Bluebird Rising

by John Decure

  Judge Wachter’s face was stony, the way it looks when she’s somewhere between perturbed and angry.

  “Request denied, and you can spare me the editorial commentary, Mr. Turnbull.” Without looking, I felt her turn her gaze on me. My inquisitor crossed his legs very casually, as if he were chatting about classic novels on a cable TV show. I thought he had more for me, but he waited too long.

  “Any further questions for this witness?” she asked him. This is code for a judge saying she has heard enough.

  Turnbull said he had concluded his line of questioning and, ever cordial, thanked both the judge and me.

  Therese passed on asking me further questions on redirect, which I guessed she did to avoid giving Turnbull another run at me. Then she rested her opposition.

  It was well after twelve, but the judge made no mention of the time and asked the parties to make their closing arguments. Turnbull paced the floor behind counsel table as if he wished a jury were present to appreciate his performance. Raising his voice for underlining effect, he dismissed my testimony as an untrustworthy, unethical insider’s attempt to harpoon Silver’s petition for reinstatement based on nothing more than hearsay. Since my story conflicted with Silver’s, and since there was no corroboration offered to support my version of the facts, Turnbull argued, the testimony should be thrown out. Furthermore, he intoned, his arms spread and palms gliding out as if he were Moses addressing a convention of Philistines, the bar prosecutor’s surreptitious acts should raise serious ethical concerns for the court, perhaps even warranting a finding of prosecutorial misconduct.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Thank you in advance for your impartiality, for giving my client the opportunity …”

  I chewed on my lower lip as the high-priced gasbag signed off ever so slowly, ever so cordially with the judge.

  Therese gave her closing standing ramrod straight at the podium, her tone formal. She wasted no time in reminding the judge that I had testified under oath, my story was consistent, and Silver had admitted to being at the law center the previous Thursday. What mattered most was that a bar prosecutor had witnessed firsthand Robert Silver committing a violation of the rules of professional conduct, and most likely a crime. Plain and simple, Robert Silver had attempted to practice law without a law license, which is strictly prohibited. How could he say he was rehabilitated from the lawbreaker he had been back when he’d been disbarred? In what way had he changed for the better? None that the state bar could see, none at all.

  Judge Wachter fixed on her laptop for a good ten minutes, scrolling back and forth and jotting extra notes by hand before she finally spoke.

  “I am going to provide a written decision in this matter, of course,” she began, “but I know you have been waiting patiently for nine months now since you filed your petition, Mr. Silver. So I am prepared to make a tentative ruling pending my final written decision.”

  “And aah do thank you, Your Honuhh,” Silver said, laying it on thick one last time. He was literally on the edge of his seat, crimped in a position that pushed up the shoulders of his gray pinstripe suit. From the side he looked like a kid dressed up in Dad’s clothes.

  The petitioner’s heartfelt thanks seemed to roll right off the judge, who didn’t bother to say “You’re welcome.” Wachter nodded gently at her clerk as if to say, Hang in there a little longer, we’re almost done. Then she zeroed in on the petitioner, Robert Silver.

  “When your attorney rested his case, I was prepared to rule that you had met your burden of proof, Mr. Silver, that you had shown by clear and convincing evidence that you were rehabilitated from your former misdeeds, and that you were currently fit to practice law again in this state. Then, when I heard that business about the magazine article, I was given pause. However, my job is to deal with evidence”—she briefly looked Therese’s way—“provable, admissible evidence. Now, I find that there is no evidence that you wrote the article, because your name is not Silverstein.”

  “That’s absolutely right, Your Honuhh, and aah didn’t mean to—”

  “Mr. Silver, do not interrupt me while I’m making this ruling. If you persist in doing so I will have you removed. Understand?”

  “Uh, yes, Your Honuhh.”

  Wow. The judge was in a shitty mood all right. I hoped it was not because of what I’d brought to this case, or the way I’d brought it.

  “So I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt on that issue, Mr. Silver. But I didn’t like the way you answered the question when you were asked if you’d written the piece. Your answer, sir, was most indirect.”

  “B-but aahh didn’t—”

  “Quiet, please!” Glaring at him. “Now, as I was saying, your answer was less than direct. In fact, you answered the question with a question of your own.” Checking her notes. “You said: ‘Do I look like a Silverstein?’ Now I thought that was peculiar, and it got me thinking. You see”—she nodded at the empty witness stand—“I watch people stand up there and take the oath pretty close to every day, and I have to admit, even someone who has seen as much as I have—and I have seen plenty, let me tell you—that those words, ‘Do you swear to tell the truth,’ they do have an effect on people. Even people who intend to be less than truthful in the testimony they give.”

  “Your Honor,” Turnbull said, “I can assure you my client—”

  “Save the assurances, Counselor.” The judge held up her palm like a cop halting traffic. “You’ve had your say, now I’m having mine. Please don’t interrupt.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. And I thank you, Your Honor.”

  Christ, I thought. Roger Turnbull might be a high-profile deal maker, but this was just low-grade brownnosing.

  “At any rate, that oath does something to witnesses. Oh, I know it doesn’t prevent witnesses from lying, but I like to think it makes them think about lying before they do it. And quite certainly, that simple oath seemed to have had just such an effect on the petitioner today. Twice it was very noticeable. The first time, as I mentioned, when he gave that cute answer about whether he’d written that article in the outlaw magazine. And then again when Ms. Rozypal asked him a very simple question: Were you there, at that place in Glendale called the law center, last Thursday?”

  Turnbull was out of his chair, a hand extended. “Your Honor, I’m sure Mr. Silver would be glad to testify further, if the court would like to ask him additional—”

  “No, and do not interrupt me again, Mr. Turnbull.”

  Wayne Fong loves it when Wachter chews butts, and he raised an amused eyebrow from beside the bench. I did my best to ignore him.

  “When asked that second simple question,” the judge went on, “the petitioner paused, long enough that it became apparent to me that he was measuring an answer. I gave some thought to what it was that he might have been trying to determine, in that brief few seconds. What might have brought on that pause? Then the answer became clear when the bar put on its rebuttal witness.”

  The judge stared straight at the defense table. Silver and Turnbull were so quiet you would have thought they’d stopped breathing.

  “The petitioner paused because he had no idea what kind of evidence the bar had in rebuttal of his petition. Of course, how could he know at that point? No rebuttal evidence had been presented as yet. Now, apparently he knew something significant was forthcoming due to Mr. Shepard’s presence last Thursday at the law center, and because he observed Mr. Shepard seated here in the gallery this morning.”

  She looked up at Dale. I didn’t turn to see him, but I knew just where he sat, in the back row of the gallery, the seat nearest the courtroom door.

  “And although the bar chose not to question Mr. Bleeker, he was here in court as well, in full view. What I realized was that you paused to make a decision. And I can now infer from the rebuttal testimony I heard that in that moment, you decided, Mr. Silver, that you had better at least admit you were at that law office, since at least two other people present in the courtroom could place you
there. But the rest of Ms. Rozypal’s questions about what you did while you were there were damaging, so damaging that hearing them one by one, you knew you couldn’t possibly answer them truthfully, for your petition for reinstatement would have no chance. So you denied the rest.”

  The judge studied her notes again. Therese found a second to cast a sideways glance my way. Her demeanor was reserved, the chin held high, as dignified as a princess in waiting, her back straight against her chair. Still every bit the serious lawyer, but I could tell she was beaming inside, ready to burst. I knew that her beauty was growing on me, and I felt a pang of guilt. An inner voice gave counsel, delivering a simple message to my frontal lobe and parts further south: You’re getting married, dipshit, keep it zippered.

  “Around here we take the unauthorized practice of law very seriously, Mr. Silver,” the judge said. “Now why, after nearly six years, you couldn’t have waited a few more weeks to get your license to practice law back—well, I just don’t understand that.”

  To me, the answer to that riddle was easy: He couldn’t resist taking Rudy Kirkmeyer for all he was worth.

  “It’s truly a shame that you jumped the gun the way you did, but by asserting that you were counsel for that elderly gentleman, you committed a serious violation of the rules of professional conduct and very likely even committed a crime. Therefore, you give me no choice but to deny your petition for reinstatement.”

  Silver and Turnbull leaned close together and shared a whisper. I checked my watch. Almost one. Wayne could forget about sliooting hoops in the gym today. The usual noontime game would be breaking up in a few more minutes. When I looked up from my timepiece, Judge Wachter was dead set on me.

  “As for Mr. Shepard, I have to say that although I found his testimony to be credible, I was not pleased to learn that he was apparently acting in such an independent, unorthodox manner. I have not yet determined what I might do to follow up on these concerns.

  Christ, that sounded ominous. My throat was suddenly parched. I swallowed painfully.

  “That’s all I have for today,” the judge concluded. “The parties will receive my written decision by mail within thirty days. Counsel for the bar and the petitioner, I thank you both for your courtesy and professionalism. Court is in recess.”

  “We’re off the record,” Wayne announced, tearing his tiny headset off. “All rise.”

  We stood in unison as the judge left the bench, and it was over.

  Dale Bleeker and I slipped outside to wait for Therese. Dale was wearing the same slightly dusty suit he’d had on the first day I met him, and I wondered if it was the only suit he had. Different tie, though, a bloody red one with a quiet diamond pattern. His eyes seemed different, too, more disturbed, like a pair of high windows reflecting incoming stormy skies.

  “Hey, thanks for not calling me as a witness,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t thank me,” I said. “That was Therese’s call. It’s her case.”

  “Maybe, but you stole the show, man.” He extended a large hand and we shook. “Nice job.”

  For the first time since the police had escorted him to my front door, Dale appeared outwardly encouraged.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Inviting me to simply obliterate his good vibe.

  “Silver can’t do much to get to Rudy now,” I said, “but Angie and Carlito won’t quit.”

  “They’ll just find another shyster, won’t they?”

  “If they haven’t already. And we still have to deal with getting you extracted from any law center messes—I mean cases—in which they used your name. That hasn’t gone away.”

  “Damn,” Dale said, leaning back against the wall.

  “We should also think about getting Rudy to a doc if the daughter keeps dragging her feet getting down here. I don’t feel comfortable looking after him much longer, not without a professional opinion on what we’re dealing with.”

  “It’s some form of dementia,” Dale said. “Carmen said it looks like Alzheimer’s.”

  “She was guessing.” Four days now, harboring an elderly man I knew precious little about—not good. “What if it gets worse? What if he were to have a seizure?”

  Dale nodded. “Walk out in the street and get hit by a car.”

  I didn’t even want to think about the complications if the old man were to go and die on us.

  “We’ve gotta do something,” Dale said after a pause.

  “Any suggestions?” I said. Then I waited. Rudy was his client, after all. But Dale seemed frozen in place. What had become of the catlike courtroom predator whose sanguine air I’d once dreamed of emulating? Or was the image a fiction, a product of a certain acute lack of vision on the part of one young juror who happened to sit in front, where the spit flew, the fiction then further distorted by the soft–shuffle steps of ten years’ time?

  “I’m thinking,” Dale said, “and don’t look at me like that, all right?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that. You know, washout, disappointment. Even if that’s what you think, and you have every right to at this juncture. Just go easy.” He looked away. “I don’t need the grief.”

  He was right. Fiction or not, this was not the time to sort out my feelings about what had become of Dale.

  “Don’t sweat it, I’ll figure something out,” I said. “But you’re backing me all the way.”

  He nodded. “Goes without saying.”

  “I may have to open an SBI—a state bar investigation—on the law center to see those records. You can be the complaining witness, admit to what you know, cooperate.”

  “Right,” he said, “and get disciplined for my trouble if a mess of abandoned cases have my name on the papers.”

  “We don’t know that to be the case. Not yet, at least, so don’t worry about that part. It may be the best we can do.”

  He jammed his hands down into his pants pockets. “Don’t worry. Easy for you to say.”

  He was wearing me out, watering down my patience.

  “Easy? Wrong word, partner. I’m sweating a shitload of details here and at home, in case you hadn’t noticed. Right now nothing’s very easy.”

  His head drooped on his shoulders. “You’re right. Sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  “What else?”

  “As far as Rudy is concerned,” I said, “we might try getting his home address and stopping by his place. If Angie and Carlito aren’t hanging out there, we can check his records, see if there’s any medical information in his files. Even a family doctor’s name could help.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Ten feet behind us the courtroom door was yanked open from the inside and Bobby Silver and his lawyer burst into the hallway whispering loudly. Silver’s face and neck were a watermelon pink.

  “I don’t care who’s payin’ the goddamned bill for your services,” Silver hissed in Roger Turnbull’s face. “You’re fired! Got that?”

  Turnbull stood frozen. “Bobby, please, let’s just go down the hall, we can get a conference room and discuss—”

  “Good-bye!”

  Silver stalked past us but caught me checking him. “You think you’re so smart,” he said to me. “Let me tell you something, son.”

  “Bobby!” Turnbull shouted after his client.

  “You don’t know nothin’!’”

  “Anything,” I said, reflexively correcting his piss-poor grammar.

  His forehead was beaded wet and his eyes were flaring.

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.”

  Without another word he strode toward the lobby, bulging pant legs swishing down the long hallway.

  Turnbull had already recovered, with a natural smile. “Obviously my client is rather upset.”

  “Obviously,” I said.

  “Gentlemen,” Turnbull said, excusing himself with a dip and fleeing after Silver.

  “Didn’t sound like the concrete cowboy is Roger’s client anymore to me,” I
said.

  “Me either,” Dale said. “What do you think Silver meant, saying you don’t know nothing?”

  Good question. It could have been a standard insult, but then, he might have been referring to the situation with Rudy. Or possibly the law center.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we’re missing something.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” Therese said from behind me, her file box loaded onto a chrome cart, “you’re not missing a single thing, Mr. Shepard.” With that she leaned forward, smiling hugely, and hugged me with her free hand.

  I just stood there, smelling that marvelous apricot body wash, feeling confused and happy and guilty and dumb at the same time. Struggling to recall that handy bit I’d worked out before about Therese Rozypal being just a symbol of something else, the rationale escaping me now.

  Twelve

  Therese was so pleased with the judge’s tentative ruling that she insisted on buying Dale and me lunch. We settled on the Persian place down on Eleventh and Hill you can see from my window, walked outside and down the sidewalk like a team of fictional legal superheroes in the opening credits of a prime-time melodrama. Dale and I flanked Therese as we shared our takes on the hearing. It felt liberating just to be outdoors, the stressful anticipation of the day’s legal contest behind us. As we walked, Therese did most of the talking, which was only right, since the victory was hers. Dale seemed to be warming to her company nicely. Regardless of whatever punishment he’d subjected his body to of late—I say this recalling the hulking bag of Coors empties in the Regal’s trunk—his mind could still produce the odd incisive observation. For one thing, he had studied Silver’s face throughout the proceedings, noting a host of subtle expressions that told him Silver was putting up hefty resistance to his lawyer’s advice and counsel. It was as if Roger Turnbull, for all his fame and notoriety, was a burden to Silver, his presence more an imposition than a godsend. Hearing Dale, I pondered what we’d seen outside the courtroom. Silver had told Turnbull he didn’t care who’d paid for him, he was fired.

  The sky was a soft winter blue creased with vapor trails from streaking jets headed east over the mountains. Cool air filled my lungs as we continued nearly in step with one another. A lifeless breeze merely hinted that a great ocean lay to the west. The light was almost artificially brilliant, the rooflines and lamppost shadows and speckled tree shade on the cement leaping forth in painterly contrast to the sun’s steady beam. The light in Los Angeles is extraordinary. Days like this are the reason the early filmmakers came out here, and stayed.