The Whole Truth (29 page)

The old joke of recovery. Pretend you can do it tomorrow. Then when tomorrow becomes today, you say the same thing. Always tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

“Gincy, you're a good egg.”

“Tell me you're going to get to bed.”

“I don't know.”

“Tell me you'll get on your knees and say the prayer.”

“I'll do it Frank Costanza style. Serenity now!”

“The prayer works better.”

“Serenity now!”

“I heard you the first time.”

“Dude, I feel like there's all these plates spinning and I'm supposed to keep them spinning, but I can't see them all.”

“Keep talking. Get it out of your head.”

Steve pulled in at the back of his office building. He had been given one parking space by Mrs. Little, the one by the old wooden fence that was falling apart, that separated her property from a family-owned shoe store called The Cobbler.

“I'll be okay,” Steve said.

“Don't try and do it on your own.”

“I know, I know.”

“Steve, go to God. Don't wait.”

“I'm sitting in my car next to a shoe store. How about some other time?”

“How about now?”

“Thanks for being there, Gincy.”

FIFTY-FIVE

No, Steve thought, it would never be time for him. That train was out of the station. Too many missed stops. If God wanted to drop in, he'd had plenty of time to do it.

Steve trudged up to his office. It was looking like a real workspace. He promised himself he'd start looking for an apartment at the beginning of next week. Something small until he got established.

For now, this was home. He hooked up his MP3 to a set of small speakers and started the jazz library going. Then took off his shoes and sat down at his new laptop. He started a file on Neal Cullen and began a preliminary trial notebook. Even though most cases settled, he tried always to be ready to stand in front of a jury.

He hadn't done so well the last few years at that. Now was the time to get his mojo back.

It wouldn't be easy with Rennie as his chief wit. He wrote down Rennie's version of the events. Tried to imagine Rennie saying any of these things on the stand. The picture was not a pretty one.

At least it was work, and it felt good.

Around five, Steve went out for Chinese. There was a little place called The Golden Dragon a few blocks from the office. He had beef and broccoli, and slippery shrimp. Brown rice and tea. His fortune cookie told him that life with a smile was better than gold with a frown.

He didn't think that was much of a fortune, let alone smart. He'd take the gold and the frown and work it all out later.

After dinner he walked the town a little. Checked out the offering at the Sheffield Dinner Theater. They were putting on
Guys
and Dolls
, and the head shots of the cast looked a little silly. Nathan Detroit was being played by a kid too young for a fedora, but would have been right at home under a paper Fatburger hat.

It was fully dark when he got back to the office. He went around to the rear stairs. A lone orange lightbulb on the side of the building cast a sunset glow.

Right on a guy sitting on the stairs. A black guy, wearing a hoodie and black jeans and big red basketball shoes. Sitting in such a way that no one could get by.

“Excuse me,” Steve said.

“Hey, lawyer man,” the guy said.

“You need a lawyer?” Steve said. “You in some kind of trouble?”

“Uh-uh. You are.”

Steve looked at him. He seemed to be in his early twenties. Though he could just be young-looking. “What kind of trouble am I supposed to be in?”

The guy stood up, pulled a piece from under his hoodie, and pointed it at Steve's face.

“I don't believe this,” Steve said.

“Believe
what
?”

“Guy waiting for me outside my office at night with a weapon. Man, I get that back in LA. Why don't you just shoot me now?”

“You crazy?”

“A little bit.”

“Man, you are.” The guy seemed almost amused. “Let's go.”

“Go where?”

“Your car, man.”

“What?”

“Now.”

Steve decided he did not want to get shot. He did not want to go to his car, either. But if it was just a matter of money, the guy could have whatever he wanted. Even the Ark at this point.

He walked to his car, the guy behind him.

“Get in,” the guy said.

“What?”

“Get in your car. We're goin' driving.”

“You don't have to do this,” Steve said. “If you want money, I can get you some money.”

“Just get in now.”

Steve unlocked the door and got behind the wheel, leaving the door open. The guy reached around and unlocked the back door. He got in behind Steve. “Drive out to the highway,” he said.

Steve started the Ark and backed out of the lot. Taking it slow. When they got outside the town line, the guy decided to talk again.

“Now you listen,” he said. “You the lawyer gonna defend that guy?”

“What guy?”

“You know what I'm talkin' 'bout.”

“Then why don't you tell me what you want.”

“Damien didn't go after that guy.”

“Who says?”

“I says.”

“Were you there?”

“I seen the whole thing go down.”

“Oh yeah?”

“That's right.”

“You want to tell me what happened?” Steve kept the car going at a steady pace. One pothole and maybe he'd get a hole of his own, in his head.

“All you need to know is I seen it and Damien didn't do nothin'.”

“Are you prepared to take the stand in court and swear to what happened?”

“I ain't takin' no stand.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“You make sure your guy goes down.”

“Me? I'm his lawyer.”

“You gonna lay down,” the guy said.

“What, you mean throw the trial?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure, that'd look real good.”

“You know how to work it. You do it all a-time.”

“Why would I want to?”

The guy said, “Pull over.”

They were near a field, which in the night only looked like a huge sea of black. Not a bad place to leave a body. But if the guy had wanted to kill Steve, why bother convincing him to take a dive on a trial?

He stopped the car on the shoulder of the road. The headlights shot out down the highway and died in the dark.

“Do I have your attention now?” the guy said. His voice seemed to change. It was more . . . deliberate.

“You definitely have my attention,” Steve said.

“Good. You just keep your eyes forward and listen. You are into things you do not know anything about. You are being used.”

Definitely a voice change. The manner too. Steve said, “Who are — ”

“Shut up. I said listen. Do you know what's been happening in LA, the big news on the street?”

Steve tried to think of something. Couldn't. He waited.

“There's been some gang killings. Not just killings. Executions. Not just executions. Messages. Bodies skinned. Skins hung out.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve said. “I read something on that. Some psycho.”

“Not just any psycho. The happy psychos up at Beth-El.”

Steve chilled. “Can you prove that?”

“The investigation is ongoing.”

“Whose investigation? Are you a fed?”

“Listen, these guys want the gangs in LA to start blaming some Aryan for these things and then go for broke, start taking out a few white people at random. Then it'll be open season. That's the profile.”

Hearing the sound of his own breathing, Steve said, “I want to know who you are and why you're telling me this. I want you to tell me why I should believe you.”

“I don't have to tell you anything. This is just a warning. You need to get out of there. And you need to tell us what you know.”

“You don't give me ID. You come at me with a gun. What are you playing here?”

“Not playing, Mr. Conroy.”

“Then make it official. For all I know you could be some shill for the sheriff.”

“Look straight ahead, Mr. Conroy.”

Steve did. This whack job could still be a shooter. He heard the back door open.

“What you're asking of me is unethical,” Steve said. “I have not observed any criminal activity, and as the attorney for the LaSalles I'm telling you that unless and until you have probable cause you don't have any standing with me. Whoever you're working for, if you are working for somebody, this won't be — ”

He stopped, having the distinct impression he was now alone. He turned. Saw nothing but the night.

This is one crazy town.

FIFTY-SIX

Monday morning, entering the courtroom for Neal Cullen's felony arraignment, Steve felt like he was sleepwalking. He should have been alert and ready, prepped to do what he'd done so many times before.

But this was not like before. Everything — his client, his case, his whole life now — was encased in a block of industrial-strength strangeness. Night visitors with guns and old men in chairs, preaching racial purity.

And not just a lying client, but a lying chief witness too.

He tried to look semicoherent as he walked through the swinging gate. A row of chairs just inside the bar held a couple of lawyers who gave Steve the eye. These were no doubt local defense counsel waiting to plead their clients. Steve nodded at them.

One, a barrel-bellied bald man in a gray suit, looked away without acknowledging him. The other, a younger version of the bald man, had a little more hair and the gut wasn't as pronounced. They had to be a father-son team. The younger said to Steve, “How you doing?”

Just great! Life's a plate of jelly donuts and this town is the filling,
oh yes!

“Fine, thanks,” Steve said and approached the clerk. He was around thirty-five, the serious type. Steve gave him his card. “I'm representing Cullen.”

The clerk took the card and looked at his day sheet. Put a check mark next to a name, presumably Neal's.

“I assume he's in the holding tank?” Steve said.

“The bailiff'll show you the way,” the clerk said.

The bailiff, a female sheriff's deputy with the attitude of a disgruntled Dairy Queen manager, led Steve past the jury box and through a door in the back of the courtroom. The hallway in back was painted pea green. A holding cell to the right held three men. One of them was Neal Cullen, who was sitting on the bench, whistling. When he saw Steve he came to the bars, a huge smile on his face.

“You don't look like a man with too many problems,” Steve said.

“Don't ya know it,” Neal said. “You are the guy who's gonna get me out of this with no problem.”

“To be honest with you, it doesn't look quite that simple.”

“Huh?”

“All I am saying is that in this wonderful criminal justice system of ours, anything can happen. Now listen, this morning you have one job and one job only. That is to keep your mouth shut until I tell you to talk. I will tell you to talk when the judge asks how you plead. When the judge asks how you plead you will say, ‘Not guilty.' Are you with me so far?”

“All the way, man, down the line.”

“The judge'll set bail and I assume somebody will post it for you, or arrange a bond.”

“Johnny'll take care of all that.”

“Of course he will. Now when you get out, I don't want you wandering around town,
capisce
?”

“Yeah, whatever. No problem!”

So far, everything Steve said was according to the playbook. He'd given the same advice, in different forms, many times over the years.

Why, then, were the words sticking in his throat?

Neal crooked his finger and motioned Steve forward. Then he whispered, “You need another witness?”

“Oh. You have another witness for me?”

“If you need one. If you're feeling nervous.”

“Uh-huh. Is there a store in town? Witnesses-R-Us?”

Neal laughed. “You're funny, man.”

“Yeah, I am. I'll be here all week. Tip your waiter on the way out.”

When he got back to the courtroom, Steve noticed several LaSalleites sitting in the gallery. He recognized them from the Bible study.

Most prominent was Rennie, in the middle of the group, looking at Steve. Like he was hoping Steve would accuse him of lying again. Like he would love to rearrange the LA lawyer's facial bones.

And this was his star witness. Wonderful. The jelly just kept getting sweeter.

Johnny was conspicuously absent.

Mal Meyer had come to the prosecutor's table, studying a file. He looked up briefly, nodded at Steve, went back to his work.

Steve took a chair near the bar and waited.

A few minutes later, the back door opened and the judge walked in. The bailiff told everyone to stand, announced the judge, called the room to order, and everyone sat again. A normal start to another normal day in the great criminal justice system of California.

Right. And Steve was the next American Idol.

The nameplate in front of the judge read
Hon. Robert Lozano
. He was thin with wispy salt-and-pepper hair cut short. Steve guessed him to be in his midfifties. He looked tired. Not physically, just tired of sitting in a lousy arraignment court. He plopped in his chair like he was serving a sentence, not handing them out. Did not bode well. Just enter a plea and get out. That would be the ticket.

The judge dealt with the rotund lawyers first. They had their client, an equally rotund truck driver, plead no contest to driving under the influence. The judge ordered the client into an alcohol program and suspended his license for six months. That seemed to please everybody except the client.

Then it was time for Steve's case. The judge called it. The bailiff brought Neal in from the lockup and had him stand in the jury box.