The Bomb Maker's Son (38 page)

We pull out of my garage and take Lincoln Boulevard to the freeway. Fortunately, traffic is light. About ten minutes into the drive, Emily says, “Even if he is guilty, I’m glad he ran.”

“He’s not guilty,” I say.

“How do you know?” When I don’t answer, she says, “I’m sorry you’re going to lose all that money. I mean, six million dollars. Will you be okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” I lie.

“I’ll be fine, too. I’m almost an adult.” She’s lying, too.

We’re silent until I reach the Los Angeles Street off-ramp.

“What are you going to tell the judge?” she asks.

“The truth.”

We park the car, walk to the courthouse, and pass through security. I don’t expect many people to be in Judge Gibson’s courtroom this morning. When I get off the elevator and turn down the corridor, I see a crowd at the courtroom entrance. They’re not strangers, but regulars and reporters following our trial. As I approach, the doors open and everyone piles in, sputtering in excitement.

When Emily glances up at me for an explanation, I shake my head and hurry inside. The judge isn’t on the bench, and Marilee Reddick isn’t at the table.

A reporter comes up to me and says, “In-chambers hearings like this are unconstitutional. We all have our First Amendment lawyers coming down.”

I don’t ask what he knows about the hearing because I don’t want to reveal my ignorance. I walk over to the clerk’s desk, and before I can say a word, she says, “They’re in chambers.”

“Doing what?”

She turns a deep scarlet. When I start toward the chambers door, she says, “Mr. Stern, I’m not sure you should go in there.”

I hurry inside anyway and walk past the judge’s secretary and into the judge’s office. Gibson is sitting at his desk, with Frantz and Diamond across from him to his left and Reddick to his right. Next to Lovely is the court reporter, manipulating the keys of her steno machine. This is an official hearing.

Lovely is doing the talking, and I can tell from her honed-steel voice that she’s upset. The only words I catch are “. . . gross miscarriage of justice.” When the judge sees me, he raises his hand to silence Lovely.

“I don’t think Mr. Stern should be here,” Frantz says.

“Oh, he absolutely
should
be here,” Lovely says.

Harmon Cherry used to say that assumptions misshape perceptions. It was one of his least original observations but no less true because of its obviousness. I glare at Reddick, waiting for her to say something that will raise my hackles. Not until she fails to respond do I comprehend that it’s Lovely Diamond and Lou Frantz who are on opposite sides of this argument.

“What’s this about?” I ask.

“I don’t know if I should let you argue, Mr. Stern,” the judge says.

I’m still oblivious. “Your Honor, as Mr. Holzner’s counsel—”

“That’s just it,” the judge says. “You’re not Mr. Holzner’s attorney anymore.”

I know what it’s about. They’ve discovered that Holzner ran, and now I’m no longer a lawyer but rather a sucker on the hook for six million dollars. There is, indeed, a conflict of interest.

“Your Honor, I came down to court to report Mr. Holzner’s escape,” I say. “I don’t understand how it happened. I found his ankle monitor on—”

“It’s not about that, Parker,” Lovely says. “Ian showed up at our office this morning and asked us to represent him. He says that he’s fired you and that he wants to retain Lou and plead guilty. He’ll agree to life imprisonment in exchange for the government dropping its request for the death penalty. It’s wrong. We have a good motion for a judgment of acquittal, and if that’s not granted, an airtight appeal.”

“It’s a great deal for a murderer,” Reddick says. “Everyone on that jury except the weird guy wants to see him fry.”

“You’re disgusting,” Lovely says. “Parker, go talk to Ian. Stop him from doing this.”

“You should correct this now, Your Honor,” I say. “Judgment of acquittal, mistrial, something. There was jury misconduct.”

“Yes, but by which juror?” the judge says. “I’m not going to be strong-armed into ruling. Tell Mr. Holzner to hold his horses until we get an investigation done.”

“Mr. Holzner has instructed me that he will not do that and wants to accept the guilty plea,” Frantz says.

“This can’t happen, Your Honor,” Lovely says.

Chaos doesn’t have to be loud or disorganized or frantic. Chaos can be insidious, a slight deviation from the norm. These chambers are in chaos, and I don’t think the judge can bring order to it.

“Your Honor, I think I can solve this,” I say, reaching for my briefcase. “I’ve got . . .” And then I stop talking, because Holzner was wrong when he said I have a choice. It’s his choice, and he’s made it. I utter words I never thought I’d say. “It’s Mr. Holzner’s right to dismiss me as his lawyer and hire Mr. Frantz. It’s Mr. Holzner’s right to plead guilty if he so chooses. Though again, I’d ask Your Honor to do the right thing and avoid this. You should refuse to accept the plea and declare a mistrial immediately.”

Lovely shakes her head so hard that some strands of hair come loose from her barrette. She looks at me with disappointment and confusion, but something in my expression stops her, and her eyes convey that though she doesn’t understand, she accepts.

The judge glares at me, and says, “I’m not sure what I’m going to do, counsel. Don’t you get it? We have a jury that came in with an eleven-to-one vote to convict and a bunch of extraneous events that really don’t bear on what happened in nineteen seventy-five. I need to investigate this issue. Holzner is a smart
hombre
. He can avoid the death penalty. And for that reason, I’m going to accept the plea bargain.”

How often do rules and procedures provide an excuse for someone to avoid doing the right thing?

After that, everything unfolds like a black-and-white silent movie sped up for effect. I return to the courtroom. Emily asks me what happened, and when I tell her, she buries her head in my chest, and this time it’s natural for me to comfort her. Defying Frantz, Lovely joins Emily and me in the gallery rather than sitting with him at counsel table.

“I don’t care if the son of a bitch fires me,” Lovely says, and not in a soft voice. The truth is she cares a lot. Frantz has been good to her. He was the first to recognize her talent as a trial lawyer. Later, he adjusted her schedule so she could care for the ten-year-old son who was dropped on her doorstep. And not many lawyers get to study under a master like Frantz.

Holzner is brought into the courtroom, free of shackles. He doesn’t look at Emily or at me. After taking the oath to tell the truth, he provides his name—Ian Holzner, not Martin Lansing—his age, and his highest level of education. He avers that he’s not suffering from drug impairment or mental illness, that he’s read and discussed the indictment with his lawyer, that he’s satisfied with his attorney, that he comprehends the terms of the plea agreement and enters into it voluntarily, and that he understands the consequences of his plea—life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. He’s giving up his right to appeal in exchange for avoiding the death penalty. I still hope that Judge Gibson will reconsider and refuse to accept the plea. It doesn’t happen. And just like that, Ian Holzner is a convicted murderer.

When the marshals lead him away, he glances at me with what I recognize as a look not of sorrow but of gratitude. Emily, who’s unsuccessfully trying to blink away tears, offers me her hand. When I take it, she squeezes hard, and if I let go, I’ll start crying myself.

Lovely, Emily, and I wait until the room clears out, exit the courtroom, and are about to turn right toward the elevators when I notice a solitary figure standing at the far end of the corridor. She’s here for me.

“You go ahead,” I say to Emily and Lovely. “Meet me on the Main Street steps.” They start to protest, but when they see where I’m going, they walk away. When I reach the woman, she almost recoils.

“He called me this morning,” she says. “I told him to tell the whole truth. Or at least go through the legal process to see if he can get off. I didn’t want him to do this.”

“Then why did you let him, Mother?” For once, my tone isn’t sarcastic or accusatory or cynical. She wants to talk, and I’m just giving her the chance.

“I’m frightened, Parky. I’ve always been so afraid. I was hoping that you’d tell the truth for me.” Her eyes are muddied with fear; her shoulders are slumped, making her neck crane forward like an arthritic. She’s knotted her fingers together in reflexive prayer. How strong her desire that I tell the true story; how overwhelming her fear that I will. I wish I could free both of my parents.

“Here’s why I won’t tell the truth for you, Mother,” I say. “You’re already in your own prison. I can’t put you in another one. If I do, my father will never forgive me. I couldn’t live with that.”

CHAPTER FIFTY

In less than an hour, Ian Holzner, the Playa Delta Bomber, will be transported from the Los Angeles Metropolitan Detention Center to the United States Penitentiary in Atwater, California, located in the sweltering San Joaquin Valley, where he’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars. This is the first time we’ve really had a chance to speak since his guilty plea three weeks ago. To avoid the obstructions of Plexiglas and intercoms and jail guards, I’ve come as his attorney. But that’s not what I am, not who I am.

“Why didn’t you wait for the judicial process to take its course?” I ask. “We would’ve won the next trial.”

“There was no time.”

“You waited forty years.”

“Secrets have a way of percolating to the surface. You have the tape recording, and you obviously had someone listen to it to make it intelligible. The media knows about its existence. It’s only a matter of time before someone unearths another copy and decodes it. I wasn’t about to let that happen.”

“It might happen anyway.”

“The odds are greatly reduced with my guilty plea.”

“Please reconsider this whole thing. Tell them that you weren’t competent. The recording can’t be enhanced by anyone but my people. I trust them to keep this secret.”

“There’s always someone else with the ability. Time is no longer on our side. I didn’t want Alicia to go to prison then, and I don’t want that to happen now.” His smile is more poignant than a tear. “I still love her. With all her failings, I still love her, Parker. And I brought this on her.”

“Even if they were to arrest her, she didn’t plant the bomb, didn’t know what was going to happen. She only built a device. It’s not murder. The statute of limitations has probably run on whatever her crime was.”

“They’ll prosecute her for murder anyway.”

“The tape recording is exculpatory evidence.”

“That’s not what the US Attorney would say, probably not what a jury would say. You’re forgetting the earring. It has her fingerprint on it. No one would believe she didn’t plant the bomb. And whatever the outcome, the publicity would destroy her. You know that.”

He’s right. Despite the trappings of wealth and power, despite her demigod-like status, Harriet Stern remains a fragile soul.

“Still, to let an innocent man go to prison,” I say. “It goes against everything I’ve worked for as a lawyer. Everything that’s right.”

“I’m not an innocent man.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I set it all in motion, Parker. I built the bombs, I set them off, I pontificated about murder in the name of a cause. I brought a naïve young woman into it and taught her how to make a killing machine. Oh, I’m guilty. There’s nothing unjust about this.”

“Neither of you is responsible. O’Brien was.”

“She’s dead, and the System has to be fed. As between me and anyone else alive, I’m the one who should be its meal.” He stares down at the table for a long time. “There is something I’m going to ask of you. I’ve abandoned Emily like I abandoned you. Which means that you’ll understand how much she needs someone now. She’s only a kid.”

“She doesn’t feel abandoned. She thinks that the justice system failed you. And as you’ve always surmised, the feds were probably onto you anyway.”

“Someday, she’ll realize that I abandoned her. I turned myself in. After Dylan died, I played favorites, and my favorite was the dead child. But because of that I need you to . . . She’s almost eighteen, smart, ready for college, and after that you can—”

“She’ll need her brother after she turns eighteen and twenty-five and forty. And she’ll have him.”

He places his hand over mine. We speak not of terror and death but of life. We talk about his beloved wife, Jenny; of my brother, Dylan; of my sister, Emily, as a child; of his love of repairing cars; of my love for Lovely Diamond; of the exhilaration that comes from acting on a stage no matter how small the audience. When the guard says it’s time, I put my arms around my father and kiss him good-bye, though it’s against the rules.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you, Daco, Suzanne Ely, Allen Eskens, Karen Garver, Lynne Raimondo, Matthew Sharpe, John Whelpley, and Robert Wolff; Jill Marr, Sandra Dijkstra, Andrea Cavallaro, and Elise Capron of the Sandra Dijkstra Agency; and Dan Mayer, Jill Maxick, Cheryl Quimba, Jade Zora Scibilia, and Nicole Sommer-Lecht of Seventh Street Books.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Rotstein, an entertainment attorney with over thirty years’ experience in the industry, is the author of
Corrupt Practices
and
Reckless Disregard
, the first and second Parker Stern novels. His novel
Reckless Disregard
was named one of Kirkus’s best thrillers of 2014. He has represented all of the major motion-picture studios and many well-known writers, producers, directors, and musicians. He lives in Los Angeles, California.

Visit him at his website,
robertrotstein.com
; or on Facebook,
facebook.com/RobertRotstein1
; or on Twitter,
@rrotstein1.