The Burning Plain (42 page)

“Me? Why me, Henry? I don’t know anything about kids.”

“You’re paying his legal bill,” I pointed out.

“Writing checks is one thing, changing diapers is another.”

“He’s sixteen, Richie.”

“Oh, great, he probably wears black tee shirts, listens to heavy metal and sniffs hair spray out of paper bags.”

“He’s a nice kid, naive, scared. You were institutionalized when you were a kid, Richie. You must know how he’s feeling.”

After a moment, he said, “How long?”

“A week or two, max,” I said.

“Well, it would be fun to have someone to watch movies with,” he allowed. “That’s all I’m doing these days.”

“Great,” I said, “you can screen the great camp classics for him. I doubt if he’s seen them. Just tread gently.”

“What does that mean?” he asked waspishly.

“Like I said, Richie, he’s naive. His parents have been filling his head with scary ideas about gay people …”

“Are you calling me scary?”

“You can be a little overwhelming. It’s just a matter of bringing your fabulousness down a notch or two.”

“You asshole!”

“I’m trying to protect him.”

“Against what? The parts of fag culture you personally despise?”

“He’s been through a lot, Richie, and he’s going to go through a lot more. I’d like him to feel safe for a while.”

“There’s no safety for us,” Richie said.

“He doesn’t need to know that yet. I’m sorry if I offended you, Richie. He’s just a kid …”

“Henry, are you okay?”

“It’s been a long day.”

“Listen, honey, I’ll take care of the rugrat. You pull yourself together.”

“Will do. By the way, Richie? You’ll be breaking the law by helping us out.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The next day, I called Phil Wise in San Francisco and lied to him.

“Rod’s in Los Angeles,” I said. “He called me yesterday and told me he managed to give his dad the slip at the airport and hitchhike down here.”

“Where is he?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He’s afraid I’ll tell his parents. I told him you filed the petition in dependency court and he agreed to show up for the hearing, but listen, I have a better idea. Dismiss the petition up there and refile it here in LA. We stand a much better chance of winning here.” I laid out my reasons, more liberal judiciary, greater familiarity with the problems of gay kids. “What do you think?”

“Brilliant, Professor K.,” he said. “Are you sure he’s down there?”

I looked across the room to Rod. “I’m positive.”

“I need to see him,” Phil said. “I can fly down tomorrow morning with the papers.”

“He’s calling me this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll arrange a meeting.”

“Call me back,” Phil said. “And Henry, it’s better that neither of us knows where he’s staying, in case the court asks.”

“I understand.”

I hung up. “Come on, Rod, let’s go. Richie’s expecting us.”

“What did Phil say?”

“I’ll tell you in the car.”

As we drove to Richie, I explained the situation.

“Thank you for not calling my parents,” he said. “I know this could get you into trouble.”

“I’m trying to avoid that.”

“What if they say you kidnapped me?”

“They can say whatever they like. A judge will decide what’s true. In the meantime, you have your safe house, although Richie’s not exactly Harriet Tubman.”

“What’s he like?”

“When Richie was a kid, his parents committed him to a mental hospital where he was supposed to be cured of being gay, just like your parents want to do with you. As you’ll see, the cure didn’t take.”

Javier let us into Richie’s apartment. Rod was studying the pink and blue mural depicting the rape of Ganymede that was painted on the wall of the entry hall when Richie emerged from his room in parrot-green silk trousers and a bright yellow shirt. He air-kissed the sides of my face. I introduced him to Rod.

“Bubbie,” he murmured maternally.

“You’re Richie?” Rod said, wide-eyed.

“None other,” Richie said, “but think of me as your Auntie Mame.”

“My what?”

“You don’t know about Auntie Mame?” Richie asked grandly.

“She’s a character in a movie,” I explained. “A kind of fairy godmother.”

“More fairy than mother,” Richie added.

“May I use the bathroom?” Rod said.

“Javier, show him the powder room,” Richie commanded.

After he left, I said to Richie, “Knock it off, Richie.”

“Are you sure he’s gay?”

When Rod returned, I took him aside and said, “I have to go now. You’ve got my page number. Call me whenever you feel like talking. Don’t let Richie scare you. He’s really a very good guy.”

He was staring at the mural on the ceiling, a sky held up by four lascivious cherubs. “His house is like a museum. I was afraid to dry my hands on the towel in his bathroom. You’re sure I can’t stay with you?”

“Richie’s harmless,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

Phil Wise came down from San Francisco the next day, met with Rod, and filed a new dependency petition in juvenile court in LA that included an emergency request to have Rod declared a ward of the court to prevent his return to his parents. We were lucky to draw a judge named John Fuentes who had run a child’s advocacy organization before his appointment to the bench. He scheduled a hearing on the emergency request for the following Monday. In the meantime, Phil served Rod’s parents.

The next day, Phil phoned. “The Morses filed their response to our petition,” he said. “You won’t believe the shit their lawyer let them put in their declarations.”

“Bad?”

“They actually use the phrase ‘agents of Satan,’” he said, gleefully.

“That’s great. The crazier they sound, the better we look.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not all ranting and raving,” he said. “They also filed a motion to dismiss the LA petition on jurisdictional grounds and haul us back into the valley.”

“Rod’s physically present in LA,” I said. “That confers personal jurisdiction.”

“He’s a runaway, Professor K.,” Phil replied. “That’s the only reason he’s in LA. His home is with his parents. Got an argument?”

“Fuentes won’t dismiss our petition if we can persuade him that by sending Rod back to the valley, he’ll be sealing his doom,” I said. “He’s the one judge in the entire county who may agree with us that trying to cure your gay kid of being gay is child abuse. All we have to do is keep his eye on the substantive issue instead of the procedural one.”

“You’re right,” Phil said, brightening. “But you’re going to have tell Rod when he shows up in court on Monday there’s a chance he’ll be returned to his parents. Can you guarantee he’ll be there?”

“Yes,” I said, though I wasn’t sure at all.

“I’m counting on you,” Phil said.

I took Rod to lunch, where I explained the status of his case. I forced his reluctant agreement to show up for the hearing, even at the risk of being ordered home. I had no sooner dropped him off at Richie’s when my car phone rang. It was Serena Dance. She was jubilant.

“Good news, Henry,” she said. “Odell came through. He found a witness who identified Jim Harley at the scene of the car bombing. He arrested Harley last night, and not only did he cop to the bombing, he incriminated Asuras and your friend Donati.”

I had been too preoccupied with Rod to give much thought to the Asuras case, but I was worried by Serena’s overconfidence. “What exactly did he say?”

“Donati approached him about doing the job. When he balked, Asuras personally called him. They paid him a hundred thousand dollars. I’m working on arrest warrants for Donati and Asuras for conspiracy.”

“Have you run this past the DA?”

She bristled. “I don’t need his permission to file the case. I have hard evidence.”

“A co-conspirator’s statement isn’t admissible against another unless it’s corroborated by independent evidence,” I reminded her.

“I know what the law is,” she huffed. “This is enough to arrest them. Now I can go after them for the murders.”

I started to object, but thought better of it. “Great. I’m here if you need me.”

That was Wednesday, The arrests of Asuras and Donati made national news the next morning. By that evening, the charges had been dropped and the District Attorney had issued an abject apology to the two men. In her haste to arrest them, Serena had forgotten that the car they had allegedly conspired to destroy was leased to Samsara, a company Asuras owned. His lawyer claimed the explosion was an experiment in special-effects technology for an upcoming movie in development at Parnassus. He pointed out that the leasing company had been completely compensated for the car so, in effect, Asuras was being charged with conspiring to destroy his own property. He also distributed a sworn statement from James Harley retracting his earlier confession to the police on the grounds it had been coerced.

I called Serena at home as soon as the broadcast ended. The answering machine picked up.

“Serena, it’s Henry,” I began.

“Hi,” she said, wanly, picking up. “I’m screening.”

“I just finished watching the news.”

“You call to gloat?” she asked, bitterly. “You warned me.”

“I’m not gloating. It was pretty nervy strategy for Asuras. I don’t see how you could’ve anticipated it.”

“I’ve been fired, Henry.”

“What?”

“I have two weeks to get my cases in order and submit my resignation.”

“You have civil-service protection.”

“No,” she said. “I was a special hire to run the hate-crimes unit. I serve at the DA’s pleasure. He’s not pleased anymore.”

“What about Josey Walsh’s statement? What about Harley’s statement that he blew up the car because Alex wouldn’t return it to Asuras?”

“You saw the news,” she said. “Harley retracted his confession. Josey Walsh’s statement doesn’t mean anything unless you buy the whole package, and the DA’s not buying. We had a meeting with Asuras and his lawyers. When I tried to raise the Walsh statement, Jack shut me up.”

“He already knew about Walsh?”

“I laid everything out for him after Asuras was arrested. Everything, Henry,” she emphasized, “including my belief that he’s a murderer.”

“And the DA said what?”

“I swear I heard him piss his pants,” she replied, “but what he told me was to go slow and keep it out of the press. Later on, when he fired me, he told me he knew I was wrong about Asuras all along. He said if I indulged these fantasies publicly, he’d see I was disbarred.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“You thought I was grandstanding, didn’t you? You thought I wanted the credit for my personal glory. That wasn’t true, Henry. I needed to win a big case to keep the hate-crimes unit alive. Now Jack will probably disband it.”

“The DA knows Asuras is a murderer and he’s going to let him get away with it?”

“Incredible, isn’t it,” she said.

“What about the sheriff? Could he be interested?”

“I persuaded him to arrest Asuras and Donati. He’ll be grateful if they don’t sue him for false arrest.”

“Did Donati do the talking at the meeting with the DA?”

“Donati wasn’t there,” she said.

“What?”

“He wasn’t there,” she repeated. “That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Maybe it’s more than just strange,” I said.

“Nick, it’s Rios, please pick up. I know you’re there because I tried your office and your secretary said you were working at home and she’d just got off the phone with you. Nick …”

“You never give up, do you?” Donati said thickly.

“I thought you might to want to talk to someone other than a bottle of scotch.”

“About what?”

“I heard when Duke met with the DA yesterday morning, you weren’t included. Either he’s about to throw you to the wolves or you’re finally sick of all the blood on your hands.”

After a long silence, he said, “What do you care, Henry, you’re not the cops.”

“I’m a defense lawyer, Nick. I think you could use my services.”

He cackled. “For what? I’ve just been exonerated by the District Attorney.”

“I can believe that Asuras is a sociopath who doesn’t feel any remorse for what he’s done, but you’re not. You drink like a man who’s having trouble sleeping, Nick. I know. I’ve been there.”

“What’s this, a twelve-step call? I told you, I’m in the clear.”

“So is Duke,” I said. “The cops will never catch him. What’s that going to do for his ego? He already thinks he’s above right and wrong. What’s his next trick? Who’s his next victim? Are you helping him with that cover-up, too?”

He hung up. A few minutes later, the fax machine spit out a fax from him.
You’re phones are tapped. Come to my house tonight at
10
. Careful you’re not followed. N.

I’d only been to Donati’s house once and when I tried to find it again, I got lost in Laurel Canyon’s dark, twisting roads. When I finally reached his fortress, I was an hour late, but at least I was certain I hadn’t been followed. Upstairs, the lights were on and there was a Land Rover in the driveway. The plates stopped me: PROUDJD. Where had I seen those plates before? Unable to remember, I continued to the house and rang the bell. I heard furious barking, followed by light footsteps, a muted voice quieting the dogs and then silence. A minute passed, then two, and finally the doorknob turned and he pulled the door back. I could smell the booze on him. His dogs snapped and growled behind him as if expressing the fear he had smothered with scotch.

“Quiet,” he commanded them. He was in jeans, a button-down shirt and loafers without socks. His hair was disheveled, his face darkened with stubble. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

“I got lost in the canyon.”

He smiled, displaying his supernally white teeth. “Like Dante. Come in. Watch me have a drink.”

Things were subtly amiss in the expensively austere upper floor; a spill of whisky on the burnished dining table, the Doré lithograph of the wood of the suicides jammed between the cushions on the couch and the stale smell of heavy drinking in the air.

He picked up a smudged, half-filled glass. “You mind?”

“No.”

He came toward me. “I can’t imagine you drunk, Henry. I can’t imagine you out of control.”