Try Darkness

by James Scott Bell

  She headed my way.

  When Sister Hildegarde heads your way, look out. A tsetse fly going for a cow does not move with such single-mindedness.

  “Mr. Buchanan,” she buzzed.

  “How you doing?” I said.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Help me what?”

  “Find a place to move into?”

  “And don’t let the church door hit me on the way out?”

  “It’s not that,” she said.

  I stood up. “Did you know, Sister, that there is one private lawyer for every two hundred fifty Californians?”

  “Why is—”

  “But only one legal aid attorney for every eight thousand, three hundred and sixty-one low-income Californians?”

  “Is that true?”

  “You bet it’s true. If you bet. What I’m saying is, there are people who are getting the living snot beat out of them because they can’t afford a lawyer, and you, Sister Hildegarde, are in a position to help them. I am that helper.”

  She said nothing.

  “And I’m certainly here to help you with any legal matters that may arise. And I won’t charge you, unlike that lawyer you were just talking to.”

  Sister Hildegarde reacted like she’d been stung. “How could you know that?”

  “We sense these things,” I said. “We’re all part of the same circle of hell.”

  “Thank you for your interest, Mr. Buchanan.”

  “You’re not going to tell me who he was?”

  “I don’t know that it is any of your affair, if I may put it that way.”

  “Good way to put it. I was just asking. Maybe I can do the same work for a fraction of the cost. With the money you save, you could help out some of those old sisters.”

  Stiffening, Sister Hildegarde said, “You’ve been talking to Sister Mary again.”

  “Is she a bad influence on me?”

  “That is an opinion I shall keep to myself.”

  “What have you got against her?”

  Sister Hildegarde’s eyes got a cold steel look. “I don’t like the implication of that question.”

  “I just thought, you’re all on the same team, right? But there’s some underlying tension going on and maybe that’s why I’m here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Maybe God sent me to negotiate a settlement.”

  With a heavy sigh, the head sister said, “I don’t expect you to understand all the dynamics of an order like ours, of life in community, of the many facets it entails. I think it would be best if you would refrain from interjecting yourself into our processes and concerns.”

  “In other words, you want me to butt out.”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way . . . ”

  “But it’s shorter and sweeter.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It certainly is.”

  I nodded stiffly. Sister Hildegarde nodded stiffly. I went back to the statue, which was still looking up.

  Stiffly.

  62

  SISTER MARY CAME out to the courtyard, with Kylie in tow. She’d had the girl drawing pictures in the mess hall—what I called the mess hall—and now was out for a walk.

  Several of the other sisters were on their way to various places on the grounds. A few wore habits, but most did not.

  “How you guys doing?” I said.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve been called a guy,” Sister Mary said.

  “Generically speaking,” I said. “A human race kind of thing.”

  Kylie said, “We’re having s’mores tonight.”

  “S’mores?” I said. “What is this, camp?”

  “I thought it would be fun,” Sister Mary said.

  “I’ll be there. I’m a s’more guy from way back.” I patted Kylie on the head. “Kylie, would you mind if I spoke to Sister Mary alone for a second?”

  “Okay,” Kylie said. “Can I go look at the rose garden?”

  Sister Mary said, “Sure.” And Kylie skipped off.

  That was nice to see. “How’s she doing?”

  “Children are amazingly resilient,” Sister Mary said. “She cried last night. I held her until she stopped.”

  “You’re really important to her,” I said.

  “So are you.”

  That brought an unexpected knot to my throat, so I sat Sister Mary on the bench. “I found Avisha,” I said. “Dead.”

  “What?”

  “Execution style.”

  “Why, do you think?”

  “Will you hop online and check an escort service named L.A. Night Silk?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Escort service.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want me to do what with that?”

  “Find me a hooker,” I said.

  Pink starbursts popped onto her cheeks.

  “I want to talk to somebody from the service, that’s all. They won’t unless I make it look like an actual transaction.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want me to use the abbey’s computer to search for a prostitute?”

  “Escort.”

  “And what if Sister Hildegarde should happen to walk in and see what I’m doing?”

  “Wouldn’t you just love to see her face?”

  Sister Mary broke into a smile. “You are tempting me to sin, Mr. Buchanan.” She paused. “I’ll get right on it.”

  63

  WHILE SHE DID I drove to the Van Nuys courthouse for an afternoon meeting with Mitch Roberts.

  The DA’s branch office is on the second floor of the old court building on Sylmar. The reception area had a framed photo of the current DA, smiling down on all as if nothing was wrong. As if the city was a well-oiled machine and he the conductor, the fireman, the suited superhero of the justice set.

  But under his watch were about a thousand deputies, each with their own personalities, quirks, agendas, axes, and ambitions.

  According to the American Bar Association’s model rules of ethics, a prosecutor’s supposed to be a “minister” of justice, not simply an advocate. His job is not just to convict but, in the words of that great legal philosopher Spike Lee, to do the right thing.

  But the L.A. office of the DA is a pressure cooker. The people on the street want to see convictions. They don’t give a rip about justice. They just want their neighborhood cleaned up. Unless it’s their son or daughter or cousin on trial, of course.

  So the DDAs do the cleanup. Most of the time it’s really dirt they’re after, but every now and then . . .

  “This doesn’t have to be a long-drawn-out thing,” Roberts said after I’d been shown to his office. “We’ll drop the special circs. He can plead and get straight life. That’s the best he can do. If he goes to trial, he faces death or L WOP.”

  L WOP means life without parole.

  “Such a deal,” I said. “But considering the man may actually be innocent, why would that be something we’d even think about?”

  “You honestly want to take this to trial?”

  “Your case is weak.”

  “Tell me again how many capital cases you’ve done?”

  “You keep bringing that up, like you don’t want me to try this case. I like trying cases. I like juries. They are the great equalizers.”

  “Not in this environment, buddy. People shooting the mom from a mom-and-pop business is not something people like, especially in the Valley. You’re a west side guy, right?”

  “Used to be.”

  “You’ll find out. It’s like tipping.”

  “Tipping?”

  Roberts leaned back and crossed his legs. “When I was going to law school, at night I worked as a waiter, first in Westwood, then in the Valley. We used to talk about Valley tippers. Cheap. It was an exciting night when you got ten percent out of ’em. They’re that way with defense lawyers. You’ll be lucky to get ’em to buy fifteen percent of your case. That’s not a way to win.”


  “Were you a good waiter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And did you give your customers a menu?”

  “Of course.”

  “And on that menu, I bet there was more than one choice.”

  “Your point?”

  “You’re not giving us much choice.”

  “It just seems a shame. You want to start your criminal career with a guy going to death row?”

  “Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll relay your offer to my client. I’ll let him make the call. And he’ll tell me to tell you where to put your offer. That’s just his way, you understand. And then I’ll make you a deal.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “If I can prove to you you’ve got the wrong guy, you’ll move to dismiss.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Roberts said.

  64

  I SPENT THE weekend working on my closing argument in Gilbert’s case.

  One of the best lessons I learned from Pierce McDonough, a great trial lawyer in his day, was that you begin with the end in mind. You formulate your closing argument first and then work your evidence presentation around that.

  Most big firms use focus groups now and test-market their theories before deciding what direction to take.

  I didn’t have those resources available to me, so I did the next best thing. On Saturday at the Ultimate Sip I ran the evidence by Father Bob, Sister Mary, and Barton C. McNitt. Kylie was with us, sipping a hot chocolate and coloring.

  It all came down to two things. The trouble with eyewitness testimony and a motive to lie on the part of one of the witnesses.

  McNitt, wearing a big black shirt that looked like a whale skin with arm holes, said, “Eyewitness testimony is the thing most people rely on, but it’s got a whole lot of problems.”

  “Which is why I’ll begin right at the top,” I said, “by telling the jury how unreliable eyewitness testimony is. I’ll take them to school—”

  “No,” Father Bob said.

  “No?”

  “I wouldn’t do it that way.”

  “You’re going to tell me how to try cases now?”

  “You must prepare the soil of their hearts,” he said.

  I shook my head. “What is that even supposed to mean?”

  “Allow me?”

  “Go for it,” I said.

  “I would begin like this: Ladies and gentlemen, I am tempted at this time not even to make an argument. I have a sense that if you were going to go into to the jury room right now, just based on my cross-examination of the witnesses, you would vote not guilty.”

  “Now that’s not bad,” I said. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I read books, son,” Father Bob said. “Books on the law I especially like. Great closing arguments. Like Clarence Darrow in the Leopold and Loeb case. Or Louis Nizer in John Henry Faulk. You can learn, son, so listen.” He cleared his throat and stood. He faced us as if we were in the jury box.

  “But I have the duty to marshal all of the evidence. And I don’t think there is any question that the eyewitnesses actually think that it is Mr. Calderón who robbed them, Mr. Calderón who pulled the trigger of that gun. But in our system of government it is not they who try the defendant. We have you twelve people and you are the jury. You’re here for a reason.”

  “Can’t wait to hear this one,” McNitt said.

  “Quiet down and you will,” Father Bob said. “You are here to stand between the government and the defendant. You listen to the evidence. You weigh it. You are the ones to judge it in terms of your own common sense and your own experience. That’s what makes this country different from most other countries. In our country it is not the prosecutor who gets to vote. He must prove his case to you, beyond a reasonable doubt. If he is not able to do that, you must find the defendant not guilty. The defendant doesn’t have to prove anything.”

  “Solid,” I said.

  “In most other countries that is not true. But in this country it is the foundation of our system of justice, and thank God for that, ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Thank who?” McNitt said.

  “Throughout the history of the criminal law there runs a sacred trust, a monument to the dignity of all mankind. This sacred trust is now placed in your hands, I am talking about the presumption of innocence.”

  I applauded. So did Sister Mary.

  Pick McNitt grumbled. “You’ve convinced me,” he said. “The eyewitnesses in the Bible were unreliable and there’s a presumption they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  Sister Mary looked at me with a here we go again expression.

  So McNitt and Father Bob went around and around awhile. I tuned them out and looked at what Kylie was drawing.

  “It’s me and you and Sister Mary,” she said. “Standing by the ocean. And that’s a shark coming out of the water.”

  “A shark, huh?” I said. She had drawn me bigger, between them and the shark, with my arms out in a gesture of protection.

  The shark looked hungry.

  65

  MONDAY MORNING I went to the Twin Towers downtown to see Gilbert Calderón and give him Roberts’s offer.

  “You mean I say I did it?” he asked.

  “And you get to keep your life. They could go for the DP here.”

  “I ain’t afraid of no death penalty, man. I know where I’m going.”

  “That would be San Quentin.”

  “No. To be with the Lord.”

  “Fine. But I don’t want to be your travel agent. I have an offer from the DA, I’m obligated to—”

  “I can’t say I did it when I didn’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’m gonna walk. I got real faith in you.”

  “Hey, you know what? That and five grand’ll get you Dodger season tickets.”

  Gilbert paused, then said, “Could you do something for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Would you tell the DA I’m sorry I said he was scum? That was just my old man asserting himself.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Roberts has gotten over it.”

  “No, man, this is important. Bad talk, coming out of my mouth. I got to make that right.”

  “Okay, Gilbert. When I see him, I’ll pass that along.”

  “Thanks, that’s a weight off my shoulders.”

  Gilbert was troubled by telling a DA he was scum, but not by the death penalty. Jail did some crazy things to people. This was a new one on me.

  66

  OUTSIDE I BOUGHT an L.A. Times and gave it a quick scan.

  Another toddler was dead, shot in gang crossfire in South Los Angeles. The city’s chief of police made a PR statement about it. Local politicians were falling all over themselves to be next.

  Nothing much better inside. A neighborhood with a bad homeless problem was getting “cleaned up,” which only meant the homeless were being hassled to other parts of the city. And those neighborhoods were really, really happy about that.

  Foster care was suffering because payment rates lagged behind the cost of living and were, in fact, lower than the price to kennel a dog. People were dropping out of the duty, leaving more kids without a place to go.

  Two people died when a big rig crashed into a tractor-trailer on the westbound 210 and caught fire. And the ACLU was suing a local college for denying a male student the right to attend classes in the nude.

  Just another day in the naked city, as they used to say.

  But the biggest news had to be the panda droppings. The Chinese were into recycling panda poop, fibrous from the bamboo diet, and making paper goods out of it.

  Now that was enterprise. That was the mind of man at work for the betterment of all.

  Which put me right in the mood for the big one-page ad for a huge success seminar at Staples Center.

  The ad was dominated by a photo of Roland Funk, the New York speculator who had become a national celebrity after divorcing his first wife and taking up wi
th an Olympic skier from Switzerland. Now he was pitching his “magic way to become a millionaire,” joined by a bunch of his “friends.”

  There was Robbie Abston, a “life performance coach,” whatever that meant. His photo showed a mouthful of teeth as white and large as elephant tusks. In three hours, the ad promised, he would change your life forever.

  Yes, and then came Pug Robinson, former heavyweight boxer, now a skin cream entrepreneur, on “How to Punch Up Your Business and Sex Life.”

  Next was the latest power couple, coauthors of the hot new book The Key, who promised to teach you how to harness all the laws of success and attract love and money into your life after just one hour. In the photo they stood back to back, arms folded, flashing pearlies.

  What a lineup! Here you would learn about businesses you could start on a shoestring budget and build into an empire. How to increase any sale 350 percent with a little-known trick. Of course, there was the standard promise of real estate profits with no money down.

  Then, adding a bit of spirituality to the mix, was Oz Julian, the “people’s pastor” from Denver, who promised to place you at the pinnacle of life right now. His smile looked like a transplant from the land of cookware infomercials.

  Finally, to top it all off like Cool Whip on a brownie, was a session with the “fastest-rising star in the world of real estate development,” Sam DeCosse Jr.

  Junior.

  Rising star. Sure. Riding daddy’s coattails maybe.

  That’s when it hit me. I’d thought the Lindbrook was a little too small for Sam Senior. But maybe it was Junior’s deal, his starter kit.

  Maybe it was Junior I needed to talk to about what happened in the Lindbrook.

  Tickets were only forty-nine bucks, and what the heck? Maybe I could have a word with Junior. Maybe I could learn how to start a business. Maybe I could corner the U.S. market in panda poop.

  I put the event on my calendar.

  67

  USUALLY, YOU DON’T go to a nun to get connected to a call girl. But in this case Sister Mary had gotten some names off of L.A. Night Silk. She handed me a list of four based, she said, on their profiles. She did this at my trailer, as far from the office as she could get and still be on the grounds of St. Monica’s.