Reckless Disregard

by Robert Rotstein

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s in hiding, and I feel I’m duty bound as a soldier and a revolutionary and a proponent of the truth to protect her. Which means I’m not about to expose her to William the Conqueror and his private army of thugs.”

  New Year’s Day has come and gone. I went to a New Year’s Eve party at the home of a former Macklin & Cherry partner, a disaster because his wife tried to fix me up with her recently divorced sister who wouldn’t stop asking questions about Bishop v. Poniard, the Church of the Sanctified Assembly, and the celebrities I’ve represented. Worse, everyone decided they wanted to watch DVDs of cheesy old movies from our hosts’ collection, one of which happened to be my big hit Alien Parents. It wasn’t all that coincidental—most of them grew up loving that movie. I left after the opening credits, mumbling, Sorry, I never liked that kid, and stayed up until midnight nursing a Hennessy cognac at a Scottish pub in Marina del Rey populated by septuagenarians who knew all the verses to “Auld Lang Syne.”

  Now I spend my days preparing for William Bishop’s upcoming deposition, where I’ll use Ed Diamond’s information and hope that Bishop will be so shaken that he’ll drop his lawsuit in exchange for confidentiality. I haven’t even told Brenda about my conversation with Ed. The element of surprise is crucial. I just hope that Ed hasn’t told Lovely in a fit of remorse that he kept the information from her.

  It’s a Tuesday evening, and as a favor to a former law professor colleague, I’m scheduled to speak tonight at St. Thomas More School of Law to a group of law students who want to become entertainment lawyers, just like every other law student in Los Angeles. I took the gig last August while I was still working at JADS and before Bishop v. Poniard disrupted my life. I’m tempted to make up some excuse about flu-like symptoms, but when I say that to Brenda, she says, “Don’t cancel. It’ll be good for you to be around other people and away from the case.”

  “Law students aren’t other people,” I say. “All they’ll want to hear about is Bishop v. Poniard and my trial against the Sanctified Assembly and the horrible fallout from that. I don’t want to talk about any of it.”

  “Give your presentation tonight. You made a commitment. Trust me, it’ll be good for you.”

  So I go and find myself sitting on a dais in a large lecture hall and watching the room fill to capacity, probably more because of the free pizza than out of interest in what I have to say. The heavy aroma of pepperoni grease, garlic, and cardboard makes my stomach churn, and while my stage fright has never seeped outside the confines of the courtroom, I always worry that it will someday.

  My law professor friend told me that the presentation would be informal, that I wouldn’t have to prepare and could just answer questions, but when he announces to the gathering that I’ll speak on how best to pursue a career as an entertainment litigator, I realize that I’m going to have to lecture for forty-five minutes.

  Like a basketball player who hits a desperation jump shot at the buzzer because there’s no expectation of success, I make my improvised presentation work. I lose myself in my personal history—interviewing with mid-size Macklin & Cherry though I’d intended to work at a large national firm, joining a first-year class with some of the smartest—and, as it turned out, most troubled—young lawyers that I’ve ever encountered, and thriving as a trial lawyer because I both loved to perform and wanted to do justice. I talk about the washed-up pop singer of the early sixties who asked if I could send a limo to pick him up and take him to his deposition, about the client who hated his former business partner so much that he wanted me to schedule the deposition on a boat because the ex-partner got seasick, about the lessons in law and life that I learned from Harmon Cherry. I touch on Bishop v. Poniard, though I tread lightly and am amused to learn that no one in the room, not even the serious video game players, have gotten further than the second level. Philip Paulsen really was a brilliant man. I even tell them about my late partner Deanna and how she left the practice to found The Barrista, of which I’m now a part owner.

  After I finish speaking, I take questions, most of them focused on how to get a job in an entertainment firm or at a studio. The one awkward moment is when a snarky, heavyset young man in the second row asks about the murders of Paulsen and the Kreisses. Some of the students hiss and boo, and the room bursts out in applause when I refuse to answer. I feel for the kid—even his forehead is flushed.

  When the Q&A session ends, some of the students approach and try to hand me their résumés—I don’t take them. Others pose questions that they didn’t want to ask in front of an audience. The man who asked me about the Kreiss and Paulsen murders apologizes and then lingers. At some point, the students and I get into a discussion of the history of defamation law—they’re surprised to learn that historically, libel lawyers were viewed as gutter dwellers, their status lower even than ambulance chasers, until segregationists tried in the early 1960s to use libel laws against civil rights advocates, at which time defamation law took on a constitutional dimension and libel lawyers became exalted in the profession.

  “This is so fascinating,” a young woman with short black hair and huge round nerdy-girl glasses says. “We didn’t study any of this in torts or con law. Is there any chance we can get coffee somewhere and talk more if you’re not too busy, Mr. Stern?” She extends her hand. “I’m Kat.” She has the firm grip of someone who’s studied how to make a good impression.

  “We could go to the cafeteria,” the chubby man says.

  “The coffee there sucks,” Kat says. “How about we go to your coffee place that you talked about. The . . . ?”

  “The Barrista,” I say. “Two Rs, a pun on barrister. But the shop is in West Hollywood. Kind of far.”

  “Fifteen minutes away at this time of night,” Kat says. “It’s in the direction of where I live anyway. Are you guys up for it?”

  The others nod. I learn that the chubby guy who asked the indiscreet question is named Dylan, and the others are Lucy and Thomas. I suspect that some of them are more interested in job leads than in an arcane legal discussion, but I like law students. Lovely Diamond was my law student only a short time ago, though it seems like forever.

  On the drive to The Barrista, I wonder how many of them will actually show up. They all do. Kat arrives first and sits across from me. The other three arrive together. I buy them the first round of coffee, and we talk about topics ranging from whether the First Amendment offers too much protection to the libel defendant, to how to get a job as an entertainment lawyer, to whether the Lakers will make the playoffs, to whether video games cause violent behavior among children and teens. A little before closing time, Brenda comes out of the back room and starts to wave, but then her face goes blank, and she turns on her heels and quickly walks out.

  An hour later—where did the time go?—Romulo announces it’s closing time. Now it’s just the four law students and me, and we all groan. I haven’t lost myself in the law like this in a long time. Thomas and Lucy are shy (Lucy laughs nervously after she makes a point, even if it isn’t funny). Dylan, the chubby kid, is callow and earnest, enthusiastic about the law but not quite knowing what it’s about. Kat is the most poised and the smartest. She quickly grasps the legal and practical issues behind an argument.

  At 12:30 in the morning the three who arrived together leave, and it’s just Kat and me in the dark, empty room. She takes a pack of chewing gum out of her purse and offers me a piece.

  “For the coffee breath,” she says.

  I’m not sure if she’s making a joke until she says, “I was talking about mine, not yours.” She unwraps a stick of gum, puts it in her mouth, and chews daintily.

  “Thank you so much for meeting with us here,” she says. “You must be so busy with your case and all. I can’t lie, I’m not sure I really want to be a lawyer, but my parents want me to so. . . . They’re both lawyers and assume I’ll be one too. It’s seemed so boring all my life, even in law school, but you make it sound so interesting
. Meeting all those famous people. But you’ve been in some horrible situations. The murders and the violence, the death of your friend who started this place . . . so wonderfully creepy and exciting.”

  This woman knows nothing about life and even less about death. She’d think differently if she were the one who stumbled upon the body of a saintly man like Philip Paulsen. “My colleague, my friend was murdered recently,” I say. “You must’ve read about it. His death wasn’t exciting, it was horrible and mundane and bleak.”

  “You have to admit, there are two things that people like in their entertainment. Violence and sex. Movies, music, video games. Especially your client’s video games. Poniard’s video games are very sexual, don’t you think?”

  She puts her elbow on the table and rests her chin in her hand, giving a coquettish look. I didn’t see this coming. I sit back to put some distance between us, trying not to offend her.

  “It’s late,” I say. “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Kat.”

  She starts to get out of her chair, and I think she’s going to leave, but instead she slides into the chair next to me, and only then do I realize that her olive skin isn’t natural but the result of bronzer and heavy makeup. Her face is inches away from mine, and I can smell the gum on her breath, feel her exhalations on my cheek.

  “Your ex-girlfriend was a law student, right?” she asks. “Now she’s your opposing counsel? She must be a great fuck, an ex-porn star and all. But you know what? I’ll bet you I’m better. You want to find out?”

  She puts her hand between my legs and starts fondling me. I stand up so quickly that my chair tips over and crashes to the floor.

  “You’re going to have to leave now,” I say.

  She moves close again. “You’re going to make love to me, because that’s what I want. And if you don’t, I’ll call the cops and say you lured me here and tried to rape me after the others left.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” I pull out my cell phone out, but she slaps my hand so hard that I drop it.

  “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” she says. “And you’ve been searching for me so hard.”

  “I—”

  “I’m Felicity’s daughter, of course.” She takes a step back and pulls her sweater above her breasts; she’s not wearing a bra. “Don’t you want to fuck Felicity’s daughter, Parker?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “I told you, I’m—”

  “Cover up!” The voice reverberates off the ceiling. Standing inside the front entrance is an imposing man dressed in a brown bomber jacket and dark sweatpants. My heart rate accelerates like the engine of a top fuel dragster. I should’ve locked the door when the other students left. Then I recognize the man as the cosplayer Banquo.

  The woman frowns and lowers her sweater. Banquo walks over, grabs her hair and pulls hard, and I wince at his abuse until the wig comes off and I see the red dreadlocks pinned to her scalp.

  I feel like I’ve spent the evening with Clark Kent and was fooled by a flannel suit and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Despite the disguise, I should have recognized her. I was enraptured with my own words, with the students’ adulation. She was cunning—she exhibited less hero worship than the others, not more. She’s a marvelous actress.

  “I’m very sorry for Courtney’s behavior, Mr. Stern,” Banquo says. “It won’t happen again. Will it, Courtney?” He sounds more like her parent than her friend or lover. Though he still speaks with some kind of accent, it isn’t quite British.

  Courtney stares at me defiantly. Her eyes seem to suck up whatever light exists in this dim room and reflect it back in taunting spears of derision.

  “What’s this crap about Felicity’s daughter?” I ask Banquo.

  “She’s confused,” Banquo says. “Takes the game a little too seriously.”

  “It’s true,” she says. “I look just like her.” She unpins the dreadlocks and shakes her head. “Don’t you love my beautiful red hair? I got it from my mother.”

  There is a resemblance. But that’s the whole point of the dress-up game she’s been playing, right? Besides, Courtney, or whatever her real name is, has already proved that she’s a chameleon.

  “Shut up,” Banquo says to her.

  “Did Felicity McGrath have a daughter?” I ask, already knowing the answer from Philip’s research but wanting to find out what they know.

  “You can find any kind of rumor on the Internet,” he says. “But we don’t really know anything. We just like to pretend.”

  “Who are you? Really?” I ask. “Do you work for William Bishop? Is this some kind of attempt at sabotaging me? Because if it is, Bishop’s wasting his money.”

  Banquo bows. “We’re merely humble followers of the prophet Poniard. Nothing more sinister than that. We revile William the Conqueror. We won’t trouble you again, Mr. Stern.”

  “And that means you don’t hang around The Barrista anymore. If you do, I will get the cops involved.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  He places his hands on her shoulders and guides her toward the door. When she gets to the exit she shouts, “You’ll never find out what happened to my mother! You’re unsettling her soul! Let her rest in peace!”

  He pulls her outside roughly, and I don’t like it. I hurry to the front door, but they’re moving quickly and she seems to be going willingly. After they’ve walked a block she starts stumbling back and forth across the sidewalk as if she’s drunk, though she didn’t consume anything but coffee in all the time we were together. I watch to see if they’ll get into a car, but they walk two blocks down Melrose, turn left on Robertson, and disappear. Are they going to catch a bus this late? I’ve lived in the city my entire life, and I don’t even know if buses run at this time of the morning.

  I lock the front door and leave out the back, hurrying into my Lexus. On the drive home I think of all the questions I should have asked—what are their real names, where do they live, how do they survive? Are they a couple? Banquo, whoever he is, barely has control over her, and at times he seems abusive. I should’ve called someone to try to get her help.

  Felicity’s back, the first time since Level One. The HF Queen says “Game Over,” that Poniard’s beaten, which means that no one will ever find out what happened to Felicity. How could they if the judge shuts the game down? An injunction, the Queen calls it. When Ed said, “You’re counting chickens, Lovely,” she said, “Not this time.” She won’t tell why she’s so sure.

  There’s a big fight at school—a brouhaha, Bugsy calls it. The parents who hate Poniard are down on the teachers because one of the kids was found playing Abduction! on a library computer. Violent and corrupting, this one annoying mother keeps saying. The Queen still lets Brighton play the game, but she watches him closely. He’s a good player—a great player, in fact—so what he learns could help her case. He doesn’t know if he should feel wanted or used.

  Felicity sits with her back to the monitor, removing the cornrows from her hair with practiced fingers. The scene pulls back to reveal prison bars. Dressed in orange prison clothes that clash with her hair, she’s trapped in a barren cell furnished with a cot, a sink, and an open toilet. Cobwebs cover the ceiling vent. Giant black ants swarm a dented food tray and carry breadcrumbs from a moldy sandwich through a cranny in the wall.

  Brighton tests the mouse and executes some keystrokes to get Felicity’s attention, but she doesn’t turn around. He rattles the bars, jiggles the metal cover on the wall grating, and shakes the ceiling vent, but nothing gives way. He tries to dive down the drain and the toilet like he did when he discovered the dead ex-cop, Bud Kreiss—but they lead nowhere.

  If Felicity were real, what would he say to make her turn around and face him? Would he describe how his life has changed, how the Queen magically became less cold-hearted after she told him the embarrassing truth about why she gave him away (which he almost, but not quite understands) and about what Ed used to do for a living? When Brighton asked his grandfather
about directing porn, which Lovely strongly advised him not to do, Ed snapped at him, saying in his best Bugsy voice, I made cinematic art that celebrated the human anatomy and natural acts associated with reproduction just like Renoir painted nudes, but ever since the Japanese invented that goddamn video recorder there’s no art to it, and it’s worse with the Internet, a Bulgarian in a basement with a cheap digital camera, a couple of streetwalkers, and a Romanian primate with a nine-inch putz. Ed says Brighton serves two functions—the son he never had and the grandson he always wanted.

  The Queen is trying so hard to be nice and act like a real mother, but the more she goes around calling Stern a gullible fool, the guiltier Brighton feels, because he knows that he was the reason they broke up. Bugsy let it slip out, or maybe it wasn’t such a slip, because Bugsy wants the Queen and Stern to get back together, which can’t happen with the lawsuit going on. Brighton found a couple of YouTube videos where reporters tried to interview Stern about an old lawsuit. Stern’s a good-looking guy, but he sounds angry, says no comment as if he wants to slug the person asking the question, clenches his jaw and focuses his clear eyes past the camera like he’s trying to predict the future. Ed says Stern isn’t really an angry man, but serious, dedicated, and loyal, that he’ll run through a steel-reinforced concrete wall to see that justice is done. No wonder Poniard hired him. The Queen would do that, too, Ed says. So now she and Stern are sprinting toward that concrete wall in opposite directions, about to crash head-on. The thought makes Brighton want to cry.

  He works this level of Abduction! for hours. When he gets bored he finishes his math homework and watches the fourth quarter of a basketball game with Ed—the Queen is working late again. After that, it’s bedtime, but he goes to the computer and jiggles the mouse and watches Felicity fuss with her hair, removing the cornrows, which exist in an infinite loop. He tries something new, follows the ant trail. Fixing the cursor over an ant with a particularly large piece of bread between its mandibles, he holds down the left mouse button, and in a flash he’s inside an ant colony, trapped in a dark tunnel inside the wall. He has to fight many bloody battles with ant soldiers to get to the Queen Ant, leaving severed antennae and insect armor in his wake. The Queen Ant sits on her throne. She looks like Brighton’s mother! The Queen Ant regards him with fiery eyes and then raises her sparkling scimitar to strike Brighton dead, but he parries the blow, maneuvers in close, snatches a necklace from around her neck, and escapes another of the swords. He sighs in relief because he doesn’t have to kill her—he couldn’t have done it.