Goldenboy hr-2

by Michael Nava

  He capped the pen he had taken notes with. “This isn’t personal, Henry. It’s business. Learn that and you’ll live a lot longer.”

  “Calling it business doesn’t make it right.”

  He smiled faintly. “You shouldn’t be a lawyer, Henry. You should be God.” He walked away to talk to Lillian Fox who was hissing his name behind us.

  “Henry?”

  It was Sharon Hart, looking like a giant bumblebee in a black suit and a yellow silk blouse.

  “Hello, Sharon. I didn’t see you come in,” I said, closing my briefcase.

  “I slipped in halfway through,” she said. “I’m in trial next door.”

  “How’s it going?” I asked without real interest.

  She shrugged. “My guy’s found Jesus.”

  I smiled, in spite of myself. “What?”

  “He admits everything but says that Jesus has forgiven him and the jury should, too.”

  “Think they’ll buy it?”

  She grinned. “Not Mrs. Kohn,” she said. “Juror number six. You were real good, just now.”

  “Didn’t seem to help.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, or Pat Ryan. Judges are elected, too, and if you’re black and a woman someone’s always gunning for you. She’s got to be careful.”

  “The fact that the lynch mob has the franchise, instead of a rope and a tree, doesn’t make this justice. She should understand that.”

  “I’m sure she does,” Sharon said, frowning. “Trust me, she’ll do the right thing. Anyway, it’s not like Jim’s innocent.”

  “At this point his guilt or innocence is irrelevant,” I replied. “He’s removed himself from the court’s jurisdiction.”

  “Tough way to do it,” she commented, sticking an unlit cigarette into the side of her mouth. The bailiff cleared his throat censoriously. The cigarette went back into her pocket.

  “But effective,” I replied.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got a couple of clients I’d like to tell to kill themselves.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’ve got to get back to my trial,” she said, and looked at me steadily. “But there’s one thing I’ve got to ask you. Do you think Jim killed Brian Fox?”

  “Yes,” I replied, without hesitation. “1 do.”

  She looked relieved. “Well, I guess this is goodbye,” she said, and stuck her hand out at me.

  I shook it. “Goodbye, Sharon.”

  “Good luck,” she replied. I watched her leave the courtroom. I began to follow but remembered the press outside. In no mood for further combat, I slipped out through the back.

  Larry drove me to the airport and pulled up in front of the Air California terminal. We got out and I took my things from the trunk.

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to see you off inside?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” I replied. We looked at each other. “You wanted me to balance the accounts. I didn’t do it, did I?”

  Larry looked worn and frail. “I guess Jim showed us that people aren’t numbers.”

  “No,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a month.”

  “Until then.”

  We embraced and he kissed my cheek. I stood at the curb and watched his Jaguar melt into the frantic Friday afternoon traffic.

  On the plane I thought about the loose ends: a drunken phone call from someone who claimed Jim wasn’t the killer, Jim’s own insistence that he hadn’t done it, the fact that Jim and Brian had been something akin to lovers, and Josh Mandel’s obvious lie about where he had been the night of the murder. Grist for speculation but hardly enough to take to the jury. Not even enough to change my own mind, really. Jim Pears had killed Brian Fox. That much was inescapable. And yet…

  I looked out the window. The sea was white with light, an enormous blankness beneath a gentle autumn sky.

  12

  On Monday, December first, I found myself back in the courtroom of Patricia Ryan where the case of People versus Pears was about to end — not with a bang, but a whimper. The previous week I had worked out an arrangement allowing the D.A. to designate a neurologist to examine Jim for the purpose of assessing his chances of recovery. The doctor, a sandy-haired man with a vague air about him, sat beside the prosecutor, a young woman named Laura Wyle, the third prosecutor I had dealt with in the past month. The case was now of such low priority that it had trickled down through the ranks to the most junior member of the D.A.’s homicide unit.

  It was as cold in the court as it was outside in the rainy streets, the result, I was told, of the heat having been off over the weekend. The bailiff wore a parka over his tan uniform and the court reporter sat with her hands beneath her legs while we waited for the judge to take the bench. The only other people in the court were a middle-aged couple, the man very tall and the woman very short. Jim’s parents. Walter Pears wore a black suit, a brilliantly white shirt and a dark blue tie. Light gleamed off the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. His long, stern face was set in a look of sour distaste that I associated with religious fanatics and tax lawyers; Walter Pears was both. His wife was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Even now, looking at her, I was more aware of the color of her dress — an unflattering shade of green — than her face. They were here to reclaim their son. Poor Jim, I thought again, turning away from them. The bailiff stood up and said, “All rise.”

  Patricia Ryan emerged from her chambers, seated herself and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

  We bid her good morning. The reporter started to click away.

  “People versus Pears,” the judge said. “Let the record reflect that the parties are represented but Mr. Pears is not present.” She shuffled some papers. “I have received a medical report in this case by a Dr. Connor-”

  “Uh, present,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, hello, Doctor,” the judge said. “From what I gather it is your conclusion that Jim Pears suffers from permanent and irreversible brain damage, is that right?”

  Doctor Connor drew himself up and surveyed the room as if he had just awakened in Oz. He saw me and blinked furiously.

  “Doctor,” the judge said.

  “Right,” he said. “Uh, yes, Your Honor. Did you say something?”

  In a voice of practiced patience, she repeated her original question.

  Connor’s arms jerked up to his sides and backwards as if pulled by wires. “That’s kind of the village idiot explanation,” he said, cheerfully.

  Judge Ryan squinted and said coldly, “Doctor, I’d like you to answer my question, not assess my intelligence.”

  The D.A. tugged at Connor’s coat. He leaned over and she whispered, fiercely, into his ear. He jerked upright and said, “The answer is yes.” He plopped back into his chair.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, it’s my understanding that the People wish to make a motion pursuant to Penal Code section 1385.”

  Laura Wyle stood up. “In view of the unlikelihood that James Pears will ever be fit to stand trial, the People move to dismiss the action in the interests of justice.”

  “Mr. Rios?”

  “No objection, Your Honor.”

  “Motion granted. The action is dismissed. Mr. Pears is remanded to the custody of his parents. Are they in court?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said, rising. I turned to the gallery.

  Sometime during Connor’s disquisition Josh Mandel had entered the courtroom and now sat behind me. Surprised, I wondered why the D.A. had ordered him in. “Mr. and Mrs. Pears are present.”

  “I am ordering Jim’s release,” she said to them. “You’ll have to make arrangements to move him through the sheriff’s office. My clerk will assist you.”

  Walter Pears rose, all six-foot-six of him. “Thank you,” he bellowed, mournfully.

  “Court is in recess,” Patricia Ryan said. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Rios.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She smiled charmingly and left the bench. I turned to Laura Wyle. �
�You have a witness here,” I observed.

  She looked around. “Where?”

  “Josh Mandel.”

  “I didn’t tell him to be here,” she replied.

  Connor came around and said, loudly, “Can I go now? I have appointments all morning.”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “A waste of my time,” he muttered, and pushed his way past the railing and out of the court.

  I raised a sympathetic eyebrow at the D.A.

  “He’s a real ass, isn’t he,” she said. “Well, excuse me, Henry. Lillian Fox is upstairs in my office having hysterics.”

  “My sympathies,” I said.

  Walter Pears came up to the railing, leaned over and said, “Mr. Rios, if I might have a word with you? Privately.”

  I looked at him. “Sure. Now?”

  “If you please.”

  “There’s a small conference room just outside the courtroom,” I said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Yes, that’ll do,” he said, as if bestowing a favor.

  I turned around in my chair. Josh Mandel was looking directly at me. “Hello, Josh.”

  “Hi,” he said. Today he wore a yellow rain slicker over jeans and a red crew neck sweater. Not witness apparel, I thought.

  “You came in for the last act?”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  “I think the Pears have first dibs. Can you stick around?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got to get to Encino.”

  “You want to tell me what it’s about?” I asked, standing up and straightening my coat.

  “It’s kind of personal.” He was forcing himself to keep his eyes on me.

  “Is it about Jim?”

  “Sort of,” he said, now standing too. The railing separated us by a few inches. “I don’t think he killed Brian.”

  “You have some evidence?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure — look, can I see you tonight?”

  “I have plans, I’m afraid.”

  His face was adamant. “It doesn’t matter when. I’ll be home all night.”

  “Give me your number,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll call you.”

  “Okay.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a bank deposit slip, jotting his number on the back. “It’s in Hollywood,” he said.

  “I’ll call,” I said, accepting the paper.

  “Thanks,” he said, and stuck his hand out. I shook it. I watched him go. Handsome kid, I thought, and felt disloyal to Jim for having thought it.

  *****

  Walter Pears folded his hands in front of him. They were big hands with stubby, hairy fingers. He wore a heavy gold band on one finger and what looked like a high school graduation ring on another. His wife, introduced as either Leona or Mona, sat a few inches behind him as watchful as a little bird. I sat down in the only other chair in the room and closed the door behind me.

  I waited for Pears to speak.

  “As I told you earlier,” Pears began after a few uncomfortable seconds, “I am also a lawyer. A tax specialist.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “You told me.”

  “I know nothing of litigation.”

  It was clear that he expected congratulations.

  “Well, some lawyers just aren’t cut out for it,” I said.

  A bit of color crept into his neck. “That’s not precisely why I introduce the subject.”

  “Do I get three guesses or are you going to tell me?”

  He straightened himself in his chair. “I take exception to your tone.”

  “You’re wasting my time,” I replied. “And, as one lawyer to another, you know what billing rates are like these days.”

  For a moment he simply stared at me while his knuckles went white. Then he cleared his throat and said, “My wife and I wish to file a suit against the county. That is, I believe, the proper governmental entity responsible for the maintenance and operation of the jail.”

  “That’s right,” I said, outrage beginning to flicker in some dim corner of my brain. “What cause of action do you have against the county?”

  “I have undertaken a preliminary investigation of the circumstances surrounding my son’s suicide attempt,” he announced. “It appears that the medication he took was prescribed to him by a physician at the jail.”

  “There’s no mystery about that.”

  “Then you will agree that the authorities at the jail failed to monitor whether James was, in fact, taking that medication when it was given to him?”

  “I wasn’t there,” I said. “The fact is that he managed to stockpile it. You can draw an inference of negligence by the jailers if you want.”

  “I do,” he said. “Indeed, I do, Mr. Rios. Not merely negligence, but gross negligence.” He pushed his glasses back against his face from where they had slipped forward on his nose. Only his eyes reminded me of Jim. “As a proximate result of that gross negligence, I have been injured.”

  “You?” I asked.

  He corrected himself. “My son has been directly injured,” he said, “but certain interests of mine are also implicated.”

  Leaning forward, I said, “Mr. Pears, will you stop talking like a Supreme Court opinion and tell me what the hell it is you want from me?”

  “I told you,” he said, stiffening. “I intend to sue the county.

  I want you to represent me or, rather, to represent Jim since the suit would be brought on his behalf.”

  I stared at him. “You son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Don’t you dare address me in that manner.”

  “The night your son tried to kill himself you didn’t even have the decency to show up at the hospital. I know that because I was there. And now you think I’m going to help you pick his bones?” I had leaned further across the table until I was within spitting distance of Pears. His face was aflame.

  “We’re not rich people,” a tiny voice ventured from a comer of the room. I looked at Mrs. Pears. “Hospital care for Jim will be so expensive.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t have medical insurance,” I snapped. “Besides, if you had any respect for Jim you’d pull the plug and let him die.”

  “We’re Catholics,” she peeped.

  “I was raised Catholic, Mrs. Pears,” I said, “so I know all about Catholics like you who can’t take a shit without consulting a priest.”

  Suddenly, Walter Pears jumped up, sending his chair skidding across the floor with a metallic shriek. I got up slowly until we faced each other.

  Pears said, “If you were a man I’d kill you.”

  “If you were a man,” I replied, “your son wouldn’t be a goddamn vegetable in the jail ward of a charity hospital.”

  The door opened behind me. Judge Ryan’s bailiff stuck his head into the room. “Everything okay here, folks?”

  Mrs. Pears got to her feet. “Yes, officer. We were just leaving. Let’s go, Walter.” She tugged at his sleeve.

  Pears seethed and stalked out of the room ahead of his wife. She stopped at the door and said to me, “There’s a special place in hell for people like you.”

  After she left, the bailiff looked at me. “What was that all about?”

  “Theology,” I replied.

  13

  As I approached the door to Larry’s house I heard the unmistakable noise of gunfire. I let myself in and called his name.

  “In here,” he shouted back.

  I followed his voice to the study where I found him in his bathrobe, sitting on the sofa, watching a cassette on the tv. The cassette was frozen on the image of a man in a cop’s uniform holding a gun.

  “That sounded like the real thing.”

  “Stereo,” Larry replied. He reached for a glass containing about a half-inch of brown fluid. Brandy. It disturbed me that he had taken up drinking again. He looked much the same as he had in October and insisted that his disease was still in remission. But he went into his office less and less often. My impression was that he
now seldom left his house. It was even more difficult to talk to him about being sick, because he seemed to have reached a stage more of indifference than denial.

  He had asked me to spend a few days with him. Since we were entering the holiday season and prosecutors were unwilling to face Christmas juries, it was a good time for me to get away.

  “How did it go in court?” he asked.

  I sat down beside him. “The charges were dismissed.”

  “Free at last,” he muttered bitterly.

  “When are you going to forgive Jim, Larry?”

  He lifted his bony shoulders, dropped them and stared blankly at the frozen action on the screen.

  “His parents asked me to sue the county,” I said.

  Larry made a disgusted noise. “Why?”

  “For not preventing their little boy from trying to kill himself.”

  “Vultures,” he said without heat.

  “I thought so, too. Jim’s dad and I got into a little scuffle.”

  “You draw blood?”

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad.” He pushed a button on the remote control and the action on the screen began again.

  “What are you watching?”

  “Do you remember Sandy Blenheim?”

  I nodded. “The agent.”

  “There’s an actor he wants me to represent. Tom Zane. He’s one of the stars of this show.”

  The cop on the screen raced down a dark alley in pursuit of a shadowy figure ahead of him. He commanded the figure to stop, then fired his gun. He came to the prone body, knelt and flipped it over. He saw the face of a boy and said, “Oh my God, Jerry.” “Who’s the corpse?” I asked.

  “The cop’s son,” Larry replied. “I’ve seen this one before.”

  On the screen the cop was sobbing. Then there was an aerial view of Los Angeles and the words “Smith amp; Wesson” appeared as music began playing. The screen split and displayed the faces of two men, one on each side. The man on the left was a white- haired, elegantly wrinkled old party who smiled benignly into the camera. On the right was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. At first it was like looking at two different men. His slightly battered nose — it looked like it had been broken, then inexpertly set — and firmly molded jaw gave his face a toughness that kept him from being a pretty boy. But there was prettiness, too, in the shape of his mouth, the long-lashed eyes. At second glance, though, the parts fit together with a kind of masculine elegance that reminded me of dim images from my childhood of an earlier period of male stars, Tyrone Power or John Garfield. Only his dark hair seemed wrong, somehow.