The Hidden Law

by Michael Nava

  In his landscapes, the golden earth rolled like waves beneath a mild, benevolent sky, bare but for wooden fences and clusters of oak and eucalyptus. In other scenes, the squat avocado trees hovered like green clouds above the dark loam. His paintings caught perfectly the silty quality of light, the dry yet fertile countryside. Although the ocean lay just over the ridge of the canyon, Andy seldom pictured it directly, but there was a quality to his landscapes in which it was always suggested, as if the land was like a shell washed up from the water. The smaller the subject of the painting, the more he implied. In a still life of avocados, one sliced open, the green and yellow flesh glistened with all the sensuality of the earth from which it had sprung.

  I spent much of the weekend tramping through the ranch with one or both of them. It was good, particularly, to talk to Eric. He listened uncomplainingly while I went on for hours about Josh, acknowledging the loss to myself as I described it to him. And he understood when I talked about the confusion I felt over the direction my life had taken, because he remembered me as an eighteen-year-old boy in torn jeans and a black sweatshirt who had lived and breathed poetry.

  On Sunday, while they went into town to mass—a rose window in the church commemorated one of Eric’s ancestors, and Andy’s parents still worshipped there—I took a paperback edition of W. H. Auden’s poems and went up to the top of the canyon from where it was possible to see the ocean on one side and the ranch on the other. I sat on a boulder and turned the pages, encountering lines I had not read in fifteen years.

  I stopped at a poem called “The Hidden Law” and read it over and over again. It was a short work, about the invisible rules that run our lives and which we, in turn, spend our lives running from.

  The Hidden Law does not deny

  Our laws of probability,

  But takes the atom and the star

  And human beings as they are

  And answers nothing when we lie.

  It is the only reason why

  No government can codify

  And legal definitions mar

  The Hidden Law.

  Its utter patience will not try

  To stop us if we want to die:

  When we escape It in a car

  When we forget It in a bar

  These are the ways we’re punished by

  The Hidden Law.

  The words had the impact of a revelation, and although I didn’t completely understand what it meant, I did know that it was an admonition to change my life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I LEFT SANTA BARBARA early Monday morning and drove directly to Raymond Reynolds’s office in Beverly Hills for my eight o’clock appointment. The tranquility I had felt at the ranch evaporated somewhere between Oxnard and Rodeo Drive. By the time I spotted the first Armani-clad studio executive in his BMW it was as if I had never left town. I was relieved to step into Reynolds’s quiet brain cell of an office.

  As I did, I again felt that there was something familiar about it from my past; then it occurred to me: each time I entered his office, I had the same sensation I’d felt when, as a boy, I entered the confessional. It was that feeling that I was going to come clean. I sat down on his squeaky couch and tried to make sense of my moment at the ridge of the canyon.

  “What kind of change in your life do you think you have to make, Henry?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That wasn’t part of what I felt up there. It was more like a memory than a premonition.”

  “A memory of what?”

  “A memory of what it felt like when I was eighteen,” I told him. “The incredible sense of freedom at having finally got out from beneath my father’s thumb, and how, for the first time in my life, I felt truly alive. There were so many choices, so much to experience, and I really believed that I could do it all. That lasted until he died. After that, the choices seemed to narrow. It wasn’t that anyone said to me, ‘The fun’s over, decide what you’re going to do for the rest of your life.’ I just began to see things differently.”

  He rocked forward in his armchair. “How?”

  “You know, Raymond, it was as if, once he died, the weight of his life descended on my shoulders and I—”

  The phone rang. “My machine will take the call,” he said.

  I started to speak, but the phone rang again.

  “I’m sorry, Henry, but I’d better take this.” He answered the phone, listened for a moment, then said, “It’s your secretary. She says it’s urgent.”

  I got up and went over to his desk, taking the phone from him. “Yes, Emma.”

  “Henry, Mrs. Rosen called. The police have arrested Michael Ruiz. She’s at SafeHouse and she says it’s urgent that you go there right away.”

  “Call her back and tell her I’m on my way.” I hung up and told Reynolds, “I’m sorry, Raymond, I have to go.”

  “What about freedom?” he asked gently.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  Just as I pulled up at SafeHouse a TV station van was pulling away. Inside, there was a loud, crowded meeting being held in the dayroom. I made my way to Edith Rosen’s office where I found her briskly cramming file folders into a floppy shoulder bag.

  “Edith, what’s going on?”

  She stopped what she was doing. “I’ve been fired.” Then she collapsed into her chair, muttering, “What a morning.”

  “What’s going on out there?” I asked, pointing toward the day-room where someone was shouting invective at someone else.

  “The house is meeting to talk about what happened this morning.”

  “What did happen this morning?” I asked, dropping into a chair.

  “Michael turned up looking for me. He wanted to negotiate surrendering to the police. Unfortunately, I hadn’t arrived yet. Before he could get away, Chuck saw him and had two of the staff hold him down physically while he called the police. Apparently, Michael struggled pretty loudly and roused the entire house. I got here just as the police were trying to get him out.”

  “Trying?” I asked. “Was he resisting?”

  “It wasn’t Michael as much as it was the other residents,” she replied. “Most of them weren’t aware that the police were looking for Michael as a suspect in Gus’s murder. They didn’t know why Chuck had called the police on him. All they saw was another resident being dragged off by a dozen cops.”

  “I see,” I said. “I imagine Michael wasn’t the only resident who’d had run-ins with the cops.”

  “It turned into a small riot,” she said, wearily. “The police arrested three others as well as Michael.”

  From the dayroom, I heard Chuck Sweeny screaming for quiet, but his cries were drowned out by boos and catcalls. Someone skidded past the door sobbing. Unanswered, a phone rang and rang.

  “It didn’t help that the cops came in like an invading army,” she said.

  “What’s this about being fired?”

  “Chuck blamed me for everything,” she said. “And told me to get my ass out of here.” She managed a limp smile. “Under the circumstances, that doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”

  “Does he have that authority?”

  She looked at me raggedly. “Now is not the time to test it. Look,” she continued, “this is really bad for the house, all of it. The fact that Chuck let Gus use the house as a front, Michael’s arrest, the police. It’s going to take a long time for SafeHouse to recover from this, if it ever does.”

  “What about Michael? Did you get a chance to talk to him?”

  “No. I called you thinking you could get to him.”

  “I don’t know, Edith. I talked to Carolina Ruiz, and she more or less fired me. I can’t really hold myself out as his lawyer at this point.”

  She stood up. “You have to help him.”

  “Edith, there’s a limit.”

  She grabbed the phone and started dialing.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Carolina Ruiz,” she said.

  I took the phone f
rom her. “Come on, Edith, right now, you need to calm down. Let’s get out of here.”

  She started to reply, but then swept a couple more folders into her bag and said, “Buy me a cup of coffee.”

  I got her out of the house and we drove to a restaurant down the street. I sat her at a table, ordered coffee, and then went off to call Carolina Ruiz. The news of Michael’s arrest broke through her hostility and she grudgingly agreed to allow me to find him, making sure I understood that I was not officially retained. I called around the police department until I found out where Michael was being held. I left instructions that he was not to be interviewed or moved until I arrived, then I returned to Edith.

  “Michael’s being held at the Beverly station,” I told her. “I have the family’s permission to keep the cops from beating a confession out of him.”

  She looked up at me gratefully. “You should go.”

  “In a moment,” I said. “I could use some coffee myself.” I flagged the waitress down. After she left, I said, “How do you know Michael wanted to turn himself in?”

  “That’s what he told the girl at the desk when he came in this morning.”

  I gulped some coffee, burning my tongue. “That’s not good news.”

  Her face sank. “Oh, my God. You think he killed Gus?”

  “That’s the implication.”

  “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “Well,” I said, “the cops will put him on a probation hold which will allow them to keep him until a hearing can be held. If they’re going to charge him with Gus’s murder, he has to be arraigned within forty-eight hours. In other words, they’ll have plenty of time to talk to him.”

  “I really think you should go,” she said.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “OK,” I said, getting up. “I’ll call you later.”

  The police station on Beverly was a squat concrete building, its gray facade completely unblemished in contrast with the surfaces of its neighbors, all of which were covered with gang placasos. Inside, it was blue walls and wooden benches. The grim visage of the current chief of police scowled at me from a photograph mounted on the wall. The counter was glassed in with bulletproof glass. The cop who was working it sauntered over to me and slid open a panel.

  “My name is Rios,” I said, laying my card on the counter. “You’re holding my client, Michael Ruiz.”

  He studied the card, slid the panel shut, and stepped back toward a door. He opened it, shouted something I couldn’t quite hear and a moment later, someone shouted something back. He returned to me, slid the panel open and said, “Gone downtown.”

  “I told your booking officer not to move him until I got here.”

  He gave me that you-asshole-can’t-you-see-my-uniform look that they were trained in at the Academy and said, “I said he’s downtown.”

  I fumed, but said nothing, planning to take it out on the next cop I got on the stand.

  At Parker Center, I was kept waiting twenty minutes until the officer on duty confirmed that Michael was there. It was another ten minutes before I was taken back to the interrogation room where I found him in the company of Detectives Laverty and Merrill. Michael had a black eye and his wrists were badly bruised. There was a strong smell of piss in the room and I looked at his pants and saw they were soaked. He looked terrified.

  All my rage boiled over. “You people are fucking animals.”

  Laverty bridled. “Watch your mouth.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said. “You beat my client, force him to sit here in his own piss, and you object to my manners.” I took a step toward Laverty. He remained motionless, staring me down. “‘To protect and serve,’ isn’t that what your badge says? Who do you protect? Who are you serving? Your testosterone?”

  “I don’t take that shit in court and I don’t take it here,” he said.

  “What are you going to do, throw me out?”

  His face reddened and he balled his hands into fists. I was dimly aware of Merrill moving against the far wall. Laverty threw him a sharp look, then said, in a tight voice, “You want to talk to your client, or what?”

  “I’ll talk to him. Alone.”

  After they left, I turned back to Michael, my pulse still racing from rage. He looked almost as afraid of me as he had of the cops.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I didn’t tell them nothing,” he squeaked.

  I sat down and drew a long breath. “Sorry,” I said. “I’m a little worked up. Look, are you OK? I mean, is anything broken?”

  “No, man. I’m OK.”

  “Good. I don’t think either one of us is in any shape to talk right now. I’m going to have them take you to the jail ward at county hospital to have someone look you over and I’ll come find you later. In the meantime, don’t say a word to anyone about anything. And don’t give them any excuse to hit you. You understand?”

  “I understand,” he mumbled.

  “Good.” I patted his arm. “Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

  “You gonna leave now?” he asked in a scared voice.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just hold tight.”

  “Yeah,” he said skeptically.

  Laverty was out in the hall. I told him that I had to make a couple of calls, but would be back and to keep Michael there. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded. I found a pay phone and dialed a number that I had promised the man at the end never to use except in an extreme emergency.

  “Chiefs office,” a male voice said.

  “Let me speak to Captain O’dell.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Tell him it’s Henry Rios.”

  “Hold.”

  When the chief of police had been asked why the LAPD refused to hire gay officers he sniffed, “Who would want to work with them?” unaware that he rubbed elbows daily with a gay man, a deeply-closeted captain in his own office. I had been introduced to Cliff O’dell by my friend Terry Ormes, the highest-ranking woman in the San Francisco police department, when O’dell and I had both been up in the city over a long weekend a couple of years earlier. Since then, he and I would have a discreet lunch somewhere. I had become the sounding board for all the frustrations he felt over his split life. I had never asked any favor in return, until now.

  “Henry,” he said gruffly. “This better be important.”

  “It is,” I said. “You’re holding a client of mine in an interrogation room on the fourth floor, room number 418. He’s a suspect in Gus Peña’s murder.”

  “I know all about it,” he said. “We’re preparing a press release. Jesus, how the hell did you get involved?”

  “That’s not important. Listen, he was man-handled by the arresting officers, and he’s sitting up there in his own piss. I don’t exactly trust the investigating officer to respect his constitutional rights.”

  There was a long, tense pause. “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want him transferred to county hospital so a doctor can take a look at him, and I don’t want him fucked with in the process.”

  “You must think we’re Nazis,” he said disbelievingly.

  “Let’s not get into that,” I said. “All I want right now is for my client’s rights to be respected.”

  “What’s the officer’s name?”

  “Laverty, and there’s another one, Merrill.”

  “Yeah, OK. Where are you calling from?”

  “Downstairs, and I’m about to go back up. And Cliff, I want the murder book, and I don’t want any trouble getting it.”

  “Don’t ever call me here again,” he said, and hung up.

  When I returned upstairs, Laverty was still in the hall, talking to a good-looking man in a business suit who barely acknowledged me as I approached.

  “Mr. Rios?” Cliff asked. “You the attorney?”

  “Yeah, who are you?”

  “Cliff O’dell, from the chief’s offi
ce. Is Michael Ruiz your client?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I took a look at him,” he said. “I think we need to get him checked out by a doctor.”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “I’ve instructed him not to answer any questions. I assume he won’t be asked any.”

  “We’re all aware of the exclusionary rule, counsel,” he said sharply.

  “I’d like the investigation reports.”

  O’dell glanced at Laverty. “Make copies for the man.”

  Laverty tightened his jaw. “Yeah, sure.”

  “We’ll take your man down, now,” O’dell said.

  A few minutes later, Michael was being gently led to a waiting car to be taken to county hospital.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BACK IN MY OFFICE, I made a quick call to Carolina Ruiz. The news about Michael’s arrest had broken and the Ruizes were deluged by the press. I advised her to say nothing and told her to come to my office with her husband at four that afternoon. Afterwards, I phoned Edith Rosen and told her to come as well. Finally, I called a friend to cover for me at a court appearance I had in Pasadena after lunch, ordered a sandwich from a nearby deli, and settled in to read the murder book I’d obtained from the cops. It included the initial reports and follow-ups, witness statements, the autopsy, ballistics, and related reports.

  The initial report contained a brief account of the crime scene with photograph and diagrams. Peña had been shot in the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant on First Street. The lot was behind the restaurant, accessible from a side street by an alley. From a photograph, I made out a fenced lot reached by a staircase from the restaurant’s exit on the second floor of a brick building. The lot was shadowy, illuminated only by porch lights on the landing of the stairs and lights from the surrounding businesses. There was a big tree growing in the corner and a Dumpster pushed up against it. The lot was empty in the picture, but according to the report, there had been a number of cars in it when the shooting occurred. The police theorized from tire tracks in the alley that the killer had driven up, stopped in the alley beneath the tree, got out of the car, shot Peña, and then skidded out.