Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  “I know, but it will. If not with this man, then with somebody sometime. I want it to, really, Mom, at least in my head.” She tried to smile. “I don’t want to be all you have. But when I thought something had happened, I couldn’t stand it, because of Dad. Also, because a part of me really wants things to stay the same forever.”

  I put my arms around her. “I understand. There’s nothing to feel bad about.”

  “I hope you’re not mad at me,” she said, her face pressed against my shoulder.

  “Of course I’m not mad at you. I feel exactly the same way.”

  She pulled back. “You do?”

  “Sure,” I told her. “I’m afraid of change, too. I’m afraid of getting hurt. I’m afraid of what could happen once I open myself up to a close relationship again.” I patted her shoulder. “The thing is, you can’t make things stay the same forever, even if you want them to. It’s like trying to keep from growing out of your shoes. I think I’ve been trying to do that since your Dad died, but it isn’t healthy to cling to the past. ‘Forever’ and ‘always’ are really just a lot of ‘right nows’ strung together. You have to let things happen to you, good and bad. People die, people move out”—I smiled at her—“you meet new friends, you get a new job. You take risks. That’s how you find out who you are. Sometimes change comes to claim you, whether you’re ready or not. You put your feet in the road, and you get swept along by the stream. That’s how you live your life.”

  She smiled, a little damp-eyed. “Isn’t all that a way of saying that things have changed already?” Andrea may not have been much of a student, but she was very smart.

  I smiled back. “I guess it is.”

  Cynthia was less than forthcoming with the details.

  “Really, Ellen, why are you asking me all these questions about Scott?” she said. “Anyone would think you had some high-school crush on him.”

  I winced. I should have known she’d exact a price for whatever she told me. “I just want to be sure he checks out, that’s all,” I said, with as much patience as I could muster. I told her about the wine glasses. “Andy reminded me that I don’t know a thing about him. I just want to be sure there’s no way he could have done it.”

  Before I let myself get more involved. But, of course, I didn’t say that.

  “If you only knew how absurd that entire idea is,” Cynthia scoffed. “I mean, the man is brilliant. You can’t imagine what his reputation is in the legal community. No one could believe it when he gave up his practice. He was one of the hottest defense attorneys in L.A.”

  “Then why did he give it up?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. Maybe he got bored. God knows he didn’t need the money, after all the big cases he won.”

  “What about personally? No weird hang-ups? No dates with Heidi Fleiss?”

  “Ha, ha. The magazine would hardly use him if there were any notoriety of that sort. All I know about him is that he got divorced several years ago. I don’t know the lurid details.”

  “Did you know his wife?”

  “I met her. She was a very snippy mergers-and-acquisitions lawyer when the field was hot in the eighties. She clearly thought she was God’s gift to the profession. She left Scott and joined a name New York law firm. She married some bigshot in the field. Last I heard, she was divorced from him, too.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Was she good-looking?”

  Cynthia laughed. “You’ve seen Scott. What do you think?”

  “A knockout, right?”

  She didn’t bother to answer. “Ellen…”

  My heart sank. “Yes?”

  “In case there’s more behind this inquiry than a disinterested check on Scott’s bona fides, well, just don’t let yourself get too involved. I mean, I know I might have encouraged you and all, but I don’t think you should read too much into any friendliness Scott might show.” She hesitated. “I mean, the man is a major catch. Women are always throwing themselves at him.”

  “I’m not going to be throwing myself at him, Cynthia,” I said, torn between amusement and chagrin. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  “It’s for your own good,” she reminded me.

  Several days later, at what seemed to me an indecently early hour, the phone rang. I squinted at the clock. Seven A.M. Andy could sleep through a heavy-metal concert taking place in her bedroom, so I knew it was up to me or the machine. I thought of my mother and reached for the phone.

  “Hello,” I said groggily.

  “Oh, did I wake you?” asked Scott Crossland.

  “How could you tell?” I inquired. Early morning was not my best time for witty repartee.

  He let it slide. “Fancy a trip up to Tehachapi tomorrow morning?” he asked. “I’m sorry to call you this early, but I’m going to be tied up all day.”

  I sat up in the bed. “What’s up?”

  “I talked to Mrs. Garcia.”

  “And?” He was clearly reluctant to tell me, so I was determined to worm it out of him.

  “And she doesn’t want Ramon to talk to me unless you go, too,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Me?” I was surprised. I hadn’t exactly thought I’d be Flavor of the Month in the Garcia household.

  “She thinks you’re honest,” he said. “She said she trusts you to do the right thing.”

  It probably killed him to admit he needed my help in getting to Ramon, after all that talk about hot tickets to prisons. Men got their egos involved in the oddest things. I couldn’t believe my luck. I really wanted to be there when he interviewed Ramon. No, scratch that. I had some questions I wanted to ask Ramon myself. “What about the lawyer?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t approve of our visit. But Ramon has the right to see us if he wants, and his mother talked him into it.” He hesitated. “If we’re going to get anywhere in finding the truth, I really need you to come along. We’re on the list for tomorrow, but if you can’t make it, I’ll try to rearrange it for next weekend.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Umm…”

  “Yes?”

  “My car’s in the shop.”

  “You’d like me to drive?”

  “Would you mind? It’s going in for a major servicing today, and it may not be ready till Monday.” He hesitated. “I could reschedule the appointment, if you’d rather not.”

  I reluctantly abandoned my fantasies of a ride in a sleek, elegant, oversized Mercedes or something racy like a Porsche 911 Cabriolet. A super-quiet Lexus…Despite my history of ruthlessly generic automotive transportation, I harbored romantic notions about the attractions of cars I couldn’t afford. Since I’d lived in L.A. my entire life, this was hardly surprising.

  Still, a day’s outing with Scott, even to a prison, was not to be sneezed at, no matter who was driving. It would give me a chance to pump him for everything he knew about the case. At least that’s what I told myself. “No problem,” I said. I arranged for a time and place to pick him up. “See you tomorrow,” I told him and hung up.

  It wasn’t till I put down the receiver that I remembered that I’d promised the Camry to Andy for a trip to Big Bear Lake with some friends the next day. She drove a restored VW bug around town, but I didn’t like her to take it any distance. I certainly wasn’t going to take her car to Tehachapi and subject Scott to an unair-conditioned ride in a front seat engineered for Teutonic dwarves. I lifted the phone to call him back.

  Then I had a better idea.

  Why shouldn’t I indulge my fantasies, even if just for a day or two? I was tired of being predictable and safe. Boring. Practical. Middle-aged.

  I picked up the phone book and flipped through the pages till I found the number I wanted.

  Alvino Louis, my fellow juror, entered into my project with surprising relish. “I’m sure I can fix you up with something you’ll like,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
/>
  We were standing on the gleaming hardwood floor of his temple of exotic and luxury automobiles, flanked by what, in an ordinary dealership, would be called “car salesmen.” Here, they were more like acolytes at the shrine. I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been wearing hoods and chanting.

  When we’d served on the jury together, I hadn’t realized what an exalted establishment Alvino owned. The showroom sported every imaginable lavish appointment, from buttery leather couches to a gigantic copper espresso machine, the kind that only very expensive restaurants can afford. The cars were displayed with an artistic reverence not inappropriate for a Van Gogh at a Sotheby’s auction. They were buffed to a brilliance that hurt my eyes. Alvino himself was wearing sunglasses indoors. He looked like Ray Charles.

  “You understand, I’m not buying one,” I told him, a bit nervously. Alvino was friendly, and this wasn’t the kind of place where they painted the prices in big white letters on the rear windows, but it was still a car agency, a business not noted for Straight Shooting. I didn’t want to sign a rental agreement and find out I’d bought myself a very expensive Christmas present. For the next 130 years. “I can’t afford to rent one for more than a couple of days,” I reiterated.

  “Relax,” he said. “I’ll give you a discount. Besides, it’s for a good cause.”

  Alvino was understandably interested in my discoveries about the Ivanova case, but he regarded my quest for the Real Truth as somewhat quixotic and wholly unnecessary. He was more excited by the forthcoming magazine article and my hints that if I found out anything, I would try to work in some mention of his assistance. Preferably with pictures.

  “So which one would you like?” he asked expansively.

  “A convertible,” I told him. “But really, Alvino, I don’t want to look at anything that retails for over fifty thousand. I’m doing this for fun. I don’t want any IRS field agents following me home.”

  He grinned. “Right this way,” he said.

  “Now this,” he said, his eyes growing moist with paternal pride, “is really special. The Porsche Boxster. Zero to sixty in a shade over six seconds. Variocam kicks in at about five thousand rpm. I love it. And man, this baby has a torque curve as flat as stale beer.”

  I looked at him, openmouthed. I’d never learned Auto Speak.

  He didn’t notice. “And this over here, this one’s the Mercedes Benz SLK 230. The SLK’s real solid—great style, great handling. Comes with automatic transmission, though,” he said sadly. “Not for purists.”

  It looked fine to me, although I doubted I qualified as a purist. The candidates all had the muscular look of cars that bite the road like Dobermans, with alloy wheels on metallic steroids. Testosterone was king of the road in this showroom. I followed Alvino across the floor.

  “This here’s the car for people who like a classic sportscar,” he said, with a dramatic sweep of his hand. “Last year’s sensation—the BMW Z3, but with a 2.8 liter engine. The inline-six is great—silky, if you know what I mean.” He stopped just short of stroking its flanks. “Man, this is a fun car. It reminds me of the old MG, without the mechanical problems.” He looked at me expectantly.

  I remembered lecturing Scott about making choices on the basis of uninformed taste. Well, I was definitely uninformed, and what information there was, was not coming in a form I could decipher. I would have to go with what I felt.

  Alvino was still standing by the Beemer. It was bright red, a color as far from beige as it was possible to imagine. “Pierce Brosnan drove a version of this car in the last James Bond movie,” he said.

  “I’ll take it,” I told him.

  A couple of Alvino’s salesmen were driving the Camry home for me, so I took the long way back, along the ocean, in the Z3. My hair was too short to stream out behind me in the wind, but otherwise I gave myself up to the warm afternoon and the salt tang in the air. I hadn’t ridden in a convertible in years, much less driven one. The sensation was delicious.

  On the Esplanade, the road along the top of the cliffs that line the beach near my townhouse, I saw my daughter walking with Josh Petersen, a boy she’d met at the community college. She was wearing a halter top and short shorts, with rubber thongs. Thanks to her youth and enthusiasm for athletics, her legs were long and firm and tanned. I had never in my entire life looked that good, not even in what was charitably known as my prime.

  Josh was wearing a T-shirt and baggy shorts, the college uniform. His hand rested with easy confidence on her bare back. He was leaning over her, laughing, his lips brushing her neck. It looked like a familiar gesture.

  His hair needed cutting. He had a small tattoo on his right hand. I’d seen it once, when he came by the house.

  Andy had always assured me that they were just friends.

  I tried not to stare, but I found that I had slowed down almost to a standstill. Josh whispered something to her; she looked up at him and smiled.

  I wondered if he was part of the reason she was thinking of moving out.

  It tore my heart in two, but it was time, I guess. I remembered all those things I’d told Andy about change and moving on with your life. Had I thought they applied only to me? I’d given her all the warnings and the requisite clinical information, and I’d tried to keep the lines of communication open, but if she chose to keep things to herself, I had to give her the space she needed. I don’t want to be all you have, she’d said to me. I hadn’t thought how much of a burden that would be for her.

  A year ago, I would have driven up next to them to let her know I’d seen her. I’d wanted so much to protect her, to spare her any pain. Like some fairy-tale parent, I’d tried to remove every thorn in the kingdom. I knew now how impossible that was. And, in the long run, how limiting.

  I wished life wouldn’t pitch me lessons when I was trying to re-master the stick shift. I ground the gear, and Andy looked up and saw me.

  She did a double take. “Mom?” she called. “Is that you?”

  I guessed it was. I whipped around and pulled up next to them. “What do you think?” I asked. “I rented it for the week.”

  “It’s, like, totally, awesomely cool, Mrs. L.,” Josh said. “Can I look under the hood?”

  “Sure,” I told him. “Be my guest.”

  Andy looked at me uncertainly. “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “No reason. It’s just for fun.”

  “Mom, I can’t believe you lately,” she said, shaking her head, but smiling.

  Well, actually, neither could I.

  Tehachapi is a relatively painless drive from L.A., as Southern California distances go, though not a very pretty one. The low mountains north of Los Angeles turn mud brown in the summer; the grass shrivels into dead stalks. The trip down the Grapevine is a miracle of highway construction: perfectly engineered curves and slopes so beautifully graded that you don’t have to ride the brakes as you descend into the flat Central Valley. The marvels are all man-made. The nearest big town is Bakersfield, fifty miles away, a fast-growing community laid out on almost featureless terrain. It broils under scorching heat in the summertime and endures impenetrable tule fogs in the winter. Perfectly sane and pleasant people choose to live there, but you have to wonder.

  If Ramon had had the wherewithal to commit a federal crime, we might have been driving up the coast, through Santa Barbara and the Santa Ynez Mountains and flower fields, to Lompoc. State criminals get more pedestrian digs, in less glamorous locales like Folsom and Chino.

  Not that the trip didn’t have its compensations.

  The Z3 zipped along the roads like a particularly sleek and self-satisfied cat. It was still early enough in the day to keep the top down, so Scott and I had to shout a bit over the roar of the wind as we raced along. I’d slathered on enough sunscreen to block every UV ray into the next century, and I wasn’t about to put up the soft top till the temperature reached ninety, at least. Scott wore dark sunglasses and an amused look.

  “I had you pegged more as
the Toyota type,” he said.

  He’d thought about my type. “You don’t get credit for that,” I told him. “You checked me out.”

  “True,” he admitted, “but you still surprise me.”

  Good, I thought. “I’m just trying it on for size,” I said aloud. “In case I win the lottery.”

  He smiled.

  “Tell me about your favorite case,” I said after a while.

  “Prosecution or defense?”

  “Defense, I guess.”

  “That’s easy,” he said, with a grin. “The first one I won.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  So he did, all the way through the San Fernando Valley and up into the brown foothills beyond. He had a great fund of stories about judges who hummed aloud during testimony, attorneys who faked limps to gain sympathy from the jury, and jurors who slept through crime reenactments or tried to pass mash notes to the defendants.

  I told him I had found jury duty interesting, but that I thought the system was incredibly disrespectful of jurors, because of the long hours, ugly and inadequate facilities, and a voir dire process that was both tedious and occasionally insensitive.

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “Does that mean you agree?”

  “Sure,” he conceded. “The court system is like all bureaucracies. It runs for its own convenience. The ideal juror from that point of view is one like your lady with the thimble collection, who is entertained by the process and doesn’t have a lot of better things to do. If the judge adjourns at ten o’clock every day for a week, somebody with a job and a more interesting life starts to squawk that you’re wasting his time. He’s right, too, from his own perspective. A dissatisfied juror can work for you or against you, depending on the circumstances of the case, but he’s dangerous. It’s impossible to predict which way he’ll jump.”

  “Can you usually guess how somebody will vote?” I asked him.

  He laughed. “There are experts who’ll advise you on jury selection, for very substantial fees. Even they will tell you it’s not an exact science. But you get better than average at summing people up, because people give out all kinds of clues about themselves all the time.”