I Dreamed I Married Perry Mason (5 page)

J
oseph Albacco smiled as he sat down, and I knew right away this would be the strangest conversation of my life.

I smiled back through the thick wall of Plexiglas. A drop of sweat trickled down the inside of my blouse. I wondered if he could see it blazing a trail across the silk. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. I was hot and cold, but colder than I was hot.

“Talk right into the receiver,” he said kindly. “The only difference between this and a phone call is we can see each other.”

“Oh.”

“So, you're Italian. Me, too. There was a Caruso I knew when I was a kid. Ran a grocery store near my house. Any relation?”

“No, I don't think so,” I replied. “We're all in New Jersey.”

“Except you,” he said, grinning.

“Right,” I said stupidly.

I had lost control already, probably from the moment I laid eyes on him. Joseph Albacco's hair was silver, thick and coarse,
and his face as craggy as a relief map of the Rockies. I had expected something like that: he was a sixty-six-year-old man who had spent most of his life behind bars. But I hadn't expected him to be tall, well over six feet, nor strong—and not from lifting weights, but because that's the way he was made.

I pulled myself together. “Mr. Albacco,” I said, clearing my throat, “the warden did explain why I'm here, didn't he?”

“Yes. I understand you're doing some work on Erle Stanley Gardner.”

Handsome, too. It spooked me that I noticed. I was supposed to be a neutral observer. No emotions. Cool as a cucumber. That was my whole problem. Even as a kid I'd run fevers so high the doctors wanted to hospitalize me every time I got the flu. It was my mom who was the cool one. I was some sort of mutation.

“That's right,” I said self-importantly. “I'm writing a book about him, a biography. And while I was doing research, I came across a letter you wrote him, a long time ago, right after you were…incarcerated.” That was one of those words I'd never actually used in conversation. “You asked him for help. Do you remember?”

He paused, as if gathering up steam. I thought then that this was a story he had been waiting a long time to tell.

“I remember the day I wrote that letter. Every last detail.” The rest came out like a soliloquy.

“I had been here only a few months. I didn't think I was going to make it. I didn't think I would stay sane. I was so angry I'd been punching the wall in my cell for days on end and was starting to make a hole in it. The plaster was loose. Falling in bits. I was afraid they were going to think I was trying to escape. So I panicked. I tried to cover the hole with my
pillow, a towel, anything, but it was always there. And so I called the guard to show him. I didn't want to be accused of anything. They thought I was nuts. Totally gone. But I was sent to see the chaplain, not the prison psychiatrist. I don't know why. I cried. I was only twenty years old. I thought I'd be freed any day, and I guess that was the moment it finally dawned on me. That was the day I realized I might never see the ocean again.”

“But why had you thought otherwise?” I asked. “You were convicted of first-degree murder, Mr. Albacco. Surely you understood what that meant.”

“They didn't have anything on me, not really. But it was an election year. The D.A. had something to prove, and the attorney the court provided was afraid to get in his way. It didn't much matter to me, not at first. I thought it'd all come out in the wash when they found him,” he explained. “The person who killed her…my wife, I mean.” He looked down at a ring on his finger. It looked like a wedding band. I didn't know you could keep those in prison.

And then, softly, “Or that I'd hear something from—”

“From whom?” I asked.

“Not important.” He smiled that smile, then shook his head and went on. “You know, Ms. Caruso, what's interesting to me is that the police never did investigate. Never asked anybody a question, not really. They decided I was guilty and that was the end of that. I couldn't say where I had been that night, so I had to be the one responsible.”

“So, Erle Stanley Gardner?” I prompted.

“So Erle Stanley Gardner. I wrote him a letter. That same evening. After talking to the chaplain, I knew I needed someone to save me, and no matter how many Hail Marys
I said, it wasn't going to be God. I thought Gardner might be the one.”

“Why?”

“It sounds so stupid now. You see, my whole life, I've loved mysteries.”

“Me, too!” I exclaimed, horrified at my eagerness.

“Yeah, read every single Perry Mason book, just like every other red-blooded American. Read
Argosy,
too, all that stuff about the Court of Last Resort. Even thought I'd go to law school one day. And I
knew
this man, at least through my family. I thought he'd take me on as a cause. You know, the good kid who's been falsely accused. He'd ask the right questions, do the footwork, and nab the real culprit. Prove me innocent, something like that. I suppose I was arrogant enough, or desperate enough, to think I'd strike him as worth the trouble.”

“And you never heard a word from him. That must've been disappointing,” I murmured.

“Oh, I did hear from him,” Albacco interjected. “The very next week.”

I nearly choked. There was no correspondence in the file. Nothing at all.

“Yeah, he called me here at the jail, and we spoke briefly. I was scared out of my wits, of course, but he was encouraging. Patient. Asked me how I was doing and all. We talked about the case, and I gave him Maddy Seaton's phone number. She was Jean's best friend. He thought it'd be worth seeing if she knew anything more about what was going on with Jean those last few months. Something had changed, I knew that. And Maddy and Jean were like sisters. They had no secrets.”

“So what did he say when you next spoke?”

“We never spoke again,” he said flatly. “That was our one and only conversation. I don't even know if he got in touch with Maddy. And then he abandoned the Court of Last Resort.”

“Oh,” I said.

“There's not much more to it. So here I am. Here I've been.”

I shouldn't be here,
I thought to myself.
I should not be here.

“I'm not an intellectual like you, Ms. Caruso.”

“I'm hardly that.”

“But if you're alone long enough,” he continued, “like I've been these past years, you can't help but think. Constantly. You brood. You wonder. You come up with theories. Theories about everything. I've got a theory about life. It's a maze, full of false starts and wrong turns, blind alleys, dead ends. You know what I'm talking about, Ms. Caruso. You've encountered your share.”

I felt myself shivering. It was the sweat.

“There's a path you've got to find, though, and it'll take you right where you were meant to go. I haven't found my path, as it turns out. I know that because this isn't my destination.” He looked up. “How about you?”

I was dizzy now. The room was spinning.

“I-I feel somewhat awkward,” I stammered, looking down at my hands. I could still see the traces of my own wedding ring. I thought about the day I took it off for good. “I'm afraid I've misled you. I'm here doing research on Erle Stanley Gardner. Trying to get a fix on him. That's all. I'm sorry.”

I looked up and our eyes met, and just for that moment I thought I could see the young man he had been—untroubled,
in the way of people accustomed to being liked. I had never been untroubled a day in my life, never felt that kind of ease in my own skin. I wondered what it would feel like. And what kind of emotional bruising this man must have taken after all these years.

“Maybe I can help,” I heard myself saying. “Maybe I could ask a question or two. I have some more research to do in Ventura anyway.”

“You're not obliged,” he said. “I didn't mean to railroad you.”

“You didn't. I'd be doing it for my book.”

And at that moment, I actually thought I would be.

On the way out, I went to see the chaplain as promised. Our visit was brief. Someone was using his office so we met in the chapel. This was unfortunate because houses of worship, even those inside houses of detention, tend to make me feel guilty. This meant I'd be calling my mother back tonight, broken in spirit (which is how she likes me best), and maybe even second-day air-mailing her a box of See's Scotchmallow bars, her favorite candy.

Father Herlihy was one of those ancient Irishmen with a nose the size and hue of a pomegranate. A massive fellow, who seemed to be suffering from gout but beaming all the while (hey, he had it better than his parishioners), he rose from the front pew so slowly I didn't know if he'd make it without toppling over. I offered my arm, which he took gratefully. Then he promptly sat back down. I sat down next to him, directly opposite the pulpit, which was incongruously (given the crime-stained setting) ornamented with bas-relief angels.

With a brusqueness his appearance belied, Father Herlihy asked, “Joseph Albacco is a wronged man, and I'd like to
know, Ms. Caruso, as a good Catholic, how will you be assisting him?” I have to admit I was speechless after that one. The last time I'd been a good Catholic Richard Nixon had been president. And a good Quaker.

“Ms. Caruso,” he repeated, “something must be done. And soon. Mr. Albacco has a parole hearing scheduled in less than three weeks, and it has to go differently this time. He has suffered long enough.”

“For something he did or didn't do?”

He glared at me. “My dear, I made your visit here possible because I have an interest in seeing justice done. Joseph and I came to Tehachapi the same year, soon after it was rebuilt, and we have grown old together. Sadly for him, I might add, because our friendship has come at the expense of his freedom.”

“I don't understand why he hasn't been released after all this time.”

“He received a sentence of thirty-five years to life. There is no guarantee of parole.”

“But it doesn't make sense.”

He was impatient now. “There are flaws in the system.”

“Such as?”

“To be awarded parole, you must admit culpability. You must accept responsibility and evince regret. This puts those who have been wrongly convicted in a rather difficult position.”

“How do you know Joseph didn't kill his wife?”

“You're a smart woman,” he answered. “And given that, surely you understand that sometimes the truth never comes out, for whatever reason. Because we are too ashamed to acknowledge our guilt. Because we are trying to prevent
others from bearing our pain. Because the forces of evil have too much at stake in keeping it buried. Nonetheless, it remains the truth.”

I stopped him right there. “I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I can see you're not telling me everything you know.”

“Do I need to remind you that I'm a priest?” he retorted. “I am hardly in a position to divulge privileged information, nor to bring the facts of Jean Albacco's murder to light. Joseph thought Erle Stanley Gardner might be in such a position. But that was a long time ago. Now the burden has fallen to you.”

“To me?”

“You are a Catholic. Surely you will understand what I'm trying to say. Joseph Albacco has not committed a mortal sin. Not yet. But for years now, he's been holding on to a long rope, and he's come to the end of it. Listen to what I'm saying to you, Ms. Caruso: there will not be another parole hearing.”

The man was speaking in riddles. I was lost. Had Joseph been threatening suicide? Was that what he was trying to tell me? My god.

“Father Herlihy,” I finally said, “I'd like to help, truly I would, but it sounds like you have too much faith in me.”

“My dear,” he said, “it sounds like you don't have enough.”

O
n the long drive home, Father Herlihy's words reverberated in my ears. The din was deafening, and I didn't like it. I thought about Joseph Albacco and how desperate he must be. About how big his cell was and when he had last gotten a phone call or eaten a good meal. I thought about his theory of life and about the sorry fact that I had theories about everything under the sun except the things that really mattered.

I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. My ex was always amazed at how I could do that. If he got to talking about James Fenimore Cooper, I could fall asleep even before my head hit the pillow.

I'm a deep sleeper. Comatose. Known to drool. So when the phone rings in the middle of the night, it isn't a good thing. Call it my morbid temperament, but I always assume it means someone has died. The only thing I hate more is being woken up by the doorbell. This means that not only do I wake up frantic, but I have to compose my features into some semblance of normality, and before coffee. It's inhuman.

The doorbell chimed. It was going to be one of those days. I bolted upright and peeled my eyes open. I was wearing the contacts you were supposed to be able to leave in for a week. Another case of false advertising. I pulled on my robe, cursing. It wasn't until I stumbled toward the front door, patting my hair down from its Don King state, that I realized it was not, in fact, the middle of the night. According to the kitchen clock, it was 9:05
A.M.

After looking through the peephole, I opened the door to the woebegone figure of my son-in-law, clutching a pair of plush pink slippers in his large hands.

“Hi,” I said.

“Oh, I'm sorry. I woke you up,” he said.

“No, no. I've been up for hours, cleaning,” I replied quickly. An obvious lie, given the state of the living room, but I expect he appreciated the courtesy.

“Come on in,” I said. “I'll make us some coffee.”

Wrapping my robe tighter around me, I strode purposefully into the kitchen. The prospect of caffeine gave me strength. I knew this wasn't going to be easy.

Vincent followed me like a puppy and sat down at the table, still holding the slippers.

“These are Annie's,” he explained. “She puts them on the minute she wakes up. Her feet get cold. I knew she'd miss them.”

“I'll give them to her when I see her,” I said gently, pouring what was left of the Hawaiian Hazelnut into the filter and flipping the switch.

“Where is she?” he asked, looking toward the hallway. “Isn't she here?”

“No,” I answered with a half smile. “She went to Lael's.”

He smiled back. “Oh, that makes sense. It's no big deal. She probably just didn't want to upset you, that's all.”

It was classic Vincent. Here he was offering me a shoulder to cry on instead of the other way around.

“You're sweet to say so, Vincent. But I'm more concerned about the two of you. What is this all about?”

Vincent fidgeted uncomfortably. I could tell he was torn between the fear of being disloyal to Annie and the need to talk.

“Listen, Vincent, Annie and I spoke on Friday, but none of it made sense. I love my daughter, but I don't understand why she's acting like this. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“What are you talking about, Cece?” he cried. “She's not acting like anything! Annie isn't that kind of person! You of all people should know that!” He jumped to his wife's defense with a ferocity that was pretty surprising given she was sleeping with another man.

Vincent picked up his coffee, poured in unholy quantities of cream and sugar, and walked over to the couch, trying to regain his composure.

“Look, you obviously don't get it. I'm the one who's responsible for everything that's gone wrong. I'm the one who's a liar, a fool, and a coward. I'm the one who's ruined our lives.” He looked up at me, his eyes filling with tears.

I wasn't expecting dramatics. Not from him. Vincent was calm personified, the Buddhist monk type. Once, I had called Vincent and Annie in the middle of the night, hysterical, convinced my house was being taken over by a colony of enormous, prehistoric rats. Vincent came over with a broom and talked me down. I was a city kid—how was I supposed to know those were opossums?

“What are you talking about, Vincent? You're scaring me,” I said.

“I scared your daughter, too. That's why she turned to someone else, and then just left. I can hardly blame her. She thought she knew me, and then she found out I was somebody else.”

“Okay,” I said, playing along for the moment. “Who are you?”

“I'm the father of a kid who's never laid eyes on me, that's who,” he answered, and walked out the door.

I poured my cold Hawaiian Hazelnut down the drain and headed straight back to bed.

I woke up for the second time that day just before noon, when my gardener rang the bell.

“Cece, four dead snails!” Javier exclaimed, shoving the evidence in my face. I was finding it hard to revel in our triumph at just that moment, given my empty stomach and the news that I was sort of a grandma.

“Wonderful, Javier,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, though I had clearly burst his bubble. “I thought you'd be happier. Say,” he said, grinning, “were you still sleeping?”

“Oh, you know us creative types. We can work in our pajamas if we want to. You should try it sometime.”

He didn't much like the joke, which came out nastier than I'd intended. It was just that I didn't appreciate his insinuation that I was sleeping the day away, which, of course, I was. But no more. I felt like hell. But this, too, would pass. I took a deep breath. I reached way down into myself. I straightened my spine, sucked in my gut, and produced a
horrific, pageant-worthy smile. I turned on the shower. I could do this. I could trust Annie and Vincent to work it out. I could try living my own life for once. And it was a gorgeous day. A perfect day, in fact, for a drive to Ventura.

Half an hour later, I was spanking clean and bedecked in a powder-blue 1940s halter dress and matching patent-leather ankle straps. They gave me blisters only that first time. I opened a can of food for Mimi, poured out a bowl of Buster's low-fat kibble, and emerged into the dazzling sunlight. Without being asked, Javier stopped pulling up weeds and moved his truck out of the driveway. I was off.

It was bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way over Laurel Canyon—me and a phalanx of Valley folk heading for the fabled land of hospitality and convenient parking. It took about twenty-five minutes to get to the 101, but from there it would be a straight shot to Ventura, an hour and a half, max. I'm not exactly a Formula One driver, but I am an old hand at the 101, thanks to a torrid affair I had a while back with a beefy LAPD detective who, like so many of his buddies, lived in the nether reaches of Simi Valley. When I asked him why they were willing to put up with that kind of commute, he said the guys wanted out, way the heck out, after a long day of cleaning up other people's messes. And I'm talking messy messes. Still, there were all those bored skinheads out in the exurbs. I preferred the local gangbangers, not that I was friends with any, of course.

I drove past the San Fernando Valley's endless gated communities, with their faux-tile roofs and faux Spanish names—El Petunia Gargantunita, Los Picadoritos Machos, etc. Then I hit Calabasas, where the horse people live, then Thousand Oaks,
home to a passel of big box stores—Ikea, Best Buy—and not much else. From there, it was on to Oxnard, where the air smells like fertilizer. Lots of lettuce in Oxnard.

Just when I started to get that desperate, been-in-the-car-for-too-long feeling, the Pacific Ocean came up on my left, a bolt of blue stretching as far as the eye could see. That meant the next stop would be Ventura. I took the Main Street exit, veering away from the ocean toward the historic downtown district, located at the base of the foothills between the Ventura and Santa Clara Rivers. Once, those hills had been covered with sprays of gray sage, blue lupine, and, east of town, golden mustard. It must have been something. Passengers arriving by stagecoach back in the 1860s and 1870s would have been lured by the area's great beauty, the promise of rich soil and balmy weather, and business opportunities ripe for the picking.

Me, the girl in the silver Camry, I'd been lured by the possibility of answering someone's prayers.