(2012) The Court's Expert

by Richard Isham

  Once inside, Larry exchanged greetings with several friends and colleagues. Although he was invited to sit at any number of tables and booths, he declined, pleading his case that he had to catch up on the news. He picked up the morning edition of the Tulare Advance Register and took a seat at the counter where the waitress took his order of bacon and eggs, poached today at his request for variety.

  On the way to the sports section, his eye caught sight of the headline on the first page of the local section: “Fiery Fog Crash Claims Life.” The article began: “Maria Figueroa, a lifelong Tulare resident, graduate of Tulare Western High and Fresno State College where she received a master’s degree in social work, was killed last night in a motor vehicle accident when her vehicle left the highway and impacted a large tree in heavy fog. CHP Officer J. Reynolds stated the cause of the accident was still under investigation, although it did not appear that other vehicles were involved. He noted that the fog was very dense, and the driver may have become disoriented before colliding with the tree. While emergency help did not reach the site of the crash for some time after it occurred, investigators had reason to believe that Ms. Figueroa died instantly on impact.”

  Martorano could not finish reading the article, his eyes tearing to near blinding. Nonetheless, he tried to study the photograph included with the article that pictured what he guessed was a five-year-old compact vehicle. He wiped tears from his eyes, oblivious to his surroundings, focusing all the time on the photo. Poor, humble, noble Maria didn’t have a chance. That much was obvious.

  He was tempted to drive to the Figueroa home. It wasn’t more than ten minutes away from the restaurant, but reason and discretion overcame his instincts for the moment. What would his presence accomplish if he drove over there now? Nothing positive, that was certain. The article noted pending funeral arrangements, likely at St. Rita’s Catholic Church, by his assumption. No, he would not attend the funeral mass, either, or would he? His daughter Guadalupe would be almost ten years old, and she had no reason to know Mr. and Mrs. Figueroa were her grandparents not her parents (if that was the story they had followed for her benefit). He assumed Lupe thought Maria was her older sister. The term older “older” would fit the myth, although biologically possible nonetheless. Larry did not know for certain, but guessed Maria would have been about thirty years old at the time of her death.

  His mood was overcome by very dark thoughts that he had stifled in the past through sheer force of will. But this moment was much different. The “why” questions burst into his consciousness and would not be denied. His subconscious voice demanded an answer to its oft-repeated tormenting questions. Why have you never shown a father’s love for Guadalupe? Why have you never opened your arms to her as her mother did to you in your time of need? Where is your compassion? You can take, but can you give?

  He thought of arguments to confront his inner voice, but none was compelling. He knew it was an act of cowardice and in the end he could not placate himself with some vague notion of waiting for the right moment to make his peace. This was not what he had in mind—if indeed he had anything he could claim as a strategy to reconcile himself with Lupe and her family. He was not required to simply accept the Figueroa family’s preferred solution without an objection or even a comment, yet he had done so. He could have developed some relationship that all could possibly adapt to, but he never made overtures to reach out to anyone. He could offer poor excuses for his lack of action, but he knew there was no merit to any of them. If there was true damnation, Martorano was getting a major self-inflicted dose.

  He could not finish his breakfast and slipped outside without the usual ceremony of taking leave of his friends. He wanted to find something to put his fist through but nothing of any use materialized. He drove aimlessly for a time, and yes, he eventually drove by the Figueroa home, slowly but without stopping. Several cars were in the driveway and along the street. No one was outside, and he avoided any discussion, or God help him, confrontation. As he drove, he realized their solution to the problem of Maria’s impregnation was the wisest one, especially in light of Maria’s tragic misfortune. There simply was no place for him, the biological father, in this equation. As big and important a grower as Martorano was in the Valley, he couldn’t even cast a tiny shadow in the Figueroa yard, no matter how much he had loved their daughter.

  Larry followed the newspaper for the next few days and decided to attend the funeral. His fidelity to Maria trumped all otherwise selfish considerations. He arrived a few minutes before 10:00 a.m. at the church (he had been correct in his assumption of which one) and found a seat in a pew toward the rear. He genuflected awkwardly for lack of practice, entered the row, seated himself, and lowered the kneeler all in the same action. It had been a long time between visits to any church. He eased himself slowly to his knees, closed his eyes, and repeated the Our Father inaudibly. He had trouble remembering many of the prayers that had been second nature to him in his youth when the nuns were in charge of his religious education, but he surprised himself as the memories flooded back into mind.

  He became aware of an organ playing softly in the background. He thought he recognized the musical theme. Yes, that’s it! “On Eagle’s Wings.” Maybe that’s all we need to know, actually. We get a ticket in the beginning to enter the contest of life with no guarantees whatsoever. We make what we will of our chances, and then it’s all over. In Maria’s case, her legacy was the meaning she put into her life while she had it. In the few years she was given, she lived and left a huge legacy of love and caring. And she made meaningful contact with other mortals. She touched people with her chipper, unassuming attitude. She made the most of opportunities she found, but now it was all over.

  Larry groped mentally and emotionally as he pondered his feelings while kneeling but was unable to put a unifying bow on the package. He still was confused and conflicted by the why question and found no relief as his thoughts rushed through his head in an unorganized frenzy. He was determined to open his mind and become receptive to any revelations that might be offered to him in spite of his reservations on that score. He stood with the rest of the mourners as the priest and servers made their way down the main aisle toward the altar, ushering the closed casket within their entourage.

  “In the name of the Father,” the priest intoned. Larry slipped into a kind of reverie. He was present in the church, but his mind, without physical boundaries, rushed from one thought to another, freed from the restraints of time and place. As a result, the Mass moved along quickly enough and was over before he expected. He took a position in the line moving forward to pay respects, more out of habit than premeditation. As the procession inched toward the casket, he caught sight of the family seated in a small knave of the church, close by but off to the side of the altar. The clan was dressed in very dark clothing. He glanced in their direction. None of the group seemed to be looking at anything in particular, and no one made eye contact with Larry. As he moved past the casket, he blessed himself by making the sign of the cross and placed a symbolic kiss on the lid with his fingertips. “Good-bye, my little one, Querida mia,” he whispered inaudibly.

  The funeral mass ended with the recession of the casket to the door of the church, although Larry had no vivid memory of anything that may have followed his whispered farewell. In the next moment, he made his way to his pickup truck. Fumbling for his keys, he sensed the near presence of another person and looked around to find Francisco Figueroa standing near him. The two fixed one another with their gazes. No words passed between them for many moments. Francisco was the first to extend his hand, and the two faced each other while shaking hands firmly. They reached out their left arms and coupled into a warm embrace then stepped back without exchanging words. Figueroa removed a small envelope from his pocket and handed it to Martorano, who opened it and found a photo of Maria, taken most likely at her college graduation ceremony. Larry glanced at Francisco and saw a glistening in the man’s eyes, and he understood that in some myster
ious way the two shared a love for the same woman from different perspectives that transcended verbal expression.

  Figueroa seemed to be grappling the impulse to begin a conversation with Martorano but moved away to rejoin his family.

  Once inside the cab, Larry sat motionless examining the photograph of Maria. What an amazingly beautiful woman and what an incredibly tragic fate for her and all who loved her. He would find a safe and permanent place for this memento. Had he taken a moment and turned the photo on its face he would have seen a heartfelt expression of gratitude from the Figueroa family. Fate again would not permit this however, and he replaced the photo in the envelope for an unscheduled later reference. He started the engine, backed out of the parking place, and drove to his office west of town. This day would never be forgotten.

  As Martorano entered the office, Peggy spotted her boss’s angst. She was aware he had been to a funeral in Tulare but knew nothing of the details. She did know one thing. If the boss wanted her to know that something was bothering him, he would mention it sooner or later. Mr. Martorano was a private man, regardless of the friendly disposition he displayed to his acquaintances.

  To begin a conversation with him, Peggy probed: “Did you remember the dinner party tonight at the Dutch Frontier in Ducor? You know, your friends are having a party for the ‘Heiress’ as you like to refer to her.”

  How could Larry have forgotten, other than through the sheer willfulness of his subconscious? The Heiress had inherited the vast wealth of her deceased husband’s estate following his death two years ago. Hard assets included real estate, cattle, and oil in Texas. He was only sixty-three when he had the accident. No matter, his widow, following her seven-year marriage to the deceased, was renewing acquaintances in the west at the moment. Larry felt an obligation to the memory of his dear friend, so he had promised to attend the function. Ducor, California, was quite a ride to the east side of the Valley, nestled at the base of the western slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Even though it was early afternoon, Larry would not have time enough to race home to shower, dress, and drive there to enjoy the party. For emergencies just like this one, he kept a small wardrobe at the office in a closet so he could shower there, freshen up, and save a lot of unnecessary driving.

  Martorano was late leaving his office and arrived at the restaurant well after the party had started. In reality, it had started offsite a few hours earlier. Larry was concerned about his reception tonight by the Heiress. The last time the group had gathered was in a small Mexican fishing village. The party had ended abruptly that evening. Larry’s mind drifted to re-run mode recalling the circumstances.

  The party in Mexico had included a grand banquet, after which, everyone moved to a comfortable lounge for an after-dinner cognac and a cigar for those wanting a genuine Cuban model. On that evening, the discussion was cordial, and the party goers were well supplied with refreshments. The Heiress said it would be great fun if everyone in the room said a few words about themselves so that others, including her of course, could get to know more about the “folks in this room.” She volunteered to be the first speaker.

  Before she finished her autobiography, she had delivered an oral financial statement to the members of the group. Impressive as it sounded, Larry was not the least bit interested in following suit. He maneuvered himself out of range as others were prodded and teased to disclose details of their respective empires. An hour had passed, and Larry had avoided the hot seat. Then she spun around in her chair, looked him straight in the eye, and put the challenge to him.

  “Mr. Martorano, it’s your turn to let us know about yourself,” she directed, canceling whatever momentary leadership void she perceived in the room.

  Realizing his turn had come, Larry tried to cut his presentation down to a breezy but friendly family history: “Well, my family’s been in the farming business for several generations. My grandfather and one of his brothers came here from the old country, worked hard, and built a solid operation that our family still runs at the moment.”

  He paused and flashed his best baby-faced grin at the Heiress, hoping she would tire of the charade. No chance.

  “Come, Mr. Martorano, tell us what you folks are into, please.”

  Nonplussed, Larry continued: “You mean, what crops we’re working?”

  “Yes, please, that would be very nice,” the Heiress purred again.

  “Well, as it turns out, we have properties in Kern, Tulare, and Santa Barbara counties; we raise some table grapes, a few horses, and maybe a row crop or two,” He continued to minimize the overview for her.

  “You have property in Santa Barbara?” she gasped.

  “That’s Santa Barbara County, not the city, ma’am,” he added.

  “My lord, man! There’s oil, lots of oil in Santa Barbara County. You should be drilling for it, now!” she almost demanded.

  “Frankly, ma’am, the family don’t need the money,” Larry offered humbly.

  The howling started as a low thunder and gathered intensity until backslapping and short quips finally caused the comedy to abate somewhat. Not a dry eye in the place, and not from crying.

  The Heiress fixed her gaze on Larry, who continued to project his unassuming demeanor. If she was displeased, she did not betray herself. Clearly, though, this portion of the evening’s festivities had just finished, regardless of her personal hopes otherwise.

  Since that party in Mexico, Larry had not been in contact with the Heiress, but he knew through the grapevine that she was aggressively pursuing some business plan that most likely included a spouse-hunting element. He was certain she knew by now he was a widower and therefore ranked high on any eligibility scale she might have developed.

  Once inside the Ducor restaurant, he checked with the hostess who directed him to the banquet room his group was using. As he drew closer, he heard familiar voices. On any given party night, this gathering might include as many as two dozen people, and tonight was no exception. Now inside the room, he offered his greetings and headed for an empty chair. It was not an easy search, but he spotted one and made for it on automatic pilot. As it turned out, the last available seat was right next to the Heiress.

  “Oh, Mr. Martorano, how nice to see you again,” she cooed evenly in his direction.

  “Thank you, ma’am, the pleasure is all mine,” he replied, in pleasant disguise. “Did you have any difficulty finding this place?”

  “Some, as you might imagine. But difficulty finding an address in California is no match for looking for a needle in a haystack in Texas. If you miss a turn there, it might be a day or two before you find your way back!” The Heiress sported the biggest grin she could muster. As luck would have it, Larry was seated on an end of a table parked in a corner, so his only dinner mate was the Heiress seated to his left elbow. This had to be fate, repayment for some bad debt in his past.

  The gods are displeased with me for certain, he mused silently.

  “Oh, Mr. Martorano—”

  “Please call me Larry, ma’am,” he interrupted. “You know the saying: ‘Mr. Martorano is my father.’”

  “Okay, Larry. If you don’t mind me saying so, I surely enjoyed getting acquainted with you briefly in Mexico. You know, my friends call me ‘Heiress,’ and I’d be proud if you would, also,” she explained.

  “Much obliged,” he continued, not certain what the phrase actually entailed now that he thought about it momentarily.

  “Getting back to Mexico, I believe I was becoming overbearing at the dinner party. I actually wasn’t running a show-and-tell program, but I guess that’s how it sounded to people, at least you, anyway. I’m very sorry if I offended anyone, really I am,” she emphasized, fixing her gaze on him.

  “You know, ma’am, uh, Heiress,” he said, “it would take a professional assassin to hurt or offend anyone in this group. I was not trying to break up the party with my comment, but I’ll have to remember that remark for future reference, because it had that effect on everyone!” Larry ge
nuinely smiled at the Heiress.

  “Well, tell me, what do you and the missus do for entertainment in these parts?” she continued, encouraged by her progress thus far.

  Larry winced. The Heiress sensed his sudden loss of balance in the conversation. “I’m sorry, if I misspoke myself. I don’t mean to poke my nose into places where it doesn’t belong,” she added without further emphasis.

  “Oh, please, no apology needed. Your question is just fine. It’s my answer that’s the hold up. You see, I lost my wife some years ago, and I’m still grieving it seems. It’s my problem, but I’m not able to get beyond it just yet,” he explained.

  The Heiress was touched by his sensitivity and deep feelings for his beloved mate. She volunteered: “I’ve been through that too; is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, at least you share this experience and know the dark times out there,” he acknowledged to her. “Does that part ever clear up?” he asked, fixing his gaze upon her.

  “I’m no expert on the subject. My husband and I were family friends for years before our spouses passed. Funny, I would never have guessed how all this would have turned out, you know what I’m trying to say?” she said, looking like a soulful human being.

  “In my way, it seems that I do,” Larry acknowledged, but without adding details while memories of Anna flooded his mind.

  The Heiress demonstrated her well-developed intuitive skills and directed the subject to the mundane issues of governmental farming politics, always a hot subject with plenty of opinions to go around. They busied themselves by becoming engrossed in a discussion of conventional farming topics.