blueberry-buttermilk bar and taking a huge bite. It tastes heavy and overly sweet—perfect, in other words.
As Eleanor is about to leave, I quickly swallow and ask her, “We’ve been through these boxes and can’t find trial transcripts. Any idea why?”
“Moses anticipated that question. He told me to tell you he never ordered them. He was on a shoestring budget and was confident he’d avoid the first-degree murder rap. After that happened, he agreed to waive O’Brien’s right to appeal in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. He says you should ask the US Attorney or contact the court reporter about the transcripts.”
“We already tried that,” Lovely says. “The US Attorneys says they don’t have it. The court reporter has disappeared. We also looked for the transcripts in the federal court archives. They gave us some story about a flood in the warehouse back in the early eighties. We need to talk to Moses about this. When’s he coming back?”
“How the hell would I know?” Eleanor says and walks out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I was a kid, Southern California was rarely humid, but lately every August seems to have a monsoon feel. I exit the dank parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Mall and have to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. The Xanax–Valium cocktail I’ve been prescribed has left me half anesthetized, as if I’m a video-game player watching a Parker Stern avatar cross the street. I’m also feeling numb because inevitable defeat instills resignation, not fear. And defeat is inevitable today. I’m about to walk into the federal courthouse and make a fool of myself by asking the judge to release Ian Holzner on bail and put an admitted bomber, a suspected murderer, and a four-decade fugitive back on the streets.
I pass the TV-news satellite trucks parked outside the courthouse. Lately, the news reports and Internet blogs have been calling Holzner the progenitor of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh and the Boston Marathon terrorists. A dozen reporters are waiting near the courthouse entrance, and when they spy me, they hurry down the concrete stairs and stick microphones in my face. No comment. I don’t like the media, and, anyway, what’s there to say?
I take the elevator to the second floor and walk down the corridor to the courtroom of the Honorable Carlton F. Gibson. Lovely Diamond is waiting outside.
“Finally,” she says. “I thought I was going to have to handle the hearing myself.” She’s upset with me and has been for several days. She wants me to go see Emily Lansing, my half sister. I just haven’t had the time, or so I tell Lovely and myself.
“Is this still about Emily?”
“It’s about your tardiness.”
“What’s your problem? I’m ten minutes early.”
“That’s not early for court. Ninety minutes is early. Ten minutes is late.”
What stings about her statement is that she’s quoting me when I was her law-school professor.
“The US Attorney needs to talk to you before the hearing starts,” she says.
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. She said she’ll only talk to you or Lou. She’s a real bitch, actually.”
“Did Frantz talk to her?”
“He’s here but says it’s your show.”
That’s a surprise. Lou Frantz craves the spotlight more than any other lawyer I know. I was sure he’d try to horn in on my case.
Lovely turns abruptly and marches into the courtroom. I follow and find the gallery packed with news reporters, curious spectators, and courtroom regulars who flit from trial to trial craving the excitement they see on Law & Order but rarely find in a real courthouse. The disheveled, basset-eyed orator Louis Frantz, my nemesis and now advisor, is sitting in the third row with his arms crossed and an irritated look on his razor-sharp face. Mariko Heim and her Assembly enforcers have commandeered four seats in the back row. Why are they here? When I pass her, she glances in my direction and then dismisses me with a
As Eleanor is about to leave, I quickly swallow and ask her, “We’ve been through these boxes and can’t find trial transcripts. Any idea why?”
“Moses anticipated that question. He told me to tell you he never ordered them. He was on a shoestring budget and was confident he’d avoid the first-degree murder rap. After that happened, he agreed to waive O’Brien’s right to appeal in exchange for a reduced prison sentence. He says you should ask the US Attorney or contact the court reporter about the transcripts.”
“We already tried that,” Lovely says. “The US Attorneys says they don’t have it. The court reporter has disappeared. We also looked for the transcripts in the federal court archives. They gave us some story about a flood in the warehouse back in the early eighties. We need to talk to Moses about this. When’s he coming back?”
“How the hell would I know?” Eleanor says and walks out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I was a kid, Southern California was rarely humid, but lately every August seems to have a monsoon feel. I exit the dank parking garage beneath the Los Angeles Mall and have to shield my eyes from the afternoon sun. The Xanax–Valium cocktail I’ve been prescribed has left me half anesthetized, as if I’m a video-game player watching a Parker Stern avatar cross the street. I’m also feeling numb because inevitable defeat instills resignation, not fear. And defeat is inevitable today. I’m about to walk into the federal courthouse and make a fool of myself by asking the judge to release Ian Holzner on bail and put an admitted bomber, a suspected murderer, and a four-decade fugitive back on the streets.
I pass the TV-news satellite trucks parked outside the courthouse. Lately, the news reports and Internet blogs have been calling Holzner the progenitor of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh and the Boston Marathon terrorists. A dozen reporters are waiting near the courthouse entrance, and when they spy me, they hurry down the concrete stairs and stick microphones in my face. No comment. I don’t like the media, and, anyway, what’s there to say?
I take the elevator to the second floor and walk down the corridor to the courtroom of the Honorable Carlton F. Gibson. Lovely Diamond is waiting outside.
“Finally,” she says. “I thought I was going to have to handle the hearing myself.” She’s upset with me and has been for several days. She wants me to go see Emily Lansing, my half sister. I just haven’t had the time, or so I tell Lovely and myself.
“Is this still about Emily?”
“It’s about your tardiness.”
“What’s your problem? I’m ten minutes early.”
“That’s not early for court. Ninety minutes is early. Ten minutes is late.”
What stings about her statement is that she’s quoting me when I was her law-school professor.
“The US Attorney needs to talk to you before the hearing starts,” she says.
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t tell me. She said she’ll only talk to you or Lou. She’s a real bitch, actually.”
“Did Frantz talk to her?”
“He’s here but says it’s your show.”
That’s a surprise. Lou Frantz craves the spotlight more than any other lawyer I know. I was sure he’d try to horn in on my case.
Lovely turns abruptly and marches into the courtroom. I follow and find the gallery packed with news reporters, curious spectators, and courtroom regulars who flit from trial to trial craving the excitement they see on Law & Order but rarely find in a real courthouse. The disheveled, basset-eyed orator Louis Frantz, my nemesis and now advisor, is sitting in the third row with his arms crossed and an irritated look on his razor-sharp face. Mariko Heim and her Assembly enforcers have commandeered four seats in the back row. Why are they here? When I pass her, she glances in my direction and then dismisses me with a
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