Damage (13 page)

“Poor Wes.”

“He’s really unhappy. Furious, even.”

“Because you arrested Ro? It was a real threat, Abe. No doubt about it. I wasn’t making anything up.”

“Nobody thinks you were.”

“Except maybe Wes.”

“No. He just didn’t think ... he thinks I should have cleared it with him, or a judge. And I probably should have. I probably should have assigned somebody else to set up this arrest.”

“I thought your whole team was overbooked.”

“It is. But still . . .”

“You can’t win.”

“No. That’s not true. You can win a few.” He squeezed her hand. “I just don’t want to get in the way of you and Wes.”

“You won’t.”

“He was really upset. Like I’ve never seen him.”

“It’s the job,” she said. “He’s just getting into it and doesn’t want to mess it up.”

“More than that,” Glitsky said, “he doesn’t want somebody else to mess it up for him. And I might have just done that.”

“You did what you felt you had to do, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t illegal or wrong, was it?”

“No. It was legal and right, in fact.”

“Well, there you go. How could it hurt you?”

“I don’t know.” Glitsky shook his head. “And I’m not sure I want to find out.”

On the following Monday morning, Michael Durbin was driving downtown, having visions.

For reasons he did not fully comprehend, every time Durbin had gotten into his car and started driving lately—since he’d become aware of Ro Curtlee’s release into the population—he’d found himself vicariously experiencing the drive that Tony Soprano took at the beginning of every episode of
The Sopranos
, complete with the soundtrack about getting yourself a gun. You got yourself a gun.

It was weird, he thought, but also incredibly realistic, as though he actually was making that drive through New Jersey, smoking a cigar, noting the passing neighborhoods of San Francisco through the side windows and the windshield as he headed out from his parking garage on Union, up through Pacific Heights (where the Curtlees lived), then over the hill into the semi-ghetto of the Western Addition, and finally out on Geary to the Avenues. The vision became especially acute when he turned the last corner before getting to his home. He felt himself inhabiting the guise of the Mafia boss, the determined look on his face, opening his car door and getting out, clearly with an eye to doing someone grave damage.

And once he was in that unbidden, I’m-driving-now mind-set, a host of fantasies seemed to come along for the ride. Killing Ro Curtlee, of course, was the first and originally strongest of them. He could, in fact, go out and get himself a gun. Although they’d never had one in the house, he could remedy that in a few days. And he did have a shotgun, packed back somewhere in his garage. With either his new pistol or his shotgun, he could then drive up to the Curtlees after nighttime had fallen, wait for Ro to show his face, and simply blow him away.

Would anybody put it together that it had been him? A straight, white, middle-class small-business owner with no criminal record? He didn’t see how. He could actually do it and end all of his worries on that score.

But the fantasy wasn’t just confined to Ro Curtlee. As often as not, no sooner had he dispatched Ro in his make-believe scenario than the fantasy rotated on some axis and turned his attention to Janice. He found this disconcerting not only because in his conscious mind and stupid heart he loved his wife, but because she had been his rock and support during those difficult years after Ro’s trial. She had held the family together, earned the lion’s share of the home’s income, counseled and stood by Michael as he worked through his transition from promising young portrait artist eking by with a succession of day jobs to established and successful small business owner. She had essentially guided him through the shoals of ego-bound, angst-ridden, artistic immaturity to the terra firma of real, honest work and grown-up responsibility.

Part of him, rather suddenly, hated her for that.

He didn’t understand why the catalyst for these negative feelings had been Ro’s release from prison, but that’s what had started it. Michael had always tried to make himself believe—and he’d sold himself on the idea pretty well—that the suffering he’d endured because of the stand he’d made to the other jurors had been worth it because at least they’d removed the vermin that was Ro Curtlee from society. And all at once, that had changed. Now he clearly saw his idealistic righteousness back then as an empty, meaningless gesture that had accomplished no permanent good.

So why had he given up on his art? And how was that in any way the fault or influence of Janice?

Well, there was a reason.

Even back then, Janice could have been making enough money from her practice to keep them afloat. If she’d gone full-time. But she’d wanted, and
they’d
decided, that they didn’t want day care for their children; they would split their time at home as parents.

This was why the loss of Michael’s day jobs because of the Curtlees’ meddling had posed such an unnecessary financial hardship. But the plain fact—and it had always been a giant elephant in their living room—was that they could have made it. Michael could have gone on painting, working his art, taking the occasional portrait commission, and gone the gallery route, growing his body of work. By now—he was certain that he had been good enough—the painting would have paid off. It might not have made him rich and famous, but he would at least have a name and a reputation. And he would be doing what he loved, what he had always felt he’d been born to do.

But Janice—subtly to be sure, but subtle was her métier—saw her opening and never let up on the pressure for Michael to keep bringing in at least a token income. Whatever it took to prove himself a competent provider, a good husband. So for six or so years, the prime of his life, he’d hauled and delivered loads as a part-time moving man, he’d painted houses; he’d worked as a bar-tender, a landscaper, a blow-and-go gardener. The art, his painting, had had to slide, until it no longer had been even a hobby.

And Janice had been his helpmeet during the transition, weaning him away from a commitment to his art until it finally seemed like his own idea to get her father to invest in his UPS franchise. And because Michael was smart, organized, and diligent, that business had succeeded and now thrived. And Janice had loved him because he’d become the man she’d always wanted him to be—dutiful, hardworking, mature.

And maybe, honestly, Michael thought, that would have been enough. Maybe he could continue to forgive her for that, to realize that this was the trade-off he’d bargained for and eventually agreed to—the woman he loved and the family she wanted in exchange for his earlier vision of himself as a creative person, an artist, and, in her estimation—implied but never stated—some species of flake.

He supposed, maybe even believed, that it would have all been worth it, worth sacrificing his art and his essential self, to keep Janice happy. Just like it would have been worth all his suffering at the hands of the Curtlees if Ro had stayed in prison.

It would have been worth it if Janice had stayed faithful to him.

Now it didn’t seem as if it was because—he was sure—Janice was having an affair with one of her patients.

With the echoing refrain about getting himself a gun playing nonstop in his brain, Michael Durbin pulled into the lot across the street from the Hall of Justice—$20 A DAY/NO IN & OUT. Court wouldn’t go into session for over an hour, but in spite of the early time, the parking lot was nearly full, the curb alongside Bryant Street packed two deep with police patrol cars and other official vehicles, and a caravan of local and national TV vans.

Durbin got out of his car, paid the attendant, and buttoned his raincoat against the continuing mist. Across the street, the gray stucco of the Hall of Justice showed as a deep bruised blue in the damp. He stopped at the edge of a decent and so far peaceful crowd of perhaps a hundred souls on the steps out front, many of them holding signs exhorting whoever it might be to FREE RO and LET RO GO and STOP POLICE BRUTALITY and so on. Somewhat more prosaically one sign read, SF COPS SUCK THE BIG ONE.

Free speech, Durbin thought. Ain’t it grand?

Part of the crowd seemed happy to demonstrate outside, but others were moving toward the entrance to the building, albeit slowly. Reporters and anchorpeople with microphones were descending upon unwitting citizens all over the place. With a shock that felt like a blow to his solar plexus, Durbin recognized the woman he’d long ago nicknamed Heinous Marrenas on the crowd’s periphery. And it suddenly occurred to him that these “protesters” had probably been bought and paid for by the Curtlees. Everywhere he looked, people were holding copies of the morning
Courier
, where Ro’s arrest and demands for Glitsky’s resignation dominated the front page.

Durbin wanted no part of Marrenas or any of them. So he got into the portion of the crowd that slowly was snaking its way into the building. Five minutes later, he had passed through the doors and then the metal detectors inside.

Now he stood in the cavernous lobby, his stomach churning with nerves and relief at having dodged Marrenas. Part of himself was still wondering why he’d felt the need to take the morning off and come down to see this spectacle for himself. Suddenly he turned and found himself looking at his brother-in-law. Chuck Novio had just turned his head and saw him at the same time, and he raised a hand in greeting.

Getting over to him, Durbin said, “Okay, Chuckie boy, I’ve got an excuse. For my peace of mind, I need to make sure they get Ro back in jail where he belongs. But what are you doing here?”

Novio wore his easy smile. “Hello? American history. This is what I do. And if this isn’t history, I don’t know what is. Besides, this is the kind of stuff my kids eat up. Makes ’em believe that history’s happening all around them all the time. Which, of course, it is.”

“This isn’t history, Chuck. This is a scumbag.”

Novio said, “Are you kidding? History is just one scumbag after another, muddling along in an endless chain. That’s why it’s so great.”

“I admire your enthusiasm,” Durbin said. “But you should have told me yesterday at dinner you were coming down for this. We could have driven together.”

“I didn’t really decide until I got up this morning and figured I really should. And I didn’t know you were coming anyway.”

“I didn’t say so last night? Maybe I hadn’t made up my mind by then, either.” Durbin paused. “So how do you think it’s going to go?” he asked.

“I think he stays in jail.”

“I’m hoping.”

“How can he not?”

Durbin cocked his head toward the rabble. “Check out the crowd. You ever hear of the Curtlees?”

Novio shrugged. “The guy’s a convicted murderer who beat up a couple of cops while resisting arrest. Put any spin on it you want, no judge in the world lets him back out.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“I’m right. Want to put some money on it?”

“No. I want you to be right.”

“But if we bet and I’m wrong, then you win anyway. I’ll give you two to one.”

Durbin, weary, stuck out his hand. “Twenty,” he said.

Novio reached for his hand and they shook. “Done.”

Department 11 had hard theater-style seating for about eighty people, and Durbin and Novio, early as they were, stood in a long line and as it was barely made it inside. They took the only two seats left in the next-to-last row.

The story of Ro Curtlee’s arrest had not just been front-page news in the
Courier
yesterday in the Sunday edition of the paper, but it had also made headlines in the
Chronicle
and been the lead feature on every television network news program throughout the day. One of these broadcasts had been the last thing Durbin had seen before going to bed last night, alone—Janice called out after they’d all gotten back from Sunday night dinner at the Novios to an emergency session with one of her patients. Durbin had a good guess which one it was, although not his exact identity.