by John Decure
Rudy paused as if he were contemplating a complex puzzle. Don’t lose it, I wanted to say. Hold on a little longer.
“My wife, she spent thirty years building up a portfolio that was worth a bundle now.”
“So what did you do?”
He shrugged. “Dumbest thing in my life. I married Angie.”
“Mr. Kirkmeyer, are you senile?” I asked. People behind me murmured and gasped.
“Well, no. But sometimes. It’s … hard. My memory comes and goes now.” He looked straight at Judge Renaldo. “I can’t always gauge time.”
“Objection,” Roger Turnbull said, on his feet now. “This witness is clearly not competent to testify.”
Renaldo said, “Your objection is noted, but I don’t know enough to rule on it.”
“But, Your Honor—”
“Sit down, Mr. Turnbull.” Then the judge turned to Rudy. “What are you suffering from, Mr. Kirkmeyer?”
Rudy’s eyes ticked back and forth like an anxious bird’s. “I … don’t know, Your Honor. I have to go to the doctor. Could be Alzheimer’s. My daddy had it.”
“Mr. Shepard, how many more questions do you have?” Renaldo said. I couldn’t tell if he was set on protecting Rudy, or ticked at me for pulling a stunt on him. I told him I had just a few more. “Proceed.”
“What about the law center? Did you go back there?”
“We did. Angie, me, and her boyfriend, Carlito.” People in the gallery whispering at that tidbit. “See, I thought my money was safe because the account was in my name. Meantime I let Angie clean out the safe-deposit box at the savings and loan, about forty, fifty thousand worth of cash, bonds, and jewelry.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. Then his body shook a little, as if he’d got a chill. “I was so confused. The day after we got married, I woke up, I’d forgotten who she was.” When he gazed into the gallery, I knew he was looking at Kimberley. “I was pretty lost. But Angie, she got this idea that she could get at my account if she had a power of attorney. I played along.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Sometimes it would be like two voices fighting in my head, for real. Other times, I’d just act like they were there.” He looked at Renaldo. “The two voices.” The judge nodded.
“Why play along?”
“I was embarrassed. And scared.”
“So they took you back to the law center?”
“They did. We … were supposed to meet the guy who did the investment seminar, Bobby Silver. Then go to the bank to get the money.”
“Did you hook up with Mr. Silver as planned?”
“Not really. He was late. You and Dale … Dale Bleeker, you were both there.” He stared at me hard. “Was that the day?”
“Your Honor,” Turnbull pleaded. “This witness is not competent. How can we continue to—”
“Overruled,” Renaldo said. His lips were tight. “Ask another question, Mr. Shepard.”
“What happened next?” I said.
“Mr. Bleeker, he stepped in and tried to help bail me out of the situation. Mr. Silver showed up late,” he repeated. Then he regarded Renaldo for a moment. “Good thing, too.”
“Did they get your money?”
“No. They tried everything. Mr. Bleeker … and you … kept ’em away.” He looked up at the bench. “They even tried to kill me. Mr. Bleeker died trying to save my neck.” Tears came. He was struggling again.
“What about your wife—the Ho woman—and her boyfriend?” Renaldo asked. “What happened to them?”
“They’re in jail. I think it’s called felony murder.” He shrugged. “They tried to kill me,” he said redundantly, slipping again. “Dale … is dead.”
My work with the witness was done. “So then, is it fair to say that what you got from your contact with this law center was, let’s see, an investment seminar that you knew was shaky, a young woman looking to cheat you out of your life savings, and an attorney, Mr. Silver, who was in league with Ms. Ho and who tried to bilk you, too?”
Rudy nodded. “Yes.”
I had no further questions.
Roger Turnbull wasted no time exploiting Rudy’s greatest weakness. “So, Mr. Kirkmeyer, you think you may have Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes. I’m seeing the doc again next week.” He searched the gallery, probably for Kimberley. “I think it’s next week.”
“You said you have trouble remembering things, gauging the passage of time. And when all this was happening to you, you were very confused.”
“Yes. I … Confused.”
“But you had the wherewithal to ‘play along,’ as you put it, didn’t you?”
“Wasn’t easy.”
“Are you playing along here today?”
“Not.”
“What parts of your testimony are you really remembering, and what parts did Mr. Shepard tell you to say?”
“Objection, argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
But Roger Turnbull was unruffled. “Mr. Kirkmeyer, just answer me one more question. You really don’t know your own mind anymore, do you?”
Rudy’s eyes were red. “It’s hard … hard to say what.”
“Hard to say what you know and don’t know, isn’t it?” Turnbull said, trying to finish Rudy’s thought for him.
Rudy waited, gazing about the courtroom, the close-set blue eyes finally settling on me. Yet, at the same time, the eyes were still searching for something more, marking an inner transition—like a gearbox shifting—a crossing-over to a private place, a place of secrets, the lips following suit as they curled into a splendid, childlike smile.
Twenty-eight
“I know what it’s like to feel confused,” Judge Renaldo said, leaning into the cushions of his back high-backed chair.
He slowly regarded the faces in the gallery, as if he were taking inventory. I figured he was still missing his wife, whose death had been a powerful source of disorientation for him.
“Those people who came to the so-called Glendale Lo-Cost Law Center?” he went on. “They were confused. And at least one that I heard from directly was scared, too. Losing his faculties while others circled around him like vultures.” His voice was haggard but brimming with distaste. As the judge ruffled a few pages before him, apparently searching his notes, I took notice that no one else in the courtroom was moving.
“Before I rule, I will outline my findings. And my analysis must begin with the many incestuous links that Mr. Abernathy had formed between Alliance Pictures, Capitol Consolidators, and Homeowners Fidelity Trust.”
“Your Honor,” Roger Turnbull said, “I must object to that characterization of—”
“Quiet!”
With a servile nod, Turnbull faded back into his chair.
“Now, as one of a small handful of part owners of the two investment-consulting firms, Mr. Abernathy must be held accountable for profiting from a scam hosted by a dubious nonlawyer, Mr. Silver, among others. His claims that he was unaware of the nature of the businesses were unpersuasive in light of the quite handsome profits that each transaction yielded. Any investor who starts making—or losing—a lot of money is going to study that trend immediately, so I don’t believe Mr. Abernathy is credible in saying he didn’t know. He knew,” the judge said as Abernathy and Turnbull bristled. “Capitol Consolidators was also leasing the law center, an office that engaged in the unauthorized practice of law, according to the declaration of Mr. Shepard and the declarations of five former clients who have filed complaints within the last two weeks. Mr. Abernathy’s dual affiliation with Capitol, the lessee, and with Alliance Pictures, the lessor, cannot, as he suggests, be either explained away or overlooked as a mere coincidence.”
The old judge hacked into the sleeve of his black robe, and we all waited for him to sip some water from a plastic foam cup. “As the legal counsel for a client’s shell company—a company that owned and operated UPL shops, burned them down, then collected the insurance money—Mr. Abernath
y may have been less culpable, since it has not been proven yet that he had knowledge of, or directed, those nefarious activities. But he was on hand to help set up an offshore company that, as indicated in the declaration of the IRS investigator pursuing Mr. Yves Pasqual, apparently existed for the sole purpose of circumventing a host of multimillion-dollar government tax liens already in place.” The judge eyed me. “At the trial in this matter, the state bar should be prepared to establish that Mr. Abernathy had more direct involvement in the company’s ongoing operations. But preliminarily, his assistance to a wealthy client in creating a tax dodge appears to have been tantamount to moral turpitude. He helped Mr. Pasqual subvert the law, even scrambling the letters of his own name to conjure up Barney E. Malthias, a fictitious company president, and listing that fictitious name in an official corporate document of his creation.”
The judge paused, his face grim. “Apparently you thought this was something of a lark, Mr. Abernathy.”
“I did not,” Abernathy said, glaring at the bench.
“Your Honor,” Turnbull pleaded, “perhaps an order that my client divest himself of any further contact with the business entities in question might suffice.”
“It will not,” Renaldo said quickly. “What we’re looking at today is a substantial likelihood of future public harm, yes or no.” Frowning at his notes. “The answer to that question is yes. The state bar has brought to light a disturbing pattern of activity by Alliance Pictures over the past two years: several offices burned down, a host of disgruntled citizens left in their wakes, these citizens the victims of the unauthorized practice of law, their retainer fees exhausted without any real services having been provided to them. Their only remaining option to file a grievance with the bar.” He sighed. “One gigantic mess.”
Turnbull was up again. “Your Honor—”
“Sit down, Counsel, you’ve had your turn.” Eyeing the unmoving gallery. “And in the Glendale law office, seminars were run touting what appears, from every indication, to be a scheme that preys on elderly citizens with the promise that they can preserve their financial legacies for their heirs.” He shook his head slightly. “Is it likely that this despicable scheme will continue to be carried out, along with more unauthorized practice of law, at yet another location? I believe the declaration of the bar’s deputy trial counsel, Therese Rozypal, establishes that such an effort is most definitely ongoing.
Abernathy stood and faced the judge, his eyes narrowed by anger. “Your Honor, as you know, I am part of an ongoing effort to evaluate the state bar’s current disciplinary operations, which, as you also know, includes a thorough review of the state bar court and its effectiveness.”
“Sit down.”
“If this ruling is in any way an attempt to dissuade me from that purpose—”
“Sit down!”
“I can assure you, it will not.” Abernathy turned to regard those in the gallery when he’d finished.
Renaldo didn’t falter, waiting a few seconds more, silently assuring the courtroom that he’d afforded the respondent his due process, even tolerating Abernathy’s insult to his integrity. Then he said simply, “Petition granted. I will review and sign the order by this afternoon. Good day.”
I wanted no part of the scene that followed, nor did Chief Hewitt. Abernathy and Turnbull went straight for the media as we knew they would, and when I’d packed up, Hewitt nodded to Judge Renaldo’s clerk. “This way,” he said. We followed the clerk through the lone door exit behind the bench, then took a disorienting series of turns down one short hallway, then another, finishing with a hard right through a set of cherry-wood double doors. The clerk disappeared and we stepped into an elevator, not a soul around, riding to the top floor encased in soothing silence.
The elevators doors glided open up top, with no one waiting to climb aboard. The chief didn’t move, but instead removed his glasses, inspecting the lenses absently before sliding the frames back over his ears. Then he shook my hand. “Good luck.” He said it in a way that politely let me know I wouldn’t be following him out of the elevator and back to his office to hash over the ISO hearing or any future strategies. I thanked him and waited for the trip down, reminded of the day I’d dodged Eloise and left the building via this same route with Dale.
I’m a back-door man, I’m a back-door may-annn.
The chief turned to go with that familiar crimped walk of his, like a turtle bearing a too-heavy shell. But before the metal doors clipped shut, our eyes met again, and I thought he might have winked. Or at least I’d like to believe that’s how he went out.
It was the last time I would ever see him. That weekend at an emergency meeting of the bar’s board of governors, he outlined the ISO and the ongoing related investigations already under way, summarized the known facts relevant to the pending action against Assistant Chief Trial Counsel Stanislav Greuber, dealt with the unpleasant media fallout that had followed Renaldo’s ruling, and tendered his resignation.
I surfed alone very early the next morning, riding smallish low-tide lines well down from the pier on Southside. Out to sea a front was rolling in from the northwest, and when the sun came up, the light caromed off the oily surface sheen before me and front-lit a vast bank of purple-and-gray cloud cover, the sky and sea melding seamlessly at the vanishing point. The waves worked quickly across the outer bar, shifting and parrying and offering up an occasional smooth, open face, but it was mostly a tease, like the glimpse you get of a lovely girl on another platform as your train pulls away from the station. I gave chase anyway, not that it mattered. The ocean lets you take only what it will give you.
The coroner’s office told me it wouldn’t take much for me to pick up Dale’s body, just an authorization from next of kin, so I went to see Georgette Bleeker and found her at home on a Tuesday afternoon, glaring at me through a peephole. I hadn’t seen a house that messed up since Rudy’s place in Glendale. Surfaces were coated with dust, windowpanes glazed with greasy smudges. A trail of ants threatened what looked like an afternoon snack from a week ago: cheese doodles, broken off like brittle fingers in an open jar of peanut butter. In the dining room, a silver tea service was displayed on a long buffet table against the wall, every piece tarnished a bruised blue and yellow. Spiderweb tendrils drifted in a sea of dust motes. I didn’t need to check every room to know that every window in the house was closed.
Georgette wore a forest green ankle-length dress embroidered at the neck with creeping white flowers, and red flats in the style of Japanese slippers. On second glance, the dress might have been more of a sporty, if threadbare, nightgown; by the wan light of a single crooked lamp behind her, it was hard to tell. Her mousy brown hair was swallowed up in a tight ponytail in back, like dirty water spinning into a drain. She tamped at the hair obsessively, confessing that I’d caught her tidying up before Leanne got home from school, a pathetic fiction which I let pass without comment. Hands still at work, she creaked down into a sofa the length of Dale’s Buick and listened impassively as I recounted Big Sur, then signed the release I’d brought with me as if it were one of those cards you fill out in a mall to win a new car. Before I could get the hell out of there, she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a folded brown paper grocery sack, handed it to me, and told me Mr. Bleeker had left some things in back, near the pool, and perhaps I could gather them up for him.
“Mr. Bleeker … . might want them,” she said, tamping her head a final time as she clapped the front door shut just behind my heel.
I curled around the garage and past a row of overgrown rosebushes to the backyard. The swimming pool was empty but for a small square in the deep end that was backed up with brackish water. Across the yard near the shallow end, a wooden gazebo hid in the shadows of a well-shaped fig tree. Some of the slats in the gazebo’s latticed roof had come loose and lay at odd angles. Beneath the broken roof, a lounge chair sat beside a rusting iron table painted white. I walked over.
There was nothing left but a partly f
olded peach-colored quilt full of dead fig leaves, a stack of brittle mail bearing Dale’s name resting on the table beneath a small, smooth rock from the garden, and a newspaper clipping from a local rag called the Shoreline Gazette. The story detailed Dale’s indecent exposure arrest and subsequent firing, then closed with an arraignment date and a quote from the prosecuting deputy DA that all men were treated the same under the law and this offender would be no exception. I read the brief description of the incident. Bleeker was at the end of Spyglass Circle, which overlooks La Costa Drive, when he flashed the girls walking home from school down La Costa. Christ, I hadn’t noticed before that his great downfall had transpired on the edge of Christianitos. I knew those two streets to be in a newly constructed neighborhood with homes built into a steeply pitched hillside. The area had been overlooked for decades because of a lack of level ground, passed on repeatedly until there was simply no more land left in the area to develop.
Folding back the creases in the paper, I kept reading. An open container of alcohol was found in his car, and he appeared to be under the influence, but was not charged with any alcohol-related offenses. I pictured Dale lying out here at night, under his ratty blanket, rereading the account again and again, as if the spectacular collapse of his family, career, and life could not be believed without further verification.
Telling Leanne Bleeker of her father’s fate was not an experience I had looked forward to, and when Carmen offered to come along for moral support, I’d quickly said yes. Leanne must have been very close to Dale for a good part of her life, for she seemed to know why I’d come to see her and was shaking her head—no, no, no—before she even heard the news. When I said it, she bent forward, gasping for air. Then she ripped free from her boyfriend Kurt’s grasp and scrambled into the back of his battered white van, chucking pots and pans and thrashing around noisily until Carmen went inside and calmed her down.
“She’s bleeding,” Carmen said a minute later. My first thought was that Leanne had cut herself on a sharp edge during her explosion of grief. But when I looked inside and saw what Carmen was talking about, I knew it would be a very long night.
