Michael Nava - Goldenboy

The vast city was just awakening as I sped eastward on the Santa Monica Freeway. I had spent a lot of time in Los Angeles when I worked with Larry on the sodomy lawsuit two years earlier. I knew the city as well as anyone who didn’t live there could, and I liked the place. Between the freeway and the Hollywood Hills the feathery light of early morning poured into the basin and it truly did seem, at that moment, to be the habitation of angels. The great palms lifted their shaggy heads like a race of ancient, benevolent animals. Along the broad boulevards that ran from downtown to the sea, skyscrapers rose abruptly as if by geologic accident but were dwarfed by the sheer enormity of the plain.

I parked in the lot behind the Criminal Courts Building across from City Hall and walked around to the courthouse entrance on Temple. In the space between the entrance platform and the ground lay the charred remains of a campfire, with people sleeping in rags and old blankets. Inside, the walls of the foyer were covered with gang graffiti. After an interminable wait, an elevator picked me up and ascended, creaking its way to the floor where the Public Defender had his offices. I walked into a small reception room, announced myself to the receptionist and sat down to wait. The room was crowded with restless children and adults sitting nervously on plastic chairs. A little boy came up and stared at me with wide, black eyes.

“Are you my mama’s P.D.?” he asked.

I smiled at him. “No.”

“Then how come you wear a suit?”

A stout woman called from across the room, “Leave the man alone, Willie.”

“I’m waiting for my P.D., Willie,” I said.

“Nah,” he replied, and went back to his mother.

The door beside the receptionist’s desk opened. A short, heavy gray-haired woman in a bright floral dress said, “Henry Rios.”

I stood up.

“I’m Sharon Hart,” she said. “You want to come into my office?”

I followed her through the door and we picked our way down a hallway lined with metal file cabinets into a small office. There was a calendar on one wall and framed degrees on the other. Sharon Hart sat down behind her government-issue desk and motioned me to sit on one of the two chairs in front of it. She pulled an ashtray out of her desk and lit a cigarette.

“So,” she said. “You’re the famous Henry Rios.”

There was nothing particularly hostile in her tone so I ventured a smile.

“I hope you can walk on water, Mr. Rios, because that’s the kind of skill you’re going to need on this case.”

“Is that why you’re getting out?”

She looked at me sharply. “I’m not afraid of tough cases.”

“Then why withdraw?”

“This case is indefensible on a straight not-guilty plea.”

“There are alternatives.”

She shook her head. “Not with this client. He won’t agree to any defense that admits he did it.”

“Any chance he didn’t do it?”

Her look answered my question.

“Then that could be a problem,” I said.

“He’s also going to make a lousy witness,” she said offhandedly. “Not that there’s much for him to say. He doesn’t remember what happened.”

“So I was told. Retrograde amnesia, is that it?”

She nodded. “I had the court appoint a shrink to talk to him. You’ll find his name in the files.” She gestured to two bulky folders lying at a comer of her desk. “The doctor says it’s legitimate. Jim doesn’t remember anything between opening the cellar door and when that girl — the waitress — came down and found him with Brian Fox.”

“Is he crazy?”

She smiled slightly, showing a crooked tooth. “My shrink will say that he was at the time of the murder.”

“Not quite the question I asked,” I murmured.

“Is he crazy now? Let’s say the pressure’s getting to him.”

“Where’s he being held?”

“County jail,” she said.

“You’ve told him what’s going to happen this morning?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’ll agree to it.” She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “We don’t get along,” she added. “Call it ineffective empathy of counsel. But I do feel sorry for the kid. I really do.” She stood up. “Take the files. You’ll find my investigator’s card in them. He can fill you in. We better get downstairs. Pat Ryan runs a tight ship.”

“The judge.”

“Patricia Ryan.”

“Irish.”

Sharon smiled. “Black Irish, you might say.”

Television cameras were set up in the jury box and the gallery was packed with reporters. To avoid the press, we had come in through the corridor that ran behind the courtrooms. As soon as we reached counsel’s table, though, the cameras started rolling. At the other end of the table a short, dark-haired man was unpacking his briefcase.

“The D.A.,” Sharon whispered. “Pisano.”

“What’s he like?” I asked.

She shrugged. “He’s decent enough until you get him in front of the cameras.”

“A headline grabber?” I asked.

“The worst.”

As if he’d heard, the D.A. smiled at us, then turned his attention to a sheaf of papers that he was marking with a red pen.

“Where’s Jim?” I asked.

“In the holding cell, I guess,” she said. “They won’t bring him out until she takes the bench.”

I looked over my shoulder at the reporters. “This is quite a circus,” I said.

“Better get used to it.”

A middle-aged woman with stiffly coiffed hair and dressed in black stared at Sharon Hart and me with intense hostility from the gallery.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

Sharon glanced over. “Brian Fox’s mother. She comes to every hearing. You’ll like her.”

“What about Jim’s parents?”

“Oh, them,” she said venomously. “They’re just as nice as Mrs. Fox.”

In a seat across the aisle from Brian’s mother sat a young man in a blue suit, wearing horn-rimmed glasses. My eye caught his for a moment, then he looked away.

“That’s Josh Mandel,” Sharon said.

“Oh,” I replied, glancing at him once again.

She looked at me. “Do you know him?”

“No,” I said, and yet he seemed somehow familiar.

The bailiff broke the silence of the courtroom with his announcement. “Please rise. Department Nine is now in session, the Honorable Patricia Ryan presiding.”

The judge came out from behind the clerk’s desk through the same door by which we had entered. Patricia Ryan was a tall black woman whose handsome face was set in a faintly amused expression.

In a pleasant, light voice she said, “Good morning, counsel. Please be seated.” She looked down at her desk. “People versus Pears. Is the defendant in court?”

A blond court reporter clicked away at her machine taking down every word.

“He’s coming,” the bailiff said.

The door to the holding cell opened and the tv cameras swung away from the judge over to the two marshals who escorted Jim Pears into the courtroom. I had just enough time to glance at him before the judge started talking again. They sat Jim down beside Sharon Hart at the end of the table.

“We were to begin the trial of this matter today,” the judge said. “However, ten days ago the Public Defender’s office filed a motion to withdraw from the case. Is that correct Mrs. Hart?”

“Yes.”

The judge looked at me quizzically and said, “Who are you, sir?”

“Henry Rios, Your Honor. I’ve been asked to substitute in should the Public Defender’s motion be granted.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rios. All right. The defendant is now present and represented. The People are represented and are opposing this motion.”

“That’s right, Your Honor,” Pisano said.

“Mrs. Hart, you go first.”