The Bomb Maker's Son (10 page)

“That’s why I’m here,” I say. “I want you to tell me about Ian . . . Marty. So I can defend him.”

“Oh, so you’re here as a lawyer, not as a brother.” How can someone with such a sweet voice suddenly sound so glacial?

I don’t know much about teenagers. Nothing, really. But they’re not exactly children.

“This is all new to me, Emily. I grew up without a father. I didn’t have a clue about you and Dylan. The best way I can be a good son is to be a good lawyer. So help me understand Marty Lansing.”

As she’s deciding, she fiddles with her hair again. “I’m going to tell you about Dylan first,” she says. “Because that’s the way you understand my dad. Dylan was his favorite.”

“I’m sure that’s not so.”

“Oh, it is. But I don’t really care. Dylan was my favorite, too. He was a jock who got decent grades when he should’ve gotten straight As, but all he cared about was girls, playing lacrosse, and having fun. He was also the sweetest, kindest person I knew. But I got the good grades.” She says it without a hint of arrogance. I fight the sexist assumption that her fluty voice and diminutive size are inconsistent with scholastic achievement.

“What about Dylan’s politics?”

“He wasn’t political. I was interested in stuff like that. Dylan didn’t care about politics, my mom didn’t care, and my dad especially didn’t.” She cranes her neck forward, like a student trying to decipher an obscure mathematical formula scrawled on a blackboard. “When Mama died, Dylan got so angry. He kept it inside, but you could feel it. Then he read Ayn Rand’s
Atlas Shrugged
and got the idea that he was special. I hated that awful book, didn’t want to read past the third page, but my American Lit teacher required it. This is Orange County, a lot of libertarians, you know. One of the only times Dylan and I argued was over that book. I’ve never been able to figure out why it had such a huge effect on him.” She checks her watch again. “I really shouldn’t be doing this. Are we almost done?”

“Why shouldn’t you be doing this?”

“It’s just that Ernesto is totally pissed at my dad.”

“Tell me as much as you can.”

She fills in the details of the Lansing’s family’s life, describing an existence so mundane it’s hard to believe that Holzner’s role in it was counterfeit.

“Was there anything unusual about your father?” I ask.

She stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“I have to ask these questions so I can learn the truth. It’s the only way I can help him.”

“No, my dad is totally boring. Boring in a normal way. The only thing was the community theater. He started acting, and he was really good. Better than that, and I’m not just saying that because he’s my father. People started saying he could’ve been a professional. But after he got a write-up in the local free newspaper, he stopped acting. He said the publicity bothered him, that he didn’t deserve it. I thought he was just being humble, but now I think it’s because he was afraid.” She lets out a combination grunt/hum, one of those noises that would sound annoying from anyone other than an attractive young woman. “You were an actor, too, Parker. I guess it runs in the family, huh? I’m no good at it, though. I get so nervous. All those people watching is freaky.”

I guess stage fright runs in the family, too.

“But anyway, after my mom died, my dad started yoga and meditation. After Dylan was killed in the war, he’d meditate for hours. I couldn’t cheer him up.” She gives a resigned palms-up shrug. “There’s one thing I wanted to tell you, though. There was this weird guy who came by the body shop a couple of days after my father turned himself in. Kind of a big guy. My dad’s age, maybe older. Wearing an old baseball cap that made him look like a big, overgrown kid. And he had this speech impediment, couldn’t say his
R
s. It was mean, but Ernesto said he sounded like Elmer Fudd from those old Bugs Bunny cartoons.”

“Jerry Holzner,” I say. “Ian’s brother. Our uncle.”

“He’s our uncle? Seriously? He didn’t say that, he wouldn’t even give a name. He just kept saying he had a message for Ian from Charlie.”

“Charles Sedgwick?”

“He just said
Charlie
. He asked me to get a message to Ian. He said it was a warning.”

“What message?”

“I don’t know. Before I could ask, Ernesto threw him out of the shop.”

“Just like I’m going to throw you out.” The man speaks with a pronounced Hispanic accent, but his words are clear, precise. Gray-haired, squat-faced, and work-muscular, he’s wearing a greasy mechanic’s jumpsuit. The name
Ernesto
is embroidered over his heart. His cheeks are already flushed, and I don’t think it’s because of his work.

Emily jumps out of her seat. “Ernesto, this is Parker Stern, my father’s—”

“I know who this man is,” he says. “I read the newspapers. Lansing or Holzner or whatever that fraud calls himself betrayed me, betrayed you, Emily. He abandoned you.”

“That’s bullshit!” Emily shrieks. Her jaw is clenched in rage, and she’s glowering. The change in demeanor is jarring but also typical of a teenager, or so I surmise. I don’t know for sure, because at fifteen years old I became an emancipated minor and, like Ian Holzner, was determined to hurl myself into obscurity. Which means that I wasn’t an ordinary teenager and that I had no true teenage friends, so I don’t really know what behavior is typical.

“That’s disrespectful, Emily,” Ernesto says. “That’s why you should have nothing to do with him. He disrespects authority.”

I take a step toward the guy. “That’s a harsh thing to say to a man’s daughter. And it’s not true. Ian . . . Marty wants to clear his name so he can live a life outside the shadows. He’s doing that for you, Emily. No more hiding.”

There are tears in her eyes.

“What do you know about it?” Ernesto says. “You’re a stranger. I’ve known her since she was born. A second daughter to me. You know nothing. Lansing, or whatever his name is, pretended to be my best friend. He was like a brother, except he turned out to be Cain. I let him into this business that I built. I spent more time with him than I did with my family, and he used me, betrayed me. Worse, betrayed his country and killed innocent people. I am not going to help a liar and traitor and a murderer. He abandoned you, Emily. You’re my responsibility now. Your mother wanted me to be your godfather.”

She’s pulling at her hair again; the nervous habit seems to calm her. “Mr. Stern is just asking me questions. Just like any lawyer would. He’s been very polite.”

“I’d actually like to ask
you
some questions, Ernesto,” I say.

“It’s Mr. Alfaro. Get out of my shop.”

“I’m only trying to get to the truth, Mr. Alfaro.”

Though he’s across the room, he looks as if he’s about to spit at me. “Do not use the word
truth
when referring to that bastard. I didn’t escape Castro’s Cuba to help some Communist terrorist escape justice. And I’m not going to help his lawyer. I don’t care if you are his son.” He takes a half step forward.

“Emily, the man who showed up and said he had a message from Charlie,” I say. “Did he say anything else?”

As she shakes her head, Ernesto takes another step forward. “You’re trespassing, sir. You have ten seconds to leave.”

“God damn it, Ernesto,” Emily shouts. “This man is my brother.”

“And Martin is innocent until proven guilty,” I say.

“I will not help a terrorist,” he says. “And your brother is dead, Emily. This person is a stranger and a representative of a murderer.” He clenches and unclenches his fists. “Get out!”

I thank Emily and am about to leave when she throws her arms around my waist and buries her head in my chest. I pat her back awkwardly, a clumsy attempt to comfort her. I think she perceives my uneasiness, because she pulls away and says, “Tell my dad I love him.”

On the drive home I replay this meeting over and over. Emily’s loyalty and love for our father makes me want to defend him with fervor. Family is more than genetics, I tell myself. So why has my genetic connection to Emily Lansing so affected me?

Then I think of how our father’s best friend and longtime employer, Ernesto Alfaro, hates him for being the murderous turncoat. What will a jury of strangers think of my client?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I arrive at the office at nine o’clock the following Monday. Eleanor Dworsky is already ensconced at the reception desk, leafing through the slim, post-Internet version of the
Los Angeles Times
. She’s wearing a drab man’s dress shirt again. This time it’s light blue rather than gray.

She holds up the front page and points to an article on last week’s bail hearing and courthouse bombing. “Explosive developments in court the other day,” she says.

“Not funny, Mom. People were hurt.” The words come from Brandon Soloway, who’s again sitting in the corner chair and tapping something into a smart phone.

“Lighten up, Brandon.” She offers me the newspaper. “An article about your hearing and your amazing victory. Keep the paper as a souvenir.”

“Thank you, but no.” I don’t believe in keepsakes. They interfere with the natural evolution of memories.

She gives a suit-yourself shrug and tosses the paper in the blue recyclable bin. “So you’re living with the Playa Delta Bomber now.”

Harmon Cherry would say that while people who exercise diplomacy usually get farther in life, in the end we most admire those who say what they think. Harmon wasn’t always right. At this moment, I’m having a hard time admiring Eleanor Dworsky.

“Don’t call him that,” I say. “He’s our client. Which means he’s innocent.”

“Yeah, right. But what’s it like to live with him? I’m guessing you don’t call him
Dad
.”

Even if I wanted to answer Eleanor’s question, there isn’t much to tell. After Holzner and I got inside my condo Friday night, the first thing he did was ask again about his brother, Jerry. I went to the Internet and searched for a Jerry Holzner in Foster City, California. No information. Same with a search of San Francisco, Oakland, Marin, San Mateo, and the whole Bay Area. No listing for Jerold Holzner or Jerome Holzner, either. The two Gerald Holzners I located were less than forty years old. During my search, Ian stood behind me and watched the computer screen. When I exhausted all the possibilities, he asked where he should sleep. I showed him to the second bedroom. He closed the door, and I didn’t see him the rest of the evening. On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I heard him chanting. He didn’t come out of his room except to use the bathroom or get something to eat. He’s a vegan, apparently, because he’s eaten only fruit and vegetables and ignored even the Greek yogurt. It’s fine if he wants to make his stay with me a self-imposed solitary confinement, so long as he eventually takes the time to cooperate in his own defense.

Eleanor sticks out a thumb like a hitchhiker in a thirties screwball comedy and pumps her arm back. “Lovely and Moses are in the conference room. He’s got some info for you.”

“About what?”

“You’ll have to ask him. I’d never dare step on Moses Dworsky’s lines.”

I go back to the conference room. Moses is telling some kind of war story about his courtroom prowess, and Lovely is smiling. When they see me, they fall silent, as if I’m a schoolteacher who’s walked in on an unruly class. Or maybe Moses was talking about me. It doesn’t matter. If you’re anything other than a boring person, there’s always someone talking about you behind your back.

“Terrible about the bombing,” Dworsky says. “I am so pleased that you and Lovely are in good physical health. How are you doing? Psychologically, I mean.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“On the merits, I want to commend you on a marvelous job in the courtroom,” he says. “Kudos. Carlton Gibson is a tough coconut to crack. Holzner getting out on bail was a most astonishing result. The only other lawyer who might have managed it is yours truly.” There’s something disingenuous in his tone, a kind of damnation by fulsome praise. He’s implying that I got lucky.

“I didn’t see you in court,” I say. “You should’ve been there.”

“Incorrect. Carlton F. Gibson has despised me since the Rachel O’Brien trial. Did you not read it in the file? He did not appreciate my tactics, though they were brilliant, if I may be so bold as to blow my own horn. But the last straw was when Gibson accused me of mooning him. He has never forgotten it.”

“Did you moon him?” Lovely asks.

“Let me just say that I found it essential to bend over to retrieve a document out of my briefcase at an inopportune moment, as far as Gibson was concerned. My briefcase happened to be directly behind me, and when I turned and bent down, my posterior region happened to come into the judge’s line of sight. I will add that I was fully clothed and my shirt was tucked in, so there was no question of indecent exposure. I did not deserve incarceration. So held the Chief Judge of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals only an hour later. In any event, if I had been in court today and Gibson had recognized me, it would have caused problems for you and your client.”

“You should’ve been there,” I insist. “We hired you for this case and it’s part of your job.”

He shakes his head, making his huge lobes wobble.

“Eleanor said you had some information for me,” I say.

“Indeed. I have located a number of individuals in Playa Delta who might provide some necessary background on Ian Holzner. Believe it or not, they have not left that small town. It will be a good place to start—the scene of the crime, the hometown of the accused. Two birds with a single stone.” He slides a piece of paper over. “Here are names and addresses and phone numbers—work, home, and cellular. Along with detailed summaries of their backgrounds. Catch them unawares lest they not want to speak with the attorney for the Playa Delta Bomber. Only you, not Lovely. Bad strategy to inundate them with lawyers. Now, go with God.”

I glance at Lovely, who gives an affirming nod.

Dworsky stands and slowly unfolds his massive body. “No need to apologize for accusing me of shirking my duty. Although it was precipitous and unjust. Moses Dworsky does not shirk his duty.” He turns and walks out of the conference room.

“How did it go with your sister?” Lovely asks.