It was as cold in the court as it was outside in the rainy streets, the result, I was told, of the heat having been off over the weekend. The bailiff wore a parka over his tan uniform and the court reporter sat with her hands beneath her legs while we waited for the judge to take the bench. The only other people in the court were a middle-aged couple, the man very tall and the woman very short. Jim’s parents. Walter Pears wore a black suit, a brilliantly white shirt and a dark blue tie. Light gleamed off the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. His long, stern face was set in a look of sour distaste that I associated with religious fanatics and tax lawyers; Walter Pears was both. His wife was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Even now, looking at her, I was more aware of the color of her dress — an unflattering shade of green — than her face. They were here to reclaim their son. Poor Jim, I thought again, turning away from them. The bailiff stood up and said, “All rise.”
Patricia Ryan emerged from her chambers, seated herself and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
We bid her good morning. The reporter started to click away.
“People versus Pears,” the judge said. “Let the record reflect that the parties are represented but Mr. Pears is not present.” She shuffled some papers. “I have received a medical report in this case by a Dr. Connor-”
“Uh, present,” the doctor said.
“Yes, hello, Doctor,” the judge said. “From what I gather it is your conclusion that Jim Pears suffers from permanent and irreversible brain damage, is that right?”
Doctor Connor drew himself up and surveyed the room as if he had just awakened in Oz. He saw me and blinked furiously.
“Doctor,” the judge said.
“Right,” he said. “Uh, yes, Your Honor. Did you say something?”
In a voice of practiced patience, she repeated her original question.
Connor’s arms jerked up to his sides and backwards as if pulled by wires. “That’s kind of the village idiot explanation,” he said, cheerfully.
Judge Ryan squinted and said coldly, “Doctor, I’d like you to answer my question, not assess my intelligence.”
The D.A. tugged at Connor’s coat. He leaned over and she whispered, fiercely, into his ear. He jerked upright and said, “The answer is yes.” He plopped back into his chair.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, it’s my understanding that the People wish to make a motion pursuant to Penal Code section 1385.”
Laura Wyle stood up. “In view of the unlikelihood that James Pears will ever be fit to stand trial, the People move to dismiss the action in the interests of justice.”
“Mr. Rios?”
“No objection, Your Honor.”
“Motion granted. The action is dismissed. Mr. Pears is remanded to the custody of his parents. Are they in court?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, rising. I turned to the gallery.
Sometime during Connor’s disquisition Josh Mandel had entered the courtroom and now sat behind me. Surprised, I wondered why the D.A. had ordered him in. “Mr. and Mrs. Pears are present.”
“I am ordering Jim’s release,” she said to them. “You’ll have to make arrangements to move him through the sheriff’s office. My clerk will assist you.”
Walter Pears rose, all six-foot-six of him. “Thank you,” he bellowed, mournfully.
“Court is in recess,” Patricia Ryan said. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Rios.”
“My pleasure.”
She smiled charmingly and left the bench. I turned to Laura Wyle. “You have a witness here,” I observed.
She looked around. “Where?”
“Josh Mandel.”
“I didn’t tell him to be here,” she replied.
Connor came around and said, loudly, “Can I go now? I have appointments all morning.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Thank you.”
“A waste of my time,” he muttered, and pushed his way past the railing and out of the court.
I raised a sympathetic eyebrow at the D.A.
“He’s a real ass, isn’t he,” she said. “Well, excuse me, Henry. Lillian Fox is upstairs in my office having hysterics.”
“My sympathies,” I said.
Walter Pears came up to the railing, leaned over and said, “Mr. Rios, if I might have a word with you? Privately.”
I looked at him. “Sure. Now?”
“If you please.”
“There’s a small conference room just outside the courtroom,” I said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, that’ll do,” he said, as if bestowing a favor.
I turned around in my chair. Josh Mandel was looking directly at me. “Hello, Josh.”
“Hi,” he said. Today he wore a yellow rain slicker over jeans and a red crew neck sweater. Not witness apparel, I thought.
“You came in for the last act?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“I think the Pears have first dibs. Can you stick around?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got to get to Encino.”
“You want to tell me what it’s about?” I asked, standing up and straightening my coat.
“It’s kind of personal.” He was forcing himself to keep his eyes on me.
“Is it about Jim?”
“Sort of,” he said, now standing too. The railing separated us by a few inches. “I don’t think he killed Brian.”
“You have some evidence?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure — look, can I see you tonight?”
“I have plans, I’m afraid.”
His face was adamant. “It doesn’t matter when. I’ll be home all night.”
“Give me your number,” I said, after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll call you.”
“Okay.” He pulled out his wallet and extracted a bank deposit slip, jotting his number on the back. “It’s in Hollywood,” he said.
“I’ll call,” I said, accepting the paper.
“Thanks,” he said, and stuck his hand out. I shook it. I watched him go. Handsome kid, I thought, and felt disloyal to Jim for having thought it.
Walter Pears folded his hands in front of him. They were big hands with stubby, hairy fingers. He wore a heavy gold band on one finger and what looked like a high school graduation ring on another. His wife, introduced as either Leona or Mona, sat a few inches behind him as watchful as a little bird. I sat down in the only other chair in the room and closed the door behind me.
I waited for Pears to speak.
“As I told you earlier,” Pears began after a few uncomfortable seconds, “I am also a lawyer. A tax specialist.”
“Yes,” I replied. “You told me.”
“I know nothing of litigation.”
It was clear that he expected congratulations.
“Well, some lawyers just aren’t cut out for it,” I said.
A bit of color crept into his neck. “That’s not precisely why I introduce the subject.”
“Do I get three guesses or are you going to tell me?”
He straightened himself in his chair. “I take exception to your tone.”
“You’re wasting my time,” I replied. “And, as one lawyer to another, you know what billing rates are like these days.”
For a moment he simply stared at me while his knuckles went white. Then he cleared his throat and said, “My wife and I wish to file a suit against the county. That is, I believe, the proper governmental entity responsible for the maintenance and operation of the jail.”
“That’s right,” I said, outrage beginning to flicker in some dim corner of my brain. “What cause of action do you have against the county?”
“I have undertaken a preliminary investigation of the circumstances surrounding my son’s suicide attempt,” he announced. “It appears that the medication he took was prescribed to him by a physician at the jail.”