Prime Witness (8 page)

She has been carrying the office since Mario was hospitalized. Between her personnel records and what Feretti had told me, I have pieced together a few bits of her life. She has worked for two other prosecutorial offices before coming here, both in Southern California, where she racked up an impressive conviction record. A daughter of the barrio, she clawed her way out of East Los Angeles to graduate with top honors from USC and go on to take a law degree from that school, all on scholarship. She is a single mother with two small children. After spending her life in the inner reaches of L.A., she is looking for something better for her children, a quieter and safer life in a small town.

“I’m not here to shake things up,” I tell them. First impressions set fast and hard like a dog’s paw print in concrete.

“If I have my way, you’re looking at temporary help. I’m the county’s answer to a Kelly Girl,” I say.

This draws a little laughter.

Roland is licking his lips, the taste of opportunity. Boudin and Samuels are nodding their understanding. But Goya is an enigma, her eyes searching me up and down, measuring my every word. I think the lady is a cynic. Perhaps we’ll get along after all.

“There will be no change in assignments,” I tell them. “I hope I won’t be here long enough for that.”

Even this has no effect on Goya. She remains stone-faced, her shoulder leaning into the frame of the door.

“Join us,” I tell her. “I don’t bite. Have a seat.”

“I’m comfortable,” she says.

We are doing a little spider and fly act.

Given her attitude I skip the usual line of every civil service hack—assurances of an open-door policy. Goya will see this for the bureau-babble it is. And as for Overroy, there aren’t enough locks in the free world to keep him from my office.

“What does your schedule look like?” I’m looking at Goya.

“Why?”

“We need to talk about the felony calendar,” I tell her.

She looks at her little day-planner. Lawyers now carry these to every event and occasion like Baptist ministers with their Bibles.

“I’ve got time Monday morning,” she says, “before court call, at nine. My office or yours?”

“Yours.” I will concede a little turf, an effort to bring her on board.

“Why don’t I join you.” It’s Roland trying to horn in. If he’s going to climb back into the saddle of authority he knows it’s now or never.

“I don’t think we need to take Roland’s time, do you?” I look to Goya.

Her answer is a flat, unaffected “no.” I think this woman does not suffer fools lightly.

Roland is crestfallen, little squints of acid at Lenore Goya. But this is only fleeting. He puts a face on it. “It’s true,” he says, “I am pretty busy.”

People are getting out of their chairs, milling toward the door.

“Oh, one question.” It’s Overroy. He is smiling again.

“If they catch him, who’s gonna do ‘Shiska Bob’?”

I look at him, a question mark.

“The Putah Creek thing,” he says. “Who’s gonna get the case?”

I can’t tell if he actually believes I would consider him for the assignment, or if he’s just stirring dissension in the office, his way of getting the juices going in Goya.

“What did you call it?” I say.

He’s all smiles. “Hmm?” A quizzical look. “Oh that.

‘Shiska Bob,’” he says.

I nod.

“One of the guys at sheriff’s homicide,” he says. “When you work there for a while you get a funny sense of humor.” He says this with familiarity, fostering an image. Roland, I think, would like us to conjure the picture, he and his redneck buddies from homicide lapping up brew together, talking about the inside stuff, the hard core cases, the real dirt.

I shudder to think what Feretti might have thought of this headline “Shiska Bob,” blazing above the fold from the little local newspaper, the
Journal
, what Mario called the “Davenport Urinal.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hear it again.” There’s stone-deaf silence in the room.

“You might pass the word to the hot shot in homicide.

I’ll talk to the sheriff myself. We have families of the victims to deal with. We don’t need to inflict any more pain. They will be angry enough if we don’t come up with some answers soon.”

“I will,” he says. “Sure.” The smile is gone from Roland’s face.

For the moment I have side-stepped the question of who will get the nod on the Putah Creek cases, but Goya is looking at me. True to form, Overroy has opened the furrow and planted the seed of dissension.

My daughter is to be a rose petal, as distinguished from the shy violets, the seven- and eight-year-olds, in their hues of purple.

Sarah is dressed in a pink tutu, a rigid skirt that sticks out like the whirling rotors of a helicopter from her hipless little form. She wears this outfit over chartreuse tights so petite I could not fit one forearm into them. Yet even these form wrinkles like the skin of an old apple on Sarah’s spindly legs.

Nikki is busy with the camera, taking still shots of tripping pirouettes, poses by the fireplace in the living room, while I dress. Tonight is the capstone of a half year of lessons and a month of rehearsals, a cast of hundreds. The children’s dance workshop presents “Alice in Wonderland.” For this, the studio owner has rented the high school auditorium. It is the only place in town large enough to seat the legion of proud parents, and grandparents, siblings, and cousins, who will be on hand for this event.

As I look down the hall I see the litter of last night’s gathering. We’d entertained, and our guests had kids and these together with Sarah have trashed the better part of our house. The hallway is a scene of devastation. Ken and Barbie are on the floor, half naked. There is a littered trail of tiny clothes to the living room door and beyond, left as if by some dying tribe of Lilliputians wandering in the desert.

“Do you have the tickets?” Nikki asks me.

I check my wallet. They’re not there.

“I thought you had them,” I say.

“I gave them to you while you were shaving.”

I look in the bathroom. There they are on the countertop next to the sink.

“I have them.”

I hear Nikki sigh from the other room, something that says I would lose it if my head was not tethered to my body. Lately, she might be right. It seems that work is taking its toll, torn between two offices, living in the schizoid realm, half defense and half prosecution, commuting a million miles between each daily.

“Did you get cash at the ATM?” she says.

“Oh shit.” I say it to myself, under my breath, and still she hears this.

“I told you to get some money on your way home,” she says.

“I know, I forgot,” I say.

“Well, what are we going to do for cash?” she says.

“We’ll take it from grocery money,” I tell her.

“And forget to put it back,” she says.

While she talks I am raiding the system of little envelopes in the top drawer of our bedroom dresser, thirty dollars from the envelope marked “Food.”

“Damn it, Paul.” Nikki is standing behind me in the doorway. “I don’t ask you to do much,” she says. “I run the house, do the cooking on top of a job,” she says. “And you can’t remember to go to the bank on the way home.”

“OK. I forgot,” I say. “Give me a break.”

I pass her in the doorway, looking for my tie which I laid on a chair in the living room earlier. Sarah is watching television, the sound muted, CNN. It is the news I left on after dinner. Nikki is oblivious to television, so long as she does not have to listen to the noise. Of late, increasingly, what little time I get, I watch in silent mode only hitting the volume for some seeming world crisis. It is part of the price for peace in our house.

I find my tie, stop for a moment, and watch my daughter. She is dark locks primped and combed, like a gossamer fairy princess in her costume. Her gaze, sparkling brown eyes, is anchored to the screen. Then I look. Pictures of starving little children in some far-off place, bodies emaciated, in pain, bloated bellies and round, wanting eyes. She fixes on these, intense, absorbed, a communion of the innocent.

The picture changes, a talking head. Sarah looks over at me. I am struggling with my tie.

“Daddy, what is wrong with those children?”

It’s better, I think, to confront this than to sugarcoat it.

“They don’t have enough to eat,” I say.

“Why not? Why doesn’t somebody feed them?”

“There isn’t enough food where they live.”

“Why doesn’t someone bring food to them?”

“There are bad men there with guns,” I say.

“Why doesn’t somebody get rid of the bad men?”

In a nutshell, the circular debate of nations.

“That’s complicated,” I say.

She looks at me, the first thing she has not understood. Like most little ones, Sarah has acquired selfishness only as a competitive instinct when confronted with the rivalry of other children at play. On a more native level she is an ocean of empathy. In the quiet and solitary play that she seems to enjoy, her dolls are nearly always sick, throwing up. They suffer from a physician’s desk reference of maladies. It is any excuse to mother them.

To Nikki and me, Sarah is a litany of little offerings, crushed petals and broken stems, the gatherings of the garden, scraps of paper colored and punched, certificates of devotion folded and rolled in every hue made by Crayola. Tonight, for Sarah, it is not so much her performance that matters, but that she offers this achievement, as a gift to us. At five, children it seems have no concept of parents’ unconditional love. In Sarah’s limited view, I think, she feels the need to make some partial payment in the coin of acceptance, some compensation for our continued affections. She does not realize that she is compensation enough.

The phone rings in the kitchen. Nikki answers it.

“Just a moment,” she says.

“It’s for you.” She looks at me, an expression that says “this better not be what I think it is.” She hands me the receiver.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Madriani. It’s Claude Dusalt.”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to call you at home at this hour,” he says, “but it was important. We have a break in the case. Out near the university. Some evidence in a van. A lead on the Putah Creek killer. We need a warrant, tonight,” he says. “Can you meet me at your office in half an hour?”

I swallow hard and look at Nikki. She is watching me through the practiced eyes of cynicism. On my face, in the cast of my expression, she reads the message of still another disappointment.

“I understand,” I say. “I’ll be there in half an hour,” I tell him.

Dusalt hangs up.

“I have to go,” I tell her. “It’s a major break in the case. They need a warrant.”

“What else?” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

She’s already moving, grabbing her coat and purse.

With my wife I have learned over the years that it is not so much her words as her actions that convey true emotions. There is little hostility detected in her tone, more an expression of resignation. But Nikki is going about the routine of departure in stiff, measured movements, the sign of a deep, brooding fury.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “These things happen.”

“Sure,” she says. She gathers up Sarah and heads for the door. “You’d better hurry. It wouldn’t do to be late,” she tells me.

“Daddy’s not coming?” My daughter is looking at her mother with big oval eyes.

“Daddy has other, more important things,” says Nikki.

Sarah’s little saucers are now aimed at me.

I smile a little pained expression. I bend down to give her a hug to tell her that I am sorry.

Before I can, Nikki ushers her toward the car in the garage like some shepherded lamb. They are late, and in a hurry. My wife’s words are the last thing I hear as the door slams closed behind them.

“Daddy has work to do tonight,” she says.

Another debit in the parental account of a father’s love.

Chapter Six

“
I
want the van left where it is,” I say, “under surveillance for now, until I can work up a warrant. Nobody’s to touch it further without my approval. Understood?”

Claude has Denny Henderson taking notes as the three of us move at a quickstep across the commons and up the stairs of the county administration building. The lights out front have come on, though it is not yet completely dark.

“And I will need a good stenographer, somebody who can take dictation and who knows how to do a warrant.” I look at Henderson. “Do we have anybody?” He looks at Claude, who nods his assurance.

“Sheila Aikens,” he says, “the older gal in your office. Feretti used her, said she was pretty good.”

“Find her. Get her here now. I want the van watched around the clock. And get the owner registration.”

“We’ve already got it,” says Claude, “the vehicle registration.”

We push our way through the main door to the office.

Dusalt pulls a little notebook from his pocket. “It’s a 1973 GMC. Guy’s name is Andre Iganovich,” he says. He rattles off an address on the west side of town. “We’ve had the apartment under surveillance for a couple of hours. DMV is sending us a photo from his driver’s license for identification. Should we pick him up if he shows?”

“No. First we line up the legal ducks,” I say, “a search warrant for the van. Then assuming what we’ve seen inside is golden, we get another warrant for the apartment. If he hasn’t flown the coop, we can detain him during the search. We’ll take him down after we get an arrest warrant, based on the evidence,” I say.

“What if he shows up at the van?” says Claude.

This is more perplexing. We can’t let him drive off with the van and its contents. “Detain him,” I say. “Hold him for questioning. But no arrest.” I am adamant. I will not have some judge on review limiting our evidence, throwing out our case because we acted rashly.

Claude looks at Henderson. “Pass the word,” he says. And like a shadow on a cloudy day, Henderson disappears into one of the empty offices to use a phone.

From down the hall I see a head, spindles of long dark hair backlit by office light, and a pair of eyes peering around the jamb of one of the office doors. As I had guessed, it is Lenore Goya. Just as quickly as it appeared, the head vanishes back into its solitary sanctum.