Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  I sat down at Sylvia’s table. “So,” I said, “how about I plead out to a misdemeanor and take my medicine? I want to enter a program. I know I need it.”

  She shuffled some papers on the table. “I’m afraid not.”

  “You’re going to push this as a felony?”

  “Yes.” She did not look at me.

  “But the guy was just observed and released,” I said, hitting on the main issue. Prosecutors have the discretion to charge drunk driving with injury as a misdemeanor and usually will if the victim’s injury is not too severe. “I was hurt worse than he was.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t deal on this one.”

  That was more of an admission than she may have realized. “Is that the word from Tolletson?”

  Once more, Sylvia busied herself with papers, file folders, and rubber bands.

  “Sylvia!”

  She jumped slightly and turned to me with a look of anger. “Don’t yell at me, Mr. Denney.”

  “I just wanted to get your attention.” I also wanted to look her in the eye. Behind her thick lenses, the eyes were trying to avoid my gaze.

  “I can’t do anything for you,” she said.

  “You can, but you won’t.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You looked at me after the verdict,” I said quickly, holding steady on her face, watching for any kind of reaction. I got one surprise, but the sort of surprise when someone is caught in a lie.

  Sylvia didn’t say anything, so I added, “After the guilty verdict, you looked at me in the courtroom. I remember it clearly. I could tell something. I could tell you weren’t comfortable about it.”

  Trying to keep to her busywork, Sylvia said, “I have a bunch of cases to—”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” I was closing in like a good cross-examiner, sensing a crack in the barrier. “What aren’t you telling me, Sylvia?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t believe that. We’re talking about a man’s life. Not just Howie Patino’s, but mine too.”

  “I have to get back.”

  “Sylvia, please!”

  For a brief moment, I thought she would tell me. I thought, in my Perry Mason fantasy way, that she would gush forth with some dark truth. Just as quickly, the moment passed.

  “I have nothing more to say to you,” Sylvia said as she stood up. She walked toward the side door where a beefy bailiff stood like a statue of Hercules.

  I turned toward the gallery and saw Lindsay. I was surprised to see her and ashamed. But she just smiled and nodded at me. I went to the rail, and she came to meet me.

  “What are you doing here?” I said.

  “I heard you were being arraigned.”

  “You came for that?”

  “I had to check up on you. I gave you an assignment, remember?”

  “Don’t you have to be at work?”

  “We’re on break this week. Now, did you read the book, or didn’t you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “And?”

  “I think you’re very clever.”

  “Me?”

  “Putting Pascal on my case.”

  “He convince you yet?”

  “Let’s just say he’s a worthy adversary.”

  Lindsay smiled, and a warmth filled me. Then I heard my name called by Judge Abovian. I turned around. “Has the case been resolved?”

  “No, Your Honor,” I said. “Miss Plotzske is being told to charge this as a felony.”

  Sylvia immediately shot back, “Your Honor, I haven’t been told . . . I have the discretion here, and we are proceeding with a 23153 felony. Mr. Denney is free to plead guilty to that.”

  “Mr. Denney?” Abovian said.

  “Not guilty,” I said. “Let’s set it for trial.”

  “Very well,” the judge answered and gave us a date to do our dance in court.

  “Why did you plead not guilty?” Lindsay asked.

  We were in the outer court of McDonald’s, where I had generously sprung for coffee.

  “Because I’m not guilty,” I said, “of a felony.”

  “But that’s what they’re charging you with.”

  “It’s what they call a wobbler. Certain offenses can be charged as either a felony or a misdemeanor, depending on the circumstances and the discretion of the prosecutor. Usually if a victim goes to the hospital with a severe injury, they’ll go felony.”

  “Didn’t that happen?”

  “To me it did. But the guy I hit wasn’t hurt that bad. I think there’s something more going on here.”

  Lindsay lifted her coffee cup with two hands. They looked soft yet strong. The bright, morning sun hit her red hair and made it shine. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I didn’t expect it.”

  “You know something? I didn’t expect it either.”

  We looked at each other for a beat, and I almost reached out for her. But I held back, as if I didn’t have the right to touch her.

  “Would you mind telling me something?” I asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Why the effort with me?”

  A faint blush came to her cheeks, turning soft white to pink. “For Howie, for his appeal. You’ll handle that, won’t you?”

  To that point I hadn’t planned on it. I said, “Of course. Is that all?”

  “I do care about you, Jake. And maybe I can help in all this.”

  “How?”

  “You know I believe Howie’s case has had spiritual overtones from the start. You don’t see it. You resist it. Now Howie’s in jail for something he didn’t do.”

  That was like a blow to the stomach. She hadn’t meant to accuse me of incompetence, but it felt like the same thing.

  “What I want to do is help you see,” she said. “There is more to this, and whoever killed Rae is still out there.”

  “What do you mean by more?”

  “What I’ve always told you. Dark power. I’m sure of it.”

  For a moment I paused, a part of me still resisting her. But it was a weaker resistance than before, and I overcame it by sheer force of will. I no longer wanted to resist. I wanted Lindsay.

  Suddenly she reached out and took my hand. It was warm, soft, and comforting. “Let’s work on this together,” she said.

  A feeling of peace filled me then. I felt myself falling into a place I had never been, but wanting to fall.Before I made a fool out of myself with some sort of starry look, Lindsay said, “Do you want to hear my plan?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  AND WHAT A plan it was. I was impressed with her moxie. Lindsay Patino, whatever else she was, was not afraid.

  She drove while she explained. “I want to see and hear this place.”

  She was talking about the Hazelton Winery, which was exactly where we were heading. I had been planning to go there myself, so when she suggested it, I didn’t argue for one very obvious reason—I no longer had my driver’s license. It had been temporarily suspended, pending a review by the DMV and the outcome of my case.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “To listen.”

  “To what?”

  “I think we're dealing with the occult here.”

  “You make it sound like some sort of conspiracy.”

  “The occult doesn’t have any formal order to it. But it does have a common source.”

  “The devil?” I said, almost as if I was starting to believe it. But I did a quick mental shake and said, “But that’s so . . . outlandish.”

  “Is it?”

  “I mean, I just don’t see it in everyday life.”

  “Do you know what the word occult means?”

  “Dark forces?”

  “No. It literally means to hide, to cover up.”

  For a minute we drove in silence. I was trying to come to grips with this, trying to figure how much of this I really believed. “But how dangerous is this thing?”

  She almost missed the turnoff from the main road but managed to catch the sign that read H
azelton Winery Left and made the turn. We were heading upward into the hills on a road with lots of twists.

  Lindsay spoke softly. “I had a roommate my first year in college who got into the occult. It started off innocently enough with some dabbling in role playing..”

  “Game stuff?”

  “She took it more seriously than that. At the end of the second semester, she jumped off a ten-story building.”

  When we turned up the road that led to the winery, I felt the immediate creeps. Not because of the look of the place. The vineyard that blanketed the land to the east and the tree-lined road leading up to the winery were all nicely preserved.

  In fact, there was no objective reason for the feeling at all. It was just there.

  Like most wineries in California, Hazelton had a visitor center, where samples are served and wines and accessories sold. As we pulled in and parked, I saw in the distance a Spanish-style mansion tucked in behind a grove of oak trees. No road led there.

  The visitor center was immaculate. Seascape oil paintings decorated the walls, underneath which were finely polished wood racks sprouting seemingly endless bottles of wine. A small tasting bar was in front of a huge bay window, which looked out upon the vineyards and beyond to the mountains. It was idyllic, very California.

  “Folks like to try some wine?” A rotund, smiling server was placing two wine glasses on the bar. He looked a little like the skipper from Gilligan’s Island.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “I was wondering, is Captain Hazelton around?”

  The smile faded and I got a serious look from the man. “Oh, he only comes in here occasionally. You wanted to meet him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Not really. He’s kind of a celebrity, isn’t he?”

  “Locally, maybe. He makes a fine wine. Can I pour you a glass?”

  “That his house up there?”

  “One of them,” the server said. “Can I start you off with a white?”

  “I’m not much of a wine drinker,” I said, which was true. Beer and hard stuff were my poison.

  “Then you won’t find much of interest here,” he said, “this being a winery and all.”

  I got the distinct impression he was asking—no, telling—us to leave. I could feel my lawyer’s blood rising while my head searched for some too-clever response. Then I felt Lindsay’s hand in mine.

  “Let’s go look at the gourmet section,” she said, pulling me toward an alcove that led to an adjoining room. Without protest I went with her, casting a quick glance back at the server. He was still looking at me.

  The new room was stocked with specialty foods and condiments, sauces and mixes, overpriced crackers and high-end cutlery. There were also several people milling around, which made us a tad less conspicuous.

  Lindsay picked up a jar with something yellow in it and held it up. “Mustard?” she said.

  I laughed. “Smooth, very smooth. You didn’t like that guy either.”

  “He got very nervous when you mentioned Hazelton.”

  “Good eye.”

  “So let’s buy the mustard, go out to the car, and then take a little stroll.”

  “Where?”

  “To see Mr. Hazelton, of course.”

  It was almost like we were kids again, engaged in a conspiracy of two, sneaking into the forbidden zone of some building construction site or empty warehouse. Lindsay was that mischievous little girl again with the sparkle in her green eyes. I loved it.

  We did buy the mustard, and I waved at the server on the way out.

  “Come again,” he said in a tone that conveyed the opposite.

  Lindsay and I walked to the car, and I deposited the gourmet mustard in the back seat. Then Lindsay said, “This way.”

  She led me to the end of the visitor’s lot and around the back of the building. The back wall was windowless, and only a dumpster leaned up against it. The hill dropped off severely into a ravine about a hundred feet down. On the other side it rose again, covered with native brush and high, brown grass. That’s what we would have to climb if we were going to get up to Hazelton’s.

  “What if it’s fenced off?” I asked as Lindsay started down the hill.

  “We’ll see when we get there. Come on!”

  I followed her down, the dirt on the hill kicking up after me. Pain shot through my legs and back. Lindsay was athletic, and it was hard to keep up with her.

  We reached the bottom and started up the other side. Scrubby bushes reached out to scratch us, and loose rocks fell underneath our feet. But we climbed, and it was, in an odd way, pure joy.

  At one point, winded, I stopped for a moment. Lindsay laughed and came back down to me. “Come on, chum,” she said with a laugh and reached out her hand. I took it, and she pulled me along after her.

  At the top of the hill, the land flattened out and held the unmistakable signs of professional landscaping. Fresh green grass and manicured shrubs offset a stark, wrought iron fence jutting up from the ground, black and unfriendly. Through the fence we could see a large swimming pool and one side of the Hazelton mansion.

  “Some setup,” Lindsay said as I tried to catch my breath.

  “Fence . . .” I said between breaths. “What . . . now?”

  “We find the front gate.”

  “Just . . . like . . . that?”

  “You need some first aid. Maybe we can ask for help.”

  “Funny,” I panted. “Very . . . funny.”

  I heard a crackle to the side and looked over. A thick man in a dark uniform, mirror sunglasses, and combat boots was holding a serious handgun at his side.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  We were marched like prisoners into the huge, Spanish-style mansion, our heels clicking on the tile floor, creating a tiny echo. The security officer had holstered his weapon and was speaking now into a small handset as he took us forward.

  Two turns and a huge corridor later we entered a cavernous room. There was a large fireplace on the left, active with a crackling fire. To the right, an oak-paneled wall lined with books—fine, leather-covered volumes—stretched upward to a second story, where more books were evident. A small, winding staircase led up to the second level.

  Directly in front of us was a huge desk made of some dark wood, almost black, with ornate, carved designs on the corners. At first glance the room seemed empty. No one sat at the desk. Then I noticed a figure standing by the curtained window, almost blending into the dark scarlet curtain itself. From what I could see, this figure was tall but rather hunched over and almost skeletally thin. He wore some kind of robe. Thin wisps of smoke trailed outward from his left hand.

  “That’s all, Simon,” the figure rasped. Our security guard walked quickly from the room, closing the heavy door behind him.

  The man at the window took a step toward us. More light was cast on him. His hair was white and unkempt, and the skin on his face sagged. Cadaver was the word that popped into my head. “What do you want?” he said in a low, coarse voice. “You’re trespassing.”

  Lindsay, I sensed, was watching him very closely. I said, “Captain Hazelton?”

  “I asked, what you are doing here?”

  Now I saw what the smoke was about. He held a lit pipe in his hand. “Why do you have security guards with guns?” I asked.

  “You’re the lawyer, aren’t you?” He opened his thin lips, put his pipe through them, and clamped down with his teeth.

  “I’m curious about that guard,” I said. “He licensed to carry?”

  “You don’t understand.” A sucking sound came from the pipe, and Hazelton issued a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. He removed the pipe with a shaky fist. “I’m a very wealthy man. One never knows who might wish to take advantage.”

  “Do I look like a threat?”

  He turned his face toward Lindsay. “Who is the woman?”

  “A friend,” I said quickly.

  Hazelton shuffled aro
und to his desk, moving with what looked like painful steps. He turned his pipe over and tapped it on a brass ashtray a couple of times. “I shall have to press charges.”

  “You won’t do that,” I said.

  “And why not?” He left his pipe on the desk and faced me squarely. His eyes were sunken, deep and dark under drooping lids.

  “Because you don’t want the publicity.” When he didn’t answer immediately, I knew I was right. “You don’t want the publicity because you know that things get messy when you go to court. Things come out. I don’t think you want that.”

  An odd smile crept across Hazelton’s mouth. “You’re a smart young man,” he said, almost with admiration. It struck me then that there might be a subtle implication in Hazelton’s reaction, as if he was disappointed in his own son for not being a smart young man.

  “I admire intelligence,” he continued. “It’s what makes this”—he motioned around the room with his bony arm—“possible. It builds. But it can also be a nuisance. I don’t think you want to be a nuisance, Mr. Denney.”

  So he knew my name. All that pretense of whether I was “that lawyer” or not was just that, a pretense. Clearly Howie Patino and I had made an impression on the Hazelton family.

  “I’m just interested in the truth, that’s all,” I said.

  “About?”

  “What happened to my client’s wife.”

  “That was decided in court, was it not?”

  “A jury reached a verdict. We all know that doesn’t mean it was right.”

  “Unlike you,” he said, “I have faith in our legal system.”

  “And in the district attorney?”

  He squinted at me. “Benton Tolletson is a friend.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Mr. Hazelton, can you account for the whereabouts of your son on the night of March 25?”

  For a long moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of the burning logs in the fireplace. They snapped like gunshots. “Am I to understand that you are accusing my son of complicity in this matter?”

  “I’m not making accusations,” I said. “I’m just asking questions.”

  “You’ll please leave.”

  “Can you answer me that?”