Smoked all them kids, dawg? Think that make you somethin’? I’llmake you somethin’. You look me up when you out.
Would he get out?
Yes, the answer came. Yes. God told him so. He didn’t even have to do a thing.
The deputy locked the cage.
He wondered what his lawyer was doing.What was her thing anyway? The way she looked at him. Like she was interested.
He was interested in her and he didn’t know why. Maybe because he never had a mom or sister.
He sat down in the corner. He wondered why he never cried. He wondered why he wasn’t normal.
Part of him wished he could be normal, but the other part, the stronger part, always overcame that. Because he heard the voice of God. You’re not normal. You’re all powerful. You will defeat them all.
He let the voice go on and on, saying familiar things, things he’d heard his whole life. Because he had never been without the voice of God. Never. Ever since he could remember hearing things, he heard the voice.
Leaning against the bars of the cage, the voice had its way.
And then, suddenly, a new thought. A brand-new one. It came into his head as clear as a guard’s voice telling him it was shower time.
Clear and new and full of power.
Join me, God said.
TEN
1.
Lindy woke up Monday morning with a spiritual hangover.
That’s what she thought of it, anyway. Too much religion, too much thinking of otherworldly stuff.
The incident at the church was still an open wound. By now she had calmed down from the anger and the hurt. Roxy told her who the woman was, the mother of one of the kids Darren shot. Lindy guessed she was entitled to freak. But at a church? What kind of religion did they teach there?
She tried to forget about it with coffee and KNX Newsradio. The morning report hit on political intrigue down at city hall, where the mayor was trying to explain to the Latino community why he hadn’t appointed a Hispanic as police chief. Just another contribution to L.A. politicians’ usual political flummery. There was some sports news, but thankfully nothing about the DiCinni case.
That’s because they were in the purgatory between a ruling on Darren’s competency and a preliminary hearing. And Lindy had her work cut out for her, not to mention a contempt citation hanging over her head.
The hearing was scheduled to resume at eleven o’clock. That gave Lindy time to fire up her laptop and look at the L.A. Times online. Before that she made a quick check of her email. When she did, she saw a message waiting for her with the subject line Your inquiry re:police.
She opened it.
You inquired about information re: conspiracies. What do you know?
And that was it. No name. She looked at the email address, a cryptic mix of letters and numbers from some server she didn’t know, and certainly not from the conspiracy Web address. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Web sites often forwarded emails to other addresses. But it was a little curious.
Now the author was asking her for information. She would have to tread carefully, or risk committing thoughts to email that could be distributed anywhere.
She replied: Who are you? How’d you get started in all this? and sent it off.
Probably a dead end, but at this point she would take anything.
She clicked her bookmark for the conspiracy blog site. No updates since her last visit.
She surfed a little more, scanning some legal sites, then her cell phone chimed “Dream On,” the Aerosmith tune that was Roxy’s ring.
“What’s up?” Lindy said.
“Meet me at Starbucks. I’ve got stuff for you.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve been earning my keep.”
“Anything good?”
“Just get here.”
Their usual meeting place, for any reason, was the Starbucks on Platt in West Hills. In good weather they had a favorite table outside.
Lindy pulled up her Harley and saw Roxy waiting.
Lindy ordered a triple-venti white-chocolate mocha and sat down. “I’ve got half an hour, then it’s back to court. So what’ve you got?”
“It’s what I don’t have that bothers me.” Roxy pulled a pen-scratched piece of yellow legal paper from a manila folder. “Your client’s father, Drake DiCinni?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t trace him. He doesn’t have a backward trail.”
“What’s that tell you?”
“Maybe the guy’s real name isn’t Drake DiCinni. Maybe he changed it.”
“Which would bring up the question of why.”
“Sure.”
“What else?”
“Maybe he’s covering his own trail. Maybe he’s gotten rid of some records.”
“Can he do that?”
“Some can. I’ll keep looking. But there’s also the chance somebody else tinkered with his records.”
“Who?”
“That’s the question. It’s all speculation right now. I’m just throwing things out. In any case, it looks like there’s something majorly off in this guy’s background.”
“But that might not have anything to do with Darren. He might have other reasons for covering his tracks.”
Roxy nodded. “And you don’t believe that for a minute, do you?”
Lindy smiled. “Maybe I’ll just go pay Mr. DiCinni another visit this afternoon. You want to come?”
“I’m meeting Travis. We’re going to the Getty.”
“Tough life—” Lindy looked up and almost fell out of her chair.
“Hello, Pastor Clark,” Roxy said.“Lindy, you remember our pastor.”
Up close, he looked down-to-earth. He wore jeans and a burgundy T-shirt with his church’s logo on it.
Lindy looked at Roxy. “What a coincidence.”
“All right, I set it up, okay? Clark asked me what the best way to talk to you was.”
“You’re not going to yell at me, are you?” Lindy said.
“No, no yelling,” he said. “I wanted to apologize for what happened at church on Sunday.”
“No problemo, Reverend.”
“May I?” Clark indicated a chair. Lindy nodded, and he sat. “Mrs. Romney, the woman who screamed at you, she was clearly out of line, even though you might understand why.”
“Of course I do. She lost a son. I’m defending the accused.”
“And I wanted you to know that I’m very sorry it happened, and I hope you might give us another try sometime.”
Lindy grimaced. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. You want a notorious defense lawyer in your midst?”
“Believe me, we have others.”
“Notorious?”
“Maybe not notorious.”
“I wouldn’t want to cause a disturbance. This woman probably would rather I didn’t show up.”
“You’re welcome any time.”
“Thanks. Really. And for what it’s worth, you preach a . . . you do a really good job preaching.” She looked at her watch. “And speaking of apologies . . .”
2.
“It’s George Mahoney.”
Mona opened the door.
“Is this a good time?” he said. “Brad said it might be.”
“What’s this about?” Mona couldn’t decide how to respond, knowing George Mahoney from church, in a passing way, and knowing he had once been a policeman. He was now active in the community in some fashion.
“If I could just have a few minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” Mona said. “It’s just that I—”
“Sure. I know.” His voice was soft and understanding. She could imagine him making all kinds of people feel comfortable.
“Come in, please.”
He accepted her offer of coffee and she brewed a fresh pot, cleaning the filter twice before brewing, measuring the coffee carefully.
He was looking at the family photo on the piano in the living room when she came in with the coffee.
�
�He was a fine-looking boy,” he said.
“You take anything in your coffee?”
“Black.”
They sat. A simmering discomfort bubbled just below the surface of Mona’s chest.
George Mahoney was a few years older than she. His reddish-brown hair was thick and perfect.
“I talked to Brad on the phone this morning,” George said.
“He called you?”
“I called him. I wanted to see how you all were doing.”
“That was nice.”
“I mean, this thing has hit the whole church.”
“I don’t want that.”
“No, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.” George leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his face earnest. “We’re all part of the same body, it says in Corinthians.”
Mona nodded.
“I heard about the incident,” George said. “You know, with the lawyer.”
“I guess everybody’s heard. There was even a thing about it in the Daily News. ”
“I didn’t see that.”
“Yeah.” Mona sighed. “It was buried inside a story about the trial.”
“That had to be a shock, seeing her.”
“Something came over me. I just couldn’t handle her being there. It seemed like . . .”
“A violation?”
“Yes.”
George took a sip of coffee, the way he must have done countless times when interviewing witnesses. “What I did see was her little press conference on TV the other day, the one where she ranted against the justice system.”
“That was awful.”
“It sure was. It was obvious what she was doing, trying to poison the jury pool. I don’t think it’s going to work, but I hated to see it nonetheless.”
“Couldn’t someone put a gag order on her or something?”
“Maybe. But that’s up to a judge.” He paused and Mona realized she was feeling something she hadn’t in a long time—safe. She was in the presence of a police detective, an honest one, a Christian. She could trust him.
“Let me tell you why I’m here,” George said. “I haven’t come to see you before this because I thought you needed some time for healing, and I know you still do. But maybe I can help a little.”
“Thank you.”
“After being on the streets for a long time, and seeing what happens to real people when the justice system is perverted, I saw a need to form a little support group. We don’t have a name or anything. We’re just a little group of people who have been victims of crime, or whose loved ones have been victimized. And we get together and figure out ways to support each other.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It really is. And we’re active. You know how much good MADD has done.”
“Sure.”
“They show up in court to support the prosecution of drunk drivers, and they have made a real difference. We want to do the same in other parts of the criminal justice system. We’d like to offer you our support.”
“Support?”
“Coming to court with you. Speaking out when this crazy lawyer speaks out. Showing the judge there are real people out here with real justice issues. No need to make any decisions now. But I’ll give you my card.” He removed one from his wallet. “And if you’d like to come to a meeting, just to see what we’re about, that’d be great.”
She took his card with its official LAPD design. It felt good in her hand. Like a lifeline of sorts.
3.
“Your Honor,” Everett Woodard said, “my client would like to make a statement.”
Oh, this was going to be fun. Lindy stood in front of Judge Varner Foster, Leon Colby, the media, and all those family members, imagining the TV images being broadcast around the world. There were probably a billion Chinese watching her eat crow.
“Go ahead, Ms. Field,” Judge Foster said.
“I would like to apologize to the court,” Lindy said. “And to Mr. Colby, and to the witness, Dr. O’Connor. I was out of line. I lost it, and I shouldn’t have. I extend to the court my assurance that it won’t happen again.”
The judge took his time responding. This is what it must be like toturn on a spit.
Finally, he said, “Ms. Field, we all understand this is an unusual case . . .”
We? Everyone in the world but her? One billion Chinese people?
“ . . . and it will continue to be so. That makes the imperative of professional ethics and conduct even more critical than usual. When I was a young lawyer—”
Oh no . . .
“—I was known as something of a hothead myself—”
Great! I’m an official hothead now.
“—but I learned through many a trial that the best way to make an impression on judge or jury is to operate with restraint, and poise, and decorum—”
All the things I don’t have, right?
“—and that lesson was perhaps the most valuable I ever learned. I would like to pass that lesson on to you, Ms. Field.”
Thank you, Judge. And now let’s—
“And like my father, I believe the best lessons are those that hurt a little. So I’ll impose a fine of eight hundred dollars, and we will consider the matter closed.”
Eight hundred? Did he say eight hundred?
“Eminently fair,Your Honor,” Everett Woodard said. “Thank you.”
Lindy echoed, “Thank you.” Yes, and thanks to all the people of theworld watching on television. I am also for world peace . . .
“Then we are ready to proceed,” Judge Foster said.“Dr. O’Connor, will you please retake the stand?”
With a jaundiced eye directed toward Lindy, the doctor came forward and sat in the witness chair.
“Continue your cross,Ms. Field.”
Softly, softly.
“Just a few more questions,” she said. “Doctor, if a boy the age of Darren DiCinni truly believed that God told him to do something, ordered him to do it, would it be reasonable to conclude that the boy might think it the right thing to do?”
“In this case,” the doctor said quickly, “I don’t think so.”
“How about in any case?”
He waved his hand.“Oh, I’m sure anyone can concoct a set of facts that would fit your desired conclusion, but that’s not what I see here.”
“Your answer then is yes?”
“That’s not what I said, Ms. Field.”
“Your answer is no?”
“Please, not what I said either.”
“Is it maybe? What is it, Doctor?”
“It is what I said, that’s all.”
Lindy sat down.
“Do you have any more witnesses,Mr. Colby?”
The prosecutor said, “No, Your Honor.”
“Ms. Field?”
“I would like to call Professor Everett Woodard to the stand.”
“Object as to relevance,” Leon Colby said.
“Your Honor,” Lindy said, “Professor Woodard is one of the most eminent legal minds in Los Angeles, and his specialty is criminal law. His testimony is relevant on the issue of the legal meaning of mentalcompetence for standing trial.”
“And while I’m sure Your Honor appreciates the offer,” Colby said, “it is quite clear that the judge is the sole interpreter of the law, and if you desire each side to submit briefs, that is your prerogative. But as Professor Woodard’s testimony is not of a fact-finding nature, it is therefore irrelevant to this proceeding.”
“Yes,” Judge Foster said. “I quite agree. While I respect the professor’s legal mind, his testimony is not required. Will there be anything else?”
“I would like to ask the court’s indulgence,” Lindy said. “I want to ask one more mental-health professional to interview my client. It will be done this week, I assure you.”
“Denied,” Foster said. “Anything else?”
“I will submit the matter to Your Honor,” Leon Colby said.
Lindy sighed. “I would argue that the
prosecutor has not carried his burden of proof.”
“And I would remind the defense,” said the judge, “that the burden in a 1368 is on you. And I find that you have not met the burden. I hold the defendant competent to stand trial.”
4.
“We are not going to let you go through this alone,” George Mahoney told Mona. “You are part of us.”
The group called itself Victims of Injustice and Crime, or VOICe, and tonight twenty members gathered in the home of the founder, Benni Roberts. She had welcomed Mona with a hug and words of welcome and support.
The woman had energy and good looks. Around forty, she emanated success, dressed as she was in a St. John suit that looked impervious to wrinkles. She had a pin in her left lapel, all gold and diamonds.
Benni’s home, a spacious colonial in the hills of Encino, looked down on the San Fernando Valley. Members filled the living room, most of them wearing large, round VOICe buttons. Each button had a different photograph in the center. It didn’t take long for Mona to figure out that these were the pictures of loved ones who had died due to some criminal act.
“Each one of us is concerned with justice, because we’ve all been touched by crime, and sometimes, by the way the system is set up against victims,” Benni explained. “In my own case, three years ago, my son was killed by gang members in a random drive-by. They just pulled up to him on the street, right down here at the corner, and asked him where he was from. Josh didn’t know that was a gang challenge. So he said he wasn’t from anywhere. One of the gang members pulled out a gun and shot Josh in the face.”
Mona listened with a sense of dread and instantly shared grief. This strong woman had been through exactly what Mona was going through. And she had come out on the other side, done something with her grief.
“Josh was only sixteen. The police managed to find two suspects, twin brothers it turned out, who a witness could identify. The police got a search warrant for the mother’s house, where the twins lived. They went in and found a gun that matched the description of the gun the witness saw in the hand of the shooter. Ballistics matched the bullet that killed Josh to the gun.”
Benni paused, and Mona realized everyone in the room was hanging on her words, as if hearing them for the first time.
Sins of the Fathers Page 13