Blind Justice (3 page)

“YOU GOT NO business!” I yelled.

“I heard the guy screaming,” the cop said. “Whatta you want me to do?”

“Stay out of my private conference is what.”

The cop’s face was a deep shade of red. “I got a job. I’m in charge of this guy.”

“You wouldn’t know your job if it kicked you in the—” I realized Mandy was listening and shut myself up.

A nurse with squeaky shoes and an expression of extreme prejudice ran up to us. “Excuse me!” she rebuked in a loud whisper. “This is a hospital!”

I motioned Mandy to come to me. I grabbed her hand and walked silently through the door, even though several choice phrases about the cop were competing for space in my head. I headed for the elevators.

“Why did you yell at that man?” Mandy said loudly enough for the nurse and cop to hear it.

Out of the side of my mouth, I said, “I’ll tell you later.”

When we got out to the parking lot, it was around 3:30. I was steamed, and I wanted a drink, but I had my little girl in tow. This was not a situation conducive to civil behavior. When Mandy asked if we could get something to eat, I snapped at her to be quiet.

Then I backed my car out of its parking space a little too fast, heard the squeal of tires, and felt the impact of being bumped from behind.

I jumped out of my car spitting fire. “What’s the matter with you?” I flapped my arms for added effect.

The door of the other car opened, and a young woman stepped out. She was maybe twenty-five or so and wore a white sweatshirt over light blue jeans. I noticed the jeans were a nice fit.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Not what I expected. I was ready for a fight. I wanted a fight. I wanted her to tell me that I was backing up too fast and should have been watching behind me, so I could tell her she should have kept her eyes open for other cars. I also wanted to ask her when she had taken her last driving test.

She completely disarmed me with her apology. She stepped up closer and looked at the back end of my car. Her hair was blond and hung down to the middle of her back like a swatch of silk.

“Any damage?” she said.

I took a look at my car. I couldn’t see anything wrong. The whole episode, it seemed, was a perfect example of how bumpers are supposed to work. “Well, maybe not,” I said. “But you really should be more careful.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m very sorry.” Her eyes were a luminescent green. If I had been a normal male in possession of all my faculties, I would have smiled and asked if I could call her for something other than a discussion of auto repairs.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Thanks. Look, if there’s a problem . . .” she went back into her car, reached inside, and came out with a piece of paper. Then she put the paper on the roof of her car and wrote something on it with a pen. I was enjoying watching her write. She came back and handed me the paper. “Call me if I owe you anything.”

I took the piece of paper and put it in my shirt pocket. As an L.A. resident, I guess I couldn’t believe someone in today’s world was actually acting like a polite human being. Maybe this Hinton was a nice little town.

“Thank you,” I said.

She nodded and smiled. I watched as she returned to her car, wishing there
was
more damage to my stupid bumper so I’d have a reason to call her again.

I got back in my car and started out of the lot once again, heading for the DA’s office.

“Who was that?” Mandy asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Did you hurt her car?”

“Hey, she ran into
me.”

“You sound mad.”

“Well, maybe we ran into each other.”

We drove on, and I started thinking about the Hinton district attorney. What kind of person would he be? How a criminal case is ultimately resolved depends to a large extent on the personality of the prosecutor. Some are reasonable, and some are petty. Some are ambitious, others complacent, and yet others shrewd. In short, district attorneys cover the full spectrum of humanity, with a definite leaning toward pitilessness. I guess it’s understandable. When you’re the sluice gate for the dregs of society, you pretty soon develop a thick skin and callused ear.

I stopped at a small market—a mom-and-pop type—and bought Mandy a bag of Fritos and a Sprite. My excuse was that this would keep her happy for another hour or two until we could get back home for dinner. I only hoped she wouldn’t tell her mommy about this. I’d caught enough flak about my nutritional deficiencies from Barb.

I also picked up a copy of the
Hinton Valley News.
The killing was, of course, front-page material. There wasn’t much on Howie, except that he was an itinerant construction worker who had been looking for a job in Alaska and came from Agoura. Most of the story consisted of a quotation from a police spokesperson who said the investigation was ongoing and a profile of the deceased, Rae Patino. The paper said she was a hard-working mom raising a small kid pretty much on her own.

I quickly scanned the rest of the paper, trying to get a little feel for the town. It seemed comfortable with its rural image. There was an ad for a realtor named Dotty who boasted of “planting roots in Hinton for over twenty years.” A restaurant called Down Home claimed, “The service is fast, the waitresses friendly, and the food is FOOD, not Mac or Wendy’s.” And there were several notices of civic pride, which included a story on the renovation of the library and the addition of one hundred new volumes.

Another story caught my eye. The Hazelton Winery, located five miles to the east, had just received a blue ribbon for its Chardonnay. A picture showed a tall, lean, smiling man with a full head of gray hair. He was identified as Captain Warren Hazelton, and his arm was outstretched holding a glass of white wine. Various people were in the background, which gave the impression that this was a reception of some kind. It appeared that Hazelton was toasting the community.

I made a mental note to visit the winery some afternoon and get toasted myself.

With Mandy happily munching, I drove to the Hinton County District Attorney’s Office, which was housed in a new, ugly, Spanish-style building near the main highway. The architect must have been a twisted combination of Frank Lloyd Wright and Father Junipero Serra. The mission-style roof and arched entrance clashed with the reinforced concrete and seashell configurations. If any of the prosecutors inside were grouchy, I would understand why.

I presented my card to the receptionist at the front desk and asked to see the deputy assigned to the Patino matter. She told me to wait as she picked up the phone.

Mandy was still munching her Fritos and standing ever close to my leg. On the wall to my left hung a large color photograph of a solemn-looking man in a no-nonsense blue suit. His dark hair, with a hint of gray at the temples, was cropped close to the head, almost like a Marine drill sergeant.

I took a few steps toward the picture and saw the name on a brass plate attached just below it: Benton Tolletson. I recognized the name. He was the big cheese, the county district attorney. Tolletson’s expression was like an Old West marshal’s, saying with his look, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

There was something else about the picture that bothered me so much that I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. It took me a moment, but I finally got it. The look in Tolletson’s eyes was almost exactly like my father’s.

The receptionist said, “You can go in now.”

“Where am I going?”

“Down the hall two doors. Sylvia Plotzske is the deputy.”

The electric door buzzed. I opened it and took Mandy by the hand down the hall. A young woman carrying several files passed us and smiled. A guy who must have been a prosecutor passed us on the other side and didn’t smile at all. He looked at us like we were aliens landing in the middle of his private bog.

The open office door had no name on it. I looked in. The office was even smaller than my own. The woman behind the desk stood up and said, “Come in.” She was in her early thirties and plump and looked ill at ease in her gray business suit. Her hair was brown and short, and she wore thick glasses with uncompromising black frames. Her handshake was firm and to the point. “Sylvia Plotzske,” she said.

“Jake Denney.”

Sylvia looked down and saw Mandy. For a moment she seemed confused and a bit annoyed.

“My daughter,” I said. “We drove up from L.A.”

“Oh,” said Sylvia with as much warmth as a clam. “You sure you want her here?”

“You going to shoot me or something?” I said with a smile.

Sylvia Plotzske did not smile. “We are going to discuss the details of a heinous crime, Mr. Denney. I don’t feel comfortable having her here.”

Mandy grabbed my leg tighter.

“Let’s just see what we can do,” I said, sitting in the only other chair in the office. Mandy crawled up on my lap immediately, just like a puppy.

“All right then,” Sylvia said. “You’re representing Panino.”

“Patino,” I said.

“Right, right.” She sat again behind her desk and looked at her file. “How’d you get connected?”

“His parents.”

“You ever try any cases in Hinton?”

“Never. Had one in Ventura once.”

Without looking at it, Sylvia Plotzske picked up a rubber band from the desk with her left hand and absently wrapped it around her fingers. “We’re a little more laid-back here,” she said. “No reason we can’t wrap this thing up nice and easy.”

Even for a laid-back office, this was a little fast for a plea offer. Sylvia snapped the rubber band with her thumb and said, “We’re charging murder in the first, of course.”

“Based on what?” I asked.

“The evidence.”

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. “What evidence?”

“Let’s start with twenty-five stab wounds.”

That was one little detail I didn’t know about. It hadn’t been mentioned in the story from the
Hinton Valley News.
It only reported that the victim died of stab wounds. What the prosecutor was describing was butchery.

“Howie was stabbed too,” I said.

“Self-inflicted.”

“That’s your theory?”

“That’s the fact.”

Mandy squirmed in my lap and pulled my head down toward her. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she whispered.

With the watchful and bespectacled eyes of Sylvia Plotzske on me, I whispered back to Mandy, “Can you wait a couple of minutes?”

“I’ll try,” she said with a pained look.

“Problem?” said Sylvia Plotzske.

“What about a plea to involuntary manslaughter?”

She shook her head. “You’re not going to get that, not with twenty-five stab wounds. We might consider second-degree murder.”

“And I might consider voluntary manslaughter.”

“I don’t see that happening.”

“Have you considered his mental state?”

“You talking heat of passion?”

“Maybe.”

Sylvia Plotzske shook her head again. She was good at that. “I don’t see that.”

“Of course you don’t,” I snapped. “Why don’t you take it up with Tolletson?”

Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “You know him?”

“Just the name. Run it by him.”

“I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Howie’s not a bad guy. He’s not your America’s Most Wanted. This isn’t the case to take to the mat.”

“Well, that won’t be entirely my call. I’ll let you know.”

I lifted Mandy off my lap, set her on the floor, and stood up. I shook the hand of Sylvia Plotzske and said, “Just one more thing, if I may.”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the bathroom?”