“No, thanks.”
He poured coffee into a dirty mug, added a packet of Sweet‘n’Low and stirred it with a pencil.
“I read the report you prepared for Sharon Hart,” I said.
“That’s one tough woman,” he replied.
“She jumped at the chance to dump Jim’s case.”
“I said tough, not stupid.” He sipped the coffee and grimaced.
“Is there an insult in there for me?”
He smiled. “Only if you’re in the market for one. All I meant is, that boy’s only hope is to get a jury to feel sorry for him because this Fox kid was harassing him about being a homosexual.” He finished the coffee. “But first you got to convince them it ain’t a sin to be gay.”
“This is Los Angeles, not Pocatello.”
He lit a cigarette. “Yeah, last election a million people in this state voted to lock you guys up.”
“That was AIDS.”
“You tell someone you’re gay,” he replied, “and the first thing they do after they shake your hand is get a blood test.”
“Including you?”
“It’s not on the list of my biases,” he said. “You want to tell me about yours?”
“Some of my favorite clients are black.”
He thought about this, then laughed. “You want me in the case?”
I nodded.
“A hundred-and-fifty a day plus expenses.”
“That’s acceptable.”
He blew a stream of smoke toward a wan-looking fern on a pedestal near the window. “Who’s paying?”
“There are some people who would like to see Jim Pears get off on this one.”
He smiled. “Your kind of people?”
“That’s right.”
“If my mama only knew.” He opened a notebook and extracted a black Cross pen from the inner pocket of his jacket. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want background on Brian Fox.”
He raised a thin eyebrow. “Background?”
“Whatever you can find that I can use to smear him,” I explained.
He nodded knowingly. “Oh, background. What else?”
“I read in the prelim transcript that there’s a back entrance to the restaurant.”
“The delivery door. It was locked.”
“Lock implies key, or keys. Find out who had them and what they were doing that night.”
“You’re fishing,” he said.
“I want to know.”
He made a note and shrugged. “It’s your dime.”
7
The cocktail party for Jim’s defense fund was being held in Bel Air. I heard Larry pull into the driveway at a quarter of six, straightened the knot in my tie, put on my jacket and went downstairs to meet him. He was just entering the house as I came down.
He looked up at me and smiled. “You sure you don’t mind this?”
“What, the party?”
He nodded and tossed a bundle of mail on a coffee table. He looked tired.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked as he dropped into a chair.
“No, not really,” he replied. He rubbed his temples and shut his eyes. His breath was shallow and strained. I switched on a lamp and sat down on the sofa across from him.
“I could go alone,” I said.
Without opening his eyes, he smiled. “It’s asking a bit much for the lamb to lead itself to slaughter,” he replied.
“It can’t be that bad. Who’s going to be there?”
He opened his eyes. “Just the L.A. chapter of Homlntern.”
“Homlntern?”
“Homosexual International,” he replied and yawned. “I told a few of my friends about Jim’s case and a couple of them volunteered to kick in money to help pay the legal costs. One thing led to another and the next I knew Elliot Fein was calling and offering his house for a fundraiser.”
“Elliot Fein, the ex-judge?” I asked, impressed. Fein was a retired court of appeals judge and a member of a wealthy family whose patriarch had made his money in movies.
“The same,” Larry said, kicking off his huge penny-loafers. He put his long, narrow feet on the table. “I could hardly refuse. Really all they want to do is get a look at you,” he added. “See what they’re getting for their money.”
“You think they’ll be satisfied?”
He gave me the once-over. “I guarantee it. How was your day?”
I told him about my meeting with Freeman Vidor. “You know what’s beginning to bother me?” I said. “The fact that everybody — including his ex-lawyer, his shrink, and now Vidor
— is so quick to write Jim’s chances off.”
Larry’s smile was fat with satisfaction. “I knew I’d hired the right man for this job.”
“Well,” I said defensively, “the presumption of innocence has to mean something.”
The smile faded. “Oh, he’s an innocent, all right,” Larry said, and drew out a cigarette from his pocket.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke so much.”
“Please.” He lit the cigarette with his gold lighter.
“Obviously he killed Brian,” I said, picking up the thread of my earlier thought, “but killing is not necessarily murder.”
Larry put his shoes on. “And that’s what you’re here to prove. We better get going.”
“You’re sure you want to go?”
“I’ll be fine.”
The sun had already set but, as we headed west on Sunset, there was still a dreamy light at the edge of the horizon and above it the first faint stars. We passed UCLA. Larry signaled a turn and we entered the west gate of Bel Air, up Bellagio. We passed tall white walls as we ascended the narrow, twisting road. From my window I watched the widening landscape of the city below and the breathless glitter of its lights. As with most cities, Los Angeles was at its most elegant when seen from the aeries of the rich.
At the top of the hill, Larry began a left turn past immense wrought iron gates opened to reveal a driveway paved with cobblestones. A moment later a house came into view. It seemed to consist of a single towering box though, as we slowed, I could see there were two small wings, one on either side. A boy in black slacks, a white shirt and a lavender tie directed us to stop. Another boy, similarly dressed, opened my door.
“Good evening, sir, how are you?” he asked as I stepped out of the Jaguar.
“Fine, thanks, and you?”
“Oh, fine, sir.” He seemed startled that I’d bothered to reply.
Larry came around to me and said, “Ready, counsel?”
“Let’s go.”
The first thing I noticed when we stepped into the house was the size of the room we had entered. Its walls were roughly the dimensions of football fields and to say that the space they enclosed was vast exhausted the possibilities of the word. The second thing I noticed was that the far wall, except for a fireplace that could easily have accommodated the burghers of Calais, was glass. The city trembled below.
“Where do the airplanes land?” I whispered to Larry as we entered the room. Little clumps of people, mostly men, were scattered amid the white furnishings.
“None of that,” he replied. “Here comes our host.”
I expected the owner of the house to be dwarfed by it, but Elliot Fein didn’t even put up a fight. He was a shade over five feet and his most distinctive feature was his glasses. They were perfectly round and bright red. His skin was the color of dark wood, his hair was glossy black and his face was conspicuously unlined. I guessed, from his effort to conceal it, he must be nearing seventy.
“Larry,” he said in a wheezy voice. They exchanged polite kisses.
“This is Henry Rios,” Larry said.
“Why haven’t I met you before?” Fein asked by way of greeting.
I couldn’t think of any reason except the absence of twenty or thirty million dollars on my part. This didn’t seem to be the tactful answer so I said, “I don’t know, but it’s a pleasure, Justice Fein.”
He took my extended hand and held it. “Elliot to my friends. We’re all so glad you agreed to take the boy’s case.”
“Thank you.” I attempted to regain possession of my hand but he wasn’t through with it yet.
“You know,” he said confidentially, “I sat in the criminal division of superior court for years before I was elevated. From what I know about Jim Pears’s case, it’s going to be rough sledding.”