Try Darkness (24 page)
I tried to imagine Father Bob as a gangbanger. Couldn’t do it.
“And then one day he met a black priest, which he never knew existed. This priest saw something in the kid, took him under his wing. It was a real Spencer Tracy moment.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The movie.
Boys Town.
Tracy played the priest who thought you could always get through to the boys if you showed empathy and kindness and a little love.”
“Sounds rose-colored glasses to me.”
“Well, he got me playing baseball instead of bashing heads. And then somewhere along the way got me thinking about God, and the next thing you know, I had a new desire in life. It was to totally and completely get out of the world I was living in and get into a world where God was real and I could serve him for the rest of my days. So I went to Xavier College in New Orleans.” He paused, then said, “And I ended up back in L.A., doing what I loved. Parish work. I still had to know how to survive on the street, though.”
“But aren’t you supposed to be nonviolent?”
“Self-defense is long established in Catholic moral teaching.”
“Violent self-defense?”
Father Bob nodded. “Each person has the right to defend himself against the attack of an aggressor. You may use whatever means are necessary—and that’s the key word, ‘necessary’—to defend your bodily integrity.”
“Even kill?”
“Only if necessary.”
“You? Do you think you could ever kill somebody?”
He thought about it. “When somebody’s coming at you, you don’t always have time to think it through. Still, you’re responsible, and that’s that. Do the best you can. If you sin, that’s what grace is for.”
“You are a surprising sort of priest,” I said. “So what exactly is your advice concering my self-defense? How about I just carry a gun? Any rules about having guns here?”
“It’s not part of the Rule of St. Benedict, if that’s what you mean. It doesn’t exactly go along with the idea of hospitality.”
“St. Benedict never lived in L.A.”
Father Bob got up and came to me, squeezed the back of my arms. “First thing, you need some muscle back there. I want you doing a hundred push-ups a day.”
“Did you say a hundred?”
“Between chairs, you know?” He mimed a deep push-up. “You can work up to it. Start doing ten. Then rest and ten more. See how you do. Maybe one month you do a hundred a day.”
“Anything else?”
“I’ll tell you one thing. Let’s say you have a shot at me. What do you do?”
“A shot?”
“Mano a mano.” Father Bob stood and faced me. “Come on.”
I got to my feet. We were about two feet apart.
“Show me what you’d do,” he said. “In slo-mo, please.”
I thought about Jean-Claude Van Damme and Chuck Norris. I made a fist and motioned toward Father Bob’s jaw.
“No,” he said. “That’s a good way to break your hand.”
“John Wayne never broke his hand,” I said.
“The Duke never hit a guy in his life. Look.” He put his hand out so the heel of his palm was up. “Best thing to do hand to hand is this . . .”
He shot his hand up, as if he was doing an uppercut with the palm. “Catch him right under the chin. You’ll mess his jaw up and have a second for a follow-up.”
“Follow-up?”
“As fast as you can, and as hard as you can, kick him in his sacred documents.”
“Ouch.”
“And I mean hard. Then you either disable him or get away as fast as you can. Are you in running shape?”
“I run away?”
“Always a good idea if you can. It saves needless carnage.”
“What if I
want
carnage.”
“Then you come to me. I’ll talk you down.”
I shook my head. “What would happen if Sister Hildegarde found out you were teaching this stuff?”
“Let’s not let that happen, huh?”
THE NEXT DAY
Kylie was antsy and I needed some rest.
So I packed Sister Mary and Father Bob and Kylie in the car and drove to Disneyland.
It was worth it.
Kylie had never been. That was a sin. That had to be remedied.
Seeing her face in the car was almost reward enough. She was absolutely giddy. Sister Mary was a close second, but second nonetheless.
We got to the park around eleven. Kylie held my hand as we went in. It was magic. The train was just coming in to the Main Street station. In the town square Mickey and Pluto were waving and posing for pictures.
Kids were everywhere, some smiling, some crying—no day at Disneyland is complete without some kid screaming for Mickey-ear hats or an expensive stuffed character.
A girl about Kylie’s age came up to Sister Mary and said, “Who are you?”
Sister Mary looked down. A woman, presumably the girl’s mother, came up from behind. “She thinks you’re a Disney character,” the mother said sheepishly. But just to make sure, she added, “You’re not, are you?”
“She most certainly is,” I said. “Didn’t you ever see
Snow White and the Seven Nuns
?”
The mother frowned.
“Yes,” I said. “This is Slappy, the nun with the ruler.”
Sister Mary slapped my shoulder.
“See?” I said.
The mother forced a smile.
“Who’s Slappy?” the little girl said.
“Let’s go, Brianna.” The mother took the girl’s hand and led her toward Pluto, a safer bet.
“Slappy?” Sister Mary said. “You named me Slappy?”
Kylie tugged my hand.
“Let’s go,” I said, and started for Main Street before Slappy could give me more grief.
We stopped to listen to the Dapper Dans, the barbershop quartet. Kylie was transfixed by the harmonies.
Then it was off to Fantasyland, through the castle, and all the rides. We went on Snow White—finding no nuns, no Slappys—and Mr. Toad, Peter Pan, and Alice in Wonderland.
We did the flying Dumbos, then walked over to New Orleans Square, where I bounced for warm, sugary fritters for all hands. You don’t go to Disneyland without packing in the snacks.
Sister Mary ate hers with almost as much enthusiasm as Kylie. It was her first time, too.
Father Bob was the veteran. He used to bring poor kids here when he had a parish. Before the false accusation of pedophilia got him canned.
As we were sitting there, a kid walked by in a Mad Hatter hat. He was maybe eight years old. The hat was teetering as his mother yanked his hand. Then it fell off. The kid had a buzz cut.
And a thought hit me. “I’ve been making assumptions,” I said.
“What’s that?” Father Bob said.
“The Rasta hat. The killer. That it was a guy in a Rasta hat with a bunch of hair. At the Lindbrook. Maybe it was just a hat. Maybe there was nothing underneath.”
“We’re supposed to be having a good time,” Sister Mary said.
“This is how I have a good time,” I said.
“I’m having a good time, too,” Kylie said.
They had fireworks that night. We stood in New Orleans square watching. I loved the colored lights on Kylie’s wide-eyed face. Father Bob seemed peaceful, and Sister Mary entranced.
The only one who wasn’t fully into it was me.
Because I was looking at Sister Mary and wishing she did not wear the habit. That she was someone I met at a party or at the grocery store where I asked her if she knew where the salsa was and she laughed and said she’d better show me personally, and now here we were at Disneyland on a magic night.
I hated myself for thinking that, because I’d just lost someone I loved and this was too soon to be happening—let alone happening with someone I could never have.
I realized my jaw was clamped and that Father Bob was now looking at me, in that way he has, with X-ray vision into your skull.
And then Sister Mary said to me, “Thank you. It’s been a wonderful day.”
Gold and silver exploded in the sky.
FRIDAY MORNING I
went to see Firooz Roshdieh at his place of business, Baskin-Robbins, the place where his wife was shot.
Roshdieh had black hair, skin like coffee with a dash of cream, and nervous brown eyes. He was behind the counter showing a fresh-faced Latina how to scoop ice cream.
When he saw me he smiled, like I was a customer.
Then his face went colder than the Rocky Road. “You that lawyer!”
“Mr. Roshdieh, if I could—”
“You get out of here! You get out of my store!”
The fresh-faced girl looked scared.
“How about a scoop of mint chip?” I said.
“Out!”
“Mr. Roshdieh, I need your help.”
His eyes narrowed. “Why I should help you?”
“I’m after the truth,” I said. “Like you are.”
“The truth I know!”
“You think my client killed your wife.”
“I know it! Now you get out!” He came out from behind the counter, waving his arms. As if he were shooing away locusts.
“I want to find out who
really
killed your wife,” I said.
“You lawyer! All you want is for getting your client to get out! Now
you
get out!”
“Please.” I pulled a photograph out of my inside coat pocket. “Would you just make sure?”
I held up the photograph.
He started to nod. “Yes! I tell you yes! It is him, I tell you!”
“No doubt?”
“No!”
The girl was still looking scared. I went to the counter and showed her the picture. Her wide eyes took it in.
“What you doing?” Roshdieh said. “Leave her out. Now you get out. Get out or I call cops.”
I put the photo back in my coat pocket. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Roshdieh. Believe me.”
I walked out.
AND SAT IN
my car, listening the radio, watching the Baskin-Robbins from the far end of the parking lot. I wanted to have a conversation with the young server, away from Mr. Roshdieh.
For the next hour and a half I listened to classic rock, news, some jazz, and thought about my case.
It all came down to lousy eyewitness testimony and shaky IDs. People get convicted that way all the time. Most of them guilty. The way Gilbert might be guilty.
But
might be
isn’t supposed to be good enough in our system of justice. A lot of people want it to be. They’d like to loop the rope around the necks, too. Around both the accused and the criminal defense lawyers.
Question was, was I good enough to stand up to a vet like Mitch Roberts? He was right that criminal trials, especially capital cases, were a different thing from what I was used to. I wanted to believe I was Fast Eddie, but maybe I was more like George Costanza. I was running around posing like a criminal lawyer. I was looking impatient and annoyed to give the impression I knew what I was doing.
Finally, the girl emerged from the store and started walking toward the street. I was glad to get out of the car and walk, for obvious reasons. Actually, I did a little jog so I wouldn’t lose sight of her
She ducked into a Petco.
I followed her.
Inside, it was all barking and tweeting, with the smell of cat litter and dog fur strong in the air.
The girl went down an aisle of fish food. I slipped down the facing aisle and took a position at the end. I picked up a package of aquarium cleaner and started reading the label. The first word was “Warning
.
”
The girl came around a moment later.
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh,” I said.
She looked confused and a little frightened. Unsure what to do.
“Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry about the thing in there. I hope I didn’t upset you.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s just part of my job. I’m on your boss’s side, you know. Just want to get at the truth.”
“He knows who killed his wife. You showed him.”
“Yeah.” I held up the cleaner. “You have fish?”
She nodded.
“I’m just getting into them,” I said. “I don’t know where to start. What would be a good starter fish?”
“Starter fish?”
“Something easy.”
“I guess a goldfish is always good.”
“Yeah. Goldfish. Good call.” I put the cleaner back and took out the photo I’d shown Roshdieh and the girl. “I guess his identification wraps this thing up.”
“I hope so,” she said. “It’s been so hard on him. He’s a good man. It’s so sad. He’s really been struggling.”
“You’d like to help him out?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take this photo to the DA right now.”
She frowned. “Aren’t you the lawyer for this man?”
“I want the truth. The DA wants the truth. The sooner we get there, the better. In fact, would you talk to the DA if he called you?”
“Well, I guess.”
“It would help your boss.”
She thought a moment, then nodded.
“Here,” I said, handing her the photo, with the back toward her. I held out a pen. “Just put your name and phone number there and I’ll have him call.”
She hesitated. “I don’t want to sign anything.”
“I understand. Would it help to talk to the DA? I can call him right now.” I took out my phone.
“No,” she said. “But can he call me at the store?”
“Sure,” I said.
She wrote her name and a number on the photo, gave it back to me along with the pen. I looked at what she wrote.
“Thank you Ms. Esparza,” I said. “Your boss is very upset, so don’t mention this until the DA calls, all right? If you need to talk to me, call this number.”
I gave her a card.
SATURDAY WAS WORKDAY
on the gentle grounds of St. Monica’s. Various tasks were attended to by the sisters and Father Bob, and I joined in the festivities. Kylie liked working in the garden, so she went with Sister Jean to do the roses.
For Sister Mary and me, it was painting the exterior of the wing where the older nuns lived.
Sister Perpetua sat outside with us, in her wheelchair, under the shade of an old pepper tree. It made her happy. She looked like someone who deserved to be happy.
At one point she tossed out, “Are you a Catholic?”
“No, Sister,” I said.
“Protestant?”
“Not anything at the moment.”
“You don’t belong to a church?”
“No.”
“Oh, we all need a church. Without it, we’re dying embers.”