The Hidden Law (10 page)

W
HEN I WOKE A SECOND
time it was morning but I felt as if I hadn’t slept at all. I lay in bed looking at the familiar objects that furnished the room as if seeing them for the first time, and I felt lost in the life which they represented. When I was a child I had worked hard at making myself invisible and I emerged from it without an identity. Over the years, I had crafted one for myself, and now Raymond Reynolds was telling me it was all wrong. It was still better than not existing at all. I needed to talk to someone. Various names entered my head: Reynolds, Josh, even Edith Rosen, and then I remembered Timothy Taylor to whom I’d owed a call since Cullen’s service. I picked up the phone and dialed his number.

“Good morning,” he chirped.

I hesitated. “Tim, it’s Henry Rios.”

“What’s wrong, honey, you sound like your best friend just died.”

“No,” I said, drawing the covers over me. “I had a bad dream and I woke up kind of shaky.”

“Why don’t you tell me about it.”

I related my dream, feeling a little foolish, but Timothy listened without making a sound.

“You know,” he said, “my father was the first person who ever called me a queer. I think I was eight at the time.” He giggled, “And I hadn’t even done anything yet. I mean, I didn’t actually start sucking cock until I was, oh, eight and a half.”

I smiled for the first time that day. He continued, “I didn’t even know what he meant, but I still wanted to kill him for saying it. But being a certified sissy, I ended up almost killing myself instead. All those years sitting in queer bars drinking out of anger at that prick. I’d show him who was a queer. After a few drinks, of course, I could’ve cared less. Tell me something, Henry, when you were drinking did you think much about your dad?”

I thought back. Between the time I was seventeen when I had my first drink at a kegger, and landing in an alcoholic ward when I was thirty-four, I had had almost nothing to do with my family.

“No,” I said. “Not much.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “I bet you’ve always been the strong silent type of drunk. But back to me, when I got sober I was still pissed at the old man, but I couldn’t get drunk about it anymore. I just had to sit still and let it pass. Do you get my point, or am I being too subtle?”

“I understand,” I said. “I’m not sure why this is all coming up now, though.”

“Mmmm,” he said. “For being such a smart man, you are remarkably dense about some things.”

“Gee, thanks, Tim. I guess now you’ll explain it to me.”

“Right you are,” he replied. “Sister Mary Timothy explains it all. Look, doll, your boyfriend has just walked out on you and taken up with another guy. That’s what’s churning your butter.”

“You have a gift for the tawdry.”

“Flatterer.”

“I don’t see how the two things are related.”

“Dumb, dumb, dumb,” he said with mock exasperation. “Honey, do you really think you have separate sets of emotions? If you’re hurt and pissed at Josh for leaving you, it’s going to bring up every other time some man,” he drew out the word into two syllables—mah-an—“hurt you and pissed you off. And it sounds like your dad went to the same school of child rearing that mine did.” He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was serious. “You know, Henry, we’re the only people who get born into the enemy camp. I mean, black babies get born into black families, Jewish babies get born into Jewish families, but gay babies, we get born into straight families. How we survive it at all is a miracle.”

“I don’t think my father knew I was gay.”

“Henry, darling, why do you think he was so mad at you? Something about you made him very unhappy.”

“I’m sure there was a lot about me that made him unhappy,” I replied. “I’m not sure it was being gay. I didn’t know that about myself until I was sixteen, but you are right about one thing. He let me know I wasn’t his kind of man.”

“No,” he said, “but look at you. You’re smart, sensitive, successful—”

“Trustworthy, loyal and obedient.”

“OK, then don’t take a compliment, as long as you understand what I’m saying. There’s nothing wrong with the kind of man you are.”

I laughed. “That means a lot from someone who dressed up last Halloween as Barbara Bush.”

“Bitch,” he replied. “Oh, maybe the bouffant was a tad overdone, but I thought I carried it off rather well. Now, can I finish?”

“Please.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the kind of man you are,” he repeated. “Let go of what your father wanted you to be and maybe you’ll stop hating him so much.”

After a moment, I asked, “How did you get so smart, Timmy?”

“Kicking and screaming,” he replied. “And I have the scars to prove it.”

“What about your dad? You ever make your peace with him?”

“Well,” he said, cautiously, “we’re never going to be the Beav and Mr. Cleaver, but we talk. I’ve got to run. Call me later if you need to.”

“Thanks, Tim.”

“Bye, doll.”

I got up, suddenly ravenous. In the kitchen I scrambled a couple of eggs with cheese, made a pot of coffee, toasted a slice of Italian bread that I spread with butter and marmalade, and set the table. I went out and picked up the paper. Buried on an inside page of the Metro section was a story about how the police had conducted a sweep of East LA the night before, using Gus Peña’s anti-gang law to round up almost a hundred “suspected gang members.”

When I got to work that morning, Tomas Ochoa had already called twice. Before I had a chance to return his calls, Emma came into the office, looking grim.

“Henry, there are a couple of cops outside who want to talk to you,” she said.

“What about?”

“They said they wanted to speak to you privately,” she sniffed.

“All right, send them back.”

They dressed with conspicuous anonymity. The older of the two was a bald, haggard-looking man in a gray suit, white shirt, and a blue-and-gray tie. The younger was stocky, also in a gray suit and blue tie but he, in an impetuous moment, had chosen a blue shirt. They arranged themselves stolidly in the chairs in front of my desk and gave me a look that made me feel as if I were being patted down for weapons.

The older said, “I’m Detective Laverty and this is Detective Merrill. We’d like to talk to you about Senator Peña.”

“Why? I hardly knew the man.”

“You were at his funeral,” Laverty said.

“What did you do, take pictures of everyone who came in?” I asked. Laverty decided to treat this as a joke, and smiled politely. “At any rate, half the city was at Gus Peña’s funeral.”

Merrill broke in. “Yeah, and we’re talking to all of them.”

Laverty threw him a look, then said to me, “Did you speak to the Senator the night of his death?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“We found your card on his desk.”

“So what?”

“Can you tell us the circumstances under which you gave him your card?” he persisted.

“Not until you tell me why my business card is so interesting to you. Or are you going through his Rolodex?”

Laverty pulled out a notebook. “Senator Peña made two calls to you the night he was killed. The first call, to your office, was made at around 7:00 P.M. The second call was to your residence.”

“You checked his outgoing calls? You must be stalled.”

“It’s routine,” he replied.

“In that case, I’m sure his phone records must also show that he didn’t reach anyone because I didn’t talk to him that night.”

Laverty pretended to consult his notes. “No, not at your office, but he did reach someone at your residence, and he was on the line for almost three minutes. You have an answering machine? You live with someone?”

I spoke quickly to conceal my surprise. “There was no message from Peña on my phone machine that night, and I live alone.”

Without missing a beat, Laverty said, “Phone company shows another listing for your number. J. Mandel.”

“He moved out.”

“I see,” Laverty said. We were all quiet for a moment. Finally, Laverty asked, “You know a woman named Edith Rosen?”

“You wouldn’t ask the question if you didn’t know the answer,” I replied.

“You spoke to her the day after the Senator was killed,” he said.

“Have you been at my phone records, too?”

Laverty cleared his throat. “We looked at them informally.”

“You looked at them illegally.”

“Counselor,” Laverty said, “we’re trying to find out who killed Senator Peña. We’re obliged to follow every lead we have.”

“Are you suggesting that Edith Rosen or I are involved in Gus’s death?”

“We’re just trying to find out if he said anything to anyone in the days before he was killed that could help us out.”

“Gentlemen, I didn’t talk to Gus Peña the night he was killed, and any conversation I had with Edith Rosen is privileged.”

Laverty picked up on that immediately. “Miss Rosen a client of yours?”

“I’ve said as much as I’m going to, and now I have work to do.”

They got up. No one offered to shake anyone’s hand and no one said thank you either. After they left, I analyzed our little talk. It was clear that they didn’t have much to go on, and I doubted if they knew about Michael Ruiz. Unfortunately, by claiming the privilege on my conversation with Edith, I’d supplied them with a lead. I called her to warn her.

“They were already out here this morning,” she said. “They asked me the same questions they asked the first time and I gave them the same answer.”

“You asserted the privilege.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did they talk to Chuck?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Have you told Chuck about Michael’s disappearance the night Gus was killed?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He wasn’t happy about it.”

“Did you tell him you’ve claimed the privilege with the cops?”

“No, that’s none of his business. What are you thinking, Henry?”

“I’m thinking that if you’re claiming one privilege and I’m claiming another, the cops are going to conclude that we’re hiding something.”

“Those privileges exist to protect people,” she said sternly.

“They see it differently,” I remarked. “They’ll probably come back to the house and try you again. If you stonewall them, they’ll get around to Chuck, eventually. He’ll tell them about Michael’s threat on Peña’s life.”

After a moment, she asked, “What should I do?”

“If it’s going to come out, you might as well tell them yourself.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Would you rather that they hear Chuck’s version?”

“It’s a matter of principle.”

I let it go. “Have you heard from Michael at all?”

“No, not a word.”

“Let me know the moment you do.”

I was still puzzled by the phone calls that the cops said Peña had made to me the night he was killed. I’d gone directly from court to dinner with Josh without stopping at home. The only other person who had a key to the house was Josh, and he had already been at the restaurant when I arrived. Then I remembered that when I’d sat down and apologized for being late, he had said…

“Josh,” I said, when he came on the line after I exchanged a few minutes of small talk with his mother, “do you remember last Wednesday night, when we met for dinner?”

“Hi to you, too,” he replied. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got something on my mind.”

“I can tell,” he said.

I took a deep breath. “Josh, this is important.”

“What’s important?”

“The night we had dinner.”

“What about it?”

“I remember that I apologized for being late, but you said, you’d just got there, too.”

“So?”

“So you were also late.”

“I told you,” he said, “I had to stop at the house to pick up my leather jacket.”

“You didn’t tell me that,” I said.

“You know I hate it when you use that lawyer-voice on me.”

“Sorry,” I said, wondering what the hell a lawyer-voice sounded like, but I decided now was not the time to pick a fight. “Did anyone call while you were at the house, just before you left?”

“How am I supposed to remem—oh, yeah. Someone did call. Some drunk.”

“Some drunk?”

“I was on my way out when the phone rang and there was some drunk. I figured it was either one of your clients or someone you gave your name to at an AA meeting, so I tried to talk to him, but he was pretty loaded.”

“Did he say his name?”

“No, he just started babbling. I was running late, so I hung up on him, figuring he would call you later, when he was sober. So what’s the big deal?”

“It was Gus Peña,” I said.

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you know what he wanted?”

“No,” I said. “The police were here earlier and they told me he’d called. That’s all I know.”

“Sorry, I probably meant to tell you, but then we got into that fight.”

“Do you remember anything that he said?”

“He asked for you, and I told him you weren’t there. I asked him if he wanted to leave a message, and he started to babble. I was in a hurry, so I cut it short.”

“He didn’t say why he was calling?”

“Henry,” he replied irritably, “I could barely understand him.”

“All right, I don’t mean to cross-examine you.”

“Don’t you?”

“Listen, Josh, why are you trying to pick a fight with me? After the other night, I thought we had a truce going.”

“Maybe it’s because I’ve had five years of calls like this,” he said. “When you’re working on a case nothing else matters.”

“I’ve always made time for you.”

“‘Made time’,” he repeated. “I don’t have as much time as you do, Henry. I can’t wait for an empty slot in your appointment book.”

“What about tonight?”

“No,” he said, “not tonight.”

“Steven.”

“Now who’s trying to start a fight?”

“I just asked a question.”

“That was a statement and, yes, Steven. Happy?”

“Excuse me,” I said. “Was I using my lawyer-voice?”

He hung up.

I pushed my marital troubles out of my head and tried to think of why Gus Peña had called me on the night he was killed. I doubted that the reason was as simple as cancelling his appointment the next day. As far as everyone knew, Gus Peña was sober, so why would he have exposed the lie to me? The only plausible explanation was that he was in trouble. I itched to know what kind of trouble, but didn’t know where to turn for an answer.