One on One

by Michael Brandman

  Regina greatly relished the spotlight, but out of excitement, she was prone to making errors. She did so that morning, when she referred to the three underage victims as willing participants in Henry Carson’s play parties. This earned her a rebuke from the District Attorney.

  As my father once commented about Regina, “Often wrong but never uncertain.”

  I sneaked out a back door in order to avoid the media morass, jumped into my Wrangler, and slipped away. I knew I was headed for the Carson house, but I needed to make certain no one was following me. So I took a leisurely swing around Freedom and in the doing, felt confident I was alone.

  I wasn’t quite certain why I wanted to see her. Maybe now that she was no longer a suspect, we might approach each other unencumbered. I had purposely not shown any interest in her, but our meetings always contained an emotional subtext that, while unmentioned, was nonetheless there.

  She was a desirable woman, and now out from under the shadow of suspicion, approachable. I was keen to see what might develop between us.

  The For Sale sign in front of the house offered the first hint she was gone. Once the story broke, she was free to go wherever she chose, and from the looks of it, she couldn’t get out of Freedom fast enough. I suppose I wasn’t really surprised, but her leaving without so much as a fare-thee-well depressed me.

  Clearly, she owed me nothing, but the empty house saddened me. I can’t pinpoint why. I’m a cynic by nature, capable of fending off emotional investment in professional circumstances.

  But dealing with my father’s illness has made me more emotionally naked than usual, and Kimber Carson’s sudden disappearance exacerbated that nakedness and contributed to my incipient despair.

  I asked myself the same question I had posed to Robaire Noel: “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

  And like Robaire, I hadn’t a clue.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  The meeting was held in the conference room of the offices of County District Attorney Michael Lytell. They were all there. Steffi Lincoln, Connie Nabors, and Becky Nyman, each accompanied by her parents. Their counsel, the Honorable Murray Kornbluth, also was present.

  When everyone was seated, Lytell stood and addressed them. “I’m supposing you all know why you’re here.”

  The girls made eye contact with each other. They glanced briefly at their parents. Then they nodded to D.A. Lytell.

  “You will each be placed under arrest and charged with second-degree murder. You will be remanded to Juvenile Court where bail will be determined. Given your ages and the damage inflicted on you by the deceased, Henry Carson, this office is recommending you be released into the custody of your parents while you await trial.”

  Murray Kornbluth stood and spoke directly to the girls. “Do you understand that murder charges will be pressed against you?”

  They all nodded.

  “Does anyone have anything to say?”

  No one did.

  Kornbluth sat and Lytell spoke again. “This is a most unfortunate circumstance. While each of you was no doubt the victim of a heinous crime, you in turn exercised poor judgment in taking the law into your own hands. I want you to know my office has tremendous empathy for what you’ve been through and we will do everything in our power to see that you have a fair trial and are treated kindly and compassionately. We trust the court to be equally understanding of your circumstance. Is all this clear?”

  Everyone nodded their assent.

  “In that case, we’re done here. My associate, Skip Wilder, will guide you through the proceedings. Please feel free to ask him any questions you might have.”

  Prior to leaving the room, Lytell motioned me aside. “Are you okay with this?”

  “What are their chances?”

  “Were I a betting man, I’d say they were good.”

  “Meaning?”

  “This is a high-profile case. A lot will depend on the efficacy of their counsel, but extenuating circumstances should be a factor and I can’t really see a jury convicting them.”

  “Is Kornbluth up to the task?”

  “Good question.”

  “Is he?”

  “There are better.”

  “In L.A.?”

  He nodded.

  “Who?”

  “You mean which lawyers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll prepare a short list.”

  “How will he react?”

  “Kornbluth?”

  I nodded.

  “He’s been around the block a few times.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He knows his limitations.”

  “When can I have the list?”

  “Later today.”

  “I’ll talk to the families.”

  “I never said this, but it’s a big-deal case. There’ll be more media attention than you could shake a stick at.”

  He glanced at Murray Kornbluth, making certain he wasn’t listening. Then he lowered his voice and said, “There’s every chance one of these big-deal law firms would take it on pro bono.”

  “Even better.”

  “But remember,” Lytell reiterated, “I never told you any of this.”

  “Any of what?”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  I had been summoned to a hearing regarding the request to reduce bail for the two defendants, Ronald Van Cleave and Paul Henderson, to be held in California Supreme Court Justice Terence Hiller’s courtroom in San Remo.

  Hiller, a buttoned-down jurist in his late fifties, was generally regarded as a no-nonsense magistrate who brooked no fools.

  I arrived early and found a seat in the rear of the spectator gallery. As a boy I had visited the courtroom countless times and always stood in awe of its majesty. I admired its rich mahogany gallery and jury box, its stately witness stand, the august judge’s bench, and the ornate crystal chandelier from which bounced twinkling speckles of reflected light that winked wistfully at those whose attention it caught. To my boyhood eyes, everything about the courtroom looked imposing and prodigious.

  Through the eyes of age, however, its size and majesty came into question. It appeared timeworn now and cramped, its once-vibrant benchmark showpieces grown lackluster; the chandelier dusty and slightly askew; the filtration system barely camouflaging a stale and fusty atmosphere.

  Funny how time changes perspective. Nothing seems what it was. The only constant is inconsistency. I was teetering on the threshold of depression when the courtroom burst into life.

  Assistant District Attorney Skip Wilder barged through the swinging doors, lugging an overstuffed briefcase, present on behalf of the prosecution.

  He was followed in short order by a pair of court-appointed defense counsellors, along with the parents of the defendants.

  I watched as Ronald Van Cleave and Paul Henderson were led into the courtroom by two armed police officers, both boys dressed in dark suits that lent them each an air of undeserved respectability. They had fresh haircuts and were clean-shaven. Contrariwise, however, they brandished leg irons and their wrists were shackled. Once seated at the defense table, each was attended to by his parents.

  Van Cleave’s father was a tall man, wearing a blue-checked suit and purple tie. His wife wore a black evening gown-like dress that was more formal than the proceedings warranted.

  Paul Henderson’s father, a senior version of his absurdly musculared son, wore a tight-fitting gray suit. His head was shaved. He flaunted a red ruby earring.

  Henderson’s mother, small in stature, was in what my mother would have described as a housedress, neatly pressed and clean, but skimpy, too paltry for the occasion.

  I noticed Paul Henderson staring at me through dark, virulent eyes. I flashed him my most appealing grin. He scowled.

  His father was standing in front of the defense table
talking with one of the attorneys. “He’s a fucking liar,” I heard the elder Henderson exclaim as he pointed in my direction. “My boy didn’t do squat to them girls.”

  “All rise,” Judge Hiller’s bailiff, Ken Scott, called out.

  Judge Hiller entered the courtroom and quickly took his seat at the bench. He glanced briefly at the court stenographer and nodded to Ken Scott, then banged his gavel. “Please be seated.”

  Skip Wilder approached the bench. “Good morning, Your Honor,” he said with a sideways glance at Mr. Henderson who was still on his feet glaring at me. Aware of Wilder’s attention, Henderson tore his eyes from me and sat.

  “We’re here in response to defense counsel’s petition to establish a lower bond for the defendants,” Wilder said.

  The judge stared at the two boys over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. Then he focused his attention on the lawyers. “Mr. Clarkson,” he said to the lead defense counsel, “please begin.”

  Bob Clarkson, a San Remo local who had defended a number of miscreants on behalf of the County, spread several sheets of paper on the lectern and began to read aloud from them.

  My gaze wandered to the families. The Van Cleaves were paying close attention to Bob Clarkson. Henderson Senior, however, leaning back in his chair, was alternately picking at and then biting an errant fingernail. His son, Paul, was slumped in his seat looking bored.

  Following Clarkson’s statements, his colleague, Royal Morris, stepped to the lectern and began praising his clients as upstanding members of the Freedom High School sports program who had been unfortunately corrupted by Henry Carson.

  He extolled the athletic prowess of both boys, pleading with the judge for a reduction of their bail so they could immediately return to the field of play and continue their quest for college athletic scholarships.

  Had I not known better, I’d have come away thinking these two meatballs were upstanding members of society, deserving of lesser bail, perhaps even an immediate release from custody, both of them candidates for a bright and shining future.

  But I did know better.

  When Skip Wilder called me to the podium, I adjusted the microphone and nodded my greetings to the judge. “I beg to differ with the defense attorney’s appraisal, Your Honor. These two defendants are a cruel and heartless pair of merciless thugs. They preyed on any number of young girls and wreaked upon them the kind of emotional and sexual havoc that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

  “As an officer of the law here in San Remo County, I implore Your Honor to not be misled by counsel’s florid presentation. There’s no way these two sexual predators should be allowed back into society. The record speaks for itself. They threatened and terrified every member of the Freedom High School swim team. And they show every indication that, were they to be released from custody, they’d do it again. They need to remain incarcerated until such time as a jury determines their ultimate fate.”

  At that point, the elder Henderson bolted to his feet. “How can you listen to this crap, Judge?” he shouted. “Clearly, this guy’s not telling the truth. Paulie’s a wonderful kid. So is Ronnie. And this so-called officer of the law is nothing but a fucking liar.”

  Ronald Van Cleave’s father jumped up and shouted, “Amen.”

  Judge Hiller glared at them. To Bailiff Scott, he said, “Please remove these men from the courtroom.”

  As Scott took hold of his arm, Mr. Henderson lashed out at him. “Don’t touch me,” he yelled. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  He placed both of his hands on Scott’s chest and shoved him, momentarily knocking him off-balance.

  Then he pointed to me. “You’re a stinking sack of shit,” he exclaimed.

  By then Ken Scott had recovered. He drew his S & W semi and leveled it at Henderson. “Hands where I can see them.”

  Henderson stared first at the gun, then at Scott. He slowly raised his hands.

  Scott motioned to the elder Van Cleave and with his pistol still trained on Henderson, escorted both men out of the courtroom.

  Judge Hiller, shaken, immersed himself in thought for several moments. Then he studied both defendants. After a while, he slammed down his gavel. “Bail request denied. Court is adjourned.”

  Hiller gazed briefly at the assembled, then headed for his chambers.

  As we were filing out, Skip Wilder joined me. “What did you make of that?”

  “The tree isn’t far from the apple.”

  Chapter Sixty

  He had asked me to have lunch with him at the house. It was one of his good days and his spirits were high. The housekeeper had prepared sandwiches for us and we had settled in to eat them on the back porch.

  The midday temperatures were in the low seventies. Feathery white clouds appeared and were quickly chased away by the insistent Diablo winds. A trio of young squirrels set up some kind of racket as they chased each other up and down the nearby trees. The air smelled of freshly cut wood.

  I cracked a couple of Carta Blancas and had downed nearly half of mine before the Sheriff took his first sip. “You’re an enigma,” the old man said.

  “You think?”

  “It’s what the press thinks.”

  “The less they know about me, the better.”

  “The less they know, the more they’ll want to know.”

  I smiled.

  “What will happen to her?” the old man asked.

  “Julia Peterson?”

  “Yes.”

  “It won’t go down easy.”

  “You think?”

  “She led the charge, so to speak. She also aided and abetted. The prosecution will hang her out to dry.”

  “Murray Kornbluth?”

  “Not tough enough. She has to hope some woman’s cause will take up her cudgel and provide her with a firebrand who can argue she was as much a victim as the others.”

  “And?”

  “It won’t go down easy.”

  We both picked at our sandwiches. I finished my beer and opened another. I took heart in the fact that the old man was today more like himself. Although I knew hope was ephemeral, it had injected itself into our mutual consciousness.

  “People will take greater notice of you now,” he said.

  “I don’t much care about that.”

  “Your reputation will be enhanced, nonetheless. The town fathers will be more inclined to elevate you when the time comes.”

  “We’ll deal with that when we have to.”

  “Don’t act like an innocent, Buddy. You play your cards right, the greater your chances of achieving statewide consideration.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The Governor isn’t going to live forever.”

  “The Governor? Have you gone daft? You’re thinking I might have an interest in becoming Governor?”

  “You’re a rising star, Buddy. And as I said, an enigma. Once you arouse people’s curiosity, the sky’s the limit. Especially in California. Home of George Murphy and Ronald Reagan. Media stars who cashed in big-time.

  “Based on the attention you’re receiving, you stand as much chance of becoming a media phenomenon as any politician in the state. You’re a Sheriff. You’re legitimate. The proud bearer of the Law and Order standard. Excellent credentials in these troubled times. You mark my words.”

  “You’ve gone loco in your cabeza. Besides, I have zero interest in politics. I’m just a lowly police officer doing his job. And doing it, lest we forget, in tribute to my father.”

  “Whatever,” the old man said.

  We ate in silence for a while.

  “I was driven around town the other day,” he added. “I didn’t see any graffiti.”

  “It’s gone. And the perpetrators with it.”

  “That’s good work, Buddy.”

  “Helena Madison gets the credit. She put
one over on the town council and as a result of her instituting some seriously stiff penalties, the vandals came to realize it was time to get out of Dodge.”

  “I rest my case,” the old man said.

  We finished our lunch. The table was cleared and my father fired up a Cuban cigar and puffed it into full flame.

  I waved the smoke away. “That’s some kind of stinker.”

  “Live with it.”

  “It’ll ruin your health.”

  “It’s already ruined.”

  “I’m seeing an awful lot of good days mixed in with the bad.”

  “They don’t mean shit. I’m still a goner.”

  “I’m thinking you’ll be around for a while.”

  “We’ll see.”

  I watched as his wheels began to grind. I could see what was coming from a mile away and dreaded it.

  “We have a deal,” he said.

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Why don’t we just abide the events, okay?”

  “Get your head out of your ass, Buddy. We can abide the events for as long as they’re abideable. Once they’re not, we have a deal.”

  I looked at him.

  He looked back at me, hard eyed. “Right?”

  I stared at him.

  “Say it.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  “Say it like you mean it.”

  I remained silent.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  I was sitting on one of the benches in front of the pool house, my face turned to the sun, enjoying a momentary respite, thinking about the sudden lifting of the weight of the investigation from my shoulders, but still brooding over the endless recriminations that promised to forever haunt the youngsters who had been debased and abused by Henry Carson.

  Fred Maxwell came lumbering out of the gym and was headed for the parking lot when he spotted me. He slowed, then made his way to my bench.

  He stared at me questioningly. “What do you want, Buddy?”