Michael Nava - Goldenboy

I shook my head. “No, I believe he thinks he didn’t do it. This amnesia-”

“That’s deliberate?”

“It certainly allows him to deny knowledge of the only evidence that could resolve this case one way or the other.”

The smoke from Larry’s cigarette climbed into the air. A faint wind carried the scent of eucalyptus to us from the lake.

“What bothers me,” I said, “is that he insists he’s innocent when he so clearly isn’t.”

“It must be a pretty horrible thing to admit you killed someone,” Larry said quietly.

“Not someone like Fox,” I said, “who made Jim suffer and who he must hate.”

“Then maybe it was death,” Larry said. “Being in that room with a man he had killed. Once you’ve seen death unleashed, it pursues you.” He sat forward, his face a mask m the flickering light of the lanterns. “Maybe that’s what he’s running from, Henry.”

The next morning I went to see Freeman Vidor, who had been investigating Jim’s case for the Public Defender. His office was in an old brownstone on Grand Avenue which, amid L.A.’s construction frenzy, seemed like a survivor from antiquity. The foyer had a marble floor and the elevator was run by a uniformed operator who might have been a bit player when Valentino was making movies.

Freeman Vidor was a thin black man. He sat at a big, shabby desk strewn with papers and styrofoam hamburger boxes. A couple of framed certificates on the walls attested to the legitimacy of his operation. I also noticed a framed photograph

— the only one on the wall — that showed a younger Vidor with two other men, all wearing the uniforms of the L.A.P.D. He now wore a wrinkled gold suit and a heavy Rolex. He had very short, gray hair. His face was unlined, though youth was the last thing it conveyed. Rather, it was the face of a man for whom there were no surprises left. I doubted, in fact, whether Freeman Vidor had ever been young.

We got past introductions. He lifted the Times at the edge of his desk and said, “I see you made the front page of the Metro section.”

“I haven’t read the article,” I replied arid glanced at it. There was my picture beneath a headline that read: “S.F. Lawyer to Defend Accused Teen Killer.”

“Teen killer,” I read aloud.

“Sort of jumps out on you, doesn’t it?” he replied. “Listen, you want some coffee? I got a thermos here.”

“No, thanks.”

He poured coffee into a dirty mug, added a packet of Sweet‘n’Low and stirred it with a pencil.

“I read the report you prepared for Sharon Hart,” I said.

“That’s one tough woman,” he replied.

“She jumped at the chance to dump Jim’s case.”

“I said tough, not stupid.” He sipped the coffee and grimaced.

“Is there an insult in there for me?”

He smiled. “Only if you’re in the market for one. All I meant is, that boy’s only hope is to get a jury to feel sorry for him because this Fox kid was harassing him about being a homosexual.” He finished the coffee. “But first you got to convince them it ain’t a sin to be gay.”

“This is Los Angeles, not Pocatello.”

He lit a cigarette. “Yeah, last election a million people in this state voted to lock you guys up.”

“That was AIDS.”

“You tell someone you’re gay,” he replied, “and the first thing they do after they shake your hand is get a blood test.”

“Including you?”

“It’s not on the list of my biases,” he said. “You want to tell me about yours?”

“Some of my favorite clients are black.”

He thought about this, then laughed. “You want me in the case?”

I nodded.

“A hundred-and-fifty a day plus expenses.”

“That’s acceptable.”

He blew a stream of smoke toward a wan-looking fern on a pedestal near the window. “Who’s paying?”

“There are some people who would like to see Jim Pears get off on this one.”

He smiled. “Your kind of people?”

“That’s right.”

“If my mama only knew.” He opened a notebook and extracted a black Cross pen from the inner pocket of his jacket. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want background on Brian Fox.”

He raised a thin eyebrow. “Background?”

“Whatever you can find that I can use to smear him,” I explained.

He nodded knowingly. “Oh, background. What else?”

“I read in the prelim transcript that there’s a back entrance to the restaurant.”

“The delivery door. It was locked.”

“Lock implies key, or keys. Find out who had them and what they were doing that night.”

“You’re fishing,” he said.

“I want to know.”

He made a note and shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

The cocktail party for Jim’s defense fund was being held in Bel Air. I heard Larry pull into the driveway at a quarter of six, straightened the knot in my tie, put on my jacket and went downstairs to meet him. He was just entering the house as I came down.

He looked up at me and smiled. “You sure you don’t mind this?”

“What, the party?”

He nodded and tossed a bundle of mail on a coffee table. He looked tired.

“Are you feeling okay?” I asked as he dropped into a chair.

“No, not really,” he replied. He rubbed his temples and shut his eyes. His breath was shallow and strained. I switched on a lamp and sat down on the sofa across from him.

“I could go alone,” I said.

Without opening his eyes, he smiled. “It’s asking a bit much for the lamb to lead itself to slaughter,” he replied.

“It can’t be that bad. Who’s going to be there?”

He opened his eyes. “Just the L.A. chapter of Homlntern.”

“Homlntern?”

“Homosexual International,” he replied and yawned. “I told a few of my friends about Jim’s case and a couple of them volunteered to kick in money to help pay the legal costs. One thing led to another and the next I knew Elliot Fein was calling and offering his house for a fundraiser.”

“Elliot Fein, the ex-judge?” I asked, impressed. Fein was a retired court of appeals judge and a member of a wealthy family whose patriarch had made his money in movies.

“The same,” Larry said, kicking off his huge penny-loafers. He put his long, narrow feet on the table. “I could hardly refuse. Really all they want to do is get a look at you,” he added. “See what they’re getting for their money.”

“You think they’ll be satisfied?”

He gave me the once-over. “I guarantee it. How was your day?”

I told him about my meeting with Freeman Vidor. “You know what’s beginning to bother me?” I said. “The fact that everybody — including his ex-lawyer, his shrink, and now Vidor

— is so quick to write Jim’s chances off.”

Larry’s smile was fat with satisfaction. “I knew I’d hired the right man for this job.”

“Well,” I said defensively, “the presumption of innocence has to mean something.”

The smile faded. “Oh, he’s an innocent, all right,” Larry said, and drew out a cigarette from his pocket.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much.”

“Please.” He lit the cigarette with his gold lighter.

“Obviously he killed Brian,” I said, picking up the thread of my earlier thought, “but killing is not necessarily murder.”

Larry put his shoes on. “And that’s what you’re here to prove. We better get going.”

“You’re sure you want to go?”

“I’ll be fine.”

The sun had already set but, as we headed west on Sunset, there was still a dreamy light at the edge of the horizon and above it the first faint stars. We passed UCLA. Larry signaled a turn and we entered the west gate of Bel Air, up Bellagio. We passed tall white walls as we ascended the narrow, twisting road. From my window I watched the widening landscape of the city below and the breathless glitter of its lights. As with most cities, Los Angeles was at its most elegant when seen from the aeries of the rich.