Reef Dance

by John Decure

  I folded my arms. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m gonna say this once, my friend,” Jackie said. “Don’t look back, it’ll only fuck you up. You want to lose this case, go ahead.”

  “What’s my mother got to do with the case?”

  “Leave it alone. You want me to bring in Egan, you leave this shit about your mom alone.”

  I was enraged. “You’re straight-arming me?” I said, poking a finger into his shirt. “You jive-ass piece of—”

  “Back off! I’m not straight-arming you, I’m saving you from fucking up the whole thing. I’m trying to spare you the distraction. Look at you, man! You want to lose, go ahead, fall knee-deep into the Baker’s shit with them, roll around in it for all I care. You want to win this case? Do you?”

  I nodded.

  “Then I’ll help you. But stick with the plan, man!” He shook his head tiredly. “Let your poor mother’s memory alone.”

  I stood back and regarded him with extreme caution, unable to tell whether he was acting in my best interest or manipulating me to suit his own designs. This was probably how my dependency clients saw me every day of the week. Great—another pin thrust deep into the side of my inflated self-image.

  “You want your witness or don’t you?” Jackie said, his swagger coming back.

  “I’ll back off,” I said, “but you’d better deliver. Call it winning if you like, but this is coercion.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, sliding an arm around Nikki. “Think what you want, it’s a free country.”

  “Gee, thanks for the permission.”

  He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Don’t wait up for me tonight,” Jackie called out. “And don’t get any bright ideas. You do and I won’t be around to bail you out.”

  “I don’t need your kind of help,” I said.

  He stopped and turned, smiling joylessly. “Maybe not, but you owe me. On your word, pal. Don’t forget it.”

  I drove slowly home along the coast road, my radio off, the front windows down so that I could listen to the surf. But the tide was high and the swell was nil, and I heard nothing but the efficient drone of the Jeep’s engine. Flatness had descended like a biblical curse on the black, nocturnal sea.

  Jackie had called my longest standing debt. I remembered the day we’d met, the day he’d found me in a maelstrom of raging water on the reef at Holy Rollers. All these years, the deal we’d struck that day on the beach had seemed like such a bargain to me. But I’d been mistaken. Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror and I saw my own wary eyes, framed in dark rings and leaden with the weight of my troubles.

  The price had been heavy.

  Seventeen

  I spent Sunday morning in the Legal Project’s offices, studying the psychologist’s report submitted by the Danforths’ hired gun. Jackie and the art-loving Nikki had stayed out all night, which, I suppose, spared us another confrontation. My disbelief at his audacious gambit still lingered, but there was too little time to do anything but prepare for trial. I pushed Marielena Shepard out of my mind completely.

  My file was in decent order for trial by 2 P.M., my witness notes written out longhand on legal pads, the key passages in the social worker’s and shrink’s reports all but memorized. My stomach was empty, but it ached as if a phantom breakfast had gone undigested. Lunch seemed out of the question.

  Bad nerves. All morning I’d felt sick and slightly disoriented. I popped two more non-aspirin painkillers, stuffed the Evidence Code into my briefcase and shut off the lights.

  I needed corroboration that the Danforths made the trip to Washington in May, just after Sue Ellen gave birth. Bill Davenport was my only shot.

  I drove up Fremont Avenue through an offensive stretch of cheap, boxy little houses that I suppose were somewhere in Alhambra, maybe South Pasadena. The blight receded as the highway slowly rose toward the foothills beneath Mount Wilson. I found Huntington Drive and headed east.

  The afternoon was hot, but an ardent breeze had shaken off the smoggy funk. High clouds perched plump and yellow above the vast reaches of the inland valley. The neighborhood grew increasingly grand. I took my time driving, gazing at the deep lawns and stately trees, the classic stone figures blazing in the heat, the fountains and fluttering white butterflies over rows of tended roses. The street names I passed were self-consciously classy: Chelsea, Windsor, Shenandoah.

  The Davenport’s doorbell was a gorgeous waterfall of sound. A uniformed maid met me at the door. She was slight and very dark, probably Indian. I told her I was Phoebe’s boyfriend, which, by now, qualified as a lie. I needed to speak to her father, to plan a surprise for her. Another fat one, but it got me in the door.

  The maid led me down the marbled hall past an enormous vase filled with cut flowers. Bill Davenport was alone in his study, putting golf balls into a black plastic receptacle across the floor. He’d just stroked a ball that rolled straight into the cup and was promptly spit back at him. “Bingo!” he said.

  I wanted to start off with a friendly handshake, but he kept a firm grip on the handle of his putter and looked at me as if he was contemplating smashing my skull with it.

  “Hello, Mr. Davenport,” I said amiably. “How’s Phoebe?”

  He was dressed in white golf slacks and a crimson polo shirt. The side of his craggy face was pink from the sun. He’d been out on the links this morning. On a color TV across the room, the Rams were losing to the Forty-Niners. A French window across from his desk afforded a pleasant view of flowerbeds, a flagstone patio and a kidney-shaped, black-bottom pool.

  “What do you want?” he said without smiling. “She’s not here.”

  “Actually, I came to see you.” I saw no point in bothering with pleasantries that wouldn’t work. “I wanted to ask you if you’d been back to Washington this year, for a political function in May. A formal ball, at the White House.”

  “Get out,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Get out!” he shouted. His deceased wife’s dog Muffins barked from another room, then appeared in the doorway—a little Maltese that Max would’ve eaten as an appetizer. I stood there dumbly, doubting my next move. The dog looked me over. Unimpressed, she turned and padded down the hallway and out of view.

  Bill shook the putter’s club head at me. “You come around here for my daughter, so smart and self-assured. Always letting me know you’re in charge.”

  “Where are you getting this?” I said. “You never say boo to me.”

  “Well, look at you now, not so much in charge anymore, are you?”

  “Look, I didn’t come here to argue with you,” I said.

  “Wheels falling off the cart, eh?”

  “Come again?” How could he know so quickly why I’d come?

  “You shouldn’t sleep with your clients, son. Better learn that before they disbar you.”

  Bill Davenport was far too sophisticated to take a hopped-up local news piece as gospel truth. He was out of line, but I was in his home, at his mercy. I sucked up my pride.

  “Did you go to Washington last May?” I said.

  Bill Davenport began to laugh. “This how you prepare your cases for trial, Counsel? Harassing an old lawyer whose daughter finally came to her senses and dropped you flat?”

  “Dropped me flat? Did Phoebe . . .” No, I thought, struggling to stay loose. Don’t rise to his bait. “That wasn’t necessary,” I said. “Whatever was said that night at the Biltmore, was said. I meant no harm to you. Phoebe’s a good girl.”

  “What if I was in Washington in May?”

  “A White House ball? I’m sure there were pictures taken.”

  He went behind his desk to a paper shredder and flipped the switch. “Would you like to send me a subpoena?”

  “No thanks,” I said. This felt like a waste of time.

  “I happen to know that those are fine people you’re tormenting, mister,” he said. “That little tramp you call a client isn’t fit to tie their shoes.”


  “Daddy!” Phoebe shouted from the hall door. “How can you do this to him?”

  She wore a candy-striped leotard, white tights and leather high-tops. A red headband arrested the great flow of her blond curls, and her skin glistened as she caught her breath. I could hear a pounding dance beat echoing down the hallway now.

  I was not sure how long she’d been standing in the door.

  “It’s all right, Pheebs,” I said. “This was a bad idea. My fault.”

  She and her father glowered, silently at odds.

  “Show it to him,” she ordered her father. “Now.”

  He put down his putter and folded his arms across his chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know. I was in the hall. I heard. Give it to him!”

  “I will not!”

  “Then I will,” she said, moving behind his desk to the recessed, built-in bookshelves that covered the wall from floor to ceiling. She searched the contents until she located a thin black hardbound album the size and shape of a high school yearbook.

  “Thank you,” I said when Phoebe handed me the album, a handsome memento with embossed golden border and scrolled lettering on the cover that stated simply “An Evening With the First Family.” Inside the first few pages was a write-up of the event, but the rest was photos and cutlines. It was a picture book.

  I did not glimpse William Davenport’s photo as I flipped through the pages, but I quickly located a picture of Kip and Kitty Danforth walking through a portico lined with military brass and government functionaries.

  “I’ll get this back to you, I promise,” I said to Bill Davenport. He and Phoebe were still locked in a standoff.

  “Silly girl,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

  “Phoebe,” I said, “I really appreciate—”

  “Good-bye, J.,” Phoebe said, firm but without anger. She did not look away from her father. “You can see yourself out.”

  “Looks like a little jam-boogie right up the middle might do the trick, mate,” Jackie said, peering through the windshield at the milling crowd outside the courthouse. “I don’t see any cameras anywhere.”

  “Me neither,” I said.

  Monday morning. I’d let Jackie drive me to court, a relief, I’d thought, not to have to negotiate the crush of cars pushing into the city myself.

  “You know what you’ve gotta do, man, right?” I asked him.

  He nodded, running the palms of his hands along the arc of the steering wheel like he was at the helm of a large paddlewheeler. “Aye-aye, Cap.” His bronzed face was so calm it unsettled me.

  We’d said very little about the trial on the commute to L.A., both knowing what had to be done, but choosing to plot our final courses in private. I couldn’t rely on Sue Ellen Randall to sparkle as a witness, or hope that Boris Kousnetsov, Ty’s lawyer, might shake off his cough-syrup stupor and become Clarence Darrow for a day. I had to tear great holes in the county’s case, present a responsible, reasoned defense without exposing my client to too much damage, and supply Judge Foley with a factual and moral basis upon which he could base a decision to send Nathan home with his true parents.

  Jackie’s objective was simpler: he’d bring in Rosemary Egan.

  Neither of us had really spoken since the night at Bardo’s gallery. The bargain had been struck, and would be adhered to for practical reasons.

  I looked up the wide cement steps leading up to the building, a gentle incline of maybe ten feet at the most—kid-friendly courthouse steps. I felt tired just the same.

  “You sure you’ll need her today?” he said. “Like, what if the trial goes until tomorrow?”

  “Get Egan,” I implored Jackie, leaning in through the open passenger window. “If we can’t use her today, Foley will order her back. Just get her here.”

  “No worries,” he said. “She’s mine.” The back tires chirped as he peeled out, alarming a small boy and his mother. Jerking the boy’s arm like a leash, the woman wheeled and shot me a major stink-eye.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  The woman scowled as if she knew I was to blame for letting Jackie loose on the highway. Madam, I thought, you don’t know the half of it.

  I stared up at the green tinted windows facing out from the courthouse waiting areas, each floor buzzing with the new day, hundreds of squirming silhouettes promising a thousand of the same old problems. The morning air was muggy and rank with ozone, the sunlight dulled by a sheet of scalloped clouds. Just down the hill the big trucks wailed like nose-diving planes along the Long Beach freeway. Beyond East L.A., the faint outline of the San Gabriel Mountains floated in a dusty haze.

  The time had come to slide by Holly Dupree. I buttoned my jacket and started up the steps with my head down, intentionally tagging behind a large Asian family in hopes of going unnoticed. An old man with no front teeth glared at me for standing so close to his granddaughter. I heard someone call out my name and looked up just in time to see Holly Dupree and her camera crew rushing me.

  “Mr. Shepard, a word?”

  Her outfit was bold red, her massive hairdo as shiny and hard as a conquistador’s battle helmet. “Do you intend to withdraw from the case,” she paused, “due to your involvement with Ms. Randall?”

  “Gee, Holly, I don’t think a hug from a client is news, but thank you for asking and have a nice day.” I slipped through the double doors before she could pose her next question.

  Last night I’d reread the rules of professional conduct on permissive and mandatory withdrawal, and even the new one on sex with clients. No violations, not even close. No way was I pulling out of this case without a fight.

  When I came into the courtroom, people looked at me as if I’d just returned from a stay in prison. Respectful, keeping their distance, a little voyeuristic. I saw perhaps a dozen faces of court personnel who normally didn’t belong in here. Ken Jorgensen I recognized.

  “Nice day, J.,” he said with an evil grin.

  “You got something to say, say it,” I told him.

  He hitched up his massive trousers and squared off with me. “You’re going down today, big guy.”

  “You’re calling me a big guy?” I set down my briefcase and surveyed his corpulence. “What does that make you, Godzilla?”

  “Always the wiseass, Shepard.”

  “Sorry, Ken. I can see you’re irritable. Those first dozen donuts giving you gas?”

  He just stood there like a punching dummy. “You’re going to crash and burn, and I’m going to enjoy the show.”

  I smiled icily until he walked away.

  Foley barreled through his calendar by 10:15 without a break. “Miss McWhirter,” he said to Belinda, “be ready to call your first witness ASAP. People,” he said, surveying the room, “we’re going to do as much of the Randall trial as we can today. We’ll stop for lunch at around one-thirty, half an hour. Then we’ll go as late as we can this afternoon. With luck, we might even finish. If we don’t, we’ll wrap up tomorrow after calendar call.”

  All this was highly unusual. I supposed the case, with its attendant high media profile, had been a cause of dread for Foley these last few weeks. He wanted the matter decided now.

  “Oh, God,” Belinda McWhirter said to herself. “Shelly?” She turned to Chilcott. “Did the worker check in yet?”

  I felt a rolling sensation in my belly, so I gingerly got up, walked out of the courtroom and down the hall to the men’s room. I found an empty toilet stall, flipped the door latch, knelt and tossed my breakfast. This I still do before every significant trial.

  I was splashing my face with cold water when a man tapped me on the back. “I’m not done yet,” I said without turning around. I reached for the paper towel dispenser and saw Ty Randall’s reflection in the wide mirrors just as he swung to hit me.

  “Mister lover boy!” he shouted. His fist landed just above my right eye, and I felt that familiar, cold numbness pass down my spine as I fell over the sink. Ty Randall stepped up and cocke
d his fist to hit me again. “You’re gonna pay for what you did!”

  His fist came down hard but wild, grazing my chin and collarbone. The faucet handle stabbed at my kidney. My feet were off the floor, but I grabbed his hand before he could recoil and twisted it until his elbow was vulnerable. He thrashed to break loose but I straightened up, twisting his arm harder and raising my free arm to strike behind his elbow. I had a good fifty pounds on him and easily pinned him against the dispenser.

  “Cool it, Ty!”

  “Go to hell!” he shouted. His left hand was free, and he made a fist again.

  “Hit me again, I’ll break your arm,” I said, panting. My head felt tingly and hot now where he’d punched me. He stopped struggling and wiped the loose hair off his forehead. He was crying. I let go of his arm and checked my eyebrow. No blood, but a nice bump was already rising.

  An elderly black man holding a toddler by the hand came in. Both of them eyed the two of us suspiciously. Ty’s shirttail spilled over his belt, and his navy tie hung crookedly. He looked like a gas-station attendant who’d just been jumped by a customer. My jacket was water-spotted down the lapels. I wiped the hair from my eyes.

  “C’mon,” the man told the child as he turned to go, frowning at Ty and me.

  “Nothing happened between your wife and me,” I said to Ty, wiping my face with a paper towel. His eyes were hidden beneath his bangs. “One of your old neighbors screamed at her, called her a name. Did a nice job making her cry. I comforted her.”

  “I seen what you did!”

  “Oh, get a clue,” I said. “Those news people want to see the Danforths keep your baby. You start buying into their bullshit, you’ll really be in trouble.” I straightened my tie in the mirror and went past him to the door.

  “I believe you,” he said, “oh, yes indeedy.” Smiling at me now. “All my wife talks about the last two weeks is Mister Shepard this, Mister Shepard that, gets up at five-thirty this morning to start gettin’ ready, makin’ herself look nice for court. Christ almighty!” His face narrowed into a scowl. “Bullshit, huh? Well I’ll just buy into whoever’s bullshit I choose to! Yours ain’t no better than theirs.”