The Disappearance

by J. F. Freedman

  He wonders if Ray Logan has called the Lancasters. If Doug Lancaster has been scaring prospective lawyers off, as the judge said, he certainly wouldn’t want Luke, a former local icon, getting involved.

  As soon as he thinks that, he dismisses it. Doug Lancaster wouldn’t stoop to spying on him. The man has too much class.

  But someone was there, watching him. He’s certain of that. Not a comforting thought. Because he might be defending a man accused of a crime? A terrible crime, to be sure, but are the passions against Joe Allison so high that his lawyer will also be a pariah and a target?

  Jesus, he just got back to town. All this is happening awfully fast.

  He didn’t ask for this job. He sure as hell isn’t going to put himself in harm’s way for it.

  Late morning in the jail, after having come back from surfing, showered, breakfasted at the Carrow’s across the street. His meeting with Joe Allison is a desultory affair. “How well did you know Emma Lancaster?” he asks.

  “How well?” The prisoner shrugs. “Pretty well. Like I said, she was mature for her age. You could talk to her like an adult.”

  “When would you talk to her?”

  Another shrug. “At the house, mostly. Sometimes she’d tag along to the station with her dad. She was interested in broadcasting. I think Doug was fantasizing about her coming into the business someday.”

  “There were always other people around? When you and she were together?”

  Allison frowns. “Is somebody saying there was a relationship of some kind between me and Emma?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” Luke tells him. “But if there was, I’ve got to know it. I don’t want to wind up getting blindsided.”

  Allison can’t mask his hopefulness. “So you are going to get involved?”

  “I said, don’t get your hopes up. I still don’t know. I don’t know how to defend you yet, and if I can’t figure that out, I can’t take your case.”

  Allison laughs nervously. “I’m being set up. Isn’t that obvious?”

  “Maybe to you,” Luke responds, “but not to the rest of the world.”

  “What about you?” Allison challenges him for an answer.

  Luke doesn’t avert his eyes from Allison’s stare. “I don’t know. I don’t know you well enough yet to know. But what I do know is that this setup business is a crummy defense. It reeks of desperation. I’d feel uncomfortable if that’s all I went into a courtroom with.” He gets up. “I need to study on this more. I’ll give you an answer day after tomorrow, okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  Back at the motel, early afternoon. Going over the material again.

  The shoes and the key ring. How do you finesse those? Maybe one, but not both. If, as Allison claims, they were both a plant, whoever did it would have to have intimate access to Allison’s personal life, and also would have to be both incredibly clever and extraordinarily lucky. The evidence sits unknown for a year, then is recovered on a fluke? In another week Allison would no longer have been living in Santa Barbara. Even if the stuff had been found, it would have happened in another jurisdiction whose authorities wouldn’t have known what they meant.

  Sitting in the room’s one decent chair, the front door left open to let in fresh air and lift his spirits, he studies some recent photos of Emma Lancaster. If he’d encountered her and was told she was seventeen, he would have believed it.

  He asks himself a basic question as he studies the material. What does Joe Allison have in his favor? What could a reasonable defense be built upon? Not a plausible defense, necessarily, something clear and logical; plenty of the best defenses have come from left field, built on any manner of preposterous premises. But reasonable in the sense that you can get a jury to believe it, or at least believe that it’s possible, and thus cast reasonable doubt.

  Start with the key ring in the glove box. It’s Emma Lancaster’s, of that there’s no doubt. It is, without question, the single most important piece of evidence in the case, because it concretely links Emma with Joe Allison. Unless, as Allison is asserting, it was a plant—which no jury in the world is going to buy, not as a stand-alone entity. Either he or the deceased put it in there. And if there is a connection between them, beyond that of the boss’s daughter and an employee, it’s a connection that has only negative implications. What would a fourteen-year-old girl be doing in the company of a thirty-year-old man? Maybe he gave her a lift somewhere, she accidentally dropped the key ring in the car, he threw it in the glove compartment and then forgot about it?

  Selling that would be a bitch, but there might be room to maneuver around it. Allison had been Mirandized, but not as a suspect in the kidnapping/murder. There’s a big difference between a drunk driving charge and premeditated murder. They should have been clear with him about that. That would be an argument that might have merit.

  And the shoes. Again, Allison seems to have crawled out on a limb and then sawed it off behind himself. By denying any possibility that he could have left the shoe print in a reasonable and believable situation, he has screwed himself.

  If he decides to take this case (still highly unlikely), there are other avenues he must explore, starting with the sealed autopsy report. Why was it sealed? Was there something in it that reflected badly on the victim? More specific information about how she was killed. A blow to the temple with a sharp object, that’s what was officially declared. The sealed report would have more informed speculation. Was the killer right or left-handed? Dozens of specifics that could help point the finger away from Joe Allison. Or towards him; Luke doesn’t figure Ray Logan is going to try this case without having as much of that shit buttoned down as he possibly can.

  He looks up from his reading. It’s late in the day, almost eight. He’s weary from fighting the material. There are no positives in it. Some of the negatives are less bleak than others, that’s about it.

  He’s hungry. Dinner at the beach would be nice. He’ll make sure there’s no one in the restaurant he knows—he doesn’t need any more stress. And then straight back to the room, watch some TV, go to bed. Sober.

  He knows the back of her head better than the back of his own hand. He’s looked at it a lot more. They’re strolling ahead of him along Cabrillo Boulevard near Los Baños swimming pool, a man and a woman and a small child in a stroller. He’s parked his motorcycle on the beach side of the street, is waiting for a break in the traffic to cross over to Emilio’s, where he’s going to have his solitary dinner.

  He freezes. Don’t turn around, he prays. Keep walking, away from me.

  The woman, full of intuition, feels his vibe like a shock wave. She turns and looks back over her shoulder, her body pivoting to profile.

  She’s pregnant. Her stomach is stretched out like it’s packed with a medium-sized watermelon.

  Their eyes meet at thirty yards. Despite the changes in how he looks, there is no moment of nonrecognition—Polly knows him instantly. Her hand goes to her mouth.

  He can’t move, can’t speak. He sees her hand come down, her mouth moving: “Luke.” But whether she actually says it aloud and the wind carries it away so he doesn’t hear, or she silently mouths it, he doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter. For he finds his legs, unsteady as a sailor’s on dry land, and has turned from her and is walking away, down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, as quickly as he can.

  Fifty interminable yards and he finds the will to stop, turn around and look. She and the man, her new husband, are walking away from him, their heads close together, talking quietly. The man glances over his shoulder and Luke looks out to the ocean, studying the sand and the tepid incoming tide.

  His throat is a bilious vessel. He chokes the puke down.

  When he’s finally able to turn and look again they’re no longer in sight. He stands there for several more minutes, locked in place, waiting for his heart rate to come down. Then he walks back, fires up the old motorcycle, and rides straightaway to the mote
l. Whatever appetite he had is gone.

  This won’t work. He was stupid for even coming down here and checking it out. His old mentor baited him, and he rose to it like a starving trout. Bad enough that the case against his client-to-be (in his dreams) is an absolute loser—Clarence Darrow and Johnnie Cochran and Gerry Spence all rolled into one couldn’t salvage Joe Allison’s hide. But seeing Polly, that was the kicker. He’d thought, after three years, he could handle that.

  Well, he can’t. If someone fired a 12-gauge round into his gut, it couldn’t hurt any more than the pain he felt last night, seeing her with her new husband, her baby, and another one on the way.

  When he left Santa Barbara, it was for good reason. It’s time to leave again.

  He’s having breakfast with De La Guerra. Over eggs, home fries, and coffee, he details for the older man why he can’t take Joe Allison on as a client.

  “He says he isn’t guilty. Fine.” He slathers strawberry jelly on his sourdough toast. “Unfortunately, all the evidence says otherwise. This is an absolute loser, Freddie. A hog-slaughtering. If I’m standing next to him, there’ll be blood all over me.” He mixes egg yolk with potato and sausage, forks the mixture in his mouth.

  “You saw Polly yesterday.” The former judge is eating light, a fruit bowl and dry toast.

  Another forkful of food stops in suspension halfway to Luke’s mouth. “How do you know that?” he asks slowly. Jesus, this city is infinitesimal!

  “She called me last night.”

  “She called you?”

  “She assumed, correctly, that if you were here and in touch with anyone, it might be me.” He pauses, sips from his coffee. “I didn’t tell her the reason you were here.”

  “Good.” No, awful. He’s losing his appetite again.

  “If running across your former wife sets you off like that,” De La Guerra goes on, “you’ll never be able to come back here again.”

  “That’s …” He hesitates, but has to admit it—it’s the truth. “I was hurt, okay? These things take time.”

  “Three years should be enough time.”

  “It was an accident, the way I ran across her.” He’s rationalizing like a tap dancer skittering across the stage. “I wasn’t expecting it, I wasn’t prepared. I can handle seeing her, I just need some preparation,” he adds lamely.

  “Now that you have, the next time should be easier,” De La Guerra says blandly. But his eyes, intense over his coffee cup, give him away.

  You’re setting me up, you bastard, Luke thinks. As if I don’t have enough problems with that loser client you tried to book for me.

  He did what Freddie asked him to do, and wanted him to do: saw Joe Allison, and saw Polly. He can leave Santa Barbara with a clear conscience.

  “Could be,” he answers. “But since I’m not taking the case, it isn’t going to matter.” He sits back in the booth, munching on a piece of toast and sipping coffee.

  “Is it the case?” De La Guerra asks, not willing to give up yet. “Or is it Polly?”

  “Both,” Luke answers truthfully. “And neither, not stand-alone.” He holds his coffee cup up as the waitress passes bearing a hot pot; she freshens it for him. He adds some half-and-half, another spoonful of sugar. “If I thought I had any chance with Allison, I’d hang around. I’d love to lock horns with Ray Logan. I intimidate the shit out of that little twerp, I could see it in his eyes when we met, even after three years. If this case had any chance, I could push him so that he’d blow it. I know that. On the other hand, if I was cool with Polly and me, I might stay anyway; as you said, the money’s good and I’m not expected to win.”

  He slides back against the corner of the booth—now that he’s made his decision, he feels better. He hadn’t realized how much pressure he’d been putting on himself, from the moment he’d driven into town. It’s as if a steel band that was tightened against his head has suddenly been cut loose.

  “I’ve got a life, and it’s getting better. You saw it.” He leans forward. “I’m trying to achieve peace. What’s wrong with that?”

  The old judge carefully arranges his cutlery by the side of his plate. “Nothing.” He hesitates. “What if there was more money? Another hundred thou, let’s say.”

  Luke laughs. “Money can’t buy me love. Or make this loser into a winner.”

  “That’s it, then.”

  “Yes, Freddie. That’s it.”

  The old man signals for the check. “You have to do what’s right for you.”

  “Thank you for finally seeing that.”

  Fumbling in his wallet for some bills, De La Guerra looks over at Luke again. “I think you could do a good job defending Joe Allison. Better than anyone he’s ultimately going to get. But that’s your choice, and I respect it,” he says sincerely. “You did what I asked you to do; I can’t ask more.”

  Luke is touched by the humility in the remarks. “I’m sorry, Freddie. But it doesn’t work.”

  “That’s all right. Like I said, you tried. The others I asked …” He looks at Luke. “You had to know I asked other lawyers about this.”

  “I figured you had.” So he wasn’t at the top of the list. At least he was on the list. Given his history over the last three years, that isn’t bad. Still, he feels a sting.

  The waitress hands De La Guerra the check. He gives her a twenty. “Keep the change.” He looks at Luke. “Are you going to tell him, or do you want me to?”

  “I’ll do it. He paid me, I should tell him.”

  “You still have some class,” De La Guerra says dryly.

  “Not much. But I try.” He smiles.

  De La Guerra starts to get up from the booth, then changes his mind. “That’s not what bothers me,” he says. “Taking this case, or not taking it.” His eyes, rheumy with age, focus on the younger man’s face—a face that’s undergone some strong changes, and not only cosmetically. “It’s your fear of Polly, of seeing her.” He leans forward on his elbows. “You have to deal with that, Luke,” he says softly. “You have to confront it.”

  Luke goes rigid, leaning away from De La Guerra. “Why, Freddie?” he asks harshly.

  “Because you won’t be free until you do.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Luke explodes; but not loudly. He doesn’t want a scene in here. He came to this town in anonymity; that’s blown now, but he can leave with some privacy. “I don’t have to. Okay? I don’t have to confront it. I can avoid it—her. Like I’ve been doing successfully for the last three years.”

  He stands up. Looking down at the old judge, he says, “I’m doing the best I can. It isn’t perfect, but it’s good enough for me. I’ve accepted that imperfection in me, all right? And if I can live with it, it’s going to have to be good enough for you, and her, and everyone else in this town.”

  “It’s me. Don’t hang up. Please.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed in his motel room. It’s the third time he’s called Riva. The first two times he got the answering machine; he didn’t leave a message because he knew she wouldn’t listen to it.

  “I’m coming home.”

  There’s silence from her end. Finally: “When?”

  “Tomorrow.” He would have left today, but he hasn’t gotten over to the jail to see Allison and give him the bad news. A small procrastination, but who’s perfect? He’ll pack up tonight, give Allison the bad news first thing in the morning, and hit the road.

  “What happened?” He can hear the caution in her voice, the protectiveness.

  “It didn’t work out.” He takes a breath. “And I miss you.”

  That’s a lie. He missed her, but not enough to bring him back if the case had more of a chance or he hadn’t choked on seeing his ex-wife.

  But it’s an okay lie, a good lie. Because it makes her feel better.

  He can feel the softening over five hundred miles of telephone line. “I’ve missed you too.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be here.”

 
He’s going to have a stellar dinner tonight on Joe Allison’s money with no recriminations before, during, or after. He calls over to Citronelle and books a table by the window, overlooking the ocean and the harbor. He feels good; a calmness suffuses him. He’s made the right decision.

  The dinner proceeds leisurely. The food is wonderful, the service unobtrusively exquisite. Lovely wines by the glass complement each course. The view is great, it’s a clear night, he can see, out the windows of the third-floor dining room, all the way to Santa Cruz in the Channel Islands twenty miles away. Even the lights from the offshore oil rigs, pollutants for three decades, twinkle like bright Christmas tree ornaments, offering a benign, serene delectation.

  Luke’s comfortable eating alone. When he entered, he cased the place thoroughly to make sure there wasn’t anyone present that he knew. He wants a quiet, peaceful meal to end his brief sojourn here; he’s had enough stress in these few days.

  No such luck. The way things have gone, he should have known. But at least he got all the way through the meal before his serenity was broken.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  Luke looks up from signing the credit card receipt. Doug Lancaster, his posture almost that of a supplicant, is standing beside his table.

  Why isn’t he surprised? Everything that’s happened to him since he got here has had an inevitability to it; why should this final night be any different? Because he wanted it to be?

  “Hello, Doug,” he says.

  “Hello, Luke. Long time no see.”

  Luke starts to say, “It could’ve been longer as far as I’m concerned.” But this man is different, he remembers. “I never got to tell you how sorry I was about what happened,” he says. The guy lost his only child, for Godsakes. And once upon a time he was your friend.

  “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t notice you in here or I would’ve come over and said hello,” Luke lies as he stands up.