One on One

by Michael Brandman

  “I was planning to divorce him.”

  I looked up at her. “Excuse me?”

  “I was going to leave him. He wasn’t the man I believed him to be when I married him.”

  “Because?”

  “I mean he wasn’t a wife beater or anything like that. But he had issues with being faithful.”

  “What kind of issues?”

  “He was constantly around young people. Young girls mostly.”

  “And?”

  “I think he was having sex with some of them.”

  “You think?”

  A wrinkle of consternation crossed her face. “It’s nothing I could prove. But he kept odd hours. Always involved with extracurricular activities of one kind or another. Sometimes he came home late. He went out at night. He lost interest in me.”

  “Interest how?”

  “When we first got together, he couldn’t keep his hands off me. Once we got to California, he rarely came near me.”

  “And you think it was because he was fooling around with his students?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “Nothing I can prove.”

  “But something you suspect.”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I think he may have been involved in some kind of sex ring.”

  “At the school?”

  “Connected with the school.”

  “Involving students.”

  “That would be my guess.”

  “But you can’t prove it.”

  “No.”

  She captured me in her steady gaze, her hazel eyes appraising me unwaveringly. I turned away and thought that, innocent or guilty, this was a woman scorned, one who might very well have been motivated to seek revenge.

  “Will you help me?” she asked.

  “Help you how?”

  “I don’t want to go to jail. I may be guilty of running away, but I didn’t murder him.”

  “It’s up to the District Attorney as to what charges will be filed.”

  “Murder?”

  “More likely suspicion of.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Fleeing the scene will influence the D.A.’s thinking.”

  “It wasn’t deliberate. It’s not like I left the country or vanished. I went home. You know, Mom and Dad? TLC? Who knew that wasn’t allowed?”

  The hint of a smile briefly appeared on her lips which I tracked until it vanished. Then I said, “This can’t be easy for you.”

  “Ditto,” she responded.

  Chapter Seven

  “I don’t believe she did it,” I commented to A.D.A. Skip Wilder. We were sitting in his office, awaiting the arrival of District Attorney Michael Lytell.

  “That’s your considered opinion?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll make note of it. In the meantime, she stays in County. No bail. She’s already proven to be a flight risk.”

  “Come on, Skip. She didn’t know she wasn’t supposed to leave the state. No one told her.”

  “She acted willfully, with full knowledge that the Sheriff’s Department was trying to reach her.”

  “This won’t stick. Once she lawyers up, she’ll be out in no time.”

  “Tell that to the D.A.”

  “Why do you think I’m here?”

  He glared at me. I knew Skip from junior high school, when he was a nerdy kid with pimply skin. Like me. We were twelve. We hit it off almost immediately and soon became inseparable.

  We had an uncanny knack for getting ourselves into trouble. Like the day we showed up for art class and found the teacher, Miss Safro, absent.

  She had written the day’s instructions on the blackboard. We were to sketch any structure of our choosing and then color it in. A profusion of crayons were on her desk.

  She had also inadvertently left a tube of Elmer’s Glue-All beside the crayons. Which immediately caught our attention.

  Rather than bother with the exercise of drawing and coloring, for some self-destructive reason, we chose instead to glue a number of the crayons onto the drawing table at which we were seated.

  We arranged the crayons to look as if they had been haphazardly scattered on the table, but when you tried to pick one up, you couldn’t.

  Which reduced us to uncontrollable laughter.

  At the end of the class, with still no Miss Safro, we exited the room, leaving the glued crayons behind.

  It wasn’t exactly brain surgery for Miss Safro to figure out it was Skip and me who had committed the crayon mayhem. Before the end of the school day, we were summoned to the Principal’s office.

  We sheepishly admitted our guilt. Our parents were notified and for the next four weeks, Skip and I were forbidden to have any contact with each other.

  Except for when we inadvertently bumped into each other in the hallways. One glance and without so much as a word spoken, we would break into riotous laughter.

  We’ve been friends ever since. Even now, in the face of a testy relationship between his boss and me, Skip and I remain close. They say the friends you make in your youth are the ones who remain truest throughout your lifetime.

  There was a knock on Skip’s door but before he could respond, it opened, revealing Michael Lytell, the portly D.A., along with Murray Kornbluth, the county’s preeminent legal personage.

  “Murray’s representing the widow,” Lytell exclaimed with a flourish as he and Kornbluth stormed into the office.

  In typical Lytell fashion, he planted himself behind Wilder’s desk, assuming the room’s power position. They still tell the story of Thomas Baum, the San Remo County Chairman, who to this day refuses to stand whenever Lytell visits his office.

  “That son of a bitch isn’t going to sit in my chair,” Baum tells anyone who questions why he remains seated whenever the District Attorney makes one of his grandiloquent entrances.

  Murray Kornbluth, who grinned broadly when he spotted Lytell behind Wilder’s desk, sat next to me in the vacant guest chair, leaving Wilder, who had risen deferentially when Lytell entered, forced to stand behind him, a frown darkening his visage as he watched the frenetic District Attorney peruse the chaotic crush of paperwork scattered atop Wilder’s desk.

  As I watched this little drama play itself out, I interrupted it. “I suppose this means I’ll be releasing her.”

  Lytell shifted his focus to me. “Not until Judge Hiller says so.”

  “Which he most assuredly will,” Kornbluth added.

  The flashily dressed Murray Kornbluth was San Remo County’s most celebrated attorney. Although he and D.A. Lytell were charter members of the exclusive Crestview Country Club, they were also longtime rivals at the Bar. Each kept a mental tab of how they fared against each other and the current tally showed them running neck and neck. I wanted no more of these two paragons of self-importance, so I stood and smiled at them both. “It’s comforting to see the wheels of justice still greased and chugging.”

  “Always with the smart mouth, eh, Buddy?” Kornbluth said.

  “In case it’s of interest, there’s little likelihood she did it.”

  “I told you he’d say that,” Lytell said to Kornbluth.

  “How long?” I asked.

  “How long for what?” Lytell retorted.

  “Until the illustrious judge rules?”

  “He’s already received the petition. He’ll rule when he rules,” Lytell said.

  “Then I’ll await further instruction,” I said with a glance at Skip Wilder, who was still standing awkwardly behind his desk.

  “Chair, Skip?” I said, pointing to the one I just vacated.

  He glowered.

  “Standing like that must be brutal,” I chided. “It�
�s always the legs that go first.” I grinned at him and with nods to both the District Attorney and Murray Kornbluth, I hot-footed it out of there.

  “I wonder how she hooked up with Kornbluth so fast,” my father mused.

  We were sitting on the sunporch of the family manse. He was on a lounge chair, swathed in a fleece blanket. He had lost weight and appeared gaunt. He was rubbing his hands together as if for warmth, even though the temperature was in the seventies.

  “Had to have been at the arraignment,” I surmised.

  “You think a judicial staffer tipped him off?”

  “As sure as we’re sitting here, there’s someone on the inside who’s on his payroll.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Does it matter? He was bound to get this case one way or the other.”

  The old man nodded. “The investigation?”

  “The widow told me she was planning to divorce him.”

  “Not an encouraging sign.”

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she did it.”

  “Because?”

  “Coply intuition.”

  “And?”

  “She believes he was involved in some kind of sexual shenanigans.”

  “At the school?”

  “Yes.”

  My father shook his head and stuffed his hands more deeply into the pockets of his ancient cardigan. Despite his visible discomfort, he enjoyed being informed as to the goings-on at the office.

  As for me, I welcomed the chance to discuss business with him, to refocus his attention on something other than his illness. It allowed us to share a kind of forced intimacy, a chance to be close, an opportunity to permit the conversation to camouflage his terror, which lurked beneath the surface like an unseen predator, poised and ready to strike at any moment.

  “Does the unholy trinity know about the so-called sexual shenanigans?” he asked.

  “You mean Lytell, Kornbluth, and Judge Hiller?”

  “Yeah. Them.”

  “Kornbluth, maybe. But I don’t believe the others do.”

  “You’re going to inform them?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Because?”

  “I don’t know for sure it’s true.”

  “But you think it is?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I’m at the starting line. I’ll let you know more as soon as I have some concrete information.”

  An eerie silence engulfed us. The old man began rubbing his hands again, a forlorn look appearing on his tired-looking face. “I feel like shit, Buddy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t have any motivation.”

  “You can’t be expected to.”

  “Tell that to my constituency.”

  As I caught him ebbing into self-pity, I did my best to steer him away from it.

  “Your constituency adores you. They’re solidly in your corner.”

  “Says you.”

  “You bet, says me. This thing you have ebbs and flows. Hang in, Burton. You still have a lot of good days in front of you.”

  “You think?”

  “I know.”

  At last he flashed me a smile. “From your mouth to God’s ear.”

  Chapter Eight

  The boys were first up. I was in the stands of the Freedom High School pool house watching the swim team practice.

  Situated in an extension of the steel and glass gymnasium that had been donated by a wealthy local, the vast, temperature-controlled edifice was home to an Olympic-size swimming pool, surrounded on all sides by bleachers.

  Oversized windows ringed the top tier of the building, bathing the interior in natural light. Stadium-type lighting fixtures illuminated the pool at night.

  They were swimming freestyle, all eight lanes of the pool occupied by slender young men, each with significant upper body musculature and beefy legs. Several similar-looking youths sat on the sidelines, all wearing skimpy Speedos with large white bath towels draped around their shoulders, intently watching.

  A dozen young women wearing tight-fitting, one-piece bathing suits, also sat raptly watching and occasionally chattering among themselves.

  After a while, one of the coaches blew his whistle and the swimmers made their way to the near end of the pool, where a circle formed around him.

  “Okay, okay,” the coach shouted over the din. “That’s it for today, boys. Girls, you’re up.”

  The boys climbed out of the pool and eight girls took their places at the head of each lane. The whistle shrieked and the girls dove into the water and began swimming laps.

  A coach holding a clipboard looked in my direction. He handed the clipboard to one of his associates and climbed the bleacher steps to where I was seated. “Sheriff Steel,” he said.

  “Fred,” I answered.

  Fred Maxwell had been on the Freedom High School faculty for as long as I could remember. In addition to coaching the swim team, he was also the head of the Athletic Department, a gruff, take-no-prisoners type of executive, well into his sixties, widely regarded as a good guy.

  He was red-faced in a way that suggested he might be a drinker. He wore scruffy sweats that matched the color of his thinning gray hair. A pair of horn-rimmed, thick-lensed eyeglasses hung on a chain around his neck.

  He was more than just a coach; he had been a longtime source of encouragement and support for young men and women who were just coming of age. For decades he had helped ease anxieties and prop up delicate egos. He was a local institution. He planted himself on the row of benches in front of me and sighed. “How’s he doing?”

  “As well as can be expected.”

  “ALS?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ll send him my regards.”

  “He’ll be pleased.”

  “Shame about Hank,” Maxwell said.

  “Hank?”

  “Carson. He was a decent man.”

  “You worked with him?”

  “I did. He was great with the kids. He wasn’t completely confident about the mechanics, but what he didn’t know, he made up for in enthusiasm.”

  “Any reason for someone to do him harm?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, Buddy. I know he was close to a lot of the kids and, knowing teenagers as I do, they all tend to be fickle. But not when it came to Hank. He was definitely a great favorite.”

  “Which students was he close to?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said he was close to a lot of the kids. Which ones?”

  “Forgive me if I sound like Sarah Palin here,” he smiled. “All of them.”

  “He was close to all of them?”

  “Equally. I can’t really single out any of them as being closer than any other. But then, I suppose, I wouldn’t really know. He spent time with team members outside of practice. Sometimes he took kids for dinners or on excursions.”

  “In groups or individually?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “I suppose I don’t. Not exactly. But if you talk with any of the kids, I’m sure they’ll fill you in.”

  “Which of the kids?”

  “Well, the captains, for certain. Bobby Siegler for the boys. Chrissie Lester for the girls. They’ll likely point you in the right direction.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for this, Fred. I’m at the starting line here, and I may have more questions later on.”

  “Just holler, Buddy. I’m always available.”

  Chapter Nine

  Bobby Siegler stepped out of the locker room carrying a backpack and a smartphone into which he was punching a series of numbers. His hair was still wet.

  “Mr. Siegler,” I said.

  He stopped and looked hard at me.

  “Do I know yo
u?”

  “Buddy Steel. Deputy Sheriff, San Remo County.”

  “Sheriff?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this about Coach Carson?”

  “Do you have time for a few questions?”

  He snapped off his phone. “Sure.”

  We found a bench in front of the gymnasium. He dropped his backpack on it and sat. He pointed me to the space beside him. “How may I help?”

  “Well, for openers, what can you can tell me about Mr. Carson?”

  His brow furled slightly as he thought about what he might want to say. He was a handsome young man, with blond hair shorn tight to his head. Although small, he possessed a startling physique. He had on a tight-fitting Lacoste t-shirt worn over a pair of jeans that were stylishly ripped at the knees. He had six-pack abs and highly developed arms. “He was very kind to me,” he said.

  “In what way?”

  Siegler’s thoughts turned inward and he answered hesitatingly, shyly, parsing his words self-consciously as if muscling his way through something painful.

  “I’ve always been devoted to swimming. Growing up, my parents couldn’t get me out of the pool. But when I showed up for tryouts, I was the smallest kid here. And I didn’t really know any of the others. So I was kind of standing alone. Nobody had much interest in me.”

  He stared at me intently as though he was weighing the effect his words were having and, more importantly, whether I was being judgmental.

  After several moments, I guess he found me acceptable and went on. “But Coach Hank, he stepped right up and introduced himself. He looked me over and asked what I thought were my strengths and weaknesses. When I told him I was a diver, he brightened right up and walked me over to the board.

  “‘Let’s see what you got,’ he said. ‘Don’t hold back.’” So suddenly everybody stopped what they were doing and stood watching me. But I wasn’t nervous or anything. I had practiced my dives so many times I could do them blindfolded. I was prepared to do ten of them, but by the time I reached dive six, the kids were cheering.

  “Coach took me under his wing and I’ve sort of considered him like a big brother ever since.”