Over the Edge (30 page)

'Fine,' she said coldly. After swivelling sharply, she yanked open a file cabinet and drew out a folder. 'Here. Copy this down.'

I pulled out my notepad. Before it was open, she hurriedly recited an address on Pico near Grand, just west of downtown - a murky, downscale neighbourhood that catered to illegal aliens and street people with a menu of rotting slums, sewing shops, and shabby bars. During the last year a few artists and would-be artists had illegally established living quarters in industrial lofts, trying to create SoHo West. So far L.A. wasn't buying it.

'Thanks.'

'What do you expect to get from talking to him?' she demanded.

'Just trying to establish as complete a data base as possible.'

'Well, you won't get very far by utilising - '

The phone rang again. She snatched it up and said, 'Yes!' sharply. As she listened to the reply, annoyance surrendered to surprise, which rapidly swelled to shock.

'Oh, no. That's terrible. When - yes, he's right here. Yes, I'll tell him.'

She put down the phone.

'That was Souza, calling from the jail. Jamey tried to kill himself early this morning, and he wants you to come as soon as you can.'

I jumped to my feet and put away my notepad.

'How badly is he hurt?'

'He's alive. That's all I know.'

She wheeled toward me and started to say something apologetic and conciliatory, but I was moving too fast to hear it.

HE'D BEEN moved to one of the inpatient rooms that Montez had shown me during my tour of the jail. Three deputies, one of them Sonnenschein, stood guard outside the door. I looked through the window in the door and saw him lying face up on the bed, head swaddled in bloodstained bandages, spidery limbs restrained by padded cuffs. An IV line dripped into the crook of one arm. In the midst of the gauzy turban was a fleshy patch - a few square inches of face, battered and swollen. He was asleep or unconscious, purpled lids closed, cracked lips parted lifelessly.

Souza stood next to a short, bearded man in his early thirties. The lawyer wore a gun-metal-coloured suit of raw silk that reminded me of armour. When he saw me, he walked forward and said, angrily:

'He threw himself repeatedly and forcefully against the wall of his cell.' He glared at the deputies, who responded with stony looks of their own. 'There are no broken bones or apparent internal injuries, but his head absorbed most of

the damage, and Dr. Platt here suspects a concussion. He'll be moving him to County Hospital any minute.'

Platt said nothing. He wore a rumpled white coat over jeans and a work shirt and carried a black leather bag. Clipped to his lapel was a county badge identifying him as an attending neurologist. I asked him how bad it looked.

'Hard to tell,' he said softly. 'Especially with the psychotic overlay. I came over on a stat call, and I don't have much in the way of instruments. His reflexes look okay, but with head injuries you never know what can happen. We'll be observing him over the next few days, and hopefully we'll have a clearer picture then.'

I looked through the window again. Jamey hadn't moved.

'So much for security,' said Souza, loud enough for the deputies to hear. 'This puts a whole new complexion on things.'

He pulled a miniature tape recorder out of his briefcase and dictated the details of the suicide attempt in a courtroom voice. After walking over to the deputies, he peered at their badges and recited their names into the machine, spelling each one with exaggerated enunciation. If they were intimidated, they didn't show it.

'What's in the IV line?' I asked Platt.

'Just nutrition. He looked pretty cachectic to me, and I didn't want him dehydrating, especially if there is some internal haemorrhaging.'

'Sounds as if he took quite a beating.'

'Oh, yeah. He hit that wall hard.'

'Nasty way to do yourself in.'

'Gotta be.'
   

'See this kind of thing a lot?'

He shook his head.

'I do mostly rehab - deep-muscle EMGs. But the doc who usually takes jail calls is out on maternity leave, so I'm filling in. She sees plenty of it, mostly PCP ODs.'

'This kid never took drugs.'

'So they say.'

Footsteps sounded in the corridor. A pair of ambulance attendants entered with a stretcher. One of the deputies unlocked the door to the room, went in, and emerged a moment later, mouthing the word okay. A second deputy followed him back in. Sonnenschein remained outside', and when our eyes met, he gave a small meaningful nod. The second deputy stuck his head out and told the attendants and Platt to come in. The attendants carried the stretcher to the threshold and, contorting, managed to get it halfway into the room. Souza moved closer to the door, glowering protectively. I followed him. After several moments of tugging and hoisting, they disconnected the IV, rolled Jamey's limp body off the bed and onto the stretcher, and reset the drip. The silence was broken by a crisp symphony of buckling and snapping.

One of them held up the IV bottle and said, 'Ready when you are.'

Platt nodded. 'Let's roll.' The other attendant and the two deputies moved forward and lifted the stretcher. Jamey's head rolled like a skiff in choppy waters.

'I'll accompany my client to the ambulance,' said Souza. No one argued. To me: 'I need to confer with you. Please meet me at the entrance to the jail in ten minutes.'

I said I'd be there and watched them cart him away.

When we were alone, Sonnenschein raised one eyebrow and told me to come with him. He sauntered down the main corridor and led me toward a key-operated elevator. Inmates in yellow pyjamas sat hunched on slatted benches, scanning us. An operatic scream echoed from around a corner. The ward smelled of vomit and disinfectant.

A turn of Sonnenschein's key, and the elevator doors rasped open. He put the car on express, and it descended to the basement. Another flick of the key held it there. He leaned against the wall of the compartment and put his hands on his hips. Staring at me, he worked hard at stiffening his moon face, concealing his uneasiness behind a veil of
 
hostility.

'I shouldn't be opening my mouth, and if you quote me, I'll call you a liar,' he said.

I nodded my understanding.

'Still want to know what he says when he freaks out?' 'Yes.'

'Well,
  
when
 
he
 
freaked
 
out
 
this
 
morning,
  
he
 
was screaming about poisoned earth and bloody plumes. The rest of the time it was mostly moans and groans. Once he went on about being a wretch or something like that.' 'A wretched act?'

'Maybe. Yeah. Is that important?' 'It's his term for suicide.'

'Hmm.' He smiled uneasily. 'Then I guess he got pretty wretched this morning.'

'When did he start damaging himself?' 'The screaming and yelling started around six. I went over to check, and he calmed down and looked like he was nodding off to sleep. Then, about ten minutes later, I heard this thud - like a melon being hit with a sledgehammer -and ran over. He was throwing himself around, whipping his head back and forth like he wanted to fling it off his shoulders, smashing it against the wall. Thud. The whole back of his skull was pulp. It took four of us to tie him down. A real mess.'

'Is that kind of thing routine in High Power?' 'Negative. Only time you see it is in new arrivals who come in flying on something. Once they're in High Power, they stay clean. Like I told you before, there's always someone trying to look psycho, but not to the point of heavy-duty pain.'

He looked troubled. I knew what was bothering him and brought it out in the open.

'Do you still think he's faking?'

After wiping his forehead with his hand, he reached for the key and turned it. The elevator gears engaged noisily and the car began its ascent.

'You wanted to know what he said, so I told you. That's as far as I go.'

The elevator stopped short at ground level, and the doors opened into the gaily port.

'Step forward, sir,' he said, escorting me out. I did, and he backed into the elevator.

'Thanks,' I said softly, looking straight ahead and barely moving my lips.

'Have a good day, sir,' he said, touching his gun butt.

I turned. His face was an unmoving mask, steadily narrowed by the closing doors. I stared at him until he disappeared.

Souza was waiting outside the entrance. When he saw me, he checked his watch and said, 'Come.'

We walked briskly to the parking lot and descended a flight of stairs. At the bottom was the Rolls, with Antrim holding one door open. When we were settled, he closed it, got in front, and tooled silently toward the exit. The big car seemed to hover above the ground, a dark leviathan prowling a shadowy concrete reef.

'Let's have lunch,' said the attorney. After that he seemed in no mood for conversation and occupied himself with consulting a series of yellow pads, then picking up the car phone, punching in a number, and barking orders in legalese through the mouthpiece.

The fashionable restaurants were to the west, penthouse affairs ringing the downtown financial district and offering cityscape views and three-martini lunches. But the Rolls headed the other way, traversing skid row and nosing into the periphery of East L.A. Antrim drove rapidly and smoothly, turning onto a rutted side street and veering sharply into a narrow parking lot shadowed by four-storey warehouses. At the rear of the lot was an old Jetstream mobile home on blocks. Its corrugated sides had been whitewashed, and its roof was bedecked with ivy. Rising through the leaves was a hand-painted wooden sign featuring the legend ROSA'S MEXICAN CUISINE bordered by two sombreros.

Antrim stayed with the car, and Souza and I walked to the restaurant. Inside, the place was cramped and hot but clean. Along the outer wall ran six mahogany booths, three of them occupied by groups of Mexican labourers. The portholes were draped with calico pullbacks and a Dos Equis sign blinked above the door. The kitchen was open for inspection, separated from the dining area by a waist-high wooden counter. Behind it, a moustachioed fat man in T-shirt, starched apron, and blue bandanna sweated stoically over ovens, steam tables, and deep fryers. In one corner sat an equally rotund woman reading La Opinion behind a silver-plated register. The aroma of chilis and pork fat filled the cafe.

The woman saw us enter and got up quickly. She was in her seventies, with sparkling black eyes and white hair braided on top of her head.

'Mr. Ess,' she said, and took both of Souza's hands.

'Hello, Rosa. Menudo today?'

'No, no, sorry, all gone. But the chicken enchilada is very nice.'

We drifted to one of the empty booths. There were no menus. Souza unbuttoned his jacket and settled back.

'I'll have the albondigas soup,' he said, 'two enchiladas -one chicken, one pork - a chile relleno, frijoles and rice, and a pitcher of ice water.'

'Very good. And you, sir?'

'Do you have beef salad?'

'The best in town,' said Souza. The woman glowed.

'Beef salad and a Carta Blanca.'

She nodded approval and transmitted the order to the cook. He handed her a tray, and she brought it to the table and unloaded its contents: a plate of blue corn tortillas, lightly toasted, and a boat-shaped dish housing a slab of butter. Souza held out the plate to me and when I declined, took a tortilla, buttered it quickly, folded it, and ate a third. He chewed rhythmically, swallowed, and took a drink of water.

'Since you're not eating,' he said, 'perhaps you could give me a summary of your findings.'

I did so, but he seemed uninterested in the clinical details of the case. When I remarked upon it, he sighed heavily and buttered another tortilla.

'As I said before, the complexion of the case has changed. I've already begun moving aggressively for delay of trial on the basis of incompetence. What happened this

morning indicates dramatically that the county cannot be trusted to ensure the boy's safety and security, and I feel a good deal more confident about securing detention in a private facility.'

'Despite the notoriety of the case?'

'Fortunately for us, there's no lack of violent crime in this city, and the story has already faded from the front pages. Yesterday's Times ran a small piece on page twenty-seven. Today's paper carried nothing. I expect the suicide attempt will bring it back into focus for a while, but then a period of quiescence can be expected as the vultures of the fourth estate feast on new carrion.'

Rosa brought the meatball soup, the ice water, and my Carta Blanca. The heat of the cafe had made me sweat, and the beer hit my tongue with a frigid burst. Souza swallowed a spoonful of steaming soup without apparent discomfort.

'The question is, Doctor, do you feel comfortable aiding in that strategy?'

'I haven't finished my evaluation - '

'Yes, I understand. Your thoroughness is admirable. But have you begun to form an opinion regarding competence?'

'I plan to wait until the data are in before forming any opinions.'

'Hmm.'

He returned his attention to his soup, sipping and savouring, emptying the bowl, and sopping up the last drops with a piece of tortilla.

The food came on heavy white Mexican china - a platter for him and a plate for me.

'Enjoy, Doctor.' And he dug in.

We ate without talking, surrounded by laughter. The salad was excellent, the strips of meat tender and slightly piquant, the vegetables firm and fresh in a lemon and pepper dressing. The spice and the heat brought beads of moisture to my brow, and I felt my shirt begin to stick. Souza made his way resolutely through a mountain of refried beans, ate most of the stuffed chili, and drained the water pitcher. Rosa was quick to refill it.

When all that was left was the steam of the chili and some stray grains of rice, he pushed the plate aside. Rosa brought a plate of candied cactus chunks. I tried one and found it too rubbery. Souza nibbled at one with strong, blunt teeth, snipping off pieces until all the candy was gone. He wiped his mouth and looked straight at me.