-So?
-So maybe when you’re done sorting her mail, houseboy, you can go rub her feet.
-Do me a favor. Look through that stack for anything like this one.
I handed him the invoice I’d found: Russell M. Lawson, Attorney at Law, Irvine, California. How did Bud Jack ever connect with a defense attorney from Irvine, unless Public Defense arranged it for him? So Bud Jack had to know about Public Defense. I wanted to think I was getting warmer, but every explanation I wove for the Bud Jack-Russell Lawson-Richard Wilhite connection had a hole in it. Why couldn’t this be like a Grisham, where at the end the conspiracy is revealed and it all makes sense, all the pieces fit?
-This isn’t a bill, you know. Look down at the bottom.
Sure enough, I’d missed the fine print: Remit no payment at this time.
-Lawson’s the gay one you thought was having an affair with Sigrid, right?
I ignored him and attended instead to the latest tear in my logic. Does Lawson’s letter mean Bud Jack isn’t being billed, someone else is paying, or that the actual bill will follow shortly?
-And then there’s the gay painter you thought was getting it on with your girlfriend. All that time you spent worrying, and turns out he—
-Yeah, I get it, alright?
I couldn’t hide the irritation in my voice.
-Sorry, dude.
Tick-tick, tick-tick. We worked in uneasy silence for a few minutes, flipping through envelopes and scanning letters, searching for another clue, another piece to the puzzle. No silence in my head, though, now that Pete had brought up last night. At first I’d felt relief—my sort of girlfriend’s sort of guy-friend is a totally gay friend. But what does it mean when she spends the entire time talking to him, flirting with him, and when I drive her home doesn’t invite me in? Really enjoyed our evening together, Marissa. Glad we had plans. But I think I’m done being your chauffeur.
The doorbell rang yet again—the Four-I’ed Crips were still out there. And Grandma Wilkes was still ready with her warm welcome.
-He ain’t here!
Thirty-two years in a rough neighborhood must take a toll, not to mention burying a son, burying a husband, and now a grandson prosecuted for murder. Watching a cop show, does she root for the detectives or the suspects?
-Dude, how does she know the doorbell’s not for her?
Surreal—that’s what this was. Like one of those moody, inscrutable films that Sharon—Darling, just let it flow over you—claimed to love. Like cut to two guys going through the mail in a dimly-lit back room, no sound except the clock’s oppressive ticking. One guy gets bored, stands up and looks out the window, goes into the kitchen, comes back, sits down, sorts more mail. The doorbell rings and no one answers it. Like the director wants to depict the staleness of modern life. Like we need to see more of that. And when something does happen, the director underplays it. One of the guys quietly slumps over dead—the antsy one, I hope—or maybe the Jesus picture blinks.
-Wouldn’t it be trippy if Jesus started talking to us? Hey, Fletcher, it’s me, up here on the wall. Hey, Pete, don’t pretend you don’t know me.
-Dude, you’re on drugs.
WWJS?—What Would Jesus Say?—after all he’s seen in this airless room.
-Guys, you gotta get me down from here. Take me back to Orange County. Take me to the beach. I haven’t seen a hot chick in like two thousand years. You think Jesus goes for disproportionates?
I thought it was a good setup line, but Pete didn’t run with it.
-Dude.
He was staring past me, eyes widened like he’d seen something.
-What?
I looked over my shoulder. Nothing behind me except the clock.
-It’s drugs. The doorbell—think about it. It’s a Saturday night. They ain’t looking for a carwash. Bud Jack is selling dope.
I was thinking about it, as soon as he said it. A picture was already forming in my head. Some kind of diagram. No, an organizational flowchart. With Richard Wilhite at the top. He was the linchpin, he attracted investors, people like that slimy Sammy. They financed the operation upfront. Bud Jack was a distributor, one of many, selling out of his house at night. And during the day making deliveries to upscale Long Beach neighborhoods under the pretense of washing cars. That’s perfect: rich white folks in Long Beach are using, rich white folks in Orange County are raking profits off the top, and poor black folks are doing the dirty work, handling the illegal merchandise, fighting turf wars, dodging cops. And Public Defense is the cover organization that allows Richard and company to defend their operatives in court without revealing their own self-interest. Is it possible Sigrid’s art collection was bought and paid for by drug trafficking, her designer tits came courtesy of Long Beach street gangs? I didn’t like where that thought took me, how that possibility led unavoidably to the next: Bud Jack was guilty. He killed Juan Castro to protect Richard’s market share. I didn’t like that conclusion at all.
-It could be his friends, stopping by to hang out.
-They would call him.
-Maybe they don’t have a phone.
-He’s slinging dope, I’m telling you.
The rattle of Mrs. Wilkes’s walker warned us she was on her way through the kitchen. The rattle stopped, replaced by the snap of a lighter. I strained to detect her next movement, but heard only the nagging clock. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
When she rejoined us a few moments later, a burning cigarette angled from the corner of her mouth. She smoked like a Hollywood tough.
-Mrs. Wilkes, looks like we’re about finished.
-How come they think I’m dead?
The cigarette wiggled as she spoke.
-We haven’t found anything like that. These things from Social Security—mostly it’s just information, disclosures they have to make. But there is something here from Bud’s lawyer.
-That’s his business, not mine.
I hesitated. It’s not polite to pry. But how else can you get answers?
-It mentions the legal fees. I thought an organization was paying for that.
-I said, that’s his business, not mine.
I don’t know how else to describe the sensation: I got the creeps. There was something sinister in the way she eyed me, I could feel it in my bones, physiological certainty, something wasn’t right. This time I didn’t have to work through the implications, it all came to me in a flash. If Pete was correct, if Bud Jack peddled dope out of his home, then his grandmother had to know. How could she not? She might even be involved, mortgage payments were looming after all. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
Talk about surreal: ten days ago I was trying to figure out how to avoid jury duty and maximize my beach time, five days ago I was worried the judge in Santa Ana was ready to lock me up for contempt, assuming I didn’t first get nabbed for unlawful trespassing in Laguna, and now, tonight, any minute, the cops could bust down the door and—Jesus help me—arrest a suburban math teacher for providing consulting services to a Long Beach drug ring. Tick-tick, tick-tick.
-We should be going.
Would Judge Silverson appreciate the layers of irony in my sudden descent into crime? Guilty, Uronor, guilty of liberal guilt. Would Richard Wilhite contribute generously to my defense?
-Don’t worry about this stuff, Mrs. Wilkes, you can probably throw most of it away.
She took the cigarette from her mouth, but didn’t speak, didn’t even appear to exhale. Smoke just drifted up from her nose and mouth as if her brain was smoldering.
-But nice meeting you.
Pete had already slipped out of the dining room and was making for the front door. I was close behind. Adiós, Jesús! Namaste!
The night was noticeably darker than when we’d arrived, and Mrs. Wilkes didn’t have any outdoor lights on, but I had managed to park the car under a street lamp. Another scene flashed across my brain: the dark, abandoned parking lot, the lone car in a dome of hazy light, and—BOOM!—a fiery explosion blows the doors off. I shook
my head to clear my brain. Too many damn movies.
I don’t remember crossing the street or clicking the car unlocked, only that we got inside in a hurry. I looked back at the phosphorescent glow coming from the barred and curtained window of Mrs. Wilkes’s television room. Had I read her correctly? Could an old grandmother with church flyers on the fridge and Jesus on the wall really be involved in the drug trade? When Mrs. Wilkes was testifying in court, I could sense her honesty, I was sure of it, yet now she gives me this eerie vibe. Either she’s a sinisterly brilliant actor or I’m letting my imagination get the best of me. I know what Marissa would say: would you have been spooked by a little old white woman?
-Dude, start the car.
-I’ll be right back.
-Dude? Fletcher!
This time, no movie scene. This time, I strode up the unlit driveway like it was no big deal. Third time’s a charm. No out-of-body sensations, no scary thoughts, I wasn’t thinking at all, I was moving, I was a frail white moth drawn to the flickering blue light. A bit precious, I know. Forget the moth. I walked up the driveway. I hesitated before pressing the doorbell. How would I get her to open up? Mrs. Wilkes, I need to use your bathroom. Not a chance. Mrs. Wilkes, I left something in your dining room. She’ll just go and look for it. Mrs. Wilkes, I made a quick phone call and I figured out your Social Security issue, I know why they think you’re deceased. That should get the door open, that should bring us face to face. Then what? I didn’t know my second line, but I knew I wasn’t leaving without a straight answer. Because—might as well come clean—I wanted acquittal for the acquittal. That’s what Operation Hijack was all about. I was seeking proof I hadn’t helped free a cold-blooded killer.
-The fuck you want?
It didn’t come from inside the house. I looked left, toward the hedge next door, and suddenly he was in my face.
-I—
I couldn’t find words. I started backing up, onto the lawn, and then I was falling. I reached out, grabbed at the air, and slammed into the ground. Things were moving at strange angles. My head might have bounced. I closed my eyes.
-I said, whatchoowant, mothafucker?
If you fall down, they kick you. I’d read that in the Holocaust survivor’s book, and here I was, sprawled on the dying lawn.
-I’m talking to you, asshole.
I tucked my face behind my elbow and pulled my knees up to protect my ribs. I could feel it before it happened—I was about to get hurt.
-You deaf?
-I was on your jury.
It just came out. Just in time. Like I was gasping for air.
-Say what?
I looked up. He was standing over me, poised to pounce. I gasped again.
-Juror Number One. Closest to the judge. Judge Silverson.
Our eyes met, and I concentrated on holding his gaze. I’d read that too. If someone’s about to kill you, don’t turn away, even if you’re scared. Make them see you’re human.
It took a moment—a very long moment—before something registered, before maybe I caught a hint of recognition in those cold eyes.
-The fuck you doing here?
His voice had changed—still mean, but less threatening, more quizzical. I think. With my left elbow pressed against the grass, I slowly propped myself up. I kept my right palm open in front of my head, an obvious gesture of surrender. I’m sure I looked pathetic. My voice cracked when I spoke.
-We didn’t…after the trial…I thought I should say hi.
He kept his eyes on mine, waiting for me to give something away. As kids, we called it a stare fight, trying not to blink first. For a second, that’s what I saw—a kid, with a missing father and an overwhelmed mother and he just wanted to be loved, same as I sometimes see, if I look carefully, in the faces of my students.
I sensed movement. His hand was reaching down to help me up. Or was he going to grab my arm and kick me in the face? The weird thing is right then I relaxed, like I knew I could trust him. I looked to his hand, then back to his face. That’s when I saw the gun. It wasn’t in slow motion. It wasn’t in motion at all. It was just there, announcing its presence, changing everything. An unapologetic, unblinking handgun. It was pointed at his head.
-Move and I’ll blow your fucking head off.
A handgun in a hand attached to an arm attached to Pete’s shoulder.
-I ain’t moving.
-Keep your hands up!
-They up, man. Stay cool.
Pete was almost shouting, Bud was almost whispering, they both sounded scared. I scuttled backwards, away from the gun, and got my feet under me.
-Pete, don’t.
-Go start the car.
-He was just—
-Start the car!
This time I ran. Maybe I should have stayed and tried to defuse the situation, but it was turning bad, and I just wanted to get away. My hands were shaking, the keys rattled, but the engine started right up. Thank God! Thank Honda! Thank the new sparkplugs installed last month! Funny what flashes through your brain. I saw the mechanic who had insisted it was time to replace them. I saw his greasy blue coveralls, his gray, thinning hair. And then it was a dream again, an hallucination, Pete with a straight arm extended toward Bud’s head, Bud with hands raised to ear height. Neither man moving, they formed a horrifying silhouette against the tv’s blue flare—the frozen moment before disaster, yet they appear to be steaming. Then Pete is walking backwards toward the car. He’s saying something I can’t make out. I reach across to open the passenger door and can’t locate the handle. My own damn car, and I can’t…it opens anyway, and I see Pete, I see the gun.
-Go! Go!
I go alright. Down the street, through two stop signs. I don’t see any headlights, and I don’t brake. I swing onto the main drag, my pulse is racing, I can feel it in my ears, but I’m focused, absolutely, totally, on the route back to the on-ramp.
-Dude, slow down. Act normal.
-Are you crazy? Are you fucking crazy?
I’m shouting as I accelerate onto the freeway.
-Don’t speed. Go sixty.
-You coulda got someone killed. What if he grabbed your arm? What if he had friends with him? Fuck, Pete, I swear.
-What’d you expect me to do, just sit there watching him jump you?
-He didn’t jump me.
-Knocked you down. Whatever. This isn’t Laguna. They don’t fool around.
Could I testify under oath that he knocked me down? Maybe there was some contact, a slight shove—hard to say, Uronor—maybe I was just startled and tripped over my own clumsy feet.
-What if he calls the cops on us?
The scenarios in my head had shifted from what could have happened to what still might. Assault with a deadly weapon. Reckless endangerment. This wasn’t my overactive imagination, this was for real. We could get prison time.
-That guy’s not calling the cops. Are you kidding?
-He knows who I am. I told him—
-Just calm down, okay? Nothing happened.
-Nothing happened? You pulled a gun on him. Where’d you get a gun?
-Where d’ya think?
He was grinning, and for a moment it was funny—Pete swiping the gun from Sammy’s red convertible.
-You’re insane, Pete. I mean insane. You had it this whole time—at the restaurant, at the mall?
-It was in here.
And then I was seriously pissed off.
-You had it in my car?
-Under the seat.
I could feel anger sweep across my brain. And Pete was laughing!
-It’s not funny, man.
-Fletcher, dude, relax.
-I’m driving around with a stolen gun in my car—in LA—and you don’t fucking tell me?
I was shouting again.
-Dude, it’s—
-Don’t talk to me. Just don’t talk to me.
-Fine.
My head was throbbing. I took a few deep breaths, tried to regain composure, tried to concentrate on my driv
ing. It wasn’t easy. At best, I was accessory to a serious crime. At best. We needed to ditch the gun—wipe Pete’s fingerprints and toss it in a dumpster. Better yet, throw it in the ocean. Park at my place, walk to the beach, heave it out beyond the breakers. No, not in Laguna. Too many scuba divers. Too close to home. The harbor, then, in Dana Point—no one dives there. We drove in silence for five minutes, ten minutes. I noticed my hands trembling. How long had that been going on? I looked over at Pete—still laughing. I shook my head, trying to express disapproval. I mean, I love the guy, but you just threatened to kill someone, pal—crank up the prefrontal cortex and get a fucking clue. Or was it nervous laughter? Was he finally grasping the implications and laughing bitterly, ruefully, at the fix he was in?
-Dude, I think Jesus would go for disproportionates. He liked miracles.
That settles it: Pete’s a psychopath. A finger twitch away from murder, and now he’s all giggles. Alternating images flashed across my mind: Bud’s open hand reaching down to me, then Pete’s long arm extended to Bud’s head. Open hand, long arm, and then I pictured cop cars skidding onto the scene. I checked and rechecked the rearview mirror, expecting the red and blue lights of the highway patrol. Nothing. I felt a slight sense of relief when I stopped seeing billboards along the freeway. That’s the sign you’ve left LA County, you’re back behind the Orange Curtain. I saw instead the fake windmills of a tiny amusement park. Usually they struck me as silly, now they seemed reassuring—what could be safer than miniature golf?
-Maybe she’s at the mall now.
-What?
We were passing the exit for South Coast Plaza.
-Roya. Your girlfriend. Maybe—
-Don’t talk to me.
I’d forgotten about Roya. I mean, for the past hour or so, anyway, I’d stopped wondering what she was doing and why she hadn’t called. I hadn’t even thought to check my phone. It was in the cupholder. No messages, as usual. The hell with her. Life’s too short. I turned the phone completely off—first time in three days. I just wanted to get home—get rid of the gun, get rid of Pete, get back where I felt safe. I wanted to wake up tomorrow morning with the sun shining, walk down to the coffee shop, then break out my paddleboard and go find some dolphins. I needed dolphins. Summer vacation had a few weeks left. I would paddle every day. I would sit on the beach and read. Comedies, not thrillers. Does anyone write comedies anymore?
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