Until the Final Verdict (25 page)

G
RANZ DROPPED
E
MMA AT SCHOOL,
then threaded the Buick through heavy, early-Friday-morning commuter traffic. The weekend getaway to Monterey hadn't started yet, so traffic lightened up, and was moving at the speed limit, by the last Española exit.

At Moss Landing, he had to set the wipers on Intermittent to clear the thick fog from the windshield, but the sun broke through two miles later when he jogged east and merged onto U.S. 101 south.

At the outskirts of Salinas, he punched KTOM country-music radio into his stereo, set the cruise control to seventy-five, and watched the sun-bathed Gabilan Mountains roll by on the east. To the west, the craggy peaks of the Santa Lucias, still shrouded in morning fog, slipped past like apparitions.

A dozen miles later, Granz crossed the highway
and stopped at the Soledad State Penitentiary parking-lot entrance and presented his ID. The corrections officer in the heavily fortified kiosk inspected it carefully, checked it against his daily visitor list, and logged Granz in with a semimilitary salute.

The prison's visitor entrance opened to a small peagreen room with a waist-high Formica counter, several file cabinets, and a couple of beat-up metal desks.

A black corrections officer named R. Robinson reinspected Granz' ID.

“Visitor list says you're here to see Jeremiah Randall.”

“That's right.”

He slid a clipboard across the counter. “Sign here, sir.”

Granz scribbled his name above a line that read, “The Department of Corrections does not recognize hostages for purposes of bargaining with inmates.”

Robinson handed Granz a temporary clip-on badge. “You been here before?”

“Yes.”

“Figured. Follow me.”

They passed through a heavy security gate and metal detector, then walked down a narrow hallway flanked by the prison gift shop and visitor commissary. At the end, a second metal door clanged open to admit the two men into an outdoor covered cage that looked, smelled, and felt like a dog run.

The second door slammed shut, then a third security door at the opposite end opened to a gravel courtyard that was surrounded by a fifteen-feet-high razor-wire fence.

“You ever interview Randall before?” Robinson asked.

Granz shook his head. “Never had the pleasure.”

“Lucky you. He's a hard case, but smart. Aryan Brotherhood. Big bastard. Meaner'n my mother-inlaw, too. We won't be much help if he decides to kick your ass, so I'll put you in a glass-shielded cubicle.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Robinson opened the door to a tiny institutionalgreen room and pointed at the single chair slid up close to a glass partition. There was a four-inch-diameter, mouth-high hole cut through the thick glass, and a narrow wooden ledge underneath it on both sides.

“Have a seat, they'll bring Randall in a minute. You have any trouble, or when you're finished, press that buzzer.” Robinson slammed the door shut and disappeared.

Adoor opened on the far wall of the prisoner side of the glass. A huge white inmate glanced around, dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the glass, and sneered.

“I'm Randall.”

“That's what I figured.”

He was uglier than Granz remembered. He had shaved his beet-red, pockmarked face, and his head was now shaved and shined, but his gut still flopped over the top of his denim trousers. He sported a new double-lightning-bolt white-power tattoo on his forehead, and half of his left ear was missing.

Randall leaned close to the talk hole. “You're the motherfucker from the plane.” His voice was highpitched and surprisingly soft.

Granz smelled his foul breath. “I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Fuck you.”

“You help me, maybe I'll help you.”

“Who needs your help?”

“How old are you?”

“You tell me.”

“Rap sheet says forty-seven.”

“Sounds about right. So what?”

“Give me a hard time, you'll never get out of the joint.”

“You're scarin' me. I got less than a year left on my parole violation. The Feds'll probably drop the charges against me. Even if they don't, they ain't gonna tack much time on for no chicken-shit FAAbeef or a cocaine charge.”

“Maybe, but if the San Francisco DA files against you, this is your third strike. You'll go down for the rest of your life. I can work on it.”

“You ain't got the juice to pull that off, man.”

Granz slid his chair away and stood. “Don't bet on it.”

“Wait a fuckin' minute.” Randall's voice rose to a shout.

The door opened behind him. Acorrections officer stuck his head in, then withdrew when Granz motioned that everything was okay.

Randall laughed. His teeth were big and yellow. “Whaddaya want to talk about?”

Granz sat down. “What went down on the plane.”

“I got drunk and snorted some dope. Big deal.”

“Right when Simmons gets killed? Too convenient.”

“Maybe you're smarter'n you look.”

“Who put you up to it?”

Randall leaned forward, elbows on the ledge in front of the glass. “I ain't givin' you what you want until I've got a deal.”

Granz pushed back his chair again. “Maybe we've got nothing to talk about.”

“You're bluffin' and you'd make a lousy poker player.” Randall laughed. “You're fuckin' the cunt DAthat's goin' down for killin' the dude on the plane and you wanna get her off, right?”

Granz' face flushed.

“Even in the joint we see the news.”

“Who I fuck's none of your business.”

“The hell it ain't. I can exonerate her.”

Granz' heart raced. He sat down. “I'm listening.”

“Here's what I want in return. First, leave my case with the Feds.”

Granz shrugged.

“Second, get me transferred to Terminal Island until I'm released. Medium security and the food's better.”

“I don't know how much clout I've got with the Feds.”

“That's your problem, work it out.”

“You forgot the cocaine.”

Randall flipped his hand. “A dozen people used that lavatory before I did. Third, when my testimony springs Mackay, the Morrissey hearing that's pending against me goes away, and my parole gets reinstated.”

“I'm listening, but how do I know you're not blowing smoke up my butt? You've gotta give me something now.”

Randall thought. “If I give you that black judge Tucker's killer, do we have a deal?”

“I'll think about it.”

“Before I was paroled, my cell mate was Eduardo Berroa. Ring a bell?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe my ass. I arranged for the little spic to escape, for a fee, of course, the day before Tucker got whacked.”

“Doesn't prove he killed her.”

“He bragged to me he fucked her in the ass, then cut her throat. Run the DNA from the semen in her butt against the convicted offender DNA database.”

“Did that early in the investigation. There was no match.”

“There's a lag time in that database. Run it again.”

“What do you know about it?”

“I'm in the joint, for chrissake, not outer space. They're taking samples and submitting DNA profiles to the database every day. Inmates close to being released get done first. Berroa's parole date was comin' up. They took his blood and saliva a few days before he split. Probably hadn't caught up with the database yet.”

“I'll run it again. If it matches, my deputy'll pick you up Sunday and drive you up to Santa Rita to testify on Monday.”

“Deal.”

“If it doesn't match, you won't hear from me again and you can rot in here.”

“I'll pack tonight.”

“T
HIS ISN
'
T THE WAY TO THE—
”
In almost two months since her mother's arrest, Emma hadn't used the word
jail
. “To Mom's.”

“I've got a special surprise,” Dave teased.

“Daave! What is it?”

“If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret.”

He drove slowly through town, past the Esplanade where Saturday beachgoers were loading up to head home, across the old concrete Stockton Avenue Bridge, turned onto Wharf Road, and pulled into a parking lot.

“The Shadowbrook?” Emma asked.

They climbed out and Dave locked the car doors. “I ordered takeout.”

They crossed the narrow, tree-lined street. “Wanta ride the cable car?”

“Of course.”

He punched the button. “Why did I know you'd say that?”

While they waited for the bright red car to struggle up from the restaurant entrance, he gazed at the beautifully landscaped grounds, Soquel Creek, the picturesque Village, and the beach beyond.

She put her arms around his waist and buried her head against his chest. “Do you think me and you and Mom'll ever come here together again?”

“A week ago, I'd've said ‘no,' but now I think there's a chance.”

She pulled back and looked at him. “Really?”

“I'd never lie to you.”

“Something good happened, huh?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Whenever we visit Mom, you act happy, but I can tell you're just trying to make me feel good. This weekend's different.”

“Different how?”

“Last night after I went to bed I heard you laughing at the TV. This morning when we took Sam for a walk, you whistled. And you called him Buddy like you used to.”

“You're pretty observant for a twelve-year-old.”

“I'm almost thirteen.”

“Sorry.”

“Is it Mom's trial?”

The cable car clacked onto the landing and disgorged three laughing couples. Dave held the door while Emma climbed aboard, then punched the Down button.

“You never asked about the trial before.”

“I was scared to, you and Mom're always so grim.”

“Grim's a strange word for you, Emma.”

“Learned it from Mom. Last night when I talked to Mom on the phone, she sounded happy, too. Tell me what happened.”

The car lurched, then started its slow descent along the Garden Path, which meandered through the manicured landscape, passed the Hillside Waterfall, stopped at the main entrance landing, then continued down the slope to intersect the footpath along the creek.

“We can't get our hopes up too much, Em. I'm not sure what it means yet.”

“C'mon, Dave!”

“I'd rather let your mom talk to you about it.”

The cable car screeched to a halt and the door slid open automatically. Dave grabbed Emma's elbow and escorted her to the main entry.

They stepped out of the cold onto a beige Persian rug spread out over a spacious, polished hardwood floor. The foyer was paneled entirely in native coastal redwood. The front desk was crafted from matching solid heart redwood. Dave stopped and waited.

When the young hostess appeared from the owner's private, reserved dining room in her short black silk dress, Emma punched Dave on the arm.

“I wanta be a Shadowbrook hostess.”

“You and every other teenage girl in Santa Rita. Dream on.”

“You and Mom know the owner, can't you put in a good word for me?”

“I would if I could think of one.”

She punched his shoulder playfully.

“Good evening,” the hostess greeted them. “Do you have reservations?”

“We're picking up a take-out order,” Dave told her. “Granz and Mackay.”

The hostess checked her list. “It'll be about fifteen minutes. If you'd like to have a drink in the Rock Room Lounge, I can take your order.”

“Sure,” Emma said before Dave could answer. “May I see a drink menu, please?”

The hostess looked confused, but handed Emma a stiff parchment bar menu.

“I'll have a Shirley Temple and my dad wants a Roy Rogers.” Emma paused, then added, “Better make them doubles, we're celebrating.”

The hostess smiled. “Celebrating what?”

“I don't know yet, he won't tell me.”

“Have a seat in the lounge, I'll get your drinks.”

When they found an empty table, Emma folded a napkin carefully on her lap. “Calling you Dad's easier than explaining.”

Dave swallowed a lump. “Where are those drinks?”