Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“Is that true about the handcuffs?” the judge asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“It’s standard operating procedure,” Pisano put in, in his best bureaucratic drone.

“Even so,” Judge Ryan said to him, “it’s a little gratuitous, counsel, don’t you think?”

“Not at all,” he replied.

“The motion, Judge,” I said, “is pending.”

“Thank you, I’m aware of that,” she replied, sharply. Then, looking down at some papers before her, she said, “This matter is scheduled for trial in four weeks. I will continue it until that date for a status hearing. In the meantime, the defendant’s motion to dismiss is denied without prejudice to renew it at that point. That’s all, gentlemen.” She rose swiftly and departed the bench.

I turned to Pisano. “Think the streets are safer now?” I demanded.

He capped the pen he had taken notes with. “This isn’t personal, Henry. It’s business. Learn that and you’ll live a lot longer.”

“Calling it business doesn’t make it right.”

He smiled faintly. “You shouldn’t be a lawyer, Henry. You should be God.” He walked away to talk to Lillian Fox who was hissing his name behind us.

“Henry?”

It was Sharon Hart, looking like a giant bumblebee in a black suit and a yellow silk blouse.

“Hello, Sharon. I didn’t see you come in,” I said, closing my briefcase.

“I slipped in halfway through,” she said. “I’m in trial next door.”

“How’s it going?” I asked without real interest.

She shrugged. “My guy’s found Jesus.”

I smiled, in spite of myself. “What?”

“He admits everything but says that Jesus has forgiven him and the jury should, too.”

“Think they’ll buy it?”

She grinned. “Not Mrs. Kohn,” she said. “Juror number six. You were real good, just now.”

“Didn’t seem to help.”

“Don’t blame yourself, or Pat Ryan. Judges are elected, too, and if you’re black and a woman someone’s always gunning for you. She’s got to be careful.”

“The fact that the lynch mob has the franchise, instead of a rope and a tree, doesn’t make this justice. She should understand that.”

“I’m sure she does,” Sharon said, frowning. “Trust me, she’ll do the right thing. Anyway, it’s not like Jim’s innocent.”

“At this point his guilt or innocence is irrelevant,” I replied. “He’s removed himself from the court’s jurisdiction.”

“Tough way to do it,” she commented, sticking an unlit cigarette into the side of her mouth. The bailiff cleared his throat censoriously. The cigarette went back into her pocket.

“But effective,” I replied.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve got a couple of clients I’d like to tell to kill themselves.”

I shook my head.

“I’ve got to get back to my trial,” she said, and looked at me steadily. “But there’s one thing I’ve got to ask you. Do you think Jim killed Brian Fox?”

“Yes,” I replied, without hesitation. “1 do.”

She looked relieved. “Well, I guess this is goodbye,” she said, and stuck her hand out at me.

I shook it. “Goodbye, Sharon.”

“Good luck,” she replied. I watched her leave the courtroom. I began to follow but remembered the press outside. In no mood for further combat, I slipped out through the back.

Larry drove me to the airport and pulled up in front of the Air California terminal. We got out and I took my things from the trunk.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to see you off inside?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” I replied. We looked at each other. “You wanted me to balance the accounts. I didn’t do it, did I?”

Larry looked worn and frail. “I guess Jim showed us that people aren’t numbers.”

“No,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a month.”

“Until then.”

We embraced and he kissed my cheek. I stood at the curb and watched his Jaguar melt into the frantic Friday afternoon traffic.

On the plane I thought about the loose ends: a drunken phone call from someone who claimed Jim wasn’t the killer, Jim’s own insistence that he hadn’t done it, the fact that Jim and Brian had been something akin to lovers, and Josh Mandel’s obvious lie about where he had been the night of the murder. Grist for speculation but hardly enough to take to the jury. Not even enough to change my own mind, really. Jim Pears had killed Brian Fox. That much was inescapable. And yet…

I looked out the window. The sea was white with light, an enormous blankness beneath a gentle autumn sky.

On Monday, December first, I found myself back in the courtroom of Patricia Ryan where the case of People versus Pears was about to end — not with a bang, but a whimper. The previous week I had worked out an arrangement allowing the D.A. to designate a neurologist to examine Jim for the purpose of assessing his chances of recovery. The doctor, a sandy-haired man with a vague air about him, sat beside the prosecutor, a young woman named Laura Wyle, the third prosecutor I had dealt with in the past month. The case was now of such low priority that it had trickled down through the ranks to the most junior member of the D.A.’s homicide unit.

It was as cold in the court as it was outside in the rainy streets, the result, I was told, of the heat having been off over the weekend. The bailiff wore a parka over his tan uniform and the court reporter sat with her hands beneath her legs while we waited for the judge to take the bench. The only other people in the court were a middle-aged couple, the man very tall and the woman very short. Jim’s parents. Walter Pears wore a black suit, a brilliantly white shirt and a dark blue tie. Light gleamed off the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. His long, stern face was set in a look of sour distaste that I associated with religious fanatics and tax lawyers; Walter Pears was both. His wife was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Even now, looking at her, I was more aware of the color of her dress — an unflattering shade of green — than her face. They were here to reclaim their son. Poor Jim, I thought again, turning away from them. The bailiff stood up and said, “All rise.”

Patricia Ryan emerged from her chambers, seated herself and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”

We bid her good morning. The reporter started to click away.

“People versus Pears,” the judge said. “Let the record reflect that the parties are represented but Mr. Pears is not present.” She shuffled some papers. “I have received a medical report in this case by a Dr. Connor-”

“Uh, present,” the doctor said.

“Yes, hello, Doctor,” the judge said. “From what I gather it is your conclusion that Jim Pears suffers from permanent and irreversible brain damage, is that right?”

Doctor Connor drew himself up and surveyed the room as if he had just awakened in Oz. He saw me and blinked furiously.

“Doctor,” the judge said.

“Right,” he said. “Uh, yes, Your Honor. Did you say something?”

In a voice of practiced patience, she repeated her original question.

Connor’s arms jerked up to his sides and backwards as if pulled by wires. “That’s kind of the village idiot explanation,” he said, cheerfully.

Judge Ryan squinted and said coldly, “Doctor, I’d like you to answer my question, not assess my intelligence.”

The D.A. tugged at Connor’s coat. He leaned over and she whispered, fiercely, into his ear. He jerked upright and said, “The answer is yes.” He plopped back into his chair.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now, it’s my understanding that the People wish to make a motion pursuant to Penal Code section 1385.”

Laura Wyle stood up. “In view of the unlikelihood that James Pears will ever be fit to stand trial, the People move to dismiss the action in the interests of justice.”