Try Fear (7 page)

She was thinking about it. She was really thinking about it.

I wanted to dance.

Once, I had danced on a fancy conference table in a fancy law office, because I was hacked off at the stuffed sausage of a
lawyer sitting across from me. That almost cost me my license, but it was worth it.

But I stayed seated. The dancing would come later. And it would come, because Judge Solomon, bless her heart, said the following.

“In the matter of the People of the State of California versus Carl Richess, I am going to grant the 1538.5 motion. The warrantless
stop of the car was not justified, for the reasons so ably given by counsel. Therefore, all of the observations subsequent
to the stop are fruit of the poisonous tree. The observations, the field sobriety tests, and the breath test results are suppressed.
Do the People wish to proceed?”

A stunned Kimberly Pincus slowly stood up. “In view of the court’s holding, we have no evidence with which to proceed.”

“Then the complaint is dismissed,” Judge Solomon said. “In time for lunch,” she added, winking at me.

C
ARL
R
ICHESS THREW
his arms around me and squeezed. I was a mouse to his python.

“Drinks are on me,” Carl said.

I pushed him away. “Don’t go there, Carl. You dodged a bullet. You need to get to AA.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Mom, what’ve you been saying?”

“Honey,” Kate said, wiping away tears, “we just want you to get better.”

“I’m
fine.
”

“Brother,” Eric said, “you got a disease.”

“Will you all just shut up?” Carl put on his Dodgers cap, turned for the door, and stormed out, leaving a comet tail of denial
behind him.

When he was out the door, Eric said, “That didn’t go so well.”

Kate was still crying, though for a different reason now. I put my hand on her shoulder. “One step at a time,” I said. “He’ll
realize he’s been given another chance. I’ll call him in a couple of days and talk to him.”

“Thank you,” Kate said. Eric took her arm and led her out the door.

I turned around and saw Kimberly Pincus. She walked over to me. Her eyes were electric.

“Don’t Tase me, bro,” I said.

She put her hands on her hips. “I guess you’re pleased with yourself.”

“Like a diva with a divorce settlement,” I said.

“I cannot believe Judge Solomon went for it.”

“It’s the law, Ms. Pincus.”

“That was one of the most outrageous arguments I’ve ever heard in a court of law.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you really enjoy putting drunks back on the street?” She gave me the steel gaze.

I gave her the same right back. “Is this going to be one of those criminal-defense-lawyers-get-criminals-off-on-technicalities
conversations?”

“Shouldn’t it be?”

“The legislature makes laws. You and the cops have to follow. So follow.”

“But
seat belt?
That’s the very definition of technicality.”

“If you ignore what the law actually says, pretty soon doors get kicked in. You want to change things, go to the legislature.
But in court, don’t tell me how to do my job.”

“You know what?” she said. “I can respect that, believe it or not.”

“It’s such a pleasant day, Ms. Pincus, how about I believe it?” She smiled. “Done. Let’s have a drink.”

Y
OU DON’T ARGUE
with Kimberly Pincus without a judge on the bench.

We met at the Snortin’ Boar, a Hollywood reclamation project. It had been one of the hot places in the forties, a nightclub
that was a favorite of directors and stars. The Andrews Sisters sang here. Lawrence Tierney got in a famous fight with Dana
Andrews in 1955. Both were so drunk they couldn’t remember it the next day.

The place went under in 1964 and was, for a time in the seventies, a head shop. In 1995 it was an independent pizza place
that almost burned down.

A couple of film-fan businessmen bought the place and restored it a few years ago. They brought back the vaulted ceiling and
dark wood interior, and dim lighting. And comfortable booths, which is where I sat with the deputy city attorney.

A waiter came by and Kimberly ordered a Grey Goose martini, dirty. I opted for a beer.

“And so,” she said, “where do you come from?”

“Grew up in Florida. You?”

“New Jersey.”

“Law school?”

“Harvard.”

“I knew it,” I said.

“What do you mean, you knew it?”

“You give off a Harvard vibe.”

“What kind of vibe do you give off?”

“UCLA. Of the people.”

She laughed. “Uh-huh. Or maybe you’re just as ruthless as the rest of us.”

“Me?”

“You’ll do anything to win.”

“Well, I won’t kill baby seals.”

“Do you think I would?” she said.

“I refuse to answer on the grounds it may incriminate me,” I said.

She put her chin in her hand and leaned on the table. “You fascinate me. What are you doing taking on misdemeanor deuces?
You were with—who was it?”

“Gunther, McDonough.”

“Right. You’re a fortieth-floor guy. What’s this all about?”

“The law is the law. Even for people like Carl Richess.”

“But life’s so hard for a solo.”

“Yes, but I have all the fruitcake I can eat.”

“Excuse me?”

“St. Monica’s is known for its fruitcake. Not that I’d recommend it.”

“What is St. Monica’s?”

“It’s where I’m living right now. It’s a Benedictine community. It’s a long story.”

“You’re Catholic?” she said.

“No, cynic.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“That makes you a cynic, too.”

Our drinks arrived. Kimberly lifted her glass. “Let’s drink to a healthy dose of cynicism, enough to keep us sane.” We clinked
and drank.

“So what was it like?” she said.

“What was what like?”

“Being on the other side. Being accused of murder. What was it like to be in jail?”

“Not something you ever want to be in, Ms. Pincus.”

“Call me Kimberly, Ty.”

“You know they got viruses down there at the men’s jail they don’t even have names for yet. They put five people in a cell
built for two. I got off easy, being a K-1, high risk. I had my own cell. The rest of the place, you know what it looks like?
Remember in
The Matrix
? When Neo wakes up and sees that dark place housing all the human bodies? That’s what it’s like, only worse, because you’re
not in suspended animation.”

“And of course most people deserve to be there.”

“They deserve to be housed like people, not dry goods.”

“Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.”

I motioned with my thumb. “I can ask the waiter to bring over some milk of human kindness, if you want.”

“I don’t want,” she said. “What good is kindness in a criminal courtroom?”

She was starting to remind myself of me, whenever I get into a philosophical tangle with Father Bob or Pick McNitt.

“Are you really as cutthroat as you pretend to be?” I said.

“I can’t stand to lose. You beat me. I want to eat your heart.”

“Say what?”

“You know, the way the Mayans would eat the hearts of their enemies.”

“I’m using mine right now, if that’s okay.”

“Then how about something else?” she said. “You were one of the best trial lawyers in the city.”

“Was?”

“That was your rep. Now I think it must be justified. I can learn from you.”

“You want trial lawyer lessons?”

“Just between friends.”

“I thought we were enemies. You know, eating my heart and all.”

“I’m over that,” she said. “I think we’re going to be good friends.” She lingered over a sip of her drink. And smiled as she
did.

“A
LL RIGHT
,” I said later, over fried mozzarella, “I’ll tell you the best piece of advice I ever got about being a trial lawyer. Be
yourself.”

“That’s it?” Kimberly said.

“It’s more than you think. Or, actually, less. See, I saw you posing a lot in court.”

She stiffened. For a second I thought she was going to take a bite out of her martini glass. But she came back to earth and
said, “You think so?”

“And the judge thought so, too. That’s probably why she was so hard on you. You’re pushy.”

“Am I going to need another martini?”

“No. But you can come off as arrogant.”

“You’re just all compliments today, aren’t you?”

“If you were to be yourself, you’d have any jury eating out of your hand. See, the greatest actor of all time was Spencer
Tracy.”

“Yeah?”

“You know his work?”

“Not really.”

I did. Jacqueline and I used to watch old movies together. A lot. “Tracy was the best. Bogart said he was. Because you couldn’t
see the wheels turning. And somebody asked Tracy what his secret was, and all he said was, be yourself and listen to the other
actor. But lawyers want to get up in court and put on a show. If you really want to win, don’t make it about Kimberly Pincus.
Make it about justice. Make it about the People. Make it about—why am I telling you all this? I’m giving away the store.”

“I want to keep shopping,” she said. “I really want to keep shopping. What about dinner?”

“Are you asking me out?” I said.

“Boy, you really
are
good. How about it?”

“Aren’t things moving a little fast?” I said. “I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think I was easy.”

She laughed. Like she didn’t believe me.

Personally, I didn’t know what to believe.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a red Bicycle deck of cards.

“You said you were a gambler, remember?” She slipped the deck out.

I had no idea where this was going. But I was both amused and interested.

She gave the deck an overhand shuffle then plopped it on the table. “Cut a card,” she said.

I ran my thumb halfway down the deck. I turned the cards over at that point, showing the jack of spades.

“Not bad,” she said. “Now shuffle the cards and put them down.”

I did a pretty smooth riffle-shuffle on the table. I pressed the cards together and pulled my hands back.

Kimberly looked me in the eye as she reached for the cards. She cut and held a card up for me to see. Queen of diamonds.

Then she looked at the card for the first time, as if she knew it would be a queen, king, or ace. Her smile was full of self-satisfaction.
“The lesson is you shouldn’t gamble with me, right?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s study this a little further.”

I picked up the cards and did a one-handed cut. Her eyes widened in appreciation.

Here is what she didn’t know. I had a friend in law school who was a member of the Magic Castle, a private Hollywood nightclub
housed in a Victorian mansion on Franklin. We would go and hang out there a lot, and I got interested in magic.

He introduced me to the world champion magician. Johnny “Ace” Palmer was the first close-up magician to win the award. Nice
guy, too. When he found out I was interested in learning some tricks, he told me to go get a book called
The Royal Road to Card Magic
, and concentrate on learning a few techniques.

After I did, and spent a few weeks working on them, Johnny gave me a little coaching in the bar area of the Castle. That was
the equivalent of Astaire helping a janitor learn a two-step. But I did learn.

I had Kimberly shuffle the cards. I took the deck from her. “Well, let’s see what the top card is.”

I turned the card over. Two of clubs. I turned it face down and placed it on the table. “That will be my card. That two of
clubs. Remember that. Now let’s take a look at the next card.”

I turned that card over, and it was the six of hearts. I turned it face down and placed it on the table in front of Kimberly.
“That’s your card, the six of hearts. Put your finger on it.”

She did.

“Now, you saw me put the two of clubs in front of me, and the six of hearts in front of you, and you even have your finger
on it. Let’s compare.”

I picked my card up from the table and turned it over. Of course, it was the six of hearts.

The look on her face was priceless. She turned over her card. Two of clubs.

“How did you do that?” she said.

“Very well,” I said.

“No, come on.”

“I’m afraid the magician’s code precludes me from sharing the secret. But the point is, I’m magic, and magic beats gambling
every time.”

“I think I like you,” she said.

O
N
F
RIDAY, THE
skies above L.A. were still dark. And bad things were happening.

I should have read the signs.

The night before, the cops were involved in a shoot-out in Northeast L.A., with the notorious Cypress Assassins gang.

It was like something out of Tombstone.

There was a drive-by, with some gangbangers in a car mowing down a forty-year-old
veterano
on Drew Street. He was holding a two-year-old girl’s hand at the time.

The girl survived. He didn’t.

Some bystanders who knew the guy saw this, and took out guns and fired at the car.

Everybody is packing heat in this part of town, apparently.

A twenty-two-year-old ’banger stumbled out of the car and returned fire with an AK-47. He killed two before getting back in
the car and taking off.

The cops arrived about three minutes later. One black-and-white after another. SWAT arrived, and ten blocks of city was cordoned
off.

They found the car, a white Nissan sedan, near Washington Irving Middle School. The driver again got out, this time with two
others who were also armed, and the gun battle started.

When it was all over, ten minutes later, three Assassins and one cop were dead.

This sort of thing happens here and puts death in the air. It hangs there, like a mushroom cloud, and you think about diving
for cover.

It seemed to put Pick McNitt in one of his moods. Father Bob and I were at the Sip when Pick said, “You know what I hate more
than anything in the world? People who use
begs the question
when they mean
asks the question.
That’s not what it means! It’s a logical fallacy. To
beg the question
means you have
avoided
the question. I hate that!”