Jonathan Kellerman: Rage

“What’s crystal clear, Mrs. Sieff?”

“The boy’s dumb. Screwy.” She pinged her waxy forehead with an index finger. “Din’t talk till he was four, still don’t talk so good.”

“You’re saying Rand ’s- ”

“I’m saying Randolph ain’t never gonna be no aldult. ”

Which was as good a diagnosis as the jargon in my notes.

Behind her, rising above both of us, the concrete grid of the jail was the world’s largest window shade. “You coming or going, ma’am?”

“My appointment’s not for a coupla hours. With the buses from the Valley it’s hard to figger, so I get here early. ’Cause if I’m late, those bastards don’ lemme in at all.”

“How about a cup of coffee?”

“You payin’?”

“I am.”

“Then, fine.”

Jails spread a very specific commercial rash, a trickle-down of cheap lawyers, bail-bond outfits, translation services, fast-food joints. I knew of a hamburger stand nearby but the walk through the parking lot was too much for Margaret Sieff’s stiff legs. She waited by the entrance as I pulled up in my car. When I got out to open her door, she said, “Fancy-dancy caddy. Must be nice being rich.”

My Seville ’s a ’79, with a rebuilt engine. At that time it was well into its third vinyl roof, and a second paint job was already losing the battle with corrosive air. I took her cane and braced her elbow as she struggled to get in. When she finally settled, she said, “How much they payin’ you to evaluate?”

I said, “That’s not your concern, ma’am.”

That made her smile.

I drove to the burger joint, set her up at an outdoor table, went inside, and waited in line behind a motorcycle cop who’d outgrown his tailored shirt, an A.D.A. who looked fifteen, and a pair of scruffy, mustachioed guys with faded gang tattoos. Those two paid with coins and it took awhile for the kid behind the counter to do the math. When I finally reached the front, I ordered two cardboard-flavored coffees.

When I returned to Margaret Sieff, she said, “I’m hungry.” I went back in and got her a cheeseburger.

She snatched the food from me, ate ravenously, made token attempts at daintiness- quick dabs of paper napkin on mottled chin- before returning to her spirited attack. “That hit the spot,” she said, scraping ketchup onto a finger and licking it off. “I tell you, sometimes I could eat five a those.”

“What do you want to tell me about Rand?”

“Other than him being a dummy?”

“Must’ve been hard raising him.”

“Everything’s hard,” she said. “Raising his mama was hard.”

“Your daughter had problems.”

“Tricia was a dummy, just like him. So was that fool she went and married. It was his fault they got killed. All those speeding tickets and his drinking. So they give him a truck.” She laughed. “Idjits. That’s who they give a truck to.”

I said, “Tricia had trouble in school.”

Her glare said she was starting to doubt my intelligence. “That’s what I said, ain’t it?”

“What kind of trouble?”

She sighed. “When she even bothered to go to school, she hated reading, hated ‘rithmetic, hated everything. We were in Arizona back then and mostly she snuck away and ran around the desert with bad influences.”

“Where in Arizona?”

Instead of answering, she said, “It was hot as hell. My husband’s big idea, he was gonna grow cactuses because he heard you could make big money growing cactuses and selling ’em to tourists. ‘Be easy, Margie, no water, just keep ’em in pots till they’re big enough.’ Yeah, and make sure the dog don’t eat ’em and die from spikes in the guts, then you have to set up a stand on the highway and breathe all that heat and dust and hope some tourist’ll bother to stop.”

She gave her empty cup another glance. “I sat at that stand day after day, watching people speed right by me. People going somewhere.”

She pouted. “Guess what? Even cactus need water.”

She held out her cup. I got her a refill.

“So Tricia grew up in Arizona,” I said.

“And Nevada and Oklahoma and before that we lived in Waco, Texas, and before that southern Indiana. So what? This ain’t about where we lived. It’s about Randolph and the bad thing he did.” She pressed forward against the table, bosom settling on grease-spotted blue plastic.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s talk about that.”

Her lips folded inward, tugging her nose downward. Her blue eyes had darkened to granite pebbles. “I told him don’t be hanging with that little monster. Now, all our lives is turned to shit.”

“Troy Turner.”

“Mister, I don’t even want to hear that name. Sinful monster, I knew he’d get Randolph in trouble.” She finished the refill, squeezed the cup and folded it over, placed her hand over the misshapen wad. Her mouth trembled. “Didn’t think it would be trouble like this.”

“What scared you about Troy?”

“Me? I weren’t scareda that little shit. I was worried. For Randolph. ’Cause he’s stupid, does whatever you tell him.”

“Is Troy stupid?”

“He’s evil. You wanna do somethin’ useful, sir? Tell the judge that without bad influence Randolph never woulda- never coulda done anything like this. And that’s all I’m gonna say about it ’cause Randolph ’s lawyer said you weren’t necessarily on our side.”

“I’m on no one’s side, Mrs. Sieff. The judge appointed me so that I could- ”

“The judge is against us, we were some rich nigger it would be different,” she snapped. “And from where I’m sittin’, what you’re doin’s a waste of time and money. ’Cause Randolph don’t have a chance, he’s gonna get sent somewhere. Could be an aldult jail or could be someplace with little monsters.”

She shrugged. Her eyes were wet and she swiped them angrily. “Same difference. He ain’t gettin’ out for a long, long time and my life’s turned to shit.”

“Do you think he should be released?”

“Why not?”

“He murdered a two-year-old girl.”

“The monster did it,” she said. “ Randolph was just too stupid not to get outta there.”

Her grandson had told me otherwise.

“You want blame,” she said, “there’s plenty to go around. What kinda mother is that, leaving a baby all alone? They should be puttin’ her on trial, too.”

I fought to remain expressionless. Must’ve failed, because she held out a palm. “Hey, I ain’t sayin’ it was all her fault. I’m sayin’ everything should be… considered. ’Cause everything had to be movin’ together for it to happen, know what I mean? Like all the astrology signs being in place. Like all the pieces in the puzzle fittin’ together.”

“Lots of things played a role,” I said.

“Zactly. First off, she leaves her baby alone. Second, the baby goes and wanders off. Third, Randolph goes with that monster to the mall even though I told him not to. Fourth, my legs were hurtin’, so I lay down to sleep it off and Randolph sneaked off. See what I mean? It’s like a… like a movie. Starring the devil, with us being the people the devil’s workin’ against. Like no matter what we do, everything goes to hell.”

She struggled upright, stood bracing herself with her cane. “Take me back, okay? I get over there too late, those bastards gonna love lockin’ me out.”

I drove Margaret Sieff back to the jail, went home, and picked up messages. Rand Duchay’s P.D., a man named Lauritz Montez, had left two.