But Janice-subtly to be sure, but subtle was her metier-saw her opening and never let up on the pressure for Michael to keep bringing in at least a token income. Whatever it took to prove himself a competent provider, a good husband. So for six or so years, the prime of his life, he'd hauled and delivered loads as a part-time moving man, he'd painted houses; he'd worked as a bar-tender, a landscaper, a blow-and-go gardener. The art, his painting, had had to slide, until it no longer had been even a hobby.
And Janice had been his helpmeet during the transition, weaning him away from a commitment to his art until it finally seemed like his own idea to get her father to invest in his UPS franchise. And because Michael was smart, organized, and diligent, that business had succeeded and now thrived. And Janice had loved him because he'd become the man she'd always wanted him to be-dutiful, hardworking, mature.
And maybe, honestly, Michael thought, that would have been enough. Maybe he could continue to forgive her for that, to realize that this was the trade-off he'd bargained for and eventually agreed to-the woman he loved and the family she wanted in exchange for his earlier vision of himself as a creative person, an artist, and, in her estimation-implied but never stated-some species of flake.
He supposed, maybe even believed, that it would have all been worth it, worth sacrificing his art and his essential self, to keep Janice happy. Just like it would have been worth all his suffering at the hands of the Curtlees if Ro had stayed in prison.
It would have been worth it if Janice had stayed faithful to him.
Now it didn't seem as if it was because-he was sure-Janice was having an affair with one of her patients. With the echoing refrain about getting himself a gun playing nonstop in his brain, Michael Durbin pulled into the lot across the street from the Hall of Justice-$20 A DAY/NO IN amp; OUT. Court wouldn't go into session for over an hour, but in spite of the early time, the parking lot was nearly full, the curb alongside Bryant Street packed two deep with police patrol cars and other official vehicles, and a caravan of local and national TV vans.
Durbin got out of his car, paid the attendant, and buttoned his raincoat against the continuing mist. Across the street, the gray stucco of the Hall of Justice showed as a deep bruised blue in the damp. He stopped at the edge of a decent and so far peaceful crowd of perhaps a hundred souls on the steps out front, many of them holding signs exhorting whoever it might be to FREE RO and LET RO GO and STOP POLICE BRUTALITY and so on. Somewhat more prosaically one sign read, SF COPS SUCK THE BIG ONE.
Free speech, Durbin thought. Ain't it grand?
Part of the crowd seemed happy to demonstrate outside, but others were moving toward the entrance to the building, albeit slowly. Reporters and anchorpeople with microphones were descending upon unwitting citizens all over the place. With a shock that felt like a blow to his solar plexus, Durbin recognized the woman he'd long ago nicknamed Heinous Marrenas on the crowd's periphery. And it suddenly occurred to him that these "protesters" had probably been bought and paid for by the Curtlees. Everywhere he looked, people were holding copies of the morning Courier, where Ro's arrest and demands for Glitsky's resignation dominated the front page.
Durbin wanted no part of Marrenas or any of them. So he got into the portion of the crowd that slowly was snaking its way into the building. Five minutes later, he had passed through the doors and then the metal detectors inside.
Now he stood in the cavernous lobby, his stomach churning with nerves and relief at having dodged Marrenas. Part of himself was still wondering why he'd felt the need to take the morning off and come down to see this spectacle for himself. Suddenly he turned and found himself looking at his brother-in-law. Chuck Novio had just turned his head and saw him at the same time, and he raised a hand in greeting.
Getting over to him, Durbin said, "Okay, Chuckie boy, I've got an excuse. For my peace of mind, I need to make sure they get Ro back in jail where he belongs. But what are you doing here?"
Novio wore his easy smile. "Hello? American history. This is what I do. And if this isn't history, I don't know what is. Besides, this is the kind of stuff my kids eat up. Makes 'em believe that history's happening all around them all the time. Which, of course, it is."
"This isn't history, Chuck. This is a scumbag."
Novio said, "Are you kidding? History is just one scumbag after another, muddling along in an endless chain. That's why it's so great."
"I admire your enthusiasm," Durbin said. "But you should have told me yesterday at dinner you were coming down for this. We could have driven together."
"I didn't really decide until I got up this morning and figured I really should. And I didn't know you were coming anyway."
"I didn't say so last night? Maybe I hadn't made up my mind by then, either." Durbin paused. "So how do you think it's going to go?" he asked.
"I think he stays in jail."
"I'm hoping."
"How can he not?"
Durbin cocked his head toward the rabble. "Check out the crowd. You ever hear of the Curtlees?"
Novio shrugged. "The guy's a convicted murderer who beat up a couple of cops while resisting arrest. Put any spin on it you want, no judge in the world lets him back out."
"Let's hope you're right."
"I'm right. Want to put some money on it?"
"No. I want you to be right."
"But if we bet and I'm wrong, then you win anyway. I'll give you two to one."
Durbin, weary, stuck out his hand. "Twenty," he said.
Novio reached for his hand and they shook. "Done." Department 11 had hard theater-style seating for about eighty people, and Durbin and Novio, early as they were, stood in a long line and as it was barely made it inside. They took the only two seats left in the next-to-last row.
The story of Ro Curtlee's arrest had not just been front-page news in the Courier yesterday in the Sunday edition of the paper, but it had also made headlines in the Chronicle and been the lead feature on every television network news program throughout the day. One of these broadcasts had been the last thing Durbin had seen before going to bed last night, alone-Janice called out after they'd all gotten back from Sunday night dinner at the Novios to an emergency session with one of her patients. Durbin had a good guess which one it was, although not his exact identity.
So he'd watched the news and heard sound bites from the haggard, unkempt district attorney Wes Farrell, the outraged mayor Leland Crawford opining that perhaps it was time for a special commission to address the "culture of violence and disregard of due process" within the police department, and-of course-Cliff and Theresa Curtlee bemoaning the injustice of it all and calling for the arrest of Lieutenant Glitsky rather than of their poor boy.
Both Curtlee parents were in the front row in the courtroom, and seeing them so close, Durbin's bile rose again. "Those smug fuckers," he whispered to Novio. "I wonder if they actually believe Ro didn't do any of this or if they just don't care. I mean, how do you go on supporting your son if you know he's a killer, a literal killer?"
Novio, enjoying the buzz in the room, straining for a glimpse of them, said, "Maybe the person he killed, she's so far down the evolutionary or economic scale you don't think she counts as a human being. Either that, or he had a good reason. Good enough, anyway."
Durbin shook his head. "Good enough. Right."
Now, several of the players had begun to appear in the courtroom through the back doorway that led to some holding cells and the judges' chambers. Two bailiffs led the way, followed by an elderly woman who took the court reporter's seat in front of the judge's bench and another younger woman, the court clerk, who sat at a table next to the court reporter.