California Girl

by T. Jefferson Parker

  “The Sears clerk was just trying to help.”

  “I understand,” said Stoltz.

  “I am, too.”

  “I understand that also. I wonder where Bonnett got his saw.”

  “We’re working on that,” said Nick. The heat was suddenly suffocating.

  “The Santa Anas are kicking up again,” said Stoltz. “More lemonade?”

  “No thanks. I’ll leave you to your Friday.”

  “You okay, Nick?”

  “I still feel like I have other people’s blood in me.”

  “Let’s get back in where it’s cool.”

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON the children took naps. Nick and Katy locked their bedroom door. Lay on top of their bedsheets and let the warm wind waft through the curtains and onto their skin. Nick rolled onto his side and ran his hand over the smooth capacious flank of his wife. She fondled him lightly for a while and they said nothing.

  “Well, what do you know?” she whispered.

  “It’s working.”

  “Working very well, so far.”

  “I was worried about this, Katy.”

  “I was, too. Guess what?”

  “I give up.”

  “We had that wild little LSD thingy on the fourteenth? Well, I was supposed to start on the twenty-first, the day you left for Mexico. I waited a few days ’cause of all the worry but snuck off to Doc Blair yesterday. He put a hurry-up on it for us. Nurse called while you were at Roger’s.”

  “Kate, really?”

  “Really, Nick. Another bellowing, wailing, screaming, deafening, beautiful little person.”

  34

  THAT EVENING ANDY STOOD off Laguna Canyon Road snapping pictures of the convertible and the huge tree. Convertible crushed like a stepped-on beer can. Tree trunk with just a gouge where the little car had accordioned into it, then sloughed off.

  Based on early measurements and a witness who said that the Triumph driver never used his brakes, a CHP officer estimated the impact speed at almost one hundred miles an hour.

  Andy had been less than five miles away, headed for the family home in Tustin, when the call came over the police band radio in his Corvair.

  It wasn’t until he brandished his press pass and eased closer to the body that he recognized the driver. Two sheriff’s deputies were lowering him from the car to the stretcher. It looked to Andy as if every bone in Howard Langton’s once magnificent body had been mashed to dust. Langton was flimsy and doll-like, only his clothes seeming to hold him together. He wore the same varsity jacket he’d worn to the jail the day before and in Andy’s picture on the front page of the Journal that morning. Yellow leather arms drenched red now. An almost empty quart of vodka clinked into the dirt after him.

  “I caused this,” said Andy.

  “Out of the way, Becker.”

  “I caused this.”

  “Right. Out of the way.”

  Andy watched them carry Langton past him and slide him into the coroner’s van. Wind howling in the eucalyptus. A big red branch ripped away and crashed through the flashing silver leaves. Police radios crackled with news of fresh disaster elsewhere and scores of cars idled in the traffic jam. All eyes bolted to the catastrophe.

  Andy found a place down by the lagoon. Sat down on the trunk of a fallen willow and cried.

  35

  ON SUNDAY two of the major county dailies intimated that Howard Langton had killed Adrian Stalling in a lovers’ quarrel, then driven his car with suicidal intent as the law closed in around him.

  David read them at sunrise with an outraged sadness for his friend and disgust for the papers. Howard now a fag and a killer and a suicide.

  Only Andy’s Journal gave him half a chance. His article suggested that, based on an exclusive interview with Langton, he hadn’t killed Stalling. Andy said that the Boom Boom witness could have been mistaken because witnesses faced with lineups often were. Or that Langton could in fact have been seen “running” from the Boom Boom that night for reasons unrelated to the killing. After all, no one had seen the murder. Andy suggested that Langton was suicidal because he was homosexual and was about to be exposed.

  David sat at his kitchen table. Wendy beside him, with her usual observant quiet. She was an early riser like David, fond of silence and sunrise. The windows faced east and the morning sun spangled the walls with light. He closed his eyes and said another long prayer. Not for a miracle this time. Only for the proper words.

  Two and a half hours later David took the pulpit looking gaunt but somehow vigorous. Thin and durable as a whip.

  He talked about his friendship with Howard, beginning way back in high school. Talked about Howard’s ferocious drive to win. His good sportsmanship. Remembered Howard sticking up for a new kid being picked on. Talked about going their separate ways after high school. Then renewing their friendship when Howard began attending the Grove Drive-In Church. David told of the youth group volunteer work Howard did. Told of the help Howard and Linda Langton had offered to Janelle Vonn. How Howard never had to be asked. He just saw what was needed and did it.

  David stepped back from his pulpit. Bowed his head. Whitbrend’s move. He saw that many of the congregation bowed their heads, too, but David didn’t pray. Instead he stepped back up and sighed very loudly. The microphone picked up the alien sound. The speakers amplified it throughout the chapel. When David spoke again his voice was soft but clear.

  “I will not let you remember Howard as a murderer,” he said. “Let me tell you what happened that night at the Boom Boom Bungalow. I know because I was there with Howard.”

  A moan of anxious revelation rose from the congregation. Then silence descended through it like a window slammed shut.

  David looked out at his worshipers. Picked out special faces. Andy fifth row with his notebook already out and his mouth half open in disbelief. Max and Monika blank-faced and frozen, like defendants braced for the verdict. Nick and Katy with the three children between them. Nick’s expression said that he had just misheard something and was ready for the correction. Katy had apparently missed it altogether, still scuffling with Katherine over a tithing envelope. Darren Whitbrend sat with his wife first row, Darren trim in his white robes and plainly flummoxed. David had told him before the service that Darren was free to join the people who would abandon the Grove Drive-In Church of God this morning. Darren had said he would never abandon David or the Grove. Said it uncertainly. Then twice more, with more emphasis, like he was talking himself into believing it. Denied it three times. From habit, David looked down at second row right, but Barbara had decided it would be best for everyone if she and the children missed this service.

  Dear God, help me move my lips.

  “We got takeout food from Pepito’s,” he said. “The three of us had eaten together before, several times, and we liked the Mexican food. Back in Janelle’s cottage we prayed in thanks and ate. We drank wine. Around eight Janelle left with a friend of hers named Cory Bonnett.”

  A firm murmur of recognition rippled through the audience, then ended.

  Dear God, help me tell my truth.

  “Howard and I stayed at Janelle’s cottage for a couple of hours. Then we drove to the Boom Boom Bungalow to retrieve Howard’s varsity jacket. He had left it there a week earlier and wanted to get it back.”

  “My God,” someone said.

  David felt something in him die as a family of five rose and made their way to an aisle. He wanted to chase them down. Make them sit and listen and understand. Make them forgive.

  He heard the faint sound of car engines starting up outside.

  “I drove Howard’s convertible sports car to the Boom Boom Bungalow because he had had too much wine. I double-parked on Coast Highway by the entrance to the bar and lobby and waited with the passenger door open.”

  “The hell with you!” someone shouted.

  A mass grumble rose. For a moment David thought the protest was against the shouter.

  But a family of six walked out
.

  Then two elderly couples.

  And a family of four.

  Tires screeched outside, rubber smoking on the sky blue asphalt.

  The grumble stopped. A silence of anticipation, David thought. He heard the intake of his breath from the speakers.

  “Less than one minute later,” he said, “Howard came back. He trotted. He didn’t run. The varsity jacket was over his shoulder. He was smiling. He had no time to kill someone. No reason to kill someone. He had never met Adrian Stalling. He had retrieved a jacket from the manager of the motel and come back to the car. That is all. Later I drove him back to Janelle’s house and he was able to drive himself home. Howard Langton hurt no one. Do not remember him as a murderer. He was a gentle man who was born with certain faults and talents. As we all are.”

  David watched a large clot of worshipers in the front rise and make quickly for the aisles. Then part of the middle section. Those in the back were closer to the main exits and many of them had already left the building. He felt disemboweled.

  “Some of us can understand the terrible weight that Howard carried inside,” said David. “And imagine what it’s like to be different. To live in fear. To be hated if the truth is known. Howard asked for none of this. Howard was created by God. There is a place in God’s world for imperfection. There must be, because we are all imperfect.”

  By then, over half his congregation was gone. David watched them bunching at the exits, the volume of their voices rising. He saw the anger and disgust on their turned faces.

  Special Agent Hambly sat shaking his head. Looking up like David was the stupidest guy he’d ever seen.

  Then David’s pain began to change into something else. His agony dissolved and a magnificent peace overtook him. Even as his congregation deserted him, David understood that he had now accomplished two things he had always prayed for and wanted. God had worked a miracle through him. And God had given him the strength to speak the truth.

  David watched his believers go.

  “The service will continue now,” he said. “For any of you who would like to stay.”

  A loud clear voice answered him. “God bless you, Reverend Becker. I’m staying. Please continue.”

  David looked out at the speaker. An old man sitting almost alone now. The one whose platoon had been cut to ribbons by machine gun fire outside Calais.

  “I am an optimist,” said David. “Our place of worship is half full and we have room for many more. Reverend Whitbrend, please come forward and lead us in prayer.”

  Whitbrend swept up from the first row and took the steps to the proscenium two at a time.

  THAT EVENING at the family home in Tustin, David sat in the den with his parents and brothers. He’d never felt this self-conscious. Even at ordination at San Anselmo’s, the first time he’d donned his robes and presumed to be a man of God. But beyond the self-consciousness was relief. And hanging over both of them like a slow-moving cold front was the dark power of losing someone you loved.

  Max freshened David’s drink, then his own. “David,” he said. “I don’t know if anything more needs to be said right now. But that’s never stopped me. Just know I love you and I’m sorry about what happened. All of it. I would imagine your career is ruined. But you told the truth and conducted yourself honorably today.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” David managed.

  “And I agree,” said Monika. “What you did today was difficult.”

  “It sure was.”

  A fragile silence.

  “I always wanted a queer preacher for a brother,” said Andy.

  Shame punched through David like a bullet. He understood that this would be his cost for the truth. He looked down at the carpet and a small smile crossed his face.

  “Me, too,” said Nick.

  “My God, you boys are horrible,” said Monika.

  “They’re not so bad,” said David.

  Then a long quiet. Ice clinking on glass. The sounds of the children and TV in the living room. The exhale of the wind through the orange grove outside.

  Max stood. “Well, any other business before we have dinner?”

  Andy stood, too. “I enlisted in the United States Marine Corps yesterday. I’m reporting tomorrow. I want to know why Clay died and I want to write about it. Mom, I’m coming back alive. I promise you I’m coming back alive.”

  David saw his father waver. Thought it was booze, then understood it was emotion that had rocked him.

  Monika rose and hugged Andy so hard David could hear the joints cracking in her back.

  Nick shook Andy’s hand and said he was doing a good thing.

  David wasn’t sure if Andy wanted a hug from his queer preacher brother but he did ask everyone to bow their heads. He said a brief and elegant prayer.

  When he was done Andy hugged him.

  36

  1970

  ORANGE COUNTY SUPERIOR COURT, Department C-7.

  “The defendant will rise.”

  Cory Bonnett unfolded from the table and stood. Suit and tie. Hair cut short. Trim mustache. Judge Sewell had allowed him to be tried unmanacled until his first interruption or indiscretion. Six weeks later Bonnett’s big freckled hands still hung free at his sides.

  Nick sat second row behind the prosecutor’s table. He had testified for three days in August, almost a month ago now. Then once last week during redirect. Had memorized Andy’s articles and huddled with Lobdell. Lucky had called it “synchronizing our watches.”

  Abbott Estle couldn’t catch them. Nick denied that he had ever gone to Mexico for any reason connected to Cory Bonnett. Lobdell corroborated him and he corroborated Lobdell. Estle’s questions came to sound redundant, then badgering. His inferences unlikely. The People’s objections were sustained. The harder Estle climbed, the faster he slid.

  Bonnett stared at the floor during most of Nick’s time on the stand. The few times their eyes met Nick saw contempt and hatred and arrogance. Nick held the look and gave them back.

  Bonnett never testified and the evidence buried him.

  Janelle as informant. Bonnett as target. A sexual relationship. Janelle’s disloyalty. Janelle’s pregnancy by another man. Bonnett’s jealousy. The witness who saw him follow her into the Sav-On parking lot and drive her away a few minutes later in his white Cadillac. Bonnett’s disappearance. Bloody sheets—Janelle’s blood type. The victim’s three flesh-and-blood-packed fingernails—Bonnett’s blood type. Bloody saw blade—Janelle’s type once again, ladies and gentlemen, do you see a pattern emerging? Strangled in a Newport Beach apartment where the maid had seen them the Friday before she died. Dumped and decapitated in the SunBlesst orange packinghouse in Tustin. White Cadillac seen at packinghouse by witness Terry Neemal. Man seen carrying something body-sized into packinghouse by Terry Neemal. Yes, Terry Neemal is a transient. Transients lack homes, not eyes. Thank you, Mr. Neemal. That will be all. No, Mr. Neemal, thank you but you’re finished. Yes, Mr. Neemal, you’re free to talk to the reporters.

  Nick could tell by the jurors’ expressions that they believed. Sewell, too.

  And they should, he thought. This, the part that matters, is all truth.

  “Mr. Bonnett, do you have anything to say before the verdict is read?”

  Bonnett’s voice was clear and strong. “I didn’t do it.”

  “You were offered a chance to set us straight. Is that all you have to say, Mr. Bonnett?”

  “What else matters?”

  “Noted. Foreman, have you filled out the verdict forms?”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “Clerk, please read the verdicts.”

  The clerk was a trim middle-aged woman with dark hair and frown lines around her mouth. She looked once at Bonnett. Once at Sewell. Then read:

  “We the jury in the above-entitled action find the defendant, Cory Bonnett, guilty of murder in the second degree. On the charges of forcible rape we find the defendant guilty. On charges of assault with a deadly weapon upon a police officer we find
the defendant guilty.”

  The reporters bolted for the nearest telephones. Karl Vonn walked out with them.

  “Bailiff,” said Sewell, “please bind the prisoner for transport back to the jail. I’m going to set a sentencing date of September twenty-six. That’s two weeks out. I’ve got some thinking to do and I want the time to do it. I would like to thank the jury again for their patience and insight. Court is adjourned.”

  Nick shook hands with the prosecuting attorneys. Shook hands with Lobdell and a couple of detectives. Sent one last long stare back at Cory Bonnett as the bailiff cuffed his hands behind his back.

  “THE DEFENDANT will rise.”

  Nick watched the sentencing from a seat near the rear exit. Watched the reporters get ready to run for the phones. Funny to see that gaggle and no Andy. PFC Andrew Becker now stationed in Cu Chi province.

  Nick watched the Honorable Edgar Sewell behold Cory Bonnett with hard unblinking eyes.

  “Mr. Bonnett, I’ve spent some hours thinking about you and what you did. I won’t say I spent any sleepless nights wondering what your sentence should be. Though I spent a sleepless night or two after seeing the pictures of what you did to that girl. For the crime of murder in the second degree I sentence you to forty years in state prison. For the crime of forcible rape I sentence you to twelve years in state prison, to be served consecutively. For the assault with a deadly weapon upon a police officer I sentence you to five years in state prison, to be served consecutively.”

  Nick heard the intake of breaths. Edgar Sewell continued to stare down at Bonnett.

  “Mr. Bonnett, the California penal code calls what you did a crime of passion. We know that passion can destroy just as surely as it can create. This is a crime of jealousy and fury and waste the likes of which I hope never to hear about in my courtroom again. You will be eligible for parole in fifteen years should you demonstrate such fitness to the Board of Prison Terms. Use that time, Mr. Bonnett, to reflect on the irrevocable damage and horror in what you have done, and upon the great potential you stole from young Janelle Vonn. Use that time to find your God and your soul and see if they can help you find a way back to your humanity again. Mr. Bonnett, you have acted with what the law calls an abandoned and malignant heart. With what remains of your life see if there is anything you can do through which you can earn forgiveness and not just punishment. If not, Mr. Bonnett, we’ll see you in fifty-seven years. Some of us will. I’ll be dead and you’ll be eighty-one years old, which is even older than I am now.”