Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by James Scott Bell
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: July 2009
ISBN: 978-1-599-95310-6
Contents
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
Chapter 153
Chapter 154
Chapter 155
Chapter 156
Chapter 157
Chapter 158
Chapter 159
Chapter 160
Chapter 161
Chapter 162
Chapter 163
Chapter 164
Chapter 165
Chapter 166
Chapter 167
Chapter 168
Chapter 169
Chapter 170
Chapter 171
Chapter 172
Chapter 173
Chapter 174
Chapter 175
Chapter 176
Chapter 177
Chapter 178
Chapter 179
Chapter 180
Chapter 181
Chapter 182
Chapter 183
Also by James Scott Bell
Try Dying
Try Darkness
Available from Center Street wherever books are sold.
My memories of growing up in L.A. come to me mostly in black and white. I see myself as a kid stepping through an episode of Perry Mason. That’s because my dad was an L.A. criminal lawyer, and I remember downtown as being made up of white, sun-bleached buildings, hot in the summer sun. When I first rode Angels Flight with Dad—I was six, and Dad was involved with a grassroots movement to save the venerable L.A. landmark, a movement that was ultimately successful—it was to the top of the Bunker Hill from Criss Cross, the Burt Lancaster noir classic (a black-and-white film, of course). And when I recall first seeing my dad in court, it was in the days of the fedora, which TV shows never depicted in living color.
There were a few things about Dad that remain “black and white,” in symbolic terms, too. Dad did not tolerate racism. He had played baseball at UCLA with Jackie Robinson, was even his roommate on road trips, and as a defender of poor clients brooked no color barriers when it came to justice. He taught me to think the same way, and made me want to become a trial lawyer like him. So I did. And even got to work with him, as his office mate, in the last few years of his life.
And so this book is dedicated to a great L.A. lawyer and a great man—my dad, Arthur S. Bell, Jr.
Acknowledgments
The author is greatly indebted to the following for their exceedingly valuable help in the preparation of this book and series: Cindy Bell, Christina Boys, Manuel Muñoz, Leah Tracosas, Karen Thompson, Al Menaster, Gina Laughney, Rene Gutteridge, Ellen Tarver, Michael J. Kennedy, Sgt. Mike Sayre, LAPD, Capt. Tom Brascia, LAPD, and Special Ag
ent Michael Yoder, FBI.
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My lifeblood seemed to sip.
—Coleridge
1
THE COPS NABBED Santa Claus at the corner of Hollywood and Gower. He was driving a silver Camaro and wearing a purple G-string and a red Santa hat. And nothing else on that warm December night.
According to his driver’s license his name was Carl Richess, a thirty-three-year-old from West Hollywood.
But he insisted he was the one, the only, Santa Claus. He said he could prove it, too. He pointed repeatedly to his hat.
The police officer who initiated the stop—for not wearing a seat belt—mentioned the Santa hat in his report, and the G-string. Also the open, nearly empty bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold on the seat next to the jolly elf.
After noting red eyes, slurred speech, and the odor of an alcoholic beverage, the officer ordered Richess out of his car for field sobriety tests.
Richess protested that he was late, that his reindeer needed to be fed. He said this even as he was failing the heel-to-toe and lateral gaze nystagmus tests.
He loudly screamed the same thing at Hollywood station, where they had him blow into the Intoximeter a couple of times. And again when they cuffed him to a metal rod on one of the wooden benches outside the holding tank. He was still muttering about reindeer when they booked him into the jail and stuck the six-foot-five, 280-pound would-be Kringle in a cell. They gave him some old clothes to cover himself.
They took his hat, let him keep the G-string.
Three others shared the community cell with St. Nick—two gangbangers and a Korean street performer who’d been fire-eating in front of the Pantages Theater. I found out later he set a well-dressed woman’s hair on fire, which is against several city ordinances.
About the time Father Christmas was being cuffed and stuffed—copspeak for arrested and jailed—I was nursing a Gandhi Latte at the Ultimate Sip. The Sip is an honest coffee establishment owned and operated by one Barton C. “Pick” McNitt, a former philosophy professor at Cal State Northridge who went crazy and now pushes caffeine and raises butterflies for funeral ceremonies.
He makes up drinks that have philosophical significance. He is serious about this. He came up with the Gandhi Latte because his style of foam, he believes, encourages nonviolence in those who drink it.
This has yet to be proven scientifically.
Pick also waxes loud on any subject he deems appropriate for the betterment, or castigation, of mankind. He does not believe in God. Father Robert Jackson, who everybody calls Father Bob, does. In the middle I sometimes sit, watching a philosophical Wimbledon.
But on this particular night there was no match, so I was wrestling with the Dialogues of Plato. That’s one thing to do if you’re trying to recalibrate your life and figure out what, if anything, it means. At that moment it was a tie between not much and something just out of reach. Which is why I was digging hard into the dialogue called Phaedrus.
And then I got a call from Father Bob.
“There’s a fellow in jail in Hollywood,” he said. “He needs a lawyer.”
“Anyone in jail in Hollywood needs a lawyer,” I said.
“What’s he in for?”
“He told his mother he sort of got arrested for drunk driving and telling the police he was Santa Claus.”
I cleared my throat. “My dear Father, it is illegal to drive drunk, but not to say you are Santa Claus.”
“He was dressed in a Santa hat and, I guess, a G-string. That’s what he told his mother, anyway.”
I put the Dialogues down on the table. “Are you sure it’s a lawyer he needs?”
“His mother says he’s been under a lot of strain lately.”
“Does he have money to pay a lawyer?”
“His mother does.”
“I’m reading Plato.”
“She was in tears.”
“I would be, too, if my son got busted in a G-string.”
“Ty, will you go?”
“To see Santa Claus?” I said. “By golly, who wouldn’t?”
2
LAPD’S HOLLYWOOD STATION is a squat brick building on Wilcox, south of Sunset, across the street from the appropriately named SOS Bail Bonds. I got there a little before ten and parked in front. It was a Wednesday night, quiet in Hollywood. Tomorrow the club scene would start in earnest and fill the weekend.
At the front desk I put my card down and told the desk officer I was there to pick up Richess.
He laughed. “Santa?”
“He’d be the one,” I said.
“Biggest Santa I’ve ever seen,” the officer said. He had short black hair and a pointed chin. His name plate said HOWSER.
“Can we cite him out?” I said, meaning Richess wouldn’t have to post bond. I knew the decision would depend on his previous record, and what he said or did since they popped him.
Howser said, “I’ll be back.” He got up and went into the inner office, leaving me with a kid, maybe eighteen, who was sitting by the vending machine, head in hands.
I looked around. On the wall, facing the desk, were some framed portraits. I had no idea who they were. A couple of them looked 1950s vintage. Severe hair. Serious looks. Jack Webb types. It was Webb and Dragnet that made the LAPD famous. So I’ve been told. I never saw Dragnet. I grew up on Thomas Magnum.
When I was twelve I almost ran away to Hawaii. I was going to work until I was eighteen, then get a private investigator license. My mom put the kibosh on that. My dad had died a couple years earlier and she wasn’t about to let me even think something stupid.
But she did buy me some Hawaiian shirts. I wore them all summer, tucked into jeans. Little Magnum.
Howser came back and said I was in luck. “If you call it luck.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m authorized to tell you his reading, on both tests, was point one-eight. Sound’s like a fun one to handle, huh?”
“Fun’s why I went into law,” I said. “How dull would it be if my clients blew oh-threes.”
“He’ll be out. Have a seat.” Howser went back to his computer monitor.
I sat on one of the black metal bench seats and waited. A middle-aged woman in a faded pink sweatshirt came in the front doors and used the QuickDraw. They put ATMs in a lot of the stations so people can get money without fear of being robbed on the street.
Now if they could only put in a machine where criminal defense lawyers could withdraw a little respect.
A couple of plainclothes detectives came in. I could tell because they went right through the door marked “Detectives.” I am very sharp that way.
Through it all the kid by the vending machine just sat there, looking at nothing in particular. Probably waiting for someone to pick him up. I wondered who it would be. Did he have a father, one who was actually around? Or one who liked to take out his own frustrations on the kid’s skin?
Did he have a mother who cared about him? Or did she like to get high while her kid went out and did whatever the hell he wanted?
Part of me wanted to talk to him. Wanted to say, Look, if your parents are around, and they’re halfway decent, don’t do this to them. It’s not worth it. Don’t—
The door next to the front desk opened and an officer came out with Carl Richess. I could tell it was him because he was holding his Santa hat. At least they were letting him keep the ill-fitting clothes that now covered him.
Ill fitting because Richess was huge. He had a head like a mastiff. Jowly, in keeping with his girth. Furrows in his forehead deep enough to hold loose change.
“My mom call you?” he asked after I introduced myself. His breath could have peeled paint.
“She called her priest, who called me,” I said. “Don’t say anything else.”
I signed him out and got him to my car.
3
“WHAT ABOUT MY car?” Richess said as we headed for the free
way.
“You’ll have to get it out of impound,” I said.
“What’ll happen to me? Will I go to jail?”
“You been convicted before?”
“Never.”
“Arrested?”
“No.”
“Okay, if you plead out, for a first offense, no jail time,” I said. “You’ll have your license suspended. Three years probation, DUI school. Fine, penalty, assessments. Standard package.”
“I don’t wanna plead.”
“Not many of us do.”
“We can fight it.”
I smiled. “Yes, we can fight it, but I have to tell you, you go to trial and lose, you’ll get slammed by the judge. You’ll do the max.”
“Then don’t lose.”
“Santa Claus, my jolly friend, you blew a one-eight.”
“So?”
“So that’s over twice the limit. Contesting a first deuce with a reading that high is a bad idea, unless you can find some obvious error. Like the machine was dropped in the toilet before the test. Or a rogue police officer poured a whole bottle of Cuervo down your throat, started your car, and sent you down the highway, and somebody captured it all on digital.”
Richess was silent. I hoped his brain was soaking up what I said. I wanted him to be disabused of any fantasies concerning his situation. A little straight talk up front saves a lot of grumbling down the line.
“Don’t mind my asking,” I said, “what were you doing in a G-string and Santa hat?”
“What’s that matter?”
“Just like to have all the facts, put it that way.”
He grunted. It sounded like a dog holding in a belch. “I was just being crazy. I was at a party and got crazy.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Carl burped, hiccupped, and groaned.
“What do you do when you’re not doing Santa?”
“Concrete,” he said. “So can you do anything for me or not?”
“I’ll check out everything I can. When we go in for the arraignment, you’ll dress in a suit and tie, and you’ll act sorry for what you’ve done, and we’ll see what the best deal we can make is.”
Santa sighed. “No,” he said. “No deals.”
“At least hear their offer.”
“No. We fight. We prove the machine was wrong.”
“We?”
“Can you?”
“Carl, a toaster could have told them you were drunk. Machine error might work on the threshold, but not on a one-eight.”