“Whaddya want?”
“It’s me, Mrs. Farris, Jimmy O’Brien. Remember I called?”
“You’re the lawyer man, the guy supposed to be helping Robbie?”
“Yes…”
She opened the door a little bit more, her eyes flicking from side to side. “Get in here fast, before they get you!”
“Who?” I said, glancing around.
“The spooks, you numbskull.”
She scraped the security chain across the slot, unlatched it, and banged open the door. With a quick movement of a withered, liver-spotted hand, she grabbed my shirt and pulled me inside.
“You’ll be safe in here,” she said, staring at me with wild eyes, her body pressed flat against the door.
The interior wasn’t much of an improvement over the outside, worn and used up, and the place smelled like a wet dog. Her decorator wasn’t schooled at the Boutique d’Interieur; more like Boutique d’Garbage. But what caught my eye were the empty whiskey bottles littering every flat surface. Mrs. Farris took a little nip now and again.
She was maybe fifty or so, but it was hard to tell with alcoholics. The red and purple spider web capillaries covering her face masked her age just as effectively as cosmetic surgery masked women on the other end of life’s spectrum. Her green eyes had lost their luster and she was a little heavy now, but before the bottle took over her life, she could’ve been a knockout. She had a certain air about her; maybe it was the way she looked at me when she fingered her thin, flower-pattern housecoat clinging loosely about her voluptuous figure. She had the essence of a woman who in a past life knew what sex was about and how to use it. She turned and moved away from the door, leading me deeper into her lair.
“Sit down, lawyer man.”
“Please call me Jimmy. Is it okay to call you Hazel?”
“We don’t stand on formalities ’round here.”
I shrugged out of my jacket, loosened my tie, and found a spot on the ratty sofa. A cat jumped up from nowhere and hissed at me for an instant before screeching away out of sight.
“Tom don’t cotton to strangers. Maybe he knows you’re a lawyer.” She nodded knowingly and plopped down on an old wood rocking chair across from me. Then she reached for a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam resting on an end table next to her.
“Want a little drinky-poo?” She held the bottle out about an inch from her body. Without waiting for a response, she raised it to her lips and took a healthy swig.
“No, thanks,” I said.
Hazel wiped her mouth with the back of her right hand, holding the now almost empty bottle in her left. “No thanks, what?”
“I don’t drink. Used to, but I quit.”
“I quit too, yesterday. Didn’t take a drink all morning. Well, ’til almost ten a.m., but goddammit, I didn’t see no point to it. I’m not a drunk or nothin’ like that.”
“Of course not, Hazel. Just a little nip now and then for the chill.” It was 102 degrees outside, but what the hell.
“Yeah, that’s it, for the chill…” her voice trailed off. She glanced around with barren eyes and gazed off into the distance, her face a blank slate. Then she gulped down another belt, for the chill.
We sat quietly for a moment. Then she struggled out of her chair and walked unsteadily with one hand out in front of her body as if she were blind, feeling her way. She went to the kitchen area and stopped at a small dining table. The table was set for one. Resting on the Formica with the plate and a few tarnished eating utensils was a small glass vase with a single flower in it. The flower, a long-stemmed white lily, had died days before, and the petals, now dark and shriveled, were lying where they fell. Next to the vase, in a wooden frame, was a black and white photograph. She picked up the frame, holding it carefully by the edges, and looked at the photo for a long moment. Then she meticulously set it down in the same spot. When she turned back to me, her eyes were red-rimmed and misty.
I felt sorrow. Sorrow for her, sure, but more sorrow for a society that casts off women like Hazel who, without marketable skills, are left to rot like worm-eaten fruit in an isolated orchard. I didn’t ask, and she didn’t tell me about the man in the photograph. It wasn’t Robbie. The man in the photo was older, maybe her dead husband.
Finally she said, “Robbie’s a good boy.” She turned away and sat down in her chair again without waiting for my response. She retreated to her secret place, a place in her soul where the pain wasn’t so deep. “Did you see them?” she asked in an emotionless voice.
“Who?”
“They are going to get you, too, you know.”
“No, Hazel, I didn’t see anyone.”
“They watch me. They want to silence me.” She began to rock slowly in her chair, humming a tune I didn’t recognize.
I could sit there chatting with Mrs. Farris all afternoon, but if I wanted to beat the rush hour traffic back to my office in Downey, I’d have to get down to business, get her to sign the power of attorney granting me temporary custody of Robbie. I kept a blank form in my jacket pocket for occasions such as this.
“Tell me, Hazel…” I paused, wondering how I could phrase this delicate subject in a manner that wouldn’t offend, especially in view of her condition. “Don’t you think Robbie’s a little crazy? I mean, killing that guy and all.”
“Oh, damn you,” she said, still staring off in the distance. “Robbie’s a good boy.”
“Yes, I’m sure he is, and that’s why I’m here. See, if we can prove he’s a little nutty, then we can keep him out of prison. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
She gulped down the remaining Jim Beam and let the bottle slip from her fingers. It rolled off her lap and hit the floor, where it made a thumping sound. The thump startled Hazel. She came out of her trance and turned to me. “What did you say?”
“Robbie. I’m talking about Robbie.”
“What about him.” An angry scowl mushroomed on her face.
“Well, as I said, Mrs. Farris.” I kept my tone soft and pleasant. I had to tread lightly. “He needs a little help, mental help, and-”
“Hey, Mister, are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“Calm down, Hazel.”
“God damn it, Robbie’s not crazy. Don’t be telling me that. You goddamn lawyers come in here and demand money. Get out!”
It was beginning to look like I would be there all afternoon. “Listen, Hazel. I don’t want any money. I just want to help Robbie.”
“I said, get out. If you don’t leave right now, I’ll sick Tom on you.”
I glanced around; there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the trailer. Unless he was hiding in her bedroom. But the door was open, and all I saw was a small, rumpled bed. “Tom?”
“My cat, you asshole!”
It took a bit of doing, but I finally convinced her to think about what I was trying to do for Robbie. Her mood improved after I made a run to the Liquor Bin on Topanga Canyon Boulevard and returned with a couple fresh bottles of Jim Beam. Before long, she began to see my point. She opened up and started talking when I poured a drinking glass full of the amber liquid and held it out for her. An hour later I had what I came for-the signed document-and I had a better understanding of Robbie and his troubled life. When she passed out in her chair, I put a couple of my business cards on her table and quietly left.
It was almost dark after the three hour drive when I pulled into my office back in Downey. I patted my jacket pocket where the power of attorney rested, folded and signed by Hazel Farris, mother of the defendant. I smiled.
The lights were on when I cracked open the door and peered in the office. Mabel, our firm’s business manager was gone for the day but Rita, my young associate, was there. She was leaning against the desk, talking.
“No, I told you, I don’t know where he’s been.”
When she noticed me coming through the door, she turned away from the two men in suits standing ramrod straight off to the side.