He waited, then said, “How do you know anything?”
“As they say, I have my sources.”
“What’s it gonna take to get you to the point?” He puffed again.
“You’re still listening, so there’s something there. I’ve never seen your show, by the way, but I hear you’re pretty good in it. I hear you turned your life around. I hear you’ve got a family audience that’s pretty big now. Congratulations.”
“Do I care what you think?”
“Yeah, you do.”
He waited.
“So here it is,” I said. “You knew Tawni back there in your bad old days, knew her pretty well. Or should I say, used her pretty well?”
He threw down his cig and fished for another. Stuck it in his mouth. “Do I need to tell you what you’re full of?”
“Tawni’s dead. Somebody murdered her. She had a kid. Your kid.”
That froze him. The nail in his mouth was shaking a little. “You want money, is that it?”
“How’d we get from murder to money so fast?”
“That’s what it comes down to.”
“I just want to know if you’re the father of the kid, that’s all.”
McLarty looked as if he’d snorted Tabasco. He spun around in a little circle. Like Disco Freddy’s more talented cousin. He shouted a couple of choice words and that got Bodyguard over in a hurry.
“Bax,” McLarty said, “tell this guy I’m not interested and make him understand. Tell him my lawyers are smarter than he is, okay?”
He legged it back to the club.
Bax said, “Mr. McLarty is not interested and his lawyers are smarter than you. Understand?”
“You don’t even know me, Bax. I might be another Einstein.”
“If you were smart, you wouldn’t be here.” He put his ham hand on my shoulder. “Mr. McLarty gets all sorts of grief from people—requests, paparazzi, all that, you know? And he hires me to be kind of like a buffer.”
“You’re a buffer, I’ll give you that.”
“So I’m buffing you, man. Let’s leave it at that.”
“Your boy will want to give me a call.”
“He says no.”
“Ask him if he’d like to have a paternity test done. Ask if he’d like to come to court and tell a judge the story. Because, see, when guys don’t step up to the plate for what they’ve done, you have to haul ’em to court. I hate to do that, I really do.”
“He’s gotten sued before.”
“Not by me.”
“What makes you so special?”
“Bran,” I said. “I eat lots of bran.”
“Hey, I’m into fiber, too.”
Unbelievable.
“A lot of legumes,” he said. “Really like legumes.”
“I never thought I’d be discussing health with Todd McLarty’s bodyguard.”
“Most natural thing in the world,” he said. “You want to stay healthy, stay away from Mr. McLarty.” He poked my chest with his finger. “And eat plenty of cruciferous greens.”
98
I WALKED BACK to my car thinking about the word “cruciferous” and what Todd McLarty was hiding.
Of course, I had no idea if Kylie was McLarty’s. And maybe I didn’t want to find out. What if he turned around and said he wanted her?
There’s no way I would let that happen.
But if she was his, maybe there was a connection with Reatta’s death.
What if Reatta was trying to hold him up for money? Would it be beyond the realm of possibility for McLarty to send someone around to silence her?
99
TUESDAY MORNING I stopped by the DA’s office in Van Nuys. Mitch Roberts had a packet of discovery for me.
In California we have reciprocal discovery. The prosecutor has to hand things over like police reports and notes, witness statements, and the list of witnesses themselves. The defense has the right to interview prosecution witnesses, though you can’t compel them to talk.
The defense has to hand over stuff, too. That’s how the judiciary took some of the creative element out of criminal trials. No more surprise witnesses. No last-minute twists. Too bad. Those seemed like so much fun in old movies.
Roberts met me in his office. He had a file box on his desk. No doubt my reading matter.
“You still thinking of taking this thing to trial?” Roberts said.
“My client keeps telling me this strange thing, that he didn’t do it,” I said.
“Pretty strange.”
“What if it’s true?”
Roberts shrugged one shoulder. “The jury says what’s true.”
“I’m for that,” I said.
“Capital jury for the first time, pretty rough.”
I said, “What if you took off your prosecutor hat for just a second here and looked at it from the standpoint of a reasonable man.”
Roberts cracked a smile. “You saying we DDAs aren’t reasonable?”
“You know what I mean, that old law school standard. The reasonable man. Look at what you’ve got in the witness statements. The IDs. They’re all over the map. And this Nydessa whatsername, she’s got a reason to lie.”
“So you say. You’ll have to convince a jury of that.”
“Think that’ll be so hard?”
Roberts shrugged.
“Don’t be pulling a Nifong on me, okay?” Roberts knew exactly what that meant. A reference to the odious Mike Nifong, disgraced DA of Raleigh, North Carolina. The guy who thought he could prosecute three Duke lacrosse players for rape when he knew the victim’s story was a load. But he wouldn’t back down. Prosecutorial macho. Only he got caught by the national media, backed further and further into a corner until he had to crawl out in shame.
Problem is, when prosecutors pull a Nifong, most of the time there’s no media. No one to hold their feet to the flame. Then they dangle the prospect of long sentences in order to get your client to cop a plea.
Even innocent ones take the deal because they know if they don’t and get convicted, they’ll spend a lot more years in the slam when they’re sentenced.
Roberts said, “That what you think I’m doing?”
“Just search your heart,” I said, trying to sound sincere.
“I have, and it’s a cold, dark place,” he said with a smile.
“Oh, I have a message for you from my client.”
“From your client? And it’s not a plea?”
“No.”
“I’m all ears.”
“He told me to tell you he’s sorry that he told you that you were scum.”
Roberts sighed. “I’m comforted. I was really worried there.”
“Thanks for the load,” I said. “Of discovery.”
I picked up the box and left.
100
OUTSIDE THE COURTHOUSE I heard a guy yelling. He had a scraggly black beard and was using his hands like a mad Italian. No one was listening to him. People in suits on their way in or out of court hurried by.
Still the man went on. He was raving about the Antichrist, who happened to be the pope.
Nice.
Then he started shouting that everyone who took a mark of the Beast was going to hell forever and ever. There would be no rest, day or night, he said, where the worm dieth not.
It was all about resisting the Beast, he said.
I wondered what I would do if the Beast came to me and asked for legal representation.
Get the fee up front, that’s what.
101
ON WEDNESDAY MORNING I appeared in the Superior Court of Los Angeles County, downtown, in the courtroom of Morris Page. He was a judge I’d been in front of before, but that was back when I was a real trial lawyer with a law firm behind me.
He gave me a nice hello in chambers anyway. I was there to talk about the temporary restraining order with him and Al Bradshaw before we went and put everything on the record.
Al had brought along a little friend, Hyrum Roddy.
�
�Double-teaming me?” I said.
“You can give up now,” Al said.
“Might be a good idea, Ty,” Judge Page said. He was gray haired and slightly built, maybe sixty years old. Wore old-fashioned wire-rim glasses. He had a college professor look to him, mild mannered. But in his day he was reputed to be one of the most fearsome trial lawyers you’d ever run up against. He spoke softly but carried a big briefcase.
As a judge, he liked things calm in his courtroom and his lawyers prepared.
The lawyers sat in leather chairs in front of the judge’s immaculate desk, and he said, “Ty, what are you doing with this thing? Scraping the bottom of the barrel?”
“Not a nice way to talk about a six-year-old girl,” I said.
“I mean legally speaking.”
“No, it’s not the bottom of the barrel. Because if you scrape off what’s on the bottom of the barrel, you get the crud underneath, and that’s where you’ll find Orpheus Development doing the twenty-eight-day shuffle.”
“Your Honor,” Al said, theatrical disdain dripping from his voice, “this is just Mr. Buchanan trying to poison the well.”
“Me being the well?” Judge Page said.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Exactly,” Hyrum Roddy said.
“I can take care of my own water supply,” Page said. “But thanks for looking out for me.” The judge looked at me. “Ty, is that what you’re really after? Stop the practice of shuffling tenants?”
“I’m appearing on behalf of a client. I want it stopped for her sake.”
“And if it is, my ruling could apply to all the tenants.”
“Maybe.”
“Which would be just fine by you,” the judge said.
I smiled.
Judge Page sighed. “All right. Let’s get down to it. You’ve got to show me that the moving party here, this Kylie with no last name, will suffer irreparable harm if I don’t grant relief. So just how will that happen, Ty?”
“She’ll be out on the street,” I said.
“Is she occupying the premises?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Where is she?”
“I’ve got her.”
Page blinked. “You’re taking care of her?”
I nodded.
“If you’re taking care of her, how can the harm be irreparable?”
“Once she’s evicted, she won’t be able to get back in,” I said.
“Come on, let’s be real here. She’s not going to live in that place by herself.”
“She might,” I said. “But that’s not your call, it’s hers. And I’m her guardian ad litem, so I’m making the claim on her behalf.”
Al chuffed like an impatient dog and shook his head.
“Even if I found irreparable harm,” Page said, “you also have to show that monetary damages would be inadequate. Has there been a settlement offer?”
“Mr. Buchanan does not seem disposed to that,” Al said.
“Now, that doesn’t seem very sporting,” Judge Page said.
“I don’t see this as a sport,” I said.
“And you and Mr. Bradshaw used to be such good friends.” The judge smiled.
I did not smile.
Al and Hyrum Roddy did not smile.
So Judge Page stopped smiling and cleared his throat. “What about harm to Orpheus, Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Clearly,” Al said, “there’s harm here. The right to control one’s premises, to set rents, to take full advantage of the free market.”
“What about this twenty-eight-day shuffle business?” Page said. “That’s clearly illegal, isn’t it?”
“We deny engaging in any such action,” Al said.
“Wouldn’t a hearing on the merits help us figure out if that’s true or not?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
Al shot me a look. His eyes showed a sudden fear, that the judge might actually be considering granting this thing.
“Your Honor,” Al said, “this is just a simple matter of a sham tenant being used by a lawyer to harass my client. That’s really what this is about.”
“Is that what this is about, Mr. Buchanan?”
“It started with a tenant,” I said. “But it’s more than that now. One of the considerations for a TRO is the public interest. Well, here’s your public interest. The Lindbrook is the last stop for a lot of people. Like vets. Guys who came back from Nam and got spat on. They don’t need that again. Like ex-cops who put it on the line out on the streets every day. I don’t think they should be put out there every twenty-eight days. But maybe that’s just me.”
To Al, Judge Page said, “What about that?”
“When was the last time you ever granted a TRO for the public interest?” Al said. “That never happens.”
“Why shouldn’t it?” Page said. “I think the public interest here is pretty strong, don’t you?”
Al’s lips fluttered but no sound came out.
“You know what?” the judge said. “I’m feeling a little interested in the public this morning. I woke up and saw a story in the paper about the folks they want to evict to expand the freeway. You know, people with homes, people who’ve lived there for years. Something about that sticks in my craw. So we’re going to go out there and I’m going to grant the TRO, and then we’ll all come back and make our case for an injunction. Shall we?”
“I’d like to make a phone call,” Al said. “Five minutes.”
“Four,” the judge said, standing and putting on his robe.
102
AFTER THE RULING Al stopped me in the corridor. Hyrum Roddy had apparently scurried for the nearest exit.
“Mr. DeCosse would like another meeting with you,” he said.
“When?”
“Now. I’ve got a ride waiting.”
“Yeah? Where we going?”
“A golf course.”
“I don’t play golf.”
“Not that kind of golf course,” Al said. “This one you won’t believe.”
103
I DIDN’T BELIEVE it. Because it was a floating golf course. It was on the Pacific Ocean, west of Catalina.
Not looking out at the Pacific Ocean. On the Pacific Ocean.
It happened this way.
Al took me to a heliopad at one of the buildings DeCosse owns downtown. We coptered down to Long Beach and set down at a private mooring.
Where Sam DeCosse had his yacht.
A 205-footer called Lady Ariel.
Two large crew members met Al and me. Al said a few words to one of them. Then we boarded.
I said nothing. This was something I just had to see.
We went downstairs and into a room that would have been a stylish studio apartment in Beverly Hills. It was all teak and brass. A polished bar ran along one wall, complete with a mirror behind it.
“A guy could have a pretty good weekend here,” I said.
“You have no idea,” Al said. “Wait here.”
He left, along with the two monster stewards.
I went to the bookcase, which was enclosed in glass. Two shelves of books that looked like collectibles. First editions, no doubt.
The Sun Also Rises, by Ernest Hemingway.
The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.
Slaughterhouse Five, by Kurt Vonnegut.
The Naked and the Dead, by Norman Mailer.
I tried to open the case, but it was—
“Locked,” Ariel DeCosse said.
She was wearing workout clothes and a slight sheen of perspiration. Had gloves on her hands. Some kind of boxing workout, I guessed. She crossed the room, taking off her gloves, and shook my hand. “Welcome aboard.”
“Nice boat,” I said.
“Hardly a boat.” She tossed her gloves on an end table. “Do you like art, Mr. Buchanan?”
“I haven’t got a lot of room for it.”
“Oh? What sort of house do you have?”
“I live in a trailer.”
; “Oh my. Are you intentional about the interior?”
“If you mean, do I throw my socks on the floor near the bathroom, then yes.”
She smiled. “You’re a funny one. Don’t you care about money and love? Don’t you want to have more of both in your life?”
“Should I?”
“Of course. What else is there?”
“Chimichangas?”
The smile left. “Don’t you want to be happy?”
“It beats the alternative.”
“Happiness is always a part of it. Did you know you can divide your quarters into eight sections?”
“Really? Doesn’t that make about three cents each?”
“No, your living qua—you’re making fun of me.”
“Go on. I’m interested.” I was, too, because I was trying to figure out whether she was serious about this.
“You can actually make these sections right on your desk,” she said. “One of the sections is for wealth, and if you want to, you can put a crystal in that section and attract wealth.”
“It’s that easy?”
“Of course. You’re tapping into the chi, the universal force. When you drive your car, for instance, you can drive in the direction of your career, and use your mirrors to fend off bad luck.”
“Mirrors fend off bad luck?”
“Yes.”
“Not when I shave. I have to look at myself.”
Now she ignored me and went on. “You must also remove all the clutter from your life. Clutter doesn’t do you one ounce of good. There’s so much to learn. Do you have ducks?”
“Excuse me?”
“You should display two mandarin ducks, which symbolize happiness and love. But do not display a solo mandarin duck, because that means you will be single forever.”
“Check. Two ducks.”
“You’re making fun of me again. I understand. This is new to the Western mind.”
“Are you saying I have a Western mind?”
“Don’t you?”
“I do like John Wayne movies. Also Randolph Scott.”
She said nothing. She did frown. I was obviously causing her stress. Unfenging her shui. Thought maybe that would be a good mission for me in this life. I could call it duck hunting.
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