The Bomb Maker's Son

by Robert Rotstein

  Sedgwick looks surprisingly fit for a man of sixty-six who’s spent half of his life in prison. The photos from the sixties show him with a beard, but now he’s clean-shaven, his face lined with the inevitable wrinkles. His gray hair is thick, and his cobalt-blue eyes have a manic intensity.

  We simultaneously lift the intercom receivers. Before I can greet, him he says, “You’re an attorney. When I first got in here, this was hell. But I was able to survive by acting as a jailhouse lawyer. No formal legal education, but my graduate work in philosophy was enough. When the street gangs and White Power groups took over the prison in the eighties, they had their own people, and even if they didn’t, they weren’t going to have anything to do with someone like me, a gay man, unaffiliated, politically on the far left. Since then, it’s been worse than hell. You’d think they’d leave me alone at my age. But I hold on, keep a-keepin’ on, because a change is gonna come.”

  If I’m not mistaken, he’s quoting Sam Cooke, a 1960s soul singer.

  “You think I’m crazy,” he says. “And how can I blame you? Realize that I have no one to talk to most of the day, much less an intelligent man like yourself, so when I get this opportunity it’s like a chocoholic in a candy store. I just talk. What I want to say is that the revolution is coming. It’s closer than you think. It’s being fueled on the streets and in the prisons, and finally we’ll finish what we started back then.”

  He seems stuck more deeply in the Vietnam War era than Ian Holzner or even Belinda Hayes. The good news is that he wants to talk. Harmon Cherry would say that if a witness wants to talk, jump to the punch line.

  “Who built the bomb that exploded at the Playa Delta Veterans Administration? Who planted it?”

  “I’ve read enough law to know that’s a compound question, counselor. But there’s one answer. Our collective accomplished both.”

  “Your collective meaning the Holzner-O’Brien Gang?”

  He laughs—no, snorts—so loudly that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “Of course not. That’s what everyone believed, and back then wasn’t the right time to disabuse them of that notion. I studied Japanese political and business theory in college and learned to take the long view. Americans can’t do that, especially now. Our true collective took the long view. We ignited a fire back then, and now we’re fanning the long-burning flames.”

  I’ve had it with these geriatric propagandists. But you should never get angry at a professional recalcitrant witness. “Maybe you could explain something to me,” I say. “You claim that you know what’s going on in this country. In your day, nonviolent movements and the rule of law accomplished social change—the civil-rights movement, Roe v. Wade, feminism, the mainstream peace protests. Today, the right wing calls mainstream democrats Marxists. A woman’s right to choose is in more jeopardy than it’s been in decades. The gap between rich and poor is greater than ever.”

  “Exactly! The Playa Delta bombing, the activities of the Weather Underground, the actions of the SLA galvanized the reactionary forces in this country. The Christian right, the Tea Party, the Oklahoma City bombing, 9/11—all the result of our military actions. The capitalist regime had to become more violent, society had to become more polarized to crumble. With our acts of rebellion, which you mistakenly call violence, we set that in motion.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “We are the radical abolitionists who met violence with violence before the Civil War. We are the St. Petersburg Soviet of Workers’ Delegates before the Russian revolution of nineteen-oh-five. We are Cuba’s Twenty-Sixth of July Movement in the early fifties.”

  “Besides you, who are the members of your group?”

  He affects a fright-film evil-genius grin. “You don’t expect me to name names, do you, Parker? It’s okay if I call you Parker, right? I haven’t ratted out my comrades for almost forty years, so why would I do so when we’re at the razor-sharp cusp of revolution?”

  “Moses Dworsky said you’d talk to me. I assumed you had something to say. Or was having me fly four hundred miles and drive another sixty to visit you your idea of a joke?”

  “I do have something to say. The revolution is coming, and all the traitors and the counterrevolutionaries will be called to account.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Ian will know.”

  “I can’t just—”

  “Ian will know.”

  “Is that the message you sent through Jerry Holzner?”

  Another malevolent smile.

  “Jerry has disappeared.” Sometimes overstatement is an effective tactic.

  He lets go of the receiver, which falls on the table with a loud clatter. He sits with eyes closed for a long time. For the first time during the interview, if it can be called that, he’s abandoned his antiquated revolutionary persona. He now looks like what I suspect he is—a frightened, broken-down old man. He finally picks up the receiver and says, “Disappeared how?”

  “He’s been gone since the bombing of the LA federal courthouse. Not only have my people been looking for him, but so has the US Attorney. No trace.”

  “Is there evidence of foul play?”

  “With all your revolutionary blather, you’ve been threatened, haven’t you, Charlie? It’s okay for me to call you Charlie, right?”

  “Jerry’s a good guy. Of all the people from back then, he was the only one who visited me. Not even my family has visited me.”

  “How did you even know him? I didn’t think he was part of your gang.”

  “Holzner-O’Brien was a creation of the FBI and the press. People came in and out, secret alliances. But not Jerry. Jerry was a friend. A man broken by Vietnam and the FBI.”

  “From what I hear, you weren’t really a violent man, Charlie. You were afraid to make a bomb, afraid to plant one. Sometimes fear lets us follow our moral compass when outside forces are trying to lead us astray. So, I don’t think you’re really part of this. I think you’re feeding me all this crap because you’re afraid of someone. Who?”

  “Why don’t you ask your father?”

  “Belinda Hayes says he’s innocent. She says Rachel O’Brien was the one who wanted to bomb the Playa Delta VA.”

  “Belinda was in love with Ian. Rachel banished her. You can’t believe anything that woman says. She’s a traitor.”

  “Who’s threatening you, Charlie?”

  “I’m the one who’s the threat.” He glances up at the ceiling, obviously remembering at long last that an inmate has no rights and that the security cameras and recording devices might be preserving his every word. “Well, not me. I wouldn’t threaten anyone. I’m talking about the revolutionary movement, something bigger than myself. Even if I don’t have the strength or the freedom to carry out the necessary acts personally, I serve. The Playa Delta bombing was the catalyst, and our movement continues.”

  It would be helpful to my cause if the prison authorities would use his violent rhetoric to pressure him to talk, to threaten to take him out of the PHU and put him back into the general population if he doesn’t tell what he knows. But they’re not going to do anything to help the Playa Delta Bomber.

  I spend the next ten minutes asking questions about the group, but Sedgwick has steeled himself again and refuses to answer. Mercifully, the prison guard comes in and announces that my time is up. Without thanking Sedgwick, I start to hang up the receiver.

  “Wait, Parker!”

  I place the receiver against my ear.

  “You won’t forget to tell Ian what I said?”

  “Yeah, counterrevolutionaries and Judgment Day. I’m sure he’ll love to know you’re thinking about him.”

  “He’ll understand. Ian was a beautiful man once. Physically and spiritually. People change. I’ve spent my life in here trying not to change, but . . . Anyway, Ian was a beautiful man.”

  “And yet, you want me to convey a threat against him.”

  “Threat is your word not mine.”

  Before I hang u
p, I faintly hear the words, “You look like Ian, you know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When I return late that nights, I find Holzner on the balcony, staring out at the ocean. The marine layer has rolled in, and though Marina Del Rey is less than a mile away, the thick fog has obscured the normally bright lights, so he’s looking into a black gauze. I call his name, but he doesn’t answer. When I reach out and touch his arm, he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react at all. It takes several moments for him to turn and face me on his terms. I shiver, less from the chilly November night than from the look in his eyes. His gaze seems to be turned inward with a pensive ferocity—not in an introspective way that excludes the external, but in a way that beckons—a hypnotic, smoldering fire that hasn’t yet burst into flames. Was this the look that so many decades ago allowed him to convince all too many young minds to answer his call to violence? Then again, maybe his eyes are only reflecting the outdoor solar lanterns from the neighboring condo.

  I tell him about my meeting with Sedgwick and convey the threat about counterrevolutionaries and Judgment Day. He claims not to know what Sedgwick is talking about, insists there couldn’t possibly be any new collective.

  “Charlie has gone crazy in stir,” he says. “Very sad.”

  I suspect Holzner knows more about Sedgwick’s message than he’s admitting. These people all seem to aggrandize themselves by keeping secrets at the expense of their own liberty.

  “I think you’re all crazy,” I say, and immediately regret it, because by now I should be treating Holzner with the respect a client deserves.

  “You’re probably right, Parker. But it’s the crazy people who get things accomplished, for good or ill.”

  “If you hadn’t gone insane and set off bombs, hadn’t been forced to suppress the truth about who you were, you wouldn’t have lost everything.”

  “Have you found the truth about who you are?”

  “Sure. I’m Parky Gerald, the kid with a fugitive-terrorist dad and a mythical-goddess mom.”

  He rarely smiles, almost never laughs—what’s he got to laugh about?—but he laughs now. He goes inside the condo, and I follow. It’s one of the few times I crave contact with him. I expect that he’ll continue on to his bedroom, but he sits down in the wicker chair. I go to the couch. It’s nearly midnight. Is it the fatigue that’s made me receptive to him?

  “Three weeks and one day until the trial starts,” he says. “And after it ends, I’ll be out of your hair. Out of everyone’s. In prison like Charlie Sedgwick until they strap me to the gurney. Charlie really didn’t do much harm, and they all know it. He should’ve been out years ago, like Belinda and Rachel. He’s serving a life sentence for being pig-headed.”

  “Hayes admires him for standing on principle. Not you?”

  “Sometimes you only accomplish things by abandoning principle. In any case, since the day I turned myself in, my conviction was a foregone conclusion.”

  “Not if I can just get Hayes to say what she told me before Moses Dworsky showed up.”

  “She won’t return your phone calls. On the off chance she changes her mind, no one will believe her anyway. She condemned me in Rachel’s trial, so everyone will know she’s a liar.”

  “If she’s well prepared, I might convince a jury that O’Brien intimidated her. She’s certainly afraid of Dworsky.”

  “The truth is that Belinda Hayes was always a liar. So were we all. The difference was we did it for the cause whereas for Belinda it was pathological.”

  “Do you still trust Moses Dworsky?” It’s a question I should’ve asked weeks ago. That I didn’t shows that my abilities as a lawyer have suffered by virtue of being this man’s son.

  “Implicitly.”

  “Even though the day I met him he told me he thinks you’re guilty?”

  “Because of that kind of candor.”

  “And despite his belief that you manipulated women sexually in the name of revolution?”

  “He’s right. Sexual freedom was a revolutionary imperative, and I was a male in my twenties. The revolution didn’t suppress testosterone levels, it raised them.”

  “Belinda Hayes turned on us because of Dworsky.”

  “And he explicitly told you to take Lovely to the meeting, but you insisted he attend. That one’s on you. As for antagonizing the judge during the motion to suppress hearing, that’s your black mark against Moses, isn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “You told me yourself it was quite a long shot that the judge would look up at that very moment, and even less probable that he’d recognize Moses and react the way he did.”

  “This Sedgwick debacle today—”

  “Moses got you the interview. It’s not his fault you couldn’t take advantage. So that’s also on you. Maybe it’s your loyalty I should be questioning.”

  That he’s joking doesn’t stop my cheeks from stinging with embarrassment. “If you want to win the trial, how about sharing what you really know about the Playa Delta bombing? We both know that you haven’t done that—not even close.”

  “It’s late,” he says, rising to his feet. He takes three steps to the bedroom before turning around. “Sorry it turned out this way. I would’ve liked to have gotten to know you. I always considered Dylan to be my second chance to do the right thing. That was a selfish thought. There was only one chance with you, and I blew it.”

  It’s one of the few things we agree on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I spend Thanksgiving with Lovely Diamond, her son, Brighton, and her father, Ed. The kid admires me because not long ago I handled a libel lawsuit on behalf of the creator of his favorite video game. Ed, who’s retired from his seemingly contradictory occupations of certified public accountant and director of tasteful, hardcore-pornographic motion pictures, delights in needling me about my career as a child actor and my current representation of, as Ed calls him, a fucking nut-job murderer, and I don’t give a shit that he is your father. For once, Lovely doesn’t talk about the case. Maybe it’s because she reveres tradition, and her late mother wouldn’t let the family discuss serious topics on Thanksgiving. I have a wonderful time mostly because it’s relaxed.

  When I get back home that night, I tense up as soon as I begin to climb the stairs to my condo unit. I perfunctorily offered to spend the evening with Holzner, but he knew I didn’t want that, and I got the impression that he didn’t want to spend Thanksgiving with me. His family was Jenny and Dylan and Emily, and I can’t replace them. I can’t even really be his newfound son because as his lawyer I’m always analyzing him, assessing his credibility, probing for truth. It was better for both of us that I wasn’t there tonight. So why do I suddenly feel guilty about leaving him alone?

  When I put the key in the lock and open the door, I realize that he wasn’t alone at all. He’s standing in the living room, frowning. Across from him is Emily Lansing, a teenager’s know-it-all grin on her face.

  “Hello, brother,” she says when she sees me. “Happy Thanksgiving. I’ve come to live with you and my dad.”

  “It’s not happening,” Holzner says. “You’re staying with Ernesto.”

  “I’m not going back to that asshole’s house. He’s a right-wing fascist. He and Theresa are talking so much shit about you all the time in front of me that—”

  “Clean up your language, young lady,” he says like some sitcom-fuddy-duddy dad who doesn’t understand the younger generation. He glances at me and shakes his head, and for the first time I can see his paternal side, his eyes weary with exasperation and concern. He hugs himself more tightly, as if he has to keep his arms and hands in check because he doesn’t know what they’ll do if they’re freed.

  “He doesn’t want me anyway,” she says. “I’m only still there because of Theresa.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I kind of lost my temper with him.”

  “How lost your temper?”

  “I might’ve thrown a plate of chicken and black bea
ns against the wall.”

  He makes a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, apparently trying to control his own temper. “Jesus, Emily.”

  “He was talking crap about you. I was sick of it.”

  Holzner looks at me as if I could possibly help him with this. I don’t have an inkling.

  “What about school?” he says.

  “I’ll enroll here, or you can homeschool me. You have nothing to do until the trial. After that you’ll homeschool me the rest of the year.”

  “Emily, after the trial . . .”

  “You’ll homeschool me some more,” she insists.

  “You can’t stay here,” I say. “There’s no room, but more importantly—”

  “I checked it out already, and I can sleep in your study or whatever,” she says. “Cool place by the way. I wish I would’ve known you before. I love the beach, and you’re so close to it.”

  “But more importantly, you can’t stay because this is basically your father’s jail cell.”

  “That isn’t true, either. It’s your house, and you’re my brother, and he’s my father, and no court will say that I can’t stay here.” She walks over to Holzner. “Come on, Dad. Ernesto Alfaro is a jerk. All the Alfaros are jerks.”

  “Dina’s your friend.”

  “Was my friend. She’s just like her father. Do you know that Ernesto keeps calling you a murderer? I’m not staying there. I’ll run away.”

  “You’re being ridiculous, Em.”

  “Yes, I will. I only have to be a runaway for three months until I turn eighteen and can do whatever I want. It’ll be easy to be a runaway for three months. You managed to do it for forty years, right?”

  I can’t tell if her stance is feigned or real. “You can stay if you don’t get in the way,” I say, surprising myself. But why not? It’s Thanksgiving, I’ve had a lot of wine to drink, and I’ve just spent the evening with a happy family.

  She runs over and throws her arms around me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Parker!”

  I give her an awkward, belated hug in reply. Only when she draws away do I see the new tattoo on her forearm: The words Free Ian, emblazoned over a clenched fist.