Sins of the Fathers

by James Scott Bell

  Well, not today. She headed for Box Canyon. When she reached the reservoir she started to feel like she was home, a comfortable feeling. She could talk things over with Cardozo. He would not pull a gun on her. He might exercise his claws a little, but that was as bad as it got.

  When she walked in, Cardozo mewed and rubbed the side of her leg.

  “How you doin, huh? Been watching the homestead for meanies?”

  She was about to turn on the TV news when she saw the blinking message light on her machine. Her cell phone was still hooked up to the charger in the kitchen. The message light on the cell was also flashing.

  Lindy chose the machine first. It was Roxy. “Where are you? Why don’t you have your cell? Call me immediately.”

  The message on her cell phone was also from Roxy. Lindy held down the 1 key, Roxy’s speed dial.

  She picked up after the second ring.

  “Hey girl,” Lindy said. “What’s the big—”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you—”

  “I know and now—”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Roxy’s voice was rising.

  “Heard what?”

  “Darren . . .”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Roxy took a deep breath, almost a gasp. “He hanged himself.”

  11.

  Mona carefully cut around the lawyer’s head. As she did so she looked into the eyes of the image staring out at her from the newspaper. What was behind those eyes? How could this woman defend guilty people?

  How could the system of justice, so called, allow lawyers to make such a mockery of the truth? If only they could be cut down before they did more harm.

  Mona finished removing the head from the body and placed it on one side of the large piece of butcher paper she had laid out on the table. The collage was coming together, a permanent reminder of what was at stake. A tribute to Matthew and his teammates.

  It was beginning to look a little like those Mafia charts she’d seen on TV shows. At the last VOICe meeting, she suggested that copies of pictures be swapped among the victims’ families so all of them would have reminders of the dead. It seemed like a good idea to the majority, a way of sharing the grief.

  For Mona, it was a way to get the pictures she needed to complete the chart. The only picture she did not want was the picture of the killer. She would not dignify him by placing his face on the same page with those who had died at his hand. She would, however, put on his lawyer. She needed an object to absorb her hate.

  The Bible said to hate what was evil.

  The aesthetics of sticking the pictures to the page did not concern Mona. She used double-stick tape. But she carefully calculated where to place each one. She supposed this was some form of therapy, and then promptly forgot all about such trivial things. This was deadly business.

  The phone rang, startling her. For some reason she picked up this time. Something told her it was one of the VOICe members.

  It was Brad.

  “I had to check on you,” he said.

  Yes, she supposed he had to.

  “I’m doing fine,” she said.

  “Have you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “Oh, Mona. I wish I could be there with you. Can I come over?”

  “What news are you talking about?”

  “The defendant, he tried to kill himself.”

  Mona felt a cold knife pass through her. “Tried?”

  “They saved him, apparently.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I appreciate your calling.”

  “Mona, you sound so formal. It’s killing me what’s going on between us.”

  “I’m sorry, Brad.”

  “When can I see you?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  After hanging up, Mona sat in front of the faces again. She was glad she couldn’t see the killer. Suicide? That would have been one way to finish the story.

  I wonder if it was a ploy to gain sympathy.

  12.

  The Los Angeles County–USC Medical Center was a jutting, monstrous organism of a structure east of downtown. With wings seeming to sprout from other wings, it had a Hydra-like quality about it, as if it would always be growing some nasty new appendage.

  In truth, it needed to grow, though it had more square feet than the Pentagon. Already it treated about 800,000 patients a year, mostly poor, mostly emergencies—people shot, stabbed, beaten, or broken up in accidents of one kind or another. And inmates from county jail in life-or-death emergencies.

  After checking at the desk, Lindy located Darren’s room on the fourth floor. A cop stood at the closed door.

  “I’m Darren DiCinni’s lawyer,” Lindy said.

  “And?” the cop said, his expression unflinching.

  “I’m going to see him.”

  “Not now.”

  “I said I’m his lawyer. I want to see him.”

  “How do I know?”

  “Know what?”

  “You’re a lawyer.”

  “Oh, please.” She fished out her bar card and showed it to him.

  “I don’t really care,” the cop said. “I have my duty.”

  “Your duty does not include separating people from their constitutional rights.”

  He folded his arms but didn’t move.

  “Let her in,” a voice said. Lindy turned and saw Larry Lopez.

  “How you doing, Lindy?” He smiled.

  “Larry. Long time.” She didn’t smile back at the prosecution’s chief investigator in the Marcel Lee case. Lindy’s blistering cross-examination of him almost got her thrown in jail for contempt.

  “Missed you,” he said.

  “You want to tell me what happened to my client?”

  Lopez shrugged. “He used a strip of blanket around the neck, twisted it into a knot himself. Pretty bad attempt. He passed out but didn’t cash his chips.”

  “He wasn’t on suicide watch?”

  “Somebody must’ve blinked.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Lopez indicated the cop. “Don’t be too hard on my guy, huh? Just doing his job.”

  “Aren’t you all,” Lindy said.

  “You got the right to talk to him. I’ll give you ten, how’s that?”

  “More if I need it.”

  Lopez nodded.

  Inside, curtains separated three beds. An old man snored in the second bed, which helped dull the beeping of a monitor. The smell of sanitized death permeated the place.

  Darren was in restraints in the third bed. Leather anklets held him to the rails. Lindy could see a jagged burn around his neck, reddish fading to purple. Darren turned his head slowly to see her.

  “Hello, Darren.”

  He looked at her a moment then let his head roll back to the side.

  Lindy took a chair and sat by the bed. Darren looked like a little boy, sick, staying home from school.

  “Tell me what happened. Can you?”

  He did not look inclined to talk.

  “Anything we can talk about?”

  Darren didn’t move.

  “If you don’t talk, I’ll have to sit here and do all the yapping. That’s not a very pleasant sound, so they tell me.”

  Nothing from Darren. At least he did not tell her to go away.

  “Well, I guess you want to listen to me for a while. That’s your choice. You know we are having a preliminary hearing soon. People are going to get up on the stand and talk about what you did. The judge is going to listen and decide whether to make you stand trial. There will be a trial, no doubt about it. I’m going to fight for you no matter what. I just want you to know that.”

  The old man in the middle bed snorted loudly, as if commenting on her assertion.

  “Hey, you remember last time we talked? You asked me about God. I just wanted you to know I went to church and I’ve been thinking about God lately. You know what I think? I think that church isn’t the place to find
God.”

  This got Darren’s attention. He looked at her and seemed curious.

  And suddenly images filled Lindy’s head, memories, and they led her to something that needed saying.

  “Funny,” she said. “When I was a little girl, maybe about six, I remember getting lost at Disneyland. Can you imagine a better place to get lost? But I got really scared. I was there with my mom and dad and little brother. And we were walking down that Main Street they have there and we stopped for a minute to look in a shop. It was pretty crowded. I looked out the window and saw Snow White walking by outside the shop. Now you have to understand that Snow White was my favorite character of all time. I wanted to be Snow White. I wanted to dress like Snow White and sing like her. The only thing I didn’t want to do was eat a poison apple and live with dwarfs in the woods.”

  Memories of Snow White? Why now? But Darren seemed to be listening, so she went forward.

  “I ran out of the shop and my parents probably missed it. I ran outside to get a look at Snow White. She had a dwarf with her. I think it was Grumpy. He was skipping alongside her and they seemed to be in a hurry. I didn’t think. I just ran, and I called out her name. She looked at me and gave me a smile and wave. It was amazing. Snow White! The real deal!”

  Lindy laughed a little. And she thought she saw the corner of Darren’s mouth move a little upward.

  “Yeah, it was the biggest thrill of my life. I ran back into the shop. But I guess it was the wrong shop. It didn’t look familiar, and I didn’t see my mom or dad or brother. I did see this man with a very sour expression on his face. I’ll never forget it. This guy was Grumpy times four, the ugliest, scariest face I’d ever seen. And suddenly I was very, very scared. I was lost, and Disneyland had become a scary place. I called out—Mommy! Daddy!—and I spun around looking for them.

  “The man with the scary face came over to me and said, ‘Can’t find your mommy or daddy?’ That scared me more than anything else. I ran out of the shop with my heart stuck in my throat, crying, and as soon as I got out the door I was swept up by my mother into her arms. She was right outside the door waiting for me.”

  She paused, the feelings coming back to her, the incredible relief that was so deep she burst into tears on her mother’s shoulder. Mom held her close, patted her back, told her not to worry. I would neverlet you get lost, she said.

  “So I think God must be like that,” Lindy said.“We’re down here and we’re scared and we get lost. God’s not going to let us stay lost.”

  She stopped, looked at Darren’s furrowed brow. For a minute he stayed like that. What was he thinking? Lindy didn’t press him.

  Finally he said, “I went to Disneyland once.”

  Lindy almost slid off her chair. Light shone through the fissure again.

  She put her hand on his arm. “Tell me about it.”

  ELEVEN

  1.

  The preliminary hearing in the case of the People of the State of California against Darren DiCinni began in the courtroom of Judge Doreen Weyer. Lindy had been in front of her before, and considered her fair. Weyer was a deputy DA for fifteen years before her appointment to the bench. At least she was not the sort of ex-DA who took pleasure in making defense lawyers jump through flaming hoops.

  Of course the place was jammed with reporters. Lindy expected this but wasn’t quite ready for the reality of reporters sniffing blood—hers. Leon Colby was taking a hard line. She was the nasty defense lawyer who would pull any trick to get Darren through some legal loophole. For the scribes, that was a formula for good press.

  Most disconcerting, though, was the group of VOICe activists who managed to get seats in the courtroom. Wearing their red and white VOICe badges, they dominated a corner of the medium-sized courtroom, occupying twelve seats or so. A couple of them made eye contact with Lindy as she walked toward the counsel table. It was a good thing flame throwers were not allowed in court.

  Roxy gave Lindy a playful nudge on the shoulder as they sat at counsel table. “I prayed for you this morning,” she said.

  “Good idea. I talked to Darren yesterday, about God and Disneyland.”

  “Interesting combination.”

  “The point is, I think I made a connection. A little one. So keep on praying, okay? I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

  Leon Colby walked into the courtroom. He ambled down the center aisle with a palpable swagger. It sent a vibrating blade through Lindy’s middle, a feeling she got whenever she knew a prosecutor held all the cards. And Leon Colby displayed his hand with glee.

  He smiled at Lindy and gave her a nod. Then he motioned that he wanted to talk. Lindy stepped to the prosecutor’s table.

  “Take a twenty-five to life, Lindy,” Colby said. “He’ll have a chance to get out.”

  “He needs treatment, not incarceration.”

  “No.”

  “You know he does.”

  “I don’t know anything of the kind. You heard the expert.”

  “Some expert.”

  “Take the deal, Lindy. Let’s get out of here and get on with our lives.”

  Lindy glanced behind her, then back at Colby. “Those red-and-white badges wouldn’t have anything to do with this case now, would they?”

  Stiffening, Colby said, “That’s not gonna help you.”

  “They turn out the vote.”

  “I guess this conference is over.”

  He started to turn. Lindy put a hand on his arm. “Leon, there’s stuff here that smells, and you know it.You’ve been around too long not to know it.”

  “I got a good sense of smell, and I’m not picking anything up.”

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  “Maybe because you’re just wired to smell your own imagination.

  Maybe it’s because you’re still fighting old battles. I don’t know. But the kid’s gonna end up doing life without parole, and if you’re so all-fired concerned about him, you better think about a deal.”

  From the side door, Darren DiCinni shuffled in between two sheriff’s deputies. He still looked like the vacant, lost teenager who had tried to kill himself. But Lindy knew there was something more inside him. After they’d met on the field of Disneyland memories, she felt at least he was starting to trust her a little. To listen.

  He even gave her a half smile.

  2.

  Mona watched the killer, tried to see into his eyes. Vacant, remorseless. Wicked. What was he smiling about? Did he think he was going to beat this thing? He and his tricky lawyer?

  Didn’t the Bible talk about an eye for an eye? If God was just, then this killer would get what he deserved.

  Janelle Thompson sat beside Mona. She was the mother of Cody Thompson, one of the murdered boys. Mona liked her, one of the more voluble VOICe members. She had a way of empowering victims with her words, making them feel important.

  Brad was not going to come. He called yesterday and left a message. Mona was home but didn’t pick up. She didn’t want to have a long, drawn-out thing, especially not with the preliminary coming up.

  She hoped he was getting along. She really did. Maybe after the trial they could—“Nervous?” Janelle whispered.

  “A little, I guess.”

  “Mr. Colby’s going all the way on this one. He’s the right man for the job.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  “I heard the judge is good too.”

  “This is only a preliminary. The trial’s another thing.”

  “Don’t worry,” Janelle said.“We’ll be out in force for that too. Any judge will see he can’t get away with anything.”

  Mona nodded, trying to feel confident.

  “And Mr. Mahoney,” Janelle said. “He’s going to help take care of things for us.”

  “I didn’t know he was working on the case.”

  “He’s not.”

  Mona shook her head.

  “He’s a former police officer, remember?” Janelle said. “He’s got connections.”<
br />
  “I’m still not sure—”

  “Just trust him. He knows what he’s doing. Which is good for us.”

  After a long sigh, Mona said, “I’ll take anything at this point.”And just then the killer’s lawyer turned and scanned the gallery, making eye contact with Mona.

  An icy hand grabbed her heart. This woman profaned God’s house by coming in to worship with people who cared about justice. This woman was trying to pervert justice. If only God would intervene and get this thing over with.

  Mona did not avert her eyes. The lawyer did.

  3.

  I’ll have to get used to her being here, Lindy thought. That woman who had reamed her at the church, along with all her cohorts and the red-and- white badges. Here to intimidate this judge and any other judge who sat on the case. And a jury.

  Lindy would make a motion before trial to exclude these people from the courtroom. At least get a ruling to make them take off those badges. They were a veritable lynch mob.

  The press sat on the other side of the gallery. Including Sean McIntyre. He smiled and winked at Lindy.

  At 9:05 the judge entered. Everyone stood as Doreen Weyer took the bench. Weyer had allowed one pool camera in court. The proceedings would show up on the evening news, locally and nationally. Lindy had moved for exclusion and lost. Leon Colby did not seem upset in the slightest. What a great TV commercial it would make when he officially threw his hat in the DA ring.

  Judge Weyer called the case. “Before we get to the first witness,” she said, “I want to make sure we all understand that this is a preliminary hearing with an intense amount of interest. We have a camera in court, and many parties here who have a stake in the proceedings. And I mean from the defendant to family members to those who talk about the social significance of all things criminal. I want to say at the outset that I will not tolerate anything done for the benefit of the camera or publicity. I don’t want any outbursts from the public or untoward actions by the press. And I trust that the two lawyers will conduct themselves with the utmost professionalism.”

  When Weyer said professionalism, she looked at Lindy. What was that supposed to mean?

  “Mr. Colby,” said the judge, “you may call your first witness.”