Spider Season (8 page)

As I waited to see him again, I kept myself as busy as possible, helping Maurice tend to the yard and house and get Fred to his medical appointments, which were becoming more frequent.

Then there was the nest under the eave to keep watch over. Two dove chicks appeared, their eyes still closed, their bodies scrawny, their downy feathers matted with mucus from their gestation period inside their shells. By stretching up on our tiptoes at the top of the stairs, Maurice and I could look over the edge of the nest and see them beginning to stir and discover the world. During the day, the mother disappeared from time to time, returning to drop food into their gaping mouths. At dusk, she settled over them, patient and alert, to protect them and keep them warm through the night. The nest was up high enough, and far enough away from the railing, to keep it safe from marauding rats and cats. It was like Templeton had pointed out: Location is everything.

At midweek, I spotted the skinhead again. He was astride a big motorcycle, an older Harley-Davidson, as I walked home from the supermarket with a bag of groceries in each hand. He was there only long enough for me to see him before he hit the throttle and rumbled off, quickly disappearing into the narrow residential streets of the Norma Triangle. It bothered me enough that after delivering the groceries to Maurice I sauntered back down the hill to the sheriff’s substation to have a chat with Detective Haukness. I asked for him at the front desk and got lucky; he’d just returned from the field. He kept me waiting a few minutes but finally appeared from a back room, the ends of his big mustache twitching as he strode to the counter in his snakeskin boots.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Justice?”

He was as laconic as ever, his taciturn manner seemingly at odds with his good-old-boy attire and Texas drawl. I mentioned that I’d seen the skinhead outside the bookstore the previous Saturday night and again this morning in my neighborhood, and wondered how he’d gotten sprung so fast from county jail. Haukness provided some basic information, cut-and-dried: Given the witness statements and the suspect’s clean record, the district attorney handling the case didn’t feel that grand theft auto and misdemeanor battery charges were warranted. Those charges were dropped, and the suspect pled guilty to misdemeanor trespass. He’d been sentenced to three months but was out of jail in two days.

“Catch and release,” I said.

It was the term the press had given to the Sheriff’s Department policy of quickly discharging criminals convicted of minor or nonviolent offenses because there wasn’t enough space in county jail to hold them all. The county jail system was teeming with more than eighteen thousand prisoners on any given day, reportedly the largest jail population in the world. For convicted lawbreakers who weren’t considered predatory or dangerous, it was a turnstile operation—in and out in days or even hours—except for the unlucky ones still awaiting trial, who couldn’t cut a deal or afford bail and might languish behind bars for months, if they were lucky enough to survive. There’d even been violent convicts released well before their mandated terms were up; one of Templeton’s investigations had revealed that some had killed new victims on days when they should have still been locked up.

“As I said,” Haukness repeated, his delivery as flat as a Texas plain, “he served two days before release.”

“And now he’s back in West Hollywood, stalking me.”

“It’s a small city, Mr. Justice. Two sightings of the guy could be coincidence.”

“I also got a strange phone call the other night.”

I told him what the caller had said. Haukness seemed unimpressed.

“You’re certain it was the suspect calling? You recognized his voice?”

“I can’t say that, no.”

“He hasn’t approached you, or come onto your property?” I shook my head. “Mr. Justice, you’re certainly free to file a complaint if you wish. But what you’ve told me so far doesn’t remotely rise to the standard of a crime.”

“Can’t you tell me something else about this guy? Since I was the victim.”

His eyes narrowed. “Were you?”

“I’m the victim of record, Detective. That should count for something.”

“There’s something you need to know, Mr. Justice. Two days ago, I received a CD in the mail. Someone with a high-tech cell phone videotaped the incident in which you alleged assault at the hands of the suspect.”

I hesitated, digesting this new information. “So you have the entire incident on video?”

He nodded. “You might be the victim of record at the moment, but that could change.”

“Meaning what?”

“We’re currently reviewing that video, along with witness statements, and weighing possible charges against you.”

“What kind of charges?”

“Assault, giving false information to a police officer. Those are the two under discussion. The video leaves no doubt that you were the aggressor.”

“He had no business being in my car. Or coming back here, trying to intimidate me.”

“This bookstore event was a private affair?”

“Of course not.”

“It was promoted in some way?”

“Probably.”

“He’s got a right to be wherever he wants, Mr. Justice, as long as he’s not threatening you or trespassing on your property.”

“The guy’s got a screw loose, Detective.”

Haukness clammed up as two men came in, seeking temporary parking permits for a dinner party they were having that night. A young deputy took care of them while the detective led me a few steps down the counter, where he lowered his voice.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here, Mr. Justice. Apprise you of a few facts you might not be aware of.”

“That’s why I came down here, Detective. To get some information.”

“He’s a veteran, Marine Corps. Lance corporal, served three tours of duty in Iraq. Got himself involved in some pretty horrific stuff over there.”

“This excuses the fact that he’s stalking me?”

“If that’s what he’s doing.”

“Maybe his military background makes him more dangerous, puts me in greater jeopardy. Have you considered that, Detective?”

Haukness set his jaw firmly. Color seeped into his neck, where a vein had begun to bulge. So the man wasn’t unflappable after all.

“Before playing the victim with such sanctimony,” he said, his tone finally taking on some feeling, “you might want to consider the possible consequences.”

“Meaning I’ve got charges hanging over my head and if I ruffle the wrong feathers my ass could land in jail.”

“I’ll let you interpret it any way you see fit.”

“Anything else, Detective?”

“I guess that does it.”

I started to go, but a hunch stopped me. I turned to face him again.

“One more question.”

He glanced at his watch. “What is it?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be a former jarhead yourself, would you, Detective?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

I gave him a small salute. “Semper Fi.”

He didn’t smile as he turned on his heel to disappear back into the station’s inner sanctum. I wasn’t smiling, either, and left feeling less at ease about things than when I’d arrived.

NINE

That evening, I was scheduled to meet Cathryn Conroy at a Beverly Hills restaurant for the second of our three interviews.

My plan was to make our meeting a long one, being as congenial and forthcoming as I could, and then try to wiggle out of my promise to meet her a third time. I’d grown weary of serving as a punching bag for writers with axes to grind and egos to feed. Anyone who seeks publicity as I had deserves what they get. You put yourself out there, seeking attention, you’d better be able to handle the flak. But given all the critical problems in the world, she seemed to be wasting an awful lot of time on a washed-up reporter with a name most people outside L.A. wouldn’t recognize and whose transgressions were old news.

The restaurant she’d picked out was roughly a mile west of my apartment. To make my small contribution toward ending U.S. dependency on fossil fuels, I set out on foot. The enervating humidity we’d been experiencing had largely subsided, and the early evening was pleasant for a stroll, with a fitful breeze taking the edge off the heat. I followed the trail through Beverly Gardens Park, the narrow, green strip that runs along Santa Monica Boulevard through the flats of Beverly Hills and past the opulent architecture of City Hall, with its vintage mix of Spanish magnificence and fanciful Art Deco. Fitness-minded joggers and power walkers were coming and going beneath a canopy of eucalyptus, along with brown-skinned nannies walking pedigreed dogs or pushing strollers carrying well-fed Caucasian babies.

The steak house was a few blocks south on Beverly Boulevard. Like the downtown site of our previous meeting, it was not an accidental choice on Conroy’s part. It had been a favorite weekend haunt of my late editor, Harry Brofsky, in the old days when we’d both worked at the
Los Angeles Times
before my sins had ended my career and seriously damaged his. For Conroy, I surmised, the location would serve as a nifty device to turn our conversation toward a past that she wanted to probe and I would rather forget, as well as a useful reference point in the article she’d eventually file. As I stepped inside to the cooled air and long, polished bar, I was reminded, once again, that she was an old pro, calculating and clever.

“Right on time,” she said, peering at me over a tumbler of Johnnie Walker straight up.

She’d reserved a booth close to the bar, where her drinks could conveniently keep coming. As we settled in, I put her on my right, since my blind side was on the left and I wanted to look her in the eye without getting a stiff neck. As I glanced around the restaurant, I couldn’t help but remember the good times I’d shared here with Harry, drinking hard, digging into a juicy cut of prime beef, and celebrating some big story I’d just broken under his guidance. I’d been young, full of piss and vinegar, in love with my bylines and in love with Jacques. It was a long time ago that seemed like yesterday.

“Brings back memories, does it?”

Conroy had her audio recorder ready, but with a notebook and pen to back it up, so she could jot down atmospheric detail and random thoughts and observations her recorder wouldn’t pick up. The same way I’d handled interviews, and later taught Alexandra Templeton, when she was still green and Harry had me teaching her the trade.

“That’s why you got me here, isn’t it, Cathryn? Harry’s favorite hangout?”

A waiter placed a fresh whiskey in front of her and took our orders: Caesars to start, two fillets, blood rare, with sides of sautéed spinach and rosemary potatoes that we’d share. Conroy ordered a bottle of cabernet that came with a sixty-dollar price tag, and asked for two glasses.

“One glass will be sufficient,” I said. “For the lady.”

“Come on, Justice. A nice cab with your steak. Just a taste. Can’t hurt, can it?”

“One glass,” I repeated, and the waiter departed.

Conroy sipped her fresh whiskey and asked casually, “Whatever happened to Harry Brofsky, anyway?”

“He died nearly a decade ago. I think you know that.”

“It wasn’t in your book.”

“My book ended before he died. But I dedicated it to him. I imagine you know that too. Why not get to the point, Cathryn?”

“He must have died a broken man, working at the lowly
Los Angeles Sun
just before it collapsed.”

“Thanks to me, you mean?”

“It’s obviously an uncomfortable subject for you.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“What I did to Harry was unconscionable. In my book, I was up-front about that. Use whatever you want from it.”

“One can never put everything in a book, Justice. You know how I work. I’m looking for something fresh, something you left out, an angle no one else is likely to run with. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“I didn’t hold much back, not anything that mattered.”

“Maybe readers should be the judge of that. Or reporters like me, who aren’t satisfied with only part of the story.”

“I included everything I felt was relevant. To the best of my knowledge, I was accurate and truthful. That’s all one can do.”

“Frankly, I’m more interested in what you left out than what you put in.”

“Like you said, one can’t include everything. Choices have to be made.”

“Let’s look at some of those choices, shall we?”

We’d gotten off to a bad start, so I tried to get the conversation back on a more productive track. I even smiled with my best fake sincerity.

“If you feel it’s useful, Cathryn.”

“Let’s go back a few years, before the scandal. To your high school and college days.”

“I don’t see the importance of that. But if I can clear something up, I’ll try.”

“You were apparently quite the ladies’ man in high school.”

“That would be overstating it.”

“You dated good-looking girls. You slept with a number of them.”

“I felt that section of the book should focus on what my father did to my little sister, his death, and how it affected our family.”

“How you killed him when you discovered him abusing her.”

“She was eleven. It was rape. Yes, I killed him. It’s well documented in the book, as you know.”

“Justifiable homicide. I believe that was the ruling.”

“Correct.”

“Let’s go back to your girlfriends, shall we?”

“If you feel it’s necessary.”

“You were quite the athlete, quite the stud. You even wrote angry poetry now and then, to show off for the more impressionable girls and get them into bed. Or into the backseat of your Chevy Impala, depending on the circumstances.” When I said nothing, she added, “I’ve done my own research, Justice. Found some fresh sources.”

“Congratulations.” I put up the saccharine smile again. “Anything else?”

“You’re admittedly gay—”

“
Admittedly
would be your word, suggesting there’s something wrong with it.”

“Excusez-moi. You’re
openly
gay, and have been for many years.”

“About half my life, yes. Since coming to L.A.”

“But through your senior year in college, you slept exclusively with women.”