No Legal Grounds (11 page)

Sam got stuck in westbound traffic and decided there was no time like the present to call Linda. He barely got out a greeting when she said, “So where have you been all day?”

“I don’t know, a long time. I called your office, your cell. Where did you go?”
Here we go, Sam thought. He was at the top of the luge chute in the Winter Olympics. Once he got started, it was going to be downhill, faster and faster. Better get to the finish line and be done with it.
“I went to see her,” Sam said.
“Who?”
“Mary Delano.”
“You
what
?”
“Calm down.”
“I
am
calm. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried calling.”
“Didn’t leave a message?”
“I thought it would be better — ”
“I mean, come on, this is pretty big.”
“All right, I messed up.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Please listen,” Sam said.
“I am. Go ahead.”
“She called the office. Nicky Oberlin had contacted her. That’s the connection. She was really upset about it. She didn’t have a car, so I drove out to Loma Linda.”
“You could have told me that much.”
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Or was it you didn’t want me thinking about you being with her?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe I wasn’t thinking straight at all.”
“All right.” She paused. “So what happened? Did you see him? Your son? ”
“He wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“So he was.”
“He dropped by. Mary was surprised.”
“I don’t believe this whole thing.”
Sam almost rear-ended a white Ryder truck. “Linda, please. You have to hear me. I didn’t go there with any intent but to calm her down. And to get her statement about what Nicky did to her. And then Caleb came in. That’s his name.”
A long silence. Then Linda said, “What’s he like?”
“She and her husband did a great job. He’s solid. And she never told him about me. And that’s the way it’s going to stay.”
He wanted to hold her. He thought he heard her sniffing a little. “I’m going to do a little work,” she said. “I’ll see you when you get home.”
“You okay?”
“I will be. Because I have to be. We have to be. For Max and Heather.”

Sam met Cameron Bellamy in his office at the Van Nuys Superior Courthouse on Tuesday afternoon. Cam had been a solid prosecutor for almost twenty years, and Sam’s friend since they were partnered in law school in the moot court competition.

Cam was still in athletic trim, just like in his days swimming for the UC Irvine team. Almost made the Olympics. He was about Sam’s height, with sandy hair and bright blue eyes. Sam knew why juries loved this guy.

“How’s life in the big money?” Cam said, offering a government-issue chair — function over comfort being the watchword. Cam’s windowless office was also a study in utility and not aesthetics.

“I’m not driving a Mercedes, if that’s what you mean. But we get by.”
“I saw you guys in the
Daily Journal
a few weeks ago.”
“Lousy picture.” The
Daily Journal
was the city’s legal newspaper. They’d done a profile of Newman & Trask, but the photographer they sent out was about four feet tall. In the photo, Sam looked like he had three chins as he looked down on the diminutive picture taker.
“How’s your big case against the government?”
“How is any big case against the government? Enough paper to cover the city to a depth of five feet.”
Cam smiled. “You ought to come over here and work for me. Paper’s a minimum, and you get into court a lot more.”
“You know, that almost sounds good.”
“I’m serious.”
“Thanks, Cam. But I’m no criminal law expert. That’s why I’ve come to you.” He told Cam about Nicky Oberlin, all the way up to the church incident.

When he finished, Cam nodded slowly. “Sounds like you’re dealing with a sociopath.”
“A bad guy for sure.”
“More specifically, a guy with no conscience. In the psych literature it’s
antisocial personality disorder.
Means the guy does not experience guilt or qualm about what he does. He can, in short, do whatever he wants and try to get away with it.”
“No conscience, huh?”
“Zip. And here’s the scary part: that describes an estimated four percent of the population. I’m telling you, man, one out of twentyfive people in these good old United States are socios, and nobody knows why.”
The number staggered Sam. He could hardly believe it.
Cam said, “You remember that movie with Robert De Niro and whatsisname . . . Nick Nolte?”
“Right. What was it,
Cape Fear
?”
“That’s the one, where De Niro is this psycho with all these tattoos and you just look at him and you know he’s evil. He’s sadistic. He gets a certain pleasure out of his crimes. It’s obvious. But with a sociopath, he might look as angelic as an altar boy. Like Scott Peterson.”
“Oh yeah, he was a piece of work.”
“He looks like Joe All-American, smiling, glad-hander. Then he kills his pregnant wife, unborn baby, as coldly as you please. And during his trial he sat there, stone-faced, no emotion. The jury hated him for that. He had no conscience. That’s the really chilling part. On the outside, these types can be charming as all get out. There’s no way to tag them. A sociopath could turn out to be your best friend. Before he kills you, of course.”
“Just great.”
“I’ve seen ’em right out there in that courthouse. Usually it’s a guy doing his thing on a domestic partner.”
“So why do you think he’s after me?”
Cam shrugged. “Socios can be motivated by many things — money, excitement, sex, power. Your guy seems to be on a power trip. It’s a game to him, and he aims to win at all costs.” “Is that it? It’s all a game?”
“They’ve done studies, and in moments of candor these guys will sometimes admit feeling empty inside. They know they’re missing something. But they don’t sorrow over that. Instead, they’re likely to target someone who does appear to have a good conscience. Someone with a spotless rep. Someone, in short, who looks very much like you.”
“You’re full of great news, Cam.”
“And you have a past with this guy.”
“Not much. We were in the freshman dorms together. I hardly knew him.”
“Maybe you did something back then that ticked him off.”
“And he sat on it all these years?”
“And seeing your success was the trigger point. A perfect storm of all the crud in this guy’s life coming together. It’s almost a random event.”
“So what can you do to stop him?”
“Me?”
“The law.”
“There’s a stalking statute in the penal code. Section 646.9. But it requires more facts than you’ve got.”
“More? After all he’s done?”
“What are witnesses going to say, Sam? That he came to church? That he forgave you? And at the ball field. Who assaulted whom?”
That hurt, but it was the truth. He had no case to present. “So now what?”
“Can you forget I’m an officer of the court for a moment?”
“Sure.”
“You have a gun?”
“No, Linda doesn’t like — ”
“Get one.”
“Are you serious?”
“Listen to me. You have got to be prepared to meet power with power. This guy has to be convinced that he’s likely to lose this power game, and that losing will hurt. Socios aren’t irrational. They can still measure things by a simple cost-benefit analysis. But one thing is pretty certain: they can’t be cured. They literally have no emotional alarm system. Until science figures out a way to implant one, they can do whatever they want without qualm. Including kill.”
Chilled to the marrow, Sam bit his lip. “This is so bizarre, so out of reality.”
“It’s the reality I see every day, Sam. And you know, in the last fifteen years, I’ve seen it get demonstrably worse. There’s something going on, I don’t know what it is. Society breaking down, all that? I guess. But it’s sometimes enough to make me want to get out of this business forever.”
A heavy silence draped itself over them. Get a gun? Was that what this would all come to?
Cam flipped through his Rolodex. “I’m going to give you the name of a PI I know. I think it might be worth it to let him get some background on your boy.”
He wrote the name and phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Sam.
“And if this guy keeps things up, maybe I can help you get more creative.”
Sam looked at him. “How’s that?”
“You just keep in touch, Sam. And give my best to Linda.”

Gerald Case. A perfect name for a private investigator, Sam thought. But Case himself was not the stereotypical PI. He was around fifty, thin, wore a tie and white shirt. He could have been an accountant or estate lawyer. His graying hair was neatly clipped and combed.

And his office was neat. Sam expected something like the movies — papers strewn around empty coffee cups and a revolver or two. Instead, the dark wood desk had an immaculate glass top, a computer monitor with keyboard, a phone, a pen and pencil holder in the shape of a small red golf bag, and a framed picture. Sam couldn’t see who was in it.

“Cam called me,” Case said, shaking Sam’s hand. “Said you were a solid guy.”
“Cam’s a good man.”
“He is. And he’s hired me a few times. I like working for the government. They pay on time.”
“I hope so,” Sam said. “My partner and I have a little breach-ofcontract case going against Uncle Sam right now.”
“Takes moxie.”
“And a whole lot of hours.”
Case nodded and took out a yellow legal pad from a drawer. He selected a pen from the golf bag. “So give me the 411 on your guy.”
Once more Sam laid out the story. It was more painful the second time, like getting a tweak on a toothache. He threw in Cam Bellamy’s idea about Oberlin’s being a sociopath.
Case nodded. “I think Cam’s absolutely right. In my line, I’ve seen a lot more of it.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t know why. But in domestic cases, more and more of these guys don’t have any remorse or conscience. They go out on their wives or girlfriends and think that’s some constitutional right. And sometimes they end up beating or killing the women. And thinking they’re in the right.”
“Terrific.”
“So we have to deal with the reality. I can do some background on this guy. You have a copy of the emails he’s sent you?”
“I can get them.”
“Get them. Is there a chance you can set up a meeting with him?”
“Why?”
“So I can follow him.”
“I don’t want to meet with him.”
“He’s going to want to meet with you. I’m guessing he’s going to step it up a notch. Maybe he’ll try to squeeze you for money, maybe he just wants to toy with you. We don’t really know yet. But if you can set the terms, meet him somewhere, I’ll be there. If that’s all right with you. It’s not inexpensive to do this.”
Sam sighed. “Do it. I want to end this thing.”
“I didn’t say it would end.”
“Then what — ”
“I provide you with information, Mr. Trask. That’s all I can do. But if you want it to stop, that’s another matter.”
“I’ve already talked to Cam about possible criminal charges.”
Case shook his head. “This guy’s careful. My guess is he’s never going to give you something you can take to the DA.”
“So what else?”
Gerald Case leaned over his desk. “How important is it to you to stop this guy?”
“It has to stop.”
“Then you may need some outside assistance.”
“Outside?”
“May I count on your discretion and speak freely?”
“Yes.”
“There are certain people I can contact who would have a talk with this man.”
Sam understood immediately. “Mr. Case, I don’t want to leave the bounds of the law.”
“That’s fine. All I’m telling you is that the law may not solve this particular problem. I just wanted you to have all the information.”
For a moment, Sam considered it. And the thought chilled him. No, he couldn’t go down that path. Or could he? Given another shove, given any further threat to his family, maybe he could.
Where was his faith? It was stretched out like a thin rubber band and could hardly endure the tension of this trouble.
Sam said, “If I were to want a gun for protection, who would you suggest I go to?”
Case raised his eyebrows. “Within the law?”
“Of course.”
“Just asking. There’s a testing requirement, background check, ten-day waiting period, tests — ”
“Tests?”
“They don’t want people running out mad, getting a gun, and going back home and shooting themselves in the foot.”
“Ten days may be too long.”
Gerald Case spread his hands.
Sam stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Case. Do what you have to do, and send me a bill. Shall I give you something on retainer?”
“That would very nice, Mr. Trask.”

“We spent the night in San Diego. I’m with Roz. We’re at a motel. We’re fine.”
“Are you coming home?”
“Sometime.”
“Heather, please.”
“I’m okay, Mom. You and Dad have to be good with that.”
“What are you telling me?”
“I don’t know.”
Heather looked at Roz, who was sitting on the bed taking a pull from a bottle of Cuervo Gold. It was sometime in the early afternoon. Heather’s head was throbbing from the night before, when she’d done shooters with Roz in this dive of a place.
Life as rock stars. It wasn’t all that glamorous at the moment.
“Heather, you need to talk to your father. You’ve got a DUI hanging over your head. You’re . . .”
“What, Mom?”
“You need to come home. Let us help you.”
“How’s Max?”
“He’s okay. He’s worried about you too.”
“Tell everybody not to worry, will you? Stop it.”
“Heather, please — ”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll call you later.”
When she clicked off, Roz said, “Trouble at the old homestead?” She offered Heather the bottle.
Heather grabbed it and took a long pull, the burn in her throat something to think about other than what she was doing to her family.
“Hey, easy.” Roz laughed.
Heather wiped the wet from her eyes. “How much of this does it take to fall asleep and not wake up?” She looked into the bottle and the sight blurred under fresh tears.
The next thing she knew, Roz was sitting next to her on the bed, arm around her. “Hey.”
“Hey
what
?” Heather snapped.
“Just . . .
hey
. Sometimes that’s all a friend needs to say, okay? Hey.” Roz pulled Heather close and didn’t say another word.

When he got home, Sam found Linda in tears in the living room. “She’s gone, Sam. I know it.”
He took her in his arms as she explained the call from Heather.

Sam put his head back. “Not in California. This isn’t exactly the state that upholds parental rights.”
“That’s crazy! What kind of a state is this?”
Sam held her close. Then his phone buzzed. Linda stepped back and said, “I’ll whip something up for dinner.” She kissed his cheek and headed for the kitchen.
Lew was on the phone. “How you feeling, man?”
“I’m getting by, Lew.”
“No. I mean how are you feeling?”
“Fine, I said.”
“You didn’t say that.”
“Don’t play lawyer with me, Lew.”
“That’s what I am. And so are you, pal. Friday is big.”
“You don’t have to tell me how big it is. I’ve been working on it.”
“Is that what you were doing all day?”
“Is that what this is about? You checking up on me?” “Sam, it’s no secret you’ve got some distractions going — ”
“Lew, listen to me. I am ready. Friday I’ll be ready. Will you trust me on that?”
“If you’ll get a good sleep Thursday night.”
“I will.”
“You want to meet at the courthouse at eight thirty?”
“Sure. I’ll see you there.”
“Sam?”
“Yeah.”
“Hang in there, boy.”
Yeah. Hang.
Hang and drag. That’s what life was beginning to be. You had to hang on, and you had to drag your way through work and responsibilities.
God, when will it get better?