, who symbolizes divine law. I learned long ago that what happens in a courtroom is anything but divine, that every court case arises out of a confluence of human frailties.

  “What about that, Ms. Reddick?” the judge says.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” she says. “The FBI already suspected that the man who pretended to be Martin Lansing was Ian Holzner. There were irregularities in connection with the military’s attempt to figure out who got Dylan Lansing’s death benefits.”

  The judge taps his pen on the desk, using it as a makeshift gavel. He scans the gallery, turning his head slowly like an actor in a silent-movie melodrama. “Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot believe my ears. Did the United States Attorney for this district really just represent to this court that it doesn’t matter that the defendant turned himself in?”

  “Exactly,” Reddick says.

  I give her a lot of credit for not backing down.

  The judge flips his pen into the air and catches it just before it hits the desk. “I was a lineman, but I had the hands of a tight end,” he announces. “Ms. Reddick, isn’t someone who turns himself in the opposite of a flight risk?”

  The question makes the courtroom go from quiet to silent. I glance at Reddick. Her cheeks are ruddy. She looks as if she’s on the verge of telling the judge to go fuck himself—one of her favorite phrases in school. I can only imagine the teamster’s profanity that she’d like to unleash on me right now. She stands, tugs her coat hem, and sidles over to the podium, but I won’t give ground, so she has to stand to the side.

  I glance over at Holzner, who’s still staring forward. He’s abandoned some of the oppressed prisoner act, because he’s sitting up straighter and his eyes are clear and engaged. While he’s willing to be shackled during a short court hearing, he desperately wants out of jail. Otherwise, the moment I got up to speak he would’ve objected to my attempt to get him released on bond.

  “At the risk of repeating myself,” Reddick says, “it doesn’t make a d . . . darned bit of difference that the defendant surrendered now. He had forty years to surrender and face his accusers. Who could be a greater threat to the community than someone who killed four people in a cowardly bombing? He hasn’t changed his views—look at his disrespectful behavior. He’s already fled justice once. He’ll do it again. He’s an unreconstructed terrorist.”

  Judge Gibson tosses his pen so high that he fumbles it on the way down. It rolls off his desk onto the floor. One of his law clerks, a young brunette, immediately brings him a replacement. Her efficiency makes me think that this isn’t the first time the judge has thrown his pen overboard.

  “Ms. Reddick, were you using profanity in my courtroom?” the judge asks.

  “I believe I used the word darn, Your Honor. Like what you do with your socks?”

  “No, no, no, no, no, counsel. I meant before the hearing started. When you were talking to Mr. Parker, or Stern, or whatever he calls himself.”

  Reddick reflexively spreads her arms and gives a childish Who, me? shrug but then realizes what the judge is referring to. Federal courtrooms are miked so the law clerks can stay in the judge’s chambers and listen to the attorneys argue the cases. Gibson obviously had the microphone on before the hearing began, so he probably overheard not only Reddick’s profanity but also our entire conversation. It’s highly inappropriate for a presiding judge to listen in on off-the-record conversations between attorneys.

  “I was having a private conversation with defense counsel before the proceedings began,” she says. “And a few inappropriate words might have slipped out. As I’m sure you know, sometimes in the heat of battle, the language gets a bit salty.”

  “You will not defile my courtroom with such language, comprendes?” the judge says.

  “Very well, Your Honor,” Reddick says, using language that sounds polite but that really conveys displeasure. “But to return to the argument at hand—”

  “Un momento, Ms. Reddick,” Judge Gibson says. He b
egins writing on a legal pad. After a minute—it seems much longer, because time always moves more slowly when you’re waiting for an authority figure to decide your fate—he starts speaking without looking up. For a split second I think he’s talking to himself.

  “Here’s my ruling. The government hasn’t shown that the defendant is either a danger to the community or a flight risk.” Nothing bolsters a weak case better than a crazy judge who’s irrationally on your side.

  Reddick stands so forcefully that her chair teeters backward and barely rights itself with a defiant clatter. “I request a continuance so the government can brief this issue in more detail.”

  “Denied. Please don’t interrupt me again, counsel. You might want Holzner to be Holzner, apparently the defendant himself wants to be Holzner, but this is two thousand fourteen, and Martin Lansing is here in court. And I don’t think Martin Lansing is dangerous or a flight risk.”

  “Your Honor—”

  “Not another word, counsel,” the judge says. “Nada.”

  The thunder of recognition quickly comes after the lightning bolt that is the judge’s ruling. Silence gives way to the clicks of keypads, and the creaks of folding chairs, and the shocked whispers, muted sounds that nevertheless agglomerate into a din that the clerk stifles with a shout of, “Order.”

  Holzner looks at Lovely in astonishment. She takes one of his shackled hands in hers.

  “Here are the release conditions,” the judge says. “And for the record, I want to make it clear up front that I’m not letting the defendant go free to roam the streets. I am not loco en la cabeza.”

  I doubt anyone in the courtroom believes Gibson’s disclaimer of insanity. I certainly don’t.

  “The defendant will be confined to an acceptable secure residence with a family member or close friend who is deemed acceptable by this court. He’ll be subject to electronic monitoring. I’ll set bond in the amount of six million dollars. Plus constant surveillance of said residence by the US Marshal’s office, defendant to defray the cost.” Judge Gibson rocks back in his chair and beams at the gallery with self-satisfaction. “Yes, that’s my ruling. Si.”

  With the judge’s words, the pall of righteous indignation enshrouding Marilee Reddick lifts like LA fog on a March afternoon. She knows that Holzner can’t even afford the cost of twenty-four-hour surveillance, much less a six-million-dollar bond. And there’s the problem of relatives. None have come forward, and if Holzner knows where any of them are, he hasn’t told me. Ernesto, his former boss, denounced him to the conservative Orange County newspapers. He doesn’t seem to have any other friends. I guess that when you’re a fugitive from justice, you can’t let people get too close.

  I start to object to the judge’s conditions, but before I can utter a sound, he shakes his finger at me. “Don’t go there, Mr. Gerald. My order stands. But I would like you to come back to chambers when we adjourn so we can get a photograph together.”

  I glance over at Holzner, who’s gazing at me with brown eyes I now recognize as a paternal version of my own—intense, stubborn, righteous. Those eyes radiate an almost-serene fatalism, as if he’s finally aware that this hearing is the beginning of an inevitable end game in which he’ll die by lethal injection. I’ve never been a fatalist. I learned as a child actor that no matter how scripted a scene is, no matter how constraining the rules, much of life is improvisation. Words often form of their own volition, seemingly unrelated to cognition. Maybe it’s because Holzner is my father. Maybe it’s simply because this crazy judge is a star struck, and I don’t like star fuckers. But without thinking I blurt out, “I’ll post bond for Mr. Lansing, pay the surveillance cost, and let him serve his confinement at my residence.”

  Behind me, Lovely gasps, seemingly triggering a rising wave of murmurs that finally breaks at the judge’s sharp glance.

  Gibson reclines in his chair, looks at the ceiling, shuts his eyes, and taps his pen on the bench. When he returns to an upright position, he says, “I don’t think that’s going to work, counsel. The ethical rules clearly prohibit an attorney from paying his client’s financial obligations. That includes bail. So says the California State Bar. In any event, I ordered that the defendant reside with a family member or intimate friend. Less incentive to skip out and leave a loved one holding that bag. You’re a lawyer, not a loved one, Mr. Stern.”

  A second chance to stick to the script, and a second time departing from it: “No problem, Your Honor. Nothing in the ethical rules prevents a lawyer who’s also a relative from posting the defendant’s bail. The defendant, Ian Holzner, happens to be my father.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  While Lovely accompanies Holzner to the detention center for processing, I stay at the courthouse and arrange to post the six-million-dollar bond. I’m good for the amount. I saved enough from my earnings as a child actor and don’t need to work. But if Holzner jumps bail, I will have to practice law to make a living. All the while, the media follow me down the airless corridors shouting questions, nipping at my heels like stray dogs not sure whether they want a hunting prize or a handout. When I finish the paperwork, I take refuge in Judge Gibson’s courtroom, one of the few places where I can more or less avoid the media. The courtroom deputy is kind enough shoo them out so they don’t harass me for too long. A couple of reporters grumble about the First Amendment, but I’m clearly not going to answer their questions, and they know better than to piss off a court clerk who can make their lives difficult by subtly delaying their access to court rulings. To a reporter, time is worth more than factual accuracy.

  At about three in the afternoon, the door opens, and in walks a portly older man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard covering multiple chins. Despite the summer heat, he’s wearing a black windbreaker bearing the San Francisco Giants logo and a red-and-black flannel work shirt. His old-man baggy jeans are too short, revealing scuffed tan moccasins and white crew socks. He carries a Giants cap in his left hand. His twiny, gray hair barely covers a high forehead. He looks around the courtroom like a lost child. When his eyes alight on me, he limps forward, favoring his right leg. I doubt he’s media, but he might be a regular courtroom watcher. As he approaches, the clerk, who’s sitting at his desk pushing paper, glances up without concern.

  “Mr. Stern?” the man says in a timorous voice. He takes a deep, resolute breath. “I looked for you after the hearing, but you rushed out and looked so busy, so I asked a nice guy from the Times, and he said I could find you here. Anyway, my name’s Jerry Holzner, Mr. Stern. I’m Ian’s brother.” He has a speech impediment that affects his pronunciation of the letter R, so that “Holzner” comes out “Holznew,” “Stern” is “Stewn,” and “brother” is “bwothew.” Perhaps he’s hearing impaired. He looks nothing like Ian. But he wouldn’t, because, according to the Wikipedia article I read, Ian was adopted. Then the next epiphany—this man is my uncle.

  “Nice thing you did for Ian,” he says. “I would of, but I could never afford it. I’m just a school custodian, you know. Was. Retired, living on the disability and the pension. I live in Foster City. Not far from San Francisco.” He raises his cap and points to the Giants logo. “Anyway, Ian was a good brother. A good boy. He wanted to stop the war.” He looks at his feet like a sad child trying to justify his best friend’s bad behavior. “Hope I’m not bothering you, sir.”

  Despite what I revealed during the hearing, he doesn’t acknowledge that he and I are related. Is he just overly deferent or a bit slow? As Ian’s attorney, there’s so much I should ask him. What does he know about the Playa Delta bombing? Can he help me locate any of Ian’s former fellow travelers? Did the FBI really hang him by his heels off a balcony to make him rat out his brother? But I ask the only thing a long-lost child could. “Jerry, I’m your nephew. Ian’s son. Did you ever see me when I was a baby?” My adult ears detect a plaintive, childlike cast to my voice, a simple yearning that was absent when I asked Ian and Harriet about my childhood. How could it have been otherwise? The interrog
ation of my parents was imbued with resentment.

  Jerry smiles. His teeth are surprisingly straight and white. It seems important. Maybe it proves that not everything about this man is broken, that he has residual strength to help me fight this formless battle on behalf of Ian.

  “Oh yeah, yeah,” he says, patting my shoulder. “You’re the baby. I only heard about you from my mother. She didn’t like the girl. Hated her, I think so.”

  “The girl?”

  “The baby’s mother.”

  “Harriet?”

  “After the cops rousted me I freaked out, you know? I was afraid of everything, shell-shocked the shrinks said. I had horrible nightmares. I was in the loony bin for a while. All I know is after the thing that happened at the VA, my parents—my pops—wouldn’t talk about Ian, didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Or his baby son.” He looks down at his hat. “Not your fault. But it sounds like you did good. I mean, you were a famous kid actor. Hell, you’re famous now. Who would’ve thought?” He frowns. “I guess Ian is famous again, and that’s not so great.”

  Time to play lawyer again. “You came all the way down from the Bay Area for this hearing, Jerry?”

  “Yap. As soon as I read about Ian. I wondered where he was all these years. Missed him. He’s my little brother, but he was like my big brother. Smarter, braver, nicer than me. He protected me from bullies. I thought I’d never see him again. I thought he was dead or something.”

  “Look, I’m going to defend him in this case, and I need your help.”

  “You’re his attorney,” he says. Yew his attoonee.

  “Because the events—the bombing, I mean—took place forty years ago, you might be able to help me piece together what happened.”

  He nods. “The war. Nam. I served, you know. I think that’s why Ian done what he done.”

  My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Lovely: “Client free but big problems courthouse steps NOW!!!”