Try Fear (5 page)

Carl wore a brown sport coat over black slacks, and a red-and-greenstriped tie. It was funny and pitiful at the same time.
He was trying to look respectful, and no doubt this was the best he had in his closet. Probably something off the Big and
Tall rack at Sears.

I respected his effort. He looked like he needed effort on his behalf, too. Like Kate had said. He was holding a Dodgers baseball
cap in his hands. “My lucky hat,” he said.

Terrific. I was in a blue suit, also an off-the-rack job, and didn’t feel lucky at all.

“I know you said we didn’t have to come,” Kate said. “But we’ve always stuck together, no matter what.”

“That’s right,” Eric said.

“You da man,” Carl said to me.

“I am da man, oh, yes,” I said. “Only it’s not going to be very exciting.”

“Can’t you get them to just throw it out?” Kate said.

“The case?”

She nodded.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “Not at this stage.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“First thing,” I said, “I talk to the deputy city attorney.”

“Is he reasonable?” Kate said.

“I’m not even sure it’s a he, Mrs. Richess.”

“You da man anyway,” Carl said.

I felt so much better.

T
HE
DCA
WAS
not a man. She was a blonde, late-twenties. Dressed to impress, but without shouting about it. Noticeable but understated
jewelry. Makeup to accentuate very clear positives.

I knew this look. It was Harvard or Yale. Maybe Georgetown. The kind who thinks they own the whole courtroom because they
know so much more than you do. Maybe have designs on being a judge someday.

But right now, she was a newish prosecutor doing everything she could to show she’s not going to be pushed around. She was
standing at the counsel table, looking through a stack of files.

I approached. She didn’t look up.

“I’m da man,” I said.

She whipped around. “Excuse me?”

“My name’s Buchanan,” I said.

“What’s your client’s name?” She had an angular face that suggested early Katharine Hepburn. Cheekbones and all that. In perfect
proportions.

“Innocent,” I said. “That’s his name.”

“Hilarious.”

“Just a little arraignment humor.”

“Name.”

“Richess.”

She riffled through the files on the table, pulled one out, opened it. “Oh my,” she said.

“If that’s about the G-string, I want you to know it has nothing to do—”

“He blew a one-eight.”

“Those darn machines never work right.”

She didn’t smile but her emerald eyes did a little dance. “This is a standard,” she said. Meaning the bottom-line deal they
offer with a first offense.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said.

“Nothing to talk about. Not with a one-eight.”

“See, we’re going to plead not guilty and take this down the road.”

“The offer won’t change,” she said. “You should know that.”

“I figured.”

“Then let’s clear this thing now.”

I said, “My client, see, he has this odd notion that he has the right to confront and cross-examine the witnesses against
him and—”

“Please.” She tossed the file on the table like it was an overdue bill. “Is that really what you’re going to do?”

“Yeah, but I just wanted to tell you, it’s nothing personal.”

“I bet you can read the relief in my face,” she said.

“Remember Rodney King? Can’t we all just get along?”

She didn’t answer.

“Do I have to go to the office to find out your name?” I said.

She stuck out her hand. “Kimberly Pincus,” she said, “and if we go to trial on this, I’m going to eat your lunch and take
your milk money.”

I smiled. “I think you really mean that.”

“Oh I do, Mr.… what was it again?”

“Cochran. Johnnie.”

“Sorry, Johnnie’s not with us anymore. But not even he could do anything with this case. Don’t make this harder on yourself
than—wait a second.” She turned and faced me fully. “You’re the guy who was up for murdering that reporter.”

“Guilty. I mean, yes, but not guilty.”

Now she smiled. “You used to be a big-time litigator somewhere, didn’t you?”

“That’s the rumor.”

“What are you doing down here in the trenches, dealing deuces?”

“I’m not dealing, remember?”

“Your rep is good, as I recall. Are you a gambler, Mr. Buchanan?”

“I played regular poker through law school. Didn’t pay my tuition, but bought me some pretty nice meals.”

“The stakes are higher here. And the odds favor the house.”

“But going to trial is fun,” I said. “And you need to be put through your paces every now and then.”

She took a long, hard look at me. The corner of her mouth went up slightly.

“We’re not racehorses,” she said.

That’s when the judge decided to enter.

“The flag is up,” I said, and walked to the first row of the gallery before Kimberly Pincus could say another word.

T
HE JUDGE WAS
Sharon Solomon, late forties, African American. She had reading glasses on her nose and a red and blue scarf around her neck.
Tall and regal. We all stood as she took the bench, and court was called to order by the clerk.

Judge Solomon began dispatching cases with relentless efficiency. I watched her closely, trying to get a read. One of the
best skills a lawyer can have is judge reading. Figure out what annoys them, where their hot buttons are.

And then, depending on the circumstances, hit or don’t hit those buttons.

I could tell after the first few arraignments that Judge Solomon liked lawyers who were prepared, who could cite authority
on the spot, and who didn’t try to dance around the obvious.

Not like the poor, balding sap who tried to get his client out O.R., and when the judge said no, said, “You have to, Your
Honor.” And Judge Solomon said, “Why do I have to?” And the sap said, “Because you just do.”

At which point the bailiff, clerk, and Ms. Kimberly Pincus issued synchronized sighs. Then Judge Solomon said, “Don’t you
ever come in my courtroom and tell me what I can and cannot do unless you have a case, a page number, and a host of angels
by your side, do you understand me?”

The sap opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and said, “Yes, Your Honor.”

A good time was had by all, then my case was called.

“Good morning, Your Honor,” I said. “Tyler Buchanan on behalf of Mr. Richess, who is present in court. We will waive a reading
of the complaint and statement of rights and enter a plea of not guilty. We will not waive time.”

Judge Solomon looked at me over her glasses. “You want to set this for trial?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Have you read the arrest report?”

“Yes.”

“Have you talked to Ms. Pincus?”

“Yes, Your Honor. She said she was going to eat my lunch.”

The judge looked at the DCA. “Ms. Pincus, did you tell Mr. Buchanan you were going to eat his lunch?”

“Yes, I did,” Kimberly Pincus said.

“Then what will Mr. Buchanan eat?”

“Crow,” Ms. Pincus said.

She was quick. And she said it with a glimmer. I had to respect that. Talking smack with a little style never hurt a trial
lawyer.

“We shall convene the meal on the twenty-sixth, if that’s all right with counsel,” Judge Solomon said.

“Works for me,” I said.

“I’ll be here,” Ms. Pincus said.

“Who’s bringing dessert?” I said.

Judge Solomon smiled, which I took as a minor victory. But then she said, “I can assure you, Mr. Buchanan, I will be the one
cooking the goose.”

I decided to give her the last line.

“W
HAT DID SHE
mean?” Kate Richess asked me in the parking lot. “About cooking goose?”

I looked at Carl. He would indeed be stuffed and basted if we lost at trial. Which seemed to be highly likely.

“She’s just trying to scare us,” Eric said.

“Us?” Carl said.

Eric put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

The sky was dark and spitting drops.

“Maybe you should be scared,” Kate said to Carl.

“I’m tired of dancing like a monkey,” Carl said. He put his Dodgers cap on defiantly.

Eric Richess said, “People want to push us around. Maybe we don’t want to be pushed.”

“You’re not accused of anything,” I said.

“Yeah, but if I was, I’d fight it out.”

“You guys like to fight,” I said.

“That’s what Mom gave us,” Carl said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “It’s in the genes.”

A
FTER
C
ARL AND
Kate went off to their car, Eric said he wanted to talk to me.

“I don’t know how much you know about Carl,” he said.

“I know he’s heading for a possible jail sentence.”

“Do you really think so?”

“It’s a maybe. The judge has that option, and there’s really not all that much I can do. I’ve advised him to take the plea
deal.”

“You don’t know us,” Eric said. “We’re kind of a stubborn breed. If you let the world push you around, you’ll never get anywhere.”

“The law is a pretty hard pusher.”

“You’ve got to understand something else,” Eric said.

“I’m listening.”

“Carl has never really fit in. Did my mom tell you about his almost getting married?”

“She said that when the girl left, he started drinking a lot.”

“She doesn’t really know why the girl left,” Eric said.

“He beat her up?”

“Nothing like that. Carl is gay.”

I said nothing.

“It hasn’t exactly worked out for him,” Eric said. “That’s why he drinks. I mean, I think because his love life hasn’t exactly
worked out. He’s really kind of lonely.”

“Are you sure Carl wants you to be telling me all this?”

“I’m telling you because he won’t tell you himself, and it may help explain some things, and why he drinks so much, and gets
depressed.”

“Eric, your brother’s sexual preference is not relevant to the drunk driving charge. And the law doesn’t care why he drinks.
There’s no sympathy factor in a DUI. It’s merciless.”

“That completely bites,” he said.

“There’s no question he was over the limit. Unless I can find a way to beat the machine, there’s no reason to go into who
he was drinking with or why. This is a very limited set of facts we have here.”

“I’m just trying to get you to see,” Eric said. “Carl always seems to come up on the short end. I thought getting him this
job in Hollywood would help.”

“What job?”

“That big office-building project, between Cahuenga and Ivar, south of Sunset.”

“What’s your line of work?” I said.

“Electrician,” he said. “Major industrial. I’m the sub on that, and Carl freelances in cement, from pour to finish. So I hooked
him up with another sub. He liked it that we’d be together on this thing, even though not at the same time. But I just wish
he wouldn’t drink so much. Beat this rap, will you?”

I wondered when the last time was that somebody actually used the phrase
beat this rap.

“Believe me, I’ll do my best,” I said.

“Thanks,” Eric said. “That’s all I’m asking.” He turned and walked toward his car.

I checked my watch. Almost eleven-thirty. I was in Hollywood, so I drove down the boulevard to Musso & Frank. I found a meter
in front, fed it, went in, and sat at the counter. And ordered liver and onions.

That’s what I said.

My mom used to make liver and onions, and I always liked it. With ketchup. The old waiter—there is no other kind at Musso’s—gave
me a plate of sourdough bread and a dish with butter pats. He asked if I needed anything else.

“Ketchup,” I said. “For the liver.”

He leaned over, and with a slight Hungarian accent said, “Don’t tell the chef.” Then added, conspiratorially, “I like it that
way, too.”

A
COUPLE OF
weeks went by. I thought about Sister Mary in the wilds of Kentucky. I thought about Kimberly Pincus in the wilds of L.A.
courtrooms.

And on the Friday before Carl’s pre-trial hearing I was at the Sip, thinking about the laws of the State of California. When
it comes to DUI, they are like the jaws of death. I had my laptop and was looking at the vehicle code. For something, anything,
that I could argue on behalf of Carl Richess.

It was while I was lost in this vast desert of legal sanctions that Pick suddenly appeared at my table and said, “The canary
is dead.”

I looked up. “Excuse me?”

“The canary! In the coal mine. You know about that?”

“Sure,” I said. “I grew up in a coal mining family. From West Virginia. The strike of ’ninety-four was—”

“Shut up! I mean the
canary has died.
In our civic life! The poison gas is unleashed. Did you see this?” He slapped the front page of the
Los Angeles Daily News
on the table. I looked at it.

The headline said that our mayor was suspected of having an affair with a local radio reporter. It was something everybody
knew anyway. But denial is not just a river in Egypt. It’s the syntax and currency of every politician who gets his hand stuck
in the cookie jar.

“So?” I said. “Political scandal is nothing new.”

“Not that! This!” He pointed to a story below the fold. It said that a wiener stand, Big Duke’s, one that had been a Valley
institution for forty years, was closing down. Lost lease.

“That’s the tragedy?” I said.

“Look around you. Do you have eyes? Do you have any sense of history? What do you see, just outside these doors? Coffee Bean
& Tea Leaf! Quiznos! Chipottel!”

“I think you mean Chipotle.”

“What is that? What’s a cheap outlay anyway?”

“It’s a type of jalapeño chile, dried—”

“That’s not the point! It’s the death of individuality, that’s the point! When I grew up out here, there were mom-and-pops
all over the Valley. You knew the people who ran the stores. They didn’t hire the latest high school dropouts to stand behind
a computerized cash register pushing buttons that add and subtract for them. You had to do your own adding and subtracting.
It made you human. There is no humanity left, none. The canary is dead, and we’re next.”