Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (7 page)

“Well, Jack's really committed to it. And it
could
be a challenge. But there's something that bothers me besides the obvious distasteful aspect. There's too much emotion swirling around.”

“You mean between Jack and Judy. And the mother and the adoptive father.”

“And around the events of the case itself. Even in the trial transcript, I could feel it.”

“You've never been one to back away from emotion.”

“Maybe I'm learning.” Yesterday afternoon I'd told Jack that I'd gotten over the previous summer's violent events and put them behind me, but that wasn't entirely true. And there had been other violent events up at Tufa Lake last fall that had left me newly scarred and tender.

The truth was, I didn't want to become involved in yet another case that would make me care; all too often when that happened, people around me got hurt. I'd already felt the pull of his case, in spite of the elapsed decades and the dryness of the court documents, and that made me distinctly uneasy. If I could be sucked in by events so many years in the past, how would I ever be safe from those of the present?

But I couldn't explain that to Rae, so I simply added, “Right now I'm not up to anything more than routine investigating.”

“Isn't that what historical research is?”

I shrugged, stared at the dwindling flames in the fireplace. As they licked at the logs, the darker shades of the spectrum flickered: cobalt, emerald, amethyst, blood red . . .

Blood red and amethyst. The color of murder, the color of memory. Perhaps the depths that harbored such memories as Judy's were best left unplumbed. Or were they? Which was better—to probe them and risk the pain of unpleasant revelations? Or to keep the lid on and risk the spiritual infection that stems from repressed secrets?

Similar questions, I realized, applied to my own life. Which was better—to tread a narrow middle ground on noninvolvement and remain safe? Or to let go, give myself to the investigation wholeheartedly, and risk the pain of unpleasant consequences?

I kept on staring at the fire, feeling my emotional tie lines slacken. Their ends, already raveled, were disentwining, casting me adrift. Anxiety nibbled at me. I resisted, then I let it in. In time it would grow to a low-level fear that would constantly be with me and carry me through whatever lay ahead. Fear was my old companion—the only one, I'd recently had to acknowledge, that made me come fully alive.

On Sunday mornings the Mission district undergoes a brief transformation. Church bells toll. Cars double-park along Dolores Street near the Mission. Neatly dressed families, old women in hats, and workingmen in their only suits crowd the sidewalks after Mass. Children run to corner groceries for loaves of sourdough and thick newspapers; young couples push baby strollers and window-shop at the cheap furniture stores along Valencia. And for a few hours the Mission is once again an old-fashioned place where God's laws are supreme and no sin is so bad that it can't be forgiven in the confessional.

In contrast, the interior of City Amusement Arcade seemed seedier than usual when I entered it at a little after eleven. Stale smoke clogged my nostrils, and the reek of Lysol wasn't strong enough to mask a stench of vomit. The young men who hunched over the machines might have been the same ones who were there on Friday. Oblivious to their dismal surroundings, they focused on the flickering screens; when stimulated by the images, they responded—rats in an unsanitary laboratory maze. It occurred to me that, for most of them, manipulation of such electronic devices might be the only skill they'd ever acquire, conquering such nonhuman adversaries the only triumph they'd ever claim.

Unfortunately Tony Nueva wasn't among them. I hunted up the arcade's manager, a one-armed Vietnam vet called Buck, and asked if he'd been in yet. He hadn't, Buck told me. Tony had a “real foxy lady” and likes to take it easy on Sunday mornings, if I knew what he meant.

I knew what he meant, and the thought of Tony lazing between the sheets while he still hadn't delivered my information did nothing to improve my mood. But when I went back outside, I saw my informant getting out of a garishly painted low-rider at the curb. The young Latina at is wheel bore about as much resemblance to Buck's figurative fox as a bedraggled fur boa does to the real animal.

When he saw me, Tony frowned, then put on a nonchalant grin. “So, McCone,” he said, “what's happening?”

The greeting was too hearty. I eyed him thoughtfully. Today he wore a new-looking buttery suede shirt, and on his slender wrist was a silver watch with a turquoise-encrusted band. I'd never seen that watch before; he hadn't worn it on Friday. And it was a sure thing he hadn't bought it with my ten dollars.

He saw me looking at the watch, and his grin faded. Quickly he adjusted his shirt cuff to cover it.

“How come I haven't heard from you?” I demanded.

“Jesus, McCone! A beautiful morning like this. I just got laid and now you want to start on me?”

“I want either information or my ten bucks.”

“Look, just give me time.”

“You've had time.”

“I told you it might be tough to get a line on— “

“Who'd you sell out to, Tony?”

It was a guess, but an accurate one. His mouth twitched and his eyes darted from side to side, as if looking for a way out. “I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

His cuff had ridden up, exposing the watch again. “Somebody must have paid you pretty good money.” I said, motioning at it.

He yanked at the cuff. “So, I make good money.”

“By selling out to the highest bidder.”

“Jesus, McCone!” He took out his wallet, extracted a ten, and thrust it toward me. “Here—you want your money, you take it.”

That confirmed my suspicion: Tony had never parted willingly with even as small an amount as ten dollars before. I took the bill, said, “You know, you've got a pretty decent reputation among the people who use you. Something like this could blow it.”

“That a threat?”

“Call it a friendly warning.”

“Well, you know what you can do with your warning, McCone.” He pushed past me and slammed through the door to the arcade.

. . . .

I had a couple of errands to run in the neighborhood, so by the time I arrived at All Souls it was already ten to one. The Victorian held a sleepy Sunday-afternoon hush; flies buzzed in the front window bay, and the living room was warm and stuffy. I went directly to Jack's combined office and living space at the rear of the second floor. The door was open, and papers were strewn on his worktable, but he wasn't there.

So much for preparing for the upcoming trial, I thought. A few months ago I would have assumed the good weather had lured him out to go rock climbing, but since he met Judy, he'd pretty much abandoned the dangerous sport. He'd only taken it up in order to keep his mind off his divorce, and I supposed that the injuries he'd sustained had taught him that there is worse pain that that of a broken heart.

Back downstairs, I went to the law library and dragged out the various phone directories that Ted stores there. Some preliminary checking revealed no listings in the area for any of the witnesses at Lis Benedict's trial. I noted the number and address of the Institute for North America Studies. Then I went back to Jack's office; apparently he'd gone for the afternoon.

Well, I didn't need him to deliver to Lis Benedict the news of my decision to go ahead with the case. I could do that in person. I decided to walk up the hill to Wool Street.

The residents of Bernal Heights were out in full force: cultivating their gardens, walking their dogs, playing ball with their children, chatting with their neighbors. I spotted one of our clients and stopped to admire his rosebushes; a woman Larry Koslowski occasionally dated was building a picket fence, and I paused to ask her how it was going. Wool Street was relatively deserted, although a friendly black cat bounded up and chattered at me. I talked back as I climbed to the middle of the block.

My mellow mood soured when I saw the façade of Judy's house. The whitewash the neighbor had applied only minimally covered the ugly words; they were faded to pink, but still easy to read. When I rang the bell, no one came to the door. I rang again and stood well back so anyone looking out the window could see who was there, but got no answer.

Perhaps Jack and Judy had decided to get Lis out of the house, I thought. They might have taken her to the park or to lunch over in Marin. Then I remembered the vigorous walks her doctor had prescribed. I'd climb up to the tower: even if she wasn't there the exercise would do me good.

More people were using the public land this afternoon than on Friday, but it was not nearly as crowded as the city's more scenic areas would be. I didn't pass anyone as I followed the curve of the blacktop, saw only the distant figures on the lower inclines. But when I topped the final rise, I spied Lis Benedict at the cliff's edge where the drop-off was most precipitous.

She stood very still, wrapped in a black wool cape that fell in folds to her calves. The bright sunlight made a shining halo of her white hair. As I reached the guardrail, a sudden gust of wind caught the cape and blew it into great flapping wings. Lis leaned forward, balancing on the tip of her toes.

I had a vision of a bird of prey taking off from the cliff, soaring high, then plummeting to seize a small animal from the jagged rocks below. Unease stirred in me as I slipped over the rail.

Lis leaned out farther. I started to call to her, then quickened my pace instead. For a moment she stood poised on the very edge of the cliff, looking down at the city that, for her, was caught in a time warp. Then she rocked back on her heels and drew the cape around her, her body seeming to shrink within its engulfing folds.

I sighed and slowed down, relaxing. Told myself my anxiety had been foolish, unwarranted. But I knew otherwise.

After a moment Lis turned away from the cliff and began walking my way. Her face was drawn with resignation: it didn't change when she saw me. As I approached her, she stumbled. I took her arm.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

She nodded.

“We missed you last night.”

“Did you?” The words were shaded by disbelief.

“Yes. I understand there was another graffiti incident. More phone calls, too?”

She hesitated a beat before replying. “Yes, three last night and again around noon today.”

“Plus a call from Joseph Stameroff.”

“. . . Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He tried, as he called it, to reason with me about what the mock trial might do to Judy.”

“Did he threaten you in any way?”

“No.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I didn't tell him anything. He didn't give me a chance. That's the kind of man he is.”

“Are the phone calls the reason you came up here? To get away so you wouldn't have to answer them?”

She merely made a weary gesture, allowed me to help her settle on the guardrail.

I said, “You should stay away from the edge of the cliff, Lis.”

Her eyes met mine: the knowledge that I'd seen her near-leap made their translucence more pronounced. Saying nothing, she looked away. After a moment she asked, “Why did you come up here?”

“To talk with you. I've decided to investigate your case.”

“Why?”

Surprised at her reaction, I took a moment to formulate a reply. “Because I read the transcript and found some loose ends that bear looking into. Because it's important to Jack and Judy . . . and to you.”

She laughed dryly. “What's important to me doesn't matter to you, Miss McCone. It's plain you don't like or believe me. That's all right: I can live with it so long as you don't let it get in the way of your job.

Instead of taking offense at what she'd said, I felt relieved to have everything out in the open. “You're right, but I don't have to like my clients in order to investigate them professionally. And as for believing or not believing you, there are enough of those loose ends to make me wonder. I wouldn't take this on unless I had some doubts about the prosecution's case.”

“Lawyers take on clients they know are guilty.”

“It's a lawyer's job to provide the best possible defense for the client, guilty or not. My job, on the other hand, is to get at the truth. I don't have any patience with being tricked or lied to. If I find out you're hoping I'll prove you didn't kill Cordy McKittridge when in fact you did, I'll not only drop the case but make the truth public.”

“So you're an idealist, Miss McCone.”

“I'm not sure what I am anymore.” Not after the past few years, I wasn't. Not after the things I'd seen, been forced to do. And certainly not after the things I'd sometimes had to
stop
myself from doing.

Fortunately, Lis Benedict's focus was inward; she didn't ask what had caused the uncertainty. “I used to be an idealist,” she said, “but prison cures you of that—rapidly. Our system of justice does, too. I stopped believing in justice the day they arrested me. I stopped believing in compassion the day they took me to Corona—that's where they kept condemned women in their fifties, until it was time to drive them to the gas chamber at San Quentin.”

“What about when the governor granted a stay of execution and then clemency?”

She laughed derisively. “I knew what was operating there.”

“What?”

She tensed and didn't reply, as if she'd been voicing random thoughts and now realized she'd said too much. But too much about what?

I studied her, wondering if I could press for an answer. No, I decided, better to get her talking about something else. “What about prison?” I asked. “Do you ever get used to it?”

“In a way. At first it's like being dropped into a whole different universe, particularly for someone who was raised the way I was. The physical surroundings are bad, of course, but the inability to make your own decisions is even worse. And the feeling of being set apart from the other inmates is worse yet. After a while that changes. You learn to make small decisions: What brand of toothpaste will I buy this month? What book will I check out of the library this week? What daydream will I use to put myself to sleep tonight?”