Blind Justice

by James Scott Bell

  “I’ve grown up a little bit.”

  Yes, I thought, in many good ways. Fred and Janet looked the same, just older. Fred was stocky, perfect for the lumber business, and still had a rugged complexion. Janet had the same, soft look about her—very motherly—only now her hair was almost entirely gray.

  Then I saw something move in back of Fred. A small body was tucked somewhere behind his thigh. “And this,” Fred said, “is Brian. He’s a little shy.”

  Fred lifted the little arm and brought Howie’s son around in front of him. The boy, sandy-haired and thin, put his face in Fred’s stomach. “It’s all right,” Fred said to Brian, but clearly the boy did not feel like socializing.

  “Hey,” I said, “would Brian like to see me take off my thumb?”

  Smiling, Fred said, “Did you hear that, Brian?”

  “I have a little girl,” I said, “and she’s your age, Brian. She likes to see me take my thumb off, too.”

  Slowly the tiny head turned, just enough so one eye ventured a look my way.

  “Here I go,” I said. I held up my left hand with the thumb in the air, then put my right hand over the thumb. Just before closing my fist, I sent the left thumb down into my left palm. I pulled my right hand upward and voilà, no thumb!

  The boy’s head came all the way out, and his mouth dropped wide open.

  “I’d better put it back,” I said, and with a quick move, I brought my right hand down on my left again and shot the thumb back up. No one will ever confuse me with Houdini, but I’m perfect for a five-year-old audience of one.

  Brian broke out in a huge smile. He looked up at Fred and said, “Did you see that!”

  “I sure did,” Fred said. “Mr. Denney is a pretty clever fella.”

  “I’ve got something else for Brian,” I said. I reached in a drawer and pulled out a couple of Dr. Seuss books I kept for Mandy. “There are some funny pictures in these.” I held them out for Brian, and he took them eagerly. Fred told him to sit on the floor by the door, and Brian did so, spreading the books in front of him.

  I motioned for the others to sit. There were only two chairs, so Fred remained standing.

  As I spoke, I kept looking over at Brian, making sure he wasn’t listening. Fortunately, he was lost in the Dr. Seuss books and had easily tuned out the adult talk.

  “How’s he taking things?” I said softly.

  Fred and Janet exchanged pained looks. “He doesn’t know,” Fred said. “We just haven’t . . .”

  A quick sob escaped Janet’s mouth. Fred put his hand on her shoulder.

  “I understand,” I said. “Let me try to lay this out as easily as I can. This is, of course, a serious charge. If we go to trial and lose, Howie is facing twenty-five years to life in prison.”

  Brian was still looking at pictures.

  “That’s the punishment for first-degree murder,” I continued, “but I don’t think they can get that. It’s possible, of course, and we’ll know more as the evidence comes in. I don’t think they can do it, however. The most they can hope to prove, in my opinion, is second-degree murder.”

  “And what would happen then?” Fred asked.

  “That carries a term of fifteen to life.”

  A thick silence filled my office. Quickly, I said, “But there’s good news.”

  Janet Patino sat up a little in her chair. Lindsay folded her arms.

  “I talked to the prosecutor up there, and I think there’s a good chance this case can be settled before trial if Howie pleads to manslaughter. Don’t know yet whether they’ll go for voluntary or involuntary, but either way, it’s going to be significantly easier on Howie.”

  “Will he still go to prison?” Fred asked.

  “I’m afraid so, but his term will be a lot less than for murder.”

  “When will we know?” Janet asked.

  “I’ll keep you posted as negotiations continue.”

  Suddenly, Lindsay Patino jumped to her feet. “I can’t believe this!” she said. “You’re all assuming Howie’s guilty!” She turned and faced me directly. “And you’re already negotiating like he’s some sort of pawn in a great big game!”

  “Lindsay!” Fred said.

  Brian looked up from his books. “Whatsa matter with Aunt Lindsay?” he said.

  “Doesn’t this bother you, Dad?” Lindsay said.

  “I’m sure Jake knows what he’s—”

  “This is Howie’s life we’re talking about!”

  “Whatsa matter?” Brian said with increasing urgency.

  Janet got up from her chair. “Let me take him outside.” She gathered up the books and took Brian by the hand.

  “But whatsa matter?” he asked once more as Janet guided him out.

  After the door closed, I said, “I understand Lindsay’s point.” I was going to talk her down. She looked at me like she knew exactly what I was doing. I went ahead anyway. “This is a tragedy, a terrible tragedy for a family to face. Believe me, if there were a better way to go, I would.”

  “What about he didn’t do it?” Lindsay said. The green eyes that had been so friendly and understanding in the parking lot now smoldered.

  “As I said, if there were—”

  “I’m telling you, he did not do this.”

  I thought for a moment that she had some bit of inside information or a piece of exonerating evidence. But I quickly realized that this was a sister talking more out of love than rationality.

  “Lindsay, I—”

  “And you’re just going to let them take Howie and put him away. He’ll die if he goes to prison. He’ll die there!”

  “No one wants—”

  “They’ll kill him. He’s gentle . . . he’s . . . he could never have killed Rae, even though she deserved it.”

  “Lindsay!” Fred said.

  His daughter didn’t stop. “I know Howie, and I know he could not have done this thing, never, ever. And if you just sell him out, you’re not worth a thing.”

  “Stop it!” Fred Patino yelled. Lindsay, perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, shook her head and stopped talking. “Jake,” Fred said, “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no,” I said. “Forget about it. Look, there’s something you should know. When I went to see Howie, he told me he did it. He told me he killed his wife.”

  I looked at Lindsay. She was glaring at me, the seething emotion still all over her face. Her eyes were moist.

  “We just have to deal with that,” I said.

  Silence filled the room for a few moments. Then Fred spoke. “What about being insane? Is there a possibility?”

  “I wish there were,” I said, “but it’s practically impossible to prove. We would have to show that Howie was incapable—incapable—of knowing right from wrong at the time of the act. Is there anything in his recent past that would show this?”

  Fred shook his head. “What about, you know, mental retardation?” Fred said.

  Nodding, I said, “That would be an issue at trial on whether or not Howie could actually form the requisite intent for murder. It wouldn’t be a complete defense though.”

  “It’s all so mixed up,” Fred said.

  “And traumatic,” I said, “for all of us. Howie was my friend.”

  Lindsay huffed. I was starting to get ticked off at her.

  I continued, “I’d like to get him the best deal we can. If we take this thing to trial and lose, his punishment will be much worse.”

  “Then don’t lose,” Lindsay said.

  “We’ll do whatever you say, Jake,” Fred said.

  “Thank you,” I said. “Let’s talk after the arraignment.”

  After they left I poured a healthy shot of bourbon in my coffee cup and drank the whole thing down in a gulp. Then I sat and crumpled blank legal paper into fist-sized balls and tossed them against the door.

  All the while I kept thinking about Lindsay Patino.

  Mostly I was angry. Where did she get off telling me I wasn’t “worth a thing”? I could understan
d a little emotion, but this was an insult delivered right between the eyes. The fair side of my mind told me she had only said it because she thought I was going to sell out Howie. But I didn’t want to be fair, I wanted to be angry.

  I wanted to continue being angry because I realized there was more than a little truth in what she was saying. I didn’t really want to dig deeper into this case. It looked like a dead bang loser, only with a check attached. Janet and Fred Patino had left me a fifteen-hundred-dollar retainer even though Lindsay had protested the payment. She wasn’t only questioning my ethics, she was trying to take away my next meal.

  There was something else going on inside my besotted brain. It was simple, straight, pure, physical attraction for Lindsay Patino.

  She wasn’t beautiful in the Hollywood sense, but there was something about her. Maybe it was the spark in her anger. She was passionate, and she had perception. She could see right through me and didn’t mind saying what she thought.

  One thing I knew—I wasn’t going to leave things like this. I was going to see Lindsay Patino again soon and set her straight on my motives and abilities.

  I was also going to do a little more digging in the matter of the People of the State of California. v. Howard Patino, just to show her and to justify the check.

  I picked up the phone, flipped through my Rolodex, and dialed. I got the following deep-voiced message: “Hello, this is the office of Carr Investigatory Services. I can’t take your call at the moment, but if you’ll leave a detailed message, I will return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  Beep.

  “This is the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I said. “We have reason to believe you are engaged in consumer fraud, advertising yourself as a service, when it is well-known that you couldn’t find your way out of a paper—”

  “Jake Denney!” said Cyril Cornelius Carr on the other end of the line. “Now why’d you want to go and spoil my day like that?”

  “Why, Triple C, how’d you know it was me?”

  “Who else hath neither wit, nor words, nor the power of speech?”

  “Thanks, pal. What’s that, Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “Julius Caesar. Paraphrased.”

  “So you want to get off your . . . quotes and do some real work?”

  “How much and how much?”

  “Not much and what I can afford,” I said.

  “Meet me at my outside office in half an hour. Your treat.”

  “Wait a minute––”

  “Put money in thy purse. Othello. Act one, scene three.”

  He hung up.

  I checked my wallet to make sure I had some bills, then made for my Mustang.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CYRIL CORNELIUS CARR liked to take his meetings at Sal’s Deli on Van Nuys Boulevard. This was partly because his office, like mine, was usually an unsightly mess and partly because only Sal’s famous sky-high pastrami sandwiches with Russian dressing could satisfy Cyril’s prodigious appetite. Even though he was forty-five years old, he still looked like he could tear through the Green Bay Packers, offensive line.

  Cyril Cornelius Carr—sometimes called Triple C, Trip, or just plain C—was one of the more colorful characters I’d ever met, and that -doesn’t just refer to the loud Hawaiian shirts he favored. He had grown up in south Philly and might have ended up another gang statistic if it hadn’t been for his grandmother, Pearl, who raised him after his mother died. She was one tough lady who used the Bible and a leather strap to keep Trip on the straight and narrow. Even when he outgrew her by six inches and 150 pounds, Triple C obeyed her every word.

  What he got as a result was a 3.9 grade point average in high school and an academic scholarship to Princeton, even though he had his pick of major football schools offering full scholarships. He was All-Ivy defensive end his sophomore year and was destined for the NFL. An illegal block by a Harvard man blew out his knee and any hope of pro ball.

  Cyril Cornelius Carr was not dismayed. Football had really only been a lark for him. He had a hundred different interests, one of which was literature. It just so happened that Princeton’s big theatrical production the spring of Trip’s injury was Othello. Even though he’d never acted in his life, he memorized the entire part in a week, walked into the auditions, and won the lead.

  Thus began his love affair with Shakespeare.

  After graduation, Trip moved to Hollywood to take up an acting career. A few years later, after being cast as one heavy too many, he gave it up and joined the Los Angeles Police Department. Five years later he was an investigator for the district attorney’s office. He was married by this time to a beautiful gal named Victoria, and everything seemed rosy.

  Then Victoria died in a terrible accident on the 405 Freeway, skidding into a tanker truck on a rain-slicked road.

  Trip had to go on stress leave after that and eventually resigned. It took him a year to get his life back together. He started going to church again, and that, he said, started his turnaround. He opened his own office because he said he couldn’t stand the thought of working for anyone else again. He never remarried, and as far as I knew, didn’t even have a girlfriend. His work for clients and for the Van Nuys First Baptist Church were everything to him.

  Trip was at a table by the window, reading a book. Even though his back was to me, I couldn’t miss him. He overflowed his chair and was wearing a yellow Hawaiian shirt with pineapples and humu-humu fish on it.

  “Whatta you say, Trip?” I slapped him on the back hard enough to make noise.

  “You still hit like a girl,” Triple C said. He was wearing sunglasses and a gold cross around his neck. “My grandma would take you out.”

  “No doubt.” I sat in the chair opposite him. “You’re looking prosperous.”

  “Can’t complain, though I could give a good imitation.”

  “Anything big right now?”

  “Just you, baby.”

  A waitress came by for our order. For Trip it was the sky-high pastrami. I ordered matzo ball soup and a beer.

  “Still drinking, I see,” Trip said.

  I shrugged. “It’s not a problem.”

  “Don’t play me, man,” he said.

  “I didn’t come here to talk about me.”

  “I don’t want to see you fall again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You tried AA?”

  “I don’t go in for that.”

  “In for what?”

  “All that ‘higher power’ stuff. I went to a couple of meetings, but everyone there was into this authority from on high.”

  “Hey, man, there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Trip was the only person I ever met who could go from street talk to Shakespearean verse without missing a beat. “When you coming to church with me?”

  “How about when pigs fly?”

  “I can arrange that.”

  I looked at the ceiling. “I’ve got a case, and I need your help. You interested or not?”

  Trip took his shades off and laid them on the table. “All right, gimme the 411.”

  “It’s a murder case. Guy I knew when I was a kid. Killed his wife.”

  “How?”

  “Stabbed her. I mean, really messed her up. Then he stabbed himself.”

  Trip nodded. “Classic cover-up. Never works though. I had this case once where a guy blew off his own foot with a shotgun after he shot his girlfriend. All that got him was a fake foot and twenty-five to life.”

  “His sister says he didn’t do it.”

  “What else is new?”

  “He says he did.”

  “He confessed?”

  “To me he did.”

  “You taking it to trial?”

  “No way. We’ll take a deal.”

  “So what do you want me for?”

  “I’d like you to find out something about the wife.”

  “Why?”

  “His sister, she didn’t have too hi
gh an opinion of her.”

  “Maybe that’s why the guy O. J.’d her.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. If you talk to somebody who knew her, especially over the last couple of years, maybe something will come up, and I can tell the sister about it.”

  Cyril Cornelius Carr looked at me through squinting eyes. Then all of a sudden, an enormous smile lit up his face. Triple C had one of those incandescent smiles, like the Cheshire Cat.

  “Jake Denney! Is this the very ecstasy of love?”

  My face took on a little heat. “What are you talking about?”

  “You had a certain look. Am I wrong?”

  “I told you to leave me out of it.”

  “It’s all over your face, man.”

  Thankfully, the waitress picked that moment to deliver my beer. I took a long, satisfying pull. Trip watched me with concern, but I didn’t care. In fact, I ordered another. Triple C agreed to drive up to Hinton and interview a couple of people. And over the course of the lunch, he didn’t lapse into Shakespeare again until just as I was about to leave.

  That’s when he said, “Thou hast very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.”

  I didn’t stay to applaud.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I arrived in Hinton for the arraignment of Howard Patino in the courtroom of Judge Oswald Mellor. I knew nothing about Mellor except what I picked up from another lawyer in the hallway. Mellor, like most judges in the law-and-order atmosphere of California, was a former prosecutor. He liked to pretend he was the folksy type, this lawyer told me, sort of like Andy Griffith. “He’ll sell you crackers and cornpone before he slams your client in the clink,” the lawyer said.

  Maybe that’s why Sylvia Plotzske wore a slight smile as she entered with her files and plopped them on the prosecution table. I didn’t give her time to get into them.

  “Good morning,” I said, with just the right mix of civility and churlishness.

  “Give me a moment, please,” she said. I merely stood there as she fussed with her files for a minute or two, making herself look busy. Finally she acknowledged my presence again and said, “I spoke with Tolletson about this case.”

  “Yes?”

  “And we really can’t offer anything less than second degree.”