“Because he gets a public defender like you.” Trip smiled.
“What’s up with you?”
“Nothing, man. It was a joke.”
I didn’t say anything. The waitress appeared with my beer and I drained about half of it. There was silence for a couple of minutes.
“The jury was listening,” Trip said. “I watched their faces.”
“You can’t tell much from faces.”
“You think they’ll have a verdict tonight?”
I shook my head. “Too soon. And the longer they stay out, the better.”
“Why’s that?”
“Means they’re arguing. Means we’ve got some on our side. When juries come back quick, it’s almost always for conviction.”
“Unless it’s O. J.”
“Don’t start.”
I looked out the window and saw late afternoon light falling over the hills and creating a golden radiance. I thought about Mandy. Where was she right now? What was she doing? I wanted to know that more than anything in the world, even more than I wanted to know what the jury was thinking.
Would I ever see her? There was no way Barb could keep her out of my life completely, but she could certainly make things difficult. It would just be another fight. There would always be fights. That’s what I was thinking, anyway, and maybe that’s why what happened next happened.
I finished my beer and waved to the waitress. She came to the table, and I ordered another. But Trip said to the waitress, “Wait a second.” To me he said, “Why don’t you hold off?”
I looked at him openmouthed. “I want another beer.”
“Let’s talk a second.”
And as my chin dropped a little further, Trip told the waitress to give us a couple of minutes.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“I just want to talk to you about something before you get all souped up.”
“Come on, man.”
“Just listen, will you?”
“No."
“What are you being so pigheaded for?”
“Knock it off, will you?”
“The trial is over. You’ve done a great job. I can see how much it took out of you. Now it’s time to put your own house in order.”
“My house is fine the way it is.”
“It isn’t. Anybody can see that.”
Something snapped inside me then. I slammed my hand on the table, rattling the silverware. “Butt out! Just butt out of my personal life, Trip!”
The old football player must have come out in Trip because he was going to hold his line. “What’re you so ticked off about, huh? I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t want your help. Can’t you get that?”
“You need it.”
“Not from you! I’m ordering another beer, so just keep out of my face.”
Shaking his head, Trip stood up. “Uh-uh. I’m not going to sit here while you drink yourself to death.”
“Good. You’re lousy company anyway.”
“That’s what you think?”
“You bet that’s what I think. I just wish everybody would leave me alone.”
“You got it.” He turned and walked out.
I should have called to him, gone to him. But apologizing was a sign of weakness. I wasn’t going to show him weakness.
Instead, I showed it to myself. I had two more beers before I left the place and drove back home. Once in my apartment, I opened a new bottle and surrendered myself to the warm arms of inebriation. When sleep finally came, I dreamed of witches. At least I think that’s what they were—dark figures off on the edge of some smoky cliff, looking at me with yellow eyes that glowed. They seemed to be planning something.
My pager woke me at 10:30 A.M. It was Judge Wegland’s clerk. I called her back, and she told me the jury had a verdict.
I didn’t bother to shower. I threw water on my face, ran the electric shaver over my cheeks, and put on a rumpled suit—the only kind I seemed to own. I called Janet Patino and told her I’d meet her at the courthouse. I thought about calling Trip but didn’t.
When I arrived at the courthouse, it was teeming with cars and onlookers. The word had gotten out. Two mobile TV units, their antennae jutting from van roofs, formed bookends at the courthouse entrance. I had to park on the far side of the parking lot and slog through a muck of the curious to get to the courthouse.
When I finally made it to the front doors, I got a microphone in my face. A fresh-faced reporter identified himself as somebody-or-other from KEYT in Santa Barbara and asked if I knew what the verdict was.
My first media interview had finally come. I was not prepared. In fact, I was annoyed. What was the big deal here? Didn’t these people have real stories to cover?
“How would I know the verdict?” I snapped.
The young reporter, whose styled black hair seemed to pose, blinked. “I mean, what do you think it will be?”
“You can’t tell.”
“Will you appeal?”
“If I win?”
He blinked again. “I . . . why would you appeal if you won?”
“Because I’m a masochist.” I brushed past him and went inside, wondering what the guy was going to do with this scintillating footage.
Benton Tolletson was already at his counsel table when I entered the courtroom, sitting next to Sylvia Plotzske. All eyes turned toward me. Apparently I was the last of the principals to arrive. It was show time.
A deputy marched Howie into court. He glanced over at his parents and Lindsay, sitting in the front row. A faint smile, that goofy grin he’d always had, played across his face. The guard unshackled him, and Howie sat down next to me.
“Hi, Jake,” he said, as if it was the start of another ordinary day.
I patted his knee and wished with all my heart that we would soon be walking out of the courthouse together.
Wegland’s clerk picked up a phone and spoke into it. One minute later Judge Wegland strode into the courtroom and took her seat. She wasted no time in calling for the jury.
Even though it’s a fool’s game, I tried to read faces as the jury filed in. I was looking for a smile from any one of them, a look of encouragement, even a nod. I only got a glance or two, both with serious looks. They were all business. I noticed my palms were sweating.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” Judge Wegland said.
The jury answered in kind.
“Have you reached a verdict?”
The foreman of the jury, a middle-aged African-American man, someone I picked as possibly leaning toward acquittal, stood. Without emotion, he said, “Yes, we have.”
“Hand the verdict form to the clerk, please,” Wegland said to the foreman. Wegland’s clerk crossed the courtroom, surrounded by dead silence, and took the piece of paper that held my client’s fate. She handed it to the judge.
Wegland looked at it, nodded slightly, then handed the form to her clerk. Then she looked down at us. “The defendant will rise,” she said. I stood up with Howie, and we both faced the jury box.
“Read the verdict,” said Judge Wegland. Her voice sounded like a bell tolling at midnight.
In a monotone, the clerk read, “To the charge of violation of Penal Code 187, the crime of murder, we find the defendant guilty.”
I closed my eyes. The clerk continued her flat condemnation. “We further find the act was committed with deliberation and premeditation and that the defendant is guilty of murder in the first degree.”
I sensed, though I didn’t see, Janet Patino slump against her husband. Or maybe it was just my insides doing it for her. As a seasoned defense lawyer, I knew that guilty was the word most often heard at the end of a trial. But I’d been hoping on this one, really hoping.
In front of me, Benton Tolletson was shaking Sylvia Plotzske’s hand. His back was to me, but I could discern his expression just the same. It was self-satisfaction, smugness, pride. He’d whipped me. Over his right shoulder, I saw half of Sylvia’s f
ace. She glanced at me for a second, and I thought I saw through the dark frame of her glasses an eye filled with a hint of sympathy. Was she feeling sorry for me? She quickly looked away.
Wegland thanked and dismissed the jury. When they were all gone, she set a sentencing date. Then court was adjourned. I gave the usual spiel to Howie about how this wasn’t over yet, how we had grounds for appeal, yadda, yadda, yadda. After he was taken out, I made the same speech to the Patino family, but I couldn’t look any of them in the eye.
Janet Patino patted my arm and said, through sobs, “Thank you.”
Lindsay started to say something, but I turned quickly back to the counsel table. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I ducked out through the rear door of the court and down the judge’s hallway to a side exit. I actually walked around the entire block to get to my car and avoid the TV cameras.
No one saw me drive off.
I remember stopping at a liquor store about a mile away. I vaguely remember buying a bottle of Jim Beam. A big one. And a can of Coke.
Then I drove around the corner and pulled over on a commercial street. I opened the bourbon and started throwing down shots with the cola chaser. There was almost an anger in it. In your face, Hinton, you hick town with kangaroo courts and walking dead. In your face, Tolletson. Here’s what I think of your city and you and the horse you rode in on.
I also remember planning a fanciful revenge. There was some sort of commercial complex half a block from where I was parked. Dynamite could be planted there very easily. I could get that old guy, Morris, to put it there. Or maybe at city hall, or somewhere under Tolletson’s desk.
I laughed and drank.
Then I vaguely remember starting the car again and trying to get back on the freeway. Later they told me I’d found the off ramp and was trying to get on where the cars were getting off.
I remember the sound of a car horn, the flash of blue metal, and the sound of screeching tires.
And after that, blackness.
Part Three
In all of my years, one thing does not change . . ._The perpetual struggle of Good and Evil
—T. S. Eliot
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THIS TIME THE talons in my head were accompanied by a spike stuck through my brain.
As the slow warmth of consciousness began to pull me back into life, I could sense myself asking if life was worth it. The pain was intense, like nothing I’d ever felt before, and I knew it would be with me for a long time.
I became aware of an antiseptic smell, the odor of sterilization. A soft light cast its hazy illumination from a distance. I realized I was lying down, and when I tried to move my head the spike in my brain twisted, its red hot point causing me to cry out.
A moment later a face was hovering over me. “Take it easy, Mr. Denney.”
The thoughts came in a jumble.
Hospital.
Nurse.
Accident.
Why am I not dead?
“Dr. Chen will be here in a moment,” the nurse said.
“Where . . .” Even that word was a struggle.
“You rest.” I felt a pat on my arm and the sense of someone leaving.
How badly was I hurt? I tried to lift both my arms. They felt like sandbags, but I managed movement. A tube was taped to my left arm, but at least my arms were up. I wiggled my fingers.
Legs next. They rippled under the sheets. I tapped my feet together and felt it.
A huge sense of relief filled me just before another shot of heat zapped through my head.
My tongue was thick, my mouth dry—unmistakable reminders of heavy drinking.
Then I heard a voice. “Jake?”
I rolled my head, slowly, to the right. A fresh jolt of pain was followed immediately by a picture of Lindsay Patino standing next to my bed.
“What . . .” I said in complete bewilderment.
“Shh,” Lindsay said softly. She pulled a chair from near the wall over to the side of my bed and sat.
“Where am I?” I said.
“The hospital. In Hinton.”
“Why?”
“You were in an accident.”
Like an amnesiac, I struggled to remember. Some of it came back to me—the verdict, the drinking, the driving. “How bad?”
Lindsay looked down at her hands.
“How bad?” I said.
“Jake,” she said slowly, “you hit another car.”
“Anyone hurt?”
She didn’t answer immediately. I blurted, “Killed?”
“No, no one killed. The other driver, a man named Ruben Azario, was hurt.”
At that point the room started to tilt, like a boat listing in a treacherous current. I closed my eyes and wished Lindsay would go away. I did not want her to see me anymore.
Then Lindsay said, “I brought you something.”
All I wanted was a new head. But I was curious. She leaned over and pulled something out of a tote bag that sat on the floor next to her. “I’m giving you an assignment, as soon as you’re feeling up to it.” She held up a paperback book for me to see, but before I could read the title, she placed it on my bed table.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Some thoughts.”
“About what?”
“Oh, just life, the universe, and everything.”
Despite my condition, despite the fact that I was sorely tempted to let go of the effort, this mystery intrigued me. I wanted to find out what she was talking about. And then I realized how good it was to have her here.
“I’ll be back to see you,” she said. “I expect you to read that and report back to me.”
“You sound like a teacher,” I joked, amazed that I had the capacity to be frivolous.
“That is exactly what I am,” she said, standing. “And I’m a tough grader. Bye.”
And then she was gone.
I tried to watch her go, but the pain smacked my head back to the pillow. After a few minutes of reflection, I realized I wasn’t sure what just happened, especially the last part with talk of an assignment. Why had she come here? I couldn’t think about it now. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I would think about it tomorrow.
I drifted off to sleep.
I was awakened by the sound of my last name. It was being spoken over and over again. When I came to, the voice that had been saying my name switched gears and said, “Well, well, well.”
Then I saw the face. It was a cop’s face and a familiar one. I -didn’t know why it was familiar until he said, “Ain’t this one of life’s twists?”
He smiled coldly, and then I remembered him. It was Officer Cheadle, the same cop who’d been guarding Howie in this same hospital when I’d first come to see him.
“Yep,” Cheadle said, “it sure is funny how things work out. What goes around comes around.”
He took out a flip book and opened it. “It’s my pleasure to tell you that you’re under arrest for driving under the influence of alcohol and causing bodily injury. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney”—he smirked when he said that—“and if you can’t afford one, one will be appointed for you at no charge before any questioning. Do you understand your rights, Mr. Jake Denney?”
With a heavy breath I said, “Sure.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“I’m not talking.”
“You want a lawyer?”
“I’ve got one.”
“You?”
I said nothing. Cheadle flipped the cover of his booklet back to the front and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “That’s perfect,” he said. “You got yourself a loser for a lawyer.”
My eyes closed heavily.
“I’ll be outside,” Cheadle said, adding with a lilt, “if you need anything.” He lumbered out.
My eyes still closed, I saw the immediate future in bright colors. Imprisonment. Disbarrment. Humili
ation. Even homelessness.
Congratulations.
I was now ready to pull the plug. Call Kevorkian. Get me out of the nightmare. I’d been low before, but never this low. The bottom of the barrel. Time to check out.
For no particular reason, I turned my head at that moment. In fact, it was almost as if my head turned itself for lack of anything better to do. When I did, I caught sight of my bed table, which held a plastic water pitcher, a Styrofoam cup, and a paperback book. At first it seemed oddly out of place, then I remembered Lindsay’s visit. She had left it for me. I grabbed it.
The book had a funny name—Penseés. I had no idea what it was about. I flipped the book over and read about it. The author’s name, Blaise Pascal, was vaguely familiar, as if I’d run across it in a college class once. The book cover copy gave the essentials—seventeenth- century mathematician and physicist who underwent a dramatic conversion to Christianity and set out to write a defense of the faith. He died before finishing, but his notes survived and were collected here.
It all sounded a bit dusty, but Lindsay had bothered to bring it by. I wasn’t going anywhere, and I had a choice. I could read the book or watch All My Children on the hospital TV.I started to read.
CHAPTER FORTY
TWO DAYS LATER I was discharged and taken immediately by police car, courtesy of Officer Cheadle, to the Hinton Courthouse. There I was marched before a familiar face, Judge Armand Abovian. Only this time I was a defendant in a serious criminal case. And Sylvia Plotzske, my former adversary, was now my prosecutor.
Abovian looked at me from the bench and shook his head. “I must tell you, Mr. Denney, this is a sad day for the law.”
I nodded. What could I say? He was absolutely right.
“How do you plead?” he asked.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I think if you give me a moment to discuss this with the prosecutor, perhaps a disposition can be reached.”
Looking at Sylvia, Abovian said, “Is that all right with you, Ms. Plotzske?”
She shrugged. To me it looked like a practiced shrug, not entirely natural. “I can’t promise anything,” she said.
“Well, see what you can do. I’ll call the case again in a few minutes.”
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