by Paul Levine
I hadn’t answered, so Judge Gridley asked again. “Jake, you there? Was your public shaming enough?”
“The Bar thought it was. I took anger management classes and never had another complaint. When I applied for the prosecutor’s job, they seemed impressed with my rehabilitation. Sort of like a former addict who becomes a drug counselor.”
“That’s it, then. I’ll give Bert Kincaid a public reprimand and trust he’ll change his ways.”
“Sure, judge. Sure.”
Truth be told, I no longer cared about Kincaid and his punishment. All my operative brain cells were focused on Kip. Experiencing shame isn’t what changes a person, I thought. You need to deal with the wayward conduct itself. You need to accept responsibility. You need to rely on loved ones for support. You need to do a dozen things Kip would resist, but that wouldn’t stop me from trying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Subjunctive Mood
A few minutes after hanging up with Judge Gridley, I passed through the seaside town of Ventura, jagged mountains to my right, the ocean to my left, sparkling in the afternoon sun. My cell phone rang again. Caller ID didn’t show a name, just an 805-area code and a number that meant nothing to me. I answered with an inquisitive “Hello?”
“Is that Franco Harris?”
“Kip! Great to hear your voice. I guess the receptionist told you I called.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t say ‘immaculate reception-ist.’” He drew out the word, in case I didn’t catch the reference to Franco Harris’s improbable winning touchdown in a playoff game.
“How are you feeling, Kip? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Uncle Jake. Minor aches, a little stiffness.”
Uncle Jake. Okay, I’m liking that. The warmth in his voice, too.
“I want to see you, kiddo. We need to talk.”
“I’m guessing you’re on your way to Santa Barbara.”
“Maybe thirty minutes, depending on traffic.”
Just then, an eighteen-wheeler with signage proclaiming it was loaded with fresh fish moved into my lane, and I tap-tapped the brakes.
“Hey, thanks for the sweater,” I said.
“You like it?”
“I’m wearing it. It’s a real chick magnet.”
“You can’t say ‘chick’ anymore, Uncle Jake.”
“Why? Is it offensive to poultry? Listen, I met the twins, Dumb and Dumber. We gotta talk about this so-called tutoring you’re doing.”
“I know how you think, Uncle Jake, but don’t worry. I’m not gonna be busted or anything.”
“Who were those two guys in suits who picked you up from the hospital and chauffeured you around town?”
“Our lawyers.”
“Who’s ‘our?’”
“Max Ringle and me. They’re L.A. lawyers. Expensive and first-rate.”
“Listen, kiddo. Any lawyer of Ringle’s isn’t yours. What the hell were they doing in Miami?”
“The FBI is trying to subpoena me, and Max thought I should stay under wraps. I flew here last night on Max’s jet. Pretty cool.”
Max’s lawyers. Max’s jet. Max’s thoughts.
At least he was talking to me. But he was so blinded by Ringle’s money that he couldn’t see past the glare.
Traffic cleared a bit, and my Mercedes sailed along, easing through a slight bend in the freeway at Mussel Shoals, a scenic spot overlooking a line of oceanfront homes.
“Did you talk to the FBI without a lawyer?” I asked.
“You gotta chill, Uncle Jake. Max has an opinion of counsel that says everything we do is kosher.”
“Yeah?”
“Max asked the top law firm in L.A. to look at our business. They say it’s really ingenious, and even though it’s a little hinky, it’s not illegal because there are no specific laws covering it.”
“Really? Ray Pincher says the Justice Department doesn’t give a shit what your lawyers say.”
“C’mon, Jake. You and Sugar Ray are old school. Max says that relying on a legal opinion is a solid defense to a criminal charge.”
Once again, I had become “Jake,” a doddering old fool, and Max was Kip’s trusted mentor.
“That’s true in very limited circumstances. I want to see that legal opinion.”
“Fine, when we sit down with Max, ask him for it.”
“I want to meet with you alone first.”
“Why?”
“Your interests aren’t aligned with his. He’s the big fish, and you have to consider cooperating with the feds, if it’s not too late.”
“No way! I’m not gonna flip on Max. That’d be like me flipping on you.”
Oh, that puts a pretty fine point on it.
“And Max would never flip on me,” he continued. “We’re pretty much partners.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Did you talk to the FBI?”
“A couple losers in baggy suits came up to me six months ago, making threats, telling me I should wear a wire and implicate Max.”
Six months! I could have helped you, Kippers. But now?
“I wouldn’t talk to them. A few weeks ago, they came around again, saying it was my last chance. I should voluntarily appear before a grand jury. I told them to voluntarily kiss my ass.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this six months ago?” I demanded, my voice picking up volume.
“Because I knew how you’d react. Jake, I know you mean well . . .”
Sometimes you can hear a “but” roaring toward you, like a train whistle blaring around the bend.
“But I’m a grown man. A businessman. That’s hard for you, I get that. But I don’t need to be babied. And, frankly, you’re not my real father.”
Ouch! The unintended cruelties inflicted by the ones you love.
“That’s right, Kip. I chose to be your father.”
“You sound like you regret it.”
“Not true, dammit! Not for a moment.”
“So why didn’t you adopt me? Why are you still my un-cle?”
And why, Kip, are you dishing out heartache to the one person in the world who would do anything for you?
“I filed the adoption papers years ago, and you know that. I needed your mother’s signature unless I could prove she was dead. All I could prove was that her last known address was a jail in Shreveport. She was getting cash refunds from Target on merchandise she’d shoplifted. What could go wrong with that brilliant scheme? Time passed, and I didn’t think the formalities mattered that much. I considered you my son in every respect. I still do.”
He kept quiet, and I continued, “I’m sorry, Kip, if I let you down.”
For a moment, there was no sound but the whistle of tires on the pavement and a buzz on the line. Then, Kip said, “Even if I were your son . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Did you notice I used the subjunctive mood? ‘If I were . . .’ Because I’m not your son. There’s always a subjunctive mood question on the SAT.”
“Wherever you’re going with this, just spit it out.”
“Even if I were your son, at this point in my life, I’m capable of making my own decisions. I’m not mad at you for looking out for me. But your point of view is skewed.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Not everyone who makes a lot of money is a crook or a fraudster. Max Ringle has created a brilliant business plan, and he’s recognized my talents and is happy to share the wealth.”
What could I say? That you’re young and foolish and you don’t know that the big beautiful world out there is often a world of hurt?
“Jake, I want you to be happy for me,” he continued. “For my climbing the mountain so fast.”
“I promise I will be, as soon as I’m convinced you’re not walking off a cliff.”
“I won’t be doing this forever. As soon as I have enough capital, I’m going to open my own chain of tutoring businesses. Strictly legit. And I’ll help poor kids pro bono.”
“I’m not a criminal, Jake.”
I didn’t want to argue the point, so I kept quiet. The Mercedes was cruising through Summerland, a quaintly named village a few minutes from Santa Barbara, according to my GPS companion. My back was stiff from the cross-country flight and the drive up the coast. My head hurt from a lifetime of noggin-banging and my current shitload of stress.
“Okay, Kip, let’s stop jawing at each other. I’m just a few miles out of town and I’m dying to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Kip said, cheerily, as if we hadn’t just been hurling grenades at each other. “We’re having a reception at Max’s house for our feeders. I’ll give you the address.”
“Feeders?”
“Financial planners and stockbrokers who send us clients. We’re celebrating after landing a couple Chinese billionaire families. You wouldn’t believe what they pay to get their kids into colleges here.”
Kip kept talking about Max’s wonderful and splendid and profitable business. I exited the freeway and started driving up the gentle slope of San Ysidro Road in the ritzy suburb of Montecito.
When Kip’s upbeat monologue was over, I couldn’t help myself. “With the FBI on your trail, why the hell are you celebrating?”
“Jeez, Jake. Like I said, you gotta chill.”
“You know how Franco Harris made that immaculate reception?”
“Duh. We only watched it on ‘Greatest Plays’ about a hundred times.”
“How’d Franco score? Why wasn’t he tackled?”
“He ran down the sideline and no one caught him.”
“There’s more to it. Franco’s just a rookie out of Penn State, youngest player on the field, kind of like you at Q.E.D. The game appears lost. Steelers are down by a point. Twenty-two seconds left, fourth and ten from their own forty-yard line. Terry Bradshaw scrambles for his life, tries to hit Frenchy Fuqua deep over the middle, but Jack Tatum karate chops the ball. It should fall to the ground for an incompletion.”
“But Franco drifts out of the backfield as a safety-valve receiver,” Kip said. “I know. Everybody knows.”
“He kept running even after the ball went over his head toward Fuqua. So, Franco’s in the perfect spot to scoop the ricochet off his shoe tops before it hits the ground.”
“Yeah, sure,” Kip said. “Play ’til the whistle blows. You taught me that.”
“Four Raiders could have made the tackle, and it would have been game over. Jimmy Warren, a cornerback, was busy congratulating Tatum. Linebacker Gerald Irons was watching Fuqua on the ground, not following the path of the ball. Linebacker Phi Vilipiano did a lazy job covering Franco out of the backfield.”
“I get your point or maybe two points. Franco didn’t give up on a play that seemed doomed, and the Raiders started celebrating early.”
“Exactly! And six months ago, the FBI thought they could use you to put a case together against Ringle. When you said no, did they give up? Game over?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then last week the same agents ask if you’d voluntarily appear before a grand jury, right?”
“Yeah, I told you that.”
“And the feds have subpoenaed the twins. Meaning the grand jury is in session and the FBI is already presenting evidence to establish probable cause and return indictments. So, if I were you—and note my use of the subjunctive mood, because I am not you—I would damn sure not start celebrating quite yet.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Battle for Kip
I turned right on East Valley Road, and then left on Park Lane, continuing to climb the mountain past gated estates perched high enough for clear views of the harbor and ocean. There was little traffic, other than gardeners in their pickup trucks and dog groomers in their vans. It was a street that spoke of quiet money and secluded lives. I stopped in front of a gated palace that made Barry Popkin’s mansion look like a starter home in Hialeah.
The front gates were light wood and dark metal thirty feet high. A brass plaque on the guardhouse built of gray stones said Casa de la Sabuduría. “House of Wisdom.” A tad pretentious, but if you own an estate with both ocean and mountain views, well, maybe you can crow about how smart you are. I stopped at the guardhouse and was greeted by a uniformed man with a clipboard.
He asked for my name and told me I was the first to arrive for the festivities. He said that Lance would take me to the main house in a golf cart. I got out of the Mercedes, stretched and swung from side to side, easing the pain in my lower back. All those years tackling large, moving objects compresses the spine as well as concusses the brain.
Lance wore a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. With his close-cropped hair and aviator sunglasses, he looked in shape and ex-military. A guy about thirty-five who seemed thin—until you noticed the oversize wrists and the neck strung with cables.. Special Forces would not have surprised me.
Before we got in, he took out a metal detector wand and ran it over me.
“Anything metallic on you?” he asked.
“Does titanium in a shoulder and knee count?”
“No, sir.” He gave me a tight little smile. “I’ve got some in my spine, and it never sets off the equipment.”
I figured he’d gotten his spare parts in a far more important and courageous manner.
It was a five minute ride along two rows of towering oak trees. We emerged in front of a sprawling house in the Mediterranean style with an orange barrel tile roof. The house sat high on a mesa with a dandy view of the ocean and the Channel Islands. Two smaller buildings, likely guest cottages, sat farther down the slope, their tiled roofs barely visible.
“Dr. Ringle and Mr. Lassiter are on the terrace,” Lance said.
“Do I get a roadmap?”
“I’ll escort you, sir.”
Lance took me through the house at a fast pace. Lots of dark woods and large windows overlooking the sea. High ceilings crosshatched with heavy beams that might have been salvaged from Clipper ships. We passed a piano room and a game room with the requisite billiards table, pinball machines and free-standing video arcade games. I paused at the doorway, and Lance had no other choice but to also stop.
“What’s that?” I pointed at what looked like a 100-inch wall-mounted television screen. Ten feet in front of the screen were two pods containing cushioned chairs astronauts might use on a space mission, plus computer keyboards, headsets, and various control panels and remotes.
“EGame consoles,” Lance answered. “High tech ones, the kind they use in arenas for championship matches.”
“Does my nephew play?”
“Kip Lassiter? He’s the best. Fortnite, Call of Duty, World of Warcraft. No one can beat him, not even Dr. Ringle.”
We resumed walking and passed a theater with perhaps twenty cushy chairs and lots of plush red velvet inside.
“Lance! Lance!”
The woman’s voice came from behind us. We stopped and turned. A barefoot young woman padded toward us, her full lips pouting. Her toenails were painted a color that might be called midnight blue. She was lithe and tanned with chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a gold thong bikini and enormous red-framed sunglasses, each lens shaped like a heart. “Lance, what the hell’s wrong with the sauna?”
“Nothing, Ms. Ringle,” he replied politely.
“Really! My nipples nearly froze to death!”
I stared at the ceiling, both too chivalrous and too old to look for proof of her assertion. Lance, bless his security man’s heart, did the same.
“You have to pre-heat it,” Lance said. “It’ll take about six minutes to get to 175 degrees, just the way you like it.”
“Six minutes! Who’s got six minutes?”
Lance didn’t answer. She took off the big sunglasses, cocked her head, and studied me a moment. “You’re Kip’s dad.”
“Uncle. But yes, he’s mi
ne. You must be Shari.”
“He says you’re brain-dead.”
“A little dinged. Just a fender bender.”
“Kip’s adorkable.”
“You mean adorable?”
“No. A combo platter. Adorable dork.”
“Ah. I get it.”
“And he’s savage smart.”
“He is that.”
“You don’t seem anything like him.”
“Well . . . what can I say?”
“Kip’s a clout chaser who wants to be part of the fam, but to be dead-A, he’s so cringy that’s it’s awks.”
“My thoughts, exactly,” I said, not understanding a word.
“But he’s in my squad. I couldn’t have gotten into U.S.C. without him.” She put her weight on one leg and shot her hip, model style. “I’m a drama major.”
“I bet you’re very good at it.”
“I hate college. Why do I have to learn Spanish? To talk to my maid? I’m only there because Daddy makes me. Did you know Kim Kardashian never went to college? And she’s, like, a billionaire. She’s my role model.”
“Shoot for the moon, I always say.”
“I’m a social media influencer.”
I was quiet a moment, and she asked, “You don’t know what that is, do you?”
“Sure, I do. You’re on Chap Snatch and What’s Up?”
“You’re kidding, right? I do a vlog sponsored by NoBurn, the suntan lotion company. I’m the prime model, so I gotta keep my tan.” She spun around to give me a view of her coppery back and butt. “And I have 105,000 Instagram followers.”
“That’s a lot. About the capacity of Beaver Stadium.”
“That’s nothing! How many followers do you think Kim Kardashian has?”
“I don’t know, maybe two beavers. A couple hundred thousand.”
“Are you stoopy? More like 130 million!”
While I wondered if that could be true, she replaced her sunglasses, waved goodbye, and sashayed down the corridor, wiggling just a tad more than necessary.