The Amazing Harvey (24 page)

Is it a good sign that he's asking why? I looked at Hannah. She was studying the prosecutor.

Warren said, “This is a single man with no children and no appreciable assets. He lives in an apartment. His rent is overdue and his landlord has started eviction proceedings. Mr. Kendall is facing life in prison. There's a high risk that he will run.”

Hannah stood. “Your Honor, Mr. Kendall has no criminal history. He's a well-respected member of the community. He's a substitute teacher with an exemplary record and an integral part of the professional magicians' community in Los Angeles. His mother is a forty-year resident of Los Angeles and she is here to vouch for him. So are two of his professional colleagues. Would the people supporting Mr. Kendall please stand?”

I twisted around to look. Mom, Marty, and David stood up.

The judge said, “You may be seated.”

Hannah took three pieces of paper from her briefcase and held them out. “These are letters attesting to Mr. Kendall's character. I sent them to Sergeant Morton several weeks ago, along with a letter that offered to surrender Mr. Kendall. He is a responsible citizen, Your Honor. He is not a flight risk.”

A court clerk came over to Hannah, took the papers, and delivered them to the judge. He studied the top page, pulled it off, then read the next. After reading the last page, he set it down and looked up.

Warren said, “The surrender letter was written before Mr. Kendall was facing eviction. He moved two trunks out of his apartment last night.”

Hannah said, “Those trunks contained his magic tricks, which he used in a performance last night. Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

The judge nodded. As she walked to the podium, Warren scrambled to get there at the same time. They spoke quietly.

I leaned forward, craning my ear, but couldn't hear anything.

Hannah gestured back toward the courtroom. Warren shook his head and pointed at the ground, as if he were saying, Right here. I heard Warren say “flight risk.” I heard Hannah say “responsible.”

After a few minutes of mumbling, they walked away. Warren looked like he had something sour in his mouth. Hannah was smiling.

The judge said, “Bail is set for one million dollars.”

I jolted so hard that it rattled my handcuff chain.
One million dollars?
Why the hell is Hannah smiling?

One …
million
 … dollars? Why not a billion, you asshole?

Hannah started gathering up her papers, grinning. I spoke louder than I intended. “Did he say one
million
?”

“A million is very good for a murder case. You only have to pay ten percent of that for a bond.”

I feigned relief. “That's fabulous news. I'll just write a hundred-thousand-dollar check out of petty cash.”

She tapped her papers against the table to square them. “It's already worked out.”

“What do you mean?”

Hannah stuffed the papers in her briefcase. “They're calling the next case. I'll explain later.”

“Later? When later?” The bailiff came over and unlocked the handcuff on the chair arm.

She picked up her briefcase. “As soon as they get us an attorney room.”

The bailiff said, “Stand up.”

When I stood, he positioned my hands behind my back. The bailiff racheted the loose cuff onto my free wrist. I looked back at Mom. Her eyes were red. She forced a smile.

Mom said, “It's going to be all right. I love you.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

 

The guard put me in a tiny room down the hall from the courtroom. The only furnishings were two chairs and a small table. Since my hands were still cuffed behind my back, I figured it'd be awkward to maneuver into a seat, so I stood.

The guard said, “Your lawyer will be here in a few minutes. I'll wait outside.” He closed the door behind him.

Will he be able to hear us?

A few minutes later, Hannah came in, holding her briefcase. She closed the door, sat down, realized I wasn't going to sit, then stood. She said, “I'm not supposed to tell you this.”

“Tell me what?”

She blinked rapidly. “What I'm about to tell you. But you're the client, so you're entitled to know.” She fidgeted with the handle of her briefcase.

“Okay. Tell me.”

She tightened her lips. “The only way we got bail was because your mother put up her house as collateral.”

I jolted back like I'd been hit with a blast of wind. “She … what?”

“The judge was going to deny bail. He thought you were a flight risk.”

My scalp suddenly itched. I went to scratch it. The cuffs stopped me. I said, “So that's what happened when you walked up to the judge?”

“I said your mother was putting up her house as collateral for the bond. I said you'd never leave her homeless. That's why he agreed to bail. Barely.”

I lowered myself awkwardly into one of the chairs. It pinned my arms against my back.

Hannah said, “Your mother insisted I not tell you. I don't feel right hiding it from you. You need to know before she actually pays the bail bond.”

“She's paying the hundred thousand?”

“Yes. And giving the bondsman her house as collateral.”

“Does she get her money back when I show up for trial?”

“She gets her house back. The bondsman keeps the hundred grand as the cost of the bond. Of course, if you don't show up for trial, she's on the hook for the full million. Which means she loses her house.”

I wrenched myself into a standing position. The cuffs cut my wrists. I spoke sternly. “Why did you let her do that?”

She narrowed her gaze at me. “Don't use that tone with me. She told me to get you out and not tell you about the house. I'm the one who's letting you know before she actually does it.”

I closed my eyes, let out a breath.

Can I let Mom do something like that? Part of me wishes I'd found this out after I was free, so I wouldn't have the dilemma. Can't say I love that part of myself.

I opened my eyes. “How long would I be in jail if we don't put up bail?”

“Hard to say. You're entitled to a speedy trial, but we have to prepare your case properly. Figure four to six months.”

Six months?!

I bit my lower lip. “When do I have to decide?”

“In the next few hours. I have to stop her if you don't want this. She'll be pissed at me, but that has to be settled between the two of you.”

*   *   *

When I got back to my cell, the Samoan was gone.

I sat on the bunk, let out a breath, and rubbed my wrists where the cuffs had been.

I swiveled my butt around, threw my legs on the bed, and lay back.

With the heel of my fist, I thumped the gray concrete wall. Hit it again. And again.

Can I spend months here?
Months?
I'm this freaked out after just one night.…

I pictured Mom scraping the last bits of tuna out of a can. I saw her standing in an art-supply store, digging through her purse, then looking sheepishly at the clerk. “Could you hold these brushes for a few days?”

What happens if I stay in jail? It'll kill my career. I finally got some momentum with that Vegas promoter. He offered me a thousand a week. Marty probably got him higher. With that kind of dough, I could start paying Mom back.

Assuming the Vegas gig wasn't derailed because I got arrested in front of the promoter.

I rolled off the bed and paced the cell. The length was exactly four paces. What's that, maybe twelve feet? I turned around and paced back.

I peed in the steel toilet. The stream hitting the stainless steel rang loudly. How're you supposed to sleep through that?

Can I let Mom risk her house?

On the other hand, she wanted to pay Nadler that kind of money. If I'd gone with Nadler, she'd have paid his fees
and
paid the bond on top. Look how much I saved her by using Hannah.

Would Nadler have gotten me off without bail? He's certainly a better-connected lawyer. Way more experienced.

Nah. Even Clarence Darrow couldn't have gotten it cheaper. Not with the DNA evidence.

*   *   *

A couple of hours later, lunch came in a brown paper bag. I sat on the bunk and crinkled it open. Bologna sandwich on white bread. Bag of corn chips.

I peeled up the top slice of bread to look inside. The mayonnaise puckered against the meat. I leaned down and smelled the bologna.

Without eating, I put the food aside and started pacing. I looked at the door. Through the open-grate ceiling, I heard two men yelling at each other in Spanish.

How'd I get into this? How did someone get my DNA to the crime scene? How would I do it as a magician?

I paced faster. I have a trick where someone signs a card with a felt marker; then I make it vanish and reappear, taped to the outside of a window. Since it's signed, I obviously have to use the same card. Did someone plant my DNA at the scene? How could anyone have gotten it? Maybe I left some saliva somewhere. Even blood. But semen?

Can you duplicate someone's DNA? That sounds impossible. Even if you could, why me? Why not go for some obvious criminal type?

I kept pacing. How would the great magicians of the past have done it? The ones who did the big tricks? Houdini's were mostly escapes. What about the illusionists?

Harry Blackstone. The wiry man with flailing hair. One of the greatest in the vaudeville era. He has a room dedicated to him at the Magic Castle. Blackstone once told an audience he was going to perform a trick so enormous that they had to go outdoors to see it. He guided them out, row by row. When they got to the street, they saw that the theater was on fire. His spiel—something we magicians call “patter”—had gotten them out safely.

Blackstone did spectacular stage tricks. The Dancing Handkerchief that darted through the air, and still danced after being plugged inside a glass bottle. The Electric Cabinet, where he locked his assistant inside and speared her with lighted fluorescent bulbs. His signature trick: pretending to hypnotize a woman in a flowing gown, placing her on a table, without hiding her inside a box, and running a huge buzz saw through her midsection.

Blackstone also did a trick where he made a woman disappear onstage, then had her instantly run down the aisle from the back of the theater. It stunned the audiences of the day. That trick's still good for a few gasps. Yet it was one of his simplest. Because …

I stopped pacing.

Hang on.…

Could that be it?

Blackstone used twins. He made one twin vanish onstage, then had the other run down the aisle.

Twins have identical DNA.

In our first meeting, Hannah asked if I had a twin. I said no, but could I? Could I have been adopted? Separated from a twin brother?

Mom's always taking in foster kids.…

Impossible. She wouldn't lie to me all these years. No way.

Would she?

There's no way she'd let me get arrested without telling me about a twin.

Maybe she doesn't know. Maybe I was adopted and separated from my brother at birth.

A twin would explain everything. How my DNA got there. Why I looked familiar to the apartment manager.

I walked over to the cell door and put my palms against the cold metal.

I can't stay in here. I gotta work on my defense.

I'll pay every penny back to Mom. I swear.

Even if I have to sell my trick to Copperfield.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

 

They sprang me in the afternoon. When I walked out the door of the granite building, I stopped at the top of the concrete steps and squinted in the bright sun. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I watched people hurrying along the sidewalk. Do you people have any idea how incredible it is to just go wherever you want? I took a deep breath of the fresh air, let it out slowly.

I felt someone touch my arm and jumped.

Hannah said, “Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

I took her hand and shook it. “Thank you.”

She held on to my hand for a moment. “C'mon. I'll give you a ride home.”

We walked a few blocks to an open parking lot, then drove off in her blue hybrid.

I said, “Would you take me to my mother's house?”

She nodded.

After a few blocks, Hannah cleared her throat. She spoke with her eyes fixed on the road. “So. The woman who called me after you were arrested. Is that your girlfriend?”

“How's your boyfriend with the Mercedes?”

She tightened her grip on the wheel. “He's just a friend.”

Hannah pressed the button to lower her window. A chilly wind rushed through the car.

I said, “I think I figured out how my DNA might have gotten in … um, ended up at the crime scene.”

Hannah looked over at me. “Oh?”

“Maybe I have a twin.”

“You told me you don't.”

“I know. I thought about it more in jail. Mom's always taking in foster kids. Maybe I'm adopted.”

Hannah screwed her mouth to the side. “You think she'd keep something like that from you?”

“She didn't tell me that she put up her house for bond money.”

*   *   *

We pulled up to the curb in front of Mom's house. I opened the car door. Hannah kept the motor running.

I got out of the car and said, “You want to come in?”

“I have to get to the office. Obviously, you should take the day off.”

She reached over, pulled the car door shut, and drove off.

As I walked up the sidewalk, the family of plaster baby ducks stared at me. At least those babies know who their mother is.

I felt my heart in my neck as I rang Mom's bell. Ed, the seven-year-old foster kid, opened the front door. “Hi, Uncle Harvey.”

I said, “Where's Mom?”

“In the backyard. Show me a trick.”