by Larry Hill
“Probably right. So, what’s our next step?” asked Jason.
“No next step. Spencer’s probably stewing in his juices now. He’s not dumb but he probably is thinking that he was awfully dumb with that act. My guess is we hear nothing more from him until the criminal case is finished and a civil one is filed.”
“Are you going to tell Phillip and Robert about this?”
“I don’t want to go over it again. You go ahead and tell them the gruesome details. But do let them know that I’m sticking with their father. No more extracurricular fucking for me.”
The bachelor-to-be was jolted by the comment but had recovered when, a few seconds later, his father came into the room. Both Jason and Jennifer noticed how much better he was looking. The limp which they had first noticed when he left the hospital was totally absent. He walked more assuredly, almost jauntily. He seemed to care about what he wore – never, even in the immediate post-hospital period, had he relied on anybody else to choose his daily garb, but for months he cared little whether his clothes were wrinkled or colors were mismatched. He was now wearing fashionable polos, pressed trousers, and either shoes that shined or high priced athletic footwear. His thick head of white hair was neatly coiffed. It had been six months since he cracked his skull in the Eddy Street bar. There had been no mention of him or of Teresa Spencer in the papers in a long time. Their names hadn’t even appeared when Judge Gasparini issued a two month delay of proceedings after Fred’s visit to the psychiatrist. It was clear to his family, however, that Fred had made meaningful progress since he had seen Dr. Stern.
“What have you two been talking about?” he asked as he sat on the antique oak rocking chair that Barbara had bought him for their 15th anniversary.
“Oh, nothing, Dad. Forty Niners stuff mainly. I can’t believe how much Jen knows about football.”
“Don’t forget that I was a cheerleader in high school. What were you watching, honey?”
“Something on the History Channel – a show about Oliver Cromwell. I’d seen it before. What a bastard that guy was. First, he has the king killed and then screws up England so badly that they have to bring back the monarchy.”
“You’re sounding pretty savvy, Dad. That brain of yours is making a hell of a comeback. What do you think, Jen?”
“No doubt about it. You aren’t quite your old self yet Fred, but you’re getting there.”
“What do you mean, not my old self? Why don’t we go upstairs and let me show you.”
“Cut that out, honey. Jason’s here. Maybe tonight.”
Jason, blushing, suggested that he could go for a long walk. He had never heard his father talk like that, but was not about to get in the way of progress.
“Maybe tonight,” Jennifer repeated. “Why don’t we go for a drive to Marin? We haven’t been to the Headlands in years and the weather’s perfect.”
“Good idea. I’m getting sick of television. You wanna go with us, Jase?”
“No, Dad. You guys go. I’ve got some work to do.”
Fred got out of the rocker and headed to the closet for his leather jacket. “Why don’t I drive?”
“Are you out of your mind?” Jennifer responded instantaneously. “We’ve talked about this over and over. Your driving days are behind you. The last time you drove, somebody’s mother was killed. And that was on the straight streets of San Francisco, not the curves and hills of West Marin. I’ll drive.”
“Yes, dear.”
THE TRIAL IS SET
Irving Greenberg phoned the house. It had been two months since the first visit to Dr. Stern. The Judge wanted another evaluation; he had heard talk that Klein was improving. Gasparini had not drawn any sexy cases in the interim and was anxious to get the City and County of San Francisco vs. Frederick Klein underway. He had high hopes for advancement. There was a Republican in the Governor’s mansion and talk of an impending vacancy on the appellate court, sure to go to a Northern Californian as the South dominated that bench beyond its statistics. A well-publicized successful adjudication of Klein was sure to garner him points toward an appointment.
Fred had scored a 14 on his Mini-Mental Status examination the first time around. Anything under 20 was considered evidence for cognitive impairment. When Dr. Roger Stern saw him a second time, he posed the same questions. This time Fred spelled it DLROW and knew that 7 from 93 was 86 and 7 from that was 79. He scored 24 out of 30, a normal value. Stern, recognizing the great political importance of his evaluation, referred Fred to a neuropsychologist who administered eight hours of testing for memory, perception, language, and attention. Both professionals deemed the accused able to stand trial and aid in his own defense. Judge Gasparini set a trial date for ten weeks later. He ordered that his staff put aside four weeks for jury selection, testimony and deliberation.
Jennifer, Jason, and Fred arrived at Greenberg’s Spear Street office ten minutes before their 10 AM appointment. Phillip had asked to be included but the lawyer denied the request simply because his office was small.
“Good morning, Fred,” welcomed Greenberg.
“Good morning, Irv.” It was the first time he had called his criminal defense something other than Steve.
“I presume that you’ve heard the news that there is a trial set for the middle of May?”
“Hard not to hear the news. Jason told me about it yesterday. Half an hour later, I saw it on TV. They showed those pictures of me leaving jail when I got bailed out. And, they showed the photos of the woman I hit, plus her child. Beautiful little girl.”
“Here’s the story. Right now you are scheduled to go on trial on May 14 and they expect the trial to last at least two weeks and maybe as much as a month. I opted for a jury – hope that’s OK with you. You are charged with vehicular manslaughter. Your situation is, of course, bad because of the fact you left the scene. There is a presumption that you may have done that because you were drunk. You’ve got no way to prove that you weren’t. They’ve got no way to prove that you were. Worst case scenario, Fred, is they find you guilty and you are sentenced to spend as many as ten years in prison.”
“Ten years! Jesus, I’m not going to live that long. I’m an old man – a sick old man. They can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry to say that they very well can do that. You are one famous alleged criminal. You heard about the turnout at the victim’s funeral – major politicos. The paper was full of letters to the editor calling for your hide. If you get off with a slap on the wrist, the city will be up in arms.”
“So, what do I do?”
“That remains to be seen. I talked with the DA yesterday and he said that they aren’t in any mood to let you off lightly. They are ready to go to trial and have assigned what he refers to as his best prosecutor, a woman named Burleson, a Yale Law grad, to the case. Plus, he tells me that the word is that the Judge wants this to go to trial. He’s looking to be on TV and in the paper as much as possible – thinks that he might get a seat on the appellate bench.
“What are the options, Irv?” asked Jennifer.
“Obviously, we can try to make a deal with the DA. I brought that up and he wasn’t terribly encouraging – suggested that if you pled guilty to the charge, he’d settle for five years – you’d probably get out in three with good behavior.
“That’s a life sentence. I’m not going to live three years.”
“I told the DA about your health – that wasn’t news to him – he’s been reading the papers and the reports from the psychiatrists. But he thinks he’s under the gun. And, I think that he too sees bigger things for himself. Remember, the last San Francisco DA became the Attorney General of California. I asked him what he thought about you getting one year and serving it under house arrest. He didn’t bite.”
“Do you think he’d take a year in jail?” asked Jason.
“I could ask. I doubt it, but the worst he can do is say no.”
“What do you think, Dad?”
“Huh?”
“Woul
d you be willing to accept a year in jail?”
“Hell, no. Remember that I had a heart attack. I’ve got a pacemaker. That would kill me.”
“Can we go for two years, or three years, at home with a bracelet?” inquired Jason of Greenberg.
“Again, it can’t hurt. But I’m fairly sure that he wants to see the bars close on your father. Think of the TV commercials from someone running against him. They would show the outside of your house and ask voters if they think that’s appropriate punishment for a man who killed a mother of a two-year-old and fled the scene. Fred would be the Willie Horton of the 21st century.”
“So, Dad, it sounds like it’ll probably come down to at least a year in jail or go to trial.”
“Huh?”
“Are you ready to go to court and fight this?”
“Yep. They’ll have to pull me by my ears to get me in jail.”
Greenberg interrupted the internecine discussion, “If you want to fight this, I’ll be glad to be in your corner, but I want you to be very clear that you could end up with a much longer sentence than you would by pleading guilty. You could get ten years – sure, you’d probably be out in five, but there’s no guarantee.”
“Out in a lot less than five – they’ll be taking me out on a stretcher with a sheet over my face. I don’t want to go to jail!”
“Enough of that kind of talk. I hear you loud and clear. Another thing you’ve got to be aware of though is that a trial is going to cost you a ton of money. My hours don’t come cheap and we’ve got to do a lot of legwork to prepare – interviewing witnesses and experts like psychiatrists, looking into the Spencers, researching similar cases.
Fred’s expression changed. And then it changed back. “No problem, Counselor. I’ve got enough money, don’t we dear?”
“Yes, honey. We’re OK.”
“Another thing Fred,” said Greenberg, “you thought you were famous before – you haven’t seen anything. The papers, the TV stations, and the bloggers – they are all going to be there for the trial. I don’t know how Gasparini looks at the issue, but he might allow TV cameras in the court room. If so, you’re on national television, and not because of your good looks or good deeds.”
“Dad, do you really want to go through with all that?”
“Fred, you make the decision. I’ll stick with you whatever you do, but you gotta be sure that you know what going to trial is all about. I love you and I want you at home, but if you do have to go to prison…”
“I am not going to prison!”
“Sure, Dad. Irv, what we’d like you to do is have more discussion with the DA and let him know that we’ll take pretty much whatever sentence he wants as long as he gets to spend it in house arrest. Otherwise, we go for a trial.”
“OK, Jason. I’ll do it but I’m not optimistic.”
The three weren’t home more than twenty minutes when the phone rang. Greenberg was on the other end. He described the DA’s reaction to the offer of lengthy house arrest as one of mirth – DA Gonzales chuckled and said, “See you in court on May 14.”
“We’ve got to figure this out,” said Jason.
“The whole family has to be involved in this, Jason,” replied Jennifer. “I’ll call the twins and see if they can come over tonight.”
Phillip, like most radiologists, was free. Robert had a string of colonoscopies scheduled and couldn’t get there until after nine. They put the family conference off for one day.
The next evening, the twins walked into the large family room together. “As I live and breathe, look who’s here early!” said Robert. “That’s a first, Jase. We’ll get a plaque made up and put it on the wall as a historical marker.”
“I live here, asshole.” Jason responded with a grin.
Jason summarized the situation as if he were addressing a jury. Their father was going to be a defendant in a trial ready made for the internet era. The DA had turned down the offer of a guilty plea with a lengthy sentence to be served in a mansion on Pacific Heights. Dad was not willing to accept even a short time behind bars. He had a whiff of being incarcerated on the night of his arrest and didn’t like the aroma.
Phillip: “I’m not sure that you are making a good decision, Dad.”
Robert: “I agree. You caused the death of Teresa Spencer. And, you didn’t stay around to help her. You left and played poker. It’s going to be pretty hard to convince 12 of your peers that you aren’t guilty and shouldn’t be in jail.”
Phillip: “What kind of argument can you make that you are innocent?”
Robert: “Yeah, what is Mr. Greenberg going to do to get you out of this?”
Father: “I don’t know.”
Having finished his summary and engendered initial statements of discomfort from his brothers, Jason called for the assembled family members to strategize. “The facts of the case are all against us. You did it Dad, we can’t deny that. So, how do we get a decision that keeps you out of jail?”
Robert: “We’ve got to convince the jury that there’s nothing to be gained by Dad’s serving time.”
Jennifer: “We have to win their sympathy. They’ve got to see your father as a nice man, an old man, a man who shouldn’t be in San Quentin, where he would be at the mercy of scumbags half his age.”
Phillip: “What the hell are we paying Greenberg all this money for if we are trying to come up with our own game plan? He’s supposed to be the best. Let him do his job.”
Jason: “You’re right, Phil, but I think we all agree that we have to make Dad look as sympathetic as possible. How do we do it?”
“Goddam it! Stop talking like I’m not even around! For months I couldn’t tell black from white, my ass from my elbow, but I’m better. I may not be back to the way I was twenty years ago, but what 76-year-old is? It isn’t any of you that will be going to the slammer. It’s me!”
“We’re just trying to help you,” said Robert. Phillip nodded in agreement.
“Welcome back my love. I’m so sorry that we’ve treated you like a child,” said Jennifer, verging on tears.
“I still don’t remember a thing about the accident, but I’ve heard enough from all of you and from the lawyer and from reading the old articles to know that I am guilty of a terrible crime. That little girl doesn’t have a mother. Shit, she won’t even remember a thing about her mother as she grows up. And, I did it. I killed her mother.”
Jennifer and the three sons were speechless. A full minute later, Fred Klein continued.
“And, I’ve got to do something about it.”
“Does that mean you want to plead guilty?” asked one of the twins.
“If so, you’ll have to go to jail,” said the other.
“Christ, I know that. I’m not an idiot. No, I don’t want to go to jail, so no, I don’t want to plead guilty. But I’ve got to make it up to that child, somehow. I don’t even know her name. What is it?”
Nobody else knew her name either.
GLENFIDDICH ON THE ROCKS
Life in the Spencer home had fallen into a routine. Mark found that he was a pretty good single father. He continued to turn down all work that involved travel outside the Bay Area. His two partners were none too thrilled about travel to Ivory Coast or Uruguay or even France and Germany. The firm took on two recent MBA grads to do the heavy business class flying and five star lodging. Spencer, Bowman and Clark was doing well.
Meagan was doing well. After exhaustive vetting, she was accepted to one of the top pre-schools in the City, a short distance from home, where she and Carmen would walk every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. She had collected a sizable group of friends with whom she had regular Tuesday and Thursday play days and weekend sleepovers. Ballet classes and other cultural instruction dotted her schedule. She shared with her playmates talk of her mother’s heavenly exploits and was, in general, a very happy three-year-old.
Mark was doing well. The Kobe beef caper faded into history. The encounter with Ernesto was not repeated. The office no long
er received his calls. The vaquero in Montevideo had found financing elsewhere. Mark golfed, played basketball and ran the hills of the Heights and the flats of Crissy Field in the Presidio – all of which he had put on the shelf after the death of his spouse.
And, Mark had a girlfriend. He had waited a socially acceptable four months before venturing onto the social trails. As a wired early middle-aged man, he knew that his statistically best bet for finding good dates and potential mates was the World Wide Web. He enrolled in two of the more exclusive sites and had dozens of hits, as one might expect for a single rich man in a city in which straight single women outnumbered straight single men by a wide margin. Having the luxury of being able to select from big numbers, he took his time to find women who met his criteria – between four and seven years younger than he, married once or not at all, preferably no kids, non-evangelical (Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, or agnostic OK), college educated, employed and physically active. In San Francisco, there were plenty that could tick all the right boxes.
He had four dates in the first two weeks. All were acceptably smart and attractive. They were employed as a demographer, an EKG technician, a marine biologist and a hospice nurse. Two were willing, in fact, more than willing, to bed him after dinner. Three, including one of the sexual progressives, insisted on paying their own way for supper; the hospice nurse didn’t reach for her purse when the bill came. None warranted, in his selective view, a second date.
Candidate number five was a great date. Mitzi Li was 40, two years divorced from a Highway Patrolman, a graduate of San Jose State, a third grade teacher at a private girls’ school, and a lapsed Methodist. Her parents were both from Shanghai, had gone with Chang Kai-Shek to Taiwan in 1949, and moved to California ten years later. Mitzi was a native born San Franciscan. She married Walter Wang, another first generation Taiwanese, divorcing after nine years, during which they never resolved his desire to be a father and her refusal to bear children. She was tiny, vivacious, funny, irreverent, and a treat for Mark’s eyes. She insisted on paying for dinner, and declined, or didn’t pick up on, his well camouflaged sexual advances on the first date, but accepted the less translucent ones of the second. Within a month, she was a frequent visitor to the Spencer abode, a fetch-buddy of Bob the Beagle, and Meagan’s avid playmate. He gave up his memberships of the two dating services. There was talk about her moving in, from her meager apartment in the Haight-Ashbury, but they decided against it, awaiting the end of the legal intricacies. They agreed that it might not look too good for the grieving widower to be shacking up with a pretty school marm.