Jonathan Kellerman - Rage

A second’s pause. “Day Two.”

“Of creation?”

“Yessir. God made heaven.”

“What does heaven mean to you?”

“A good place.”

“What’s good about it?”

“You’re rich and you get cool stuff.”

“What kind of cool stuff?”

“Whatever you want.”

“Who goes to heaven?”

“Good people.”

“People who don’t do really bad things.”

“No one’s perfect,” he said and his voice tightened.

“That’s for sure,” I said.

“I’m going to heaven,” he said.

“After you’re delayed.”

“Yessir.”

“You talked before about getting rich. How’re you planning to do that?” I said.

Rebirth of the smirk. This time it endured, and his eyes drilled into mine and his delicate little hands became bony little fists.

“ ’Cause I’m smart,” he said. “Can I go to sleep, now? ’Cause I’m tired. Sir. ”

The rest of the sessions were unproductive, as he wavered between claims of fatigue and feeling “sick.” My attempts to elicit specific symptoms were fruitless. A physical by a jail doctor had produced nothing. The last time I saw him, he was reading the Bible and ignored me as I sat down.

“Interesting?” I said.

“Yup.”

“What are you up to?”

He put the book facedown on the cot and stared past me.

“Troy?”

“I’m feeling sick.”

“Where?”

“All over.”

“Dr. Bronsky checked you out and said you’re fine.”

“I’m sick.”

“This may be the last time I come to see you,” I said. “Anything you want to tell me?”

“What are you gonna tell the judge?”

“I’ll just report what we talked about.”

He smiled.

“You’re happy about that.”

“You’re a good person, sir. You like to help people.”

I got up and picked up the Bible. Small gray smudges marked his place. Genesis, chapter four. Cain and Abel.

“Quite a story,” I said.

“Yessir.”

“What do you think of it?”

“Of what?”

“Cain killing his brother, getting cursed.”

“He deserved it.”

“Cain did?”

“Yessir.”

“Why’s that?”

“He did sin.”

“The sin of murder.”

“Exactly,” he said, taking the Bible from me and closing it softly. “Like Rand. He’s going to hell.”

I met with both public defenders in a conference room at the jail.

Lauritz Montez was there when I arrived, a slightly built man, thirty or so, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. An extravagant waxed mustache overpowered a fuzzy chin-beard. He wore a vintage gray tweed three-piece suit and a skinny blue bow tie that was more like a shoelace.

Sydney Weider breezed in a few seconds later. She was older- early forties- thin and tall, with efficient blond hair and wide pale eyes. Her tailored black suit and crocodile bag and big pearl earrings were beyond a P.D.’s salary. Maybe the rock on her finger explained that. Maybe that was a sexist assumption and she’d cleaned up in the stock market.

She sat down and twisted the ring so the diamond faced inward. Put on a pair of tiny little gold-plated reading glasses and said, “Well, here we are.” Her words came out crowded together. Big hurry to express herself.

Both of them had wanted individual meetings. I told them we’d start out together and see how it went.

It didn’t need to go further. They worked on me individually but their goals were identical: emphasizing the youth and criminal inexperience of their clients, pointing out the wretchedness of each boy’s upbringing, letting me know that anything other than a juvenile trial would be cruel and inhuman.

By the end of the hour, they were working as a team. From talking to Troy I sensed Weider would be laying everything on Rand, but it wasn’t my place to bring that up.

As she warmed up, she talked even faster, seemed to dominate Montez. Ending up with a long dissertation on the evils of video games and public housing, she snapped her Filofax shut, removed her glasses, and cross-examined me with her eyes.

“What’s your report going to say?” Machine-gun burst.

“I haven’t written it yet.”

“You must have come to some conclusions.”

“I’ll be reporting to Judge Laskin. He’ll send you copies.”

“So it’s going to be like that,” she said.

“Per Judge Laskin, that’s the way it has to be.”

She collected her papers and fiddled with her ring. “Think about this, Dr. Delaware: Psychology’s a mushy soft science and psychologists can be made to look pretty vulnerable on the stand.”

“I’m sure they can.”

“More than vulnerable,” she said. “Downright ludicrous.”

“I’m sure some of them deserve it.”

She sat up straighter, tried to stare me down, looked disgusted when she failed. “Doctor, you can’t seriously be considering these kids for an adult trial.”

“It won’t be up to me- ”

“Judge Laskin is relying on your expertise, so for all practical purposes it will be up to you, Doctor.”

“From what I’ve seen, Judge Laskin is a pretty independent guy.”

Montez said, “All we’re aiming for is basic justice, Doctor. Let’s give these kids a chance at rehabilitation.”

Weider said, “Doctor, we’ll be bringing in our own experts.”

I said, “Mr. Montez has already hired Professor Davidson from Stanford.”

Weider turned and eyed her colleague. He twirled a mustache and nodded. “It took awhile to get his fees authorized, but he’s on board.”

Weider shot him a cold smile. “How funny, Lauritz. I called Davidson last week. His secretary told me he had a prior commitment.”

“If you want him for your kid, maybe we can work something out,” said Montez.

“No need,” said Weider, breezily. “I’ve got LaMaria from Cal.”

I said, “Do either of you have a theory as to why your clients murdered Kristal Malley?”

They swiveled toward me.

Weider said, “Doctor, exactly what are you asking?”

“What you think your clients’ motive was.”

“Isn’t motivation your thing, Doctor?”

“I’d imagine it would be yours, too.”

She stood, shook her head, stared down at me. “You really think I’m going to lay my strategy out right here?”

“I’m not interested in strategy,” I said. “Just insight.”

“Doctor, I don’t have any insight. Which is precisely my point vis-à-vis your report: A fresh perspective is required. I hope you’re prepared to deliver that.”

Montez’s eyes followed Weider as she walked to the door. “See you in court, Doctor.”

Montez left a second later; he avoided looking at me.

I sat there for a while. Wondering what I was going to do.

As I entered the jail parking lot, Sydney Weider called out my name. She was standing next to an ice-blue BMW convertible, tapping the croc bag against a long, lean thigh. To her left stood two women and a man.

Weider waved as if we were old buddies. I walked over. When I reached her, she smiled as if we’d just shared a pleasant afternoon. She drew one of the women close. “Doctor, this is Troy’s mom, Jane.”

Jane Hannabee was several inches shorter than the attorney and she seemed to shrink further under Weider’s grasp. My files put her at twenty-eight. Her sallow face was scored with paper-cut wrinkles. Her long-sleeved knit top was bisected by a wide red stripe and looked brand new. So did her baggy jeans and her white sneakers. A snake tattoo coiled up past the sweater’s crewneck. Its triangular head terminated just behind her left ear. Fangs bared, some sort of adder.