Past Tense

by Stephen Greenleaf

  “I know. Thanks for the thought.”

  Andy shrugged with helplessness and led me back to his office. The walls used to display abstract art and African masks and the furniture used to be chrome-and-glass, but now it was all Southwest—Navajo rugs and Hopi jars and lodge-style chairs and couches with coverings of saddle leather and joints wrapped with rawhide. The view was still the same, though, toward the Golden Gate Bridge and Mount Tam. As I waited for an invitation to sit down, I told Andy I liked the new look and asked what had prompted the change.

  “Cormac McCarthy.”

  Andy looked surprised that I knew who he was.

  After we took our seats, Andy shook his head before I even asked a question. “It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever been through, Marsh. There I was, taking notes, preparing some concluding remarks, listening to opposing counsel argue a minor point of procedure, and all of a sudden my client gets shot. Bam, bam; two feet away from me. I swear I heard the bullet, Marsh. I think I heard the first one fly by my ear and I know I heard the second one hit him. I’ll never forget that sound as long as I live. I got blood on me, for God’s sake. And skull fragments. I actually watched him die. I watched his eyes go dark, Marsh; I watched them fade to black just like in the movies.”

  He shook his head with puzzlement, still awash in mayhem. “And to think it was Charley. I don’t know him as well as you do, but I know him. We played poker together. Christ. What the hell did he think he was doing anyway?” Andy bowed his head dolefully, as though the universe were coming unhinged, as though the gods and goddesses had taken leave of their senses and had dragged Charley along for the joyride.

  “I suppose there’s no chance he wasn’t the one who did it,” I said, just to start at square one. “I heard someone was struggling with him; I thought maybe what really happened was that Charley was trying to disarm the other guy.”

  Andy shook his head. “I turned around before that. He was still holding the gun, looking … I don’t know, scared, or remorseful, or something. He was the shooter, Marsh. No question. I don’t think he even recognized me,” Andy went on. “I’m not sure he realized what he’d done.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I don’t know, he just seemed … confused, at first. Then he got this odd smile on his face, like there was something funny about it. Plus, he must have been hurt wrestling the guy for the gun, ’cause he was limping pretty badly when they hauled him out of there. I asked him if he wanted anything, but I don’t think he heard me.”

  “Did he say anything at all?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “Was he the only one in the courtroom besides the litigants?”

  Andy shook his head. “It was pretty crowded. The case has had some publicity because of the nature of the claim and the prominence of the defendant. There were all kinds of people in there, most of them adverse to my client, I’m afraid. These abuse cases amount to feminist crusades in some circles.”

  “The sex abuse stuff isn’t your usual cup of tea, is it, Andy?”

  “No, but Leonard insisted I handle it at least through motions and discovery. I’d done his corporate work for years, and some commercial litigation as well, and we’ve become pretty close. When this abuse thing was filed, Leonard asked me to take care of it for as long as I could so he wouldn’t face the embarrassment of discussing such matters with anyone else if he could possibly help it. Normally, I wouldn’t have agreed, but the claim was such an obvious fraud, I was confident we could bounce it out before trial. And from the questions Judge Meltonian was asking, I think we would have prevailed on our motion.”

  “So this wasn’t a trial?”

  He shook his head. “Motion for summary judgment.”

  “Were you going to offer testimony?”

  “Just Leonard and his daughter’s therapist.”

  “How about the plaintiff? Was she going to call any witnesses?”

  “Just the therapist and the daughter.”

  “Jillian.”

  “Right. A truly unfortunate human being.”

  “How so?”

  Andy shook his head with sadness or at least with sympathy. “Jillian Wints is the most miserable individual I’ve ever seen, I think. Totally depressed, totally mercurial, totally suggestible, and totally victimized by this so-called feminist therapist who’s convinced Jillian that everyone’s to blame for her problems but Jillian.”

  “What does Jillian do for a living?”

  “Works in a bookstore on Laguna, but only part-time. Mostly she borrows money from her mother, who in turn gets it from her father.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Why do you … oh. You’re going to try to see her.”

  “Yep.”

  “I’d be more comfortable if you got that information from her lawyer.”

  “I tried that already. She wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  Andy avoided my glance.

  “So where does she live, Andy? Your ethical comfort level is not my primary concern at this point.”

  “I don’t know if I—”

  “I don’t have time to beg for this shit; just tell me where she is.” My voice chilled the room as effectively as had the war chants of the men who had carried the weapons on the walls into battle a century ago.

  I knew he would yield and he did. “Jillian has an apartment on Greenwich, just off Union.” He gave me the number.

  “That’s not far from her lawyer.”

  “It’s not far from her therapist either. She’s on Union, too.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Danielle Derwinski. She has an office across from the Metro Theater.”

  “She’s a psychiatrist?”

  He shook his head. “Feminist counselor, is how she bills herself.”

  “Ph.D.?”

  “M.A.”

  It looked like I was going to be spending some time haunting Union Street. “About the lawyer,” I said. “Mindy Cartson.”

  “What about her?”

  “She didn’t seem like a shyster to me.”

  “I didn’t say she was.”

  “You said the claim was bogus.”

  “It is. But Mindy Cartson is a true believer. Anything women say is right; anything men say is either a deliberate lie or an unwitting denial. Mindy Cartson truly believes that Leonard Wints abused her client when she was a small child.”

  “And you’re sure he didn’t.”

  Andy reddened. “If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have been in that courtroom.”

  I was about to ask the basis for his opinion when I remembered that Leonard Wints’s veracity wasn’t anything I needed to establish.

  I stood up and walked to the window. The lights of Berkeley were beginning to twinkle on, as though someone had poked little holes in the city streets, allowing access to a subterranean light source. The traffic was the usual sludge, carriages of people fleeing the night stalkers of the inner city for the more tranquil and tranquilized inhabitants of the bedroom communities. The waters of the bay looked calm and collected; I wondered if Charley could see them from the jail.

  “Here’s my question, Andy,” I said as I turned back toward him and crossed my arms. “Why the hell did Charley give a damn about this case?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He never talked to you about it?”

  “Never. Not even indirectly. I haven’t seen Charley in months.”

  “And Leonard Wints never mentioned him?”

  “No.”

  “Or anyone else involved in the case?”

  He shook his head.

  “The police never investigated the abuse charge?”

  “Not that I know of. A civil action only.”

  “Okay, tell me more about your guy. Somewhere in his biography there has to be a link to Charley.”

  “What exactly do you want to know, Marsh? Because I’m not sure I can divulge—”

  “He’s dead, Andy. The privil
ege died with him.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But nothing.” I didn’t try to keep the heat out of my voice. “Don’t dance with me on this, Andy. Charley’s behind bars in San Bruno and who knows what might happen to him down there. I need to come up with a defense, or at least a basis for bail, and to do that I need to know why he did what he did.”

  Andy bit back. “I’d give some serious consideration to a defense of insanity, if I were him. If you’d been there, you’d know how crazy—”

  I was impatient and I let it show. “That’s not for me to decide or you either. Jake Hattie is handling the legal stuff but he needs something to work with. So come on. Was Wints ever arrested? Did he have business or personal problems? Did he have any dealings with the cops at all?”

  Andy leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, implicitly calling a truce. “I spent most of the morning trying to think how Charley might be involved and I really haven’t come up with anything. It’s still a mystery to me.”

  “No domestic disputes? No traffic beefs? No dealing in illegal substances?”

  “By my client? No. Nothing. Leonard Wints was a straight arrow.”

  “Then let’s start at the beginning. Family, friends, business, clubs, the whole thing. If I have to talk to everyone in the city to get to the bottom of this, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  Andy sighed. “Don’t quote me on any of this. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  He looked out the window, then looked back. “Leonard was a city kid. Parents had a mom-and-pop grocery on the corner of Bush and Larkin; Leonard grew up in an apartment at Bush and Polk. Went to Lowell High, then to Berkeley on scholarship. Met a guy there who was a fanatic about pastry, and since Leonard knew something about the grocery business, they had enough contacts to start a small company that supplied bread and fresh pastry to groceries and restaurants all over the bay. His buddy was the baker; Leonard handled the marketing. They didn’t make millions, but he made a nice living. The bakery was down on Bluxome, by the Caltrains Depot. Bluxome Bread is what they called it.”

  “I remember it. Good stuff.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So how about the family?”

  “Leonard married his college girlfriend, had two daughters, Jillian and Sandy, then divorced when the girls were in college. Several years later, he married a wonderful woman named Catherine and moved to Jordan Park. Leonard sold the business five years ago to the Langendorf people for big money; he still went to the office but only on a consulting basis. He was pretty much taking it easy till this lawsuit came along.”

  “The new wife upset about the lawsuit?”

  “Of course she was.”

  “How do she and the stepdaughters get along?”

  “Just adequately.”

  “How about the ex-wife? What does she say about the abuse?”

  “She says she has no knowledge on the subject.”

  “But not that it didn’t happen.”

  “She’s not that strong about it but that’s because she has lots of resentment left from the divorce. It’s clear she wouldn’t have minded seeing Leonard roughed up a little in court.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “She rents a place on the Filbert Steps.”

  “How about the other daughter?”

  “Sandy married a doctor. They live on Stanyan out by the Med Center. Great couple.”

  “Was she abused as well?”

  “She says not.”

  “So in effect she’s backing Daddy.”

  “That’s right. It’s the only good thing that happened to Leonard through all of this, Sandy’s faith in him.”

  I thought over what Andy’d said. “What’d you find out about the therapist that made you decide to use her as a witness?”

  Andy smiled. “Let’s just say we were prepared to show that Ms. Derwinski’s credentials are suspect—master’s in counseling from Idaho State—and her practice is totally biased—calls herself a feminist therapist and refuses to counsel men—and her advice is predictable—at least four other clients have filed suit for recovered memory of childhood sexual abuse.”

  “You’re not a big fan of Danielle’s.”

  “No.” Andy rubbed his face as though the experience of the past twenty-four hours was a smudge that could be wiped away like soot. “You’ve shot someone before, haven’t you, Marsh? You shot Roland Nelson.”

  I nodded.

  “And you’ve been shot yourself. That time up by Broadway.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did you ever get over being involved in something like that?”

  “Not completely.”

  Andy nodded morosely. “I didn’t think so.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  THE FILBERT STEPS ZIG DOWN THE EASTERN SLOPE OF TELEGRAPH Hill and constitute the only means of travel from top to bottom on that side of the promontory. The top half of the slope is a nest of private dwellings; the rest of the way down, it’s a steep cliff. At the top the steps are wooden and rotting, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers, but they nevertheless provide the only access to the funky little houses that cling like ice climbers to the side of the hill and boast the finest views in the city from a structure made of wood. At the bottom the steps are made of steel, with no claim to charm at all.

  As I walked up the steps from Sansome Street, I had to make way for two guys lugging some Sheetrock to a remodel project high on the hill above me, still on the job in early evening, logging time and a half. They were already puffing and panting and cursing and there was a high pile of sheets left to go. I was puffing and panting myself and I wasn’t carrying anything heavier than my waistline.

  When I’d called to make sure she’d be home, I’d implied I was someone official. What I said was “My name is Tanner. I’ve been assigned to investigate the death of your ex-husband. I’d like to stop by and ask a few questions. Just routine. Background for the file.”

  Misrepresenting myself as a cop could cost me my license, of course. But I’d kept it fuzzy, and true in the literal meaning of the words, so I thought I’d be all right even if the woman decided to raise a ruckus.

  The former Mrs. Leonard Wints lived on Napier Lane, on the top floor of a board-and-batten duplex that apparently stayed put only with lots of support from its neighbors. The knock on the door made the house shake. When I thought of the distance we would travel if something separated the house from its footings, I decided to make my visit short and sweet.

  The woman who came to the door looked as though she lay awake nights worrying about the eventuality I’d just contemplated. Her hands trembled, her eyelids fluttered, and her hair looked tossed with salad forks. As though symptomatic of her insomnia, her body was thin to the point of alarm. The black leotard that encased it from neck to ankle was uninterrupted by curves or caves or bulges except for the crowns at her hips and the ripples at her ribs.

  “I meditate,” she began without prompt, as if that would explain everything.

  “I’m Tanner. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Don’t you have a badge or something?”

  I glanced up and down the narrow lane. “Is that wise? Having me flash a badge in front of the neighbors?”

  A trembling hand traveled to a quivering lip. “I suppose not.”

  “If we can step inside, I’ll try to be brief.”

  I looked beyond her at the staircase that led to the second story. “Follow me,” she said finally. “Would you like some herbal tea?”

  “No, thanks.” If I thought she had any handy, I would have asked for a beer—the thought of hauling all that Sheetrock made me thirsty.

  The inside stairs led to a living room that was sparsely furnished primarily in wicker and rattan, with oak floors and pine shelving and art on the wall that was evocative of delusional states of mind. A big pillow lay like a soft blue rock on the floor in front of the large front window; I guessed it was where she medita
ted. What she saw when she opened her eyes were the Levi Strauss offices and the Fog City diner below, then the piers of the waterfront and the edge of Treasure Island alongside a strip of the Bay Bridge, then Berkeley and Albany and El Cerrito on the far side of the water, shimmering in the distance like dream states.

  When I walked to a wicker chair and sat down, the house wobbled under my weight. It made my heart do a tap dance but it didn’t make the former Mrs. Wints any more nervous than she was when I got there.

  She lowered herself to the pillow as though its hide was as prickly as cactus and crossed her legs in the lotus position. It’s easy to do when you don’t have much fat or muscle; I couldn’t get in the lotus position with a crowbar.

  “How can I help you … Sergeant? Is that what you are?”

  “That’s close enough. But you can call me Marsh.”

  “Marsh. For Marshall. The Marshall Plan.”

  “Chief Justice Marshall, not General Marshall. And the only plan I have right now is to get back down those steps without having a heart attack.”

  “They are a chore, aren’t they? I seldom go out anymore. Luckily, most of my needs can be delivered.”

  “By Jillian?”

  Her hand rose to her lip again, like a hummingbird on its way to a trumpet vine. “Jillian seldom comes here. We haven’t been close, especially since this lawsuit business. Apparently she intended to sue me as well as Leonard until her lawyer advised her against it. Mothers aren’t as easy targets as fathers, apparently.”

  I got out my notebook and flipped it open, the way cops do in the movies. “When’s the last time you saw your ex-husband?”

  “Why I … let’s see. A month ago, I suppose. He came by to ask me to assist his defense of the lawsuit.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That I was remaining neutral.”

  “Could you have helped him if you wanted to?”

  “I don’t know; I’m not sure what kind of help he was looking for. I wasn’t in a position to swear it never happened, if that’s what you mean.”

  It was close enough. “Did you keep in regular touch with your husband after the divorce?”