The Whole Truth (8 page)
Might there have been a mistake?
Or something else. Steve's brain started writing screenplays for Oliver Stone. This would all mean conspiracy.
Data is what he needed now. He put the bills back in the envelope and woke up his computer. Robert had died in Verner, California. Steve googled the coroner's office in the county where Verner was situated. Came up with a number for the county sheriff.
Called. Got a receptionist. A woman.
“I'd like to speak to the coroner's office,” Steve said.
“This is it. The sheriff is the county coroner. Would you like his voice mail?”
“Maybe you can help me.”
“I'll try.” Her voice was young and informal.
“I'm interested in the records of an autopsy from July of 1983.”
“I can connect you to Lieutenant Oderkirk. He's the chief deputy coroner.”
“Yes. Please.”
“One moment.”
Steve hefted the envelope of bills as he waited.
“Oderkirk.”
“Hi, my name's Steve Conroy. I'm a lawyer in LA.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“We're not all bad.”
“Kidding. What can I do for you?”
“I'm interested in an autopsy that was done back in 1983. Are those records available?”
“Sure. Back then they'd be on paper, but we're in the process of putting them on microfiche. Is this some official business?”
“For me it is. It was my brother, Robert Conroy.”
“Oh.” Pause. “Well, let me see what I can come up with. You have the exact date of death?”
“It was July of 1983. That's all I know. In a town called Verner.”
“Sure. Mountain town. I can look into it. What was the name again?”
“Robert Conroy.”
“All right. You have a fax?”
Steve gave him the number.
“Let me see what I can do,” Oderkirk said. “I'll try to get it to you by close of business. If not, then tomorrow.”
“Anything you can do. Thanks.”
“You bet.”
Steve thought about calling Ashley again. This time he wouldn't be asking for money. But he'd be able to tell her about LaSalle and the prison and five thou. She was really the only one he trusted.
But he decided against it. Whenever he called her now, there was part of him hoping she'd say, “Come on home, Steve. All is forgiven.” He had to get over that, had to accept the fact his marriage wasn't going to be put back together again.
The door opened and Milos Slbodnik walked in as if he owned the place.
Which he did.
“So,” he said. “Here you are.” Slbodnik was in his fifties, with a head like an unshaved coconut. He seemed to have hair coming out of every cavity and crevice. His substantial pot belly masked the fact that he was once a wrestling champion â a fact he loved to repeat as often as he demanded rent.
“A knock on the door would be appreciated,” Steve said.
“You making good or what?”
“You've got a payment.”
“I got a nephew.”
“Excuse me?”
“You make threat with law, I got law.”
“Mr. S, I just finished a case. I'm due to get paid.” Steve shot a quick look at the envelope on his desk. “And I may just have a major new client. Before you file anything, give me at least a week of good time.”
The landlord lowered his substantial eyebrows. “One week. And what you are owing is four thousand.”
“I got it.”
“I hope you got it.”
He grunted and left.
Steve's fax bleeped at 4:20. The cover page had Oderkirk's name on it. And then a report, which began with a doctor's letterhead.
Walker C. Phillips, M.D.
Pathology
Traynor Memorial Hospital
Verner, Calif.
Re: County Coroner's Case #83 â 015
Name: Robert Conroy
Age: 7 years
Date of Death: 07-14-83 at 0122
Date of Autopsy: 07-16-83 at 1530
Place of Autopsy: Bruck Mortuary
Witness: Leon Bruck
CAUSE OF DEATH:
CARDIAC AND RESPIRATORY FAILURE
due to
SECOND AND THIRD DEGREE BURNS OVER 85%
OF BODY
EXTERNAL EXAMINATION
The body is that of a normally developed Caucasian juvenile measuring 4 feet 5 inches in length and weighing approximately 95 pounds.
Steve stopped then, swallowed hard. Saw on the movie screen of his mind the little charred body of his big brother.
If it was Robert.
The report went on for four pages with medical jargon relating to different bodily organs. Steve flipped through them, but stopped for the final paragraph:
A review of the ante-mortem dental records revealed recent tooth loss at the site noted on the victim (see exhibit). This information in addition to routine odontological forensic landmarks aided in concluding a positive identification of the victim.
So there had been a dental ID. Plus, his mom must have seen the body. Steve couldn't ask her about it now, and she never spoke about it to him while she was alive. She did everything she could to give Steve a normal life. She just wasn't able to dig deep enough.
Steve guessed nobody could have. You're pretty much alone in this world and you're dealt certain cards. Some people pair up aces or get a flush draw. Others get nothing, and draw nothing.
You deal with it.
Right now he had to deal with five thousand and the mystery of Johnny LaSalle. How could he be Robert in light of this autopsy report? If he was, then somebody messed up on the ID of a dead kid's body. The body in Robert's grave would be somebody else. That was too wild to believe.
Stranger things had happened. But if LaSalle really was Robert, would Steve want to get to know him? He was split down the middle, like a crack in a house foundation. If LaSalle was Robert, maybe Steve could root out the dark inner core that had been weighing him down for a quarter century.
On the other hand, the guy was a convicted felon. A bad guy. Would he want to think of Robert this way?
The five thousand, which had a promise of doubling, was helping Steve make the decision. He was a lawyer. He represented bad people all the time. Why couldn't he do the same here? No matter who LaSalle turned out to be, he was a paying customer.
And that sounded pretty good.
A week went by. Steve didn't hear from LaSalle or his buddy, but he did spend their money.
He gave Slbodnik another check, one that wouldn't bounce. And bought a new suit. Not an expensive one. Off the rack. But it at least made him feel like he was on the way up again.
There was a DUI that settled on Monday. If it had gone to trial, Steve would have been able to get another fifteen hundred dollars from the client. But he well knew most of the time that things settled. DUIs were a volume business. You could scrape by if you got a lot and pled out most. But this was the only DUI on Steve's plate. He started counting the days when LaSalle would get out and hand him five more grand. At the very least he could have a good long talk about what happened, what kid was burned in that fire. And why LaSalle was contacting him now, after all these years.
Steve spat out a form motion for reduced sentence and credit for time served, to be used in the Mendez sentencing.
On Thursday afternoon he was in his office and got a call.
“Wanted to check in,” Sienna said. “I hadn't heard from you.”
“What? Was I supposed to call you?”
“I'm checking to see if you're okay.”
“Sure I'm okay. Why shouldn't I be okay?” He stopped himself.
“Look, sorry, okay? I was sort of on the downslope back there. Now maybe I'm on the upslope. A paying client and everything.”
“LaSalle?”
“You've got a good memory.”
“It was only a week ago.”
“Yeah, LaSalle.”
“What's he want?”
“I don't know yet. He's not out.”
“You may need some help.”
Steve laughed. “You would still consider working with me? After the way I treated you?”
“Let's just say I'm still looking for some work.”
“When do you want to start?” He imagined her walking into his office again, saw her at the door. Keep hope alive, Reverend Jackson.
“Anytime,” she said.
Go for it. “How about now?”
“Now?”
“How long will it take you to get here?”
An hour, as it turned out. She was dressed in a soft blue blouse with a silver cross necklace, and jeans. She had her hair down. It was long and silky. Made Steve think of a Fourth of July picnic, and the green flecks in her eyes were sparklers.
“Do you know anything about dead bodies in California?” Steve asked.
“It's nice to see you too,” she said.
“Come on in.” He closed the door behind her. “The law of exhumation. As in, if I want to have a body exhumed, what do I do?”
“You want me to find out?”
“That's what I hired you for, isn't it?”
“Hired?”
“I'll cut you a check right now.”
As she typed away at the computer, researching in a California-specific legal database, Steve looked at her silver cross.
“So, are you a Catholic like Madonna?”
She kept her eyes on the screen. “Nobody's a Catholic like Madonna.”
“Good point. Catholic?”
“No.”
“Fundamentalist? Evangelical?”
“Christian.”
“Theocratic government type? Or laid-back, pro-choice type?”
She cast a quick look at Steve. “You want me to research here, or talk about religion?”
“You ever heard of multitasking? Come on, I'm interested.”
“You know, don't you, that under California law you can't ask me that question.”
“As a basis for employment. I'm just asking as a fellow human being. I still qualify there, don't I?”
She stopped typing. “Okay. You have to file a request with the court and cc the county coroner's office. There's a form with points and authorities. You want me to print it?”
“You're very good,” Steve said.
“I'll take that as a yes.” She hit the print command and Steve's printer started spitting pages.
“Maybe now would be a good time to formalize our agreement,” she said. “How does fifty an hour sound?”
“Expensive.”
“I'll take that as a yes too.”
“On a per project basis,” Steve said. “I don't want you billing me while you're playing golf. You can do that after you pass the bar.”
“Done,” she said.
He would have paid her twice that. Because he wanted her around. He was liking her. She was smart and attractive. Not surface-level beautiful like some airbrushed model on the cover of
Vogue
. Hers was a more substantial allure.
Like Ashley's. She was an Ashley type, and he was on the rebound.
So what? What was wrong with a rebound? It could be the best thing in the world bouncing your way, and you could miss it, and he had missed so many things already. Years of missing things, feeling things were just out of reach â like a sense of
normalcy.
Big deal. Rebound. Take it. Start majoring in the art of forgetting Ashley.
“It's almost dinnertime,” he said. “You have any plans?”
She narrowed her gaze. “It's also not wise for an employer to make a social move.”
“You going to sue me?”
“I am going to go home. I'll be available next week.”
“For dinner?”
“For research. Thanks for the check. Are you ready for Monday?”
“What's Monday?”
“Mendez sentencing.”
“Oh, right. As ready as I'll ever be.”
“If you need me, you know the number.”
Steve almost called her Monday morning. But that would have been a little too obvious.
Carlos Mendez never had a chance of getting a reduced sentence. He did collect some credit for time served in custody. But his home for the next five years was going to be the California Men's Colony north of San Luis Obispo.
News which was not greeted with good cheer by the extended Mendez family.
Mrs. Mendez started in just outside the courtroom doors. “You lying son of a â ”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Mendez â ”
“Lie, lie, lie!”
“Ma'am, I never lied â ”
“You say Carlos come home!”
“Ma'am, I â ”
“You say it!”
“No, ma'am, I said there would be an appeal â ”
“I no talk to you no more!”
“Ma'am, there's a little matter of the bill. I â ”
“Liar!”
She turned her back and walked toward the elevators. The gaggle grumbled and cursed in low tones, words in Spanish that Steve didn't have to understand to know.
Which left him with a dicey proposition. He could try to squeeze the Mendez family for the fee, but that would be a long and probably uncollectible prospect. Or he could just let it rest. He hadn't been officially fired from prepping the appeal, but he wasn't going to do an ounce of work until he got something in the coffers. He guessed she'd cool off and come back for more.
The very picture of wishful thinking.
All he had now was Johnny LaSalle, who had retained him for he didn't know what.
Steve learned in recovery that idleness is opportunity. And his experience a few nights before alerted him to how close he was to a fall. If he was going to continue practicing law, he knew he had to do everything to keep from falling into the powder again.
In his car he had a booklet and looked up a meeting. When he'd been forced into recovery by the State Bar, he at first refused to go to a traditional twelve-step program. They were all based on the “higher power” idea, and he didn't buy that. But that was all he could find in the Valley, so it started as a matter of convenience. What saved him was a good sponsor, and that, he decided, mattered more than what people believed about powers, higher or lower or nonexistent.