by Michael Nava
Fucking LAPD! There was nothing they wouldn’t do to squeeze a confession out of whatever unfortunate they’d zeroed in on as a suspect, whether or not that person had committed a crime. Sure, there were some decent cops, but they were the exception, not the so-called bad apples I heard about every time one of them got caught committing some egregious act of misconduct. The bad apples ran the goddammed place.
“That’s what they count on,” I said when I’d calmed down. The light changed and I turned toward home. “You did well.”
“Was it an act, or do the cops really hate us that much?”
“It’s both.” We drove up the hill to Larry’s house. I pulled into the garage, cut the engine. “Why do the cops think Theo blew up the church? And why do they think you helped him?”
“Let me take a shower. I need to wash the smell of that room off of me.”
••••
I put out the food though I suspected neither of us would feel like eating and made a pot of coffee. Darkness pressed against the windows and a chill slithered through the shadowy rooms. Josh came into the kitchen in a pair of my sweatpants and an old T-shirt emblazoned with the name of my law school. They hung on his smaller frame, emphasizing his fragility. He looked at the spread.
“This for me?”
“Yeah, I figured I’d feed you for once.”
He gripped me in a bear hug and muttered, “Thanks,” and I knew it wasn’t for the food. He let go, poured a cup of coffee, dumped what seemed like half a bowl of sugar into it, and sat down. Tension came off his body like steam.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
He blew out a breath. “I got home from work around five, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and turned on the TV to decompress before I came over. I heard a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole and it was Mike, the building manager. When I opened the door to see what he wanted, a police officer pulled me outside and slammed me against the wall. He shouted at me, asking if there was anyone else inside. I said no; then he handcuffed me and a bunch of guys in bomb suits went inside. I asked, ‘what are you doing?’ And the cop who handcuffed me said they had a search warrant.” He lifted his cup with both hands and drank.
“Did you see the warrant?”
He shook his head. “The cop marched me downstairs to the sidewalk. The street was blocked off, and there was a crowd of people at the end of the road behind a police barricade. The cop pushed me toward the crowd— I recognized my neighbor, I guess they had evacuated the building— and then into the back seat of a police car.”
He took a deep breath, picked up the coffee again, and put it down without drinking.
“Do you have any idea what they were looking for?” I asked him.
“They think Theo made bombs that blew up the church in my apartment.”
“Why?” I asked, softly.
He gripped the mug. “They said they found fragments of one of the bombs at the church with Theo’s fingerprints on it. They said they knew he was living with me. They accused me of helping him make the bombs. Is that even possible, Henry? Don’t you need special equipment to make a bomb?”
“I had a client who blew up his ex-wife’s house with a pipe bomb he made at his kitchen table,” I replied. “The ingredients are simple and easy to obtain. Batteries, wires, a section of pipe, some kind of explosive— gunpowder, fertilizer or even match heads. Once you got the ingredients, all you need is The Anarchist Cookbook to give you step by step instructions on how to put them together. Theo’s fingerprints . . .” I mused. “Could he have done it?”
“I don’t—” he began, raked his hair with his fingers. “You’ve met Theo. He’s a mess. I can’t see how he’d get it together to build a bomb.”
“Could Freddy have done it?”
“Freddy?” he said incredulously. “Freddy’s the sane one.”
“Did you get any idea from the cops about a motive?”
He came back to the table and sat down. “They showed me pictures of the church. Someone spray-painted ‘Bash the Church’ and ‘Queer Revolt’ on the walkway outside the entrance. Bash the Church is the name of the action I was telling you about yesterday, and Queer Revolt is one of QUEER’s slogans. They asked me about QUEER. Was I a member, and who’s in charge?” He shivered. “I’m cold. Is it cold in here?”
I got up, went to the foyer, and took a sweatshirt off the coat-rack. When I returned to the kitchen, he was mechanically scooping food from the takeout boxes onto two plates.
“Put this on,” I said, handing him the sweatshirt.
He put down the serving spoon and pulled the sweatshirt over his head. He gave me a frightened look and said, “I guess I know now what Theo meant when he apologized for getting me into trouble.”
“Did you have anything to do with the bombing?”
“How could you even ask me that?”
“I have to if I’m going to represent you.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“Doesn’t matter. The cops are like a dog with a bone when they get an idea in their head. Theo’s fingerprint connects the bombs to him. The fact that he was staying at your apartment connects him to you. If the search uncovers any evidence the bombs were put together at your place, that’s another connection to you. Unless they’ve found Theo and beaten a confession out of him, you’re all they’ve got.”
“Oh, my God,” he moaned. “What am I going to do?”
“You’re not going to do anything. I’ll handle this. Those connections between you and the bombing are circumstantial and weak. Plus, you were at work the night of the bombing. There’s not enough to arrest you and certainly not enough to charge you. What the cops are probably doing is putting the squeeze on you to get to Theo. Do you know where he is?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since he moved out.”
His stomach growled.
“You should eat something.”
He managed a lopsided grin. “That’s my line.” He’d filled his plate with hummus, chicken shawarma, tabbouleh, and stuffed grape leaves. “It looks good,” he said lamely, took a forkful of tabbouleh, and then put it down. “Maybe later.”
“Eat,” I said, and ate a forkful of chicken to encourage him.
He dipped a bit of pita into the hummus and ate it. He reached across the table and took my hand. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the rescuing had just begun.
••••
Jessica was embarrassed by the dust on the artificial flowers in the silver bowl on the dining-room table, but the room had seldom been used, either by her parents or by Daniel and her. Her mother had been in no condition to entertain, and she and Daniel were oddly friendless. Though he resisted it, the fact was that Daniel’s status as head of the church made him socially unapproachable to his congregants— who invited the pope to a barbecue?— and the congregation was basically all the community they had. So the big formal room with its sea-green wallpaper; tall lace-curtained row of windows; antique china cabinet stocked with a Spode service and Christofle silver for twelve; and the long rosewood table was like an empty theater set waiting for the curtains to open on a play that never began. Until today. Today, there was drama.
The police detective— McCann— squeaked against the plastic-covered chair and attempted a look of solicitude but his eyes wouldn’t cooperate; they remained hard and skeptical.
“Why was Reverend Herron at the church that night? I understand the church wasn’t in use on Thursday nights.”
Jessica glanced at the other men around her dining table— men, always men— a second detective whose name she hadn’t bothered to catch and Bob Metzger.
“Thursday nights were his counseling nights,” she said. “He chose it because he would be alone with— whoever he was counseling.”
“Do you know who he saw?”
She shook her head. “No, you see, Thursday wasn’t for regular appointments. He kept that night for
congregants who had— special issues— that required some discretion. The appointments were private. He made them himself and kept them to himself.”
“So,” the detective said, “you don’t know who he was meeting that night.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” she replied, meeting his cold eyes with equal coldness.
She felt the collective disapproval of the men around the table at her tone. What did they want from her? Tears? Hysteria? She was tired of this. Her husband had been blown to bits, her father nearly dislodged from his grave. What did she feel? Shock, horror, exhaustion, remorse, and maybe the tiniest drop of relief— emotions she did not care to share with these emotionless men feigning sympathy. All she wanted was to be alone and a drink. She really needed a drink.
She managed a strangled, “Bob, can we stop?” Uncle Bob, she almost said, but knew that would be laying it on too thick.
Bob Metzger said, “I think that’s enough for today, Detective McCann. My client is obviously under considerable stress.”
My client, she thought. Since when did she need a lawyer?
“Of course,” McCann said. He and the other detective got up to go. “Mrs. Herron, I am sorry for your loss.”
She looked at him and murmured, “Thank you.”
“But,” he added, “we will have to talk again. When you’re up to it.”
Her polite nod concealed a “screw you.”
When the detectives were gone Metzger reproached her. “I realize this is difficult for you, Jessica, but we have to cooperate fully with the police to find Daniel’s killers.”
“By asking me the same questions over and over?” she replied. “My answers aren’t going to change.”
“You’re upset,” he said soothingly. “You should get some rest.”
“I do need to lie down,” she said. “But I suppose— the funeral arrangements. I have to—”
“I’ll handle them,” Metzger replied. “Closed casket, I’m afraid.”
She had a flashing, horrifying memory of the body bag into which the coroner had gathered what was left of Daniel; he’d been identified by dental records.
She thought she would be sick. “Whatever you think best. I’ll walk you out.”
“No need,” he said. “I know the way.”
He got up, arranged his face into what she imagined he thought was a sympathetic smile, and left the room. She heard his footsteps grow fainter as he walked through the other uninhabited rooms of the house. Her father had built his mansion in Baldwin Hills for its proximity to the church only later to realize he’d moved his family into what was known as the Black Beverly Hills.
When she heard the front door close, she got to her feet, smoothed her skirt, and forced herself to walk slowly into the entrance foyer and up the grand stairs to her second-floor bedroom. There she bolted the door and reached beneath the bed for the bottle. Hands shaking, she filled the water glass and took a hard, sharp swallow, then shuddered. She set the glass down as the warmth spread through her chest. She undressed, drew the curtains closed, and climbed into bed. Pray, she told herself. Pray. But for what? Dan was dead. The scandal of his secret life was averted. Her prayers had been answered.
••••
Marc Unger met me in the reception area outside his sixth-floor office in City Hall East dressed, as usual, in a beautifully tailored suit that emphasized his broad shoulders while minimizing his thickening waistline. This one was a gray, pin-striped number he wore with a starched white shirt and red and blue regimental tie, the very picture of lawyerly propriety.
“Counsel,” he said, extending his hand. “Are you lost? I think you want the criminal division on the sixteenth floor.”
“No,” I said. “I have business with you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Well, then, let’s get to this . . . business.”
I followed him into the suite that housed the police litigation unit and into his capacious office. There were the usual framed diplomas— UCLA undergrad and law— certificates of admission to practice in various courts, including the United States Supreme Court, and photographs with dignitaries: the governor, the current and former mayor and the chief of police. Big desk, comfortable chairs, and a round conference table piled high with files, transcripts, and US Reports— the bound volumes of Supreme Court opinions. Bland and conventional but not quite believable; it was like a movie set of a lawyer’s office. Or a disguise.
There was not a hint of the lewd and funny-verging-on-campy gay man I knew. I suppose he had to save that for his off-hours, when he wasn’t defending cops in federal court in wrongful death actions. When I had once asked him how he had come to work for the cops, given who he was and who they were, he said he liked a good fight and he liked cops, and did I like the rapists and murderers I represented? The conversation ended in a draw.
“So,” he said, ensconcing himself in his chair, “Henry. Am I going to have to chase you around my desk or will you just bend over it?”
“I’m here about a case.”
He furrowed his brow. “What case? This is the civil side of the law, not the gutter where you practice.”
“I wouldn’t take the word civil too seriously. I’ve seen you at work. Civility’s not your strong suit.”
He grinned. “While I’d love to sit here all day and trade insults with a gorgeous guy, I do have a deposition to prepare for. What do you need?”
“It’s about the church bombing.”
He was instantly serious. “What about it?”
“The cops have identified a person of interest. I’m representing him.”
He groaned. “Oy, of course you are.” He shook his head. “How did you come to tilt at this particular windmill?”
“The cops think a gay group called QUEER is behind it. I’m their lawyer. My client is associated with them.”
“These people make all of us look bad. Not,” he added, “that I don’t get why they want to blow things up. My friends are dropping like flies, and fucking Ronald Reagan— okay, that’s a conversation for another day. Continue.”
“They didn’t blow up anything. Their thing is civil disobedience, political theater, not explosions.”
He sank back into his chair, looked at me skeptically. “Evidently LAPD disagrees. Still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”
“The cops are going to hold a press conference this afternoon to discuss developments in the case. I want to keep my client’s name out of it.”
“Why?”
“He’s a kid, Marc, only twenty-three, not even out to his family. It would be shitty if the way they found out he’s gay is as part of a felony murder investigation. He’s not a suspect. He just had the misfortune to be roommates with the guy the cops think planted the bombs. They questioned him and let him go. His name doesn’t need to be disclosed.”
He looked dubious. “If they questioned him and let him go, why is he still a person of interest?”
“He’s the only connection the cops have to their actual suspect.”
“The roommate,” he said. “Off the record, Henry, and just between us girls, is your guy involved?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely, positively,” he said, with mild mockery. “And you know this how? Because he whispered it into your ear across the pillow?”
I knew he was joking, but it hit too close to home for comfort. I deadpanned, “There’s no physical evidence connecting Josh to the bombing, and a roomful of people can swear he was working the dinner shift at Chez Richard’s on Robertson when the bombs went off.”
“Jacob’s been wanting to eat there,” he said absently. “Excuse me if I need to check with my people before I buy your story, but let’s assume what you say is true. You don’t want the kid outed. I get that.” He closed his eyes and ruminated. “If he was falsely identified by name as a suspect, and he was later cleared, an enterprising lawyer might be tempted to sue the city and the police department for what? Slander? D
efamation?”
“Don’t forget false arrest,” I added, catching his drift, “and intentional and/or negligent infliction of emotional distress.”
He opened his eyes, leaned forward, grinned and said, “We can’t have that. The city’s broke as it is. What’s the kid’s name?”
“Joshua Mandel.”
“A fellow Jew? Now I am insulted! Okay, if everything checks out, I can spin a tale about avoiding potentially costly litigation to keep his name out of it, but you better not be bullshitting me about his involvement because if he ends up in an orange jumpsuit that will be the end of our beautiful friendship.”
“I swear I’m not, Marc. I come in good faith.”
“Is he dishy?”
“What?”
“The kid,” he said, with a lewd smile. “Is he a hunk?”
Since he was doing me a huge favor, I humored him. “He’s a good-looking young man.”
“Have you sampled the wares?”
Okay, time to cut this short. I got up. “Thanks, Marc. I owe you.”
“Remember that next time I pinch your ass and ask you to come home with me.”
“Does Jacob know you talk like this?”
He laughed. “Everyone knows I talk like this.”
“Including the chief of police?”
“Scoot now. I have work to do.”
••••
Where the fuck was Freddy?
Theo jumped off the bed and went to the window for the fourth time that hour, parting the curtains just enough to get a view of the motel’s parking lot. The same three cars he’d seen ten minutes ago were still parked there. The sun was sinking into the distant ocean, and a golden light shimmered behind the buildings that formed the Hollywood skyline— the old hotels and movie palaces, the Capitol Records tower, the T-shirt shops and falafel stands. Almost imperceptibly the street noises had begun to shift from day to night, the purposeful movement of cars and trucks and pedestrians, the urgent squalls and shrieks of the working day, fading into something more aimless, undirected, and covert.
They’d been on the move since the explosion almost two weeks earlier, going from one shabby motel to another while Freddy got the money together for them to head to Mexico. But Freddy’d been gone for a day and a half without any word and Theo was detoxing. Freddy had warned him not to call his dealer.
