The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  FIVE

  * * *

  The language is littered with proverbs on justice. It is a sword with no scabbard; a blade that is double-edged; the other edge of justice is revenge. For Zo Suade it seems this is the only edge that cuts.

  On leaving her shop I waste no time. The cell phone is locked in Leaping Lena’s glove box. I pull it out, plug the adapter into the cigarette lighter, and start punching numbers.

  Heading down Palm Avenue I am driving with one hand, shifting with the other, and punching buttons on the phone in between gears.

  A feminine voice on the other end: “Hello.” I can hear the hiss of a speakerphone. Anybody in earshot at the other end can now hear our conversation.

  “Susan. Paul here. Can you pick up the receiver?” I’ve dialed around her secretary to a direct line in her office.

  The hiss goes away as she picks up the receiver.

  “You caught me at a bad time.” I can now hear her voice clearly, “I’m in a staff meeting. We’re pretty busy.” I can see the picture: a half dozen drones huddled around her desk taking notes as Susan micromanages their divisions. My woman is a control freak.

  “No. I’m afraid it can’t wait,” I tell her.

  “What’s wrong?” Susan’s good at detecting problems from the tone in a voice. “Where are you?”

  “On the road. About to head onto the freeway. So we won’t be able to talk for long.” The wind at high speed makes it impossible to hear in the open vehicle.

  “I just came out of a meeting with your friend Suade.”

  “I take it she wasn’t helpful?”

  “Like a viper in your jockey shorts.”

  “I did warn you,” she says.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Listen, Paul, I really am busy. Can’t it wait till tonight?”

  “Unfortunately, it can’t. She’s getting ready to stick a pike in Jonah.” No last names. Not on an open cell phone.

  “How so?”

  “Suade’s making wild charges, accusations that he molested the child. Had relations with his own daughter.”

  “That sounds like . . .” She almost says Suade’s name, then remembers she’s not alone in her office. “Our friend,” she says. “If you remember, I warned you not to get involved.”

  “I know. But it’s too late for that now. I can’t leave Jonah twisting in the wind.”

  “The question is, what can you do for him?”

  When I don’t respond, she allows my silence to provide the answer. “Cut your losses,” she says. “You can’t fight her. She plays by a set of rules that were never provided in your book. Believe me. You don’t know what you’re up against. She’s got a machine, and it’s well oiled.” Her voice goes down a full octave, and from the sound I can tell she’s cupped a hand over the mouthpiece so no one else in her office can hear.

  “She can lay down lies the way a paving machine does asphalt,” says Susan. “Reputations don’t mean a thing. Not Jonah’s. Not yours. Trust me. You get in her way, you’re going to find yourself on your back, covered with tar wondering what it was that rolled over you. I really would like to help.” Susan can be hard-nosed. Suddenly her voice is back to pitch, up to volume. “But I’m in the middle of a meeting. We’ll just have to discuss it tonight.”

  “There is something else,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “She said some things about your department. She mentioned you by name.”

  There’s silence on the phone, as if someone’s dropped an anvil on her. I wonder if I’ve lost the connection, or if she’s hung up.

  “You there?” I ask.

  “I’m here.” Her voice is back in the nether regions. I can visualize the high back of her executive leather chair being swiveled so that it faces the drones across her desk. Makeshift privacy. “What did she say?” she asks.

  “Took your name in vain,” I tell her.

  “You didn’t mention me?”

  “Never. But it did make me wonder if she was mind-reading.”

  “I’ll bet.” For a moment I’m left to ponder whether Susan believes me.

  “What exactly did she say about me?”

  “Called you ‘Judas.’ She thinks your department’s sold out to the honky male establishment. She seems to think the county’s been covering up crimes in custody cases, selling favoritism. She’s making vague claims about scandals. Wouldn’t tell me the details. I’ve got the press release with me if you want to see it.”

  “Press release?”

  “She’s sending it out today. As we speak.”

  There’s silence while she thinks. At this moment, I can tell Susan would like to suppress free speech. “What does it say, this press release?”

  “I can’t read while I’m driving,” I tell her. “But it’s heavy on accusations, light on the details. Says she’s holding those for the press conference in two days.”

  More rubber burning on Susan’s end, silence as she thinks. I hear some conversations, distant voices. “We’ll have to continue this later.” But now she’s not talking to me. “Catch the door on the way out. Thanks.”

  Then she’s back, mouth to the receiver. “Read me the press release.”

  “I’m not going to get in an accident. I’m two blocks from the freeway at a light.”

  “Where do you want to meet?” No whys, whats, or wherefores. Suddenly, I have her undivided attention. Threats to Susan’s realm have a way of focusing her in ways that no argument can.

  “My office. In an hour. I’ve got to try to find Jonah. Can you get ahold of Harry? I’m not sure he’s still in the office. You might try his apartment. Do you have the number?”

  She doesn’t, so I give it to her over the phone.

  “You may want to consider bringing one of your investigators,” I tell her.

  “Why?”

  “Because we may need help. We don’t have much time.” What I always wanted, a woman with her own private police force.

  “Let me think about that one,” she says.

  “Your call,” I tell her. “As I say, we don’t have much time. See you in an hour.”

  I don’t wait for an answer but press the “End” button. Seconds later, I’m up to speed heading north on I-5, trying to get above the traffic to a place where I can pull off.

  At this hour I’m guessing that Jonah is in one of two places—what a man does with nothing but time on his hands and eighty mil in the bank: at his house up in Del Mar a good twenty minutes north, or at the docks with his boat. I’m hoping he hasn’t disappeared out onto the bounding main chasing bonita or yellowtail.

  I take one of the off-ramps downtown, find a quiet street, and pull over to the curb. I check Jonah’s home number in my Palm Pilot, dial, and on the second ring it’s answered.

  “Hello.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Paul Madriani.”

  “Have you found Amanda?”

  “Not yet. Is Jonah there?”

  “No, I haven’t seen him this morning. When I got up he was gone.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Has something happened?”

  “I just need to talk to him. Do you know where he is?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he’s probably at the boat.” She gives me directions.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” she asks.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I lie.

  “Is there a way to reach him there?”

  “Cell phone,” she says. “But I think he left it on the nightstand this morning. Just a second.” She checks and is back to the phone a couple of seconds later. “Yes. He must have forgotten it.”

  “Listen, Mary, if Jonah comes ba
ck, if I don’t catch him at the docks, tell him I need to meet with him. Tell him to call my office. I’ll be there in an hour, and I’d like to see him then. It’s important.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I can’t talk right now.”

  “He has your number?”

  “Yes.” Just in case, I give it to her again, along with the cell number in the car.

  “In one hour?” she says.

  “Yes. One more question. If he’s out on the boat, is there any way to reach him?”

  “There’s a radio. UHF or VHF. Something like that. But I don’t know how to reach him on it. Coast Guard probably could in an emergency.” She waits for me to reply. When I don’t: “Is it an emergency?”

  “No. Don’t worry about it. Just give him the message if you see him.” I say good-bye and press the “End” button again.

  Instead of heading back to the freeway I cut through town, down Market Street, then jog my way through the Gaslight District. On Broadway I hang a left and head toward the water, across the Santa Fe tracks and onto North Harbor Drive. I move at speed catching most of the lights along the waterfront, past the piers and the Navy Supply Center, and work my way toward the north end of the bay.

  Spanish Landing is situated on a long spit, part of the fill used to construct Harbor Island back in the sixties. It is separated from the harbor’s main channel by a peninsula that is now crowded with hotels and restaurants. The taller of these loom into sight as I pass the Coast Guard Air Station. Less than a mile west I take the traffic circle and come out on Harbor Island Drive.

  To the landward side is a park popular with the jogging set. This morning there is more congestion on the sidewalk than in the street. Two women in white walking shoes and spandex shorts hustling buns of steel are passed by a young girl, a rocket on Rollerblades, showing a little skill and a lot of skin in her thong bikini. A guy in baggy-surfers on a skateboard strutting his stuff jumps some steps and rides the crest of a stair rail until he loses it. The board purls out from under him, and in my rearview mirror I watch as it embeds itself in the side of a car going the other way. Circus maximus.

  History has it that the old Spaniards in their galleons first set foot in California on or near this spot, not on the spit of land, but on the beach across from it—soldiers, Jesuit missionaries, and a handful of horses. One gets the sense that they might have turned around and reboarded their boats for home if they could have glimpsed four hundred years of Western progress. There is little doubt that the natives wore more clothes and had more sense than some of the current inhabitants.

  A half mile down is the marina. I pull into the parking lot and bring Lena to a jolting stop against the concrete curb. Mary gave me vague directions. There are several main docks running perpendicular to the island. Jutting out from these like fingers are slips for the smaller, more maneuverable boats. The bigger vessels like Jonah’s are moored at the end of the large docks, on the outside, at least that’s what Mary told me.

  From the parking lot the marina is a forest of aluminum, masts from sailboats, and radar antennas in containers like hatboxes hoisted on sticks. There is the occasional workboat, and a good fleet of sport fishers, more activity on the dock than I would have credited to the middle of the week; crews and charters either coming in or on their way out. There are people on the docks pushing carts with gear and supplies.

  The Amanda would be fair-sized, according to Jonah, forty-two feet with a flying bridge. I step from the car and use one hand to shade my eyes like a visor to scan the end of the docks. Within a minute I identify at least a half dozen boats that fit the bill. Near one of them there is a lot of activity—a fish the size of a small car is being hoisted on heavy gear out of the back of the boat. It’s drawing a small crowd, though from this distance I can’t make out faces.

  I take a chance and head in that direction, down the angled metal bridge that connects the floating dock to the parking lot. It’s low tide and I drop ten feet down the ramp. Once there I lose my vantage point, though I can still see the fish’s tail, like a delta wing, hanging from the hoist.

  I work my way in that direction, passing a gray-haired couple living out their dreams pushing groceries to their boat.

  Another guy is hosing down the side of his vessel.

  “I’m looking for Jonah Hale.”

  He looks at me, shrugs his shoulders. Shakes his head.

  “Don’t know him,” he says. “Looking for a charter?”

  “No, thanks. Another time.”

  I pick up my pace and reach the end of the dock where it dead-ends in a long “T.” The larger vessels are tied up here, on the outside. As soon as I clear the steel pilings that anchor the dock, I see her. Stenciled in black letters across the stern, the name:

  AMANDA

  There’s a small crowd milling on the dock next to the vessel. The center of attention is the fish on its rolling hoist, and the man standing in front of it, posing for pictures. Around him, fishermen hoist cans and bottles of beer, toasting their friend’s success. Jonah doesn’t see me. He’s standing next to the fish.

  They’re trying to weigh it and having trouble. The hoist doesn’t seem big enough. It’s the biggest marlin, or swordfish (or maybe they’re both the same) I’ve ever seen. What I know about fish you couldn’t cook.

  Jonah’s wearing fishing togs: an old shirt and suspendered pants stained with the remnants of the giant fish. He has started to gut it with a knife the size of a machete, enduring a lot of backslapping and kudos from the men on the dock. Somebody hands him a beer still foaming out of the long neck of the cold bottle. It is only midmorning, early for a beer, but these guys have probably been out on the water since dawn.

  It’s not until Jonah turns to take the bottle that he sees me. He points to the fish and makes big eyes, then realizes I’m not here for sport.

  He hands the knife to somebody else and steps away, working through the crowd of backslapping men like a politician, shaking hands, accepting felicitations with grace from some fairly drunk men. Jonah’s gaze never leaves me as he works his way through the crowd. He’s trying to read any message in my expression, wondering if I’ve found Amanda.

  When he reaches me, he doesn’t waste time. “You’ve got some news?” he says. “You found Amanda?”

  “No, but we need to talk.”

  “What’s wrong? Has something happened to her?”

  “No. At least not that I know of. We’re still looking. It’s something else.”

  This brings a palpable sigh of relief, like an electrical charge leaving his body. He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand, then realizes I don’t have one.

  “Charlie, get a beer for my friend here.” One of the crew members on the stern is into a cooler before I can stop him.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Forget it, Charlie.”

  “I’ve just come from a meeting with Zolanda Suade.”

  His expression turns dark. “What did she tell you? Did she admit coming to my house?”

  “She didn’t deny it.”

  “Good. I think that’s good, don’t you?” He takes another drink.

  “She’s on the warpath. Making some very ugly charges.”

  He looks at the bottle, at the boat, at everything on the dock except me.

  “She’s a crazy woman. Certifiable,” he says. He’s not interested in what she had to say. “I’m glad you could make it down here. You sure you don’t want something to drink?”

  “No.”

  “Got all kinds of pop. Root beer.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Would you like to see the boat?” Suddenly he wants to take a tour.

  “Jonah, we need to talk.”

  “Did you ever see a fish that big?”

  I shake my head.


  “Neither have I, before today,” he says. “It’s El Niño. The warm water’s pushed everything north. Hell, last year I woulda had to go down to Cabo to even have a chance at anything like that. Gonna have it mounted,” he says. “Hang it on the wall. Gonna need a bigger wall.” He laughs, a kind of nervous chuckle as if he knows where I’m going.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that Jessica had accused you of rape?”

  The jovial expression on Jonah’s face fades. He offers a deep sigh, looks at me sheepishly. “It’s not something you want to talk about. Not with anybody. Besides, there was nothing to it. More lies from my daughter. The cops knew that. They didn’t bring any charges. Hell, they didn’t even investigate.”

  “Still, it would have helped to know about it. If you want my help, I need to know everything.”

  “It was a lie. I just didn’t think it was important.”

  “Did the cops open a file?”

  He looks at me as if he doesn’t have a clue.

  “Did they conduct any kind of investigation?”

  “What? Investigation? They talked to me. They talked to Mary. I imagine they looked at Jessica’s record.”

  “Did they question Amanda?”

  “No.” His expression makes it clear that the mere thought that his granddaughter could be questioned about such things is offensive.

  “What did you tell them? The cops.”

  “The truth. That it was a lie. Jessica brought the charges after the custody case. It was clear what she was trying to do. The cops knew it. There was not a shred of evidence.”

  “Did they question anybody else? Anybody besides Jessica, you, and Mary?”

  “I don’t know. What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Suade is using it as justification,” I tell him. “Stirring the embers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean she’s about to go public with everything Jessica told her. She’s getting ready to issue press releases telling the world you committed incest with your daughter. . . .”