I got to my feet. We were about two feet apart.
“Show me what you’d do,” he said. “In slo-mo, please.”
I thought about Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris. I made a fist and motioned toward Father Bob’s jaw.
“No,” he said. “That’s a good way to break your hand.”
“John Wayne never broke his hand,” I said.
“The Duke never hit a guy in his life. Look.” He put his hand out so the heel of his palm was up. “Best thing to do hand to hand is this . . .”
He shot his hand up, as if he was doing an uppercut with the palm. “Catch him right under the chin. You’ll mess his jaw up and have a second for a follow-up.”
“Follow-up?”
“As fast as you can, and as hard as you can, kick him in his sacred documents.”
“Ouch.”
“And I mean hard. Then you either disable him or get away as fast as you can. Are you in running shape?”
“I run away?”
“Always a good idea if you can. It saves needless carnage.”
“What if I want carnage.”
“Then you come to me. I’ll talk you down.”
I shook my head. “What would happen if Sister Hildegarde found out you were teaching this stuff?”
“Let’s not let that happen, huh?”
110
THE NEXT DAY Kylie was antsy and I needed some rest.
So I packed Sister Mary and Father Bob and Kylie in the car and drove to Disneyland.
It was worth it.
Kylie had never been. That was a sin. That had to be remedied.
Seeing her face in the car was almost reward enough. She was absolutely giddy. Sister Mary was a close second, but second nonetheless.
We got to the park around eleven. Kylie held my hand as we went in. It was magic. The train was just coming in to the Main Street station. In the town square Mickey and Pluto were waving and posing for pictures.
Kids were everywhere, some smiling, some crying—no day at Disneyland is complete without some kid screaming for Mickey-ear hats or an expensive stuffed character.
A girl about Kylie’s age came up to Sister Mary and said, “Who are you?”
Sister Mary looked down. A woman, presumably the girl’s mother, came up from behind. “She thinks you’re a Disney character,” the mother said sheepishly. But just to make sure, she added, “You’re not, are you?”
“She most certainly is,” I said. “Didn’t you ever see Snow White and the Seven Nuns?”
The mother frowned.
“Yes,” I said. “This is Slappy, the nun with the ruler.”
Sister Mary slapped my shoulder.
“See?” I said.
The mother forced a smile.
“Who’s Slappy?” the little girl said.
“Let’s go, Brianna.” The mother took the girl’s hand and led her toward Pluto, a safer bet.
“Slappy?” Sister Mary said. “You named me Slappy?”
Kylie tugged my hand.
“Let’s go,” I said, and started for Main Street before Slappy could give me more grief.
We stopped to listen to the Dapper Dans, the barbershop quartet. Kylie was transfixed by the harmonies.
Then it was off to Fantasyland, through the castle, and all the rides. We went on Snow White—finding no nuns, no Slappys—and Mr. Toad, Peter Pan, and Alice in Wonderland.
We did the flying Dumbos, then walked over to New Orleans Square, where I bounced for warm, sugary fritters for all hands. You don’t go to Disneyland without packing in the snacks.
Sister Mary ate hers with almost as much enthusiasm as Kylie. It was her first time, too.
Father Bob was the veteran. He used to bring poor kids here when he had a parish. Before the false accusation of pedophilia got him canned.
As we were sitting there, a kid walked by in a Mad Hatter hat. He was maybe eight years old. The hat was teetering as his mother yanked his hand. Then it fell off. The kid had a buzz cut.
And a thought hit me. “I’ve been making assumptions,” I said.
“What’s that?” Father Bob said.
“The Rasta hat. The killer. That it was a guy in a Rasta hat with a bunch of hair. At the Lindbrook. Maybe it was just a hat. Maybe there was nothing underneath.”
“We’re supposed to be having a good time,” Sister Mary said.
“This is how I have a good time,” I said.
“I’m having a good time, too,” Kylie said.
They had fireworks that night. We stood in New Orleans square watching. I loved the colored lights on Kylie’s wide-eyed face. Father Bob seemed peaceful, and Sister Mary entranced.
The only one who wasn’t fully into it was me.
Because I was looking at Sister Mary and wishing she did not wear the habit. That she was someone I met at a party or at the grocery store where I asked her if she knew where the salsa was and she laughed and said she’d better show me personally, and now here we were at Disneyland on a magic night.
I hated myself for thinking that, because I’d just lost someone I loved and this was too soon to be happening—let alone happening with someone I could never have.
I realized my jaw was clamped and that Father Bob was now looking at me, in that way he has, with X-ray vision into your skull.
And then Sister Mary said to me, “Thank you. It’s been a wonderful day.”
Gold and silver exploded in the sky.
111
FRIDAY MORNING I went to see Firooz Roshdieh at his place of business, Baskin-Robbins, the place where his wife was shot.
Roshdieh had black hair, skin like coffee with a dash of cream, and nervous brown eyes. He was behind the counter showing a fresh-faced Latina how to scoop ice cream.
When he saw me he smiled, like I was a customer.
Then his face went colder than the Rocky Road. “You that lawyer!”
“Mr. Roshdieh, if I could—”
“You get out of here! You get out of my store!”
The fresh-faced girl looked scared.
“How about a scoop of mint chip?” I said.
“Out!”
“Mr. Roshdieh, I need your help.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why I should help you?”
“I’m after the truth,” I said. “Like you are.”
“The truth I know!”
“You think my client killed your wife.”
“I know it! Now you get out!” He came out from behind the counter, waving his arms. As if he were shooing away locusts.
“I want to find out who really killed your wife,” I said.
“You lawyer! All you want is for getting your client to get out! Now you get out!”
“Please.” I pulled a photograph out of my inside coat pocket. “Would you just make sure?”
I held up the photograph.
He started to nod. “Yes! I tell you yes! It is him, I tell you!”
“No doubt?”
“No!”
The girl was still looking scared. I went to the counter and showed her the picture. Her wide eyes took it in.
“What you doing?” Roshdieh said. “Leave her out. Now you get out. Get out or I call cops.”
I put the photo back in my coat pocket. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Roshdieh. Believe me.”
I walked out.
112
AND SAT IN my car, listening the radio, watching the Baskin-Robbins from the far end of the parking lot. I wanted to have a conversation with the young server, away from Mr. Roshdieh.
For the next hour and a half I listened to classic rock, news, some jazz, and thought about my case.
It all came down to lousy eyewitness testimony and shaky IDs. People get convicted that way all the time. Most of them guilty. The way Gilbert might be guilty.
But might be isn’t supposed to be good enough in our system of justice. A lot of people want it to be. They’d like to loop the rope around the necks, too. Around both the accused and the
criminal defense lawyers.
Question was, was I good enough to stand up to a vet like Mitch Roberts? He was right that criminal trials, especially capital cases, were a different thing from what I was used to. I wanted to believe I was Fast Eddie, but maybe I was more like George Costanza. I was running around posing like a criminal lawyer. I was looking impatient and annoyed to give the impression I knew what I was doing.
Finally, the girl emerged from the store and started walking toward the street. I was glad to get out of the car and walk, for obvious reasons. Actually, I did a little jog so I wouldn’t lose sight of her
She ducked into a Petco.
I followed her.
Inside, it was all barking and tweeting, with the smell of cat litter and dog fur strong in the air.
The girl went down an aisle of fish food. I slipped down the facing aisle and took a position at the end. I picked up a package of aquarium cleaner and started reading the label. The first word was “Warning.”
The girl came around a moment later.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh,” I said.
She looked confused and a little frightened. Unsure what to do.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry about the thing in there. I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s just part of my job. I’m on your boss’s side, you know. Just want to get at the truth.”
“He knows who killed his wife. You showed him.”
“Yeah.” I held up the cleaner. “You have fish?”
She nodded.
“I’m just getting into them,” I said. “I don’t know where to start. What would be a good starter fish?”
“Starter fish?”
“Something easy.”
“I guess a goldfish is always good.”
“Yeah. Goldfish. Good call.” I put the cleaner back and took out the photo I’d shown Roshdieh and the girl. “I guess his identification wraps this thing up.”
“I hope so,” she said. “It’s been so hard on him. He’s a good man. It’s so sad. He’s really been struggling.”
“You’d like to help him out?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take this photo to the DA right now.”
She frowned. “Aren’t you the lawyer for this man?”
“I want the truth. The DA wants the truth. The sooner we get there, the better. In fact, would you talk to the DA if he called you?”
“Well, I guess.”
“It would help your boss.”
She thought a moment, then nodded.
“Here,” I said, handing her the photo, with the back toward her. I held out a pen. “Just put your name and phone number there and I’ll have him call.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to sign anything.”
“I understand. Would it help to talk to the DA? I can call him right now.” I took out my phone.
“No,” she said. “But can he call me at the store?”
“Sure,” I said.
She wrote her name and a number on the photo, gave it back to me along with the pen. I looked at what she wrote.
“Thank you Ms. Esparza,” I said. “Your boss is very upset, so don’t mention this until the DA calls, all right? If you need to talk to me, call this number.”
I gave her a card.
113
SATURDAY WAS WORKDAY on the gentle grounds of St. Monica’s. Various tasks were attended to by the sisters and Father Bob, and I joined in the festivities. Kylie liked working in the garden, so she went with Sister Jean to do the roses.
For Sister Mary and me, it was painting the exterior of the wing where the older nuns lived.
Sister Perpetua sat outside with us, in her wheelchair, under the shade of an old pepper tree. It made her happy. She looked like someone who deserved to be happy.
At one point she tossed out, “Are you a Catholic?”
“No, Sister,” I said.
“Protestant?”
“Not anything at the moment.”
“You don’t belong to a church?”
“No.”
“Oh, we all need a church. Without it, we’re dying embers.”
“Embers?”
“The love of Christ is lived out through the church. Inside, the fire keeps you warm. But if an ember falls out on the hearth, it quickly grows cold.”
“Love is a good thing, Sister, but I don’t think you have to be in a church to do that.”
“Ah, but how do you know what love is without the church? For love comes from God, is manifested in Christ, and embodied by the church. No one would know what love is without the church.”
“Why not?”
“No ancient civilization knew about love. It was God who brought that to us.”
I tried to think of one. Couldn’t. Sharp little nun.
“What makes you tick, Mr. Buchanan?” Sister Perpetua asked. It wasn’t offensive the way she said it. It was as if she just wanted to know.
“Yes,” Sister Mary added. “That’s a good question.”
I shot her a look. “I like butterflies and rainbows, and little children and rabbits.”
“That’s nice,” Sister Perpetua said.
“And piña coladas and walks in the rain—”
“Oh, stop it,” Sister Mary said.
Sister Perpetua gasped. “Is that any way to talk to our guest?”
“It’s okay, Sister,” I said. “That’s one of the nicer things people have said to me over the years.”
“Who influenced you most growing up?” Sister Perpetua asked.
“My dad. He was a cop.”
“Ah.”
“After my dad, I’d have to say Thomas Magnum.”
“I don’t know him,” Sister Perpetua said.
“He was a private investigator in Hawaii.”
“A television show,” Sister Mary said.
“Oh,” Sister Perpetua said. “I remember Bishop Sheen. Now that was a television show. You don’t get that kind of thoughtfulness anymore, I can tell you that. Such charisma he had! And could he ever command a stage. What a voice. What an intellect. You strike me as having quite an intellect too, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Well, Sister, I use what I’ve got and hope for the best.”
“You have gifts, given to you by God. Do you think you were made out of random parts?”
“I sometimes wonder when I try to do a spin move.”
“Amen,” Sister Mary said.
Sister Perpetua shook her head. “I like what Ethel Waters once said. ‘God don’t sponsor no flops.’ Not one of us is junk, Mr. Buchanan, if we get together with our Creator.”
Another voice cut the air. “How is it going?” Sister Hildegarde squinted at us in the sun.
“Like the guy said falling off the Empire State Building,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“So far, so good.”
Sister Hildegarde did not crack a smile. A smile did not get within a hundred yards of cracking Sister Hildegarde. Sister Hildegarde could have gone to a Julia Roberts impersonators’ convention and the collective toothiness therein would not have made a dent in her granite cheeks.
Instead, Sister Hildegarde turned to Sister Mary and said, “I would like to see you in the office. Immediately.”
In the ensuing pause, looks were exchanged between the sisters—Mary Veritas, Perpetua, and Hildegarde—as I watched. Then Sister Mary dutifully descended her stepladder. Sister Hildegarde turned and walked away.
Sister Mary put her roller in the drip tray and followed.
When the two nuns were out of earshot Sister Perpetua said, “That doesn’t sound good.”
114
AS I PUT the paint roller in the pan, Sister Perpetua said, “I’m sorry if I offended you, Mr. Buchanan.”
“When?” I said.
“When I asked what makes you tick.”
“It takes a lot to offend me, Sister. I’m a lawyer, after all.”
The n
un smiled. “I try not to offend people. It’s a better reflection on the church that way. I haven’t always been successful.”
“You? I can’t imagine you offending anybody.”
“I once said ‘crud buckets’ to a cardinal.”
I laughed. “You wicked woman.”
Sister P gave me a long look. “I like you. You don’t put on airs.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to find airs.”
“Let me ask you this then, Mr. Buchanan. What do you yearn for? I used to ask all my students that.”
“Yearn?”
“When I was your age I yearned to go to Africa, to serve the poorest of the poor there. But that wasn’t God’s will. Instead I ended up with sixth-graders. Only now do I see why. It was fitting for me.”
I wiped a little sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. “I don’t know what I yearn for, to tell you the truth.”
“Think about it,” Sister P said. “Here’s a little secret. What was it you loved to do when you were twelve?”
I folded my arms and it came to me right away. “Basketball. I wanted to be a professional basketball player.”
“And you never realized your dream?”
“Didn’t have the hops.”
“Hops?”
“Jumping ability. White men can’t jump.”
She shook her head.
“That was a movie,” I explained. “Also my autobiography.”
“But you loved playing basketball?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Now tell me why. Why did you love it?”
“I don’t know, I just did.”
“No, no. Go deeper.”
For a second I hesitated. What was this old nun after? And why? What business was it of hers? But then I felt this little door open up in me. Like Sister Perpetua held the key that unlocked it. And I found I actually wanted to talk about it.
“All right,” I said, “there was this one time, in high school, we had a game against the city champions, a monster team. They had a guy named Pierpont Wicks, six-eight, the city player of the year. He actually did make it to the NBA for a few years. He was the leading scorer and just an amazing player.”
And he was. I can see him now. He looked like a sequoia.
“We were playing in their gym, and we were warming up doing layups when they came out. The music pounding, everybody cheering, and they did their layup drill and the last four guys slam-dunked.”
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