The Whole Truth

by James Scott Bell

  “I’m doing a thing too,” Steve said. “Like I said, I need to talk to Rennie. I’ll wait at the end of the driveway.” Without waiting for an answer, Steve turned and walked to the road. He leaned against his car and looked at the mountainside. A touch of flame from Rennie’s torch, and the whole thing could go up.

  A few minutes later Rennie joined him. “Make it fast.” At least he’d left the torch in the garage.

  “You had quite a night last night,” Steve said.

  “Neal tell you about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  “I don’t have time for this — ”

  “Make time,” Steve said. “Because if you get on the witness stand and lie, it could turn out to be very bad.”

  “Who said anything about lying?”

  “What happened last night?”

  “A mud tried to mess up Neal, but Neal was too quick for him.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Around.”

  “Why didn’t you try to help Neal?”

  “He didn’t need my help. He was doing fine.”

  “Uh-huh. What did this kid do to make you think he was attacking?”

  “He had a chain in his hand, dude. What’s that tell you?”

  “Maybe he was fixing a bike.”

  Rennie’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I think? I think you don’t really believe me.”

  Steve said nothing.

  “Now why is that?” Rennie said. “I thought you worked for the family.”

  “You sound like Michael Corleone.”

  “Who?”

  “The godfather.”

  “You got it wrong, friend. Eldon LaSalle is the godfather.”

  “Then I don’t have it wrong at all.”

  Pulling himself up to his full height, half a head taller than Steve, Rennie said, “You tell me to my face that I’m lying.”

  “I’m not going to tell you a thing.”

  “You just did.”

  “What’s your head made of? Foam? I’m just listening right now, because you may have to tell this story under oath. And a jury isn’t going to be impressed with your natural charm.”

  For a moment Rennie looked like he wanted to wrap his massive hands around Steve’s throat and make like a two-year-old with a squeeze toy. Steve managed to keep his gaze steady, though not without effort.

  “You got what happened,” Rennie finally said. “We were walking down the street minding our own business when this gangbanger comes out and — ”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. What do you mean gangbanger?”

  Rennie took in a snort of air. “Well, what else?”

  “Is there gang activity in Verner? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “They come up from LA, genius. When the heat’s on. They try to blend in.”

  “Now you sound like Joe McCarthy.”

  “Who? What do you keep dropping these names for?”

  “Why don’t you crack a book sometime?”

  “You want me to crack something? I’ll be happy to.”

  And he looked about to do it too. Then Johnny’s voice piped in from behind Rennie. “You boys get it all straightened out?”

  Rennie leaned away from Steve and said nothing, waiting for Steve to give the word.

  “Oh sure,” Steve said. “I think we understand each other.”

  Rennie turned and walked toward the garage.

  “I don’t much like that guy,” Steve said to his brother. “He’s not getting the whole Christian thing.”

  “Relax. You’re doing a good job. We’re taking care of you.”

  “What exactly does that mean, Johnny? Taking care of me how?”

  Johnny smiled and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Every which way. Just have a little faith in me, huh?”

  FIFTY-THREE

  Steve wondered about faith all the way to the hospital. What did he actually have faith in? Anything?

  Even himself?

  It was good, yes, to be going through the motions of being a real lawyer again. But the case stank to high heaven.

  If there was a heaven.

  Curls and Red greeted him at the front desk. Didn’t they ever take a day off?

  “Well, hello there,” Curls said.

  “Nice to see you,” Red said.

  “I’m here about a kid who came in last night, got severely beaten.

  I’m a lawyer. You know what I’m talking about?”

  “We know several lawyers,” Red said.

  “I mean about the kid who was beaten,” Steve said.

  Curls looked at Red and Red at Curls, as if they knew exactly what it was all about.

  “If you will wait just a moment,” Red said.

  “I’ll do it,” said Curls.

  Red had the phone in her hand. “I’m doing it right now.”

  Curls looked at Steve. “She always wants to do it.”

  “Do what?” Steve said.

  “A young man is here,” Red said into the phone. “A lawyer. Yes. He’s inquiring.” Red listened. She put her hand on the mouthpiece and whispered, “What is the nature of your request?”

  “I’m representing the suspect,” Steve said.

  “Oh my,” Curls said.

  Red returned to the phone. “He says he is representing the suspect.” Red’s eyes grew wide. “I’ll tell him.” She hung up the phone. “Mr. Meyer will be right down.”

  “Meyer?”

  “He’s the DA,” Curls said.

  “I was going to tell him,” Red said.

  “I’m perfectly capable,” Curls said.

  “I’ll wait over here.” Steve shot to one of the blue chairs on the other side of the reception area. Sat and picked up a Time magazine. Only four months old. He read a story about the presidential campaign, about a candidate who was no longer a candidate.

  “You repping Cullen?”

  Steve looked up at a short and doughy guy of about forty, with springy black hair and a fuzzy moustache. He wore a rumpled brown suit with a loosened tie. In his black-rimmed glasses he reminded Steve of a young version of that film critic on TV, what was his name, Shalit?

  “That’s right,” Steve said.

  “Mal Meyer.” He stuck out his hand. Steve stood up and shook it.

  “You working on Sunday?” Steve said.

  “Same as you apparently. Come on over let’s talk about it what do you say?” Meyer talked without any pause between words. He motioned Steve to follow him down the corridor and looked over his shoulder as he walked. “So you came down to do what?”

  “Talk to the victim.”

  “Did you think I would let you do that?”

  “Why not? I’m interested in the facts.”

  “So am I. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you talk to the vic.”

  “Are you charging my client?”

  The little dynamo turned. “Oh you can bet your ever-loving we’re charging him and I’ll be there first thing Monday morning my friend.”

  “Slow down a second.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Have you done any investigating?”

  “Yeah I investigated the vic’s face is what I investigated and I’ll tell you something right now there’s no way this isn’t a felony assault under Penal Code 245 my friend.”

  “So there’s no way I can convince you not to file right away?” Steve said.

  “No way my friend.”

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Meyer?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you call everybody my friend?”

  “It’s a way I have of talking sort of breaks the ice and makes it all informal if you prefer to do business that way and that’s the way I prefer to do business.”

  “Here is how I prefer to do business: I. Like. To. Know. The. Facts.

  First.”
/>   With each enunciation, Mal Meyer blinked as if to count the wasted seconds.

  “Got the facts all the facts I need,” Meyer said.

  “You don’t have a witness. I do.”

  Meyer smiled. At least it looked that way under the moustache. “You’re talking about another one of those Eldonites up in the mountains aren’t you? You’re new around here right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you know about the Eldonites?”

  “Some.”

  “We been dealing with that ilk for as long as I can remember and I grew up here just over the county line. I know all about ’em and if you’re going to get involved you better get involved with your eyes open.”

  “Thanks, Meyer, but I think I can make my own decisions regarding my professional life.” Oh no, he couldn’t, but he was not going to let some deputy DA know that. “But facts are stubborn things, as one president used to say, and the fact is you don’t have a witness and I do.”

  “Who said I don’t have a witness?” Meyer pushed his glasses up with his middle finger, a gesture that looked both smug and insulting.

  “Who?” Steve asked.

  “Not so fast not so fast. We’ll do discovery at the right time.”

  “I thought you wanted to do business informally, my friend. What happened to that?”

  “You think I’m going to show you my hole cards when I don’t have to? Don’t you watch the poker channel?”

  Meyer knew his cards, all right. The discovery statute in California only required the prosecutor to disclose witnesses thirty days before trial. And no case had yet come down requiring the ID of wits before a preliminary hearing.

  “Then I guess,” Steve said, “we’re not really friends after all.”

  “See you tomorrow,” Meyer said and blew by Steve back toward the elevators.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  He called Sienna from his car. “Me again,” he said. “You still studying?”

  “Not right at this moment.”

  “Good. You ready to go to work?”

  “Mr. Conroy — ”

  “I’ll put a check in the mail. I’ve got an arraignment coming up. One of the LaSalleites. Only there’s a little problem.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “He may be guilty as sin.”

  “This is a shock to you?”

  “Of course not. But in this case the chief witness is a lying son — he’s not telling the truth, let’s put it that way.”

  “Who is it?”

  “A big hulk of a guy. An enforcer type.”

  “How do you know he’s lying?”

  “Sienna, Saran Wrap couldn’t be more transparent. Now, Ms. Law Student, Ms. Ethics Advisory Board, what do you do when you have a lying witness, and he’s your only one?”

  She paused only a moment. “You cannot suborn perjury, of course.”

  “Right. But what if I don’t know it’s perjury? What if I just suspect it because the guy’s face is a ten-foot Liar! sign in blinking lights?”

  “Then it’s a real problem.”

  “You’re so helpful.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Wait for you to come out here and join me, and the two of us — ”

  “I don’t think so. No, really, what?”

  Steve thought a minute. “Will you do a memo for me?”

  “On what?”

  “On what my obligations are to talk to law enforcement. What do I need to know, and what do I have to reveal? Find that out for me, will you?”

  “All right.”

  “And . . . just thanks for being there. It means a lot.”

  More, in fact, than he could say.

  As he drove back to his office, he wondered why he hadn’t chosen to be a rock guitarist. Maybe because he couldn’t play the guitar, but beyond that. Maybe music would have been a better career choice. He could have burned up all his angst onstage. Could have done the whole rage thing. Trashed hotel rooms. Died young and become a legend.

  Why not? Who remembered you when you were finally planted?

  Keep up the cheery thoughts, Steve.

  His cell vibrated. An 818 area code.

  “Steve, it’s Moira Hanson.”

  “Moira? What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you on Sunday, but I thought you should know.”

  “Know what?”

  “Have you heard about Mendez?”

  “What, has he been released? Tunnel out?”

  Pause. “I guess you haven’t. You won’t have to file those appellate briefs after all.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?”

  “Got a toothbrush shoved through his eye.”

  Steve squeezed his phone.

  “Thought you’d like to know,” Moira said.

  “Thanks, Moira. I appreciate your taking the time.”

  “No prob. Maybe I’ll see you in court sometime.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not in LA anymore.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Verner. It’s where I am right now, as a matter of fact.”

  “Sweet. I’ve been there. Sleepy little town. No trouble.”

  “If only that were true, Moira.”

  Pause. “You okay?” she said.

  “I didn’t know you cared.”

  “You were always up front with me,” she said. “Take care.”

  After clicking off, Steve tried to stay calm. But his body wouldn’t have it. His body was taking in all the information of the last twelve hours and wasn’t handling it so well. With a dry mouth coming on, Steve quickly hit Gincy’s speed dial.

  “Hey, boy,” Gincy said.

  “Talk to me,” Steve said.

  “You feeling it?”

  “I’m feeling it.”

  “Can you get to a meeting?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Gincy said, “Call the central office or get on the Net and find out if there’s a meeting.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have the book?”

  “Not with me. I don’t want it with me. I want blow.”

  “Where you going to get it?”

  “Good point. Maybe bourbon.”

  “Look man, you know the drill. Get in bed right now and pull the covers over your head. Nothing today. Just today. You can do all the blow you want tomorrow.”

  The old joke of recovery. Pretend you can do it tomorrow. Then when tomorrow becomes today, you say the same thing. Always tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  “Gincy, you’re a good egg.”

  “Tell me you’re going to get to bed.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me you’ll get on your knees and say the prayer.”

  “I’ll do it Frank Costanza style. Serenity now!”

  “The prayer works better.”

  “Serenity now!”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Dude, I feel like there’s all these plates spinning and I’m supposed to keep them spinning, but I can’t see them all.”

  “Keep talking. Get it out of your head.”

  Steve pulled in at the back of his office building. He had been given one parking space by Mrs. Little, the one by the old wooden fence that was falling apart, that separated her property from a family-owned shoe store called The Cobbler.

  “I’ll be okay,” Steve said.

  “Don’t try and do it on your own.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Steve, go to God. Don’t wait.”

  “I’m sitting in my car next to a shoe store. How about some other time?”

  “How about now?”

  “Thanks for being there, Gincy.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  No, Steve thought, it would never be time for him. That train was out of the station. Too many missed stops. If God wanted to drop in, he’d had plenty of time to do it.

  Steve trudged up
to his office. It was looking like a real workspace. He promised himself he’d start looking for an apartment at the beginning of next week. Something small until he got established.

  For now, this was home. He hooked up his MP3 to a set of small speakers and started the jazz library going. Then took off his shoes and sat down at his new laptop. He started a file on Neal Cullen and began a preliminary trial notebook. Even though most cases settled, he tried always to be ready to stand in front of a jury.

  He hadn’t done so well the last few years at that. Now was the time to get his mojo back.

  It wouldn’t be easy with Rennie as his chief wit. He wrote down Rennie’s version of the events. Tried to imagine Rennie saying any of these things on the stand. The picture was not a pretty one.

  At least it was work, and it felt good.

  Around five, Steve went out for Chinese. There was a little place called The Golden Dragon a few blocks from the office. He had beef and broccoli, and slippery shrimp. Brown rice and tea. His fortune cookie told him that life with a smile was better than gold with a frown.

  He didn’t think that was much of a fortune, let alone smart. He’d take the gold and the frown and work it all out later.

  After dinner he walked the town a little. Checked out the offering at the Sheffield Dinner Theater. They were putting on Guys and Dolls, and the head shots of the cast looked a little silly. Nathan Detroit was being played by a kid too young for a fedora, but would have been right at home under a paper Fatburger hat.

  It was fully dark when he got back to the office. He went around to the rear stairs. A lone orange lightbulb on the side of the building cast a sunset glow.

  Right on a guy sitting on the stairs. A black guy, wearing a hoodie and black jeans and big red basketball shoes. Sitting in such a way that no one could get by.

  “Excuse me,” Steve said.

  “Hey, lawyer man,” the guy said.

  “You need a lawyer?” Steve said. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  “Uh-uh. You are.”

  Steve looked at him. He seemed to be in his early twenties. Though he could just be young-looking. “What kind of trouble am I supposed to be in?”

  The guy stood up, pulled a piece from under his hoodie, and pointed it at Steve’s face.

  “I don’t believe this,” Steve said.

  “Believe what?”

  “Guy waiting for me outside my office at night with a weapon. Man, I get that back in LA. Why don’t you just shoot me now?”