Two Lost Boys

by L. F. Robertson

  I told Ed I owed him hugely. “Go to Baja or Greece or something, so I can take care of Pogo and make it up to you.”

  “Nah,” he said. “Just get me a giant bag of puppy kibble on your way back.”

  I stayed the night in a motel on Lombard Street, near the Golden Gate Bridge. The noises of the city kept me awake, and I spent the short drive to the federal building the next morning wondering irritably what I’d been thinking when I suggested this meeting.

  Outside the parking garage, I gave a dollar to a skinny old man sitting with a paper cup between his feet, because he smiled at me through rheumy eyes and because I wanted to buy myself some good karma for the day. I bought a mocha at a coffee kiosk and then joined the line of visitors snaking its way toward the metal detectors in the lobby of the federal building.

  Upstairs, in the public defender’s office, Dave was waiting in the reception area. We’d talked on the phone about how to approach Jim, but neither of us had had any great ideas, and now we sat next to each other in near silence, trying unsuccessfully to look assertive and confident.

  Jim breezed in ten minutes later, a paper coffee cup in one hand and an ancient leather briefcase—what a prop that must be in a courtroom!—in the other. I couldn’t help thinking he knew what was on our minds.

  We shook hands all around, and the receptionist, a thirtyish African-American woman with very short hair and big hoop earrings, showed us to the small conference room that had been loaned to us for our meeting.

  We sat at one end of the long table and made some small talk about the flight from Los Angeles and the state of the freeways. Jim pulled his phone from an inside pocket in his jacket and consulted it, then opened his briefcase, pulled out a thick file and a yellow pad, and looked from me to Dave—a look that said he wasn’t exactly happy to be here. “Shall we get down to business? Tell me about this mental retardation claim.”

  “When Andy was in fourth grade, in Washington,” I explained, “he was referred to a school psychologist, I guess because he was failing academically. The psychologist did IQ testing, and came up with an IQ score of sixty-five. Actually, sixty-three on the verbal IQ and sixty-six on performance. Full-scale IQ of sixty-five.”

  Jim leaned a little forward in his chair and fixed me with the look of a senior attorney quizzing his junior associate. “So. This seems like a slam dunk. With an IQ like that, any court should overturn his death sentence.”

  “I guess. If it wasn’t an aberration. It’s the only IQ test I’ve found in his records.”

  Jim sat back again. “I had a mentally retarded client a couple of years ago, in a federal death-penalty case. My client’s full-scale IQ was in the low seventies. US Attorney fought it, but not that hard, and the judge found for us. This looks better than that case.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but we don’t know how he tests now.”

  My hope for this meeting was beginning to evaporate, as I realized what a nasty, protracted fight we had ahead of us and how unready Jim was to roll up his sleeves and get into it. “We need to get an expert on mental retardation to evaluate him.”

  Jim wrote something on the pad in front of him and looked up again. “Do you know anyone good? I didn’t like the guy we had in my other case.”

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Hocking, or something. He was good on paper, but not on the stand; the judge didn’t care for him.”

  “I’ll see who I can find.”

  Jim wrote something else on his pad and looked up. “I’ll need to ask for more money, won’t I? I’ll start on a motion when I get back to LA.” He sat straight and looked at us both again. “So. Is there anything else we need to talk about today?”

  I could feel Dave look over at me. I took a short breath, wishing I had thought this out better. “Well…” I began.

  Jim waited.

  “Well…” This time I plowed ahead. “There’s the whole investigation, actually. We—Dave and I—are feeling a little adrift here. I mean, we’re out here reading material, identifying claims and potential witnesses, and talking to people, but we don’t really feel like we’re getting much direction or feedback about what you want for the case, what you think the issues are, what leads you think we should be following up.” Jim had lowered his eyes a bit; he seemed to be listening or thinking, but he didn’t say anything.

  Dave said, “We know there’s a limited budget, and we’re worried that we’re going to use up the money pursuing evidence you don’t think will be useful.”

  “That’s been a real concern for both of us,” I confirmed. “And I don’t feel like I can make decisions about that without your input.”

  I hesitated, then finished with a lame peroration. “I’m getting worried, because we only have another seven months before the petition has to be filed, and I don’t feel like we have a plan.”

  Jim looked up at me, and I was relieved to see that he didn’t seem upset that we’d put him on the spot. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been so involved in trials that I haven’t really had time to focus on this case. Right now, you both probably know it a lot better than I do.”

  Dave and I nodded. “Probably,” I said.

  “But you’ve been doing great, so far. Why don’t you just keep at it and let me know what you’re coming up with? You do what you think needs to be done; I trust your judgment.”

  “But—”

  “Really. You and Dave both came highly recommended. You’re experienced, and you know what you’re doing. I’ll work with you, of course. But feel free to be independent. Let me know what you’re thinking. And when you need money, just give a call and let me know how much and why.”

  “But that’s more or less just leaving the case to us,” I said.

  Jim looked less than pleased. “No, not completely. I’m still lead counsel, so I’m responsible for it. I just think there’s a lot you can do as well as I can.”

  “Well, okay,” I said, hesitating. “It’s just—for me, at least—I feel more comfortable being able to include you in the decisions.”

  Jim gave me a look he clearly meant to be reassuring. “Of course. Any questions you have, like this one”—he nodded in the general direction of the school records—“just let me know, and we’ll work on them together. I think things are going great; you’re doing a terrific job. If you want to talk again, let’s set up a time. You let me know what works for you. So. Is there anything more?”

  “No. I guess that’s it,” I said.

  Great, I thought, I’m a coward. Twenty-five years as a lawyer, and I can’t even stand up for myself. I was bamboozled by Jim’s strategy of mixing abandonment with flattery; I was prepared to walk away from our conversation exactly where we’d started, but feeling better because he liked my work and was willing to let me do his for him. I took a breath and tried to continue, not sure what to say.

  Jim stood up and started loading papers back into his briefcase. “Great. There’s a Giants game this afternoon. My youngest boy is here with me, and I promised him I’d take him to it.”

  Oh, Christ, I thought.

  Dave and I made polite noises and wished him a good weekend, and we filed out of the office, Dave and Jim talking incomprehensibly about baseball and baseball players. I knew I’d failed, and some part of me resented the fact that Jim and Dave could chat amiably about sports.

  At the bottom of the steps outside the building, Jim stopped, turned to Dave and me and said, looking us in the eyes with an expression of frankness and sincerity, “You know, I appreciate all you’re doing. Soon as this next trial is over, I’ll make a real effort to block out some time for this case. You know, that mental retardation issue looks like a breakthrough. Let me know when you find an expert, okay? Have a good weekend!” With that, he turned and trotted down the steps. He looked like a kid at the end of his last day of school.

  On the plaza, a chill, searching wind was pushing at my shoulders and blowing a parting into the back of my hair. Summer in San
Francisco, I remembered it well. I looked over at Dave. “Well, do you believe him?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I tried.”

  “I know.”

  “Did I say enough? Was there more I could have done?”

  “Nah. You did what you could.”

  “Let’s get off these steps; I’m freezing,” I said.

  “So what are your plans for the day?” Dave asked, as we walked down the steps.

  “I’m heading for the University of California medical library, to look up some literature on intellectual disabilities.”

  “Well, that sounds exciting—good luck. By the way, I’m meeting some people from the public defender’s office for drinks after work at this tapas place near the Hall of Justice. A friend of mine there won a murder case this week, and they’re celebrating. Would you like to come? Marisol’s supposed to be there; you two could meet.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What time?”

  “Six thirty or so.” He pulled a pen and notebook from his pocket, wrote something down, tore the page out and gave it to me. “Here’s the address. It’s called Jerez; it’s not too far from the Hall of Justice.”

  “Thanks.” I was grateful for the invitation. I was starting to feel homesick, and spending another evening in my own company was looking pretty tedious.

  19

  I spent the afternoon at the medical library, copied some articles on psychological testing, and went back to the motel. After a vain attempt at a nap, I brushed my teeth and hair, looking disconsolately into the bathroom mirror at my badly cut bangs and the new lines around my eyes, and steeled myself for the trip to the restaurant.

  Jerez was low-lit and noisy, with adobe-colored walls, accents of earthy browns, and hanging lamps with quirky art glass shades. People, mostly far younger and prettier than me, were three-deep at the bar, and a constant roar of voices rose and fell above the pulsating back beat of some indistinguishable music. I resisted an overwhelming impulse to turn and run for my car, took a deep breath, and jostled my way into the crowd. I saw Dave, standing and waving at me, at a table deep inside. He was with eight or ten men and women in suits, the public defenders, I figured, looking a little rumpled after their respective days in court.

  There was an empty chair between a pretty dark-haired woman next to Dave and a young man who seemed to be deep in conversation with the woman on the other side of him. The dark-haired woman lifted her jacket from the chair as I sat down.

  “We’ve been saving it for you,” she shouted over the din. “Dave has been absolutely fierce. I’m Marisol.”

  I couldn’t think of what to say next. Dave had had so many girlfriends since I knew him, and it was hard to really engage with someone who was probably just passing through his life.

  “Nice to meet you,” I shouted above the crowd noise, then added lamely, “I guess you know I’m Janet.” Clutching at a topic for conversation, I asked, “Are you a bike rider, too?”

  “A little—not like him, but I’m learning.”

  I saw Dave looking at me and mouthing something unintelligible. At the same instant, a young woman carrying a cocktail tray materialized near me and called out to the table, in a voice that cut through the din, “Does anybody want anything else here?”

  “I do.” I pointed to a peachy-colored drink in a large martini glass in front of a woman at the next table. “I’ll have one of those.”

  “A soigné?” the waitress said. “Okay.”

  I turned back to Dave, who was motioning me to come over to him. I worked my way out of my chair, with a mumbled “pardon me” to Marisol and the man on my other side, and edged over to Dave’s chair.

  “You need to talk to Coleman over there,” he said, pointing to a young man a couple of seats away.

  “I do?”

  Dave gave me a “don’t try to be funny” look. “Yes. He just won an Atkins hearing, and he knows a good expert. You two should talk.”

  I squeezed past Dave to Coleman. He was a slight Asian kid, with straight black hair brushed up in the front into some sort of compromise between a cowlick and a crew cut.

  “I’m Janet Moodie,” I said. “Dave says we need to talk about Atkins hearings.”

  “Coleman Chu.” He stood and reached his hand out to shake mine, with the eager body energy of a young lawyer still fired up by his work. A man sitting next to him got up and offered me his chair. “Oh, no, that’s okay,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Gotta go now anyway—got a dog at home to take care of.”

  I took the chair, and a moment later the waitress showed up with my cocktail. Dave looked down the table at it and mouthed something that looked like, “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s a soigné,” I yodeled over the din.

  “What the hell?” he mouthed.

  I made a “get over it” face at him and took a sip. It tasted a little like a Bellini, cool and peachy, with just the merest bite of alcohol. I took a longer drink, and the booze spread through me, evaporating the worst of my anxieties. A soigné. A good name; one or two of these and I’d feel like anyone here who cared about my age, clothes, or weight could go to hell. I turned back to young Coleman, who was putting his glass of beer back on the table. “Dave says you know of a good expert on mental retardation.”

  Coleman and I spent the next half-hour or so talking about his case. He wasn’t a public defender, but a private lawyer on the conflict panel, and second counsel in a death-penalty case in Alameda County, across the bay. He was totally wrapped up in it and clearly pleased to get a chance to tell the convoluted history of the mental retardation hearing to someone who hadn’t heard it before.

  His lead counsel had given him charge of the Atkins hearing—a pretrial hearing to determine whether their client was mentally retarded and thus ineligible for the death penalty. Both sides had presented evidence and expert testimony, and Coleman had won. “Dr. Moss—Dan Moss, from UC Davis—was a really great expert. He’s a neuropsychologist. He teaches in the PhD program, and he’s done both clinical work and research on mental retardation—only they don’t call it that any more, the current term is intellectual disability. It’s not that easy to find an expert who knows this stuff. I talked to three or four doctors before I found him.”

  I asked Coleman if he could send me Dr. Moss’s CV and report and a transcript of his testimony in Coleman’s case.

  By now, the group at the table was starting to disperse. Dave, by way of apology, said that he and Marisol couldn’t continue on to dinner because they were driving down the coast for a weekend cycling trip. “So,” I said to Marisol, “his enthusiasm is contagious, eh?”

  She shrugged. “It’s the only way I get to spend any quality time with him. But I’m getting into it.”

  True love, I thought.

  I decided to look for a quiet place to eat, followed by a movie. A theater out in the avenues was showing a French comedy I was mildly interested in seeing, and on the way I stopped at a Vietnamese storefront place on Geary Boulevard for a bowl of pho.

  Whatever the charms of a weekend in San Francisco might once have been, they were lost on me now; in the morning I woke up early, ready to go home. At a bakery on Chestnut Street I picked up an almond croissant and a latte for breakfast and then headed gratefully north, under the big orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and down the grade into Marin. A few miles along the highway I had a view of San Quentin across the bay, pale sandstone buildings against the blue of the water and the sky. It looked innocuous, even attractive, in the morning light.

  20

  Young Coleman was on the ball. The following Monday I got an email from him with Dr. Moss’s curriculum vitae attached, along with electronic files of the pleadings and transcripts from his hearing.

  I called Jim’s office to tell him I had found a potential expert but he was in trial, and when he called back the following afternoon, he’d forgotten that we were looking for one. When I reminded him, all he said was, “Great! Good
work. Let me know if you like him. I’ve got a call coming in; talk to you later!”

  As the realization sank in that Jim had left Dave and me to work the case up on our own, my old maladies started up. I started waking in the middle of the night, worrying about how much there was to do and what we might miss, and during the day I’d be hit with sudden moments of heartstopping fear, or a dizzying sense of being in free fall.

  “I’m freaking out again,” I told Dave. We were emailing and talking on the phone every day, working out details of the next months’ work—his next trip to Pomo County, and the ones we would have to make to Washington and Idaho.

  “What about? Jim?” Dave asked. Dave knew probably more than anyone outside my family why I had left the city and capital defense work and retreated to the remote north coast. Panic attacks and depression aren’t easy things to talk about, and in the fallout that followed Terry’s suicide there had been few people I felt like confiding in.

  “I don’t know—yes—stress, I guess.”

  Dave was sympathetic, concerned. “Look,” he said, “there’s no reason to make yourself sick over this case. If it gets too bad, just tell Christie and get out.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I answered, already knowing that I wouldn’t. To begin with, I couldn’t just walk out; the judge would have to relieve me as Andy’s attorney. To get off the case I’d have to have a damned good reason why I couldn’t continue on it; anxiety and disenchantment with my co-counsel weren’t even close. Six months to filing. I’d get through it. I’d done it before. But I was younger then, tougher and angrier. And I’d had Terry for advice and moral support and the reflection of his brilliance and confidence to get me through my crises of anxiety and self-doubt. Now, it seemed, I had nothing but guilt and the shreds of my self-regard.

  Between Dave and me, I had the easier job, reading up on intellectual disability and contacting Dr. Moss, while Dave talked to cops and teachers in Shasta City. “Beautiful place, this time of year,” Dave said during a check-in call. “The high today was 109.” I commiserated, but the thermometer on my deck read a brisk 65 degrees.