Sins of the Fathers (6 page)

She saw the police witness, Officer Brandon Scott. She saw his eyes again, lying eyes. Like in the song.

And Leon Colby. He had to know his wit was lying. But he didn’t care. And in her dream, he didn’t care again.

She saw Marcel Lee, going away to do life in Quentin. And his mother, crying and screaming in the courtroom. At her.

Why
’
d you let
’
em do it? Why didn
’
t you stop
’
em?

In her dream, Lindy’s heart bolted out of her chest, bloody and beating, and fled into the dark place.

The dark place was Elmwood, the psych facility where they’d taken her after weeks of barely any sleep, after downing half a bottle of pills to kill the ghosts.

She saw Marcel’s face again, only it wasn’t his face, it was Darren DiCinni’s face now, and he looked at her, wild-eyed and hopeless.

And that’s when the guns in shadowed hands opened fire, filling his body with holes, his blood spraying her.

6.

“I can’t do it,” Lindy said.

It was 8:14 Tuesday morning. Darren DiCinni’s arraignment was scheduled for nine. Lindy’s stomach was churning. She could see the corner of the
Times
building through the window of Judge Greene’s chambers.

Greene, as always, spoke calmly.

“Is this you talking, or is it Marcel Lee?”

Lindy shot him a look, saw the astonishing understanding in his face.

“Both,” Lindy admitted.

“Then take it. Take the case. You have to put the ghosts to rest.”

“They never rest.”

Greene laced his fingers behind his head. “The thing about fear is that you don’t get rid of it by will. And you can’t sit around and wait for it to leave. It won’t. What you do is act. Right in the face of it. And then it slowly loses its power.”

Lindy rubbed her hands over the worn leather briefcase on her lap. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost another one.”

“But you’re not going to lose this one.”

She looked at him, wondering what he could possibly mean.

Greene leaned forward, putting his elbows on his desk. A pewter representation of the Ten Commandments sat to one side. Lindy always wondered what the ACLU would have thought had they known. She carried an ACLU card herself.

“Here’s what you do, Lindy. Go down there and plead him not guilty. Then make a statement to the reporters. Speak from your heart. Presumption of innocence for everyone. A bedrock of our system. The facts aren’t fully known. You know the drill.”

Lindy waited.

“Then you tell Colby you’re willing to plead guilty in return for disposition to a mental institution. They’ll offer you the twenty-five-to- life deal. You insist on minimum security and you’ll take it. Everyone comes out ahead. The state is spared the expense of a trial, you make a great deal for the boy, everyone knows your name.”

For a long moment Lindy saw it unfold just as Greene had said. “What if a mental is really what he needs?”

“If you can get Colby to go along with that, it would be a double victory.”

“I still don’t know. Let me get him through arraignment and—”

“Do it, Lindy. I know you can. And I’ll be right here if you need me.”

For the first time in a long time, Lindy felt like crying. She wanted to let everything out, find some footing in life again. She wanted to do it in front of Roger Greene, the one man who could understand what she was going through.

But she saw it was 8:44, and she had a boy waiting for his arraignment for mass murder.

Just get through the next hour
.
One step at a time. Isn
’
t that what
they told you, over and over, in the hospital? One step at a time. Five
minute increments, and you
’
re done.

But a cold tentacle of dread wrapped itself around her heart, squeezing the life out of any incipient hope for conclusion.

THREE

1.

As mother of one of the victims, Mona Romney was allowed a seat in arraignment court, along with the press, which was well represented. Several reporters asked her for a comment, but she refused. She was not ready to talk to reporters, or anyone else for that matter. She was here for Matthew, for his memory. And to see that justice was done.

She was grateful that a man like Leon Colby was handling the case. He seemed like the kind of lawyer who would fight for justice, wouldn’t let any defense lawyer get the better of him. Yesterday she heard her husband speak to him by phone. Brad expressed his approval of the man, told her about his reputation. He’d taken on tough juvenile cases before, built his renown on them.

Mona knew nothing about the defense lawyer, save that she was a petite woman with aggressively curly hair. When this woman, this Lindy Field, entered the courtroom, dressed in a gray pantsuit and carrying a briefcase and motorcycle helmet, Mona’s spine tingled with electric suspicion. She gave the lawyer a long look from the second row of the gallery.

Was she one of those tricky lawyers, the kind who’d do anything to win? The type who would hide evidence, lie to the court, mislead a jury?

She recalled the Menendez case, the one where the two brothers who’d blown away their parents had a feisty woman representing them. She tried a lot of things to get them off, but the jury came back with a solid guilty verdict.

This woman reminded Mona a little of that feisty lawyer. She looked smart. But Leon Colby was smart too. And truth—didn’t that matter? Wouldn’t that rise to the top in Colby’s capable hands?

Mona closed her eyes and willed it to be so.

On the way in, Mona saw other parents who’d lost boys to the killer. They looked like she felt, empty and worn down. They were all still in shock. Up to the last minute, Mona wasn’t sure she’d even come to the hearing. But she had some inner need to do
something
. If she didn’t come, she would be letting Matthew down. She could do this for him and maybe fill the void that gaped in her heart and soul.

She sat in the chair nearest the wall and exchanged terse introductions with a woman named Dawn Stead. Her boy Jared had been on the Royals, Matthew’s White Sox opponents that day. She seemed like she’d be nice enough in other circumstances. But now neither one of them was in the mood for talk. Mona couldn’t have managed anyway. Death was a fist inside her throat, choking the words.

Mona was so tense her shoulders cramped. Her son’s murderer was going to be in this room, not fifteen feet away from her. She didn’t know how she would react.

Once, when Matthew was three, he busied himself collecting leaves and sticks from eucalyptus trees, arranging them carefully in a pattern in the sandbox. Two boys, five or six years old, looked on.

Mona thought that was nice. But then one of them kicked the sand, scattering Matthew’s labor. The other boy joined in the destruction.

And Mona saw Matthew’s eyes grow wide with shock at the random violation.

Mona’s reaction was intense, instant, savage. Only the fact that she had to run from the picnic table to the sandbox, and was given a momentary pause to reflect, kept her from physically throttling the older boys. She wanted to hurt them, cause them pain. She was not rational. She did not
want
to be rational. She wanted to hurt the ones who had hurt her child.

Sitting in court, remembering that day, Mona’s chest tightened and she had trouble breathing normally. She wanted Brad with her, and she didn’t want him. Would things ever be normal again? Would life relent, give them a break?

And then, at nine o’clock, the defendant was brought in.

Mona gasped. She had seen him the day of the shooting, but only in a flash and far away. He had seemed huge then, but maybe only because of all that was happening around her. Maybe her mind had built up his monstrosity, adding layers to her memory.

But this was a boy, not much older than Matthew, and he was dressed like a criminal.

Because that’s what he was. He was one of the boys from the sandbox, grown older and harder and more evil. And despite his age, he had to be stopped. He had to be punished. He had to be put away for the rest of his life for what he did.

Mona realized she was holding on to the arms of the courtroom seat so hard her fingers were curled into claws.

The judge, Darlene Howard, looked like a grandmother, and Mona did not want a grandmother’s softness anywhere near this case. Even though this was only a brief hearing—
arraignment
was the word—it felt to Mona like a setting of the tone. She did not want the killer’s lawyer to get anything for her client, if anything was possible.

“The People of the State of California versus Darren DiCinni,” the judge said. “Counsel, state your appearances.”

“Good morning, Your Honor. Leon Colby, deputy district attorney, for the people.”

“Lindy Field,Your Honor, for the defendant Darren DiCinni, who is present in court. At this time we will waive a reading of the complaint and statement of rights and enter a plea of not guilty.”

Not guilty
. How could this lawyer even mouth those words? Contempt began to boil inside Mona Romney. This lawyer was an enemy to Matthew’s memory. She could not be allowed to get the killer off the hook, in any way.

The judge asked Darren DiCinni to stand up. “Mr. DiCinni, did your lawyer explain the charges against you?”

Mr. DiCinni?
Mona squirmed. How could the judge call him that?
Mister?
That kind of respect should be reserved for good people, not murderers.

The killer looked at his hands.

“Your Honor,” the killer’s lawyer said, “I explained the charges and proceedings to my client, but he has not communicated with me about his plea. This is an issue I will take up at a 1368 hearing.”

“Is that really called for here,Ms. Field?”

“I believe it is.”

“Mr. DiCinni,” the judge said, “is there a reason you are not communicating with your attorney?”

Nothing. Mona could not see the killer’s face, but it had to be defiant, unrepentant.

“I am addressing you, young man,” said the judge. “I want an answer. Why aren’t you talking to your lawyer?”

No response.

“Your Honor,” Leon Colby said, “the people will not object to Ms. Field’s withdrawing from the case. We want the defendant to have counsel he can cooperate with. We don’t believe a 1368 hearing is called for.”

“Your Honor, I do not believe Mr. Colby is the one who should be deciding who withdraws and who doesn’t. I am Mr. DiCinni’s lawyer for this arraignment, assigned by Judge Greene. I would request that a 1368 be set, at which time the permanent counsel issue can be settled.”

The judge glowered. “All right. Mr. DiCinni, you need to understand something. You are not going to get away with this act in my courtroom. You are going to speak when you are spoken to, do you understand?”

The killer, of course, said nothing. Mona’s contempt grew like a fireball, a flare from the sun of her hate.

“Speak up, young man. Do you understand?”

The killer shrugged.

“On the record, Mr. DiCinni. Yes or no?”

“I guess,” the killer said.

“I will take that as a
yes
. And how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

Another shrug.

“I will enter for the record a plea of not guilty.” The judge was clearly ticked off now. “The court accepts the plea. Defendant’s motion for a 1368 hearing is granted. I can’t figure out if he’s all there or not, so let’s let the experts decide. Next case.”

What? What just happened?
It was moving too fast. All Mona could gather was that the defendant was granted something.
What?
What?
And why didn’t Leon Colby say something?

Dawn Stead said to Mona, “And so it begins.”

“What?” Mona said.

“The defense lawyer’s gonna try to get the kid off on an insanity deal.”

“Off?” The word pecked at Mona’s chest. Off? As in walking out of the courtroom? As if he had never killed her son? “But she can’t.”