Bad Intent

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Does that mean he’s a lunatic?”

  “No.” She had to think again, and whatever was going on in her thoughts made her seem angry, exasperated. “He isn’t a lunatic. He just needs to be protected. Jerry is an essential witness and I need to keep an eye on him. He doesn’t always know what he’s saying.”

  “He seems lucid enough.”

  “He thought you were a decorator, Miss MacGowen. Yesterday he got lost coming home from the store.”

  “Yesterday, who did he think you were?”

  “He didn’t recognize me at all.” Tears welled in her eyes. An odd reaction, I thought. And then I began to feel bad for picking on her. Not real bad, just sort of bad.

  “I’m offering you some advice,” I said, “because I think someone is using you badly. That raggedy old cop isn’t your responsibility. If you think he can’t take care of himself, then find his family or call the social services people at the police department. But stay away from him until this case is resolved.”

  She sniffled a little. If I could make her cry, then any vulture in court, a witness like Mike for instance, would shred her. I hoped she had a second career in mind when this one collapsed.

  I got into the car and, after I had buckled in Guido to keep him from falling out, I gave Miller a parting word. “I fully intend to file on you. There is too much at stake for me to be nice about it. I hope you do spring Conklin. And I hope you win a big-time wrongful imprisonment case against the police in civil court. And I hope you get the usual thirty percent cut out of it, because Mike Flint could use the money.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Mike is going to sue you for defamation, libel, slander, and just for being too naive to be out on the streets alone. Don’t bother to put your fee check in the bank. Endorse it straight over to Mike.” I started the car and drove off, leaving her to fend off a flurry of loose gravel.

  I said to Guido, “Jennifer Miller seems bright enough. So why is she behaving so stupidly?”

  His only response was a snore. I’ve never known Guido to snore. Over a period of some hours he had consumed most of three beers and a quantity of scotch. Usually, he can hold his drink. Then I began to feel a little guilty. I had kept him out all night a couple of nights ago and worked him hard all day, in the heat. He was in good shape, but maybe I had worn him out.

  The news station on the radio was taking call-ins commenting about the continuing demonstration in front of Parker Center. The easy rock station was full of commercials, the classical station was interviewing an aged diva. I played with the tuner until I found classic oldies, turned the volume low, opened all the windows, and avoided fast stops so I wouldn’t awaken Guido.

  Guido didn’t stir all the way out Santa Monica Boulevard and up Highland. I missed his company, maybe, but I wasn’t concerned about him until I stopped in front of his house and tried to shake him awake. I couldn’t rouse him.

  “Guido,” I said. “You’re home. Quit fooling around.” I lifted his eyelid. His pupils were fully dilated. It was too bright a day for fully dilated pupils even if he had his eyes closed. His breathing was shallow but regular, his pulse all right. He had a flush. Who didn’t? It was a hundred degrees out.

  I fished his keys out of his pocket, went into his house for some cold water and a wet towel. When I came back he hadn’t moved, but his breathing sounded funny to me. I wiped his face with the towel and drank the water. The car was an oven. I had to get him inside where it was cooler.

  Guido is about my size, but he’s all muscle. I managed to hoist him out of his seat and get him over my shoulders fire-rescue style. He was so heavy—dead weight—that I nearly fell three or four times before I got him into the house and laid him on the cool Mexican tile floor. My fingers had made deep red marks on his arms where I held him, but he never complained or groaned or even sighed in my ear. I was scared to the edge of stupid panic.

  My strained back muscles hurt too much to straighten, so I crawled to the telephone, dialed 911, and asked for paramedics. While I waited for them, I sat on the floor beside Guido, talking to him, holding him, listening to his chest, waiting until I had to help him breathe, going over in my mind the routine for CPR. I kept trying to get him to wake up.

  The paramedics arrived within five minutes, first an ambulance with a two-man crew, backed up by a fire truck. I ran out to meet them, to urge them to hurry. The first paramedic was out of the ambulance before it came to a full stop. He was a big man, about my age, in midnight-blue uniform and yellow rubber gloves.

  “What happened?” he asked as we ran back inside.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He fell asleep in the car. I can’t wake him.”

  The paramedic knelt beside Guido and began taking vital signs. He sniffed Guido’s breath.

  “How much did he have to drink?”

  “Not enough to pass out,” I said, feeling defensive. “Some scotch and a couple of beers.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No.”

  By then the second paramedic had come in. “O.D.?” he asked before he had even looked at Guido.

  “She says not.”

  “Guido doesn’t do drugs,” I said, not adding any more or asking whether they considered marijuana consumed with banana nut ice cream now and then to be drugs. “He rarely even takes aspirin.”

  A couple of the firemen, massive men, sauntered in out of the heat to look on with vague curiosity. I overheard “O.D.” in their quiet conversation.

  “Look,” I said, rising to my knees, “he didn’t take any drugs. He had a couple of beers—two and a half beers stretched over several hours. Then he had a scotch, a tall one, and part of a second. He was fine when we got in the car. A little wobbly on his feet, but he was lucid.”

  Sometimes a single word hits you like a dictionary. Jerry Kelsey seemed lucid. I remembered holding a glass of scotch like a prop while I tried to get something useful out of him. Guido drank his scotch. One tall one and part of a second.

  Chapter 16

  “Huevos rancheros everywhere,” I said. Guido was nearly the same color as the hospital sheets. Maybe paler. “Lab analysis of your stomach contents may take a week.”

  “S’okay. I’m not going anywhere.” The plastic drainage tube down his throat made him difficult to understand. “I’m going to sleep for a week.”

  “Not in the hospital you’re not,” I said. “At these rates, my credit card will only keep you here through tomorrow. If you still want to sleep after that, I’ll get you a suite at the Four Seasons. Be cheaper, and they have cable.”

  He managed to smile. “I woke up, saw where I was, thought you’d driven us through a brick wall. Thought I was dying.”

  “Not yet, my friend. We still have things to do.” I had an obstruction in my own throat, a logjam of emotions. I felt relief that he was all right and guilt that I may have put him in harm’s way. And I felt bereft. Whenever any thought of losing Guido managed to rise through all the fuss involved in getting him to the hospital, signed in, pumped out, I felt nearly overwhelmed with sadness. I gripped his icy fingers.

  “I called your mom,” I said. “She’s on her way.”

  “I want to sleep some more.” He yawned. “My throat hurts. Let me sleep.”

  “Go ahead.” I smoothed his blanket up under his chin and stayed beside him until he was softly snoring again. The doctor’s best guess was that he had taken a heavy barbiturate. Not good in combination with alcohol. The police were pursuing the source. I was clear what had happened, the question was, why?

  I waited until Guido’s mother arrived, explained the situation to her as well as I could, and then I left her in charge of further fussing and pillow fluffing.

  My benefactor network had left a message that the Reverend Burgess was scheduled for an interview taping. I intended to crash the session in hopes I would find something useful. And if I did, I had no fear about embarrassing the hand behind the signature on my checks. As long as I c
ould use the information to bring the network viewers, I could flog them raw.

  Burgess drove up just as I was getting out of my car. I didn’t want to scare him away from his interview by confronting him in the parking lot, so I went on up, stationed myself near the elevator to watch for him.

  Burgess showed up right behind me, a demanding, balding little rooster from the instant he stepped into the studio. He came carrying a garment bag and a Styrofoam head with a toupee pinned to it. He wanted the staff to provide him with, in this order, a cold Dr. Pepper, a dressing room with a shower, a consultation with the sound and lights technicians, hypoallergenic makeup. Everyone began to scurry—not to accommodate him, but to get out of his way.

  I sidled up to him and said, “Gloria Swanson don’t live here no mo’.”

  “Who are you?” he said, checking me over for labels.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been watching or who you’ve been listening to, but the post-Reagan, tight-budget reality around here is the same as it was over at SNN: You get your own drink out of the cooler in the corner, you change in the men’s dressing room down the hall. Anything you don’t want to lose, keep an eye on.” Then I pointed to the stiff little hairpiece he held out in front like a trophy. “And all pets must be on a leash.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth on you.” He was smiling when he said it. I decided maybe he had untapped potential.

  “If you’re carrying a clean shirt,” I said, “don’t put it on until your face has been painted. And don’t try to tell the technical staff their business or you’re likely to go out on the airwaves looking and sounding like Frankenstein’s spare parts. I’m giving you the best, and probably the only, advice you’re going to get around here. By the way, nice car.”

  I turned my back and left him standing alone with only his extra hair for company. I knew he would be ignored until the staff had decided he had been sufficiently punished for his pushiness.

  I asked the assistant director to call me when everything was ready to roll, and went downstairs to waste some time with Lana Howard, my independent-projects producer. We talked about Guido and what had happened, about the background music I wanted to use in my project, about graphics and promotion, and planting spring bulbs as soon as the weather cooled. A very productive forty minutes.

  When I arrived back upstairs, Leroy Burgess was seated on the news set with the generic male city-affairs reporter on the staff. Burgess wore a pale blue suit and a clerical collar. His hairpiece was glued in place a precise three inches above his combed eyebrows.

  The director, Jack Riley, was an old friend from my Latin American correspondent days. He had been a field cameraman then. A big guy; in the days before little hand-held video-cameras, the shooter was always the tallest and strongest man on the crew. I went into the director’s booth and sat down next to him in front of his massive instrument console.

  I planted a friendly pat on Jack’s back. He responded with more inviting body language than I wanted to deal with, so I backed up a bit.

  He said, “Like old times, Maggie.”

  “Yes,” I said, “back in the jungle together.”

  “You have some interest in this character Burgess?”

  “Indeed, I do. Pretend I’m not here. I only want to listen.”

  A red light began flashing on the console and Jack turned to attend to it. Jack communicated with his cameramen and his on-camera “talent” via tiny ear sets connected to a microphone that extended up out of his board. When the microphone was turned off, conversations in the booth could not be heard on the set. Almost as good as being a speck on the wall for eavesdropping purposes. I was behind the lights that shone in Burgess’s eyes.

  When the interview began, most of what Burgess had to say was a rehash of the stuff he had given to Ralph Faust. In his defense, most of the questions asked were the same, too. The tone was sympathy for poor Conklin, outrage at police abuse, and the failures of our justice system.

  I was worried about Guido in the hospital—the doctor had assured me he would be fine once he had slept off the drugs—and I was feeling frankly bored by the proceedings on the set. I rested my chin on my hand and listened to the reporter go through his schtick.

  Jack nudged me. “Whuzzamattah?”

  “Same old same old,” I shrugged. “He’s given the same interview to every station in town.”

  “Have anything to offer?”

  I suggested a question that was immediately, electronically transplanted into the reporter’s shell-like ear. Like magic, it came out of the reporter’s mouth.

  “Mr. Burgess,” the reporter intoned, “your investigation has taken many months, involved a good deal of travel and other expenses. How is your program financed?”

  Burgess sat up straighter, beamed brighter than he had while discussing the legal details. I knew we had hit the A topic. “We are privately funded, mostly by donations from good citizens interested in seeing an injustice exposed to the bright, purifying light of day. ‘The truth will set you free,’ sayeth the Lord.”

  Jack directed his on-camera mouthpiece, “Rephrase it. Push him.”

  I was proud of him. I gave his arm an approving nudge. The talent asked, “How much funding would an investigation of this nature require?”

  Burgess blustered over a few syllables before he composed himself again. “It’s too early to say. We still have a long way to go. A long way. Anyone who wants to help can call…”

  I took the microphone and planted a new query that interrupted the pitch for money. The reporter was startled by the new voice, but recovered in a hurry.

  The question: “Mr. Burgess, if the court decides that Charles Conklin’s conviction was flawed, and he is released from prison, will he file a civil suit against the city and the police?”

  Burgess frowned. “Charles lost fourteen years of freedom and earnings. His children grew up without him. No dollar amount can repay him. He should be compensated, but what price tag can you put on fourteen years?”

  “I imagine that price tag will be substantial. Well into the millions. The attorney will take, one expects, the standard thirty to fifty percent. What will be your interest in the award?”

  Burgess grew hot under the lights. He equivocated. “The people who put Charles Conklin behind bars must be served notice that this community will not tolerate misuse of power. I would like to see the punishment come out of the pockets of the men responsible and not from public funds.”

  “Will you have a share in the award?”

  Burgess was trying to peer beyond the lights, looking for us. “Only what is appropriate.”

  I turned to Jack and said, “The truth will set you free.” Jack put his finger against his microphone switch and asked me, “Anything else?”

  “Ask about Conklin’s plans should he get sprung.”

  The question was, “Charles Conklin has been in prison for fourteen years. In the event he is released, has he spoken of his plans for the future? Will he return to his former profession? What of his family?”

  Burgess’s eyes grew misty on cue. “As I said, more than anything else, Charles has missed watching his children grow up. They are all adults now, or nearly so. To capture some of what he lost, Charles has told me how very much he wants to work with children when he gets out. Do something in the arts. Teach peace.”

  The reporter furrowed his brow. “What line of work was he in?”

  Burgess was quick. “For Charles, the answers all lie in the future.”

  Jack said, “Maggie?”

  I grinned at him. “It’s your show. Ask your own damn questions.”

  Into the mike he said, “Close him.”

  I stood up. “One thing you can do for me, though. Get a shooter to follow Burgess out of the studio, get a shot of him with his car.”

  “Why?”

  “Background. Some variety to talking heads.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I saw him drive in. His conveyance surp
rised me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Besides, I want that celestial blue suit recorded for posterity. I’ll be beholden to you if you get me a copy of this interview and the grand exit. Like, today sometime.”

  “How beholden?” he asked, gripping my thigh through my jeans.

  “Be careful, Jack,” I said. “Anita Hill is a personal friend of mine.”

  “Damn,” he said.

  Chapter 17

  My family, plus one, Sly again, were just finishing dinner when I walked in. Sly had his hair combed back in imitation of Michael, his idol.

  “How were things in math today?” I asked Sly.

  As always, he turned his foxy face to Michael before he said anything. “Hangin’ in.”

  “How are things at home?”

  “Food’s shit, but okay.”

  “He’s eating regular.” Michael tweaked the boy’s flat midsection. “Look at this belly bag.”

  Sly, delighted by the attention, slapped Michael’s hand away. “Faggot.”

  Mike reached up for my hand. “Hungry?”

  “No.” In the back of my throat I still had the smell of the huevos rancheros Guido had deposited on his floor. I got a diet soda from the refrigerator and sat down at the table between Mike and Casey. “Casey, how was the first day?”

  “Good.” She wore sweatpants over her leotard, her hair was still trapped in a tight ballerina bun. Bowser lay on the floor under the table, resting his head on her foot. “My geometry teacher is a major jerk, but the rest of them are okay. Dance is going be really, really hard. But good.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “The L.A. Ballet Company is coming next week for Nutcracker tryouts,” she said, enthusiasm gaining momentum. “I don’t know if I’m going to try out. Mischa says I’m too tall for the Clara part. Everything else is so boring. The snowflakes and sugarplums are really lame. Think I’ll wait until the Joffrey comes in January.”

  “Auditions for an L.A. show, I hope? I don’t want you on a tour for another year or two. Or three. Or ten.”