Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

  "That's okay Mr. Jenkins. You're quite right of course. I'll talk to whoever’s the attorney for the Carl Greene Estate. He can communicate with you. You two decide what documents and authorization you need to produce a second copy of the report."

  "You mean ‘if’ I had a second copy. Yes, I think that's best," said Jenkins, sagging back in his chair. The effort of playing lawyer exhausting him. “Sorry to be difficult. You seem like an okay young man. But nothing ever changes, does it? No matter what I do. Always adversarial, always complications, always one more document or approval needed. And I used to be pretty good at it. I have all this experience. But no one cares whether I’m here or not anymore, whether I’m alive or dead. They even begrudge me my tiny office and phone. They’d like it for some firm associate moving up. I’m so damn old they consider me an embarrassment here. I think everyone would be better off if I just kicked off.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the case Mr. Jenkins. You seem sharp as a tack to me.”

  “You’re kind, son. Let me show you out.”

  Jenkins stood up, a little shaky but determined, escorting the Judge to his door and then along the hall toward the lobby.

  Jenkins leaned in close to the Judge, putting a conspiratorial hand on the Judge’s shoulder, and said in a low voice.

  “Enjoy your time young man. Enjoy your practice. Don’t ever take your health or your practice for granted. One day they’ll turn on you.”

  Jenkins politely limped the Judge back through the lobby and out to the elevator, watching until the doors closed.

  CHAPTER 46

  10:30 AM Wednesday

  The Judge exited the building onto Wilshire Boulevard and turned left toward Ocean Avenue where his car was parked. He vaguely heard a commotion behind him but ignored it as he pondered his next move. It was the paramedic's truck speeding around the corner, nearly flattening him in the cross walk, that got his attention. It screeched to a stop in front of the building he’d just left.

  A crowd had gathered on the street in front of the Jenkins, Jenkins & Halsey office building. Bustling paramedics in yellow uniforms were lugging heavy medical boxes into the center of the crowd.

  He turned and retraced his steps in a brisk walk. He pushed his way firmly though the crowd to its center, clothing himself with the judicial dignity that had worked so well in his courtroom when he was a judge.

  The inside circle of pedestrians were all wide eyes and gaping mouths. The crowd had been backed out by the busy paramedics, now packing up their boxes. The police had arrived and were taking over.

  The Judge looked up above his head at the face of the building. On a top floor balcony, four floors above, ashen faces peered over the rail.

  The paramedics moved out, exposing the source of the crowd’s interest. The small, thin, broken frame that had once been an old man. Now splattered with blood and other fluids, bone fragments sticking out here and there, he looked like a broken doll. He’d landed head first, still wearing the plaid bow tie, now askew, and the plaid suspenders. Gerald Jenkins. What in the hell was going on?

  The Judge stood there for a moment, frozen in time. Had he somehow been a contributing cause to this old man's death?

  The Judge jumped as a firm hand was put on his shoulder. He turned, ready to defend himself. Spooked.

  "Well, Judge, fancy seeing you. And low and behold,” Lieutenant Kaminsky made a flourish with his hand toward Jenkins, “another dead body. You seem to be a Typhoid Mary these days, Judge. Let’s see now, how many bodies is it? First Carl Greene, then Frank Wolin, then Randall Hicks, and now this gentlemen, whoever he is. Please don't visit me unexpectedly, Judge. I don't want to be the next victim."

  "It was only my pants at the site of Carl's murder," muttered the Judge, knowing he was quibbling.

  "So you say, Judge. So you say. Why don't you come up with me and we'll investigate this one together."

  It was more of a command than an invitation. Kaminsky and the Judge retraced the Judge's steps back up to the 4th floor. The law office lobby was filled with people now, mostly staff. The litigator attorneys were still away in court. The tiny bopper was huddled in the corner of the white cotton sofa, small tears occasionally sliding down one cheek. Her smeared mascara gave her raccoon eyes that somehow matched her tattooed arm. She looked even more Goth.

  Secretaries and paralegals, mostly women, were milling about, some nervously chattering as though they couldn't stop. Others hunched with hands in their slacks pockets, or arms folded tightly across their chests, quiet and internal.

  Kaminsky produced Jenkins’ wallet and asked who he was. An elder woman, medium height but stout, iron grey hair clipped short, dressed a tad more expensively then the rest in soft summer yellows and green, came over, introducing herself as the office manager.

  "Mr. Gerald Jenkins is our senior partner,” she said. “He is… was… very old, but he still came in to work every day.”

  "Who was the last person to see him alive?" asked Kaminsky.

  "He was," came a high pitched voice from the corner of the sofa. They all turned to the voice, the Judge finding himself the object of a finger pointed by the tiny bopper, suddenly come to life.

  The Judge turned back to meet the assessing stare of Kaminsky, looking at him the way his mother-in-law looked at lobsters.

  Kaminsky kept the Judge on the 4th floor for an hour, prowling around Jenkins’ office, the adjacent balcony from which he fell, jumped or was pushed, the adjacent stairwell that led all the way down to the underground parking garage, all its doors unlocked, providing easy access in both directions. He insisted on a full account of why the Judge visited Jenkins, what was discussed, and how it was left. He zeroed in on the report.

  “So this report you were asking Jenkins about. It was originally prepared by Jenkins?”

  “Yes, Carl Greene and Jenkins.”

  “And Carl Greene obviously knew what was in it, and he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your law clerk, Frank Wolin, had it, and he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Randall Hicks may have obtained a copy, and he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Gerald Jenkins knew what was in it. Hell, he wrote it. And he’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you looked at it in your office, so people may believe you know what’s in it.”

  “Yes.”

  “So why aren’t you dead, Judge? Is it because you’re the one snuffing everybody else out?”

  “Kaminsky, we’ve been through that. I didn’t really read the report. Besides, I’ve had close scrapes three times now.”

  “Count them for me again Judge.”

  “I was attacked on the beach. The trap with the rabid dog. The carbon monoxide gas attack on my boat. Three times, Kaminisky. Three times. Where were you when they were trying to kill me?”

  “Humph,” was all Kaminsky could manage.

  “Okay, I’m leaving, Kaminsky. You know where to reach me if you have questions or need more assistance.”

  The Judge turned and for a second time headed for the elevator. He could feel Kaminsky’s malevolent stare at his back as he stepped in and the doors slid closed.

  CHAPTER 47

  11:30 AM Wednesday

  The Judge returned to his office and carried on with his legal work, wondering if he’d still be practicing law when he was eighty. All he knew for sure was that a new kid, his kid, was on the way. USC tuition wasn’t going to be any cheaper in 18 years. And he wasn’t going to be retiring anytime soon.

  About 11:30 his cell phone rang. The voice on the other end was older, female, and tired.

  “Are you the Judge?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Frank Wolin’s mother.” This was said in a small sad voice.

  “Oh, Mrs. Wolin, I’m so sorry about Frank. He was a fine young man. On the way to becoming a fine lawyer. He will be sorely missed.”

  There was a pause
on the other end of the line. Someone was taking deep breaths and trying to compose themselves.

  “I need to see you Judge. Right away. It’s important. It’s private and about Frank. Can we meet this afternoon? Somewhere public but quiet?”

  “Yes, of course. Where do you live?”

  “I have a small apartment in Playa del Rey. But I don’t want to meet here. I’m afraid someone might be watching.”

  “There’s a little restaurant in Playa Vista not far from Frank’s condo. It’s on the corner across from Concert Park. It’s called Piknic. Why don’t I meet you there at 1:30? It’ll be quiet. It has a small dining patio in front.”

  “I’ll see you there, Judge. I’ll be wearing a black dress and a black straw hat.”

  The Judge made some hurried calls to change the times for two scheduled conference calls, finished up a letter of intent for another client, and left his office an hour and a half later. He found himself scanning the underground parking lot before getting into his car, and watching the traffic behind carefully as he plied his way south to Playa Vista. He saw no one following him. But then of course that was the point wasn’t it? He passed Frankie’s condo building and drove deeper into the Playa Vista development. The Playa Vista Project buildings were all pretty much the same. Oh, there were different colors and trim used, and there was some variation in height and balconies. Even a few two-tory townhome projects were squeezed in. But it was the sameness that stood out.

  They were all very much turn of the 21st century L.A. with their vaguely European shades of pastel. Squeezed together like the row houses of old London, only taller, with not much unique design. They would look old, tired and out of date in twenty years. Perhaps even a bit slum like. There was nothing in their design to raise the human spirit. Homogenized dwellings thrown up on a budget. Reminiscent of tenement projects in New York and Chicago at the beginning of the 20th century, dolled up with pastel paint. Lip stick on the pig.

  One of the few exceptions was the block-long park carved out in the middle of the projects. Lightly landscaped for minimum maintenance, laid out in levels, with a baseball field at its lower level, trails here and there above, and something of a running path defining its circumference, Concert Park was a treasure of green in the middle of Playa Vista. The Judge wondered if there were actually concerts here. Perhaps later in the summer. There were preschool children running amok in its small playground under the watchful eye of young moms and nannies, lounging on benches and using their words to share the morning’s gossip. A couple of runners, a man and a woman, jogging around the park; and a teenage couple were having a picnic, sandwiches and salads spread out on the lawn. There were no homeless here. Apparently none allowed.

  He drove down the western edge of the park and pulled in across the street from a small corner restaurant with an even smaller patio by its entrance door. The patio was filled with a handful of tables and chairs. This was Piknic.

  He sat there for a minute and watched an ample older lady in a black dress, matching straw hat and large purse, slowly walk out of the restaurant carrying a latte and settle at one of the tables. There was a sadness about her that colored her movements. She looked apprehensively over her shoulder and around the restaurant, cautious of her surroundings. And she clung to the purse with a death grip. This was not going to be easy.

  He walked to the patio and over to her table. He felt sad now too. He missed Frankie. Despite their disagreements about the patent case. Despite Frankie’s betrayal of the Canons of Ethics, and his betrayal of the Judge. Frankie had screwed up big time. But the Judge still missed the engaging smile, the soft charm and humor, and the intellect. Frank Wolin wouldn’t be easy to replace.

  The Judge motioned the waiter to bring him a latte as well.

  “Thank you for coming, Judge. My name’s Jasmine,” said Frankie’s mother, offering her hand.

  A brief scent of jasmine floated up from her hand.

  “A pretty name,” said the Judge.

  “My mother loved the flower and the scent.”

  “I am so sorry about Frank.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m still in shock. There’s an unreality about it all. I keep thinking he’ll call me later today. His once a week call.”

  Jasmine produced a tissue from her sleeve and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. Then willed herself back to the business at hand.

  “Frank thought highly of you, Judge. He was so proud to be working with you.”

  “He was a bright young man, Jasmine.”

  “I want you to know he didn’t kill himself, Judge. We’re Catholic. Frank would never have taken his own life. Not under any circumstances.”

  “You’re right, Jasmine. The police are looking for his killer and so am I. Did Frank have any enemies? Any money problems. Were there drugs or….?”

  “No Judge. He didn’t drink or smoke. I don’t know anyone who’d want him dead.”

  “How were things financially?”

  “The student loan payments are heavy. He had difficulty keeping up the payments on his condo. He said he was going to receive some money, Judge. Enough to pay off his student loans and buy a car. It was a side job, he said. Not through your law office.”

  “Did he say what it was about? Who hired him? Or what he had to do?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think someone might have killed him over this money?”

  “No, Judge. I think someone killed him over this.”

  She looked carefully around again. There was no one. Then she pulled a posted package out of her bag and slid it across the table to the Judge.

  “This arrived yesterday, Judge.”

  The Judge opened the package and shook out a large sealed brown envelope. There was a note across its face, jotted in a hurry, in Frankie’s hand.

  “Don’t open this envelope under any circumstances, Mom. If I suddenly disappear, take this envelope to the Judge. Go at once. Don’t tell anyone you have it. And for God sakes don’t open it. I love you Mom. Frankie.”

  “You take it Judge. Frank meant it for you. I don’t want to know what’s in it.”

  She stood up then, a big woman, perhaps five foot eight, early sixties, but shrunken now with a grief she’d carry to the end. She extended her hand for a final shake, another whiff of jasmine. Then she tottered out, leaving the Judge staring at the thick brown envelope sitting on the table in front of him.

  It was his turn to look around. He felt exposed and vulnerable. No one was in sight except for a white coated waiter with a black bow tie who drifted on and off the patio, likely checking to be sure the Judge didn't skip on his bill. He called the waiter over and ordered a glass of water to go with the pain pill he needed. His arm was throbbing again.

  He stared at the envelope a moment longer, wondering if he really wanted to open it. Its contents seemed to have the kiss of death.

  He turned it over and quickly opened it with his fingers. Inside was another thick white envelope, also sealed, along with a single page of white paper, neatly typed, Frankie’s scrawled signature at the bottom.

  A note from the grave. The note was addressed to the Judge.

  ‘If you’re reading this Judge, I’m in trouble. Let you down, bigtime. Call the police.

  My crushing student loans, mom as cosigner. Missed payments on my car and condo. It all finally got to me. My generation are fucking indentured servants to these damn student loans. And mom co-signed. Even if I die she’ll have to pay. They’ll suck out her savings and everything she’s got until she dies.

  I know that’s not an excuse. But perhaps an explanation of why. I took a chance to get out from under. I regret my mistake, but it’s too late.

  Randall Hicks, through his attorney, Dick Harper, offered me money to be their mole, report back your thinking on the case, try to sway your decision. I didn’t want to do it. But I needed the money.

  Then, when the motion for discovery of Greene’s new technology was made, Dick Harper doubled the money
if I could persuade you to grant their motion for discovery. Harper pressed hard.

  When you decided to review Greene’s disclosure report before making your decision, Harper was frantic. Demanded a copy of the report. Threatened to turn me into the State Bar. Said they didn’t care about the case, only obtaining the report. I think they were going to copy the technology offshore. Harper said Hicks would pay me $500,000 for the copy. The cash was irresistible. It would pay off all my loans and give me a fresh start.

  I took the report out of your locked drawer this evening. I made two copies. Delivered one copy to Randall Hicks a little while ago. Hicks is an asshole. He came up with a token cash payment and a song and dance about paying the balance later. I’ll never see it.

  I’ve just returned to my condo. Someone’s broken in. The original report is gone. I’ve only this second copy. Can’t return the original back to your office now. I’m screwed.

  I’m mailing this second copy of the report to my mother. Hoping this will give me leverage. Maybe I can get the original report back now they have a copy. If something happens or I disappear I’ve asked my mother to get this to you.

  I respect you Judge. You’ve been a patient teacher and a friend. You’ll know what to do.

  Frank’

  The Judge took another check of his perimeter, then opened the sealed white envelope. He dumped its contents on the table. A complete copy of the original report and exhibits delivered to him by Bruce Williams on behalf of Carl Greene.

  CHAPTER 48

  3:00 PM Wednesday

  The Judge sat back in his office chair, stretching his arms over his head, tired. He’d read the report, cover to cover, including every damn exhibit, many of which he didn’t fully understand. He’d also made another copy of everything and sent it by Fed Ex to Bruce Williams, now the attorney for the Carl Greene Estate, and a lawyer he knew he could trust. His note had said the technology disclosed was the primary asset of the estate, that the enclosed report might be the only copy of the specs on the confidential technology, and that it should be locked up in a bank vault for safe keeping.