Try Fear

by James Scott Bell

  His followers cackled and cheeped and gathered around their fallen master.

  Then I heard one blast of a siren. A black-and-white pulled up. Good. Let the law settle this one. The law was just. The law was fair.

  35

  “WHAT ARE YOU arresting me for?” I said as one of the patrol officers cuffed me.

  “In the car, please, sir,” he said. “Watch your head.”

  “Why don’t you clean up the street?”

  The officer helped me into the back of his car.

  At Wilcox station they marched me in, past a wooden bench to which a skinny old man was shackled. He smelled like he was sitting out a drunk. The arresting patrol officer put his gun in a locker, then had me buzzed in to meet the jailer.

  They took my property, scanned my prints, then stuck me in a cell with two other guys.

  One of them was a white kid, sitting on the end of a bed. He had his head in his hands.

  The other guy was in his early twenties, black, wearing a blue hoodie. He sat on a top bunk, dangling his legs. He studied me as they clanked the cell door shut.

  “What you doin’ here, man?” he said, smiling.

  “Good question,” I said.

  “DUI?”

  “No.”

  “Why they puttin’ you in a cell?”

  “Violence.”

  “You?” He said it almost mockingly. “You beat on some guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. What for?”

  “Bad religion.”

  My cell mate frowned. “What you talkin’ about?”

  “Some dweeb out on the boulevard,” I said. “Taking people’s money.”

  “Oh yeah. Got it. Whatta you do, man?”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  This seemed to please him. I got a clue from the laughter that lasted almost a minute. The guy with his head in his hands finally looked over at me, like I was a new exhibit at the zoo.

  The laughing guy said, “Man, I wish a couple of my lawyers’d get thrown in here.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “What are you here for?”

  “Ice,” he said.

  “How much?”

  “Couple of rocks.”

  “Man, that stuff’ll kill you,” I said.

  “So?”

  “So you want to be dead?”

  He shrugged. “Gonna be someday.”

  “Why rush it?”

  “Why not? We just doin’ time. You, me, him.” He jerked his thumb at our silent cell mate.

  “So why don’t you do something with the time?” I said. “Besides get high.”

  “Like what, man?”

  “Find stuff out.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  The quiet one broke in with, “Yeah, what? We’re in jail, dude.”

  “That’s the best time,” I said. “Ever hear of Boethius?”

  They both shook their heads.

  “He was a guy who had a pretty thing going with a king. He was like the king’s philosopher.”

  “This a fairy story?” the Ice Man said.

  “No, man, it’s true. This was a real guy and a real king, back in the Roman days. You know about the Roman days?”

  “Nah.”

  “People in togas and all that.”

  “Okay.”

  “So this guy Boethius is smart and all that, and then he has some people who get envious of him, and they diss him to the king behind his back. They tell the king he’s a traitor, and the king buys it and throws him into jail.”

  “See?” Ice Man said, slapping his thighs. “You can’t win.”

  “But you can,” I said. “In jail, with nothing, this guy Boethius has to think. And what he figures out is that what you think about your circumstances is the main thing. Do you like being in here?”

  “You crazy?”

  “See, that’s only you reflecting on your desire to be out. And desire frustrated is where unhappiness comes from.”

  “Do you like being in here?” he said.

  “Right now, at this very moment, saying these words to you, I don’t mind it at all.”

  The quiet guy said, “Dude’s wack.”

  “No, man,” Ice said. “He look like he’s wack?”

  “He in here,” Quiet said. “Like us.”

  “No,” I said and pointed to my head. “I’m in here.”

  They looked at me.

  “How ’bout those Dodgers?” I said.

  That’s when the jailer came back for me.

  36

  ZEBKER WAS WAITING for me outside the jail. “Imagine my surprise,” he said.

  “You’re cutting me loose?”

  “I want to know what you were doing beating on some street people.”

  “It was a simple religious disagreement,” I said.

  “Religious?”

  “I object to any religion being represented by a rooster.”

  Zebker shook his head.

  “The Reverend Son Young Moon,” I said. “It’s what he calls himself. He’s got this giant comb on the top of his head. He should be called Son of Foghorn Leghorn.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s a guru wannabe, up on the boulevard. He was in a love triangle with Carl Richess.”

  Zebker paused. Nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Always happy to help out the police,” I said. “Unless I’m cross-examining.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said. “Need a ride to your car?”

  “You’ll naturally fix the parking ticket that’s attached to it by now.”

  He just smiled.

  37

  IN HIS CROWN Vic, on the way up to Hollywood Boulevard, Zebker said, “You a Dodger fan?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Me too. Lifelong. Went to my first game in 1965, with my dad. I remember walking into the stadium, seeing the green field. Don Drysdale was pitching. He looked about ten feet tall.”

  “I started following them in ’88, the year of the—”

  “Kirk Gibson home run,” Zebker said. “Yeah, that warmed my heart. After that the Dodger fortunes went down, but you know how many times I went to see O’Malley, or Lasorda, to get in their faces?”

  I shook my head.

  “Goose egg. Didn’t interfere. Because it’s not my place to interfere with the Dodger professionals, am I right?”

  I saw where this was going. “Detective, I have a job to do. I’m not trying to get in your way, but I have to make my own way at the same time.”

  “Tell you what,” Zebker said. “Fill me in on how you found this guy, this Moon guy, and why you were talking to him.”

  “I talked to somebody at Carl’s apartment,” I said. “A guy named Morgan Barstler. He used to be with Carl.”

  “Carl was gay?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’d this guy Barstler say?”

  “I asked him if he knew any reason Carl would want to kill himself, and he couldn’t think of any. Carl did have a drinking problem and didn’t have a partner, so who knows?”

  “And your connection with Carl Richess was a DUI?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the dispo on that?”

  “Dismissed. On a one-eight BAC, I might add.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “Brilliance,” I said.

  “Wish I hadn’t asked,” Zebker said.

  He did drop me at my car. It did have a parking ticket. And he did say, “Them’s the breaks,” before he left me there.

  I drove to Highland, took a right. Up near the Hollywood Bowl, just before the freeway, somebody had spray-painted the wall with Jesus Saves From Hell. But another enterprising prophet had added to the words in the same black paint, but with slightly different lettering.

  It now read Jesus Saves From Hello Dolly!

  Not a bad thing to be saved from, I thought.

  38

  BACK AT ST. Monica’s I was almost to my tr
ailer when I saw Sister Mary.

  She was coming out of the chapel with two other nuns. She stopped when she saw me, then came over.

  “You’re back,” I said.

  “Good call,” she said. Her face reflected a kind of repose I hadn’t seen in her recently. “It was a good trip. Good people. And I visited a holy place. Do you know about Thomas Merton?”

  “Heard of him,” I said. “A monk, wasn’t he?”

  “A Trappist,” she said. “The holy ground is the corner of Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, where Merton had a famous revelation. There’s a plaque there on the spot.”

  “What revelation was that?”

  “He was standing there, in the center of the shopping district, and he said he was overwhelmed with the realization that he loved all the people around him. That he belonged to them, and they to him. And they could never be alien to each other, even though they were total strangers. He said it was like waking up from a dream of separateness.”

  It seemed to me there were tears forming in her eyes.

  “Have you ever felt that way?” she said.

  “Not since I started going to court,” I said.

  Her blue eyes flashed, like colored glass glinting in the sun. “His joy came from being a member of a race in which God himself became incarnate. As I was standing there, I looked around and got that feeling, too.”

  She was obviously moved, and maybe a little embarrassed, because I wasn’t catching the feeling. I think she wanted me to. An uncomfortable moment passed between us.

  “So when we play ball,” I said, “Can I expect a softer, gentler Sister Mary?”

  She smiled and I knew my comment had relieved the tension. “Not if you’re going to the hoop.”

  “So look, I…” I kicked at some grass like a shy little kid. “I wonder if you think we can still work together.”

  She paused, then said, “I don’t know.”

  “I value your input.”

  She nodded.

  “And I want you to know,” I said, “I can act appropriately.”

  “Can you?”

  “If I don’t, feel free to slap me.”

  “Sometimes I want to slap you anyway.” She smiled, then added, “But don’t worry. I can handle myself appropriately, too.”

  A little voice inside told me to say no. This wasn’t a good idea. That everything would get jumbled if I worked with Sister Mary too closely. Think about it, the voice said.

  But I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to analyze anything. She was back and I wanted her to help me.

  “Deal,” I said.

  39

  ON TUESDAY I drove to the coroner’s office on Mission Road and picked up the autopsy report on Carl Richess.

  It was dated February 3, and signed by a deputy medical examiner named Lyle Schneuder. Hollywood Division Detectives Zebker and Stevenson were listed as witnesses.

  I scanned the summary.

  AUTOPSY:

  The body is that of an adult Caucasian male, consistent with the age of 33 years. The normocephalic head is covered with brown hair. Eyes are brown. There is a tattoo on the left upper quadrant of the chest. See attached diagram.

  FINDINGS:

  Entry gunshot wound of mouth (posterior pharynx) with exit of mid-occipital skull:

  A. Disruption of sphenoid body, base of skull and occipital and parietal bones of skull.

  B. Aspiration of blood.

  Evidence of gunshot injury is found in the base of skull and posterior palate. There is a pyramidal shaped defect of the palate beginning 2/3 of the distance between the alveolare and the posterior edge of the bony palate. A perforating defect is found through the sphenoid body which is internally beveled. The track is traced from anterior to posterior, inferior to superior through the regions occupied by the rostral pons, posterior corpus callosum and cerebellar vermis as well as the medial occipital lobes of the brain, impacting the skull in the upper occipital area at the juncture of the sagittal and lamboid structures.

  Toxicological Test Results

  BLOOD ETHANOL POS 00.09

  URINE ETHANOL POS 00.08

  BLOOD AMPHETAMINE NEG

  BLOOD COCAINE ETS NEG

  BLOOD CANNABISNOIDS ETS NEG

  Gunshot Residue Kit Results

  The chemical elements Barium, Antimony and Lead are elements of virtually all primer mixes. Trace amounts of Antimony were found on the anterior o f decedent’s right hand. See attached.

  What it all added up to was strong evidence that Carl had shot himself. The traces of ethanol, even accounting for time lapse, indicated he’d been drinking heavily just before he died.

  I drove to Kate’s house to deliver the news personally.

  40

  “I KNEW HE was upset about something,” Kate said. We were sitting in her living room. She’d made some coffee and it tasted good. “I could tell.”

  “Do you have any idea what it could be?”

  “He was lonely. Is that enough to make somebody kill himself?”

  “I think it can be.” I remembered how I felt in the weeks after Jacqueline died. Like I wanted to step in front of the bus. Just to make the pain stop.

  “But he had his work. He got a break and got out of that DUI. I just don’t understand.”

  She teared up. I sat with her in silence.

  “If there’s anything you need, Kate, call me. Help with funeral arrangements or paper work, or if you just want to talk. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Ty.” She took a labored breath, then said, “Why do you do this?”

  “Do what?”

  “These little cases. I know you used to be with a big law firm and all.”

  I thought about it. “You probably smashed more than a few skaters in your Derby days, am I right?”

  She smiled. “Oh yes. I was the enforcer.”

  “Well, that was sort of what I did at my old firm. My job was to lay out the opposition in any way I could. I played all the legal games. And then one day it didn’t seem worth it anymore. I’m sort of rethinking what the law is supposed to be about. For me, at least.”

  She put her hand on mine. “I think that’s a wonderful thing, Ty. A very wonderful thing.”

  It felt nice, her saying that. As comforting as warm biscuits, the kind my mom used to make from scratch.

  My cell sang out.

  “Go ahead and answer,” Kate said. “I’ll top off your coffee.”

  I flipped the phone open.

  “Ty, it’s Kimberly. I just heard about Carl Richess.”

  “How?”

  “There was an autopsy. Somebody thought I should know, Richess being my dismissed deuce and all. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I’m here with his mother now.”

  “You’re amazing,” she said.

  “Not.”

  “Come see me. I want to talk to you.”

  “When?”

  “Are you almost done there?”

  “You mean now?” I said.

  “Meet me at the Snortin’ Boar at seven.”

  “I—”

  “See you there.”

  She hung up.

  Kate came back in with the coffeepot. “Everything okay?”

  “I think so,” I said. “That was our friend, the deputy city attorney.”

  “From Carl’s case?”

  “The very same.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s a social call.”

  Kate sat back with her cup of coffee. “She’s quite beautiful,” she said.

  “I noticed.”

  “And you’re quite handsome.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” I said.

  41

  MAYBE I WANTED to get carried away. Maybe it was time.

  Kimberly was already in a booth at the Snort when I got there. She had a martini in front of her and a copy of the city’s main legal paper, the Daily Journal, in her hand.

  “Did you see this?” she said, as I slid
in across from her. She put the Journal in front of me. She pointed at the story on the left side. The Top Twenty Women Litigators in California, the headline said.

  “No,” I said. “Where’s your picture?”

  “I’m not in there,” she said. “But that’s something I’m going to remedy.”

  “From the city attorney’s office?”

  “No way. These are all firm people. Some big, some small. And civil. All civil.”

  “So why you doing criminal?”

  “Get my trial work in,” she said. “I figured this was the best place for me to get experience. We filter over a hundred thousand misdemeanors a year, you know.”

  “Which is why you and I will never run out of things to do,” I said. A waiter came by and I ordered a Sierra Nevada. The place was starting to fill up. The TV above the bar had the Laker game on.

  But I had no interest in anything but the woman across from me. Because Kimberly Pincus was, quite simply, stunning. She was dressed to the nines plus change, but it seemed effortless, completely natural. She’d always look one shade better than any other woman in any room she entered. Courtroom, boardroom, or any other kind.

  “I want to thank you,” she said.

  “For?”

  “Today, I had the great pleasure of making a defense lawyer stammer. And you made that possible.”

  “Little old me?”

  “Because of that ruling you got out of Judge Solomon, I did a little extra research on a 1538.5 that was being run. I didn’t want to be caught looking unprepped, like what you did to me.”

  “My job. Nothing personal.”

  “So I found a case on point that absolutely destroyed the other side. It’s not even in the official reports yet, just the advance sheets. The guy didn’t know what hit him. Judge Solomon was very pleased to lay this fellow out.”

  “You’re talking about one of my brothers,” I said. “I might get the impression you didn’t like us.”

  “There are exceptions,” she said, smiling. I started falling into that smile.

  The waiter saved me, bringing my beer, then said he’d check back with us. Like he knew we needed to be alone or something.