“So it really was you whom Gladdie Giddens saw that morning.”
He nods.
Contrary to what many believe, we lawyers like to be on the side of justice. If we attack an argument, an adversary, a third-party witness—especially a third-party witness—we hope the assault is merited. Discovering that I unjustly maligned an innocent person in a public forum, in this case a frail old woman, causes shame to grip my intestines and squeeze hard.
“Why in god’s name didn’t you disarm the damned bomb?” I ask. “Or call in a warning?”
“What happened, Parker, is that I fucked up again. I looked for the bomb in the women’s restroom. That had always been Rachel’s MO. She’d dress up like a young housewife, or a clerical worker, or a buttoned-down lawyer and leave the bomb in the women’s restroom. So I went to VA and slipped into the ladies’ room. There wasn’t anything there. I searched and searched and had to hide in a stall when some women came in. I figured it was some hoax or misunderstanding, that Jerry and Charlie had gotten it wrong, that Rachel made it up because she was pissed and wanted to freak Alicia out. What I didn’t realize is that Rachel put the bomb in the men’s restroom. She’d never done that before. Why didn’t I think to check the men’s room?”
I’m sure he’s asked himself that question ten thousand times.
“The earring that the cops found at the scene,” I say. “My mother’s.”
“Either she dropped it when she was assembling the bomb and it caught in the pipe, or O’Brien planted it.”
I try to think back whether my mother was ever fingerprinted. Despite all the drinking and drugs and violent tantrums on movie sets, I don’t think so. Since the time she helped found the Church of the Sanctified Assembly, she’s been as deep underground as Holzner.
“Why would you take the blame for her?” I ask. “She built an antipersonnel weapon to be used in the commission of a felony.”
“Because Alicia wasn’t responsible. Because she needed to be free to care for you.”
“And what a great job she did.”
“You turned out fine. Besides, what did it matter? The feds were after me anyway and would never have believed the story. We would’ve both gone to prison. What would’ve become of you?”
I stop myself from replying that I wish I’d had the chance to find out, but Holzner seems to divine my thoughts anyway. “I’m truly sorry about all of this, Parker.”
In the ensuing silence—not true silence, but an ongoing conversation devoid of words—I think, well, at least I’ve finally learned the truth about my parents.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “After you left, she did everything she could to draw attention to herself. Putting me in show business, sleeping around, making a spectacle of herself. It doesn’t make sense.”
“I told her to hide in plain sight,” he says. “Create a new persona and be brazen about it. Besides, she always wanted to be somebody important. When that bomb exploded, when I left her, she was a victim, too. No longer Alicia Bowers.”
I could lash out at Holzner for defending my mother, for mentioning her in the same breath as those who died in the explosion, but all I can think of is my grandfather Peter Bowers pedaling around the town on his bicycle spouting gibberish. That sweet girl Alicia must have wondered what he’d been like before the fall—just as I now wonder about her.
“Why hire me as your lawyer?” I ask. “Wouldn’t I be the last person you’d want?”
“You’re the only attorney I could’ve hired. I hoped you’d find a way to defend me against these charges without learning the truth. But since you have learned the truth, you’re the only lawyer in the world who has a reason to keep it to yourself.”
“The jury—or some impartial jury—has to hear this tape, hear your explanation. After that, justice will be done.”
“There’s no justice to be done, Parker. That’s what so many people don’t understand. Sometimes there is no just resolution.”
“Okay, we’ll wait it out to see what Gibson does with the jury-misconduct issue. He has to declare a mistrial. We’ll win the second time around.”
As if these words were some kind of final punctuation mark for our conversation, he stands up and stretches. “Please go get Emily. I want to tell her good night.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Bombs—the concussive force of a perfectly timed explosion, the piercing payload of carpenter’s nails and ball bearings, the shrieks of fear, the cries of agony, the yelps of submission, the silence of death. Then I awaken to Emily’s shout.
“Parker, wake up! Parker!”
Emily is pounding on my door so hard that she’ll wake the neighbors, too.
I get up and let her in. In her baby-blue sweats and without makeup, she looks like a child.
“Dad’s missing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.”
“He must be in the—”
“No, no, he’s not in the bathroom. Or in his bedroom or in the living room or outside on the balcony or in the kitchen. He’s not anywhere.”
I’m out of my room and down the hall in an instant, as if Emily could somehow fail to notice her father in a small bedroom. His bed is made, a meticulous job, as if he was an infantry recruit trying to impress the drill sergeant. Everything else is in its place. I’m about to check the closet and under the bed—why would he be under the bed?—when I see it. I’m reminded of the trial testimony about how as a kid Holzner took magic lessons—part of Reddick’s spoiled-brat defense. The media joked about his forty-year disappearing act. Secretary Cracknamara, the obsessive-compulsive card shuffler, told me Ian Holzner was quite a magician himself. I didn’t take him literally, but I should have. On the dresser is his ankle monitor. It’s not severed, not obviously damaged in any way. There are no marshals at my door. I think back to the night I met Holzner, when he somehow broke into my locked condominium unit without causing damage and later vaulted over the balcony when Mariko Heim showed up.
Ian Holzner has fled, once again a fugitive from injustice.
Emily and I descend the stairs, nodding to the marshal who still thinks he’s guarding against Holzner’s escape. I walk up to him and say, “During the night, Ian Holzner escaped. His ankle monitor is on the dresser.”
He looks at me as if I’m playing a practical joke, and then, when he understands that I’m serious, begins talking frantically into his radio. Emily and I start to walk away.
“Where are you going?” he shouts. “Stay right here.”
“I’m going to court. I have to let the judge know what’s going on.”
“You can’t leave the premises.”
“I certainly can. I’m the defendant’s lawyer. And in case you didn’t realize it, I posted his bond. I stand to lose millions by this. I’m going to court, and Ms. Lansing is coming with me.”
The wind from off the ocean is gelid, cutting through my gray, woolen suit. It’s one of those rare days in LA that come around maybe once every three years when I wish I owned an overcoat. In my briefcase I’m carrying the original tape recording of Alicia Bowers’s phone call, along with the flash drive containing the file that makes the conversation intelligible.
We pull out of my garage and take Lincoln Boulevard to the freeway. Fortunately, traffic is light. About ten minutes into the drive, Emily says, “Even if he is guilty, I’m glad he ran.”
“He’s not guilty,” I say.
“How do you know?” When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m sorry you’re going to lose all that money. I mean, six million dollars. Will you be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I lie.
“I’ll be fine, too. I’m almost an adult.” She’s lying, too.
We’re silent until I reach the Los Angeles Street off-ramp.
“What are you going to tell the judge?” she asks.
“The truth.”
We park the car, walk to the courthouse, and pass through security. I don
’t expect many people to be in Judge Gibson’s courtroom this morning. When I get off the elevator and turn down the corridor, I see a crowd at the courtroom entrance. They’re not strangers, but regulars and reporters following our trial. As I approach, the doors open and everyone piles in, sputtering in excitement.
When Emily glances up at me for an explanation, I shake my head and hurry inside. The judge isn’t on the bench, and Marilee Reddick isn’t at the table.
A reporter comes up to me and says, “In-chambers hearings like this are unconstitutional. We all have our First Amendment lawyers coming down.”
I don’t ask what he knows about the hearing because I don’t want to reveal my ignorance. I walk over to the clerk’s desk, and before I can say a word, she says, “They’re in chambers.”
“Doing what?”
She turns a deep scarlet. When I start toward the chambers door, she says, “Mr. Stern, I’m not sure you should go in there.”
I hurry inside anyway and walk past the judge’s secretary and into the judge’s office. Gibson is sitting at his desk, with Frantz and Diamond across from him to his left and Reddick to his right. Next to Lovely is the court reporter, manipulating the keys of her steno machine. This is an official hearing.
Lovely is doing the talking, and I can tell from her honed-steel voice that she’s upset. The only words I catch are “. . . gross miscarriage of justice.” When the judge sees me, he raises his hand to silence Lovely.
“I don’t think Mr. Stern should be here,” Frantz says.
“Oh, he absolutely should be here,” Lovely says.
Harmon Cherry used to say that assumptions misshape perceptions. It was one of his least original observations but no less true because of its obviousness. I glare at Reddick, waiting for her to say something that will raise my hackles. Not until she fails to respond do I comprehend that it’s Lovely Diamond and Lou Frantz who are on opposite sides of this argument.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
“I don’t know if I should let you argue, Mr. Stern,” the judge says.
I’m still oblivious. “Your Honor, as Mr. Holzner’s counsel—”
“That’s just it,” the judge says. “You’re not Mr. Holzner’s attorney anymore.”
I know what it’s about. They’ve discovered that Holzner ran, and now I’m no longer a lawyer but rather a sucker on the hook for six million dollars. There is, indeed, a conflict of interest.
“Your Honor, I came down to court to report Mr. Holzner’s escape,” I say. “I don’t understand how it happened. I found his ankle monitor on—”
“It’s not about that, Parker,” Lovely says. “Ian showed up at our office this morning and asked us to represent him. He says that he’s fired you and that he wants to retain Lou and plead guilty. He’ll agree to life imprisonment in exchange for the government dropping its request for the death penalty. It’s wrong. We have a good motion for a judgment of acquittal, and if that’s not granted, an airtight appeal.”
“It’s a great deal for a murderer,” Reddick says. “Everyone on that jury except the weird guy wants to see him fry.”
“You’re disgusting,” Lovely says. “Parker, go talk to Ian. Stop him from doing this.”
“You should correct this now, Your Honor,” I say. “Judgment of acquittal, mistrial, something. There was jury misconduct.”
“Yes, but by which juror?” the judge says. “I’m not going to be strong-armed into ruling. Tell Mr. Holzner to hold his horses until we get an investigation done.”
“Mr. Holzner has instructed me that he will not do that and wants to accept the guilty plea,” Frantz says.
“This can’t happen, Your Honor,” Lovely says.
Chaos doesn’t have to be loud or disorganized or frantic. Chaos can be insidious, a slight deviation from the norm. These chambers are in chaos, and I don’t think the judge can bring order to it.
“Your Honor, I think I can solve this,” I say, reaching for my briefcase. “I’ve got . . .” And then I stop talking, because Holzner was wrong when he said I have a choice. It’s his choice, and he’s made it. I utter words I never thought I’d say. “It’s Mr. Holzner’s right to dismiss me as his lawyer and hire Mr. Frantz. It’s Mr. Holzner’s right to plead guilty if he so chooses. Though again, I’d ask Your Honor to do the right thing and avoid this. You should refuse to accept the plea and declare a mistrial immediately.”
Lovely shakes her head so hard that some strands of hair come loose from her barrette. She looks at me with disappointment and confusion, but something in my expression stops her, and her eyes convey that though she doesn’t understand, she accepts.
The judge glares at me, and says, “I’m not sure what I’m going to do, counsel. Don’t you get it? We have a jury that came in with an eleven-to-one vote to convict and a bunch of extraneous events that really don’t bear on what happened in nineteen seventy-five. I need to investigate this issue. Holzner is a smart hombre. He can avoid the death penalty. And for that reason, I’m going to accept the plea bargain.”
How often do rules and procedures provide an excuse for someone to avoid doing the right thing?
After that, everything unfolds like a black-and-white silent movie sped up for effect. I return to the courtroom. Emily asks me what happened, and when I tell her, she buries her head in my chest, and this time it’s natural for me to comfort her. Defying Frantz, Lovely joins Emily and me in the gallery rather than sitting with him at counsel table.
“I don’t care if the son of a bitch fires me,” Lovely says, and not in a soft voice. The truth is she cares a lot. Frantz has been good to her. He was the first to recognize her talent as a trial lawyer. Later, he adjusted her schedule so she could care for the ten-year-old son who was dropped on her doorstep. And not many lawyers get to study under a master like Frantz.
Holzner is brought into the courtroom, free of shackles. He doesn’t look at Emily or at me. After taking the oath to tell the truth, he provides his name—Ian Holzner, not Martin Lansing—his age, and his highest level of education. He avers that he’s not suffering from drug impairment or mental illness, that he’s read and discussed the indictment with his lawyer, that he’s satisfied with his attorney, that he comprehends the terms of the plea agreement and enters into it voluntarily, and that he understands the consequences of his plea—life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. He’s giving up his right to appeal in exchange for avoiding the death penalty. I still hope that Judge Gibson will reconsider and refuse to accept the plea. It doesn’t happen. And just like that, Ian Holzner is a convicted murderer.
When the marshals lead him away, he glances at me with what I recognize as a look not of sorrow but of gratitude. Emily, who’s unsuccessfully trying to blink away tears, offers me her hand. When I take it, she squeezes hard, and if I let go, I’ll start crying myself.
Lovely, Emily, and I wait until the room clears out, exit the courtroom, and are about to turn right toward the elevators when I notice a solitary figure standing at the far end of the corridor. She’s here for me.
“You go ahead,” I say to Emily and Lovely. “Meet me on the Main Street steps.” They start to protest, but when they see where I’m going, they walk away. When I reach the woman, she almost recoils.
“He called me this morning,” she says. “I told him to tell the whole truth. Or at least go through the legal process to see if he can get off. I didn’t want him to do this.”
“Then why did you let him, Mother?” For once, my tone isn’t sarcastic or accusatory or cynical. She wants to talk, and I’m just giving her the chance.
“I’m frightened, Parky. I’ve always been so afraid. I was hoping that you’d tell the truth for me.” Her eyes are muddied with fear; her shoulders are slumped, making her neck crane forward like an arthritic. She’s knotted her fingers together in reflexive prayer. How strong her desire that I tell the true story; how overwhelming her fear that I will. I wish I could free both of my parents.
CHAPTER FIFTY
In less than an hour, Ian Holzner, the Playa Delta Bomber, will be transported from the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center to the United States Penitentiary in Atwater, California, located in the sweltering San Joaquin Valley, where he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. This is the first time we’ve really had a chance to speak since his guilty plea three weeks ago. To avoid the obstructions of Plexiglas and intercoms and jail guards, I’ve come as his attorney. But that’s not what I am, not who I am.
“Why didn’t you wait for the judicial process to take its course?” I ask. “We would’ve won the next trial.”
“There was no time.”
“You waited forty years.”
“Secrets have a way of percolating to the surface. You have the tape recording, and you obviously had someone listen to it to make it intelligible. The media knows about its existence. It’s only a matter of time before someone unearths another copy and decodes it. I wasn’t about to let that happen.”
“It might happen anyway.”
“The odds are greatly reduced with my guilty plea.”
“Please reconsider this whole thing. Tell them that you weren’t competent. The recording can’t be enhanced by anyone but my people. I trust them to keep this secret.”
“There’s always someone else with the ability. Time is no longer on our side. I didn’t want Alicia to go to prison then, and I don’t want that to happen now.” His smile is more poignant than a tear. “I still love her. With all her failings, I still love her, Parker. And I brought this on her.”
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