Lieutenant Kaminsky turned to see who the Judge was staring at over his shoulder, focused on Katy, giving her an appraising glance as she approached. Then showed surprise when Katy made a final dash to throw herself into the Judge’s arms, burying her head in his blanket.
The pinched face nurse showed up, motioning the Judge to come into the inner sanctum of the emergency room. As the Judge got up, Lieutenant Kaminsky put his hand on the Judge's good arm, moving his face directly into the Judge’s face, three inches from his nose.
"After you finish here I'm taking you to the Santa Monica Police station,” he said through gritted teeth. “Depending on what the DA says, I am going to charge and arrest you for Carl’s death. Just so you know."
"No," said the Judge, suddenly cold again. "I'm going to leave here and get a good night's rest. Then I'll show up at your station mid-day tomorrow and you can interrogate me all you want."
"That's not the way it works," said Kaminsky.
"We'll see," said the Judge, brushing Kaminski's hand aside and following the impatient nurse into the depths of the ER facility, Katy in tow.
The emergency bandaging wrapped on by the ambulance team, bright red now with blood, was cut away from the Judge's arm, and then the inner bandage was ripped off by the nurse with merciless tugs. The inner bandage took considerable hair and skin with it. It gave the nurse a sort of satisfaction.
Katy gasped as his arm was exposed. A long deep gash ran from just below the elbow, down his forearm almost to his wrist. It was deep. The bleeding hadn't stopped. It would need stitches.
The Judge was left sitting on the bed in a small space in the larger ER bay, created by puke-green curtains on three sides. Katy sat on a chair and watched as the Judge dripped blood into an expanding blotch on the white bed sheets.
The Judge had tossed the blanket and stripped out of his soggy shirt, socks and Polo underwear, now wearing a green hospital gown that matched the curtains. It didn’t cover his ass, which was cold. In fact he was all cold. Shock, he supposed
“Did you bring real clothes, Katy?”
Katy reached into her overnight bag and pulled out his old dark blue sweatshirt and sweatpants, saying, "I'm sorry honey, the cleaners didn't make it today and the wash didn't get done. I just grabbed whatever was left in your drawer. I hope these still fit." She looked at him hopefully, still flustered by his strange call in the middle of the night and her rushed trip across town.
He gave her a soft smile. It felt good to have someone concerned about him after being so long a solitary soul. He dumped the puke green gown with relief.
She felt around in the bag and produced a crumpled pair of old underwear she'd found at the bottom of his drawer, handing them over without looking.
The Judge gasped.
The underwear was the most obnoxious pair he owned: a Tulio thong, purchased in West Hollywood, or WeHo as it was affectionately known. Given to him as a joke by an old flame some years before. He should have thrown the pair out long ago. They had the configuration of speedos, tight, elastic, butt hugging in the back, and tightly constricting the male organs in front in a disgustingly small pouch that reminded him of packaged walnuts. They were bright purple with red flames on the sides and a few sparkles glued on for effect.
He held them up to her in horror.
She took a second look. Shock spread across her face. Then her face got pinker and pinker. She tried manfully to stifle a giggle. But all the tension and all the adrenalin had been too much. Her tiny giggle turned into a peal of laughter, forcing her to bend over in her chair and wrap her arms around her sides to contain herself as tears washed down her cheeks. Mostly he suspected in relief that he was more or less in one piece.
The Judge regarded his replacement underwear with distaste. Looked at Katy with mock daggers as she tried to contain herself. Then he shrugged at the obvious lack of alternatives, took a deep breath, and wiggled himself into them. Thankfully he couldn’t see them for the overhang of his paunch. He saw no humor in the situation. But if it made her laugh then maybe it was okay.
They waited for about fifteen minutes. Time seemed to slow down and agonizingly drip by, like the droplets onto the sheet.
Finally, a young doctor came in, sandy hair, red freckles, non-committal blue eyes behind frameless glasses. He softly modulated his voice, formally shaking hands and then comradely putting a hand on the Judge's shoulder, saying, "I guess we've had a small accident."
The Judge was sure it was all good patient communication drummed into the young doc in medical school. But his eyes were still aloof behind the glass. Cold, analytical, and what else…? Yes, weary.
The doc quickly examined the Judge's arm, looked at his chart, and concluded the Judge needed no transfusion for loss of blood. He dove efficiently into cleaning the wound. He gave the Judge a shot, expertly slugged in ten stitches to hold the wound together, and slapped on another bandage, this one made with some non-stick-looking material that gave hope it wouldn't take more hide off on its removal.
He turned to the Judge, whispering conspiratorially, "His nibs out there, the flatfoot, wants a blood test for alcohol and drugs. Since you weren't driving as I understand it, I don't think you have to give it to him if you don't want."
"It's alright,” sighed the Judge. “What's one more needle at this point? Go ahead."
His respect for the doc increased. He might be tired, but he was sharp. Like a lot of educated young people these days, he didn't automatically roll over for the police, always ready to trample individual rights in their quest for evidence. Maybe there was hope for the country after all.
Because the police often started with a suspect and then worked backward looking for evidence, rather than gathering evidence with an open mind and then working forward toward possible suspects, their process was often flawed. It was a catch twenty-two. They often found only the evidence supporting their theory for the perpetrator of the crime. A self-fulfilling prophecy combine this with underlying prejudice that still percolated under the fabric of 21st Century America, and you had a at least an arguable hypothesis for why over half of men incarcerated in the U.S. penal system were black or Latino. And why most were poor.
Kaminsky was standing alert by the waiting room door as they came out, hands on his hips, face still pink, clearly intent on hauling the Judge down to his station. The Judge ducked around him and leaned over the reception desk manned by a candy striper with grey hair and helpful-looking eyes peeking out from under steel rim glasses. She was diligently inputting on her computer. He put on his best boyish smile, softened his eyes, and asked her in a hopeful voice if he might borrow her computer for just a minute.
She explained hospital policy didn't permit that.
He smiled again, nodding his comprehension, and asked if she might just take a quick second to access his Google account for him and retrieve an important telephone number from his Google contacts. She looked around worriedly. No one was watching. Then she looked at him again, deciding whether she could trust him. He winked.
That did it. She accessed Google. He gave her his name and password and suddenly his contact list spread across her screen. He asked her to look up the cell number for Martin Handover. Her eyes flew open at the name. Everyone seemed to know Martin right now. He was in a hotly contested run-off to retain his position as the District Attorney for Los Angeles County. The Judge asked her to give him the direct cell number.
The number was retrieved, written on a small slip of re-used paper with some part of a Federal Health Directive on the back, and handed over to the Judge with a matching smile. The Judge borrowed the phone at her desk and dialed Marty. After a short, quiet conversation, the Judge called Kaminsky over and handed him the phone.
Kaminsky held the phone to his ear but didn't seem to do much of the talking. The lines around his mouth turned progressively lower until he was scowling.
He handed the phone back to the candy striper, muttering, "All the animals in the barnyar
d are equal, it's just some are more equal than others."
The Judge snapped then.
“That's bullshit Kaminsky and you know it. You don't have any probable cause to hold me. I haven’t broken the law. You're full of hot air. You like to throw your weight around against small people who don't know their rights and are easily intimated by your police state and your flashy badge. You’re the pig on this farm.”
CHAPTER 5
11:30 Thursday
The Judge put his arm around Katy, needing more support after his ordeal than he realized, and she helped him limp out, leaving Kaminsky still muttering behind them. The new underwear was tight and binding, almost as uncomfortable as the soggy ones he’d discarded. He just wanted to go home and have a stiff drink.
They got into Katy's car, a vintage Mustang convertible her dad had restored and given her. All candy apple with black upholstery. The Judge always felt silly sitting in the car, like an over-age teenager in an old man's body. But Katy loved to zoom around with the top down. He crawled into the passenger side while she ran the top up.
As they pulled out of the hospital parking lot she turned to the Judge. "What really happened tonight, Judge? What the Hell’s going on?"
"I'm not sure, Katy. When I first saw them on the beach, I thought they were mugging me. Hell, they could have had my wallet. I'd have gladly thrown it at them and run the other way."
“But?” asked Katy.
"The first one came at me with a switchblade. He wasn't out for my wallet. He wanted me. He tried to kill me."
Katy gasped.
"Why would anyone want to kill you, Judge?" she finally managed, frightened now.
"I don't know, honey. I'm going to find out. And there’s something else."
“Tell me.”
"Someone murdered Carl Greene, the plaintiff in my arbitration case.”
“Oh my god. What are you going to do, Judge?"
"What do you think I'm going to do, Katy?" The Judge gave her a tight smile.
"I think they made a serious miscalculation, Judge. You're going to follow them to ground and sort them out."
The Judge nodded.
"Be careful, Judge. They’re obviously dangerous."
As they proceeded down Cloverfield toward the Santa Monica Freeway, Katy spoke. again
"Judge, I think maybe we're being followed."
"What?" The Judge sat bolt upright in his seat.
"I'm not sure Judge, but a beat-up, dirty green SUV was in the parking lot. It pulled out behind us. It's been on our tail ever since."
"Shit! Katy, I don’t want you involved in this. Whatever ‘this’ is."
“Don’t worry, Judge. Watch this.”
The approaching light was about to change, the cross-walk sign turning to a solid red. Katy slowed way down, almost to a creep, hit the crosswalk on their side at a low speed after it turned yellow, then floored it and ran the yellow. There was a chorus of horns and even a finger from one driver. But Katy timed it well. Just enough of a lead to have her nose past the cross walk and out into the intersection as the light went red. A clear sign she was going through. Despite their bitching everyone waited for her.
The dirty SUV behind wasn't so lucky. It skidded to a stop as a wall of traffic washed into the intersection behind them.
Then Katy hung a quick right, almost on two wheels it seemed to the Judge. A right again at the next block. Then three blocks and she slammed the Mustang left. Katy took the corners like a race driver, ignoring the stop signs as they flew by. As they turned on to the third darkened residential street no one was behind them. She turned to the Judge with a glint in her eye.
"No more car chases until you learn to put on your seatbelt."
The Judge looked down. She was right. No wonder he’d flown all over his side of the car, bouncing his sore arm against the damn center console. He hated seatbelts. But now his wound was throbbing again. He was so tired.
"Perhaps we should settle somewhere else for the night and think this through, Judge."
"Where?"
"Let's go to your boat. We can snuggle in the master’s cabin… Master.” Katy smiled at him, saluting with her free hand. Relieving the tension.
The boat was a 50-foot motor yacht and the Judge's favorite toy. That is if you excluded his young wife and his golden retriever. It was close too. Just a couple of miles to the south in Marina Del Rey.
Katy swung the Mustang in a tight arc around the next corner, still in race driver mode, and headed toward the Marina.
The Judge’s boat was kept on an end tie in an anchorage part of a major condominium complex. It had manned guard stations and cross gates at its two entrances. And security guards roaming the property on rounds through the night. It felt safer than their Malaga Cove villa to the south in Palos Verdes. It was closer too, allowing the Judge to crash. He was exhausted. The pain pills from the ER were wearing off, leaving him with a mounting pain shooting up his arm to his shoulder.
Katy displayed their sticker at the complex entrance, then whipped the Mustang into the underground parking reserved for slip holders.
The Judge’s boat was a Chris Craft Motor Yacht, 43 feet long, named The Papillon. A joke of sorts since it meant in French both the butterfly and also the hinged double-panned iron omelet maker used in French cooking. There was a lot of iron in the two 650-horse Detroit diesels under the floor, propelling the boat through the water up to 30 knots an hour and consuming an enormity of fuel. Quickly making one a poor man.
The yacht was all white with deep blue stripes at the waterline. It had a raised aft deck flush across the stern, and a ladder at the back going down to a wide swim step. The engines were laid amidships under the floor of a generous salon three steps down and forward of the aft deck. The interior was done up in blond wood paneling, light blue carpet, and beige leather upholstered settee and chairs. A collection of small antique oils, all of boats on one sea or another, most dating back a century, were displayed in carved gold frames, providing a rich contrast to the sleek blond interior. Two steps down again and forward was a galley to port and a dining settee to starboard, with a second guest bedroom and head in the bow.
Next to the steps down from the aft deck, a second set of short steps reversed, leading aft and down under the aft deck. The master's cabin was replete with a picture window in the stern, a queen bed with blue silk embroidered spread, a flat screen TV, and to starboard, a separate head with its own shower into which the Judge barely fit.
Because the bed was rounded at its bottom corners to fit the space, the Judge had to sleep at an angle so his feet didn't stick out. But he didn't mind. It was a good excuse to stay close to Katy.
It was a wonderful toy. Almost as much fun as Katy. He couldn't say that of course. Katy would take offense at being compared to toy. But there was still that boyish imp in him that made him smile at the thought.
The Judge poured himself a stiff scotch, a 15-year-old Tobermory, and followed Katy to the Captain’s Cabin aft. He stripped off his outer clothes.
“Boy, Judge, you look really racy in that ball-clutching thong,” said Katy, a twinkle in her eye. “If there’s reincarnation… maybe I’ll come back as your thong.”
The Judge looked down, but couldn’t quite see the underwear beneath his damn protruding paunch.
“Maybe you could do a little dance, Judge. Like Tom Cruise in Risky Business.” All we need’s a little Bob Seger music. She giggled.
The Judge turned to look at her.
“You weren’t even born then, Katy. And you’re still too young to watch a movie like that,” said the Judge, sounding pettish even to himself.
“That’s why I’ve got you to teach me dear,” Katy said, sliding under the covers without a stitch and patting the bed next to her.
The Judge crawled his way under the covers like some giant old bear, suddenly cold. Recurring chills made him shake. Perhaps he was still riding out the shock.. He clung to her with a desperate need for her warmth.<
br />
He vaguely thought about sex, but discarded the idea. He was way too beat up now. Besides, although all the books and the doctor said sex was okay in the early months of a pregnancy, he wasn't at all sure. It felt very odd to share one of his favorite places, inside Katy's body, with another budding creature. Very odd.
The last thing he remembered was Katy curling her body around him, trying to warm him up. Hold back his shivering. Her body temperature ran a few degrees higher than his. It felt very nice. Very… mothering. He wasn't certain he’d like sharing her with some new brat who'd want all her attention. They'd only just found each other. It seemed way too soon.
The sunlight streaming in through the transom window snapped him out of sleep. He'd been dreaming about wet sand. Wet with blood, his blood. And someone squirming around with him in the dark sticky sand, trying to stab him in the stomach.
They'd forgotten to pull the curtain closed. Damn!
They'd also forgotten about the dog. The one-year-old golden retriever was the bane of his existence. Annie would have been wandering around the house all night, alone, and distraught that no one had returned. He could only guess at the mischief she'd have gotten into. He loved that dog. But she was a holy terror.
The Judge had a spare dress shirt, slacks and sport coat in the cabin's locker closet. And thank God, other underwear. He shaved and dressed quickly, skipping a shower. There wasn't time, and besides he would need a plastic bag for his heavily bandaged arm to avoid soaking the dressing.
Katy appeared in the doorway of the tiny head, wearing nothing but her belly button, which sprouted a small sparkly diamond pin piercing, as was the custom with young women these days. It was hard to believe an old fart like him had actually married this beautiful creature, with her fancy degree in Psychology and her diamond-studded belly.
Silicon Beach Page 3
