The Bomb Maker's Son (8 page)

Reddick stands so forcefully that her chair teeters backward and barely rights itself with a defiant clatter. “I request a continuance so the government can brief this issue in more detail.”

“Denied. Please don’t interrupt me again, counsel. You might want Holzner to be Holzner, apparently the defendant himself wants to be Holzner, but this is two thousand fourteen, and Martin Lansing is here in court. And I don’t think Martin Lansing is dangerous or a flight risk.”

“Your Honor—”

“Not another word, counsel,” the judge says. “
Nada
.”

The thunder of recognition quickly comes after the lightning bolt that is the judge’s ruling. Silence gives way to the clicks of keypads, and the creaks of folding chairs, and the shocked whispers, muted sounds that nevertheless agglomerate into a din that the clerk stifles with a shout of, “Order.”

Holzner looks at Lovely in astonishment. She takes one of his shackled hands in hers.

“Here are the release conditions,” the judge says. “And for the record, I want to make it clear up front that I’m not letting the defendant go free to roam the streets. I am not
loco en la cabeza
.”

I doubt anyone in the courtroom believes Gibson’s disclaimer of insanity. I certainly don’t.

“The defendant will be confined to an acceptable secure residence with a family member or close friend who is deemed acceptable by this court. He’ll be subject to electronic monitoring. I’ll set bond in the amount of six million dollars. Plus constant surveillance of said residence by the US Marshal’s office, defendant to defray the cost.” Judge Gibson rocks back in his chair and beams at the gallery with self-satisfaction. “Yes, that’s my ruling.
Si.
”

With the judge’s words, the pall of righteous indignation enshrouding Marilee Reddick lifts like LA fog on a March afternoon. She knows that Holzner can’t even afford the cost of twenty-four-hour surveillance, much less a six-million-dollar bond. And there’s the problem of relatives. None have come forward, and if Holzner knows where any of them are, he hasn’t told me. Ernesto, his former boss, denounced him to the conservative Orange County newspapers. He doesn’t seem to have any other friends. I guess that when you’re a fugitive from justice, you can’t let people get too close.

I start to object to the judge’s conditions, but before I can utter a sound, he shakes his finger at me. “Don’t go there, Mr. Gerald. My order stands. But I would like you to come back to chambers when we adjourn so we can get a photograph together.”

I glance over at Holzner, who’s gazing at me with brown eyes I now recognize as a paternal version of my own—intense, stubborn, righteous. Those eyes radiate an almost-serene fatalism, as if he’s finally aware that this hearing is the beginning of an inevitable end game in which he’ll die by lethal injection. I’ve never been a fatalist. I learned as a child actor that no matter how scripted a scene is, no matter how constraining the rules, much of life is improvisation. Words often form of their own volition, seemingly unrelated to cognition. Maybe it’s because Holzner is my father. Maybe it’s simply because this crazy judge is a star struck, and I don’t like star fuckers. But without thinking I blurt out, “I’ll post bond for Mr. Lansing, pay the surveillance cost, and let him serve his confinement at my residence.”

Behind me, Lovely gasps, seemingly triggering a rising wave of murmurs that finally breaks at the judge’s sharp glance.

Gibson reclines in his chair, looks at the ceiling, shuts his eyes, and taps his pen on the bench. When he returns to an upright position, he says, “I don’t think that’s going to work, counsel. The ethical rules clearly prohibit an attorney from paying his client’s financial obligations. That includes bail. So says the California State Bar. In any event, I ordered that the defendant reside with a family member or intimate friend. Less incentive to skip out and leave a loved one holding that bag. You’re a lawyer, not a loved one, Mr. Stern.”

A second chance to stick to the script, and a second time departing from it: “No problem, Your Honor. Nothing in the ethical rules prevents a lawyer who’s also a relative from posting the defendant’s bail. The defendant, Ian Holzner, happens to be my father.”

CHAPTER TEN

While Lovely accompanies Holzner to the detention center for processing, I stay at the courthouse and arrange to post the six-million-dollar bond. I’m good for the amount. I saved enough from my earnings as a child actor and don’t need to work. But if Holzner jumps bail, I will have to practice law to make a living. All the while, the media follow me down the airless corridors shouting questions, nipping at my heels like stray dogs not sure whether they want a hunting prize or a handout. When I finish the paperwork, I take refuge in Judge Gibson’s courtroom, one of the few places where I can more or less avoid the media. The courtroom deputy is kind enough shoo them out so they don’t harass me for too long. A couple of reporters grumble about the First Amendment, but I’m clearly not going to answer their questions, and they know better than to piss off a court clerk who can make their lives difficult by subtly delaying their access to court rulings. To a reporter, time is worth more than factual accuracy.

At about three in the afternoon, the door opens, and in walks a portly older man with a scraggly salt-and-pepper beard covering multiple chins. Despite the summer heat, he’s wearing a black windbreaker bearing the San Francisco Giants logo and a red-and-black flannel work shirt. His old-man baggy jeans are too short, revealing scuffed tan moccasins and white crew socks. He carries a Giants cap in his left hand. His twiny, gray hair barely covers a high forehead. He looks around the courtroom like a lost child. When his eyes alight on me, he limps forward, favoring his right leg. I doubt he’s media, but he might be a regular courtroom watcher. As he approaches, the clerk, who’s sitting at his desk pushing paper, glances up without concern.

“Mr. Stern?” the man says in a timorous voice. He takes a deep, resolute breath. “I looked for you after the hearing, but you rushed out and looked so busy, so I asked a nice guy from the
Times
, and he said I could find you here. Anyway, my name’s Jerry Holzner, Mr. Stern. I’m Ian’s brother.” He has a speech impediment that affects his pronunciation of the letter
R
, so that “Holzner” comes out “Holznew,” “Stern” is “Stewn,” and “brother” is “bwothew.” Perhaps he’s hearing impaired. He looks nothing like Ian. But he wouldn’t, because, according to the
Wikipedia
article I read, Ian was adopted. Then the next epiphany—this man is my uncle.

“Nice thing you did for Ian,” he says. “I would of, but I could never afford it. I’m just a school custodian, you know. Was. Retired, living on the disability and the pension. I live in Foster City. Not far from San Francisco.” He raises his cap and points to the Giants logo. “Anyway, Ian was a good brother. A good boy. He wanted to stop the war.” He looks at his feet like a sad child trying to justify his best friend’s bad behavior. “Hope I’m not bothering you, sir.”

Despite what I revealed during the hearing, he doesn’t acknowledge that he and I are related. Is he just overly deferent or a bit slow? As Ian’s attorney, there’s so much I should ask him. What does he know about the Playa Delta bombing? Can he help me locate any of Ian’s former fellow travelers? Did the FBI really hang him by his heels off a balcony to make him rat out his brother? But I ask the only thing a long-lost child could. “Jerry, I’m your nephew. Ian’s son. Did you ever see me when I was a baby?” My adult ears detect a plaintive, childlike cast to my voice, a simple yearning that was absent when I asked Ian and Harriet about my childhood. How could it have been otherwise? The interrogation of my parents was imbued with resentment.

Jerry smiles. His teeth are surprisingly straight and white. It seems important. Maybe it proves that not everything about this man is broken, that he has residual strength to help me fight this formless battle on behalf of Ian.

“Oh yeah, yeah,” he says, patting my shoulder. “You’re the baby. I only heard about you from my mother. She didn’t like the girl. Hated her, I think so.”

“The girl?”

“The baby’s mother.”

“Harriet?”

“After the cops rousted me I freaked out, you know? I was afraid of everything, shell-shocked the shrinks said. I had horrible nightmares. I was in the loony bin for a while. All I know is after the thing that happened at the VA, my parents—my pops—wouldn’t talk about Ian, didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Or his baby son.” He looks down at his hat. “Not your fault. But it sounds like you did good. I mean, you were a famous kid actor. Hell, you’re famous now. Who would’ve thought?” He frowns. “I guess Ian is famous again, and that’s not so great.”

Time to play lawyer again. “You came all the way down from the Bay Area for this hearing, Jerry?”

“Yap. As soon as I read about Ian. I wondered where he was all these years. Missed him. He’s my little brother, but he was like my big brother. Smarter, braver, nicer than me. He protected me from bullies. I thought I’d never see him again. I thought he was dead or something.”

“Look, I’m going to defend him in this case, and I need your help.”

“You’re his attorney,” he says.
Yew his attoonee
.

“Because the events—the bombing, I mean—took place forty years ago, you might be able to help me piece together what happened.”

He nods. “The war. Nam. I served, you know. I think that’s why Ian done what he done.”

My cell phone buzzes. It’s a text from Lovely: “Client free but big problems courthouse steps NOW!!!”

As I gather up my things, I say to Jerry, “How’d you like to say hello to your brother?”

“Yes, I sure would, Parker.”

“Let’s go.” I head out of the room at a near sprint but slow down when I realize that Jerry can’t move very well.

“You have to go fast, so go fast,” he says. “I’ll catch up with you. Where will Ian be?”

“Courthouse entrance. Two flights down.” I actually do start sprinting, balancing my briefcase and hoping that I don’t trip while running down the escalators. I wish I’d inherited Ian Holzner’s gymnastic abilities.

When I get to the automatic double doors, the problem is obvious—Holzner, now dressed in the clothes that I wanted him to wear to court, is surrounded by a media throng. “. . . and frankly, I’d be bullshitting you if I told you otherwise,” he says in his resonant sixties-rabble-rouser voice. “No way am I remorseful for what happened in the seventies. The bombs we set off in the seventies were the clarion call of the masses, the chimes of freedom protesting a capitalist system that lined the pockets of the rich at the expense of working people and the poor. It’s no different today. The American government mires itself in foreign wars, keeps widening the gaping crevasse between rich and poor, rewards the multinational corporation for its exploitation of children, develops the latest technology not to solve the nation’s ills but to invade the privacy of its citizens. In the words of Malcolm X, ‘There’s no such thing as a nonviolent revolution.’ So I make no apologies for taking a stand. To tell you the truth—”

Just then, Jerry Holzner limps out of the courthouse doors. There’s a concussive jolt, shouts, shrieks, and moans, and only when daggers of glass shoot out from a courthouse window does my father stop talking.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m on the ground, on top of Lovely, shielding her body from debris or another explosion or follow-up sniper fire. There are screams and shouts. Lovely groans and tries to get up.

“Stay down!” I shout.

She relaxes in my arms. I rise up slightly and look around. I feel oddly detached. People are slowly getting to their feet, taking anatomical inventory. A woman I recognize as an online legal blogger has a bloody gash on her forehead, though fortunately she’s sitting up. A few others are bleeding but alive. Thankfully, I don’t see anyone who looks seriously injured. If that’s true, the bomber either made a mistake or didn’t want to kill anyone.

I feel a hand on my back. “Parker, Lovely. Are you kids all right?”

I look up to see Ian Holzner, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Lovely, are you okay?” I say. I hold my breath, waiting for an answer that seems to take forever.

She looks up at me and nods, then wraps her arms around me, and what should feel like a surprise seems perfectly natural, though we’ve been apart for so long. One of her stated reasons for leaving me was that I attract danger, and she has a child to protect. At this moment we’re close again, but what will this horror mean to her when she has time to reflect on it?

“Oh my god, Parker,” she whimpers.

Holzner grasps my hand, and with his gymnast’s power, lifts me to my feet and then helps Lovely up. She gapes at him, her eyes bright with anger and fear. “Oh my god, who would do something like this?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares at us and then drops his eyes.

“Do you think this accomplishes anything?” she says. “I don’t believe you’d . . . how could anyone but an insane person do something like this?”

“I had nothing to do with this,” he says.

I look past him and scan the area. Gawkers are assembling on the sidewalk, though not too close. Several windows have been shattered. But the damage looks minimal. Was this a warning or did the bomber screw up? Sirens blare from all directions. LAPD headquarters and several hospitals are only a short distance away.

“Where’s your brother?” I ask.

Holzner shakes his head, confused.

“Jerry. He was at the door when the explosion hit.”

“Jerry was here? He couldn’t have been here.”

Before I can reply, there’s an angry shout from a young man who’s standing at the bottom of the stairs. He points at Holzner, and he and three other men and two women start up the stairs with martial efficiency, their desire to do violence to my father palpable. What’s truly frightening about mobs is not how unruly they are but how organized. The two US Marshals who were flanking Holzner while he was giving his press conference appear out of nowhere, each taking one of his arms. They escort us into the courthouse and down a flight of stairs to a secret tunnel that leads to the federal building next door. At least, the tunnel was a secret from me—just like so many things in life.