Try Fear (12 page)

Or a refrigerator. The air conditioning is always amped up. They could store meat as well as inmates. And some of the deputy
sheriffs, who run the place, don’t really care to know the difference.

At the end of the corridor I came to the elevators, got in, and went up to the fourth floor. I turned right and went through
the heavy metal doors and toward the attorney booth at the end. I walked by the bank of phones where the public talks to their
inmates on the other side of the Plexiglas. You can see through the glass into the day room, where blue-clad inmates wander
or sit, some looking at nothing, some playing cards. Some thinking, no doubt, about who they are going to hurt when they get
out.

Across from the phone bank I punched the intercom button and announced my presence. Then I went into the open attorney booth,
which is about twice the size of a phone booth, and sat down on my side of the Plexiglas.

There are no handsets in the attorney booth. A little microphone picks up everything on each side. On the inmates’ side there
is a round bolt, the “doughnut,” in the middle of the table, to which they are shackled.

On the shelf in front of me some goober had left an empty Skittles bag and Juicy Fruit wrapper. This could have come from
a slob attorney or even a member of the public. They leave the door of the attorney room open, and sometimes a person ducks
in for a look.

The deputies don’t seem to care about that, and it shows.

A minute or two later, Eric, dressed in jail blues, was brought in by a deputy.

E
RIC’S EYES WERE
bleary, like he’d been crying.

“You okay?” I said.

“Do I look okay?” he said. “What is going on?”

“You tell me.”

“They’re saying I killed my own brother! Get me out of here!”

“Keep your voice low. Just talk to me, and answer my questions directly. And don’t lie, okay?”

“Why should I lie? Oh God…” He put his head down and into his cuffed hands.

“Easy,” I said.

“I can’t believe this is happening. Mom…” He looked up. “Where’s Mom?”

“She’s at home, resting. I told her I’d come see her after this.”

Down went his head again.

“Eric, we need to talk about this. And I mentioned lying because almost all people in custody think they can do themselves
some good if they cook the truth a little. You can’t. Are we clear on that?”

He looked at me and nodded.

“Did they ask you any questions?” I said.

“They asked me about a fight I had with Carl.”

“You had a fight with Carl?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“I don’t know, a couple of nights before he shot himself.”

“Can you be a little more precise, please? When
exactly
was this fight?”

He thought a moment. “Okay, maybe it was the night before.”

I closed my eyes. “Think before you answer, okay?”

“Sorry.”

“Having a fight the night before your brother is shot is a pretty significant detail, don’t you think?”

“It’s just a coincidence. We had fights before. Brothers have fights.”

“Did they ask you any other questions?”

“I stopped them and said I wanted a lawyer. Then I called my mom.”

“That was your first good move,” I said. “Tell me about this fight. Where’d it happen?”

“In a bar.”

“Did it get physical?”

“Almost. Mostly it was just yelling.”

“What bar was this?”

“A place in West Hollywood.”

“What’s the name of the place?”

“I can’t remember.”

“You said that a little too fast,” I said. “You start throwing out
I can’t remembers
like that, no jury is going to believe you. Or your lawyer, either.”

“I mean I can’t remember,” he said. “It was a funny-sounding name. I didn’t want us to go there, but Carl wouldn’t take no
for an answer.”

“All right, we’ll get the name later. What was the fight about?”

“It was about his drinking. And what it was doing to Mom. And about the people he was hanging with.”

“What people?”

“He was involved with some actor, a snot-faced kid. Arrogant. I didn’t like him. I can’t remember his name.”

“Anybody else?”

Eric looked at the ceiling. “There was that real conservative guy, Mr. Perfect Hair.”

“Morgan Barstler?”

“I think that may have been his name.”

“Anyone else?”

Eric shook his head. “That was it. But mainly it was about getting him to AA, and he needed to go, and how Mom was so worried
about him all the time.”

“Where were you when your brother was killed?”

He started to open his mouth. Stopped. Looked down.

“What is it?” I said.

“It’s kind of hard for me to say.”

“You have to say.”

“I was sort of with someone.”

“Okay. Give me the who and the where.”

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“Let’s try to sort it out,” I said.

“I’m married.”

“That’s what’s complicated?”

“My wife, see, she’s not the most understanding, know what I mean?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you were with another woman when Carl was killed?”

“You’re pretty good at sorting things out.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“But my wife—”

“I’m not a marriage counselor, Eric. I’m a lawyer. My job is to represent you to the best of my ability, but I can’t do that
if you don’t give up the very evidence that may lead to your acquittal. If you were with another woman, I want to know who
she is, now.”

“That’s just the thing,” Eric said.

“Don’t tell me she was a pro.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I just thought of the absolute worst thing for you to tell me, that’s all.”

“But it’s true.”

“So your alibi witness is a hooker?”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s very bad,” I said.

“She’s not really a hooker,” Eric said. “More of an escort.”

“Ah, now that’s a relief.”

“But it’s
true
.”

“So is the fact that it’s very bad. A provider of sexual services is not exactly a great witness to put on the stand.”

“I don’t even know if I can find her again,” he said.

“Boy, this just keeps getting better and better.”

“I’m telling you the absolute truth!”

“How long were you with her?”

“A couple hours.”

“And what time was this?”

“Like nine or so.”

“Where?”

“Long Beach.”

Which is a good long drive from West Hollywood. “Did you use an escort service?”

“Kind of.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“I used a guy a bartender told me about.”

“You have the guy’s name?”

Eric looked at me hard. “You’re the man. I didn’t do this thing. You can get me off, can’t you?”

“I’m not representing you yet. There’s a conflict here. I repped your brother.”

“So?”

“You’re going to have to tell a judge that you want me to be your lawyer, and you don’t care about any conflict.”

“I don’t. I know you’re good. I want you.”

“Then you have two choices. You can help me find this alibi witness you have, or you can start planning what you’re going
to do with twenty-five to life.”

He thought about it. His forehead pinched. He looked at the table. Took a deep breath. Then he said, “Okay, Turk Bacon. That’s
the guy.”

“He’s the one between you and Miss Long Beach?”

“Yeah,” Eric said.

“Now you’re being straight with me. That’s a good start. How do I find this Turk Bacon? I don’t imagine he’s listed in the
white pages.”

“The bartender at a place called Addie Qs. Her name’s Tosca.”

“All right. Next time I see you is at the arraignment.” I started to get up. “By the way, has your wife been to see you?”

“No.”

“She has to be told,” I said. “You want me to be the bearer of the news?”

“Maybe you better,” he said. “She might reach through this glass and kill me if I told her. Oh man, I messed up big time.”

I didn’t argue with him.

W
HEN
I
GOT
back to reception, Sister Mary was sitting next to a Hispanic woman. It looked like she was comforting her.

She was, in other words, doing her thing, just as I’d been doing mine. I chatted with a deputy sheriff until she was finished.

As we drove toward the freeway I said, “So you want to talk about Sister Hildegarde now?”

“What? Why?”

“She’s trying to muscle you out.”

Sister Mary looked straight ahead. “You don’t know the first thing about what we do.”

She was right, and I reminded myself again not to get involved in the workings of a religious community whose religion I did
not share. Then I ignored the reminder.

“I know this,” I said. “You and Sister Hildegarde are like Oscar and Felix.”

“You’re calling us the Odd Couple?”

“Only it’s not neatness you argue about, it’s nun stuff.”

“Nun stuff?”

“Theological term,” I said. “But you’ve talked about it before. You want to go back to when nuns were nuns. When they brushed
their teeth with Brillo. Sister Hildegarde is more, what’s the word, progressive? She likes politics. You like to pray. You
two are bound to clash.”

“That’s always part of community life,” she said. “It’s why God puts us together. To learn how to humble ourselves.”

“There’s a difference between humility and doormats,” I said.

“And between lawyers and nuns,” she said. “Speaking of which, what did your client say?”

I pulled onto the 101, heading toward Hollywood. “It’s what he didn’t say that bothers me.”

“Is he guilty?”

“Not for me to say.”

“Can’t you tell if he’s guilty or not?”

“Not my job,” I said.

“Don’t you even want to know?”

“No.”

“Why in heaven’s name not?”

“Leave heaven out of it,” I said. “I got enough trouble on earth. And the answer is, I don’t want to know. I want to know
the evidence. Unless I think a plea deal and allocution is best, I want to be free to do my job. Can you work under those
conditions?”

“Yes, Mr. Buchanan, I believe I can.”

“Good. Let’s get a drink.”

“Excuse me?”

W
E KILLED A
little time in Hollywood first. Went to a bookstore. Browsed.

Sister Mary picked up a copy of
Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander
by Merton.

I found a book called
Never Plead Guilty
, about a lawyer named Jake Ehrlich. According to the back of the book, Ehrlich was a legendary criminal lawyer back in the
mid-twentieth century.

A quick scan told me this was a guy who loved to fight it out in court. And he was apparently pretty good—if gaining acquittals
for almost all his clients accused of murder is pretty good.

“Here,” I said, when I met up with her at the front of the store. “My book versus your book. Your guy pleads guilty, my guy
says never.”

“Never confess?” she said. “Did you notice I’m Catholic?”

“So that’s it. I knew there was something about you. The clothes. The beads. You’re a nun, aren’t you?”

“And you’re a failed comedian, am I right?”

“Looks like I need that drink. Let’s go.”

A
ROUND FOUR-THIRTY WE
drove to Addie Qs. It was at the eastern mouth of the Sunset Strip, just past Crescent Heights. Upscale, catering to professionals.

A number of whom were at the bar for what the sign said was happy hour.

We sat at the end of the bar. The conversation got very quiet as we did. Heads craned our way.

One middle-aged joker said, way too loudly, “Hey, a nun and a parrot walk into a bar…”

A healthy knot of the people cracked up.

“What about the Irishman?” Sister Mary said.

The guy slapped the bar top. “That’s a good one! Have a drink on me, Sister.”

The bartender was tall, buff, Asian. She was dressed in the color of night. Her hair was long and black. She came over with
an expressionless look and a scent of gardenia, and asked what we’d have. Sister Mary ordered a Coke. I did the same.

“Tosca?” I said.

The bartender blinked. She had long, curling black lashes over exotic, ebony eyes. She could have been the star in one of
those Hong Kong woman-who-kicks-male-tail-with-bad-lip-syncing movies.

“I’m asking for a friend,” I said.

She scooped ice into a couple of glasses and put them on the rubber collar of the bar. She grabbed the soda gun and started
filling the glasses with Coke. “What friend would that be?”

“Eric Richess,” I said.

She shook her head. “I don’t think I know him.” She put two red cocktail napkins on the bar, then the glasses on the napkins.

“How about Turk Bacon?” I said.

She stiffened like drywall. “Who are you? And who is she?”

“My name’s Buchanan. And this is Sister Mary Veritas of the Benedictine order. I’m a lawyer, she’s a nun. If you put us together,
you get a perfectly balanced human being.”

Tosca just looked at me.

“I’m here,” I said, “because Eric Richess is accused of murder and I’m representing him. And we need to find the lady he was
with on the night of the killing.”

“So what does that have to do with me?” Tosca said.

“You can put me in touch with the said Mr. Bacon,” I said.

She shook her head. “Don’t know him.”

“Is this the part where we slip you a twenty?” Sister Mary asked.

I looked at her. She was looking at the bartender, hard.

“Excuse me?” Tosca said.

“Because you clearly do know Mr. Bacon,” Sister Mary said. “If you want us to grease your palm, just say so.”

For a second, Tosca the Bartender looked like someone had thrown a drink in her face. Then: “We reserve the right to refuse
service to anyone. And I’m refusing to serve you anymore. You can leave now.”

“You’re refusing to serve a nun?” I said.

“That’s what I’m doing,” Tosca said.

“You’ve heard of anti-discrimination laws, haven’t you?”