The Burning Plain

by Michael Nava

  “He was an accomplice, not the principal. That was Asuras.”

  She tapped the papers. “This isn’t evidence, it’s guesswork.”

  “I notice you haven’t thrown me out of your office,” I observed.

  “I should,” she said, ruefully. “As far as everyone else is concerned, this case is closed.”

  “Everyone else but who, Serena? Me or you?”

  She tugged distractedly at her hair. “I got an anonymous call after Travis died,” she said, “from a woman who saw me interviewed on TV that night. She wanted to report a hate crime. She told me a male friend of hers who had worked for Duke Asuras had been sexually harassed by him and could I do something about it, because no one else would.”

  “You took her seriously?”

  “I knew it wasn’t a crank call because she was very upset and she was very specific. I told her that technically, it wasn’t a hate crime, so it was really out of my jurisdiction. Then she told me Asuras had raped her friend, who was straight, and did that make it a hate crime. Before I could respond, she hung up. We all have our buttons. Rape is one of mine. I made a few calls, to try to corroborate her.”

  “I bet you didn’t find anything,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Even if a guy was willing to report a rape, I doubt whether the cops would take it seriously.”

  “No one had any record of a criminal complaint,” she said. “I figured the same way you did, that either it wasn’t reported or it wasn’t taken seriously. It occurred to me if the police blew him off, the victim might have filed a civil action, so I checked the register for the last five years.”

  “Did you find anything on Asuras?”

  She nodded. “It’s amazing how often those studio guys get sued. In the last three years, Asuras has been named in over a hundred suits, most of the time as a pro forma defendant, but I did find three wrongful termination actions that specifically alleged sexual harassment by him.”

  “Was one of them your anonymous victim?”

  “All three cases were dismissed well before they ever got out of the pleading stage.”

  “You look at the complaints?”

  “Sealed,” she said.

  “Sealed? They’re public records.”

  “I know, I was surprised, too. They were sealed by Judge Matermain. It turns out she was a partner at a big entertainment firm before she got put on the bench. Parnassus was one of their clients.”

  “You were thorough,” I said.

  “It smelled bad,” she replied. “Really bad. I decided to track down the plaintiffs and talk to them.”

  “What did they have to say?”

  “The first plaintiff was a woman,” she said, getting up and going to her file cabinet. She pulled out a file and came back to her desk. “Elizabeth Ybarra.”

  “Asuras sexually harassed a woman?”

  “Don’t get excited, Henry, he’s not polymorphous perverse. The allegation was not that he personally sexually harassed her but that by favoring men over women he created a hostile environment for women workers. A technical allegation. The case was settled, and as part of the settlement, the judge imposed a gag order.”

  “What about the other cases?”

  “The second plaintiff was a nervous young man named Michael Moran. He said the lawsuit was a big mistake based on a misunderstanding and he actually really liked Asuras. He said if I wanted any more information I would have to call his lawyer.”

  “And the third case?”

  “Jeff Cain,” she said, reading the name from the file. “But before I could talk to him, the DA called me upstairs, told me he heard I was violating court orders on civil cases that were none of my fucking business and embarrassing a powerful supporter of his, so I should drop it.”

  “How did Asuras find out?”

  “Moran, I think. He was either bought off or scared into silence.”

  “You take the DA’s advice?”

  “Are you kidding?” she laughed. “I left his office and drove myself straight to Jeff Cain’s apartment. Bingo.”

  “He was your man?”

  She nodded. “He got a job at the studio just out of film school as kind of a glorified gofer. Asuras took a shine to him. I could see why. This kid is gorgeous. He said the trouble began when Asuras asked him to travel with him as his assistant. As soon as Asuras got Jeff out of LA he started coming on to him, very, very strongly.”

  “How strong?”

  “Jeff said Asuras was physically aggressive.”

  “Why didn’t Jeff quit?”

  “Not many twenty-four-year-old boys get to be personal assistant to the head of a studio.”

  “Jeff gay?”

  “No,” she said, “and after I met his girlfriend, I figured out who my anonymous caller was.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jeff thought he could control the situation if he let Asuras have sex with him.”

  “That’s funny logic, especially for a straight boy.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “He thought if he gave in, Asuras would get over it and eventually leave him alone. That’s classic date-rape victim thinking.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jeff hadn’t counted on the type of sex Asuras was into.”

  “The S&M stuff.”

  “I don’t know much about S&M, Henry, but as I understand it, it’s mostly dressing-up and fantasy. This guy hurts his partners for real. They were in New York when Jeff finally gave in. The encounter turned into a violent rape. Jeff said it was like Asuras was punishing him for agreeing to have sex with him. After it was over, he got out of the room and took the next plane back to LA. He never went back to work. Asuras continued to call him, offering him money, threatening to hurt him. When Jeff went to the cops they called Asuras who persuaded them Jeff was trying to blackmail him. Finally, he sued.”

  “Why was his suit dismissed?”

  “Asuras was careful that there were never any witnesses when he came on to Jeff, so it was Jeff’s word against his. Plus Asuras’s lawyers told Jeff’s lawyers why the police had declined to press charges and threatened to have them arrest the lawyer for conspiracy to commit extortion. He quit.”

  “Jeff’s story plus Alex’s establishes a pattern of conduct,” I observed.

  “For rape, not murder,” she said. “Which, as you know, is completely inadmissible, anyway.” She closed the file. “Unfortunately.”

  “You believe me about Asuras, don’t you?”

  “I believed Jeff Cain,” she said. “I believe what’s in this manuscript. Asuras is a sexual psychopath.”

  “Who would commit murder to protect himself,” I said.

  “There’s not enough evidence even to file on him.”

  “What if he offers me a bribe to keep my mouth shut?”

  “What are you talking about, Henry?”

  I told her about my meeting with Donati.

  “That was really stupid, Henry,” she said. “Donati could turn around and have you arrested for blackmail.”

  “I’m gambling he won’t.”

  “Even if Asuras offered you money for the manuscript, that doesn’t imply responsibility for the murders.”

  “He’s not going to confess, Serena,” I said impatiently. “We’ll have to build the case against him a brick at a time.”

  “We? Why should I risk what’s left of my career here and go after the guy?”

  “You answered that question when you decided to ignore the DA and talk to Jeff Cain,” I said. “Asuras is the kind of predator that all gays and lesbians are accused of being. We can’t get let him get away with those murders.”

  “The case is closed, Henry.”

  “Get the cops to reopen the car bombing investigation,” I said. I slipped the picture of Jim Harley across her desk. “Have them take Harley’s picture around. Maybe someone will recognize him.”

  “How do I explain where I got this tip?”

&nbs
p; “You don’t have to explain, you’re the DA,” I said. “The cops are supposed to do what you tell them.”

  “You saw how well that worked with Gaitan.” She took the picture. “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “There’s one more thing,” I said. “You can help me find Joanne Schilling.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I would like to talk to her.”

  “I’m glad we’re finally working on the same side,” I said.

  “That remains to be seen,” she replied. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m not in yet.”

  “What are you worried about, Serena?”

  “I’m worried about working with someone who uses blackmail to obtain evidence.”

  “It’s a setup,” I said. “The cops do it all the time.”

  “Try to remember something, Henry,” she said. “You’re not the cops. You’re acting as a private citizen and if you get yourself into trouble, don’t count on me to bail you out.”

  “Asuras has you spooked, hasn’t he?”

  “No, you do,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  The phone woke me just after one in the morning. I listened to it ring resentfully because I knew I had to answer it even though at this hour it was likely to be a wrong number. Still, between clients with a propensity for being arrested in the middle of the night and friends with AIDS who had their own nocturnal horrors, I could never be sure. I rolled over, saw the call was coming in on the office line and picked up.

  “Yeah,” I barked.

  An unperturbed operator said, “Will you accept a collect call to anyone from Rod?”

  “Yes, I’ll accept.”

  There was a hesitant, “Mr. Rios? It’s Rod Morse. You said I could call you if I needed to talk?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, sitting up. “What’s going on, Rod? Everything okay there?”

  “My parents found out.”

  I was now sufficiently awake to register that he was whispering. “They found out what?”

  “That I’m gay,” he said.

  “What happened?”

  “This is kind of embarrassing,” he said, after a moment.

  “Did they catch you with someone?”

  “What? Oh, no. I mean, I wish there was someone.” He hesitated. “I buy these magazines …”

  “Porn?”

  He laughed a low, unfunny laugh. “Like I could get porn here. No, GQ and Details and, you know, men’s fashion magazines.” Another shamed pause. “I look at the pictures of the models. I cut out the ones I like and keep them in a shoebox at the bottom of my closet. My mom found them.”

  “Pictures of models?”

  “A lot of them were just in underwear,” he said, guiltily. “Some of them were naked, but only from the back. You couldn’t see anything.”

  “What was your mother doing rooting around in your closet?”

  “I told you they’ve been trying to catch me.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I tried to tell them the pictures were to remember what the clothes looked like, so I could buy them.”

  “They didn’t believe you.”

  “No,” he mumbled, close to tears. “My dad asked me, ‘Are you a homosexual?’ I said no, but they didn’t believe that, either.” He was silent. “I thought he was going to hit me, but he told me to go to my room and stay there. This all happened Saturday. Tonight they told me, when school starts next month, they’re sending me to a Christian school in Utah.”

  “You think they’re going to send you to that hospital that claims to cure gays?”

  “I know they are,” he said. “I know that’s where they’re going to send me.” He started sobbing, softly. “You said you’d help me.”

  “Can you e-mail me the name of this place in Utah?”

  “Yeah, as soon as I hang up,” he said.

  “Call me back in two days.”

  “I have to call late, after they go to sleep.”

  “Don’t worry about that but give me two days.”

  “I will,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

  The name of the hospital in Utah was the Foster Institute. I knew that Richie, because of his own adolescent experience, supported a gay public-interest law firm that represented gay and lesbian kids. I called him the next morning and told him about Rod. He put me touch with a lawyer in San Francisco named Phil Wise. Wise had heard of the Foster Institute.

  “They’re notorious,” he said. “Most of these places are kind of indirect about what they do, but at the Foster Institute they pretty much claim they can cure homosexuality.”

  “It’s a psychiatric hospital?”

  “Duly accredited by the American Psychiatric Association.”

  “I thought the APA removed homosexuality from its list of mental illnesses twenty years ago.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “Places like the Foster Institute hospitalize kids under a diagnosis of GID, Gender Identity Disorder, an approved diagnosis in the APA’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual. You know about the DSM?”

  “You bet,” I said. Every criminal lawyer knew about the DSM, the handbook used by medical health professionals to diagnose psychiatric disorders. “What the hell is Gender Identity Disorder?”

  “It relates to gender confusion,” he said, “the desire of a male to be a female and vice versa. Adult transsexuals have to be diagnosed with GID to qualify for hormone treatment and sex change surgery. That’s the legitimate use of GID.”

  “Rod hasn’t expressed any desire to be a girl to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Kids who don’t conform to gender stereotypes get diagnosed with GID and off they go into places like Foster where they’re treated with heavy psychiatric drugs like Thorazine and lithium. They’re also subjected to behavior modification and in some cases shock treatment. Since gay and lesbian kids are the kids who are most likely to reject gender stereotyping, they’re the ones who fill these places. On their parents’ dime, of course. These places are raking it in.”

  “What do you mean by rejecting gender stereotypes? Little boys playing with their sisters’ Barbies? Little girls who hate dresses?”

  “Let me read you something out of the DSM,” he said. “One possible symptom of GID for boys is ‘aversion to rough-and-tumble play and rejection of male stereotypical toys, games and activity.’”

  “These hospitals claim they can cure homosexuality by making kids conform to gender stereotypes, as if teaching your son to play baseball will prevent him from growing up gay?”

  “Right, right,” he laughed. “And wearing lipstick and a dress means your daughter won’t be lesbian.”

  “This is a joke.”

  “I wish it was,” he said. “Gay kids get packed off to these hospitals by the thousands, and by the time they come out most of them are so fucked up that a lot of them end up killing themselves.”

  “Can we stop Rod’s parents from committing him?”

  Wise was silent for a moment. “It’s tough, Henry,” he said. “Rod’s a minor. His parents can pretty much submit him to any legitimate medical treatment they believe is in his best interests.”

  “The kind of treatment you’re describing is medieval. How can it possibly be in his best interests?”

  “Obviously, it isn’t,” Wise said. “I think it’s a form of child abuse to send a kid to one of these hospitals. The problem is persuading a court.”

  “Here’s your chance,” I said. “Richie Florentino told me if you’ll take the case, he’ll finance it.”

  “The problem is no court anywhere has ever declared that treating a child for homosexuality is child abuse,” Wise said. “Certainly not in Utah.”

  “That’s all the more reason to act while Rod’s still in California.”

  “Okay, let’s talk to the kid. Can you arrange a conference call?”

  “Phil, he calls me in the middle of night after his parents have gone to sleep.”

  “All right,” he said. “You exp
lain the situation and give him my number. Tell him to call me day or night, but soon. If we’re going to save him, we need to get started now.”

  “what do you mean, go to court?” Rod asked when he called at two in the morning.

  “Before your parents try to send you to Utah, Phil will file a petition in juvenile court to have you declared a ward of the court and remove you from your parents into foster care, while the court decides whether they have the right to try to cure your homosexuality.”

  “A foster home?” he asked, scared.

  “Yes, temporarily.”

  “How long?”

  “Until the court makes its decision.”

  “What if the court says my parents can send me to Utah?”

  “Phil’s ready to appeal all the way to the California Supreme Court,” I said. “At the very least, he can tie your parents up in court until you’re eighteen. That’s the worst-case scenario, Rod.”

  “I’ll be in foster care the whole time?”

  “Yes,” I said, because there was no point in lying to him. “Phil asked me to give you his phone number. He needs to hear from you now.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. “Okay,” he said. “Give it to me.”

  I gave him the address. “Rod, what’s bothering you? Foster care?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t want to live with strangers.”

  “Your parents are trying to commit you to a mental hospital. Don’t you think you’d be better off somewhere else?”

  “They’re still my parents,” he said. “I still love them. I know they love me.”

  “Weren’t you ready to run away to Katie?”

  “Katie was family,” he replied, testily.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Rod. You wanted my help, this is the help I’m offering.”

  “Can’t you just talk to them for me?”

  “I will if you really think they’d listen to me. From what you’ve told me about them, they’ll probably think I’m a child molester.”

  Silence. “You’re right. If they knew I was talking to you, they’d put me on a plane tomorrow. We used to be a good family, when I was little. My mom and dad were great. Now it’s different. It’s like aliens took over their bodies.”