A Twisted Path Page 7

  “I’ve retained the best forensic psychologist in town. You’re scheduled to meet with him Friday morning. You can tell him everything, how you were feeling, what was going on in your head. Everything.” The lawyer smiled without sincerity. “You need help, Merrill, not punishment. I’m going to make sure you get it.”

  Merrill stiffened. “Perry, I’ve been thinking about it…dreaming about it, all the time. I…I don’t exactly remember, but I’m pretty sure…” Margolin tightened his grip on her shoulder.

  “Merrill, trust me. I’ll take care of all this. I don’t want you to suffer any more. Let’s get you out of here first, then take care of everything else.” Merrill’s mouth was still open, wanting to say more. Instead, “yes, Perry. Okay, if you say so. It’s just…” Perry stood.

  “It’s time to go. You look lovely, Merrill. Just keep your head up and think of Cheyenne. I know she wants you home and safe.” The lie hung in the air and the door opened, the female guard trailing Detective Prole.

  “Let’s go, counselor. You can have your limo follow us to the courthouse if you like.” The snide comment from Prole only returned a broad smile from Margolin.

  “Merrill, dear, you go with the nice police lady. And keep ignoring everything she says. It’s nothing important.” He brushed by the two women in the door, leaving his client behind to be handcuffed beneath the long sleeves of the light material that hid the metallic bands.

  Chapter Thirty

  The hearing didn’t go very well from Merrill’s perspective. Perry asked for bail and the unpleasant assistant prosecutor practically snickered out loud. He described a horrific, premeditated act of cold-blooded murder while Perry countered with references to circumstantial evidence. She thought the prosecutor made a better argument but it was hard for her to focus after the blaze of television camera lights and photographers’ flashbulbs that accosted her going into the courthouse. A dozen microphones shoved in her face, like a scene from a bad movie or the OJ Simpson trial. The judge seemed to like the bluster of the attorneys, letting them talk over each other. She threw in a few questions for each, leaning forward on the elevated seat behind the heavy oak façade with the California State symbol emblazoned in three colors and an eagle in outline that looked like it was going to swoop of the bench and carry Merrill away in its talons.

  The judge quieted everyone down enough to read out loud a couple of quotes from Detective Prole’s report but didn’t ask anyone else to offer comment, including Prole or Merrill herself. This wasn’t a plea hearing so Margolin wasn’t asked how he intended to answer the question of whether she was going to plead innocent, something he hadn’t yet discussed with Merrill. But when Margolin cut off the prosecutor’s diatribe about letting a dangerous criminal, no matter how expensive her clothes, out on the streets to say she was a gentle, loving mother and there was a psychiatric evaluation scheduled for two days hence, there was a sudden silence in the courtroom. Merrill didn’t understand the significance until the prosecutor abruptly interrupted the quiet, a hint of incredulity in his voice.

  “If the defense is going to offer an insanity plea, your honor, then it is incumbent on you to have her remain in custody until a final evaluation is made. And the state insists on having its own experts examine Mrs. Wick.” He looked over at Margolin, who was silently looking at the judge. She raised her eyebrows but didn’t respond, just a small shaking of her head.

  “Bail denied. Plea hearing to be on…” she consulted the laptop in front of her, pissing off her clerk for the thousandth time by doing a task he considered part of his job, and picked a day on the calendar, “next Thursday, the 16th. Defense to make Mrs. Wick available to mental health experts with reasonable notice and sufficient time to conduct a preliminary examination.” She held no gavel, but flicked a finger to the back of the room. “That’s it, hearing over. Next case.”

  Merrill still sat while Margolin stood to gather his things. She took his arm and he looked over. “Don’t worry, dear, it will be fine. You’ll be just fine. I’ll see you Friday.” He kept smiling as he turned and left the defense table as Prole came forward to collect Merrill. As they passed, Prole said loudly enough for him to hear but no one else:

  “If I ever get in trouble, don’t offer to help.” Margolin pretended not to hear but slowed his steps as he felt his cell phone vibrate. Taking it out of his breast pocket and recognizing the Councilman’s number, he hit Ignore Call as Furyk slipped unnoticed out the back door.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The glare of a late morning in August in downtown LA blinded Furyk as he pushed past the line of potential jurors streaming into the Federal Building, red and white stick-on badges identifying them to the world as good citizens – or at least unable to get out of jury service. He waited for the traffic light at Olive and crossed to the parking garage where he’d left the Honda. Paying the $16.88 for one hour of parking, he eased into the Eastbound traffic and headed for the 101 freeway and back to the Valley. The temperature display on the dashboard climbed a degree every half mile he drove north, peaking at 87 as he passed through Studio City and took the off-ramp with the perpetually present war veteran on the corner hawking small, plastic American flags that clamped onto a car’s antenna. The man looked like he hadn’t shaved – or bathed – since whatever war he claimed to have fought in. The light at the bottom of the ramp was red and Furyk rolled down the window and gave him the usual dollar, avoiding touching the hand that hadn’t seen water since the last rain but looking the man in the eye. The vet gave him a salute and called him bro and then the light was green.

  Furyk replayed the scene in the courtroom. The lawyer ignored Merrill. No way she knew he was going for an insanity defense. It meant Margolin thought she did it. But she’d told Furyk she didn’t think she had. If she’s nuts, then of course she’d say something crazy like that. Not sure whether you stabbed your husband twelve times? Once or twice, maybe, but not twelve.

  Furyk pulled into the gas station and took his usual parking space. He saw leaning against the square metal box that housed a water pump and air hose for cars needing to top off their radiators or tires, a top-heavy Latino kid resting with his arms crossed. Biceps bigger than grapefruit, each with a couple of tats – some homemade. He looked like he’d been waiting a while and his baggy jeans, which couldn’t hide what had to be disproportionately skinny legs, had sagged to the bottom of his hips. He gave Furyk a sidelong glance, beefy shoulders loose beneath a tight black tee that looked freshly washed and pressed. Impressive.

  When Furyk opened the driver side door, it swung toward the kid, who didn’t look so young up close and was probably only an inch shorter than Furyk, but a good 20 pounds heavier, at least up top. Furyk got out and turned his back to the man-boy to close and lock the door, pretty sure there was no gun or knife about to be stuck in his back and figuring it was the middle of the day, why worry about a tough guy just hanging out at the gas station. When the work boot hit his door and slammed it shut at the same time a heavy hand pushed into his back, Furyk was surprised but not unprepared. He moved forward with the momentum of the push and spun around out of his assailant’s grip, but didn’t strike back. He wanted to see what the hell was going on.

  The kid, now clear to Furyk that he was a young man in his 20s as they looked at each other from just a foot or two away, was surprised but stepped toward Furyk with both hands out, intending to push him up against the car. Intimidation, not attack. Probably worked with most people. Furyk sidestepped and popped him once in the nose with a quick uppercut, left-handed. No follow up, just a shot to stun the kid. His head flipped back and blood flowed instantly. Spanish expletives flowed even faster and he put his head down like he was going to gore Furyk but threw a meaty paw in his direction instead. Furyk swatted it away and gently poked at the broken nose again, not enough to do damage but a lot of pain. The kid grunted and almost doubled over from the sharp, agonizing streak of hot pain and then feebly swung with his other arm in Furyk’s di
rection. Furyk stepped inside the barely-extant punch and pushed the kid back, toward the water and air pump. Despite the heavy weight of the kid’s torso and shoulders, the kid moved easily as he tried to draw breath through the broken cartilage and blood in his nose, then switched to mouth breathing so he wouldn’t suffocate. Furyk held him up against the pump and didn’t say anything, just waited.

  The kid switched to English and between breaths, communicated his feelings to Furyk. “Mutha fucka, I’ll….teach you…a fuckin’ lesson…”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  The kid turned his head and spat some blood that had trickled into his mouth. “Fuckin’ kill you, scumbag.” He seemed really animated about his dislike for Furyk. Furyk eased off, put a finger up in front of the kid in a “wait a second” gesture, and reached for the water hose – but didn’t turn his back this time. He pressed the nozzle to get a flow going, then handed it to the kid.

  “Here, wipe the blood off and get your breath. Then tell me about it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Margolin had just gotten settled behind the enormous glass and metal desk that, despite its size, was dwarfed by the expanse of his office. The view behind him, on display through a full floor-to-ceiling glass wall, was of Century City and the more scenic holes of the Riviera Country Club. He had been a member for a decade and considered the three or four hundred thousand he paid each year in dues and fees a small price for the exclusivity and access it afforded him. Perched above the hundred acres of forested land in the middle of the busy avenues connecting Brentwood and Beverly Hills, Margolin lorded over what he told himself was a small empire of success. Barging into that empire, objecting secretary in tow, was a Mel-Gibson sized man with fury in his eyes and strands of an expensive and poorly fitted toupee flopping in his face. Larry Brecker, Napoleonic film director with a penchant for hitting girls.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Margolin, he insisted and I…” Perry didn’t bother to cut her off. He waved a dismissive hand without looking at her and made a mental note to fire her before the end of the day. The little movie producer was bubbling over with things to say and kept whipping his head back to the door to see if the secretary had kowtowed her way out yet. The strands of hair battled each over for position every time he swung around and then settled as he glared at Margolin with the sharp sound of the door closing.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on, Perry? Are you trying to ruin me? Is this some kind of sick freakin’ joke to you? Answer me!” Margolin kept a calming smile plastered on his face that had no affect on the man.

  “Sit, Larry, sit and we’ll have a talk.”

  “Don’t tell me to fucking sit and talk! I want to stand and hear what the hell is going on!” as he flopped onto the rounded metal chair in front of Perry’s desk and began to fidget. Dressed in tight black pants and a white, untucked linen shirt, he looked like an aging Beatle.

  “Larry, nothing is going to happen. Everything’s fine.” Margolin heard himself saying these familiar words, and he reminded himself he had no reason to believe otherwise. “Just take a little break, that’s all. Focus on your work, and let’s just let everything settle down.”

  This didn’t comfort the little man but it didn’t accelerate his angst. He crossed and recrossed his legs, then started chewing on the nail of his pinkie. “I don’t need any shit right now. I’ve got a deadline and if I don’t reshoot the last two scenes and finish editing, I’m screwed. You don’t understand the pressure.” Margolin almost laughed out loud at the pompous little twit, but he was an important client and one he wanted to keep, no matter what. Damage control.

  “I couldn’t possibly understand the pressure, but I do know it’s important for you to have a release. A way to stay sharp. I just need to ask you to sit tight for a little while.” No explosive response so he went on. “And maybe, you know, ease off a bit. You know what I mean? Just take it down a notch.”

  The producer stopped working his fingernail and sat still for a moment. He held Margolin’s steady look. “She isn’t fuckin’ dead, is she? I didn’t hit her that hard.”

  “No, she’ll be fine. Nothing a little surgery can’t fix.” The irony was lost on Larry.

  “Good, good, don’t want any goddamn hassles right now. Okay, I’m outta here – call me soon, goddamnit.”

  Ten seconds later Margolin was alone again in the quiet of his aerie. He spun around and looked out at the green at the third hole, a quarter mile away. He wanted to be playing a round right now.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Furyk couldn’t place the kid exactly, but he looked a little familiar. Maybe he’d busted his brother back when Furyk was a cop, or he got screwed out of his money on a coke deal when Furyk had run off a dealer who’d taken up residence behind the strip mall where the sandwich shop was. Hell, maybe Furyk had put too much mayo on the guy’s BLT last Tuesday.

  “Okay, Carlito, you want to tell me why you’re being such a tough guy?

  “How the hell you know my name, man?” The blood had stopped but the swelling was just starting and his eyes were going to get puffy. He’d have to make up some macho story to tell his buddies down at the local gang bangers’ hangout. Furyk looked at the thin line of blood that traced itself down from the nose, around the mouth, and under the jaw and finally dribbled out at the top of a string of curlicue letters just above the collar bone on his neck spelling out Carlito. Most tattoo places won’t do necks unless you’re old enough or crazy enough to insist.

  It took the kid a while but he figured it out after Furyk stared at his neck for a few more seconds. “Yeah, okay, so you can fuckin’ read.” He still sounded a little out of breath, which made him not quite so tough. He finished wiping off the blood, including the line that pointed at his name and tossed the sodden paper towels Furyk had given him from the dispenser near the pumps. Hamid caught Furyk’s eye when he’d gone to get the towels, not able to see the brief flare-up around the corner, and Furyk just gave him a thumbs-up and smile.

  The kid was actually pretty tough and in a straight-up fight could probably handle himself. But he wasn’t hard at the core and Furyk could see it. A few misdemeanors, maybe a couple of assaults but only as part of the usual melees that happened on the streets, nothing heavy. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t get shot for looking too long at a guy from a different street corner. And those huge biceps made him a target for anyone wanting to prove how tough they were themselves. But Furyk still didn’t know why the hell the guy was trying to rough him up.

  “Yeah, I got my Ph.D. in Modern Tat.” It was lost on his audience. “So what lesson did you want to teach me – and why?” Carlito – “little Carl,” which was clearly meant as a joke unless a disappointed girlfriend had etched it on his neck permanently while he slept – tried to shake off his pain and evoke a swagger. It didn’t come off very impressively, since when he moved his head and shrugged his shoulders to show off their mass, his nose shifted and brought a roaring hurricane of mind-numbing pain. To the kid’s credit, he worked through it and pointed a finger at Furyk.

  “You stop messin’ with my cousin. Or…” he paused a second, vaguely aware that he didn’t have much leverage at this moment, “or my boys is gonna fuck you up.” Under other circumstances it might have put Furyk on edge, the thought of half a dozen gangbangers grabbing him as he walked in a dark alley one night. But the kid was reaching. The more interesting issue was what had he done to mess with the cousin?

  Asking questions didn’t seem to be getting him very far so Furyk just stood quietly, thinking it over. The kid looked a little familiar, he thought again. Still couldn’t put a name to the face, or even some context for someone he’d busted or busted up who had a cousin who’d look familiar. Sometimes when you were putting a case together or looking for someone, you’d flip through photos of known associates. But nothing. He looked at the kid who seemed to be waiting for something to happen, either a better threat to level against Furyk or his buddies to suddenly show up
and scare the white guy into submission.

  And then Furyk got it. He’d seen a picture of Carlito, but there’d been no tattoo. It had been when the kid was a few years younger, maybe eighteen or nineteen. On the dresser next to Tina’s bed. Tina, who worked in the salon two doors down from Furyk’s sandwich shop and cut his hair once in a while. About the same frequency with which he took her out for a drink and they ended up either at her place or his for a few hours, and occasionally in the back of her station wagon. Even once in a while in the storage room of the salon. This was Tina’s cousin, Carl, who Tina’d mentioned with worry in her voice once or twice in the last couple of years. Carl who was a good kid, not too bright but enough to get by, and got caught up with the wrong guys.

  Tina, who wore low, low cut jeans with wide belts that seemed to scream to everyone to look at those hips, and the midriff-baring tshirts that groaned under the weight of breasts that could have been all-natural models of what every plastic surgeon could point to as the perfect “after” picture. She was smart like a girl who’d gotten out of the neighborhood and made a few right choices, but she would always be the kind of girl who was the cousin of a Carlito. They were casual but courteous and the infrequency of their trysts didn’t imply disrespect or anything but mutual need and convenience. Furyk hadn’t seen Tina for a while but couldn’t imagine he’d done anything to instigate an attempted “lesson” from her cousin.

  “You’re Tina’s cousin. She’s very sweet. What happened to you?”

  “I saw you comin’ outta her place a few months ago, like the fuckin’ white prince banging his Latina slave. I was gonna beat your ass then but you took off in your little shit beater.” Carlito was getting riled again and Furyk didn’t want to have to pop him into submission again. The nose would never set. “Then I saw you yesterday parking here when I was comin’ outta Tina’s shop.”