They sat down in the living room, a great room with a small wooden bar in one corner and a piano in the other. All fruitwood stained walls and high ceiling with beams crisscrossing overhead in darker hues. A picture window looked out over the circular drive and down the hill, providing a vista of the skyscrapers of Downtown and Century City, and a peek-a-boo view of some of the Santa Monica Bay to the right.
Florence moved to the bar and mixed a brace of strong martinis, turning to hand them out with her eyes focused on the Judge. Waiting.
Katy discreetly passed, opting for a bottle of water.
“As you know, Florence, sometimes I get involved in criminal investigations,” began the Judge.
“I know all that Judge. About the case on The Hill, and what happened over on The Island, in Avalon. Is this about that? Or the attack on you a week ago Thursday night?
“It’s the week ago Thursday night altercation on the beach. I’m afraid this is another fine mess I’ve gotten us into.”
“It’s the arbitration, isn’t it?” Katy chimed in.
“Yes. Not wholly my fault this time, but I… we,” he reached for Katy’s hand, “seem to be embroiled up to our eyebrows in something. I’m not quite sure what. But three people have died. And besides the attack me at on the beach, someone tried to stage an accident on the boat that almost killed us both.”
“Oh my god. It’s worse than I thought,” Florence said in a small voice, taking an unladylike gulp of her martini and slumping back against the sofa, sitting very still. She looked pale now, her dry white skin faintly showing a network of fine veins. “Maybe I’d better call Ralph.”
Florence got up and unsteadily walked out of the room, muttering her cell phone was in the kitchen. The Judge turned to Katy.
“We need to get you out of here, Katy. Right away. Somewhere safe where I don’t have to worry. Can you take some time off? Perhaps you and your parents could visit Vegas. You said your folks have a condo?”
“I’m not going to leave you by yourself, Judge. That’s a non-starter.”
“But Katy, they threatened you. Not me. You! They’re trying to use you against me. We have to take you off the field!”
“We come from a long line of frontier women, Judge. We’re used to reloading rifles. And using them when we have to. We don’t go scampering away at the first sign of trouble.”
“This isn’t the first sign. For God sakes. We could have died on the boat. We need to get you out of here.”
“Nope, not going.”
“What about our child?” the Judge whispered. “You’re risking its life too.”
“That’s an underhanded argument, Judge, and you know it. You’d like to play on my emotions. But the fact is you need my help. We’re a team now, you, me and our little half. We’re sticking together. All in. Win or lose.”
“But Katy….” The Judge had no other words. She’d deflected all his lawyer logic with a stubborn determination that was beyond rational. She was crazy. But he loved her for it.
“Tell you what, Judge. We’ll…. you and me and the half… we’ll stay here with my parents for a week. I’ll reschedule my private consulting in Lunada Bay. Set everything out a week, and hang out here. You can do what you need to do during the day. Then come back here in the evenings. The guard gate will discourage anyone from following.”
The Judge was doubtful. But Katy’s chin was in the air. He knew there’d be no further concession. At least not tonight. Staying with his newly anointed in-laws for a week was not his idea of a vacation, or even a respite. And it was only marginally safer than staying at home. But it seemed the only deal in town. He took it.
Florence returned, cell phone to her ear, and then handed it to Katy. She was still upset.
Katy listened to her dad for a bit, answered his queries reassuringly, and announced she and the Judge were self-proclaimed house guests for the week. This seemed to satisfy Ralph. Katy smoothly brought the conversation to a close.
Florence perked up at the prospect of guests. She bustled off to deal with beds and bedding, relieved to have something mundane to worry about.
The Judge settled deeper into his martini and wondered how close-order drill with his in-laws was going to work out. He wasn’t optimistic.
Florence reappeared briefly, the Judge suspected primarily to refill her martini glass, and then headed off to the kitchen to work up dinner for four. An hour later Ralph arrived home.
Dinner was served in a formal dining room at one end of a large mahogany dining table with candlelight from two large silver candelabras reflecting off antique tapestries hung on opposite walls. Florence was a very good cook. That likely explained why Katy wasn’t. The talent seemed to skip generations, perhaps for a lack of need.
As dinner was winding down and everyone except Katy had had their fill of two bottles of an expensive cabernet procured from Ralph’s wine cellar, a Floren Shafer Vineyards 2010, Florence turned to the Judge and said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the homeless, Judge. You know we should have laws in Brentwood against sleeping in parks. If you do it, you should get arrested.”
“You raise an interesting issue, Florence. The Great Recession has made the homeless more visible in communities because there are more of them. When homelessness become more visible, there’s more pressure on community leaders to do something about it. The knee-jerk response is to address what is essentially a social issue with the criminal justice system.”
“You mean you don’t approve of such laws, Judge?”
“I mean it's easy for elected officials to adopt criminal penalties because the public costs are much harder to see than the costs of new shelters and services. Ultimately, though, Flo, it's much more expensive to ticket the homeless in your park, generating subsequent court, prison and health costs, than to invest in more shelters and front end services. Besides, criminal citations just compound the problem, making it harder for the homeless to qualify for jobs and housing in the future. They have to check criminal boxes on application forms. They don’t have an opportunity to explain they were arrested trying to simply survive on the streets. It’s an automatic turndown of a job or a place to rent.”
“But this is Brentwood, Judge. We’ve paid a pretty penny to live here. With our kind of people. Nothing against the homeless, but I choose not to mingle with them.”
“Well, Florence, if the street and the park are privately owned by a private association that may work. But don’t you think the homeless are entitled to be on the public streets and in the public parks in Brentwood?”
“No. We should have laws. We should criminalize it, just as you said Judge. These people need to be cited and hauled off. It’s not right for them to come and just occupy the Brentwood parks.”
“I think you’re on shaky legal ground there Florence. Five members of the Supreme Court ruled some years ago that you cannot punish or criminalize truly involuntary or unavoidable conduct resulting from ‘Status’. That’s as contrasted to ‘Voluntary Conduct’. To do so is a violation of the Eighth Amendment prohibiting cruel and unusual punishment. The City of Los Angeles, of which Brentwood is a part, got its ass handed to it when it tried to enforce just such laws. Laws making it illegal for homeless people in Los Angeles to sit, lie or sleep in its parks and other public spaces.”
“Well,” said Florence. “Typical commie judges. We worked hard and we saved hard for our place in Brentwood. And we don’t want it mucked up by a bunch of homeless hanging around our streets and parks.”
“It’s a sad problem, Florence,” said the Judge. “Sad that one of the most prosperous countries in the world can’t seem to take care of its own people. Over 44,000 people were counted as homeless in L.A. County in the 2014 census.”
“Why are the numbers increasing, Judge?” asked Ralph.
“The Great Recession, Ralph. The high unemployment in L.A., despite the beginnings of a recovery. The gentrification of downtown and Venice, where cheap hotel rooms, m
otels and single-room apartments available to many of the poor have been eliminated. The high price of housing in the L.A. County. Rents keep going up and wages have stayed flat. Tonier neighborhoods resist all proposals for low income housing. Their battle cry is ‘not in my backyard’. And the number of mentally ill homeless also began to surge before the turn of this last century as the Baby Boom generation began to display symptoms of depression, anxiety disorders, and other mental illness. Psychiatric hospitals and group homes now struggle to keep up with demand.”
“Ok, Judge,” Florence said, “I understand what you’re saying, but I don’t want them on my front lawn, or down the street in the park where my grandchildren will play some day. So what’s the solution, Judge?”
“The most effective strategy, unfortunately implemented only spottily across the nation, has been to rapidly re-house newly homeless people and create permanent supportive housing, with mental health and addiction counseling. But securing significant money and the political backing to build supportive housing throughout L.A. County has been elusive. Ironically, a 2002 study which tracked 4,600 homeless people with mental illness in New York City over nine years, concluded that each person who remained on the street, shuffling in and out of jails and hospitals, cost the city and state $40,451 a year in services. While those placed in supportive housing cost only $17,277 per person, and even better, tended to stay off the street for good.”
“My receptionist was once homeless,” said Ralph.
All heads turned to hear more.
“For eight years, in her early fifties, Martha wandered the streets of Pasadena, sleeping in alleys, scouring dumpsters for scraps of food and smoking meth to fend off crushing depression. She told me her teeth were rotting, and sores broke out all over her body. She was sexually assaulted repeatedly and had her belongings stolen multiple times.
When things got truly bleak, Martha would check herself into the psych ward of a hospital, but she’d be discharged back on the streets within days. Some of her homeless friends gave up and actually flung themselves off the Colorado Street Bridge in Pasadena. Locals call it the ‘Suicide Bridge’. Martha said she considered using the bridge herself.
Fortunately, Martha hooked up with a worker from Housing Help, a Los Angeles homeless outreach center. He took an interest in her, escorted her to a processing center, and got ahold of counselors to diagnose her depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. He even found her an apartment and got a caseworker assigned to her.”
“What happened to her after that, dad?”
“Today Martha’s our receptionist downtown. She just turned 60. She lives in a one-bedroom apartment in Pasadena with her 8-year-old mixed-breed dog, Alfie. Takes the Metro into our office. She’s confided in me that the paranoia and anxiety still creep in periodically, especially late at night, but the meds and a watchful caseworker help her through it. She works part time at our office in the middle of the day. Dresses very well and is very pleasant to everyone. The clients all love her and so do we.”
“She was very lucky,” said the Judge. “The system actually worked for her after a time.”
Conversation went silent for a while then. The Judge considered how life might have been were his circumstances different.
Later after coffee and some aged brandy, Katy and the Judge, officially newlyweds as far as Florence and Ralph were concerned, toddled upstairs and down the corridor to Katy’s old bedroom. It was a young girl’s room, all pink and white paint, coral drapes, an embroidered Japanese wedding kimono in shades of white and coral turned into a comforter for the bed. Small framed photos of Katy growing up, on trips, at a prom, and sailing with her dad, gave the room the slight feel of a shrine.
Fortunately, there was a large king bed. They stripped off their clothes and settled into the bed in a classic spoon. He slid his hand around and rested it lightly on her tummy, wondering what life would be like when this kid got lose.
CHAPTER 38
10:00 Saturday Morning
The Judge considered what to do over his coffee the next morning. Frankie had had a girlfriend. The Judge met her once at a networking function. He recalled she lived on the Canals. He searched information on his cell for a Cathy Logan in Venice. He called, identified himself, and explained he’d like to meet briefly, suggesting coffee. She readily agreed, asking if they could instead just meet at her house.
Cathy Logan lived with her parents in an old bungalow on one of the canal streets in Venice.
The Venice Canals, built in 1905, had originally been part of a real estate marketing plan. With their gaily painted arched bridges, dramatic lighting and romantic gondolas, they were a popular summer promenade in the teens and twenties of the last century. Much of the canals were filled in for roads in the thirties and the remaining canals faded in prominence as piers and amusement parks were developed.
But the canals were rediscovered and renovated in the early nineties. Houses alongside the canals had the advantages of water frontage and proximity to both the beach and the Venice shops and restaurants. The high paying Silicon Beach jobs further increased demand for the canal homes.
The Judge parked on Eastern Court and walked over a steeply arched Venetian bridge, its weathered floors protesting slightly at his weight. Its rails sported thick wooden Xs painted a white lacquer, rather than the florid colors of the twenties. The tide was out so there was little water in the canal, leaving assorted canoes and rowboats in bright reds, yellows and blues sitting awkwardly aground, still tied to posts beside the path. A faint smell of old water foliage wafted up, a sour smell that the inhabitants proudly claimed to be healthy. The Judge was not so sure. But despite the slight odor, it was all pleasant, with lavish gardens cascading out from the small lots, reflected here and there with the sky in the still surface of the water.
The Judge stopped at number 12, red carved numbers atop its mail box announcing Dr. Logan.
The house was a single story bungalow with a mansard roof tacked on top. All green stucco, antique windows of varied sizes, and weathered shingles of the false roof rising at a steep angle in an effort to create some presence. It was jammed between two double story remodels to either side. Its best feature was its small patio and garden in lieu of a front lawn, carefully tended and clearly loved.
She was sitting in a white rocking chair on the small concrete patio. Surrounded by a profusion of hydrangeas in purples and blues, and white agapanthus and cabbage roses which overwhelmed the small yard and spilled out above the path in a lunge for the canal.
The chair fit the house exactly, except on closer inspection it was made out of white resin, not painted wood. Very practical and too bad at the same time, mused the Judge.
She stood up and approached him as he entered through the small spoked gate, extending her hand to give a firm handshake. Looking the Judge in the eye. Her dad had taught her well. The Judge could see she'd been crying. Large puffy circles around both eyes, and a nose whose tip was quite red.
He felt sorry for her. He felt sorry for himself. He'd liked Frankie, despite the fact he’d apparently sold out. He'd been an engaging young man, full of life and bounce. The Judge found it difficult to reconcile the law clerk he’d liked and enjoyed working with, and the shadowy Frankie he’d watched stealing the report.
Cathy looked early twenties. Younger than Frankie. Five foot five, curvy, with one of those bodies that looked soft and promising now, but would turn stout later. She had bright hazel eyes, a round face with a small pug noise, not unattractive, set off by a pink complexion. Irish was in the mix somewhere. She wore distressed jeans, tight to pack things in, and a beige silk blouse that suggested class and money. She was a doctor's daughter. It fit.
"Why don't we sit out here, Judge? It's a little more private." Gesturing toward the lawn chair next to her rocker.
The Judge settled into the chair, wishing he'd brought a hat to shelter from the sun.
"We met once, Judge. You probably don't remember. It was
an attorney's networking thing, Beverly Hills Barristers I think. It was my birthday. But you'd insisted Frankie join you at this mixer. So Frankie brought me with him and then took me out to a special dinner. Valentino’s. Funny how little bits and pieces of memories come floating back. Quirky little parts of our life together that'll never be again." She stifled a sob.
"I'm so sorry Cathy. So sorry," the Judge murmured. He remembered her, but it was a heavy duty networking gig and he’d only said hello and moved on. He'd not been there to babysit Frankie and Frankie's significant other but rather to find business. The practice of law was competitive. One had to be focused.
"He respected you, Judge. Said you were very smart, although a little needy."
The Judge maintained his sympathetic expression, hoping the flash of irritation he felt wasn’t noticeable. Needy indeed!
"He didn't kill himself, Judge.” Her eyes shot up to the Judge's, intense, willing him to believe. "He wouldn't have done that."
“They haven’t done an autopsy yet, Cathy. But I don’t believe he killed himself either. How long were you together?"
"Almost two years."
"Any plans for the future?"
"I've been pressing him to commit. You know how guys are these days. Skittish.”
The Judge had heard. The millennials were moving back home in droves. Scarce jobs, low pay, and heavy student loan payments left them floundering in a sea of economic distress. Moving home meant rent payments could go instead to the loan payments. A mutual interest of the young person and their guarantor parents. Parents could dote a bit further on their kids living at home, give further instruction on life which would be mostly ignored, and insist on house rules that chafed. Kids could make their loan payments, enjoy home cooked meals for free, and spend what would have been their food money on concerts, trips and dating. It wasn't entirely satisfactory, this forced co-habitation of generations.
But there wasn't much choice as the Great Recession of the 21st Century lingered, continuing to unravel the economy and squeezing the middle class toward the bottom.
Silicon Beach Page 24