*****
Larry drove me to
the airport and pulled up in front of the Air California terminal. We got out
and I took my things from the trunk.
“You’re sure you don’t
want me to see you off inside?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” I
replied. We looked at each other. “You wanted me to balance the accounts. I
didn’t do it, did I?”
Larry looked worn
and frail. “I guess Jim showed us that people aren’t numbers.”
“No,” I agreed. “I’ll
be back in a month.”
“Until then.”
We embraced and he
kissed my cheek. I stood at the curb and watched his Jaguar melt into the
frantic Friday afternoon traffic.
On the plane I
thought about the loose ends: a drunken phone call from someone who claimed Jim
wasn’t the killer, Jim’s own insistence that he hadn’t done it, the fact that
Jim and Brian had been something akin to lovers, and Josh Mandel’s obvious lie
about where he had been the night of the murder. Grist for speculation but
hardly enough to take to the jury. Not even enough to change my own mind,
really. Jim Pears had killed Brian Fox. That much was inescapable. And yet...
I looked out the
window. The sea was white with light, an enormous blankness beneath a gentle
autumn sky.
It was as cold in
the court as it was outside in the rainy streets, the result, I was told, of
the heat having been off over the weekend. The bailiff wore a parka over his
tan uniform and the court reporter sat with her hands beneath her legs while we
waited for the judge to take the bench. The only other people in the court were
a middle-aged couple, the man very tall and the woman very short. Jim’s
parents. Walter Pears wore a black suit, a brilliantly white shirt and a dark
blue tie. Light gleamed off the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. His long,
stern face was set in a look of sour distaste that I associated with religious
fanatics and tax lawyers; Walter Pears was both. His wife was, for all intents
and purposes, invisible. Even now, looking at her, I was more aware of the
color of her dress — an unflattering shade of green — than her face. They were
here to reclaim their son. Poor Jim, I thought again, turning away from them.
The bailiff stood up and said, “All rise.”
Patricia Ryan
emerged from her chambers, seated herself and said, “Good morning, ladies and
gentlemen.”
We bid her good
morning. The reporter started to click away.
“People versus
Pears,” the judge said. “Let the record reflect that the parties are
represented but Mr. Pears is not present.” She shuffled some papers. “I have
received a medical report in this case by a Dr. Connor—”
“Uh, present,” the
doctor said.
“Yes, hello,
Doctor,” the judge said. “From what I gather it is your conclusion that Jim
Pears suffers from permanent and irreversible brain damage, is that right?”
Doctor Connor drew
himself up and surveyed the room as if he had just awakened in Oz. He saw me and
blinked furiously.
“Doctor,” the judge
said.
“Right,” he said. “Uh,
yes, Your Honor. Did you say something?”
In a voice of
practiced patience, she repeated her original question.
Connor’s arms
jerked up to his sides and backwards as if pulled by wires. “That’s kind of the
village idiot explanation,” he said, cheerfully.
Judge Ryan squinted
and said coldly, “Doctor, I’d like you to answer my question, not assess my
intelligence.”
The D.A. tugged at
Connor’s coat. He leaned over and she whispered, fiercely, into his ear. He
jerked upright and said, “The answer is yes.” He plopped back into his chair.
“Thank you,” she
said. “Now, it’s my understanding that the People wish to make a motion
pursuant to Penal Code section 1385.”
Laura Wyle stood
up. “In view of the unlikelihood that James Pears will ever be fit to stand
trial, the People move to dismiss the action in the interests of justice.”
“Mr. Rios?”
“No objection, Your
Honor.”
“Motion granted.
The action is dismissed. Mr. Pears is remanded to the custody of his parents.
Are they in court?”
“Yes, Your Honor,”
I said, rising. I turned to the gallery.
Sometime during
Connor’s disquisition Josh Mandel had entered the courtroom and now sat behind
me. Surprised, I wondered why the D.A. had ordered him in. “Mr. and Mrs. Pears
are present.”
“I am ordering Jim’s
release,” she said to them. “You’ll have to make arrangements to move him
through the sheriff’s office. My clerk will assist you.”
Walter Pears rose,
all six-foot-six of him. “Thank you,” he bellowed, mournfully.
“Court is in
recess,” Patricia Ryan said. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Rios.”
“My pleasure.”
She smiled
charmingly and left the bench. I turned to Laura Wyle. “You have a witness
here,” I observed.
She looked around. “Where?”
“Josh Mandel.”
“I didn’t tell him
to be here,” she replied.
Connor came around
and said, loudly, “Can I go now? I have appointments all morning.”
“Certainly,” she
said. “Thank you.”
“A waste of my
time,” he muttered, and pushed his way past the railing and out of the court.
I raised a
sympathetic eyebrow at the D.A.
“He’s a real ass,
isn’t he,” she said. “Well, excuse me, Henry. Lillian Fox is upstairs in my
office having hysterics.”
“My sympathies,” I
said.
Walter Pears came
up to the railing, leaned over and said, “Mr. Rios, if I might have a word with
you? Privately.”
I looked at him. “Sure.
Now?”
“If you please.”
“There’s a small
conference room just outside the courtroom,” I said. “I’ll be there in a
minute.”
“Yes, that’ll do,”
he said, as if bestowing a favor.
I turned around in
my chair. Josh Mandel was looking directly at me. “Hello, Josh.”
“Hi,” he said.
Today he wore a yellow rain slicker over jeans and a red crew neck sweater. Not
witness apparel, I thought.
“You came in for
the last act?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“I think the Pears
have first dibs. Can you stick around?”
He shook his head. “I’ve
got to get to Encino.”
“You want to tell
me what it’s about?” I asked, standing up and straightening my coat.
“It’s kind of
personal.” He was forcing himself to keep his eyes on me.
“Is it about Jim?”
“Sort of,” he said,
now standing too. The railing separated us by a few inches. “I don’t think he
killed Brian.”
“You have some
evidence?”
“Maybe. I’m not
sure — look, can I see you tonight?”
“I have plans, I’m
afraid.”
His face was adamant.
“It doesn’t matter when. I’ll be home all night.”
“Give me your
number,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll call you.”
“Okay.” He pulled
out his wallet and extracted a bank deposit slip, jotting his number on the
back. “It’s in Hollywood,” he said.
“I’ll call,” I
said, accepting the paper.
“Thanks,” he said,
and stuck his hand out. I shook it. I watched him go. Handsome kid, I thought,
and felt disloyal to Jim for having thought it.
*****
Walter Pears folded
his hands in front of him. They were big hands with stubby, hairy fingers. He
wore a heavy gold band on one finger and what looked like a high school
graduation ring on another. His wife, introduced as either Leona or Mona, sat a
few inches behind him as watchful as a little bird. I sat down in the only
other chair in the room and closed the door behind me.
I waited for Pears
to speak.
“As I told you
earlier,” Pears began after a few uncomfortable seconds, “I am also a lawyer. A
tax specialist.”
“Yes,” I replied. “You
told me.”
“I know nothing of
litigation.”
It was clear that
he expected congratulations.
“Well, some lawyers
just aren’t cut out for it,” I said.
A bit of color
crept into his neck. “That’s not precisely why I introduce the subject.”
“Do I get three
guesses or are you going to tell me?”
He straightened
himself in his chair. “I take exception to your tone.”
“You’re wasting my
time,” I replied. “And, as one lawyer to another, you know what billing rates
are like these days.”
For a moment he
simply stared at me while his knuckles went white. Then he cleared his throat
and said, “My wife and I wish to file a suit against the county. That is, I
believe, the proper governmental entity responsible for the maintenance and
operation of the jail.”
“That’s right,” I
said, outrage beginning to flicker in some dim corner of my brain. “What cause
of action do you have against the county?”
“I have undertaken
a preliminary investigation of the circumstances surrounding my son’s suicide
attempt,” he announced. “It appears that the medication he took was prescribed
to him by a physician at the jail.”
“There’s no mystery
about that.”
“Then you will
agree that the authorities at the jail failed to monitor whether James was, in
fact, taking that medication when it was given to him?”
“I wasn’t there,” I
said. “The fact is that he managed to stockpile it. You can draw an inference
of negligence by the jailers if you want.”
“I do,” he said. “Indeed,
I do, Mr. Rios. Not merely negligence, but gross negligence.” He pushed his
glasses back against his face from where they had slipped forward on his nose.
Only his eyes reminded me of Jim. “As a proximate result of that gross
negligence, I have been injured.”
“You?” I asked.
He corrected
himself. “My son has been directly injured,” he said, “but certain interests of
mine are also implicated.”
Leaning forward, I
said, “Mr. Pears, will you stop talking like a Supreme Court opinion and tell
me what the hell it is you want from me?”
“I told you,” he
said, stiffening. “I intend to sue the county.
I want you to
represent me or, rather, to represent Jim since the suit would be brought on
his behalf.”
I stared at him. “You
son-of-a-bitch.”
“Don’t you dare
address me in that manner.”
“The night your son
tried to kill himself you didn’t even have the decency to show up at the
hospital. I know that because I was there. And now you think I’m going to help
you pick his bones?” I had leaned further across the table until I was within
spitting distance of Pears. His face was aflame.
“We’re not rich
people,” a tiny voice ventured from a comer of the room. I looked at Mrs.
Pears. “Hospital care for Jim will be so expensive.”
“Don’t tell me you
don’t have medical insurance,” I snapped. “Besides, if you had any respect for
Jim you’d pull the plug and let him die.”