Sins of the Fathers

by James Scott Bell

  She was grateful that a man like Leon Colby was handling the case. He seemed like the kind of lawyer who would fight for justice, wouldn’t let any defense lawyer get the better of him. Yesterday she heard her husband speak to him by phone. Brad expressed his approval of the man, told her about his reputation. He’d taken on tough juvenile cases before, built his renown on them.

  Mona knew nothing about the defense lawyer, save that she was a petite woman with aggressively curly hair. When this woman, this Lindy Field, entered the courtroom, dressed in a gray pantsuit and carrying a briefcase and motorcycle helmet, Mona’s spine tingled with electric suspicion. She gave the lawyer a long look from the second row of the gallery.

  Was she one of those tricky lawyers, the kind who’d do anything to win? The type who would hide evidence, lie to the court, mislead a jury?

  She recalled the Menendez case, the one where the two brothers who’d blown away their parents had a feisty woman representing them. She tried a lot of things to get them off, but the jury came back with a solid guilty verdict.

  This woman reminded Mona a little of that feisty lawyer. She looked smart. But Leon Colby was smart too. And truth—didn’t that matter? Wouldn’t that rise to the top in Colby’s capable hands?

  Mona closed her eyes and willed it to be so.

  On the way in, Mona saw other parents who’d lost boys to the killer. They looked like she felt, empty and worn down. They were all still in shock. Up to the last minute, Mona wasn’t sure she’d even come to the hearing. But she had some inner need to do something. If she didn’t come, she would be letting Matthew down. She could do this for him and maybe fill the void that gaped in her heart and soul.

  She sat in the chair nearest the wall and exchanged terse introductions with a woman named Dawn Stead. Her boy Jared had been on the Royals, Matthew’s White Sox opponents that day. She seemed like she’d be nice enough in other circumstances. But now neither one of them was in the mood for talk. Mona couldn’t have managed anyway. Death was a fist inside her throat, choking the words.

  Mona was so tense her shoulders cramped. Her son’s murderer was going to be in this room, not fifteen feet away from her. She didn’t know how she would react.

  Once, when Matthew was three, he busied himself collecting leaves and sticks from eucalyptus trees, arranging them carefully in a pattern in the sandbox. Two boys, five or six years old, looked on.

  Mona thought that was nice. But then one of them kicked the sand, scattering Matthew’s labor. The other boy joined in the destruction.

  And Mona saw Matthew’s eyes grow wide with shock at the random violation.

  Mona’s reaction was intense, instant, savage. Only the fact that she had to run from the picnic table to the sandbox, and was given a momentary pause to reflect, kept her from physically throttling the older boys. She wanted to hurt them, cause them pain. She was not rational. She did not want to be rational. She wanted to hurt the ones who had hurt her child.

  Sitting in court, remembering that day, Mona’s chest tightened and she had trouble breathing normally. She wanted Brad with her, and she didn’t want him. Would things ever be normal again? Would life relent, give them a break?

  And then, at nine o’clock, the defendant was brought in.

  Mona gasped. She had seen him the day of the shooting, but only in a flash and far away. He had seemed huge then, but maybe only because of all that was happening around her. Maybe her mind had built up his monstrosity, adding layers to her memory.

  But this was a boy, not much older than Matthew, and he was dressed like a criminal.

  Because that’s what he was. He was one of the boys from the sandbox, grown older and harder and more evil. And despite his age, he had to be stopped. He had to be punished. He had to be put away for the rest of his life for what he did.

  Mona realized she was holding on to the arms of the courtroom seat so hard her fingers were curled into claws.

  The judge, Darlene Howard, looked like a grandmother, and Mona did not want a grandmother’s softness anywhere near this case. Even though this was only a brief hearing—arraignment was the word—it felt to Mona like a setting of the tone. She did not want the killer’s lawyer to get anything for her client, if anything was possible.

  “The People of the State of California versus Darren DiCinni,” the judge said. “Counsel, state your appearances.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor. Leon Colby, deputy district attorney, for the people.”

  “Lindy Field,Your Honor, for the defendant Darren DiCinni, who is present in court. At this time we will waive a reading of the complaint and statement of rights and enter a plea of not guilty.”

  Not guilty. How could this lawyer even mouth those words? Contempt began to boil inside Mona Romney. This lawyer was an enemy to Matthew’s memory. She could not be allowed to get the killer off the hook, in any way.

  The judge asked Darren DiCinni to stand up. “Mr. DiCinni, did your lawyer explain the charges against you?”

  Mr. DiCinni? Mona squirmed. How could the judge call him that? Mister? That kind of respect should be reserved for good people, not murderers.

  The killer looked at his hands.

  “Your Honor,” the killer’s lawyer said, “I explained the charges and proceedings to my client, but he has not communicated with me about his plea. This is an issue I will take up at a 1368 hearing.”

  “Is that really called for here,Ms. Field?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Mr. DiCinni,” the judge said, “is there a reason you are not communicating with your attorney?”

  Nothing. Mona could not see the killer’s face, but it had to be defiant, unrepentant.

  “I am addressing you, young man,” said the judge. “I want an answer. Why aren’t you talking to your lawyer?”

  No response.

  “Your Honor,” Leon Colby said, “the people will not object to Ms. Field’s withdrawing from the case. We want the defendant to have counsel he can cooperate with. We don’t believe a 1368 hearing is called for.”

  “Your Honor, I do not believe Mr. Colby is the one who should be deciding who withdraws and who doesn’t. I am Mr. DiCinni’s lawyer for this arraignment, assigned by Judge Greene. I would request that a 1368 be set, at which time the permanent counsel issue can be settled.”

  The judge glowered. “All right. Mr. DiCinni, you need to understand something. You are not going to get away with this act in my courtroom. You are going to speak when you are spoken to, do you understand?”

  The killer, of course, said nothing. Mona’s contempt grew like a fireball, a flare from the sun of her hate.

  “Speak up, young man. Do you understand?”

  The killer shrugged.

  “On the record, Mr. DiCinni. Yes or no?”

  “I guess,” the killer said.

  “I will take that as a yes. And how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

  Another shrug.

  “I will enter for the record a plea of not guilty.” The judge was clearly ticked off now. “The court accepts the plea. Defendant’s motion for a 1368 hearing is granted. I can’t figure out if he’s all there or not, so let’s let the experts decide. Next case.”

  What? What just happened? It was moving too fast. All Mona could gather was that the defendant was granted something. What?What? And why didn’t Leon Colby say something?

  Dawn Stead said to Mona, “And so it begins.”

  “What?” Mona said.

  “The defense lawyer’s gonna try to get the kid off on an insanity deal.”

  “Off?” The word pecked at Mona’s chest. Off? As in walking out of the courtroom? As if he had never killed her son? “But she can’t.”

  Dawn’s smile was rimmed with cynicism. “Just watch her try.”

  2.

  Lindy felt a hand on her arm.

  “What’s your hurry?” Sean McIntyre smiled, his perfect white teeth reflecting sun. His dark brown hair was worn short and spiky, not e
nough to call attention to himself but enough to announce his cutting-edge status in the world of local crime reporters. Under his tight blanket-stitched turtleneck Lindy could make out the impertinent pecs and biceps he worked so hard to maintain.

  “What are you doing creeping around?” Lindy didn’t want to talk to him, not now. She wanted to choose the time and place.

  “This is a public parking lot, last time I looked.”

  “So?” She was poised with her keys, seated on her Harley, ready to go. At least she’d slipped the other reporters. She wasn’t ready to make a public statement on the case yet. She wasn’t ready for Sean McIntyre, either. Too much emotional fodder in the blender at the moment, thank you.

  “So here I am, standing with Lindy Field, who’s got the hottest case in the country, and I’m thinking, I’m the one reporter who deserves an in.”

  “What makes you think—”

  “Because I’m the one who knows where Lindy Field likes to park her bike. Guy like that deserves a comment, doesn’t he?”

  “Call my assistant.”

  “You don’t have an assistant.”

  “Exactly.” She pointed her keys toward the ignition. Sean snatched them away.

  “Hey!” Lindy pawed the air.

  Sean flashed more teeth. “Just a quick interview, huh? Chance for me to say I talked to the defense lawyer in the DiCinni case. Exclusive.”

  “Give me my keys.”

  “Couple questions. You don’t even have to be specific. Just so I can say—”

  “What part of ‘give me my keys’ don’t you understand?”

  “What I don’t understand is why you are not returning my phone calls.”

  A car on Hill Street honked an L.A. insult at someone. It zapped Lindy’s skull. She felt dazed. That was the word, especially around Sean. Did she want to see him or not? Maybe, but she was afraid. Afraid of what she might allow herself to do if she kept seeing him. Afraid that, with Darren consuming her thoughts, now was not the time to get romantically involved with anyone.

  Lindy brought her leg over the seat and stood her ground. Sean was about six-one, a decided advantage. “Quit acting juvenile.”

  “Like your client?”

  “He’s only my client. Temporarily.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Off the record?”

  “On.”

  “Keys.”

  Sean shook his head. “Do you know you drive me wild? What is it about you I find so captivating?”

  “Hand them over.” She swung her helmet at his shoulder. It bounced off with a loud fwap.

  Sean’s smile disappeared.

  “Give me my keys.”

  “Take ’em then.” He threw them at Lindy, hitting her in the chest. The keys fell to the asphalt. “What happened to you?”

  “Me?” Lindy was incredulous as she bent down for the keys.

  “What did I do to you that was so bad? We had a good thing going.”

  They had, hadn’t they? Lindy couldn’t remember that many bad moments. Sean had been there for her after a disastrous breakup, and in the short time they’d known each other treated her kindly. Until the night of the meandering hands. But he was a guy.Wasn’t that the natural progression?

  His tone softened. “Lindy, let’s give it another shot, huh? I’ve got some wine cooling at home, we can put on some music, watch the stars come out.”

  “This is L.A., Sean. You can’t see the stars.”

  “I meant on Entertainment Tonight. ”

  “Maybe another time.”

  Sean shrugged. He also let his face reflect an obvious self-satisfaction, with a half-smile that said I know something you don’t know.

  Lindy willingly took the bait. “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.” Sean scuffed the ground with his Italian loafer. “Just a little inside information about the DiCinni family, that’s all. Maybe where the kid’s father is. But you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Cut it out. What do you know, if you think you know anything?”

  “Hey, maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m not the best crime reporter in L.A. Who needs me, right?”

  “Sean, tell me what you know.”

  “Sure.”

  She waited.

  “Tonight. My place. Shall we say seven thirty?”

  3.

  Sylvia Martindale, known to all her friends as Syl, was Mona Romney’s best friend. They’d met in junior high school, back in the days when it was still called junior high school. They’d been cheerleaders together at Grant High School, and even though they went to different colleges—Syl up to UC Santa Barbara, Mona to Cal State Northridge—they remained like sisters, writing all the time, then emailing, and always calling on the phone.

  It was Mona who became a Christian first, in her senior year, during an outreach by the college group at Word of Life church. At first Syl was skeptical, but accepting. She told Mona this phase would probably pass. Mona was always going through phases, like her Sting phase in 1983, and her Bon Jovi phase in 1990.

  But it did not pass like all those other things. It stayed, and Mona stayed in church, which was where she met Brad, and where they were married, and where they dedicated Matthew as a baby.

  It was during the dedication, in fact, that Syl came to church and decided to stay herself. That day had been one of the best of Mona’s life.

  Now they were together in the dark shadows of Mona’s worst phase, the season of mourning for Matthew that threatened never to end. Mona allowed Syl to drive her to the beach, to Zuma, just to sit together and talk and listen to the waves. In high school, they had come to this beach often, sunning themselves and studying the various lifeguards on display.

  But Zuma, with morning fog hanging over the beach like a shroud, seemed empty of all good memories. Even the sound of the water, which usually soothed, grated today. Mona kept up a good front for her friend, not wanting to disappoint. Syl, seeming to understand, kept words short.

  They loved each other enough not to worry about silences.

  Syl had one of those instant cabana things that came out of a bag, and she propped it on the sand in about a minute. Mona had beach chairs and a radio, and each had a book to read. Mona had snatched the old paperback at random from her shelf. Turned out to be one of Brad’s military thrillers. Mona didn’t care. She wouldn’t be reading today.

  “Remember that lifeguard on number seven?” Syl pointed, through the mesh of the cabana, at the wooden tower to their left.

  “There were lots of lifeguards,” Mona heard herself say, her voice sounding distant.

  “I mean the one that day who came out and posed. Remember? He had this tanning oil all over him and those muscles, and he knew we were scoping him, I know he knew, and he pointed out to the ocean like this.” Syl held her arm up in the fashion of a bodybuilder showing off his bicep, only with the hand turned outward so the index finger could point.

  “Oh,” Mona said. “Yeah.”

  “It was so funny, but he was built, wasn’t he? And we started giggling like crazy.”

  “Right.”

  “And couldn’t stop.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Syl sighed. “I actually think he had his eye on you. He walked in front of us a couple of times.”

  “Did he?” Mona looked out at the gray veil over the ocean. A few scattered people sunbathed along the beach. It was early yet.

  “What was the name of the guy in our English class, the one who wanted to be an astronaut? You remember him?”

  “You don’t have to do this, Syl.”

  “Do what?”

  “Not talk about it. I can talk about it if you want.”

  Syl reached for Mona’s hand. “Only when you’re ready.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” Mona expected hot tears to burst from her eyes, but they didn’t. Not yet. She was as cold as the ocean mist.

  “I know,” Syl said. “I just wish I could do something to help.”

>   “You’re doing it.”

  “I pray so hard for you.”

  Mona nodded, but the words passed right through her.

  “I just wonder sometimes”—Syl looked at the waves—“why God . . .”

  “Allowed it?”

  Syl pushed the sand with her foot. “That’s what I wonder.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  They sat in silence as the waves beat the shore.

  Finally Mona said, “Maybe the world’s a farce.” The words sounded stark and strange, like someone else had uttered them. Some other person living in her skin.

  She felt Syl’s hand, still holding hers, tremble a little. “You don’t really believe that.”

  Mona took her hand away and in that moment felt a slipping away, a slight yet perceptible sensation of change. She was different, the world was different, and her place in it was not the same as it was even minutes ago.

  A breeze hit her then, and with it came the smell of dead kelp. The beach was covered with it. Mona put her head down and closed her eyes, and tried to keep dread from entangling her with thick, rotting strands.

  4.

  “First thing we do,” Sean said, “is open a nice bottle of wine. Does a fine Chard sound good?”

  Lindy shook her head. “No way, Clyde. I’m not going to fall for that again.”

  “What?” Sean put his arms out in a gesture of feigned virtue.

  “You know what I’m talking about. You’re not going to get me drunk.”

  “Lindy, me? I’m wounded.”

  She breezed past him, letting her briefcase scuff his leg, and went to the living room of his spacious apartment above Sunset. Sean McIntyre lived like the rising star he was. His immaculate, trendy digs were not some standard single guy’s hovel, but the orderly arrangement of an accomplished seducer. Lindy knew she shouldn’t be here, at night, amid bomber-jacket brown-leather furniture, Erté prints, and a killer view. But she needed something he had. Information.

  One thing Sean seemed to have, like a sixth sense, was a dependable line on information about crime in L.A.