Sins of the Fathers (15 page)

“What for?”

“To satisfy my curiosity, let’s just say.”

“Forget it.” DiCinni stood up.

“Sit down, Mr. DiCinni.”

“I don’t think I will. You want to arrest me, try. We’ll see what your boss has to say about that.”

“Don’t go too far away from town, Mr. DiCinni.”

“You got no authority over me. Don’t pull that.”

Now Colby stood up. He looked down at the squirrel. “You want to press it? You want to try me?”

For a brief moment DiCinni trembled. Then he gathered himself up and said, “I’m leaving now.”

“There’s the door,” Colby said.

“Yeah, and I’m going through it. Watch me.”

Colby did watch as DiCinni steamed out of his office, and he felt the old urge to tackle his opponent and lay him out flat, like the time he caught that Trojan receiver, a hot prospect, from behind. He wouldn’t take down DiCinni physically, of course, but the urges in the old football sinews never quite went away.

He sat down at his desk and studied the age-stained walls. The case was a little like these—not clean. It wasn’t the kid. If at the age of thirteen you can snuff the lives of children, your life is over. It deserved to be over. This kid couldn’t be rehabilitated, and he wasn’t mentally ill.

So what held back that certainty he cherished when he prosecuted a case? He wanted that big-game feeling, that no-holds-barred championship zeal.

Maybe he was just tired. Yeah, he was getting a little older. He still chugged up and down the court with the office basketball team, mainly banging under the boards. Yeah, maybe he just needed to conserve his energy a little better these days.

Certainly it couldn’t be Lindy Field that was bothering him.

5.

Books were preferable to men.

The thought hit Lindy as she lay in bed, getting ready to read. A book did not demand sex. It did not try to talk her out of her better judgments, though a good novel could seduce her. But that was a proper kind of seduction, one that didn’t leave her head full of regret and remonstrance in the morning. And in the morning, she didn’t have to figure out a nice way to kick the book out.

Lindy’s luck with men had not been good. The one guy she thought she might actually marry, another public defender, Maxwell O’Neill, had, in the end, turned out to be the quintessential loser. She should have seen it all along but was blinded by hope. She did want to marry someone, but the singles’ scene in L.A. stunk, restricted as it was to clubs and bars, where overdressed and overstressed men tried too hard to look suave.

But under their surface was just . . . more surface. They didn’t read newspapers; they watched Larry King. They thought Sean Penn was God and tried to brood like him. They looked more like unhappy puppies.

Once she met a man at Oasis who seemed to have it all—brains, talent, looks. And he wasn’t an actor (
oh, thank you,
no self-absorbed narcissist with perfect teeth who went on casting calls). His name was Raymong (“not Ray-
mond
and please not Ray,” he said) and he was dark and handsome. He worked as a tutor for poor kids while running his own graphic-arts business. And he knew who John Cheever was.

So it was promising and stimulating, this conversation with Raymong in the meat plant that was Oasis. So his eventual invitation to visit his home was, in her mind, the most promising development in her love life since the dumping of Max O’Neill.

Upon entering Raymong’s apartment, he revealed that he was gay. And that he had need of a lawyer to do some work,
pro bono
, for his graphics business, and would Lindy be interested in exchange for more “good conversation”?

She had to laugh. The one good man she’d managed to meet in three years of club hopping and, natch, he turned out to be gay. Another L.A. story.

Then Sean McIntyre came along. He seemed to have it all—looks, intelligence. Sure, he was a little too sold on himself. But he read books
.
He could talk about a wide range of subjects. And he was straight.

Their early dates had been wonderful, but now they’d arrived at the inevitable: the pressure to hop in the sack. Why did that always have to be the way? Why did a relationship always come down to that choice?

Tonight the only choice she wanted was which book to read. She read history and philosophy as well as Lisa Scottoline and Dave Barry. She had no criteria other than the book had to capture her by the end of the first chapter, or she was unlikely to go on.

What should she read tonight? It was her habit to read something light the night before going to court.

Maybe the new Scottoline.

She thumbed it open.

Cardozo dashed into the room in a cat-fright way.

“Hey, what’s up?”

He jumped on the bed and relaxed.

“Mouse chasing you or something?”

She heard a faint sound, like the twisting of sheet metal. Was it windy outside? Something brushing up against the trailer?

And then the trailer moved. Almost imperceptibly, but it moved. The way it would when heavy feet walked its floor, sending ripples of motion outward.

Skin tingling, Lindy threw off the covers and fairly leaped off the bed. She wore an extra-large T-shirt that flapped around her like an ungainly tent.

The gun. She had a revolver in a drawer. This was Box Canyon, which for some residents was the last outpost of the Wild West. A man took care of business himself here, and so did women who lived alone. The gun had been a gift from one of her Harley-riding friends.

Now she wondered if she’d actually have to use it. The gun had never been fired.

Was it even loaded?

The floor squeaked.

The kitchenette.

Cardozo mewed. Lindy almost shushed him but stopped herself.

She was bathed in light. If she shut it off, though, the intruder would know she was aware of his presence.

Hide.
The closet. She was small enough to fit comfortably and could watch for the intruder.

Or would she just be setting herself up in a little prison awaiting execution?

No sense calling 911. It would be all over before they got here.

Kill the light and rush him? No, that was the movie way, the Uma Thurman way, and she was no Uma.

It was at this moment Cardozo chose to leave the bedroom.

“No,” Lindy whispered.

Too late. His tail disappeared past the partition.

The intruder would see Cardozo. She was sure of it. She had no choice.

Uma.

She switched off her light and jumped through the darkened doorway.

6.

Dear God, what had she done?

Hit her husband.

Unforgivable.

Mona sat in her empty house in shock, the new constant in her life. It stretched across the rooms, an invisible but perpetual companion.

She’d hit him in the face with a cookbook. His nose bled. And then he left. Just like she wanted.

Maybe she
was
crazy. Maybe Brad was better off without her.

No time to think of that now.

Matthew needed her. Brad would have to understand that.

Her son needed balance restored to the universe. God wasn’t interested.

She would have to do it.

She would.

The dull ache that had been with her since Matthew’s death began to cover her like a second skin, and she welcomed it. She did not want to be comfortable ever again. Comfort led only to complacency.

Pain would keep her purpose alive, and the ache would motivate, push, keep her aware.

Matthew’s killer would have to die. He was only thirteen, but he would have to die. They had told her that he would not get the death penalty, but prison. And in prison he would surely die.

Balance would be restored.

And if anyone tried to keep him out of prison, well, she would have to find a way around that.

7.

Lindy knelt at the far end of her long, tin box, gun pointed at darkness. She had made the move and whoever was in her trailer knew he wasn’t alone.

But nothing happened. No quick movement in the shadows.

Am I losing my mind?
Had she conjured up this whole thing? Was her mind reaching for mental tricks to deal with the stress?

Or was he still here, as quiet as she?

She would wait him out, then, gun ready.

No sound. No movement.

Except the humming motor of Cardozo, purring against her leg.

Lindy stayed put, oblivious to time. She might have stayed there for ten minutes or an hour.

Finally convinced she was alone, she made a tentative move.

She half-expected someone to jump out at her now, like in some bad horror movie. A screeching owl or a hand from the grave.

It didn’t come. Lindy made it to the kitchenette and turned on the light.

She was alone. Cardozo padded in to observe her foolishness.

“Oh man.”

She got Cardozo a salmon treat, checked her doors and windows. All secure.

Talk about being on edge. On the day before she was to appear in court on the 1368, she had conjured up an elaborate fantasy. What did that tell her?

You really are in bad shape, Lindy. You are faking your way through
this case. You better get it together or you won
’
t be doing Darren or any
other client a bit of good.

But she found it difficult to sleep, and she read until 2:00 a.m. Even then, she never entirely shook the feeling that someone had actually been inside her home.

EIGHT

1.

Friday, Lindy dropped into the ninth circle of hell known as Department 11.

In California, it was up to a criminal-court judge to declare whether a defendant’s mental competence was in doubt. If such doubt existed, the criminal matter stopped in its tracks, and the judge kicked the case over to civil court for a full trial on the competency issue.

To get to that stage, Lindy would have to provide substantial evidence that Darren’s competence was questionable. This would not be easy, because bizarre behavior or statements were not enough. California courts consistently held the defense to a high bar of proof, but Lindy was determined to jump it.

Unfortunately, the hearing landed in the courtroom of Judge Varner Foster, an ancient jurist who seemed to have been on the bench since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. Foster delighted in making defense attorneys crawl in abject obeisance to his authority, and Lindy had tussled with him before. His bushy white eyebrows suggested sedated lab rats, stirring only to scorn certain defense motions.

Foster would be bad enough. The other obstacle in her way was a former linebacker who loved nothing better than cutting off defense lawyers’ legal legs.

Leon Colby sported an icy look, his “game face.” That was okay. Lindy had one of her own. And today, she imagined her face boasted of winning this motion despite the odds, because she had Dr. Ben Kitteridge on her side.

Lindy had moved the court for the appointment of an independent expert to examine Darren, and Dr. Kitteridge’s name came up first on the available list. He had served Lindy as a witness a few times in her public-defender days. He made a good impression on judges and juries, with his avuncular demeanor and gentle command of the facts. People trusted him.

Further, Kitteridge’s report had been superb. Now all he would have to do was testify to objective facts indicating Darren’s inability to participate meaningfully in his own defense.

The judge called the hearing to order at two in the afternoon—what lawyers called the dead zone. After lunch, both jurors and judges were prone to dozing unless the lawyers kept things hopping. Lindy was ready. She did not want Foster snoozing on this one.

Lindy called Kitteridge to the stand. After stating his qualifications for the record, Lindy began her examination. “Did you have occasion to interview the accused, Darren DiCinni?”