Reckless Disregard (22 page)

“You have quite the large balls, Parky.”

“Please don’t call me that.” I glance around the room. The Barrista isn’t crowded, and the closest customers are three tables away. It’s one of the few times I’m happy about the sparse patronage. “I’m trying to get to the truth. I wouldn’t have called you if someone else could help me.”

As someone who started producing porn in the 1960s, Ed Diamond necessarily had underworld connections, couldn’t have plied his trade safely without them. He used his shady contacts to provide important information to me once before. But that was when Lovely and I were on the same side.

“Why would I help you at Lovely’s expense?” he asks.

“Because she recently told me that you like me.”

He takes an aggressive drink of coffee and presses his lips together as if he’s tasted something bitter, and it’s not the coffee. “I’m supposed to hide this information from her?”

“I’ll leave it to you to decide whether the risk to her and your grandson is too great.”

“A low blow to mention the kid. Such manipulation is beneath you.”

“It’s not manipulation. I’ve talked to people who still fear for their lives after thirty-five years.”

“I’ll tell you what. I’ll look into it. And here’s why. William Bishop was one of the bluenose pricks who kept me from getting a job directing mainstream movies. If he’s dirty, I want the public to know it.” His voice has gotten so loud that I raise a finger to my lips to shush him, which only annoys him more. “If Lovely’s backed the wrong horse, so be it. And I do worry about her. And Brighton.” He pauses. “I worry about you, too.”

I shrug. We’re both embarrassed by that last admission.

“No promises,” he says. “If I learn something, maybe I’ll tell both you and Lovely, but maybe I’ll tell neither of you. Or maybe I’ll tell one and not the other, and that could be Lovely and not you.”

“I’ll take that risk.” So I tell Ed Diamond what I know about
The Boatman
, which is precious little—that it was supposed to be a modern myth produced and directed by William Bishop and Felicity McGrath, that it was rumored to contain hardcore sex and actual drug use on camera, that William’s father Howard Bishop must have called in a favor to have production shut down, and that the movie might be the subject of an Internet rumor.

“There’s one thing I’m not clear about,” I say.

“Only one?”

“Many. Bishop’s father was just a lawyer. How could he have the clout to intimidate so many people who worked on the movie?”

He laughs out loud. “Howard Bishop wasn’t just a lawyer. He was the New York mob’s main liaison to the entertainment industry and the unions. He didn’t just have connections to the mob; he was one of its bosses.”

“My research doesn’t show that Howard Bishop was anything other than an attorney.”

“Not everything gets on the Internet, goddamn it. Howard Bishop was a master at hiding his true life behind bespoke silk suits, good table manners, and an Ivy League law degree. He conducted business out of his law office and at the Brown Derby restaurant. He did have a lot of recording artists as clients, sure, but they were not his primary business focus. As for why the truth hasn’t come out in more recent times, you must know better than I that William Bishop is very good at suppressing information. A chip off the old block. I only know about Howard because of what I did for a living. I unfortunately had to deal with him, or I would’ve never gotten a film made. Now, is there anything else I need to know before I risk my life for you?”

“I’ve told you everything.” It’s a lie. I haven’t told him about the cast list or Ettinger or my mother.

He fidgets with his empty coffee cup. I’ve already exhausted his quite limited reserve of patience.

Brenda comes out of the back room and walks over to our table.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she says.

“Then why did you?” Ed says.

“It’s no problem,” I say. “Mr. Diamond was just leaving.”

She hands me a piece of paper. I put it on the table without reading it.

As soon as she’s back in the storeroom, Ed says, “Is that the girl you’re boning?”

“I’m not—”

“Lovely thinks you are. And if you’re not, you should be. She’s hot, in a ghetto sort of way.”

“I’m not interested in Brenda.”

“My point is that you should not sit around and pine for Lovely. It’ll do neither of you any good. She’s confused, and she’s stubborn, and as you know, that’s a bad combination where my daughter’s concerned. My word of advice to you is go on with your life, litigate your case, and see what happens. Because if you don’t, she’ll resent you and never go back to you. And do not let your guard down. She’ll cut you off at the knees to win this lawsuit.” He shoots up out of his chair and begins walking to the exit. I accompany him out of the shop—well, follow him, because Ed Diamond always walks quickly and with a purpose. When we get outside, he points to the cosplayers loitering on the grassy strip near the sidewalk.

“Friends of yours?” Ed says.

“Obsessed fans of my . . .” What I see startles me, but I try to stay expressionless.

He leans in and whispers, “I’ll be in touch, Parky. Or maybe I won’t.”

Only when he’s driven away do I walk over to the cosplayers. Among the group are Banquo and Felicity/Courtney, dressed in the same clothing they were wearing when I last saw them.

Banquo bows. “Mr. Stern, Esquire.”

Courtney’s giggle lasts too long.

“After the fight at the JADS building, I didn’t think I’d see you two again,” I say.

“Water under the proverbial bridge. Courtney and I—”

“It’s Felicity!” she shouts.

He takes a deep, impatient breath. “
Felicity
and I have been traveling to Poniard conventions in San Diego and Monterey. You know, there were a couple of characters dressed up like you, Mr. Stern. I’m surprised that none of them are here.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

This, too, makes Courtney laugh.

I go back inside the shop and sit down across from Brenda.

“I don’t trust Diamond’s father,” she says.

“We have no choice.”

She shrugs and hands me the paper that she brought to me earlier. “You left this on the table for anyone to see. The customers shouldn’t know our business.”

It’s a court order. Judge Triggs has scheduled the hearing on the motion to disqualify me for one week from today.

The cutscene interferes with Brighton’s game play like a malicious denial-of-service attack. He jabs at the keyboard and wiggles the mouse, trying to get control of the game again, but he can’t. It must be a hack. The half-assed graphics and lame scary-movie music couldn’t come from Poniard.

There’s an establishing shot of a gray oblong office building, the courthouse where the Queen has her case against Poniard. Brighton is carried in circles around the building a few times. There’s a pixilated dissolve, and he’s inside the dank courthouse. He skims down the darkened corridor on a dizzying Steadicam ride and ascends one rickety escalator after another. The moving staircases make ungreased grating sounds that get more and more annoying as he ascends. He’s thrown off the last escalator with a lurch, landing near a sign that says
Seventh Floor, Departments 70–79
. He’s catapulted through a heavy door marked
Private: Judges Only
, the crash so violent that the door flies off its hinges and spins toward the viewer with decapitating intent. Door after door is thrown open until he comes to a sign that says
Chambers of the Honorable T. Tedford Triggs
. Brighton presses the escape button on his keyboard over and over, but there is no escape. A horrible off-kilter cello screeches, and he’s pulled into a back office.

“
Mom, come quick!
” Brighton cries. It’s the first time he’s called her
Mom
. He promised himself he’d never do that, but this was pure reflex, so how can you blame him?

She comes through the door and says, “Brighton, it’s late, you have school tomorrow and I have to be in court early—”

He points to the screen.

“Oh shit,” she says, and goes to Brighton’s desk, picks up his cell phone, and dials 911, and while she talks to the emergency operator in measured tones, Brighton can’t take his eyes off the monitor, where a large black man dressed in a judge’s robe is being stabbed with flying dagger after flying dagger. His belly screams are ghastly. Blood spews out of his torso, neck, and limbs. There’s fake laughter like you hear on old TV shows, as if the judge is the victim of a carnival knife-throwing act gone terribly wrong.

If I’m able to avoid disqualification, it will be because Lovely Diamond made a rookie mistake. I intend to argue that by going forward with the document experts’ examination of Felicity’s letters to Scotty, she legitimized my representation of Poniard and so waived her client’s right to have the judge kick me off the case. It’s a hyper-legalistic argument, but it could work. I don’t relish taking advantage of her inexperience, but I want to stay on this case, and Ed Diamond advised me not to hold back.

When Brenda and I arrive at Judge Triggs’s courtroom, I expect to find the usual crowd of reporters and onlookers lined up waiting for seats. But the entire corridor is deserted except for a lone bailiff guarding the courtroom doors. For a moment, I think that I’ve gotten the day wrong.

“We’re here for an eight-thirty hearing in
Bishop v. Poniard
,” I tell the bailiff. “I’m the attorney for the defendant.”

“I know who you are,” he says, and I wonder if that scowl is his ordinary expression or if he’s saved it just for me. “Report to Department 44.”

“But Judge Triggs ordered last week that we were to—”

“Department 44, sir.” His command reverberates down the empty hallway. I’m about to call him on his rudeness, but Brenda takes my arm and guides me back toward the escalator. She’s showing better judgment than I. According to Harmon Cherry, the only thing worse than antagonizing the judge is alienating the courthouse staff. We take the escalators down to the fourth floor, and I hear the buzz of voices before I see the reporters, and court watchers, or the cosplayers who’ve gathered outside Department 44. Usually this crowd is borderline unruly, but now they’re uncharacteristically subdued, because there are four uniformed LAPD officers, along with homicide detective Angela Tringali, standing in front of the courtroom door. In her drab pants suit, she looks more like a court clerk than a cop.

Tringali approaches, puts a hand on my shoulder, and leans in close. “We need to talk, Mr. Stern,” she whispers. “Immediately.”

“What about?”

“Give me a break, counselor.”

I shrug and spread my arms in confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I glance at Brenda, who shakes her head, obviously as confused as I am.

Tringali stares at me with eyes that have as much emotion as a pair of beer-bottle caps. “I’m having trouble believing that, Mr. Stern. I’m sick of your stonewalling.”

“I said I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Detective. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a motion to argue.”

On cue, the courtroom door opens, and a bailiff I’ve never seen before pokes her head out and hollers, “Is the attorney for the defendant here yet? The judge wants to see counsel in chambers.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say.

“You’d better come talk to me right after,” Tringali says.

Only then do I see the small placard on the right side of the door: “Judge Anita T. Grass.” My muscles tense, but not from stage fright. Unless Judge Triggs is just borrowing this courtroom for the day, we’re going to be stuck in front of a judge who despises me.

Before she became a judge, Anita Grass built her client base by selling herself as a pit bull litigator and crack trial lawyer who made life miserable for her opponents. She tried her best to live up to that reputation by crossing the ethical line whenever she felt it necessary. A couple of years before my law firm split up, I defended a movie studio against her writer-client’s claim that the studio stole his script about adolescent zombies in love. The movie was a blockbuster, and Grass sought to recover all of the profits of the film, which tallied into the hundreds of millions of dollars. At a contingency fee of forty percent, a win for Grass, or even a substantial settlement, would’ve allowed her to retire a rich woman. She pushed so hard for settlement that I realized she was afraid to go to trial. So I convinced my client not to negotiate. The week before jury selection, Grass screamed at me hysterically for refusing her client’s settlement demands. It turned out that I’d read her perfectly—she’d oversold both her ability and her trial experience. She related to the jurors worse than any lawyer I’d ever seen. Not only did the jury return a verdict in my client’s favor, but the judge also sanctioned Grass for hiding key documents. The verdict and the sanction order received a lot of media attention, and Grass was humiliated. She blamed me. I wasn’t the only lawyer surprised when she was appointed to the bench two years later. Her questionable ethics and lack of civility should have disqualified her. But she had a powerful ally—Louis Frantz, to whom she’d referred business in the past.