Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  CHAPTER SIX

  Karen Fields had somehow managed to convince another judge to cover all my afternoon calendar. She told me it required begging. She had played the sympathy card, repeatedly, and payback would be expected. I didn’t mind. An afternoon off allowed me to make funeral arrangements with Nikki and visit Mary Pat at the memory unit.

  At a stoplight on the way to the Chapel of the Chimes, I checked my phone to see if Helen Vox had returned my call. She hadn’t, and I thought about calling her again, but the light turned green.

  As I drove past a row of new townhomes on Piedmont, I saw the chapel’s pale stone and red roof in the distance. I’d give Helen a day before dropping by her place unannounced.

  Nikki met me at the door, and we went inside. The Chapel of the Chimes was like a Mediterranean villa, filled with light and air. Designed a hundred years ago by California’s most renowned architect, Julia Morgan, the structure was timeless. She captured the aspirations of a community that was still in its infancy and gave them an easy place to find peace.

  I think that was what Harry liked most about it.

  Harry had told me that he had gone to a jazz concert in this chapel with Mary Pat shortly after she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It was a beautiful night. The music was uplifting. They spent time after the concert wandering the chapel’s many gardens, hand in hand. The sky was clear, and somehow the stars had fought through the city’s light in order to be seen. “It was the perfect ending,” Harry had said. A few weeks later, both of them went back and made funeral arrangements.

  It was hard for me to rectify that image of Harry and Mary Pat holding hands in the moonlight with the idea that he was having an affair with Helen Vox. Harry and Mary Pat were the perfect couple. They were the parents that I wished I had. With my own father gone, my mom pushed me away. I think it was painful for her to look at me. I looked too much like my dad, a constant reminder of her loss.

  I found myself wrapping my arm tighter and tighter around Nikki as we walked together. I pushed the conflict aside. For now, I needed to ignore my disappointment and doubt in Harry.

  The funeral director, a middle-aged man in a dark suit, was waiting for us. After brief introductions, he led us through a maze of hallways, sitting rooms, and small courtyards with bubbling fountains. Despite the twists and turns, the chapel was relaxed. Most walls were covered with art, most shelves filled with ornate urns.

  We eventually arrived at the director’s office in the back of the building. It had a large window that overlooked the chapel’s gardens, an area specifically designed for families to spread the ashes of loved ones.

  “Please sit.” He pointed us to the chairs across from his desk, then opened a drawer and removed a folder. “Luckily, you don’t need to worry about making too many decisions.” He opened the folder and glanced at its contents. “Judge Meyer and his wife were very specific about what they wanted.”

  He pushed the folder across his desk to me. “This is your copy,” he said. “Obviously it outlines Judge Meyer’s wishes, but funerals are also about the living.” He paused and looked sympathetically at both me and Nikki. “To the extent that you need something different, you shouldn’t be bound by this. These were his wishes, but sometimes the grieving process of family and friends demands something different.”

  I picked the folder up off the desk. “I’ll look it over, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “And Mrs. Meyer,” he said. “Is she able to participate?”

  I looked at Nikki, then back at the funeral director. “I don’t think so. She may be able to attend, but that’s all. She won’t be speaking.”

  We managed to get a table for a late lunch at Nikki’s favorite café. We sat in the back. Aunt Mary’s Café was a casual place that catered to the locals, but whose mix of Southern and Southwestern food had developed a following beyond the Temescal neighborhood.

  A waitress brought Nikki a frittata and set a large plate in front of me. It was a grits waffle with a large piece of fried chicken on top. “Thank you,” I said as the waitress walked away.

  I picked up my fork and studied my ridiculous lunch. “This should be good for my heart.”

  She smiled. “Very healthy.”

  We ate in relative silence. When Nikki was done, she was ready to talk. “You’ve been quiet.” She pushed her empty plate away and took a sip of her Arnold Palmer. “Thinking about the funeral?”

  I nodded. “A little. If we’re not going to have a visitation, we should have some photos or something.”

  “I can’t imagine you want to go back to the house to get them.”

  “You’re right.” I thought for a second. “But it’d be good to have something. I also talked with Jarkowski this morning. He wants me to go through the house and see if anything’s missing or stands out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Anything,” I said. “Seems like they don’t have a clue.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not really.” Then I thought of Helen. “He mentioned the name of an attorney this morning.”

  Nikki looked skeptical. “He thinks an attorney did it?”

  “I don’t know.” I raised my hands in defense. It wasn’t my theory. “She’s a longtime prosecutor, manages the child dependency unit for the county attorney.” I thought of all the times I’d seen Harry and Helen together. They just seemed like colleagues, nothing particularly intimate between the two. “I asked Karen about them, and she said everybody in the courthouse thinks they were having an affair.”

  “Harry?” Nikki laughed. “An affair?”

  “I know,” I said, mirroring her disbelief, “but that’s what Karen told me, and Jarkowski was asking about her. I really can’t imagine it.”

  “Were they even that close?” Nikki asked. “I’m not sure you ever even mentioned her name.”

  “Didn’t seem important.” I now wondered whether I didn’t tell Nikki about Harry and Helen because I knew there was more to their friendship. “They’re both passionate about kids and child protection. They went out to eat sometimes, maybe a drink after work. I know they presented together at conferences and stuff, cowrote a few law review articles, that sort of thing . . . I don’t know.”

  Nikki pointed at me. “You believe the rumor, don’t you?” I hesitated with a response. “I can’t believe it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After dropping Nikki off at home so she could change and work the late shift at the hospital, I got back in the car and headed out of Oakland toward Rheem Valley.

  When I was growing up, Rheem Valley was filled with nothing but pear orchards. For many years, topography had prevented it from being swallowed up by the city. Steep hills and valleys initially blocked Oakland’s sprawl, but over time the desire for subdivisions was too great. Long commutes became acceptable, and people were willing to spend obscene amounts of money for more space, so the orchards were gradually replaced.

  I parked in front of the Walker Assisted Living and Memory Care facility, a simple beige building with white trim, located down the road from Saint Mary’s College. Mary Pat had lived on the ground floor of the east wing for ten years.

  I walked through the lobby, then down a hallway to where all the residents with Alzheimer’s, dementia, and traumatic brain injuries lived. The door was locked to prevent the unit’s residents from wandering off.

  I pressed a button, and a nurse opened the door a few seconds later. She smiled and led me to a small reception desk, where we talked about who I had come to see and she checked whether I was an authorized visitor.

  As the nurse clicked away on the computer, I looked for Mary Pat. The common area was filled with chairs and several small tables. Some residents were playing cards, others drinking coffee and reading. On one wall was a large television. Four people sat on a sofa. Two of them were asleep. The other two stared blankly at the screen.

  The opposite wall was a large glass window—floor to ceiling—that provided an unobstructed v
iew of the Las Trampas Regional Wilderness. Mary Pat knitted a scarf in one of the six rocking chairs lined up near the window.

  The nurse pushed a waiver and permission form toward me and handed me a pen. I signed the form without reading it and walked over to Mary Pat with my newly issued visitor badge.

  Mary Pat turned and looked at me. There was a flash of recognition, then nothing.

  “Mary Pat,” I said. “It’s me, Jim Thompson.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Jimmy?” She studied me. “Little Jimmy Thompson?”

  “That’s right.”

  Mary Pat shook her head. “No.” But a smile crept across her face as some distant memories connected with the present. “You’ve grown into quite a man. It has been a very long time.”

  I smiled. I wasn’t going to challenge it, even though she was wrong. I’d visited her regularly since Harry decided that it wasn’t safe for her to live at home anymore. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” She looked out the window. Her pleasant expression faded. “But I’m ready to go home.”

  “I know.” I put my hand on hers and pulled up an empty rocking chair. “I’ve got some bad news to share, Mary Pat, and I’m not sure of the best way to go about it.”

  “Don’t tell me that I can’t go home.” She was now irritated. “I keep telling everybody that I’m ready to leave. All my things are packed. I’m ready to go. And if Harry thinks he can send you here to do his dirty work . . .” She folded her arms across her chest and kept looking out the window. “Well, you tell that man he needs to come and get me out of this place.”

  “It’s not about whether you’re staying,” I said. “It’s about Harry.”

  “Harry?” She turned to look at me. “What’s wrong with Harry?”

  “There was an incident at the house,” I said. “Nobody knows what happened, exactly, maybe an intruder . . . I don’t know, but there was a confrontation in the entryway, and Harry was shot.”

  “Shot?” She shook her head in disbelief. “My Harry, shot.” She examined me. It seemed she wasn’t quite sure anymore whether or not I was little Jimmy Thompson. “Is he OK?”

  I shook my head. “No. He isn’t.”

  “Oh my.” She covered her mouth. “I need to get to the hospital. I need to see him.”

  I reached out and squeezed her hand as my stomach wound tighter. “He died, Mary Pat. He died, and I just went to make the funeral arrangements this afternoon.”

  “You?”

  “We’ve got everything set for Friday,” I said. “I’ll make sure there’s transportation for you to come. You’ll be brought to the chapel, and then you can sit with Nikki.”

  “I don’t understand.” She pulled her hand away from mine and started to cry. “Nikki?” A nurse came over to see if I needed assistance. I declined, choosing instead to just sit with her. I wanted to ask whether Harry was ever worried or threatened. I wanted to ask her about Helen Vox, but she was too upset, and I didn’t have the nerve.

  It took another five minutes for Mary Pat to calm down. She wiped the tears from her eyes and resumed staring out the window. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just really want to go home.”

  “I know you do.”

  “I keep telling everybody here that I’m ready to go home, but they won’t let me. I’m all packed. Everything is packed and I’m ready, but they won’t let me.” She turned from the window and looked straight at me. “What you must think of me.” She forced a smile. “And who are you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” she said. “If I’m going to cry in front of somebody, it’s best if we introduce ourselves.”

  “Mary Pat,” I said. “It’s me. I’m Jim Thompson.”

  “Little Jimmy Thompson?” Her expression brightened as the broken memories connected again. “It’s been so long.” She took a deep breath and studied me. “Well, you have grown into quite the man.” She smiled, but soon her eyes narrowed. “But if you were sent here by Harry, you tell him that he needs to come here himself. He can’t be a coward and send you to do his dirty work. You tell him that if he wants me to stay in this place, he needs to come here himself.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Helen returned my call as I drove home. I didn’t have to explain. She seemed to know why I had called and kept the conversation short. “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. I want to meet in private.” She paused. “I have some personal items at Harry’s house. Maybe we can meet there . . . I don’t want to go back to the house alone.”

  I didn’t want to be there alone, either, but I kept that feeling to myself. “That’s fine. Nikki’s at work.” I checked my watch. “I’ll meet you at seven and I’ll bring my key.”

  “Sounds good,” Helen said. “But I have a key, too.”

  When I arrived later that night, Helen was already there. She sat alone in her car. I pulled up behind her and parked. As I got out of the Range Rover, Helen got out of her car, too.

  We met and walked together up to the front door. Neither one of us spoke as I put the key in the lock and opened the door. The front foyer was clean, as promised by Detective Jarkowski, but the smell of chemical disinfectant was even stronger than I had expected.

  “Give me a minute, will you?” Helen walked past me. “I just need a little time.” She touched my arm and crossed through the living room toward the bedrooms, leaving me alone.

  I gave Helen her space and wandered through the rest of the house while she stayed in the master bedroom. I looked for something missing, but, except for the chemical smell, the house seemed just as it always had. I didn’t see any items taken or disturbed. Nothing clicked as unusual.

  After fifteen minutes, I decided enough time had passed. Helen and I needed to talk.

  I stopped in the doorway, knocking twice on the doorframe so that I wouldn’t surprise her. She was sitting on the bed, her back to me. Clothes and toiletries were gathered in a stack. I assumed this was what she had wanted to collect.

  She wiped a tear from her eye as she turned. “Oh, Jim.” Helen shook her head. “What a mess I’ve made.”

  I looked at her with sympathy and walked over to the bed to sit next to her. “How long?”

  “About eight years.” Helen folded her hands together and placed them in her lap. “I think Mary Pat had been at the Walker for two years when it really started. I know it’s awful.” Her eyes hardened, as if she were judging herself. “I never wanted to be the other woman, but Harry and I had been so close for so long, and then he was alone and I was alone, and it happened.”

  Helen wiped away another tear and looked me in the eye. “You have to believe me. People are saying that we were together for ten or fifteen years, maybe more, but we didn’t start until after Mary Pat was sick. I’m not that type of person, Jim. He’s not that type of person.”

  She tried to take a deep breath, but it was jagged, catching twice. “Harry was a proud and private man. We talked about it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to disclose our relationship to anybody, especially the chief judge, and so we just went on.”

  I understood where Helen was coming from. When judges had friendships with the lawyers that appeared in front of them, the ethical lines were unclear. Judges were allowed to have friends, but at a certain point the friendship created the appearance of bias and impropriety. Unlike friendship, however, the rules about a lawyer appearing before a judge while in a romantic relationship were clear: it was prohibited. No exceptions.

  “You were the supervisor,” I said. “You didn’t need to go. Why didn’t you just assign somebody else to cover Harry’s hearings?”

  “I tried,” she said. “And it worked most of the time, but when we were short-staffed for whatever reason, I had to cover the calendars.” She looked at the floor, still at fault but now trying to rationalize. “It was part of my job, and I was good at it. I liked it.”

  I had more to say but let it pass, deciding instead to get to the point. “Helen.” I turned to her. “Why
did you want to meet here?”

  “I have some personal items.” She looked over at the things she had collected. “I didn’t want to sneak in and take them without somebody knowing . . .” Her voice trailed off with a tremble. “I also wanted to tell you what happened that morning.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Harry was worried about you,” Helen said. “He was worried about all of us, the different government agencies and the court, but he was especially worried about you. That reporter from the Chronicle had filed requests with the county for all sorts of child protection data. I’ve been reviewing what was going out as a response, and I know it isn’t going to look good. We’re not much different from any other program anywhere else in the country—overwhelmed and underfunded—but that doesn’t matter. Metina wants a big story, and good news doesn’t sell.”

  She stared out the dark window.

  “Originally she was focusing on Harry,” she continued, “some of the speeches he’s made and the policies he’s championed. The argument is that he and the county are putting kids at risk. That it’s dangerous to try and reunite children with their biological family and keep them in the home.” She turned to me. “But now your case is going to be a big part of it.”

  “Greg Ports?”

  “It’s got everything Metina needs to do something sensational.” She turned away from me. “We were up late talking about you and that case.” To herself: “It was tragic, totally unexpected, and not your fault.” Then back to me: “I had some wine, and we went to bed. With the help of some pills, I was out pretty quick.”

  Helen avoided looking at me as she continued. “I knew that you two were meeting early in the morning, so I didn’t think too much of it when Harry got up. I can let myself out and I have clothes here, so I’d just get ready for work on my own and lock up—it wouldn’t be the first time. I think I may have rolled over in the morning when Harry got out of bed, but we didn’t speak. I know we didn’t talk. When he left the room, I went back to sleep.”