Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  “I’ll have you removed if you don’t leave now. And if you ever come back, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Even if I want to buy a good bottle of wine?”

  “Not even then.”

  I turned to go, thinking Lindsay would come with me. She didn’t, and before I could stop her, she said, “Mr. Hazelton, do you practice magic?”

  A jolt of electricity seemed to rip through the room, bouncing off the wall and snapping everyone to attention. I was stunned at Lindsay’s boldness.

  So, apparently, was Hazelton. He looked like someone had sprayed cold water on his ashen face. “Young lady,” he said, “my practices are none of your affair. How dare you!”

  Lindsay answered with an air of confident assurance that amazed me. Maybe she didn’t know to whom she was talking. Or maybe that didn’t impress her at all. “I thought,” she said, “your beliefs were a matter of public record.”

  Hazelton’s face was reddening.

  “Do you follow the ways of your grandfather, Solomon Hazelton?”

  “Get out, both of you!” Hazelton exploded, which led to an immediate coughing fit. Hazelton doubled over, hacking and holding his sides.

  The security guard bolted into the room, saw Hazelton bent over, and rushed to him. Hazelton waved him off, and between coughs, said, “Get . . . them . . . out . . .”

  The guard walked to us and didn’t have to tell us what to do. We headed out the door, the guard behind us. I opened the door of the house myself. The guard stayed with us all the way down the path to the winery parking lot. He watched us until we drove out of sight.

  “That,” Lindsay said as we got back on the main road, “is one weird place.”

  No argument from me. We headed back to L.A.

  “There’s got to be some connection,” Lindsay said.

  “Maybe, but I don’t know how to find it.”

  I think she realized this too. We drove in silence most of the way back.

  She dropped me at my office—I didn’t want her to see where I lived. “You going to be okay?” she asked before I got out of her car.

  “Like the man falling off the Empire State Building,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “At each floor they could hear him say, ‘So far, so good.’”

  Lindsay laughed, and it was intoxicating. She said, “Keep reading Pascal.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll come after you.”

  “That’s not an entirely bad thought.”

  She smiled, and I detected a blush.

  “Lindsay?”

  “Yes?”

  “One of these days, very soon, I’m not going to be responsible for my behavior.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m going to put my arms around you and kiss you for all it’s worth.”

  Now her cheeks turned bright red. They twitched too, in response to an evanescent smile. “I, um . . .”

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said as I walked away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I BOUGHT A spicy polish and a bag of Fritos from Boulevard Weenies and brought it back to my office. The lights were out in the building, save for the watery glow from the fish tank near the receptionist’s desk.

  I took my glorious dinner into my office, flicked the radio on to The Wave, and prepared to eat in easy listening comfort. Only then did I realize I hadn’t ordered a drink to go with the meal.

  There was, in the kitchenette around the corner from my office, a small refrigerator for the tenants. I knew Sharon McGuire, another attorney, kept a good stock of Coke in there. I could tap one and pay her back later.

  But something stopped me. I knew I had a half bottle of bourbon in my desk drawer.

  I tried not to open the drawer. Then I knew I had to.

  When I did, I saw the inviting liquid lapping inside the bottle. My mouth, my tongue, and my brain all sent me relentless messages about how I needed a drink at that very moment.

  And I knew, absolutely, that I was going to finish the bottle. I had been down this hillside before. Once you start, you slide to the bottom. No stopping.

  Then something did stop me—Lindsay. The image of Lindsay Patino’s face popped into my head and kept me, for the moment, from touching the bottle.

  It’s what they call in AA a motivating incident. With sudden resolve, I grabbed the bottle and literally ran out of my office as if I were being pursued by some demon. I charged to the back exit of the building, threw open the door, and stood at the top of the back stairs that looked out over the dumpsters below.

  I threw the bottle to an open dumpster and heard the shatter sound that told me I’d scored.

  I stood there for several minutes, breathing heavily and noticing some sweat breaking out on my forehead.

  I went back into the building, took one of Sharon’s Cokes, and ate my sausage with a minor case of the shakes.

  Then, with my eyes burning and head throbbing, I threw down a couple of aspirin I got from the kitchenette and went into Gil Lee’s office. It’s naturally the largest one and has a comfortable couch by the door.

  I lay down on it and went to sleep.

  I awoke before seven, and the first thing I realized was that I was without a car. In Los Angeles that’s like having no legs. But I was in Gil Lee’s office, and I knew Gil kept an old Chevy in the garage that he sometimes used for little errands. He didn’t like taking his Corvette out to the post office or store, where somebody could open a door into it.

  All I had to do was find the key and write a note.

  Finding note paper was easy, but it took me twenty minutes to find the key. Gil kept it in a cigar box on his credenza. Silly me. I thought it would have had cigars in it.

  I took the car back to my place and cleaned up. Then I went to Chipper’s for breakfast. Mary, the waitress, greeted me like always. I found comfort in that, something familiar that kept me rooted to reality.

  After that I headed to the beach at Santa Monica. I just wanted to spend a few hours alone, without anyone or anything hammering on me. Maybe I’d get a brainstorm or a vision.

  I almost got run over by a rollerblader. But I finally found some shade and sat and listened to the ocean. The ocean has always meant peace to me. Whether it was the Atlantic in my childhood or the Pacific out here, I could always find some degree of comfort from the waves.

  As I sat there I began to ask myself a question that engendered a distinct sense of déjà vu. The question was: Who made all this?

  Why was this question familiar? I knew immediately. I had sensed the same question when I was four or five years old and standing on the shoreline of the Florida coast. I remembered vividly my sense of awe at the whole thing, the bigness of it.

  I was feeling that same awe now as I looked out at the blue waters with a topping of whitecaps under the morning sun.

  I sat there for three hours, until I finally got the urge to get a hot dog. That’s when I noticed something else strange—I had no urge to get a beer. None. It was gone.

  Gone! I couldn’t believe it. With me, beer went with hot dogs like Gilbert went with Sullivan. It had for as long as I could remember.

  Not now. And that made me giddy. I actually broke out into laughter. If this hadn’t been L.A., I might have gotten some strange looks.

  That giddiness turned to a new sense of purpose. I suddenly got an idea and knew what I was going to do.

  I was going up to Hinton to see a prosecutor.

  I reached the Hinton County Courthouse at around 3:45. For an hour and a half, I sat in Gil’s car at the edge of the courthouse parking lot. The courthouse square in Hinton was fairly small, which made what I was about to do easier. I spent the time thinking about Lindsay and listening to the only station—Country—that I could get clearly.

  In between thoughts of Howie’s sister and the warbling of various honey-toned singers, I kept an eye on the courthouse doors.

  At exactly 5:17 Sylvia Plotzske w
alked out of the courthouse, ambled down the small flight of steps, and started across the parking lot. I watched her all the way to her car, which turned out to be a yellow Volkswagen Beetle, one of the new ones. That was going to help.

  I am no expert in surveillance, but I’d been on a tail with Trip once, and all the while he lectured me on what he was doing. He told me how to keep from getting too close, what to do if a light suddenly changed color, how to anticipate, and what to do if you temporarily lost someone.

  There was also a factor here that was both an asset and a liability for me. Hinton was a small town with few streets. That would make following the yellow car easier, but it would also make me more conspicuous.

  Sylvia backed her Beetle out and actually burned a little rubber heading for the parking lot exit. On top of everything else, she was a speed demon. I set off after her.

  I followed her easily for a good couple of miles, keeping a buffer of at least ten car lengths between us. There was one intersection I had to speed through before the yellow light turned red. As I did, I noticed a cop car waiting in one of the opposite lanes. I was sure he was going to pull me over to ask for a license I didn’t have. But he stayed put.

  I hardly had a chance to enjoy my relief when I saw Sylvia speed through the next major intersection. This time I didn’t make it.

  My eyes stayed with the yellow Bug, but I was sure I was going to lose her. My red light was staying red, content to let the leisurely commuters of Hinton have a long wait. Then, about half a mile up the road, Sylvia turned into a lot.

  The light changed, and I sped up to the point where I thought she had turned. It was a shopping center with a Ralph’s prominent in the middle. The after-work crowd had filled the parking lot. I made a quick scan and didn’t see Sylvia’s car.

  But then I saw Sylvia. She was heading into Ralph’s.

  I took a parking space at the far end and waited.

  The sun was setting on Hinton, and lights were starting to come on. It seemed to me an apt metaphor. My life had been in the dark for a long time, but there was just an inkling of light now. Lindsay was part of it, and Pascal was too. But there was still plenty of darkness surrounding Howie’s case, and that’s why I was tailing Sylvia Plotzske.

  About twenty minutes later I saw her emerge from Ralph’s carrying two plastic shopping bags, one in each hand. She put them in her car and headed for the side-street exit.

  Following her this time was not a problem. She lived only two blocks away.

  It was an apartment building, not too big nor too small. Even though this was small-town Hinton, it still had a security garage, which is where Sylvia pulled in.

  I parked halfway down the block and went to the front door of the building. There were ten numbers listed on the keypad but only nine names. None of them was Plotzske. That figured. As a prosecutor, she did not want to advertise her location.

  Would she be surprised to see me?

  The front door was secured, so I decided to wait for someone going in or out. In short order, a middle-aged woman with too much makeup and a Pomeranian on a leash opened the door from the inside and walked past me.

  I caught the door before it closed.

  “You can’t do that!” the woman said. I turned and saw her glaring at me.

  “It’s okay,” I said, “I’m an attorney.” The absurdity of that answer was immediately apparent to me, but inexplicably the woman’s face softened and she said, “Oh, all right.” And then she walked off into the night.

  Score one for the profession nobody likes.

  I entered the building and took the stairs to the second floor. My calculation, based on the number pad, was that Sylvia resided in number 210. That door was the end of the hall. I knocked.

  And then, like a school kid or criminal, I put my back against the wall so Sylvia couldn’t see me through the peephole.

  The silence seemed full of confusion. Then I heard her voice. “Who is it?”

  I didn’t answer. Then a curious Sylvia Plotzske opened the door and stuck her head out.

  Simultaneously, at the very moment she saw and recognized me, I spun around to face her and put my hand on the door. Her attempt to close it ran right up against my palm.

  “You can’t—” she started to say, but I pushed her back, jumped in, and slammed the door behind me.

  Immediately she bolted, like I was a serial killer. And, in keeping with the role, I ran after her, shouting, “Wait a minute!”

  She was in the kitchen, grabbing the phone, fingers flying over the keypad looking, no doubt, for a nine and two ones. I hit the plunger with my finger. “Listen to me, will you?”

  “Get out of here!” She dropped the phone. It hit the floor with a loud clack.

  “I have to talk to you.”

  “You can’t! I could get . . .”

  “What? In trouble? From your boss?”

  “You just broke into my apartment,” she said incredulously, as if the full import of my action had only now hit her.

  “Yes, another felony. You want to charge me?”

  “You have to leave.”

  “Not until you talk to me.”

  “You walk out now, I’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “Sylvia, listen to me.” I picked up the phone by the dangling cord and replaced it in its casing. “I’m not here to threaten you. Can we just talk?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll make you a deal.”

  She looked amazed, and who could blame her? Here was a defense lawyer and criminal defendant, all rolled into one, standing in her kitchen, which she had every reason to believe was a private refuge protecting her from the nasty outside world. I was an intruder.

  “Just listen to me,” I said. “That’s all I ask. Just listen, and when I’m through, I’ll leave if you tell me to. Is that fair?”

  “If anyone ever knew you came here . . .”

  “No one will know. I won’t say anything. I promise you as a colleague.”

  She thought about it a moment. “All right,” she said with a shrug, adding, “But only for five minutes.”

  “Thank you.” I looked to the side and motioned toward the kitchen table. “Can we at least sit?”

  She did not hesitate. She obviously wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. We sat at the modest table, next to peaches-and-pears wallpaper.

  “Sylvia, you’re a good lawyer. A solid one. And I think you have a great career ahead of you. I also think you’re honest.”

  Her face, a moment before defensive, softened a bit. “I’m not saying that to flatter you,” I added. “I really believe it. I’ve dealt with prosecutors all my professional life. You get to know the way things fall. You’re a straight shooter.”

  “I try to be.” She had both her hands on the table in firm little fists.

  “Which is why I think you aren’t entirely comfortable with the Patino case.”

  She looked at her hands then. “What do you mean, uncomfortable?”

  “Obviously I don’t know the facts. But my sense is that you know things about the case and about Tolletson’s role in it that you’ve gone along with. Not because you’re dishonest, but because you’re junior in the office. Tolletson has control, and he’s not above using it. Am I right?”

  “Benton Tolletson is one of the finest lawyers I’ve ever known.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  Her eyes, behind the thick lenses and black frame of her glasses, scanned my face. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I think you do. But something is holding you back. Why did Tolletson take this case from you? He doesn’t try cases anymore.”

  “Sure he does. Only last year—”

  “As a rule, I mean. This wasn’t a complex trial. Why him instead of you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Sylvia.”

  She pounded her right hand on the table. “I don’t know!”

  “But you have
an idea. You’ve got to.”

  She turned her head to the side as if looking for a way of escape. “I’m not going to speculate about Benton Tolletson for you.”

  For a long moment I stared at the tabletop—gold flecks on a red background. “Sylvia,” I said softly, “I haven’t done too well as a lawyer, I know that. I’ve screwed up my life and done a lot of things I shouldn’t have. Ramming into Ruben Azario is only the latest, and I’m going to pay the price. But Sylvia”—I leaned forward, both my arms on the tabletop—“Howie Patino did not kill his wife. But he’s in for life, and that’s my responsibility. Tolletson went out of his way to make sure Howie got nailed for this. I think you know why, Sylvia. That’s what I’m asking you for. Please.”

  She would not look at me, but I got the feeling she was fighting a war inside her. I waited.

  Finally, shaking her head, she said, “You have to go. I have nothing to say.”

  It felt like my chest caved in. “Sylvia—”

  “Go. I listened. Now leave. Please.”

  She slumped slightly in her chair. Whatever she knew was going to stay inside her, where it was already acting like an acid on her basic decency. She had reached a crossroads and decided her direction. I felt sorry for her.

  I stood up and walked toward the kitchen door. Sylvia’s voice stopped me. “A word of advice, Mr. Denney.”

  “Yes?”

  “Let it go. Things can only get worse for you if you don’t let it go.”“Thanks a lot, Sylvia,” I said. “See you in court.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I HAD ONE last crazy idea, crazier even than driving without a license in a town, as they say, without pity.

  Frisbee’s was hopping as always. I parked at the far end of the lot and used the moon and whatever light spilled out of the saloon to search the other cars. I didn’t see Darcy Hazelton’s car, but that’s not why I was here.

  I popped my head inside and looked around. The blonde waitress I’d met my first time here was serving a station of tables, all full. I went in anyway.

  Though there was a lot of noise and activity, I still felt like I was in one of those cartoons where the eyes are staring at you from a dark forest.