T. Parker: The Triggerman Dance

"I read about it," said Menden.

Next were still shots of the funeral, several showing the demolished countenance of Puma, his hair unkempt and his eyes swollen. Valerie's face looked like that of someone who had seen something she would never be able to unsee again.

The video ended. Weinstein used the remote to hit rewind. Silence filled the little room.

Weinstein took a hearty sip of water. His big Adam's apple bobbed with the swallow. "The alleged shooter was a boy of fifteen-good student, no gang involvement-a minor Latino activist of sorts. He'd written some rather… what, Sharon, vehement articles?"

"Childish articles."

"No, they were better than childish, but they were naive and strident. Anyway, he'd done some articles about La Raza and Aztlan for a class at his high school. You know, the stuff about the Mexicans reclaiming California for their race. Naive stuff, like I said, but it came up in court. He admitted the shooting, on the strength of his aunt's identification of Patrick, governed by fear for her safety and life. The jury finally hung on murder two, so he went back to jail. For reasons championed by the media and press, and finally agreed to by the DA, he wasn't tried again for Patrick. He got four years for mayhem on Carolyn, walked after two, moved to Mexico, they say. A controversial decision, to say the least. Maybe it was supposed to keep the lid on the pressure cooker. Maybe it was supposed to be a concession to an emotionally charged county minority that truly believed the kid was defending his family. This was before your time at the paper. You were in Key West, fishing, I believe."

John felt, not for the first time that his skin had been peeled back by Joshua and his people, affording them a full view of everything inside.

"I read about the trial," he said. "It wasn't big in the papers back there."

"It was big here. On the heels of O.J. and Prop. 187. Goodness, what a summer that was."

Weinstein sighed deeply, removed his glasses and massaged the sides of his nose. "How'd you do down in Key West, fish-wise?"

"Does it matter?"

"It couldn't possibly matter less."

"Then get on with it."

"Yeah, that's the spirit."

The glasses back on now, Joshua contemplated John with his voracious eyes. "Cut now to Puma. You need to know something about him. He came from a wealthy family that had been in the county since the early eighteen hundreds. A very wealthy family-bought land grants on the cheap, made a go with cattle and crops, sent sons into the assembly and Congress and watched the land value go out of sight after World War II. Puma was working at the time, that dreary August when he lost his son and most of his wife. He quit his job. He sold his house in Tustin and moved onto family land-a couple of thousand acres down in the south part of the county. The land is hilly and dry, but it overlooks the coast. It backs up against Pendleton Marine Base. It's got a lake. It's got oak savanna, coastal scrub, two hundred acres of orange trees. There was only one road into it, and Puma kept it that way. He built an eight-foot fence around it and wired it full of voltage. There's a guard house where the road comes into his property. He could have afforded electricity, gas and water, but he installed generators, propane and wells instead. He rebuilt the old mission-era house, which ran him almost a half a million dollars. When it was ready, he moved in with his paralyzed wife and his daughter. He began a business that is now thriving. And since then, no one sees him. He's there, of course-I don't mean he's disappeared-but he rarely leaves the place. Oh yes, it has a name. Liberty Ridge."

Liberty, thought John. He liked the sound of the word, though it wasn't a word you heard much anymore. And he knew the land that Weinstein was talking about. It was gorgeous land, tough land, filled with wildlife, nourished by the lake, with a commanding view from its peak. As a kid, John had hiked it, camped it, scavenged it for fossils and rocks and reptiles a hundred times.

John looked around the room, at the bare walls, the blank television monitor, the pale green carpet. For a moment, Puma's paralyzed wife and Liberty Ridge were just blips on the screen of his awareness. But then they grew in size, and he remembered why his stomach had tightened and his heart was now beating so loudly inside his rib cage. Puma was behind Rebecca.

Rebecca.

"Now," said Weinstein, "we need to. look forward, to the van used in the… assassination. Rather, to the repair shop from which the van was lifted. Sharon? You're on."

With this, Sharon Dumars rose and began pacing. At first she went back and forth in front of the screen, then extended her run to include the entire perimeter of the room. She looked for all the world, thought John, like a female version of Joshua.

"The shop is owned by someone whose name you don't need to know," she began. John detected the relish of power in her voice, the pride of one who commands. "This man has a brother-in-law. Brother-in-law works for Puma. Coincidence? Maybe or maybe not. Let's say it is. Puma, we learn, is a competent amateur engraver. He actually earned money during college working for a trophy company, even though his family was rich. Coincidence that the bullet casings left behind for us were engraved? Let's say that's a coincidence, too. Then, there's this-Puma loves to hunt big game, and big game hunters use big rifles, sometimes a. 30/ 06 caliber because it's powerful and accurate. Puma-and the men he hunts with-have taken and made four hundred and eighty yard shots. We know this because he's listed in the Boone amp;c Crockett record books, and in the Safari Club International record books. Coincidence again? Yes, let's call it all coincidence, again. We can afford to be generous."

With this, Dumars stopped at the table and drained the rest of her water. John noted the sheen of sweat on her forehead and the way her hair stuck at the temples.

"Then," she continued, "there's the fact, too, that Susan

Baum broke the story about Teresa Descanso-the shooter' aunt-accusing Patrick of rape. It was explosive. The accuse* murderer dumped the public defender because he couldn't get results on Patrick, and let Glory Redmond take the case pro bono. You can imagine the circus she made of it. She didn't even try to link Patrick to Descanso with physical evidence, which was smart. What better could they do-Redmond argued-than ai eyewitness? All the while, Baum crusaded in print, with a series of articles in which Descanso, then another woman, accused Patrick not only of the rape, but of solicitations for prostitution public drunkenness and aggravated assault. Baum argued to he readers what Redmond was arguing to her jury, that a white male-establishment-Orange County DA was ignoring the fact while prosecuting a fifteen-year old scholar for defending hi family. Orange County is supposed to be the hotbed of conservatism, the Republican citadel, the land of the John Birch Society right? Redmond and Baum set out to challenge that assumption And the question of Patrick's supposed exploits in the barrio-dramatized by Baum's articles-probably helped deadlock the jury. The shooter's name, by the way, was Jimmy Ruiz."

"I remember now," said John. "Justice please. Justice please Free the hero, Jimmy Ruiz."

"You weren't so out of touch down in Key West, were you?' asked Dumars with a smile.

"Stick to the story, Sharon," snapped Weinstein.

Dumars's smile faded. She looked at Joshua briefly, thei back to John.

"All right. To add insult to injury, Baum wrote an unflat tering column about Puma two years after the trial was over. Shi implied that Puma had become a loose cannon, a profiteer, a racist, a nuisance. Why? Because when Puma moved out to Liberty Ridge, he had opened a private investigation and security firm that catered to the rich and, she tried to prove, refused business from minorities of any color. Baum chose off Puma in print, be cause Puma had donated generously, very generously, to certain organizations that Ms. Baum dislikes. Organizations such as the California Association of Peace Officers, the NRA, the Freedom Foundation, the John Birch Society, Ducks Unlimited and the California Republican Committee. Her slant was something like 'here's a man so embittered by the death of his son that he's become infected with hatred.' Ms. Baum seemed to have a point as Puma had given money only to the Mormon church before Patrick was murdered. Since then, not a penny. I feel that the article was overly aggressive and a violation of Puma's privacy, though-"