Simple Justice (24 page)

Shall I put on some music?”

Templeton padded into the living room barefoot in a light sheath, carrying an overstuffed file folder and a laptop computer.

I was studying her CD collection, racked in a glass cabinet: Miles, Coltrane, Mingus, Monk. Art Pepper, Sarah Vaughan, Betty Carter, Mose Allison, Joshua Redman. We shared remarkably similar tastes, at least in music.

In a crazy way, I was falling in love with Templeton after all.

I still had no interest in going to bed with her, but there was no longer any doubt that we were attuned to each other in some special way, and becoming friends.

“If it’s all the same,” I said, “I’d like to get down to work.”

I sank into the deep cushions of her sofa while she spread her material on the glass-topped table in front of us: an impressive array of notes, transcribed interviews, photocopied documents, and computer printouts, all efficiently organized, labeled, and indexed.

I compared phone numbers from my own notes with lists she’d obtained, and crucial times related to Billy Lusk’s murder to schedules she’d compiled. Her interviews, cleverly framed to glean information many reporters would never have gotten, filled in much of the rest.

She handed me a copy of the media survey put together by the intern, Katie Nakamura, and I looked over the data I’d requested. It all added up pretty much the way I expected.

Harry called on the downstairs intercom. Templeton buzzed him in.

While we waited, I asked her how she’d convinced him to give me another chance.

“I told him that if he didn’t, I’d quit the paper.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I appreciate the opportunity I’ve had to work with you. I hope I get the chance again.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” I said.

“Whatever happens, Benjamin, it’s your story. You know that.”

Harry buzzed, and she let him in.

He was wearing a mustard-yellow sport shirt and plaid Bermuda shorts; sagging nylon socks disappeared into his scuffed brown loafers. Harry never had been much of a fashion plate, least of all on weekends.

“I take it there’s been a turn of events,” he said, which was the closest to a concession I figured I’d ever hear from Harry Brofsky.

While Templeton got me Tylenol and poured fresh juice for each of us, I showed Harry the photograph I’d found in Billy Lusk’s memory chest.

Then, over the next half hour, with Harry sitting between us, Templeton and I went through the data from our files, building our case step by step to its conclusion.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry said, when he’d been shown the last piece of the puzzle.

I told him how I thought we might handle the story, and the timing I had in mind.

He had the same worried look I’d seen in my apartment two days earlier, when he’d begged me to back off before I cost him his job. In a few hours, if we followed my plan, there would be no backing off, and Harry knew it.

Templeton saw the fear as well.

“Harry, do you remember what you told me when you hired me?”

His glasses were off, and he glanced at her with conflicted eyes. “You said not to bother going into the newspaper business unless I wanted to take some chances, make some waves. You told me that if I were the type who liked to play it safe, I should look for work in public relations. Because the newspaper business already had too many cowards and gutless career-climbers, whose main objective was to protect their jobs and collect their pensions.”

She took his plump hand and pressed it between her dark, slender fingers.

“I went to work for you, Harry, because you made me believe.”

He rose on his white stubby legs and fumbled for a cigarette. Then he went out to the balcony while Templeton and I sweated it out inside.

We watched him strike a match and cup his hand against the breeze. He kept his back to us and stared out at the whites of sailboats scudding through the low chop between Malibu and Redondo Beach. A thin column of smoke drifted above him, where the breeze carried it away.

Finally, he stubbed the butt, flicked it over the railing, and came back in. He faced us across the low table, jingling coins in the pockets of his Bermuda shorts.

“You know, Ben, if we do this piece, your byline can’t be on it.”

“I know that.”

“The story’s gotten too big, it’s too touchy. Your name would just…”

“Harry, I know.”

Templeton asked him what our next step should be.

He glanced down at the photograph we all felt could help convict a killer.

“I think you’d better set up your final interview.”

Paca Albundo attended Mass each Sunday morning with her parents at St. Vibiana’s Cathedral downtown, then spent the day working at the central public library, less than a mile away. I called her from Templeton’s condominium, and she agreed to meet me at the library after it closed at five.

I arrived a few minutes early, sporting a fresh haircut and a jacket borrowed from Fred. I’d had a nap and a good lunch and the world was pretty much back in focus, although my craving for alcohol nagged at me like unexpended lust.

I killed some time wandering the library gardens in front, following the waterways and staring into the fountains while I tried to shut down my feelings, the way reporters sometimes have to do when they cover stories that make them want to cry or throw up or find another line of work.

I stopped at the grotto fountain on the south side, where the water made its way down stone steps to the main pool. Etched in the arch above were the words of Frederick Douglass, dated 1849:
Power Concedes Nothing Without a Demand. It Never Did. It Never Will.

I looked at my watch. It was time to go in.

I followed the red-tile corridor to the eight-story atrium in the east wing, where I rode the escalator down to lower level four, watching the skylight and hanging sculptures grow more distant above me and sensing the weight of two million books all around.

Paca was behind a counter in the history section, checking a stack of volumes on Native American culture against a list on a computer screen. Other librarians were at work around her, and she suggested we find a more private place to talk.

She led me to the Cook Rotunda, where we had the big chamber all to ourselves, standing directly beneath the dome. A mural depicting Los Angeles history—priests, peasants, trading ships—covered the upper walls. I felt small standing there, a speck in time, and my personal concerns didn’t seem so important anymore.

“I’m not making any promises,” I told her, “but I think your brother may be released from jail soon.”

“Luis?”

“Gonzalo.”

Her small hand seized my arm.

“Are you sure?”

“I think there’s a good chance he’ll be cleared.”

She let go of my arm and turned away. When she faced me again, I could see the distrust. “Why are you telling me this if you can’t be sure? Why not wait until we know for certain?”

“Because if it happens, you need to be ready.”

She hesitated, and when she spoke, her voice was weak and insincere.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

I reached into my coat for a brochure I’d picked up that afternoon from the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Services Center. I handed it to her and told her she’d find help there.

“They can even put you in touch with special programs for Hispanic kids,” I said. “They do a lot of good work, salvage a lot of lives.”

She didn’t say anything, so I asked her if any of what I was saying made sense.

Her voice picked up some strength.

“Yes.”

“He’s going to need all the support you can give him, Paca. It may be hard for you. Harder for your parents. But it’s a million times worse for him. He’s the loneliest kid in the world right now. And the most frightened.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

I’d promised Templeton I’d meet her at six, a few blocks away.

“I have to go.”

Paca grabbed my wrist.

“When will we know?”

“Within a few hours. If things go the way we hope.”

“Thank you.” She pressed the back of my hand to her lips. “For everything.”

“Take care of him, Paca.”

I left her standing there, looking tiny but resourceful, with history and knowledge all around her.

I walked outside, into the shadows cast by downtown skyscrapers.

Among them were the five metallic-looking columns of the Bonaventure Hotel, rising in a cluster thirty-five stories above the city, looking like the futuristic spires of a space age metropolis.

I turned in their direction, where Templeton waited.

I’d asked Templeton to arrive at the Bonaventure ahead of me so I wouldn’t be waiting alone.

I didn’t want to be tempted by the tinkling of cocktail glasses in the lounge and the sight of all those gleaming bottles calling to me from behind the bar.

She met me as I stepped out of the elevator at the top floor.

She carried a Gucci briefcase, rather than her usual oversized handbag, and looked mature and serious in high heels and a business suit buttoned all the way to the neck.

“Nice threads,” I said.

“Thanks. Feeling better?”

“I could use some coffee.”

I knew she must be experiencing some anxiety over the work ahead, as I was. But I also figured she was too professional to mention it, which proved to be the case.

As we made our way to the restaurant, she informed me that deputies had found Luis Albundo’s gun. He’d tossed it into the vines around the historic Frank Lloyd Wright House on North Doheny Drive. She’d also been informed that it wasn’t the weapon used to murder Billy Lusk, which by then was a surprise to neither of us.

We told the host that a third party would be joining us. He grabbed three menus, led us around the revolving restaurant, and seated us by a window that faced northwest.

With its outer walls of partitioned glass, the circular restaurant resembled a giant spaceship, hovering eerily above the city. As its floor slowly rotated, we could see the Hollywood Sign against the golden hills in the distance and the approach of the Griffith Park Observatory along a ridge to the east. In the street, thirty-five stories below, pedestrians and vehicles appeared minuscule and unreal.

Templeton and I sat side by side, spreading out our notes and going over our game plan.

Our timing during the rest of the evening would be crucial, and we’d planned a framework for the interview with our minds on the clock.

The deadline for breaking news at the
Sun
was 11:30 p.m., although the editors could do a makeover in extreme emergencies two or three hours beyond that. But that was costly and complicated, requiring clearances from the top, which we wanted to avoid.

That meant Templeton needed to file a solid story no later than eleven to allow for editing, then moving from the copy desk to production. From there, it would pass through paste-up to plating before the presses rolled.

At that moment, Harry was at the
Sun
, laying out the pages, selecting and captioning photos, and writing the headline and deck. He planned a forty-two-point headline across the top of page one, with a three-line deck, a one-column lead running fifteen inches, and thirty inches of jump inside. That would give us a total of forty-five column inches for nothing but copy and subheads.

If we didn’t get the story, Harry would go to an optional layout, leading with another piece, and hurry that version into production. He was already on thin ice at the
Sun
; if the brass found out he’d kept me involved on a story that had gone so far and failed, as they undoubtedly would, Harry would be gone. Templeton was young and could survive; but in the newspaper business, Harry Brofsky would be finished.

If we pulled it off, got what we needed from our interview and met our deadline, Harry would have the scoop of a lifetime and regain much of the luster and confidence I’d robbed him of six years before. Templeton would suddenly be a star reporter in a city of three million people, on her way to choice assignments. And Gonzalo Albundo would be out of jail and back with his family.

The chance of all that happening depended on how well Templeton and I had prepared for this interview, and what we’d be able to entice from our subject, with Templeton’s tape recorder running.

She plugged it into a wall outlet and set it inconspicuously to the side, next to the wine list, with the microphone aimed at our visitor’s chair.

Shortly after eight, he arrived.

Templeton and I looked up from our coffee and notes, then stood to shake hands as Paul Masterman, Jr., approached our table.

I noticed that he’d just shaved and, with a recent haircut, looked particularly fresh-faced and attractive.

He was dressed in two-tone saddle shoes, beige tropical wool slacks, and a short-sleeved silk shirt that displayed the beautifully veined arms I’d admired with such unrepentant desire during each of our two previous meetings.

We’d asked him to come alone, without a publicist or campaign manager in tow, so he’d feel free to talk about his father more openly. He’d agreed, in the forthright manner that had so impressed me from the start.

He took a chair on the inside by the window, directly across from Templeton, who sat on my right. She explained that I was there because I’d assisted with the research and had a few questions of my own.

“I hope that’s not a problem,” she said.

He turned his emerald eyes from Templeton to me and smiled in his boyish way.

“No problem at all. It’s always nice seeing Ben.”

We ordered dinner, and Templeton asked permission to tape.

“I prefer it,” Masterman said. “As Dad always says, there’s nothing worse than being misquoted.”

She turned the recorder on, and we made small talk over our salads, admiring the view.

The restaurant floor had made nearly two revolutions in the two hours or so that Templeton and I had been there. Our window now gave us clear sight lines west across the city to a sunset glowing orange like a distant fire burning on the surface of the cool blue sea.

Templeton eased the conversation in the direction we wanted to go by asking Masterman if there were plans for more TV spots. She pulled out her notebook, knowing that detailed backup notes could be vital if there was insufficient time later to transcribe her tapes.

“We’ll probably shoot one or two more,” Masterman said. “Possibly up north, if the opportunity presents itself.”

“When I talked with your dad,” Templeton said, “he was really proud of your involvement in the campaign. Proud of you in general, in fact. The ideal son, is how he put it.”

The color rose from his neck to his face.

“Did he really say that?”

“It must feel especially good to hear that,” I said, “given your parents’ divorce, and the strain it put on your relationship with your father.”

He glanced at Templeton’s tape recorder before he spoke.

“Divorce is never easy. But Mom and Dad did what they felt they needed to do, and it’s worked out for the best.”

“You mentioned to me before that you’ve worked hard to rebuild broken bridges with your dad.”

“And there was that Father’s Day piece you wrote in the
Times
last year,” Templeton said.

“It’s true, I’ve been on something of a mission the past few years, determined to build a close relationship with Dad. With his love and support, we made it happen.”

“He must have been particularly pleased,” Templeton said, “when you arranged Wednesday’s taping at The Out Crowd bar.”

He shrugged. “No more than usual, really.”

“But you were right on top of that one,” I said. “And with the election so tight, reaching gay voters has been a priority.”

“I guess that’s true.” He shrugged again. “But that’s my job. It’s what Dad expects.”

“And meeting his expectations is important?”

He looked at me a long moment before he replied.

“I want to be the best son I can for him. I want him to know he can depend on me completely.”

He softened his next words with a smile.

“That’s not so hard to understand, is it?”

“Not at all.” I returned his smile, for the same purpose. “Although there’s always the danger that when you try so hard to please, you surrender your own identity in the process.”

His smile tightened. I realized I’d said more than I needed to. Templeton picked up the thread I was close to breaking.

“Since that TV spot was so vital to your dad’s campaign, why don’t you tell us exactly how you coordinated it so smoothly.”

His eyes stayed on me for a second or two, as if held there by my last words, but finally turned toward Templeton.

“Pretty much the same as all the others,” he said. “I read a news story about it in the paper, and it seemed like it had elements that might help us get our message to the gay community. Dad’s been misunderstood on certain issues of importance to gays, so we jumped at the chance.”

“I’m not too familiar with these film things,” Templeton said. “Could you take us through the process step by step?”

“The moment I read about the murder, I contacted the city’s film permit office. I put in a request for a permit to block off part of the street in front of The Out Crowd the next day. Then I got on the phone to get a crew together.”

“You mentioned reading about it in the paper,” Templeton said. “Was that my piece in the
Sun
?”

“I believe it was. I thought it was an excellent article, by the way.”

“It couldn’t have been the
Sun
,” I said off-handedly. “Billy Lusk was killed just after midnight on Tuesday morning, past the
Sun
’s deadline. Templeton’s story didn’t run until the following day, Wednesday.”

“That’s right,” Templeton said. “I didn’t think of that.”

A busboy cleared away our salad plates.

When he was gone, Masterman said, “I guess it must have been the
L.A. Times
, then.”

“That’s not possible,” I said. “The
Times
has out-of-state editions. It has an even earlier deadline than the
Sun
. So there’s no way the Times could have covered the murder in its Tuesday morning edition.”

“Then it must have been the TV morning news.”

Masterman said it with his trademark shrug, which was beginning to seem more like a nervous tic than a sign of relaxation.

The waitress arrived with our dinners, handed them out, and left. Masterman had ordered a small steak and reached for the proper knife.

“Actually,” I said, “the story wasn’t on any of the TV newscasts until late Tuesday afternoon.”

Masterman paused as he cut his steak, without looking at us.

“Is it really so important where I saw the news report?”

“Details make the story,” Templeton said. “We just want to get them right.”

She smiled and took a bite of her omelette.

Then: “So how did you hear about Billy Lusk’s murder, Paul?”

He shrugged yet again.

“Must have been on the radio.”

He quit cutting his steak, as if he lacked the concentration to finish the job, and speared a tiny roasted potato with his fork.

He laughed lightly and said, “I check so many news sources, I can’t really keep them straight.”

He popped the potato into his mouth.

“It couldn’t have been the radio,” I said.

“Why not?”

“The earliest radio news report indicating the murder was gay-related was on KFWB. That was at noon.”

“Four hours after you filed for a film permit,” Templeton said.

“No kidding.” The potato made a lump against Masterman’s cheek while he chewed. “You guys really did a lot of background for this story, didn’t you?”

“Harry Brofsky calls it fishing,” I said. “You never know what you’ll catch.”

Masterman laughed again, but it was the kind of laugh that has nowhere to go.

“It takes at least twenty-four hours to process an application for a city film permit,” Templeton said. “Unless you want to pull rank to push it through, which might call attention to it.”

“We checked with the film permit office,” I said. “You phoned in your request on Tuesday morning, just after they opened at eight. That enabled you to start the permit process, have the copy written, get your crew together, set up your equipment the next day, and be taping by late afternoon.”

Beyond our windows, darkness transformed the city, camouflaging the congestion, cloaking the boundaries, turning the freeways into streaks of comet light. L.A. twinkled innocently now, not like an urban jungle divided by poverty, race, and fear, but like a vast planetary system full of hope and promise, waiting to be explored.

Paul Masterman, Jr., didn’t seem to be enjoying the view, however. He was staring at the steak in front of him as if someone had placed a turd on his plate.

“Why did you check with the film permit people?”

Once again, he spoke without looking up.

“Blood rare,” I said.

“What?” He abruptly raised his eyes.

“It looks like they cooked it blood rare. Is that the way you wanted it?”

He looked at me like I was crazy. Then he said, “Yes, it’s fine.”

He swallowed so tightly I could hear the contractions in his throat.

The next question was Templeton’s.

“So, exactly how did you know a gay man had been murdered at The Out Crowd, Paul? That is, prior to that first news report at noon on Tuesday?”

“I’d…I’d have to check with people in the campaign.” A bead of sweat rolled slowly down from under the dampening curls on his forehead. “Someone must have mentioned it to me.”

“I’ve talked with your coworkers,” Templeton said. “They all insist the idea of shooting a campaign spot at The Out Crowd originated with you. They were very generous about giving you the credit.”

He put down his fork and steak knife and drank some water. His shirt was spotted with perspiration against his lean chest.

Finally, trying to make it sound like it didn’t matter: “Is this going to be part of your story?”

The floor of the restaurant continued its silent, imperceptible spin. Our table was again positioned next to the window that faced northwest. I fixed my eyes on the distant glow of the Dodger Stadium night lights, then followed the contour of the hills down to Silver Lake, trying to pinpoint the neighborhood where The Out Crowd was located.

Templeton slipped a new tape into her recorder. I glanced at my watch.

It was 8:55. We didn’t have much cushion. It was time to force the issue.

I looked at Masterman and said straightaway, “Billy Lusk was blackmailing you, wasn’t he, Paul?”

He raised his head up, this time with badly troubled eyes.

I knew then what had made him so attractive to me the first time I’d met him, beyond his good looks and the integrity I’d thought I’d seen in him. Beneath the mask of self-assurance he’d copied so well from his father, he’d been confused and afraid. In trying to keep what he thought he needed to make everything right in his life—his father’s respect—he’d crossed a terrible line, then found himself in deep trouble because of it. I’d always been soft for young men in trouble. I suspected I always would.

“I didn’t know Billy Lusk,” he said.

His voice cracked like a schoolboy’s. He reached for his water again.

“We figure you met him at USC,” Templeton said, “during one of his several enrollments there as a film student.”

“Derek Brunheim mentioned to me that Billy had been a Trojan,” I said. “It didn’t register at the time.”

“This is crazy. I’m telling you, I never even heard of him before that night.” He cleared his throat. “That is, Tuesday morning. Or afternoon. Whenever it was.”

I pushed my plate aside and leaned forward on my elbows, making him look at me.

“What happened, Paul? Did Billy catch your eye? Or did he go after you, charming and seducing you as he had so many other men? Did he get you at a time when your parents were at war with each other and your father was being a bastard and you felt angry and rebellious?”

“Or alone and needy,” Templeton suggested.

“I told you! I didn’t know William Lusk!”

“You’d planned to follow your father into politics,” I said. “It’s what you’ve been pointing toward for years. Then Billy Lusk came out of the woodwork, saddled with an expensive cocaine habit, demanding money to keep quiet about the affair you had with him.”

Masterman pointed a finger at me and screwed his face up with fury, looking and sounding exactly like his father’s son.

“I think you should be very careful about the accusations you make. Slander is actionable. And you don’t exactly have the best reputation for telling the truth.”

“You knew how your father felt about homosexuals,” Templeton said, softer and more sympathetic. “You knew that with one phone call to the senator, Billy could destroy what you had worked years to build.”

“Even if he didn’t disown you as a son,” I added, “your work on his campaigns would be finished. You’d be too serious a political liability. And your chances of ever rising to national office would be a long shot.”

He stood up.

“This interview is over.”

He pulled out his wallet, removed some bills, and tossed them on the table, presumably to cover his meal.