Blind Justice Read online

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MY FIRST MEMORY of Howie Patino was back in the third grade when he wet his pants.

  It was the end of the first day of school. I was putting my pencils and books away in my desk when Mark Blackmer leaned over and said, “Look at the weirdo. What’s he doing?”

  I knew who the weirdo was. It was that kid who had the goofy face. He sat in the back of the room. There were empty chairs on either side of him.

  Now, in his seat, with two minutes to go before the end of school, the weirdo was squirming around like he had red ants in his underwear. I knew what that was—he was doing the bathroom dance, trying to hold it in. He looked like he was losing the battle. Why doesn’t he just raise his hand? I wondered. I would soon realize there were many things about Howie I couldn’t understand.

  One minute to go. Mark kept laughing and whispering. I kept watching. The weirdo kept squirming, his face contorted. Then the weirdo suddenly stopped squirming.

  The bell rang.

  The other kids in the class got up, scurried for the doors, yapping among themselves—all except the weirdo. He just sat there, motionless now, looking straight ahead. Mark nudged me. We walked up behind the weirdo’s desk, and I saw the dripping from the chair to the floor. The kid was sitting in his own water.

  Mark burst out laughing. “Look at that!” he yelled. “He wet his pants!”

  Some of the other kids heard him and rushed over to see. A chorus of laughter, followed by a clamor of gibes and taunts, erupted. But the weirdo just sat there, frozen. I said nothing, observing instead. I found myself studying the kid’s face, wanting to know what was going on inside his head. His face held an expression that was a mixture of desperation and some kind of darkness I couldn’t identify.

  “Wet his pants! Wet his pants!” Mark was leading the refrain, louder and louder, as a few other kids joined in. The weirdo didn’t move his head or change his expression one bit, but tears suddenly started to stream down his cheeks. I watched, fascinated, as the rivulets poured out of the kid’s eyes like somebody had turned on a faucet, yet his body didn’t move and his mouth didn’t make a sound.

  Then I heard Mark say, “Hey, baby, need a diaper?”

  Without a second thought I spun around, put two hands on Mark’s chest, and shoved him backward.

  “Leave him alone,” I said.

  Mark looked shocked and angry, but before he could say anything, I felt a strong hand grab a handful of my shirt. “That’s enough!” Mr. McMahon said.

  McMahon was our teacher. He was about six feet four inches tall and looked like John Wayne with gas pains. We called him “Mr. McMonster.” He threw me to one side and then screamed, “Everybody out!” Every kid in the room hopped to it.

  Mark and I made for the door too. Just before I slipped out, I looked back one more time. Howie Patino had finally moved his head.

  He was looking at me.

  Now, glancing up from the hospital bed, Howie had the same expression as that first day, a sort of lost and sorrowful look. It was amazing to me. Twenty-five years had passed, and he still looked just like that kid who wet his pants.

  “Hi, Jake,” he said. Howie had the same pale skin with freckles, which went along with his sandy red hair. He was propped up at a forty-five-degree angle on the bed and had an IV attached to one arm. His hospital gown had light blue dots on it.

  “Hey, Howie, long time,” I said.

  Mandy tugged at my leg. “How long do we have to stay here?” she said. I picked her up and held her up for Howie to see.

  “My daughter.”

  Howie smiled. He still had a slight gap between his two front teeth. “Hi,” he said.

  Mandy put her face on my shoulder. “Shy,” I said.

  “I know,” Howie said as if he understood every emotion in my child’s life.

  I walked Mandy across the room and sat her on a chair next to a small table. I opened my briefcase, took out a coloring book and crayons, and placed them on the table. “I always come prepared,” I told Howie. Mandy sat in a chair. “You just color me some pictures, okay?” I said.

  She nodded and began selecting crayons.

  I went back to Howie and pulled up a chair next to his bed. I set a legal pad on my lap and took out a pen. “Your mom called me,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “Where is she, by the way?”

  “She was tired. I told her to drive home, but she wanted to stay in Hinton to be close, I guess. I think she’s at a motel.”

  “How you feeling?”

  “It hurts.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “I don’t remember. I lost blood, I think. Maybe a lot.”

  “Can you tell me how it happened?”

  Howie looked like he was trying to think and like the thoughts were oppressive. “It’s so foggy, Jake.”

  “Where’s your son?”

  “Dad took him down to Agoura. I didn’t want him to see me.”

  “Have you talked to anyone about what happened?”

  “I . . . I think so.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. A doctor, a nurse.”

  “Police?”

  “I’m a little hazy, Jake.”

  “I know, you must be.”

  “You used to help me, remember?”

  I nodded.

  “Remember that time we were in Cub Scouts, and we had to learn how to tie some knots?”

  No, I didn’t remember the part about the knots, though I did remember the one year Howie and I spent in blue uniforms.

  “You remember how I couldn’t get it, Jake? I couldn’t do a square knot or a loop knot, and everybody kept laughing at me, and I started crying and ran away?”

  I started to get a vague recollection. Howie cried and ran away a lot.

  “And you ran after me, Jake, and you found me, and you told me to quit crying. And then you sat me down on the curb, and you spent about two hours showing me how to do those knots. You remember?”

  “I think so, Howie.”

  “And I got real good at it, Jake. Because of you, I started being able to tie knots. I know it probably sounds stupid, but it was real important to me. Ever since then, I love tying knots. It’s something I can do.”

  It was so strange to hear this. I hadn’t seen Howie Patino in -nearly twenty years. After he and his family moved from Florida to California, he wrote me postcards and letters in a childlike scrawl. I wrote him back for the first few years and then gradually let it lapse. Eventually, the letters and cards stopped coming.

  When I first moved to Los Angeles, I’d heard from his parents, Janet and Fred. They were living in Agoura. They’d found out I was a lawyer and wanted to call and congratulate me. At the time Mrs. Patino said, “We always appreciated the way you treated Howie.”

  I was amazed they brought that up after all those years. I guess the emotional knots of Howie’s childhood were still pulled tight around their memories.

  “Look, Howie,” I said, “your mom wanted me to see you, so maybe you better tell me everything that happened. Then I can talk things over with your mom and dad and figure out the best way to go.”

  “Will you be my lawyer, Jake?”

  “We’ll figure out what’s best.”

  “I want you to be my lawyer.”

  “Let’s just start at the beginning, Howie. Why don’t you begin by telling me when you got married and go on from there?”

  Howie took a breath and stared straight up at the ceiling. Motionless, he lay there for several moments. The strangest sense of déjà vu took over inside me. I couldn’t figure out why, and then I suddenly knew.

  I knew because tears were streaming down Howie’s face. It was exactly like that first day in elementary school when all the kids were laughing at him. I saw the same lostness and the same darkness, which I now understood because I knew that darkness myself. It was my constant companion.

  Then Howie let out a wail of such despair I actua
lly shook. “Why’d she hate me, Jake?” he cried. “Why?”

  The cop from outside suddenly blew into the room. “What’s the deal?” he said.

  I stood up. “Do you mind?”

  “What’s going on?” He stepped closer to Howie’s bed. Howie turned his face away from the cop and buried it in his pillow.

  “I’m conducting an attorney-client interview here,” I said.

  “What’s he bawling about?”

  “None of your business. Now let me get on with it.”

  “Ten minutes,” the cop said. “You got ten minutes.” And then he left.

  “Hey, Howie, I’m sorry. It’s all right.”

  Howie turned his face back toward me. His eyes were red and his cheeks blotchy. “I’m scared, Jake.”

  “I know.”

  I glanced over at Mandy. She was looking at us, eyes wide with astonishment. “Can we go home, Daddy?” she said.

  “Not now, Mandy.”

  “Please?”

  “Keep coloring.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  Then I realized that this meeting was not going to be anything like I’d anticipated. I thought I’d be able to talk to Howie a bit, get a rational narrative of events, maybe talk to someone in the district attorney’s office, and then get a local counsel assigned—all in an afternoon with my daughter happily silent in her coloring book.

  It wasn’t going to happen. The emotional crosscurrents were too great, and five-year-olds don’t have unlimited stores of patience. This was going to take a great deal more time to figure out. Like it or not, I was going to be Howie’s attorney for a while longer.

  “Look, Howie, I think we’d better wait until you’re out of here before we talk. Let’s get you up and around.”

  “Okay, Jake.”

  “All right. Now don’t say anything to anybody about this case.” This is standard legal advice for defendants. Loose lips, as the saying goes. “You got that?”

  “Not even my mom?”

  “Not even. I’ll talk to her.”

  Howie’s face furrowed. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What’s gonna happen now?”

  “Nothing. They’ll patch you up and get you to the point where you can be arraigned.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You appear in court and enter a plea.”

  “Will you be with me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then the process begins.”

  “Is there gonna be a trial?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t want a trial. Just tell them I did it.”

  “Don’t say anything to anybody.”

  Howie’s eyes were wide now. “It was the devil, Jake!”

  “Hold on—”

  “The devil was there. He was in me! And then did it!”

  “Howie, calm down.”

  “I did it, Jake! I did it! I killed her, man! I killed my wife! And I stabbed myself. The devil said to! Oh, God!”

  “Howie, will you—” I stopped short, sensing someone behind me. I whirled around and saw the cop, standing smug as you please in the doorway and listening to every word.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “YOU GOT NO business!” I yelled.

  “I heard the guy screaming,” the cop said. “Whatta you want me to do?”

  “Stay out of my private conference is what.”

  The cop’s face was a deep shade of red. “I got a job. I’m in charge of this guy.”

  “You wouldn’t know your job if it kicked you in the—” I realized Mandy was listening and shut myself up.

  A nurse with squeaky shoes and an expression of extreme prejudice ran up to us. “Excuse me!” she rebuked in a loud whisper. “This is a hospital!”

  I motioned Mandy to come to me. I grabbed her hand and walked silently through the door, even though several choice phrases about the cop were competing for space in my head. I headed for the elevators.

  “Why did you yell at that man?” Mandy said loudly enough for the nurse and cop to hear it.

  Out of the side of my mouth, I said, “I’ll tell you later.”

  When we got out to the parking lot, it was around 3:30. I was steamed, and I wanted a drink, but I had my little girl in tow. This was not a situation conducive to civil behavior. When Mandy asked if we could get something to eat, I snapped at her to be quiet.

  Then I backed my car out of its parking space a little too fast, heard the squeal of tires, and felt the impact of being bumped from behind.

  I jumped out of my car spitting fire. “What’s the matter with you?” I flapped my arms for added effect.

  The door of the other car opened, and a young woman stepped out. She was maybe twenty-five or so and wore a white sweatshirt over light blue jeans. I noticed the jeans were a nice fit.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Not what I expected. I was ready for a fight. I wanted a fight. I wanted her to tell me that I was backing up too fast and should have been watching behind me, so I could tell her she should have kept her eyes open for other cars. I also wanted to ask her when she had taken her last driving test.

  She completely disarmed me with her apology. She stepped up closer and looked at the back end of my car. Her hair was blond and hung down to the middle of her back like a swatch of silk.

  “Any damage?” she said.

  I took a look at my car. I couldn’t see anything wrong. The whole episode, it seemed, was a perfect example of how bumpers are supposed to work. “Well, maybe not,” I said. “But you really should be more careful.”

  “I know,” she said. “I’m very sorry.” Her eyes were a luminescent green. If I had been a normal male in possession of all my faculties, I would have smiled and asked if I could call her for something other than a discussion of auto repairs.

  “Forget it,” I said.

  “Thanks. Look, if there’s a problem . . .” she went back into her car, reached inside, and came out with a piece of paper. Then she put the paper on the roof of her car and wrote something on it with a pen. I was enjoying watching her write. She came back and handed me the paper. “Call me if I owe you anything.”

  I took the piece of paper and put it in my shirt pocket. As an L.A. resident, I guess I couldn’t believe someone in today’s world was actually acting like a polite human being. Maybe this Hinton was a nice little town.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She nodded and smiled. I watched as she returned to her car, wishing there was more damage to my stupid bumper so I’d have a reason to call her again.

  I got back in my car and started out of the lot once again, heading for the DA’s office.

  “Who was that?” Mandy asked.

  “Don’t know.”

  “Did you hurt her car?”

  “Hey, she ran into me.”

  “You sound mad.”

  “Well, maybe we ran into each other.”

  We drove on, and I started thinking about the Hinton district attorney. What kind of person would he be? How a criminal case is ultimately resolved depends to a large extent on the personality of the prosecutor. Some are reasonable, and some are petty. Some are ambitious, others complacent, and yet others shrewd. In short, district attorneys cover the full spectrum of humanity, with a definite leaning toward pitilessness. I guess it’s understandable. When you’re the sluice gate for the dregs of society, you pretty soon develop a thick skin and callused ear.

  I stopped at a small market—a mom-and-pop type—and bought Mandy a bag of Fritos and a Sprite. My excuse was that this would keep her happy for another hour or two until we could get back home for dinner. I only hoped she wouldn’t tell her mommy about this. I’d caught enough flak about my nutritional deficiencies from Barb.

  I also picked up a copy of the Hinton Valley News. The killing was, of course, front-page material. There wasn’t much on Howie, except that he was an itinerant construction worker who had been looking for a job in Ala
ska and came from Agoura. Most of the story consisted of a quotation from a police spokesperson who said the investigation was ongoing and a profile of the deceased, Rae Patino. The paper said she was a hard-working mom raising a small kid pretty much on her own.

  I quickly scanned the rest of the paper, trying to get a little feel for the town. It seemed comfortable with its rural image. There was an ad for a realtor named Dotty who boasted of “planting roots in Hinton for over twenty years.” A restaurant called Down Home claimed, “The service is fast, the waitresses friendly, and the food is FOOD, not Mac or Wendy’s.” And there were several notices of civic pride, which included a story on the renovation of the library and the addition of one hundred new volumes.

  Another story caught my eye. The Hazelton Winery, located five miles to the east, had just received a blue ribbon for its Chardonnay. A picture showed a tall, lean, smiling man with a full head of gray hair. He was identified as Captain Warren Hazelton, and his arm was outstretched holding a glass of white wine. Various people were in the background, which gave the impression that this was a reception of some kind. It appeared that Hazelton was toasting the community.

  I made a mental note to visit the winery some afternoon and get toasted myself.

  With Mandy happily munching, I drove to the Hinton County District Attorney’s Office, which was housed in a new, ugly, Spanish-style building near the main highway. The architect must have been a twisted combination of Frank Lloyd Wright and Father Junipero Serra. The mission-style roof and arched entrance clashed with the reinforced concrete and seashell configurations. If any of the prosecutors inside were grouchy, I would understand why.

  I presented my card to the receptionist at the front desk and asked to see the deputy assigned to the Patino matter. She told me to wait as she picked up the phone.

  Mandy was still munching her Fritos and standing ever close to my leg. On the wall to my left hung a large color photograph of a solemn-looking man in a no-nonsense blue suit. His dark hair, with a hint of gray at the temples, was cropped close to the head, almost like a Marine drill sergeant.

  I took a few steps toward the picture and saw the name on a brass plate attached just below it: Benton Tolletson. I recognized the name. He was the big cheese, the county district attorney. Tolletson’s expression was like an Old West marshal’s, saying with his look, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”