J Is for Judgment

by Sue Grafton

  I knocked at the front door, waiting on the small front porch until Michael responded. He'd changed from his work clothes into stone-washed denim coveralls, the sort of outfit a plumber wears when he's crawling under the house. Having so recently met Brian, I was struck by the similarities. One was blond, one brunette, but both had inherited Dana's sultry mouth and fine features. Michael must have expected me because he evidenced no surprise at my standing on his doorstep.

  "Mind if I come in?"

  "If you want. Place is a mess."

  "That's all right," I replied.

  I followed him through the house, moving toward the rear. The living room and the kitchen were still furnished with opened but largely unpacked moving cartons, clouds of crumpled newspaper boiling out of boxes onto the floor.

  Michael and Juliet had taken refuge in the larger of the two small bedrooms, a nine-by-twelve space dominated by a king-size bed and a big color television set currently tuned to a baseball game that I gathered was being played in Los Angeles. Pizza boxes, take-out cartons, and soft-drink cans were crowded together on the surface of the dresser and atop the chest of drawers. The whole place had the air of a hostage situation where the cops were sending in fast food to satisfy the terrorists' demands. Everything was untidy, smelling of damp towels, french fries, cigarette smoke, and men's athletic socks. There were wads of Pampers in the trash, a flip-top plastic waste bin with used diapers bulging out.

  Michael, his attention focused on the TV set, perched himself on the edge of the king-size bed, where Juliet was stretched out with a copy of Cosmopolitan. A half-filled ashtray rested on the spread beside her. She was barefoot, wearing short shorts and a fuchsia tank top. She couldn't have been more than eighteen or nineteen and had already dropped any excess weight she might have picked up during pregnancy. Her hair was chopped short, a crew cut cropped close around the ears in a style the average man hasn't worn for years. If I hadn't known better, I'd have assumed she'd just joined the service and was off to boot camp. Her face was freckled, her blue eyes lined darkly with black, lashes beaded with mascara. Her upper lids were two-toned, blue and green. She wore big dangle earrings, jaunty hoops of pink plastic, apparently purchased to match her tank top. She set the magazine aside, visibly irritated by the volume on the TV set. The picture switched to a cheap-looking commercial for a local car dealership. The jingle blasting out sounded like it had been especially written by the wife of the company president. "God, Michael. Could you turn that fuckin' thing down? What's the matter with you, are you deaf or what?"

  Michael pushed the volume button on the remote control. The sound dropped to something slightly less than the levels required for ultrasonic brain surgery. Neither seemed to react to my arrival. I thought I could probably plop down on the bed and join them for the evening without attracting much notice. Juliet finally slid a look in my direction, and Michael made the formal introduction halfheartedly. "This is Kinsey Millhone. She's the private detective looking for my dad." With a nod at her, he added, "This's my wife, Juliet."

  I gave Juliet a murmured, "Hi, how are you?"

  "Nice to meet you," she said her eyes already straying back to her magazine. I couldn't help noticing that I was competing for her attention with an article about how to be a good listener. She felt for the pack of cigarettes lying near her on the bed. She explored with her index finger, picked up the pack, and peered in. She made a moue of exasperation when she realized it was empty. I found myself transfixed by the sight of her. With that marine corps haircut, she looked like a teenaged boy in eye shadow and dangle earrings. She nudged Michael with her foot. "I thought you said j you're going up to the corner for me. I'm out of cigarettes and the baby needs Pampers. Could you make a run? Please, please, please?"

  On the television screen, baseball play was resuming.

  His sole function as a husband seemed to be fetching cigarettes and Pampers. I gave this marriage another ten months at best. By then she'd be bored with all these nights at home. Oddly enough, as young as Michael was, he struck me as the sort who could really make a go of it. Juliet was the one who'd be testy and petulant, opting out on her responsibilities until the relationship fell apart. Dana would probably end up taking care of the baby.

  Michael, his attention still riveted to the set, made a vague reply unattended by any actual move to get up, a fact not lost on her. He was fiddling with the Cottonwood Academy class ring his mother had given him, turning it around and around.

  "Mike-cull, if Brendan pees again, what am I supposed to do? I just used the last diaper."

  "Hey, yeah, babe. Just a sec, okay?"

  Juliet's face got all pouty and she rolled her eyes. He glanced back at her, sensing her irritation with him.

  "I can go in a minute. Is the baby asleep? Mom wanted her to see him."

  Startled, I realized the "her" referred to me. Juliet swung her feet over to the side of the bed. "I don't know. I can check. I just put him down a little while ago. He hardly ever goes to sleep with the TV so loud." She got up and crossed the room, moving toward the narrow hallway between bedrooms. I followed, trying quickly to think of a generic baby compliment in case the kid turned out to have a pointy head.

  I said, "I better keep my distance. I don't want him to catch my cold or anything." Sometimes mothers actually wanted you to hold the little buggers.

  Juliet leaned around the door frame into the smaller of the two bedrooms. A wall of cardboard wardrobe cartons had been shoved into the room, all packed with heavily laden hangers dragging at the metal bars affixed across the tops. The baby's crib had been placed in the center of this fortress of wrinkled cottons and winter clothing. Somehow I pictured the room looking just like this many months from now. It did seem quieter in this jungle of old overcoats, and I imagined in time Brendan would get used to the smell of mothballs and matted wool. One whiff in later life and he'd feel like Marcel Proust. I lifted up on tiptoe, looking over Juliet's shoulder.

  Brendan was sitting bolt upright, his gaze pinned on the doorway as if he knew she'd come to fetch him. He was one of those exquisite babies you see in magazine ads: plump and perfect with big blue eyes, two little teeth showing in his lower gum, dimples in his cheeks. He was wearing blue flannel sleepers with rubber-soled feet, his arms held out on either side of his body for balance. His hands seemed to wave randomly like little digital antennae, picking up signals from the outside world. The minute he caught sight of Juliet, his face was wreathed in smiles and his arms began an agitated pumping motion, indicating much baby joy. Juliet's face lost its sullen cast and she greeted him in some privately generated mother tongue. He blew bubbles, flirting and drooling. When she picked him up, he buried his face against her shoulder, bunching his knees up in a squirm of happiness. It was the only moment in recorded history when I found myself wishing I had a critter like that.

  Juliet was beaming. "Isn't he beautiful?"

  "He's pretty cute," I said.

  "Michael doesn't even try to pick him up these days," she said. "This age, he's suddenly very possessive of me. I swear, it just happened a week ago. He used to go right to his daddy without a murmur. Now if I'm about to hand him to anyone else? You ought to see his face. His mouth gets all puckery and his chin starts to tremble. And the wailing, my Lord. He's so pitiful, it would break your heart. Dis little guy wuves his mudder," Juliet went on.

  Brendan reached a plump hand forward and stuck some fingers in her mouth. She pretended to bite, which stimulated a low throaty I chuckle from the child in her arms. Her expression changed, nose wrinkling. "Oh, God, does he have a load in his drawers?" She stuck an index finger into the back rim of his diaper, peering into the gap. "Mike-cull?"

  "What?"

  She moved back toward the bedroom. "Would you just one time do like I ask? The baby pooped his pants and I'm out of Pampers. I told you that twice."

  Michael got up obediently, his eyes still pinned to the television screen. Another commercial came on, and the shift seemed to
break the spell.

  "Sometime tonight, okay?" she said, hefting the baby on one hip.

  Michael reached for his windbreaker, which he snatched from a pile of clothes on the floor. "I'll be right back," he said to no one in particular. As he hunched into his jacket, I realized it would be the perfect opportunity to talk to him.

  "Why don't I go, too?" I said.

  "Fine with me," he said with a look at Juliet. "You need anything else?"

  She shook her head, watching a crew of cartoon bite-'ems demolish grunge from a dinner plate. I would have bet money she hadn't gotten the hang of washing dishes yet.

  Once we were out on the street, Michael walked rapidly, head bent, hands in his jacket pockets. He was easily a foot taller, with a loose-limbed gait. The approaching storm had darkened the sky overhead, and a tropical breeze sent leaves scuttling along the gutters. The paper had warned that the system was weakening and would probably bring us little more than drizzle. The air was already turbulent, erratic, and humid, the sky charcoal blue where it should have been pale. Michael lifted his face, and the promise of rain seemed to buffet his cheeks.

  I found myself ,trotting to keep up with him. "Could you slow down a little bit?"

  "Sorry," he said, and cut his pace by a third. The Stop 'N' Go was at the corner, maybe two blocks away. I could see the lights ahead of us, though the street itself was dark. Every third or fourth house we passed would have the porch lights on. Low-voltage lamps picked out the path of a front walk or an illuminated ornamental shrub. Supper smells still lingered in the chill night air: the aroma of baked potatoes and meat loaf with a barbecue sauce on top, oven-fried chicken, sweet-and-sour pork chops. I knew I'd already eaten supper, but I was hungry anyway. "I'm assuming you know your father might be heading back to town," I said to Michael, trying to distract myself.

  "Mom told me that."

  "You have any idea what you'll do if he gets in touch?"

  "Talk to him, I guess. Why? What am I supposed to do?"

  "There's still a warrant out for his arrest," I said.

  Michael snorted. "Oh, great. Snitch on your dad. You haven't seen him for years, first thing you do is call the cops."

  "It does sound shitty, doesn't it?"

  "Doesn't just sound like that. It is."

  "Do you remember much about him?"

  Michael lifted one shoulder. "I was seventeen when he left. I remember mom cried a lot and we got to stay home from school for two days. I try not to think about the rest of it. I tell you one thing, I used to think, 'Hey, so my old man killed himself... what's the big deal, you know? Then I had my son, and it changed my attitude. I couldn't leave that little guy. I couldn't do that to him, and now I wonder how Dad could have done it to me. What kind of turd is he, do you know what I mean? Me and Brian both. We were good kids, I swear."

  "Sounds like Brian was devastated."

  "Yeah, that's true. Brian always acted like it didn't matter, but I know he took it hard. Most of it rolled right offa me."

  "Your brother was twelve?"

  "Right. I was a senior in high school. He was in the sixth grade. Kids are mean at that age."

  "Kids are mean at any age," I said. "Your mother r tells me Brian started getting into trouble about then."

  "I guess."

  "What sort of things did he do?"

  "I don't know, petty stuff... skipping school, marking on the walls with spray paint, fistfights, but he was just messing around. He didn't mean anything by it. I'm not saying it was right, but everybody made such a goddamn big deal out of it. Right away they're treating him like a criminal or something, and he's just a kid. Lot of boys that age get in trouble, you know what I mean? He was horsing around and he got caught. That's the only difference. I did the same thing when I was his age and nobody called me a 'juvenile delinquent.' And don't give me that junk about 'a cry for help.' "

  "I never said a word. I'm just listening."

  "Anyway, I feel sorry for him. Once people think you're bad, you might as well be bad. It's more fun than being good."

  "I can't think Brian's having any fun where he is."

  "I don't know what the story is on that. Brian's talked about that one guy, Guevara I think his name is. He's a real bad dude. They were in the same quad at one point, and Brian said he was always pulling shit, trying to get him in trouble with the deputies. He's the one talked him into busting out."

  "Somebody told me yesterday he died."

  "Serves him right."

  "I take it you've talked to Brian since he got back. Your mother was in for a visit and so was I."

  "Just on the phone, so he couldn't say much. Mostly he said don't believe nothin' until I heard it from him. He's burnt."

  " 'Burnt' meaning what?"

  "What? Oh. He's mad. Judge charged him with escape, robbery, grand theft auto, and felony murder. Can you believe it? What a crocka shit. Busting out of jail wasn't even his idea."

  "Why'd he do it, then?"

  "They threatened his life! Said if he didn't go with em, they were going to kill his ass. He was like a hostage, you know?"

  "I didn't realize that," I said, trying to keep my tone neutral. Michael was so busy defending his brother, he didn't seem to catch the skepticism.

  "It's the truth. Brian swears. He says Julio Rodriguez shot the lady on the road. He never killed anyone. Said the whole thing made him sick. He had no idea them beaners were going to pull that kind of shit. Premeditated murder. Jesus, come on."

  "Michael, that woman was killed in the perpetration of a felony, which automatically elevates the charge to murder one. Even if your brother never touched the gun, he's considered an accomplice."

  "But that doesn't make him guilty. Whole time he was trying to get away."

  I bit back the impulse to argue. I could tell he was getting irritated, and I knew I shouldn't push it if I wanted his cooperation. "I guess his attorney will have to sort that out," I decided I better shift the conversation onto neutral ground. "What about you? What sort of work do you do?"

  "I work construction, finally making pretty good money. Mom wants me to go to college, but I can't see the point, With Brendan so little, I don't want Juliet to have to work. I don't know what kind of job she could get anyway. She finished high school, but she couldn't make much more than minimum wage, and with the cost of a baby-sitter, it doesn't make any sense."

  We'd reached the corner market ablaze with fluorescent lighting. We let our conversation lapse while Michael moved up and down the aisles, picking up the items he'd been sent to buy. I occupied myself at the magazine rack, scanning the latest issues of various "ladies" publications. Judging by the articles listed on the front covers, we were all obsessed with losing weight, sex, and cheap home decorating tips, in just about that order. I picked up a copy of Home & Hearth, leafing through until I came to one of those features called "Twenty-Five Things to Do for Twenty-five Dollars or Less." One suggestion was to use old bedsheets to make little dresses with tie sashes for a set of metal folding chairs.

  I glanced up and saw Michael at the front register. He'd apparently paid for his purchases, which the clerk was bagging. I'm not sure what it was, but I suddenly had the sensation that someone else was watching, too. I turned casually, doing a visual survey of the market. To my left I caught a flicker of movement, a blurred face reflected against the glass doors of the refrigerator, cases that lined the wall across from the entrance. I turned to look, but the face was gone. I moved to the entrance and pushed through the door, stepping out into the chill night air. There was no one visible in the parking lot. The street was devoid of traffic. No pedestrians, no stray dogs, no wind stirring in the shrubs. The feeling persisted, and I felt the hair rising up along my scalp. There was no reason to imagine that either Michael or I would warrant anyone's attention. Unless, of course, it was Wendell or Renata. The wind was accelerating, sending a mist across the pavement like the blow back from a hose.

  "What's the matter?" I turned to f
ind Michael standing in the doorway with the loaded grocery bag in his arms.

  "I thought I saw someone standing in the doorway looking at you."

  He shook his head. "I didn't see anyone."

  "Maybe it's my inflamed imagination, but I don't often do that sort of thing," I said. I could feel a silver shiver wash across my frame.

  "You think it might have been Dad?"

  "I can't think who else would take an interest."

  I saw him lift his head like an animal. "I hear a car engine running."

  "You do?" I listened carefully but heard nothing except the rustle of wind in the trees. "Where's the sound coming from?"

  He shook his head. "It's gone now. Over there, I think."

  I peered over at the darkened side street he was pointing to, but there were no signs of life. The widely spaced streetlights created shallow pools of wan illumination that served only to heighten the deep shadows in between. A breeze was moving through the treetops like a wave. The rustling conveyed something shy and secretive. I could hear the patter of light rain in the upper-most leaves. Ever so faintly, at a distance, I thought I picked up the sharp tap of heels, someone walking purposefully away into the gloom beyond. I turned back. His smile faded slightly when he saw my face. "You're really spooked."

  "I hate the idea of being watched."

  Behind us, I noticed the clerk in the store was staring steadily in our direction, probably puzzled by our behavior. I flicked a look at Michael. "Anyway, we better get back. Juliet'll be wondering what's kept us."

  We set off, walking rapidly. This time I made no attempt to slow Michael's pace. I found myself glancing back from time to time, but the street always appeared to be empty. In my experience, it's always easier to walk toward the darkness than away from it. It wasn't until the front door closed behind us that I allowed myself to relax. Even then, an involuntary yip seemed to escape my lips. Michael had moved into the kitchen with his grocery bag, but he peered around the doorway. "Hey, we're safe, okay?"