“About what?”
“I’d rather talk in person. I’ll come to your office.”
“Sure, when?”
“I’ll be finished in an hour. Where are you located?”
He arrived at my house, wearing a camel jacket, brown slacks, a white shirt, and a red tie. The tie was limp and pulled down from an open collar.
We’d talked over the phone but had never met. I’d seen his picture in newspaper accounts of the Malley case- mid-fifties, gray hair trimmed in an executive cut, square face, steel-rimmed eyeglasses, a prosecutor’s wary eyes- and had formed the image of a big, imposing man.
He turned out to be short- five-six or -seven- heavier and softer and older than pictured, the hair white, the jowls giving way to gravity. His jacket was well-cut but tired. His shoes needed a polish and the bags under his eyes were bluish.
“Pretty place,” he said, sitting on the edge of the living room chair that I offered. “Must be nice working out of your house.”
“It has its advantages. Something to drink?”
He considered the offer. “Why not? Beer, if you’ve got it.”
I went to the kitchen and fetched a couple of Grolsches. When I returned his posture hadn’t relaxed. His hands were clenched and he looked like someone forced to seek therapy.
I popped the caps on the beers and handed him a bottle. He took it but didn’t drink.
“Troy Turner’s dead,” he said.
“Oh, no.”
“It happened two weeks ago, C.Y.A. never thought to call me. I found out from Social Services because they were looking for his mother. He was found hanging from a punching bag stand in a supply room off the gym. He was supposed to be putting equipment away- that was the job they gave him. He’d been judged too dangerous to work in the kitchen or in the vegetable garden with tools.”
“Suicide?”
“That’s what they thought till they saw blood pooled on the floor and swung him around and found his throat cut.”
I’ve always been too good at conjuring mental pictures. The brutality of the scene- small, pale body dangling in a dark, heartless place- would visit my dreams.
“Do they know who did it?” I said.
“They’re figuring it for a gang thing,” said Laskin. “He’d been there, what, a month? Tried right away to hook up with the Dirty White Boys- an Aryan-B farm club. He was still in the initiation stage and part of the deal was jumping a Latino boy. He pulled that off ten days ago, surprised one of the smaller Vatos Locos in the shower, hit him upside the head with a heavy hairbrush and kicked the kid when he was down. The boy suffered a concussion and bruised ribs and ended up being transferred to another facility. Troy’s punishment was solitary confinement for a week. He’d been back in his bunk-room for three days. The day before he died, they put him back on gym closet duty.”
“So everyone knew where he’d be at a specific time.”
Laskin nodded. “The blood was still wet and the weapon was left at the scene- homemade shank fashioned from a toothbrush and a piece of butter knife honed to a razor-sharp edge. Whoever did it took time to wipe up his footprints.”
“Who found the body?”
“A counselor.” He finished his beer and put the bottle down.
“Want another?”
“Yes, but no.” He uncrossed his legs, held out a hand as if asking for something. “I thought I was being compassionate by sending him to Chaderjian. Downright Solomonic.”
“I thought so, too.”
“You agreed with the decision?”
“Given the choices,” I said, “I thought it was the best decision.”
“You never said anything.”
“You never asked.”
“The Malleys weren’t happy with the decision. Mister called to tell me.”
“What did he prefer?”
“The death penalty.” His smile was queasy. “Looks like he got it.”
I said, “Would sending Troy to adult prison have made him safer?”
He picked up the empty bottle and rolled it between his palms. “Probably not, but it still stinks.”
“Has his mother been located?”
“Finally. The county just authorized her for methadone and they found her at an outpatient clinic, waiting in line for her dose. The warden at Chaderjian said she visited Troy once the whole month and that was for ten minutes.”
He shook his head. “Little bastard never had a chance.”
“Neither did Kristal Malley.”
He stared at me. “That rolled off your tongue pretty easily. You that tough?”
“I’m not tough at all. I worked the cancer wards at Western Peds for years and stopped trying to figure things out.”
“You’re a nihilist?”
“I’m an optimist who keeps my goals narrow.”
“I’m usually pretty good at coping with all the crap I see,” he said. “But something about this one… maybe it’s time to retire.”
“You did your best.”
“Thanks for saying so. I don’t know why I’m bothering you.”
“It’s no bother.”
Neither of us talked for a while, then he steered the conversation to his two kids in college, looked at his watch, thanked me again, and left.
A few weeks later I read about a retirement party thrown for him at the Biltmore, downtown. “Child Murder Trial Judge” was his new title and I guessed that would stick.
Nice party, from the sound of it. Judges and D.A.s and P.D.s and court workers lauding him for twenty-five years’ good service. He planned to spend the next few years sailing and playing golf.
Troy Turner’s murder stayed with me and I wondered how Rand Duchay was faring. I phoned the C.Y.A. camp in Chino, wrestled with the bureaucracy for a while before reaching a bored-sounding head counselor named DiPodesta.
“So?” he said, when I told him about the killing.
“It might put Duchay at risk.”
“I’ll make a note of that.”
I asked to talk to Rand.
“Personal phone calls are limited to blood relatives and people on the approved list.”
“How do I get on the list?”
“Apply.”
“How do I do that?”
“Fill out forms.”
“Could you please send them to me?”
He took my name and address but the application never arrived. I considered pursuing it, rationalized not doing so: I lacked the time- and the desire- for long-term commitment, so what use could I be to Rand?
For the next few weeks, I scanned the papers for bad news about him. When nothing appeared I convinced myself he was where he should be.
Counseled and tutored and taken care of for the next twelve years.
Now, he was out in eight.
Wanted to talk to me.
I supposed I was ready to listen.
CHAPTER 11
I left the house and set out for Westwood.
The restaurant was called Newark Pizza. A sign underneath the tricolor boot promised Authentic New Jersey Pasta and Sicilian Delicacies Too!
Lights on behind pink-and-white-checked drapes, the faint outlines of patrons.
No one waiting outside.
I walked in, got a headful of garlic and overripe cheese. Bad murals covered the sidewalls- walleyed grape pickers bringing in the Chianti crop under a bilious sun. Five round tables rested on a red linoleum floor, covered in the same checked gingham as the curtains. The rear wall was a takeout counter backed by a brick pizza oven that gave off yeasty fumes.
Two Hispanic men in stained white aprons worked the dinner crowd, which was three parties. The cooks had Aztec faces and took their work seriously.
The customers were a Japanese couple sharing a petite pepperoni pie, a young bespectacled couple trying to control a pair of wild-eyed, tomato-sauced preschoolers, and three black guys in their twenties wearing Fila sweats and enjoying salad and lasagna.
One of the countermen said, “Help you?”
“I’m waiting for someone. Young guy, around twenty?”
He shrugged and flipped a limp white disk of dough, sprinkled it with flour, repeated the move.