“A real tragedy,” says Overroy. He’s talking about Mario’s death. I suspect he did handstands when he read the obituary. Roland’s middle name is duplicity. If he were a politician he would be the kind to cut down a redwood, then mount the bleeding stump to make a speech about conservation.
“The guy was simply working too hard,” he says. Roland’s way of offering condolences. “He took too much on himself. Refused to share the load. I know.” Roland’s shaking his head now, solemnly like some ultimate truism is about to follow. “This job can be a killer,” he says.
This is clearly not a fate that Overroy intends for himself. At sixty he is anything but burned out. He has a full head of silver-gray hair, and a deep tan, not an ounce of fat on his body. I am told that Roland keeps a boat moored on the river at the marina, that in the summer he routinely checks out before three for afternoon cruises. He calls this ATO (administrative time off), allegedly for all the long hours he puts in prepping at home for juvenile court. This had become a standing joke, but Mario had ignored it, finding Roland’s absence easier to take than his interference and the constant poison he emits into the atmosphere of the office.
Overroy is clearly trying to take the lead in this gathering. He has made the introductions around the table, “the junior staff,” as he’s described them to me in a more private moment.
He has ordered Jane Rhodes, Feretti’s secretary, to furnish all of us with refreshments, coffee and, if I want it, Overroy offers to send her three stories, to the basement, for a cold soft drink from the vending machine.
I waive off on this and ask Boudin and Samuels how things are going in the misdemeanor section, a little small talk to take the edge off.
“We manage,” Overroy answers for them. “But I think we all agree that the office needs a little more structure,” he adds.
“Things worked a little more smoothly when there was more supervision.” What Roland means is when he was chief deputy.
“As for the office,” he says, “you’ll find that we all know our jobs. The place just needs a little continuity. Somebody who knows where things are, how they work.” He smiles at me, big and broad-“Mr. Continuity.”
I had been warned by Feretti that Roland prays at the altar of seniority. In Overroy’s world longevity would be the only measure for advancement.
Goya has just entered the room and is standing behind Overroy in the doorway.
I give her a quick greeting.
Lenore Goya is a tall, slender woman. She wears a dark gray suit, skirt at the knees, and a silk blouse. All very professional. Hers is a dark complexion which in the leisure set might pass for a tan. She has the narrow nose and high cheek bones of a fashion model. If I hadn’t seen her personnel file I might think she is part of Talia’s country club set, all except for the eyes. These are deep set, piercing and dark, with an expression that belies little mirth.
She has been carrying the office since Mario was hospitalized. Between her personnel records and what Feretti had told me, I have pieced together a few bits of her life. She has worked for two other prosecutorial offices before coming here, both in Southern California, where she racked up an impressive conviction record. A daughter of the barrio, she clawed her way out of East Los Angeles to graduate with top honors from USC and go on to take a law degree from that school, all on scholarship. She is a single mother with two small children. After spending her life in the inner reaches of L.A., she is looking for something better for her children, a quieter and safer life in a small town.
“I’m not here to shake things up,” I tell them. First impressions set fast and hard like a dog’s paw print in concrete.
“If I have my way, you’re looking at temporary help. I’m the county’s answer to a Kelly Girl,” I say.
This draws a little laughter.
Roland is licking his lips, the taste of opportunity. Boudin and Samuels are nodding their understanding. But Goya is an enigma, her eyes searching me up and down, measuring my every word. I think the lady is a cynic. Perhaps we’ll get along after all.
“There will be no change in assignments,” I tell them. “I hope I won’t be here long enough for that.”
Even this has no effect on Goya. She remains stone-faced, her shoulder leaning into the frame of the door.
“Join us,” I tell her. “I don’t bite. Have a seat.”
“I’m comfortable,” she says.
We are doing a little spider and fly act.
Given her attitude I skip the usual line of every civil service hack-assurances of an open-door policy. Goya will see this for the bureau-babble it is. And as for Overroy, there aren’t enough locks in the free world to keep him from my office.
“What does your schedule look like?” I’m looking at Goya.
“Why?”
“We need to talk about the felony calendar,” I tell her.
She looks at her little day-planner. Lawyers now carry these to every event and occasion like Baptist ministers with their Bibles.
“I’ve got time Monday morning,” she says, “before court call, at nine. My office or yours?”
“Yours.” I will concede a little turf, an effort to bring her on board.
“Why don’t I join you.” It’s Roland trying to horn in. If he’s going to climb back into the saddle of authority he knows it’s now or never.
“I don’t think we need to take Roland’s time, do you?” I look to Goya.
Her answer is a flat, unaffected “no.” I think this woman does not suffer fools lightly.
Roland is crestfallen, little squints of acid at Lenore Goya. But this is only fleeting. He puts a face on it. “It’s true,” he says, “I am pretty busy.”
People are getting out of their chairs, milling toward the door.
“Oh, one question.” It’s Overroy. He is smiling again.
“If they catch him, who’s gonna do ‘Shiska Bob’?”
I look at him, a question mark.
“The Putah Creek thing,” he says. “Who’s gonna get the case?”
I can’t tell if he actually believes I would consider him for the assignment, or if he’s just stirring dissension in the office, his way of getting the juices going in Goya.
“What did you call it?” I say.
He’s all smiles. “Hmm?” A quizzical look. “Oh that.
‘Shiska Bob,’” he says.
I nod.
“One of the guys at sheriff’s homicide,” he says. “When you work there for a while you get a funny sense of humor.” He says this with familiarity, fostering an image. Roland, I think, would like us to conjure the picture, he and his redneck buddies from homicide lapping up brew together, talking about the inside stuff, the hard core cases, the real dirt.
I shudder to think what Feretti might have thought of this headline “Shiska Bob,” blazing above the fold from the little local newspaper, the Journal, what Mario called the “Davenport Urinal.”
“I don’t care where it came from,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hear it again.” There’s stone-deaf silence in the room.
“You might pass the word to the hot shot in homicide.
I’ll talk to the sheriff myself. We have families of the victims to deal with. We don’t need to inflict any more pain. They will be angry enough if we don’t come up with some answers soon.”
“I will,” he says. “Sure.” The smile is gone from Roland’s face.
For the moment I have side-stepped the question of who will get the nod on the Putah Creek cases, but Goya is looking at me. True to form, Overroy has opened the furrow and planted the seed of dissension.
My daughter is to be a rose petal, as distinguished from the shy violets, the seven- and eight-year-olds, in their hues of purple.
Sarah is dressed in a pink tutu, a rigid skirt that sticks out like the whirling rotors of a helicopter from her hipless little form. She wears this outfit over chartreuse tights so petite I could not fit one forearm into them. Yet even these form wrinkles like the skin of an old apple on Sarah’s spindly legs.