Michael Connelly - The Poet

"Come in," Riley said. "Is something wrong?"

"Not really."

I walked in behind her and she led the way to the kitchen, where she turned on the light over the table. She was wearing blue jeans, heavy wool socks and a Colorado Buffaloes sweatshirt.

"There's just been some new developments about Sean and I wanted to tell you. You know, instead of on the phone."

We both took chairs at the table. The circles under her eyes hadn't disappeared and she had done nothing with makeup to hide them. I felt her gloom descending on me and I looked away from her face. I thought I had escaped but it was impossible here. Her pain invaded every space in the house and was contagious.

"Were you asleep?"

"No, I was reading. What is it, Jack?"

I told her. But unlike Wexler, I told her everything. About Chicago, about the poems, about what I wanted to do now. She nodded occasionally during the story but showed nothing else. No tears, no questions. All of that would come when I was done.

"So that's the story," I said. "I came to tell you. I'm going to Chicago as soon as I can."

After a long silence she spoke.

"It's funny, I feel so guilty."

I could see tears in her eyes but they didn't fall. She probably didn't have enough left for that.

"Guilty? About what?"

"All of this time. I've been so angry at him. You know, for what he'd done. Like he had done it to me, not himself. I started hating him, hating his memory. Now, you… now this."

"We were all like that. It was the only way to live with it."

"Have you told Millie and Tom?"

My parents. She never felt comfortable addressing them any other way.

"Not yet. I will, though."

"Why didn't you tell Wexler about Chicago?"

"I don't know. I wanted a head start, I guess. They'll find out about it tomorrow."

"Jack, if what you're saying is true, they should know everything. I don't want whoever did this to get away just so you can pursue a story."

"Look, Riley," I said, trying to keep calm, "whoever did this had already gotten away until I came along. I just want to get to the cops in Chicago before Wexler. One day."

We were silent a moment before I spoke again.

"And make no mistake. I want the story, that's true. But it's about more than just the story. It's about me and Sean."

She nodded and I let the silence hang between us. I didn't know how to explain to her my motives. My skill in life was putting words together in a coherent and interesting narrative but inside I had no words for this. Not yet. I knew she needed to hear more from me and I tried to give her what she needed, an explanation I didn't quite understand myself.

"I remember when we graduated from high school we both pretty much knew what we wanted to do. I was going to write books and be famous or rich or both. Sean was going to be chief of detectives at DPD and solve all of the mysteries of the city… Neither of us quite made it. Sean was closest, though."

She tried a smile at my memory but it didn't quite go with the rest of her face and so she put it aside.

"Anyway," I continued, "at the end of that summer I was leaving for Paris to go write the great American novel. And he was waiting to go into the service. We made this deal when we said good-bye. It was pretty corny. The deal was that when I got rich I would buy him a Porsche with ski racks. Like Redford had in Downhill Racer. That's it. That's all he wanted. He'd get to choose the model. But I'd have to pay. I told him it was a bad deal for me because he had nothing to trade. But then he said he did. He said that if anything ever happened to me-you know, like I got killed or hurt or robbed or anything-he'd find out who did it. He'd make sure nobody got away with it. And, you know, even back then I believed it. I believed he could do it. And something about it was a comfort."

The story didn't seem to make much sense the way I had told it. I wasn't sure what the point was.

"But that was his promise, not yours," Riley said.

"Yes, I know." I was quiet for a few moments while she watched me. "It's just that… I don't know, I just can't sit back and watch and wait. I've got to be out there. I've got to…"

There were no words to explain it.

"Do something?"

"I guess. I don't know. I can't really talk about it, Riley. I just have to do it. I'm going to Chicago."

Gladden and five other men were ushered into a glass-enclosed seating area in the corner of the huge courtroom. There was a footwide slot that ran the length of the glass enclosure at face height through which the arraignment proceedings in the courtroom could be heard and the defendants could answer questions from their attorneys or the judge.

Gladden was disheveled from a night of no sleep. He had been in a single cell but the noise of the jail kept him awake and reminded him too much of Raiford. He looked around the courtroom and didn't see anyone he recognized. This included the cops, Delpy and Sweetzer. He also didn't see any television or still cameras. He took this as a sign that his true identity had not yet been discovered. He was encouraged by this. A man with curly red hair and thick glasses made his way around the attorneys' tables to the glass booth. He was short and had to raise his chin as if standing in tall water for his mouth to reach the slot in the glass.

"Mr. Brisbane?" he asked, looking expectantly at the men who had just been ushered in.

Gladden walked over and looked down through the opening.

"Krasner?"

"Yes, how are you?"

He reached his hand up through the slot. Gladden shook it reluctantly. He didn't like being touched by anyone, unless it was a child. He didn't answer Krasner's question. It was the wrong thing to ask someone who had spent the night in county jail.

"You talk to the prosecutor yet?" he asked instead.

"Yes, I did. We had quite a conversation. Your bad luck is continuing in that the deputy DA assigned the case is a woman who I have had some dealings with before. She is a ballbuster and the arresting officers have informed her of the, uh, situation as they saw it at the pier."

"So she's going to go balls to the wall against me."

"Right. However, this judge is okay. We're all right there. He's the only one in the building, I think, who wasn't a prosecutor before being elected."

"Well, hurray for me. Did you get the money?"

"Yes, that happened just as you said. So we're set. One question, do you want to enter a plea today or continue it?"

"What does it matter?"

"Not a great deal. In arguing for bail it might just move the judge an inch or so our way if, you know, psychologically he knows you've already denied the charges and are readying for a fight."

"Okay, not guilty. Just get me out of here."

Santa Monica municipal judge Harold Nyberg called the name Harold Brisbane and Gladden went back to the slot. Krasner came back around the tables and stood by the slot so he could confer, if needed, with his client. Krasner announced himself as did deputy district attorney Tamara Feinstock. After Krasner waived a lengthy reading of the charges, he told the judge that his client pleaded not guilty. Judge Nyberg hesitated a moment. It was apparent that entering a plea so early in a case was unusual.

"Are you sure that Mr. Brisbane wishes to enter a plea today?"

"Yes, Your Honor. He wants to move quickly because he is absolutely one hundred percent not guilty of these allegations."

"I see…" The judge hesitated while he read something in front of him. So far, he had not even looked over in Gladden's direction. "Well, then I take it you do not wish to waive your ten days."

"A moment, Your Honor," Krasner said, then he turned to Gladden and whispered. "You have a right to a preliminary hearing on the charges within ten court days. You can waive and he'll schedule a hearing to then set the prelim. If you don't waive, he'll set the prelim now. Ten days from now. If you don't waive, it's another sign that you're going to fight, that you aren't looking for a handout from the DA. It might help on the bail."