Adjourned

by Lee Goldberg

  ". . . lifelike Latex blow-up dolls with warm vaginas and budding tits that make them the best lay imaginable . . . whenever you want it!"

  ". . . they're young, they're wet, they're 200 glossy black-and-white pictures of the horniest sweet candy ever . . ."

  Macklin stared down at the legal pad, then glanced at the remaining stacks of papers, photos, and film. Bile, hot and acidic, bubbled up in his throat. He dashed to the bathroom, leaned over the toilet, and vomited in deep, aching heaves that left him light-headed and shaky kneed.

  Bracing himself against the sink, he straightened up and flushed the toilet. He felt as if he had puked up everything except his heart and lungs. He turned on the faucet, cupped his hands under the cool water, and splashed his face a few times. Then, his face damp, he meekly ventured a look at himself in the mirror.

  His skin was chalk white. The only tinge of color came from the dark circles that underscored his eyes and gave them a sunken, empty look. Macklin splashed his face again, as if he could wash the face he saw in the mirror off his own.

  Dabbing his face dry with a rough paper towel, Macklin shuffled back into the hangar and decided to forget the piles of paper for a while and see what the film strips had to offer. Best to do it on an empty stomach, he thought. All I can do is gag.

  He sat down on a stool and fed the torn strips of celluloid, which he presumed were outtakes, rejects, and damaged film, through his tiny Super 8 viewer. The same viewer he had used to edit home movies he shot of Cory. Brooke nursing Cory at the hospital. Cory walking for the first time. His father playing with Cory. Cory nearly hidden under JD Macklin's LAPD hat. Cory's seventh birthday party at Disneyland.

  He spent the next two hours in front of the viewer. Most of the film was outtake footage for a good reason. The endless yards of blurry, indiscernible shots and scratched film had made Macklin's eyes stinging red. Macklin yawned, tired of the vague shapes, overexposed film, and lingering shots of genitalia.

  Macklin wearily fed another three-foot-long strip of film quickly through the editor. Something bright flashed for a split second on the tiny screen, catching his attention. He pulled the strip backward, careful not to rip the sprockets on the feed. Another bright flash amidst the blur of frames. Macklin brought the film through again slowly and stopped at the bright frame.

  The shot was hazy, but in comparison to the rest of the film, it was Oscar-winning cinematography. A young girl, perhaps ten years old, sat on a stool, her legs crossed, at the edge of a movie set. It must be a wild shot, Macklin thought, taken accidently and not part of their movie. Lights and rafters, as well as several people, could be made out in the background.

  She looked serene, calm.

  Not like she would be, Macklin thought. Not swollen and green, naked and covered in mud. Not rotting beside a rain-swelled canal.

  Macklin clicked off the viewer. Not dead.

  A loud rapping at the hangar door startled him. Macklin, tearing the frame from the strip and putting it in his shirt pocket, quickly swept everything on the table into the Glad bag.

  The knocking became irritated and persistent.

  "Hang on!" Macklin yelled as he dragged the bag along the floor into his darkened office. He closed the office door and sprinted across the hangar. Macklin took a deep breath and opened the door.

  A gust of cold wind blew into the hangar. Standing against the night, under a narrow cone of light cast by a dirty bulb above the door, was a dark-skinned woman in khaki pants, a white woven silk blazer, and a brown blouse.

  She looked at him with curious green eyes that sparkled like olivine stones. "Brett Macklin?"

  "Yes?"

  "My name is Jessica Mordente," she said politely. "I'm with the Los Angeles Times."

  A fucking reporter, Macklin thought, a vulture.

  "I've got a subscription," Macklin said curtly, closing the door. She jammed her foot in the way, forcing the door open a crack.

  "Good. Then you'll see the story that exposes Mr. Jury."

  Macklin's stomach muscles tightened defensively as if he were preparing to ward off a blow. "Move your foot, lady, or you're going to lose it." Macklin stared into her eyes and felt a tremor of nervousness at the determination he saw there. A sense of apprehension squeezed him, viselike. He'd be damned, though, if he'd give up any ground. "I'm in no mood for journalistic bullshit."

  "Come now, Mr. Macklin, couldn't we talk for just a moment?" she said with exaggerated care, as if talking to a temperamental child. It made Macklin want to throttle her. "Aren't you even a little interested in Mr. Jury?"

  "Not the slightest."

  Mordente shook her head and spoke evenly. "I think you are, Mr. Macklin. Very much." She met his scornful gaze. "Mr. Jury's first victims were the men suspected of killing your father. Interesting, huh?"

  "He made a good choice."

  "Now someone has planted a bomb in your car and killed your girlfriend." She saw Macklin's face harden. "I think Mr. Jury is going to strike again, real soon."

  "And I think you're about to acquire a permanent limp."

  Mordente laughed coyly. "Well, Mr. Macklin, a polite good night to you, too." She turned her back to him and walked away, waving her hand at him. "See you around."

  Macklin slammed the door shut and fell back against it. His heart raced. The world was closing in on him again. Harder this time. Macklin took several deep breaths, exhaling them slowly, trying to calm himself. I don't care if they find out who I am, what I am.

  Then why are you so rattled, Macky boy? Macklin pulled the piece of film out of his pocket and studied it.

  Because I don't want anyone to stop me until I've evened the score.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Erica Tandy stretched her legs out as far as they could go and tried to touch the darkish cloud with her toes. She almost made it, but the swing resisted at the height of its climb. The swing fell back and she tucked her legs, trying to grab the air and pin it between her calves and the underside of her thighs.

  It was Friday, the second clear day after so many rainy days when she couldn't come out and play. She had the whole muddy park to herself. It was chilly, but the crisp wind cooled the perspiration, prompted by her energetic swinging, that she could feel on her back.

  As she swung backward over the ground, she looked down at the big hole in the dirt, carved out by the dozens of kids who dragged their feet as they rode the swing. It was brimming over with dirty water, so she bent her legs closer to her to prevent her toes from skimming the puddle.

  The swing carried Erica back, high up into the air again. The swing froze for a split second and then fell forward. She extended her legs, tightened her grip on the chain and felt the swing race downward and begin its climb toward the sky.

  It stopped with jolt that flung her face forward toward the dirt. She grasped the chains tightly, holding herself in the swing. Angrily, she whipped her head around to see what had so suddenly halted her skyward arc.

  Erica saw a man standing behind her, holding the chain above her hands. At first she was scared because he looked like that awful man called Mr. Dark she had seen in that spooky movie on HBO. She remembered Mr. Dark had these pictures of kids on his palms and would squeeze his hands real hard until blood dripped out of his fists. "Hi there," the man said, smiling warmly. He brought the swing down to him slowly. She kept her eyes on his. She didn't like his thin eyes at all. They were too far into his head, as if they were trying to hide from her or something. "Your mom told me I'd find you here."

  "Why?" she asked, stepping shakily off the swing. The man glided around in front of her. She became powerfully aware of the enormity of the park and the absence of any other children. It made her chilly, even though the red sweater Nana had made her for Christmas should have kept her warm.

  "Because she has a special lunch planned." He put his hand on her shoulder. His black gloved hand felt heavy, like a iron clasp. "A party."

  "A party?" she asked shyly. She felt him guid
e her away from the swing set toward the street.

  "With cookies and cake." He walked up beside her, his hand firmly grasping her shoulder. "A surprise party for . . ." He let his voice trail off.

  "For Daddy?" She eagerly filled the conversational lapse.

  "Yes," he agreed in a praising tone. "For your father."

  The fear, like a cloud that had obscured the sun, floated away and she felt warm again. Surprising Dad would be fun! The stranger's eyes didn't look so bad now. Instead of Mr. Dark, he was beginning to look like Rick Springfield, though she had never seen Rick dressed like this, with a big scarf and overcoat.

  "You have a van just like my uncle's," she said. He reached past her and opened the van's passenger door.

  "He helped me pick it out." Tice smiled. She climbed in, and he closed the door behind her.

  # # # # # #

  Shaw stood very still in the center of Macklin's living room, holding a magnifying glass over his eye with one hand and a strip of movie film up to the light with the other.

  "It's Orlock," Shaw whispered.

  Macklin barely heard him. "What did you say?"

  "In the background, behind the girl." Shaw lowered his arms and faced Macklin. "Crocker Orlock is standing there."

  "Great." Macklin clapped Shaw on the back. "Nail the son of a bitch, then give me a few seconds alone with him and I'll find out who killed Cheshire."

  "Hold on, Mack." Shaw held the film out to Macklin. "We can't get him yet."

  "Why the hell not?" Macklin shouted into Shaw's face. "What more do you need? It's all there on the film. For God's sake, Ronny, you've got Orlock with a kidnapped girl who turned up dead."

  Shaw tossed the magnifying glass on the couch and ran his hand through his hair. "Mack, this film is virtually useless. It doesn't prove a thing."

  "Ronny, are you out of your mind? What's the matter with you?" Macklin yanked the film from Shaw's hand and waved it in front of the detective's face. "Look at this closely. It links Orlock with everything. Murder. Kiddie porn. Do I have to gift wrap him and drop him off at police headquarters for you?"

  Shaw jabbed the film with his index finger. "You're gonna have to do better than that. It won't stand up in court. For starters, it's illegally obtained evidence—"

  "So say it was given to you by an anonymous Good Samaritan," Macklin interrupted impatiently, a scowl of frustration on his face.

  "Number two," Shaw continued, ignoring Macklin's remark, "we can't positively identify Orlock. The more we blow it up, the blurrier it will get. His attorney can talk a jury out of this with ease."

  "You know it's Orlock! You recognized him!" Macklin yelled.

  "Yeah, so what! Grow up, Mack. Truth can be disproved by a good lawyer living off a fat retainer." Shaw sighed. "Thirdly, even if we can convince the jury it's Orlock, we can't prove he kidnapped her. Look, what the film does prove is that Crocker is dirty."

  "You knew that already, Ronny."

  "But now I know that."

  Macklin fell back wearily against the wall and slid down into a sitting position on the floor facing Shaw, who stood in front of the fireplace. "Okay, did you get anything from the list of plates I gave you?"

  "Yeah, that paid off. The warehouse is owned by Orlock through a maze of dummy companies and leased to Saputo by an independent, legitimate rental agency. The van also belongs to Orlock, as does the Seville you saw Saputo driving."

  Macklin looked up at Shaw and spoke very carefully. "I think it's time Mr. Jury takes care of it."

  "Really?" Shaw smirked. "Remember your grandiose speech about due process?"

  Macklin nodded.

  "Does it still hold, or do you run out of here now, guns blazing?"

  Macklin stared silently at Shaw for a full minute. "It still holds."

  "Good." Shaw pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and tossed it into Macklin's lap. "He's expecting you."

  Shaw went to the front door and walked out.

  Macklin glanced at the crumpled paper in his lap and picked it up. He unfolded it slowly and read it twice.

  Harlan Fitz. 555-9182.

  # # # # # #

  Whenever life got complicated, Harlan Fitz sought refuge in the Greasy Spoon, where club sandwiches start at $6.50 and chocolate ice cream is white.

  The bookcase-lined walls made him feel like he was back in his judge's chambers, and the aroma of cooking food gave the popular Century City restaurant a warm, homey quality that he found relaxing.

  The Greasy Spoon was nestled between what Fitz would have called two twenty-story stereo speakers; the dressed-for-success executives knew them as the Twin Towers, two silver monoliths rising above the exclusive cluster of office buildings just outside Beverly Hills.

  Fitz sat at his favorite table, tucked into a shadowy corner in the back, and nursed a Bloody Mary while watching the ebb and flow of the Friday noontime crowd. He could hear the rumble of the Santa Anas sweeping through the city, which had been lulled into complacency by a deceptively calm morning.

  The usually trim, slim, and prim Century City executives emerged at noon like preprogrammed robots from their high-rent, high-rise offices and marched into the Greasy Spoon looking mop topped and harried. Fitz noticed that even actor Peter Graves, huddled amongst the crowd awaiting tables, appeared disheveled. Having seen Mission Impossible, Fitz knew how rare that was.

  Fitz ordered a second drink and glanced nervously at his watch. He was watching for the mysterious vigilante to show up and half hoping the man wouldn't. He didn't kid himself. Just agreeing to meet with Mr. Jury and not going to the police made him an accomplice. Then again, if Shaw was any indication, the LAPD wouldn't give a damn anyway.

  He buttered a pencil-thin breadstick and noticed, uneasily, that his hand was shaking just a bit. Fitz couldn't decide whether what he felt was fear or excitement.

  Macklin sat at the bar, as he had for the last two hours, watching Fitz across the room and glancing at faces, hunting for anyone who might be a cop or reporter waiting to snare Mr. Jury in a nice trap.

  When Macklin spotted Peter Graves, he almost bolted out of the restaurant. For a split second fiction became reality for him and he thought the Mission Impossible team had come to get him.

  Shit, Macky boy, take it easy. Macklin swallowed the remainder of his beer, slid off his bar stool, and headed toward Fitz's table, a manila envelope under his arm.

  Macklin neared the round table. "Excuse me, are you Judge Fitz?"

  Fitz's head shot up quickly, the voice startling him. He studied the approaching man and found himself squinting back at the blue eyes that were unabashedly sizing him up.

  "Yes," Fitz replied, recovering his composure, and motioned to the seat in front of him, "You must be"—Fitz cut himself off and shrugged—"the mystery man."

  Macklin's stony expression was broken by an ironic grin. He folded his six-foot frame into the padded wicker chair and offered Fitz his hand as he sat down. "My name's Brett Macklin."

  Fitz straightened up in his seat and shook Macklin's hand. Macklin's grip was strong and firm, giving Fitz the impression that Macklin was a man who was self-assured and aggressive, a fighter. Or, Fitz wondered, am I just reaffirming my preconceived notions?

  "You must be as nervous as I am, Mr. Macklin."

  Macklin nodded, setting the envelope in his lap. "More."

  "Have any trouble finding me?"

  "Not at all. You said look for the darkest corner of the restaurant and you'd be in it." Macklin shrugged. "You were right. Besides, I caught a few minutes of your show on TV before I came."

  A freckled, pale-skinned waitress, her ample girth bound by a nannyish black apron, came to the table.

  "I see your friend has arrived, Judge. Are you ready to order?"

  "I'll have another Bloody Mary, thanks," Fitz replied.

  "Scotch on the rocks," Macklin said. The waitress nodded at them both and bustled toward the bar.

  Fitz leaned back in his seat, watching the
waitress go, and chuckled. "Why did I expect you to ask for the drink in a dirty glass?"

  Macklin shifted uneasily in his seat. "I didn't come here to trade one-liners with you. This isn't easy for me."

  Fitz was about to speak when the waitress appeared again, giving them their drinks. The judge took a sip of his drink and then stirred it with his swizzle stick.

  "Mr. Macklin, are you at all familiar with California history?"

  "Slightly," Macklin said wearily, lifting his glass to his lips.

  "In the mid-eighteen hundreds, San Francisco was being eaten alive by crime. The police, the courts, the city government, they were all thoroughly infected by corruption and did nothing. The citizenry took to the streets themselves, hunting down criminals, conducting trials, and then strictly punishing the offenders." Fitz took another sip of his drink and regarded Macklin solemnly. "Popular opinion then, and now, is quite supportive of those vigilantes. An opinion leader of the era, a seaman-turned-lawyer named Richard Henry Dana, said the vigilantes rescued the city, restoring morality and good government."

  Fitz smiled, meeting Macklin's gaze. "He said the vigilantes were"—his voice took on a high, melodramatic tone as he quoted from memory—"'the last resort of the thinking and the good, taken to only when vice, fraud and ruffianism have entrenched themselves behind the forms of law, suffrage and ballot, and there is no hope but in organized force whose action must be instant and thorough.'"

  Macklin saw the judge's hand tighten into a fist on the table. "Mr. Macklin, I believe that same environment, that same laxity of the law, exists today. It sickens me. And until now I've felt helpless to stop it. Your desire for due process proves what I suspected before, that you aren't a murderer, but a man of principle trying to restore order."

  Macklin looked around the room, afraid someone might have overheard. None of the patrons seemed to be paying any attention to them. "Can we take a walk? I really don't feel comfortable talking here."

  Fitz laughed self-consciously. "Of course. Forgive me. I wanted to at least meet here, on familiar ground, where I could feel comfortable. This was the only place I could think of besides home, and that's always out. I never bring work home. That is my sanctuary. I will not let it be touched by matters like this."