Sins of the Fathers

by James Scott Bell

  A lean man of around thirty, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, white slacks, and leather sandals, headed toward them. His smile, seen through a clipped brown goatee, seemed genuine enough.

  “This is Travis Kellman,” Roxy said.

  He shook Lindy’s hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Life is about risk,” Lindy said.

  They settled into some seats, Travis sitting on the other side of Roxy. A pretty good band played up on the stage. All right. Not so bad. And then everybody stood up and started singing the words displayed on a big screen.

  Lindy stood up so as not to draw attention. She just listened. It was pretty weird, all this singing. People were really into it, clapping and swaying. Their enthusiasm was nothing like the singing in church she’d seen in the movies, with people holding hymnals and trying real hard to sound interested.

  Then it was time for the preaching. The pastor’s name, according to the bulletin, was Clark Bennett. And when he got up to speak he owned the place.

  This guy could talk, and he looked good. Tall, slender. Midforties, Lindy guessed.

  He would have made a good lawyer. A great lawyer, in fact. He spoke for forty minutes and Lindy wasn’t bored once.

  Afterward, Travis Kellman invited them to brunch, but Lindy wanted to go home. She wanted to get to the Sunday Times, back to the normal world, whatever that was.

  She knew deep down it wasn’t a normal world, not with kids like Darren in it. And part of her wished the church thing was real so it could help her out.

  But Travis Kellman offered to pick up the tab, and so she acceded to brunch.

  3.

  “So what kind of artist are you?” Lindy asked Travis Kellman in her cross-examination voice.

  Roxy kicked her under the table. They were at a little bistro called La Frite, a place with big windows and outdoor tables with yellow umbrellas. The buffet-style brunch came up salmon and capers and shrimp for Lindy. The other two had egg concoctions.

  Lindy ignored Roxy’s nudge and kept her eyes on the goateed fellow.

  “Photo surrealism,” Kellman said.

  “You’re a photographer?”

  “No, a painter. But I paint to make my work look like a photo. When I succeed, that is.”

  “What’s the surreal part?”

  “I put in something that is not real. Like water rushing down a drain, and men in a rowboat going down with it.”

  “Bizarre.”

  “What’s bizarre about it?” Roxy snapped.

  “He just said it’s surreal. Isn’t that right, Travis?”

  “Right.”

  “So where’d you pick up this bizarreness? Where are you from?”

  Roxy said, “Lindy, will you stop?”

  “It’s okay,” Kellman said. “I’m from San Diego, originally.”

  “Went to school down there?”

  “Yeah. Till I dropped out and bummed around Europe.”

  “What about your family?”

  “Normal. Mom’s a receptionist. My dad was a cop.”

  “Was?”

  “He died last year.”

  “Sorry.”

  Kellman nodded.

  “He must have been one of the good ones,” Lindy said.

  Kellman looked at her oddly. “Good ones?”

  Uh-oh. Just crossed some line with him. Get sensitive, stupid. “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t think I do,” he said.

  “Police. Cops. Some good, some bad.”

  “Mostly good, wouldn’t you say?”

  She sensed his question was pointed, inviting argument. “May I speak freely?”

  “What have you been doing?” Roxy piped in.

  Lindy shot her a glance then looked at Kellman. “I think cops in any big city are under a lot of pressure to lie in court. You get pressure from the DA, you get pressure from your own higher-ups, you get pressure from the citizens who want the streets cleaned up, and they don’t care how it’s done. And eventually that kind of stuff reaches critical mass, and the ACLU has to step in, or the feds, and order you to clean house.”

  Roxy poked at her sausage omelet with thin-lipped chagrin.

  But Travis Kellman spoke evenly,“Hey, look, I’m not going to deny there have been abuses.”

  “Abuses? Remember Rampart?” The scandal involving the gang unit at the LAPD’s Rampart Division had broken the city wide open several years ago. “Remember a kid named Franklin Jones?”

  Kellman kept his eyes on her and put a forkful of egg in his mouth.

  “They offered him a deal, the prosecutors did. Plead guilty to selling drugs he had not sold and serve eight years in prison. Or he could risk being convicted at trial and, as a three-time loser, be sentenced to life. In doing this the prosecutors and judges just accepted the word of cops that he was guilty. Turns out the evidence was planted. The cops were lying.”

  “But that’s being dealt with.”

  “Is it?”

  “Where haven’t there been abuses? You saying defense lawyers never hide evidence? Never lie to the court? Never tell the court so-and- so wasn’t on your witness list because you just found the guy, when all the time you had him in your back pocket? Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “But we’re always fighting against the machine. The government has all the resources, and they never get spanked. We have a job to do too.”

  “And so do the cops. And let me tell you, the majority of them are good, honest people. Hard as that may be for you to believe.”

  “They just don’t do enough to get rid of the bad ones, unless, by chance, somebody with a video camera catches one beating the heck out of some poor kid.”

  “Oh yeah, the video that doesn’t show what led up to the whole thing. And then the politicians get involved. Let’s throw this cop to the lions, give ’em some meat. A cop who was out there trying to protect everybody, and now he’s told doing his job means he’s a villain. Cops with wives and kids and families, putting it on the line every day out there. Get wise.”

  “So now I’m not wise?”

  “Very few of us are wise. That’s why I go to church.”

  “There’s stuff that goes on in churches that isn’t always so hot, either,” Lindy said.

  Roxy put her face in her hands.

  “Let’s see,” Kellman said. “Cops. Christians. Is there a group you don’t have problems with?”

  “Aerosmith.”

  4.

  This was not supposed to be the deal.

  God either didn’t care about her anymore, or he’d gone back on his promises for some reason. That reason could be good or bad. Mona knew the Bible said it had to be good no matter what, but how could going back on your word ever be good? Wasn’t that the first thing she’d learned in the schoolyard, to keep her promises? So why shouldn’t God have to keep his too? What was his secret?

  And why did God keep secrets? Especially when she was dying inside?

  As she moved through her childless house, loss continued to burn in Mona’s chest. Unyielding heat, relentless.

  She had tried several things in the last few days to douse the flames of bereavement, to silence the incessant voice that accused God. She had always believed God was love. Her parents had backed up what she’d learned in Sunday school.

  But Matthew’s death blasted that easy faith, leaving only a loveless crater behind.

  Activity had always been her deliverance. No one could ever accuse her of slacking off on anything, once she made up her mind to take action. She could take any activity and make it completely her own. By force of will, she could impose perfection on disorder, pattern on chaos. By making something perfect she could douse the flames, fill the emptiness. She could get back to life without God’s help. She didn’t need it.

  Mona began to cook. She would create a meal for Brad and herself that would make them both weep at the splendor of it.

  For a few short hours, while Brad was out running errands, she m
anaged to keep the flames around her heart on a slow burn, lapping at her but not consuming. She did not listen to music, as she used to when at work in the kitchen. Nor did she turn on the little TV over the sink.

  She worked in silence, devoted to creating, to perfecting.

  Brad’s reaction to the presentation was initially, and predictably, delighted. Mona was a little annoyed at that, the fact that she knew what he’d do. His obviousness was grating. He was trying too hard now to be pleased by anything she did. His kid gloves were beginning to rub her raw.

  Still, she put on the smile she knew he expected. She set the table with the wedding china, which she had not done in years, not since that Christmas when Brad’s brother and his family came down from Redding, all six of them piled in a van. The silver was from the set she had indulged in after Matthew was born and the doctor said she could bear no more children. She could not make that part of her life perfect, so she would have to rely on distractions, like entertaining. But this sterling set in the redwood box had sat unused since, save for one formal dinner six years ago.

  This incongruity sometimes bewildered even Mona. Why didn’t the things she’d paid the most for ever satisfactorily serve their intended uses?

  “This,” Brad said, putting down a full plastic bag marked Home Depot, “is magnificent.”

  “You like?” She knew he did, and would make a fuss over it, but she wanted it all, every last drop of his approval, even if it annoyed her. Another incongruity she recognized but felt little reason to analyze.

  “How could I not? Candles and everything.”

  “Yes,” Mona said, “and you are going to be pampered.”

  He almost teared up then, and Mona wished she could feel the appreciation she knew he deserved.

  “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” Brad came over to kiss her. She turned her head and let him kiss her cheek.

  “Wash up and sit down. I want to serve.”

  “Can I change?”

  “Just wash. Keep your tie on. It’s more elegant.”

  He nodded. “For you, anything.”

  When he returned from the bathroom she had the salads out, Waldorfs with her own innovative twist. They’d chilled in the refrigerator precisely thirty-five minutes. She had sliced the apples into symmetrical wedges and shelled and chopped the walnuts herself. The bagged variety would have ruined the purity of it all. Mayonnaise, sugar, allspice, celery, lemon juice—each in its proper balance, meeting her approval.

  “May I say the blessing?” Brad asked.

  “Sure.” Mona closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  “Dear Lord, we thank you so much for your love for us—”

  Mona opened her eyes just a bit, looked at her salad. Was the quantity of walnuts just right? She did not want to overpower the apples.

  “—and for this food you have so graciously prepared—”

  He has prepared? What do you think I’ve been doing for the last sixhours?

  “—we ask—”

  You ask.

  “—that you would bless it to our bodies. In Jesus’ name—”

  Walnuts.

  “—amen.”

  Mona, without looking at Brad’s face, delicately took up her salad fork. She heard the soft chink that Brad’s fork made on his salad plate. Okay, it was the beginning of a perfect dinner. Right, right, right.

  Until everything began to unravel.

  5.

  With Cardozo curled in her lap, Lindy hopped on the Internet to check her email. Her mind was still reeling with Drake DiCinni’s intransigence. There was something abnormal there, a father giving up on his son like that. It didn’t line up right, the pieces of this family puzzle.

  But how could that puzzle be anything but deviant, with a thirteen-year-old mass killer in the family?

  Not much email. Roxy on her “cute guy,” and a plea to come to church again. “I feel like God is chasing after you, Lindy, I really do.”

  Just what I want to be. Stalked by God. That’s a violation ofCalifornia and federal laws.

  But what if? What if God was really a player in all this? The possibility led to a host of questions she was not prepared to explore.

  She shot through some spam, a few postings from a legal group she was a member of. She deleted everything, then went over to CNN.com to check the news.

  The lead story was another about the senatorial campaigns of various talking robots in various states. When did politicians become such predictable bores? The only interesting ones were fringe candidates, the people with no chance of winning and no need to pull their rhetorical punches.

  She found a link to an opinion piece on the “New Wave of Juvenile Violence.” Naturally it led with the DiCinni case. The idiot who wrote it made some comment about “clever lawyers” who would try to “sway” juries into thinking these “monsters” were just “damaged children.” He urged people not to be “fooled.”Talk about trying to taint the national jury pool!

  She groaned then moved over to Google, intending to do a search on juvenile justice and get a feel for the public’s mood. There was no money for a jury consultant. She’d have to run with instinct and common sense.

  Without thinking much about it, she typed in Marcel Lee murder on Google. She’d done this half a dozen times in the last year, hoping some newspaper would pick up the story. She’d certainly sent out enough press releases via email and fax. His appeal was pending. Maybe she was just hoping for some positive spin instead of the usual abuse heaped on defense lawyers.

  She saw the usual hits. Stories from the Los Angeles Times and Daily News. About the trial, the appeal. Lindy went to the next page and saw some uninteresting squibs. One drew her attention. In particular, the word conspiracy.

  Conspiracy? What was that all about?

  Lindy clicked on the link.

  A bold red banner on a black background appeared on her screen: Hawkstar’s Conspiracy Blog. She read some of the text then saw a link labeled LAPD. She clicked on it and was taken to a page detailing some of the scandals, like Rampart, that had plagued the Los Angeles Police Department over the last several years. But then her interest spiked:

  There was a case a year or so ago, for murder. A guy named MarcelLee. Gang member. Shot another gang member. Remember that? Andthere was a stink raised by his lawyer, Linda Fields, after the case, sayingthat the jury decided to believe the police officer.

  Linda Fields? This guy couldn’t even get her name right and he was writing about conspiracies? Oh, this was going to be rich.

  She wasn’t laughing, though. Seeing her name, even though misspelled, on some guy’s conspiracy page was a little freaky.

  That’s a code phrase, folks. What she was saying without saying itwas that the cop lied. Now that’s not very surprising, coming from adefense lawyer. But I looked into the case myself and found out somethings that were disturbing.

  You remember the Rampart scandal that hit the LAPD years ago?They had this unit out there in gang territory that violated the law all thetime to get guys. One time they even framed a guy. And there was a codeof silence.

  Whenever you come across a code of silence, think conspiracy, fans!

  Amazing.

  This guy, probably without knowing it, had it right. The Marcel Lee case did suffer under a code of silence written by the cops and the DA’s office as well, if turning a blind eye to obvious lies could be called a “conspiracy.”

  She bookmarked the Web page and looked at some of the guy’s other theories.

  Oswald did not act alone, of course. And there was an oil conspiracy that stretched to the White House, a steroid conspiracy that had Major League Baseball in a vise, and some sort of cabal responsible for the rise of Britney Spears.

  Great. A nut. Lindy decided not to note this Web site in any briefs on behalf of Marcel. But it might be worth getting in touch with the guy to find out if he had any truly useful info she could use.

  When her search for an email link came up
empty, she took a stab and created an email to the Web site, addressing it to “info@.” She wrote this:

  If you want to discuss conspiracies re: LAPD and the like, contact me.

  6.

  Mona hurled the bowl of au gratin potatoes at the wall. It shattered in a yellowish mess next to the rosewood hutch. As the pieces fell, she realized it was the serving dish given to them by Brad’s mother and also, in the same instant, that she felt not one ounce of guilt.

  The rage that filled Mona was so consuming she could almost step out of her body and observe it. She did not know when or how it would die, but she knew how it began. With a look.

  The conversation between her and Brad had proceeded along a cold, routine pattern. He spoke of his day with a jauntiness overlaying the words like the too-sweet frosting on a Bundt cake. She tried to take interest in what he was saying. She could not.

  Between accounts, he would linger over the food she had prepared so carefully, commenting constantly on how good it was. She couldn’t tell if his sentiments were sincere or yet another clumsy attempt to salve her wounds. Of course, he had wounds himself. But in his way he did not let them show. Perhaps she would not have been so resentful if he had hurt with her, had been weak with her.

  So when he grimaced after biting into a piece of garlic chicken, it burst on her emotional radar.

  “What?” she said. “What is it?”

  “Huh?” Brad’s expression of confusion did not convince.

  “What’s the matter with the food?”

  “Nothing. It’s wonderful.”

  “Something’s wrong. I saw you. You just bit into something and you didn’t like it.”

  “No, honest.”

  “You’re not being honest. I want you to be. What is wrong with the food? Let me make it right.”

  “You don’t have to do anything. I didn’t—”

  “I saw you.”

  “Maybe you thought I—”

  “Are you saying I’m seeing things? You think I’m hallucinating?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I want you to stop it.”

  Brad spread his hands, starting with the gestures now. “Stop what?”