“He starts leading me,” Trip said, “and I thought about getting out of there, but something kept me going.”
“Your morbid curiosity?” I said.
“Maybe your skin,” he answered. “Why I do these things for you, I don’t know.”
“So what did you find?”
Morris led Trip to a dilapidated guest house on the back property of a shabby house in the less desirable section of town. The railroad tracks were literally across the street. Scrub brush sprouted from every crack in the sidewalk, and the eucalyptus trees lining the street were in various stages of decay.
Morris’s place was a one-room, windowless shack that might have originally been designed to store tools. Now it was lined, floor to ceiling, with the detritus of a lifetime.
Old man Morris was a classic pack rat. Books, newspapers, vinyl record albums, shoes—including two pairs of red and white bowling shoes, Trip noted—closed the quarters into a bizarre theater-in-the-round, with a small living space in the middle. A solitary mattress with an old Army blanket was the only piece of furniture, if one could call it that. The air inside was stale and heavy.
“Sit down,” Morris said.
“Where?” said Trip, looking around.
“Right there.” Morris motioned to a stack of newspapers bound with twine. “On 1977.”
Indeed, the top newspaper, a Hinton Valley News, was dated August 16, 1977. Trip noticed the headline and realized he was about to sit on top of the death of Elvis Presley.
Fitting, he thought.
Morris was digging through a pile on the opposite side of the room. “I’ll have it for you in a minute,” he said.
“Some filing system,” said Trip.
“I know where everything is,” Morris said. “I know where the bodies are buried.”
For a moment Trip wondered how many bodies were buried inside, or underneath, this freakish hovel. But he reasoned Morris must be speaking figuratively. He hoped he was.
“Ah!” Morris said, returning to Trip with a shoebox. Trip saw it was filled with newspaper clippings, a haphazard jumble of yellowing paper. Morris started sifting through it, like a mouse scratching for hidden cheese.
Presently, he pulled out a clipping and held it up. “Take a look at that!”
Trip took it. The story, dated September 15, 1968, described the nuptials of Warren Hazelton and one Heather Epstein. The accompanying photo showed Hazelton with a young woman who appeared to be about twenty years old. She wore a garland of daisies in her hair in the classic “flower child” style of the time. Her smile was bright and hopeful, yet also, it seemed to Trip, a touch naive. Warren Hazelton was not smiling.
“So, this is Mrs. Hazelton?” Trip asked.
Morris nodded. “Now take a look at this.” Morris handed Trip another clipping, this one some sort of feature story from the mid-’70s, a local profile of Heather Hazelton. Her marriage to the Captain had apparently bestowed on her instant social standing. Yet, she retained her hippie pedigree, the story noted, especially with regard to her love of the earth.
“I’m into the Goddess,” she was quoted as saying. “The Mother of All was first, and I merely practice an ancient form of religion that worships Mother Nature. I use visualization, chants, candles, amulets, and meditation to tap into my power. It’s wonderful. It’s really what this whole generation is searching for.”
“Do you see that?” Morris said, pointing to that section of the story with a yellow-stained index finger.
“So?” Trip said. “A lot of hippies were into weird stuff back then. It was pretty harmless.”
“Harmless! Look at me!” Morris shouted. “You think I brought this on myself? Do you?”
“Look, man—”
“I’m giving you the whole story right here!” Morris held up a clutch of clippings in his fist and waved them around.
Trip started to fear the old coot would grab a gun and start shooting. But just as quickly as it had come on, the outburst passed. In a suddenly quiet voice, Morris said, “They cast a spell on me. That’s when I lost everything. That’s when the fire broke out.”
“Fire?”
“My place. My business. Everything I worked for.” Morris stepped back and sat heavily on another stack of papers.
“How do you know this?” Trip asked. “About the spell, I mean.”
“Because I know,” Morris said.
“But she—Mrs. Hazelton—seems harmless enough.”
At that point Morris began to laugh. It built from a guffaw to an out-and-out convulsion, the kind of uncontrolled hilarity usually reserved for cheap horror films.
Trip shifted on Elvis and waited. This old man was crazy all right, but Trip had seen enough crazy people in his line to know that they sometimes spoke the truth. Just because someone is paranoid, the old joke went, didn’t mean that everyone wasn’t after him. There could very well be a basis for what Morris was saying. The trick would be in figuring out what that kernel of truth was.
“Boy,” Morris said finally, short of breath from his laughing jag, “you don’t know much, do you?”
Trip shrugged. “Some say.”
“You’ll see. If you stay long enough, you’ll see.”
“See what?”
With a demented smile, Morris reached behind a stack of papers and came out holding a dark red cylinder. He waited for Trip to react.
Which he did. “That’s not . . .”
“Dynamite.”
Trip took one look at the fuse, and at the lit cigarette in Morris’s other hand, and he quickly stood up. “You better be careful, man.”
“You think I’m certifiable, don’t you?” Morris said.
“You’re a fire hazard, let’s put it that way.”
Morris held up the dynamite. “I’m going to purify the land once more.”
Trip nodded, forced a smile, and quickly started for the door.
“Solomon is the key,” Morris called out. “He’s the one who had the line to the big boy.”
Trip turned around. “Big boy? Who is that?”
In the swirl of cigarette smoke, slightly hunched over, and wearing a knowing half-smile, Morris looked like the twisted assistant of some mad scientist.
“Satan,” Morris said.
I sat there for a long time, digesting the story and trying to put the information into some coherent form. “You think he’s serious about using that dynamite?”
“Nah,” said Trip. “One stick isn’t going to do more than take out a mailbox. I think he’s more likely to blow himself up.”
“What about this deal with Solomon. You think there’s something to that?”
“If the guy was into Satan worship, there might be.”
“So what am I supposed to do, call this loony Morris as an expert witness on Satan?”
“Maybe we should follow this up.”
“We haven’t got time! On Monday I’ve got to put my client on the witness stand. The case is almost over. I’m not going devil hunting. There’s no relevance here anyway. What Hazelton does with his private life has no connection with this case.”
“Oh,” Trip said gently, “there may be a slight connection.”
I shook my head. “Where?”
Trip smiled and reached into his shoulder bag. He removed a newspaper and tossed it on the table. “Recognize that?”
I did. It was the copy of the Hinton Valley News I picked up on my first trip to Hinton, with the story of the murder on the front page. I’d given it to Trip, along with other materials, to help him prepare his investigation. I’d forgotten all about it.
“Take a look at the picture at the lower left,” Trip said.
It was the picture of Captain Warren Hazelton holding a glass of wine at a reception. He had just won an award for his Chardonnay. “I remember this,” I said.
“Take a close look.”
I leaned over and scanned the photo more closely. Nothing jumped out at me. I looked at Trip and shrugged.
&nb
sp; He pulled a rectangular magnifying glass from his shoulder bag and handed it to me. “Take a real close look,” he said, “right there.” He tapped the left side of the picture with his finger.
I did as I was told. That part of the photo showed several people gathered in the background, apparently chatting. I figured this was what Trip had in mind for my scrutiny, so I scanned carefully. And then one of the faces in the background jumped out at me. “That’s not . . .”
“Oh, yes it is,” Trip said.I looked again, and there was no doubt. It was Benton Tolletson.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THERE WAS STILL no connection to my client. The fact that a prominent citizen like a district attorney was at a party with a prominent local winegrower was nothing unusual. But I couldn’t help feeling there must be a thread somewhere. It was all too bizarre.
But I came up with nothing by Monday morning, the day Howie testified.
I met with him briefly before we marched into court, and if anything, he had become more resolute in his conviction that God wanted him to go to jail for a long, long time. He did not want to take the stand. In fact, he told me he wanted to change his plea to guilty.
“No, Howie,” I said firmly.
“Aren’t I allowed to, Jake?”
Of course he was allowed to. A defendant has the right to do whatever he wants in terms of a plea. And, ethically speaking, the lawyer is not to stand in his way. But I didn’t give a rip about ethics at that point. All I wanted to do was beat Benton Tolletson by getting at least a hung jury.
“We’ve come too far, Howie.”
“But I can change my plea. A guy in jail told me I could.”
“What are you listening to him for? Huh? I’m your lawyer. I’m your friend.”
“It’s what God wants me to do.”
“Look, Howie—” I put my hand on his knee as I tried to think of an argument against divine intervention. I found myself saying, “What if I’m God’s will?”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Listen to me. What if God put me here to see that justice is done for you? What about that?” I didn’t believe a word of this, of course, but at that moment, all I was trying to do was get Howie to change his mind.
“I didn’t think of that, Jake.”
“Well, you’ve got two minutes to think about it now. I’m telling you, don’t do this. Don’t do this to your mom and dad. Your sister. Your son.”
Howie’s eyes went sort of blank. “My son . . .”
“Trust me. Will you, Howie?”
“Do I have to take the stand, Jake?”
“For a little while. Can you do that?”
“I . . . think so. Will he try to trick me, that Mr. Tolletson?”
“I’ll be in there with you, Howie. Don’t worry. And just one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“This is very important.”
“Okay.”
“Do not, under any circumstances, say you did it. You don’t know if you did it. And that’s what the prosecutor has to prove. When we get to the point about talking about what happened, you don’t really know, except that you’re sure someone else attacked you and killed Rae.”
Howie shook his head. “I’m awful foggy on that, Jake.”
“You’ll be fine. Just answer my questions, okay?”
“Can we pray?”
His request was so innocent, like a child asking a parent to kneel down before bedtime, that I was surprised at my hostility. “You pray,” I said. “I’m going inside.”
As I left the lockup, Howie bent his head to his chest.
As always, court was packed. And for the first time in days, Lindsay Patino was sitting with her parents. I don’t know if it was intentional or not, but she did not look at me. Fred Patino, however, gave me a thumbs-up sign. The poor guy didn’t have any idea what we were all about to go through.
Judge Wegland took the stand, the members of the jury marched in, and the judge greeted them. I tried to read their faces. They were about as expressive as aluminum siding.
“Call your next witness,” said the judge.
“Call Howard Patino,” I said. Howie didn’t move. It was like he was lost in a daydream. I had to gently prod him out of his chair.
I could sense the whole place watching his every move. Was this a cold-hearted killer about to take the stand? Or just some tragic figure in a farcical soap opera?
After the clerk administered the oath, she asked Howie to state his name for the record and spell his last name.
“Howie Patino,” my client said. “P-A-T-I-N-O.”
“Is it Howard?” the judge asked.
“Everybody calls me Howie.”
“But Howard is your given name?”
“I don’t like Howard.”
Exasperated, Judge Wegland said, “I’m not interested in what you like, Mr. Patino. What is the name on your birth certificate?”
Howie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Apparently sensing this was not worth further effort, Judge Wegland shook her head and motioned for me to ask my questions.
For the first half hour I had Howie testify about his life, letting him tell the jury in his own, distinct way about growing up. I wanted to the jury to see Howie for what he was—a harmless innocent man who would not preplan a murder. And then I wanted them to believe that Howie really saw someone else in that room, someone who was the real killer. Failing that, I at least wanted them to think that if Howie did do the killing, it was in the heat of a delusional passion.
I took Howie to the point where he met Rae Richards for the first time.
“I was here about a job,” Howie said.
“In Hinton?”
“Yeah. At the lumberyard.”
“How did you hear about this job?”
“My dad,” Howie said, and as he did, he looked out at Fred with a mixture of sadness and love. It was almost as if he was apologizing to his father for the mess things were in now.
“Your dad arranged for a job interview?”
“Yeah. He was always doing stuff like that.”
“So then, how did you meet your wife?”
Howie’s eyes got a faraway look, as if searching for a distant memory. “Well, it was a hot day, I remember that. And I wanted to get something to drink. I drove into the town and stopped at a place.”
“What kind of a place?” I interrupted.
“A bar kind of place. It was dark and smoky inside. But I kind of liked that.”
Howie paused, and I asked, “Why did you like it, Howie?”
“Because,” he said slowly, “it made me feel kind of grown up.”
I hoped the significance of that wasn’t lost on the jury. Howie was my age, and the incident he was describing had taken place only a few years ago. That he had a need to feel “grown up” in his twenties was a strong indication of his mental state.
“Go on, Howie.”
“I sat at the bar and ordered a Coke. I don’t drink alcohol, see.”
Unlike your attorney, I thought. “What happened next?”
“Nothing much. I was drinking and listening to some men talk about the Dallas Cowboys”—Howie turned to the jury—“that’s a football team,” he told them, as if he was sharing inside information. “And then somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Like this.”
Howie tapped his right shoulder with his left hand. “And I turned around and saw Rae. She had a tray in her hand with some glasses on it. And she smiled at me. And she asked me if I needed anything like a sandwich or something.”
“So, she was a waitress?”
“The prettiest one there,” Howie said proudly.
“What happened then?”
“Well, I told her I didn’t need anything, and then she asked me if I was new in town because she’d never seen me in there before. And that’s how we sort of got talking.”
“How long did you talk?”
“For hours, it seemed like. She kept on asking me questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Just about what I did and where I grew up and all that. Man, could she ask questions.”
“And when you were finished talking, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. Rae asked me if I’d like it if she showed me around the town sometime. Boy howdy, did I ever say yes!”
“She was the one who asked to see you?”
“Yep. That was Rae. She was always real outgoing with people. Sometimes that made me mad.”
That was a little addition I hadn’t expected and didn’t want the jury to think about. Quickly, I asked, “How long until you got married?”
“Oh, not too long.”
“Tell us about it.”
As Howie recounted the wedding, his face took on a soft glow, as if he was describing the high point of his life. It was perfect. He finished by saying, “I still don’t know why Rae would choose somebody like me, but I figured it was a gift from God.”
“And you have a son?”
Howie smiled broadly. “Brian Anthony Patino.”
“How old is he?”
“Five.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
Before Howie could answer, Tolletson objected on relevance grounds. Wegland sustained it and asked me to move on. I wasn’t upset by the ruling. Howie’s testimony was powerful, completely lacking the dissembling almost every criminal defendant engages in. It was almost as if Howie seemed incapable of lying, and I was sure the jury picked up on that. Tolletson’s objection merely underscored Howie’s effectiveness as a witness.
But I heeded the judge’s admonition and began moving to the crucial night. As I did, I watched Howie carefully, reading his face. I had to be ready to move quickly if things started getting too far out of hand. The jury could not for a moment think Howie was trying to appear crazy.
When we got to the part where Howie went around to the back of his house, his expression began to darken. No, that’s not it. Depart is more like it. He was beginning to withdraw himself from what he knew was coming. It was, I realized, a defense mechanism.
“What were your thoughts when you got to the sliding glass door and found it locked?”
“I figured Rae was at a friend’s house or something.”
“And you decided to go inside and wait for her?”
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