Staying Cool

by Catherine Todd

  “Oh.” The idea made me feel self-conscious. I wondered what kinds of clues I was giving off. When in doubt, change the subject.

  “What made you quit?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “What makes anybody quit? I didn’t want to find myself sixty-five without ever having done anything else. This way, I get to choose the stuff that interests me. I can’t tell you how incredibly liberating that is.” He said it smoothly, as if he’d been asked the question a lot. Still, I thought there had to be more to it. He was so animated when he talked about his cases that I couldn’t believe he’d gotten bored.

  “I can only fantasize,” I told him. If my clients wanted a life-sized giraffe on roller skates for the family room, I would try to get it for them. Selectivity wasn’t a luxury I could afford. I thought of what I would do if I could pick and choose, of being able to put time and money into projects I believed in, like the Art Park.

  “The other thing is,” he said, looking into the distance, “that it took all my time. Literally. Sometimes I even slept on my office floor. There wasn’t room for anything else.” He sounded grim. “I’m not willing to pay that price anymore.” He shook his head. “When my son asked me about jobs after law school, I suggested Trust and Estates. No crises, and a steady supply of work as the Boomers get along in years.”

  He had a child. “Your son’s in law school?”

  “No, he’s just a long-range planner. He’s a sophomore at Stanford.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I told him.

  He smiled. “He’s a great kid. He grew up with his mother on the East Coast, so I didn’t know him very well until he came out here to go to school. He spent vacations with me, but he was always a little polite and distant, as if he didn’t want to upset me. Now he’s opened up a lot more. I really like him.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I could understand Scott’s son; I’d been the same kind of child myself. Just keep everything on an even keel and you won’t get hurt. “You’re so lucky to have gotten him back,” I said, thinking of what I’d lost forever with my mother.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s all I can do not to drive up to Palo Alto every weekend and smother him with attention.”

  I knew about that, too. I laughed.

  “I lost my moral compass,” he said. He said it very fast, facing into the wind, so I couldn’t be sure I’d heard the words right.

  “Pardon me?”

  He turned in my direction. “You asked me why I quit my practice. It wasn’t just because I got bored or overtired, although that was part of it.”

  “Go on,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road.

  “Well, it just got to be a game. If you won, you were happy. If you lost, tough shit, but you got paid anyway. It was fun to psych out the jury or the judge or the other lawyer. I found out that I liked to argue.”

  I could have told him that. Still, I wasn’t about to touch that one, under the circumstances.

  “Big surprise, right? But I reached the point where I could have prosecuted a guy one day and turned right around and defended him the next, if such a thing were possible. It didn’t matter what he’d done or what the victim had suffered. It didn’t matter that virtually everyone I defended was guilty of the crime he was charged with.

  “It isn’t that I thought it was wrong. I believed—I still believe—in a person’s right to the best possible defense. That was part of my moral code. It’s just that I excised the victim from the equation. I did my job, and I did it pretty well, actually. But you can’t put a sense of morality on and off like a coat. It has to come from inside yourself. And I was losing that, or at least I was seriously confused.” He paused. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? ‘Being a lawyer doesn’t let you off the hook for doing the right thing.’ So I quit.”

  “That’s admirable,” I told him, meaning it. “Not everybody could walk away.”

  He leaned back against the leather seat. The confession had stripped something away from him. He seemed more open than he had before. “Yeah, but I still feel like a fraud. I made a lot of money defending high-profile clients, and that’s the reason I can afford to have scruples now. I have to ask myself if I could have done it if my credit cards had been maxed out or if I didn’t have the money for my son’s college education.”

  A truck passed me, going sixty in the opposite direction. The wake rocked the little car and made me grip the wheel. “What I’m hearing is that you were great at your job, and when you didn’t feel good about it anymore, you quit,” I told him after a minute. “That doesn’t sound like something you should feel guilty about.” I didn’t tell him that after a lifetime of enslavement, I was seriously thinking about abandoning guilt as a ruling principle. It took far too much time and energy, and it didn’t get you where you wanted to go. “Besides,” I said with a laugh, “there’s nothing inherently noble about not having any money.”

  He laughed, too. “I know that. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.”

  “Not even a dessert fork?”

  “No way. My father was a mailman—a postal carrier, they say now. That’s probably why his hips and knees are shot.”

  “What made you take on the Ivanova case?” I asked him. I wanted to know, since he clearly had a lot of doubts about Ramon’s innocence, and he didn’t have my excuse for enthusiasm.

  “Seriously?”

  “Of course.”

  “I didn’t like the thought of all those people exposing their vulnerabilities in a matchmaking service and then getting taken to the cleaners. If there is fraud involved, I want it stopped.” He sighed. “Even if you’re rich, you still want someone to worry when you don’t come home at night. I don’t like to see people taken advantage of when they’re brave enough to admit their needs.”

  “Brave enough?”

  “Sure. Don’t you think so?” I could feel him looking at me, but I didn’t take my eyes off the road.

  “Actually, yes,” I said. “The whole idea of dating and matchmaking services scares me witless. How can people do it? It’s like your head says ‘no,’ but your genes say ‘yes.’”

  He laughed. “You and I would seem to be pretty odd choices to be conducting this investigation,” he said. “The reluctant daters.”

  “Well, at least we won’t get swept off our feet.”

  He didn’t reply, and I blushed, wondering if he’d misinterpreted my meaning.

  “Have you seen anyone since…?” he asked me suddenly.

  “Since my husband died?” I shook my head. “Not really.”

  “Why not?” He sounded surprised.

  “Lots of reasons. Just about any one you can think of.” I cleared my throat. It seemed important to be completely honest with him. “Also, when Michael—my husband—died, I did something stupid with someone I shouldn’t have. After that, I didn’t trust my own judgment. It was easier to keep everybody away.”

  “And the rest of your life was going to be the Act of Contrition, is that it?” he asked gently.

  I couldn’t look at him. “That seems to have been the plan. I didn’t articulate it that well.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m not sure,” I said, as we approached the prison gates. I thought about the Mad Squirrel, a master of indirection, refusing to head straight for anything. “I think I’m sidling up to dating again,” I told him. “Two steps forward, one step back.”

  “That’s progress, anyway,” Scott said in his deep voice.

  22

  There were not a lot of BMWs in the parking area.

  Prison reminded me a little bit of high school; there were lots of lines and rules, and you had to take the bus. Also, the Faculty were toting weapons more formidable than Detention, which took on a whole new meaning in this environment.

  I’d known enough to leave my pepper spray at home, but I was amazed at what I had to leave in the car. Scott had brought a clear plastic bag to replace my purse.

  There was Formica everywhere, j
ust like in the Jury Room. The justice system was apparently supported by pillars of Formica. We went through the metal detectors and presented our IDs to the officers behind the counter. They subjected the carton of cigarettes Scott had brought to a fluoroscope.

  The prison was built in the foothills, and the prisoners were housed according to degrees of security required (levels one through five) in buildings scattered throughout the site. After we left the main reception area, we boarded a bus that made a circuit to the various buildings.

  We got off at Maximum Security, Level 5.

  It was not, as Scott had warned me, a field trip. As we entered the lobby for Level 5, it was impossible not to feel depressed. There were so many people, so many sad-looking young women, waiting for their men. I felt spoiled—gross with affluence and stuffed with credit cards. There were more metal detectors, and they checked our IDs again. A staff member called the housing unit to inform Ramon of our arrival. Scott had already told me he would be strip-searched before he came in to see us, and again on the way out. “Go through the sally port,” the guard told us.

  This was a set of two solid doors with glass strips that had controlled access (directed from a glassed-in booth) on each side. Beyond was an elevator descending to the visitors’ room below.

  My heart was pounding, but I tried to stay cool.

  The visitors’ room was big, like a gymnasium, with bright orange chairs and cafeteria-style tables. More high school. Because Scott was an attorney, we got access to one of the conference rooms adjacent to the bigger room. The presence of so many Maximum Security prisoners, even under guard, made me tense, and I was relieved to be slightly removed from them. Not that the thin wall was much protection, but still…

  The only thing I knew about prisons prior to this experience was what I had learned in movies and books: Don’t “diss” anybody’s mother, and don’t bend over the sink. It wasn’t a joke anymore.

  I’d sent somebody here.

  Scott touched my hand. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said, but my voice came out squeaky.

  I hadn’t seen Ramon since the trial, and then only from a distance, but even I could tell that his bravado was diminished. I could understand; I felt incredibly intimidated by being there, and I was on the auspicious side of the bars. Maybe whatever tough-guy fantasies he had entertained about prison life—becoming a capo in the Mexican Mafia or whatever—had been blunted by the reality of spending the next couple of decades in a cell. He still had his macho swagger, but it looked animated more by habit than conviction.

  He took a seat in a molded plastic chair across from us and folded his arms. “Well, I’m here. What do you want?”

  A great beginning. Scott had reminded me, on the way in, that a lawyer’s job isn’t to get his client to confess, it’s to put together the best defense possible. The best story. But Scott wasn’t representing Ramon, and if he didn’t tell us what really happened, there wasn’t much point in even talking.

  “I’m Ellen Santiago,” I told him, “and this is—”

  Scott looked at me, and I realized he didn’t know about the “Santiago” part. I’d managed to confess my dating insecurities in some detail, but I’d omitted a whole chunk of my ethnic history. Oh well, time enough for that later.

  “I know who you are, lady,” Ramon said. “You’re the one that put me in this shit house.”

  “Well, maybe I’m the one who can get you out,” I told him. Beside me, Scott laid an admonitory hand on my arm. “Don’t promise anything,” he’d warned me. But how would we get him to tell the truth if there weren’t some carrot to wave in front of his nose?

  “Is this your boyfriend?” Ramon asked with a leer.

  “Cut the crap, Ray,” Scott told him. “I’m Scott Crossland. I’m investigating this case.”

  “You representing me?” Ramon asked.

  “No, I’m not. Haven’t you talked to your attorney? I understood—”

  “Yeah, I talked to him. He said not to talk to you,” he said with satisfaction. I concluded this had a lot to do with his willingness to see us.

  “Your mother thinks—” I began.

  “I know what she thinks. We wouldn’t be having this conversation if it wasn’t for her.” He looked away, the tough-guy mask slipping for a moment. For just a second, he was Lupe Garcia’s little boy, not some hardened gang-banger.

  “Then let’s have it,” Scott said. “I want you to understand two things: First, there are absolutely no guarantees. Frankly, neither of us is sure you didn’t kill Natasha Ivanova, and if you did, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve gotten what you deserve.”

  Ramon twisted on his chair. “Oh, man. What about my appeal?”

  “I’ll try not to screw it up, but I can’t promise you anything there, either. I have to warn you that you’re taking a risk talking to us. If you really killed her, you’re probably better off saying nothing.” He paused. “On the other hand, Ray, I want to be perfectly up front with you: Your appeal doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in Hell of succeeding, so you actually don’t have much to lose.”

  “You’re real encouraging, aren’t you, man?”

  Scott didn’t say anything. There were conversations at intense decibel levels taking place all around us in the larger room outside, but the pause was uncomfortable anyway.

  “What’s number two?” Ramon asked, after a minute.

  “The second thing is, the minute you try to bullshit us, we’re out of here.”

  Ramon looked away. Options were clearly few. “So what do you want to know?”

  Scott offered him the cigarettes, which he accepted. “What happened,” Scott told him. “What happened is what we want to know.”

  Ramon turned sideways in his chair. “I didn’t do nothing, man. It was the police. They framed me.”

  “I thought you said Ms. Ivanova gave you those things they found in your car?” Scott inquired pleasantly.

  “Oh, that was, you know, bullshit,” Ramon said. “I knew they’d never believe it was the cops, so I had to say something.”

  “And how is it that the police framed you?”

  “I was just driving home in my mom’s car. They pulled me over because I’m Mexican. It happens all the time.”

  “And then what?” Scott asked, in an expressionless tone.

  “Then they put the stuff in the back of the car and told me I was under arrest.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I don’t know. Like early in the morning.”

  “And the police had the stuff with them? You say they were looking for someone to plant the evidence on? So maybe one of the police had broken into her office?”

  Ramon clenched his arms over his chest. His tattoos—some initials and a design I couldn’t decipher—stood out against his prison shirt. “How the fuck do I know what they were doing, man?”

  Scott stood up. “Well, we’ve taken enough of your time, Ray.” His eyes swept the visitors’ room. “Have a nice life.” The implication was cruel, but effective.

  “Wait. Where’re you going?”

  “I said no bullshit, and I meant it.” He turned to me. “Are you ready, Ellen?”

  I nodded and got to my feet. Scott turned and took my elbow.

  “Wait,” Ramon said again. We turned back. “What’s in it for me if I tell you what happened?”

  “No promises,” Scott reminded him.

  “That’s it?”

  “A chance, maybe,” I said. Okay, so I wasn’t a tough guy like the two of them.

  “Okay,” Ramon said very quietly, to the floor.

  “Excuse me?” said Scott.

  He looked up. “Okay,” he said. “I did it.”

  So, that was that after all. “You killed her?” I asked, before I could stop myself. I tried not to sound relieved.

  “No, man,” Ramon said with annoyance. “I never killed nobody, not even with the homeys. I robbed her place, that’s all.”

  W
e sat down.

  “The bitch fired my mother,” Ramon said, his eyes narrowing with dislike. “Just like that. No warning, nothing. In a fucking letter.” He looked at us. “My mom was very upset. She worked real hard for years, cleaning that bitch’s toilet, and that’s how she got paid back.”

  Scott shot me a look. I’d forgotten to tell him about Mrs. Garcia. “Go on,” he said.

  Ramon studied his fingernails. “So I thought, why not get something back from her? She had enough.”

  “Had you ever been to her office before?” Scott asked.

  “Nah. But my mom had told me about it. I knew where it was and everything. I took her key and made a copy. She didn’t know nothing about it,” he insisted.

  I believed him.

  “I shoulda tossed that key,” he said, shaking his head. “The cops found it with the other stuff.”

  Scott rolled his eyes.

  “Where did you park?” I asked Ramon.

  He waved his hand dismissively. “On that street, you know. Across from the office. They said somebody saw me coming out with a sack, but, man, I can tell you, I didn’t see nobody. It was fucking dark, man. And I parked in the darkest spot, away from the streetlight.”

  “I knew it,” I said to Scott. He poked me with a warning finger.

  It was a wasted gesture. Ramon was onto his topic now and wouldn’t be deflected.

  “What time was it?” I asked.

  Ramon shrugged. “About four, I guess. I can’t remember, exactly.”

  I leaned forward. “So then what happened?”

  “I went up there. I was real careful not to touch nothing.”

  Except the Erté. But Scott was giving me a warning glance, so I didn’t say it aloud. I remembered something. “Did you have a flashlight?” I asked him.

  “Sure. But there was a light on, so I didn’t need it. I put it down on the desk, where I’d be sure to see it again when I took off.”

  “The light—” I started to say, but Scott overrode me. “The light was on? You’re absolutely sure?”