Simple Justice (2 page)

When Harry Brofsky came to see me about the violent death of Billy Lusk, fifteen to twenty residents were being murdered each week in Los Angeles, with gang activity accounting for roughly half the killings.

At the same time, reported hate crimes were on the rise, especially those targeting lesbians and gay men, which, for the first time, outnumbered even those directed at blacks and Jews.

As Harry explained it, the murder of Billy Lusk bridged both categories: A young gang member had selected a victim outside a gay bar in Silver Lake and gunned him down in cold blood.

“From what Templeton tells me, it’s pretty cut-and-dried,” Harry said, referring to Alex Templeton, his top crime reporter at the
Los Angeles Sun
. “A witness heard a gunshot a few minutes after midnight, then saw a Mexican kid kneeling over the body in the parking lot. Turned out it was some kind of gang initiation deal.”

The door and windows of the apartment were open wide, and the hot wind rattled the screens like a mad person trying to get in. I sat cross-legged on the lumpy bed, hugging my chest with my arms. The few feet that loomed between Harry and me felt as wide as the Santa Monica Mountains.

“Exactly which part of Mexico is the suspect from?”

My question drew only a peevish look.

“You mentioned that he’s a Mexican national,” I explained, scratching reflexively at an old sore point between Harry and me, although my heart wasn’t really in it.

“I didn’t say he was a Mexican national.”

“Yes, Harry, you clearly used the term
Mexican
.”

“Pardon my political incorrectness. A Mexican-American kid. Chicano, Hispanic, Latino. Take your pick, because I can’t keep the fucking nomenclature straight anymore. I leave that to the more enlightened souls on the copy desk.”

There had been a time when Harry wouldn’t have spoken so callously. During the 1980s, which had spanned the primary years of our working relationship, I’d raised his consciousness to a marginally sensitive level, where he’d begun to see people unlike himself as actual human beings. He’d obviously relapsed in the years since, and I suppose I should have cared, but I didn’t.

He took out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips without lighting it.

“The kid—pardon me, the eighteen-year-old young man—fled the scene. A witness got his license number as he drove away. The cops traced it to his parents’ house in Echo Park. Found him in his bedroom, listening to rap music.”

“I believe that’s a capital crime right there.”

Harry gave me another look, more smug this time than irritated.

“There was blood on his shoes,” he said. “Also on his clothes.”

“Maybe he cut himself shaving.”

“From what I hear, he doesn’t shave yet.” Harry raised his eyebrows, waiting for a rejoinder.

I didn’t have one. I was thinking what Central Jail must be like for an inmate with a boy’s face. With nearly seven thousand suspects and convicts packed into one building, Men’s Central Jail was the largest in the world, and more violent than any California prison. The kid was lucky, I thought, to have a gang affiliation for protection.

“For what it’s worth,” Harry went on, “the blood type from his clothes matches the blood type of the victim.”

“What about a weapon?”

Harry and I had fallen into a once-familiar pattern, perhaps to avoid matters not so easily discussed. It was a game we’d played many times, with well-defined roles. Harry was the brusque, curmudgeonly editor, skeptical as all good editors should be, but essentially a product of his conservative Midwest roots, a believer in well-established systems and institutions. I was the bleeding-heart reporter, raised in the East in a home where alcohol and violence provided the most vivid memories, who distrusted authority as a rule, convinced that life is fundamentally unjust in a world ruled by the privileged and the powerful.

The undercurrent of tension and competition between Harry and me had been a constant, keeping us from ever being truly close. In spite of it, or perhaps because of it, we’d hammered out a couple of dozen award-winning articles when we’d been at the
Los Angeles Times
, “damn fine articles,” as Harry used to call them, after he’d loosened up with a drink or two.

What was different now was that Harry was no longer employed as an editor at the mighty
Los Angeles Times
, but instead at the barely profitable and far less respectable
Los Angeles Sun
, struggling to put his career back together; and I was no longer a reporter and had no interest in much of anything beyond my private thoughts and extending as much time as possible between drinks.

I also had no idea why Harry was here, telling me about the murder of a man I’d never heard of outside a gay bar halfway across town. Perhaps he thought I could provide special sources or contacts for Alex Templeton’s story, but I didn’t want even that much involvement with Harry or the newspaper or anything else beyond these walls.

“Templeton says the cops have all the evidence they need,” Harry said. “The weapon’s a moot point.”

“A moot point.”

My voice was faintly mocking, as it had been a thousand times in conversations with Harry. The corners of his mouth curled into the slightest smile. He played his best card, saved for last. “The kid confessed,” he said.

“Ah.”

“He even bragged about it. Like I said, some kind of gang ritual. You know how those people are.” Harry was so offhand, so blatantly offensive that I should have sensed what was behind it. “Templeton’s putting the story together for tomorrow’s paper.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Banner head, front page.
Gay Man Gunned Down by Rampaging Gang Bangers
. A dead faggot, ripe for exploitation. Then forgotten by tomorrow.”

“My, aren’t we on a high horse,” Harry said.

“The
Sun
has a grand tradition for sleaze and sensationalism, Harry. You can’t deny that.”

“As a matter of fact, we plan to treat the story with the utmost respect. I’m even planning long-term follow-up, to see how it plays out.”

“A queer, murdered outside a gay bar in a working-class neighborhood that’s largely Latino? Since when has the
Sun
considered such things worthy of respectful coverage?”

“You haven’t read the
Sun
recently, have you, Ben?”

“It’s been awhile.”

“I’ve been making some changes,” Harry said. “Moving gradually away from the hothouse stuff. I figure this murder gives us a nice hook for some in-depth reporting. Maybe even a series.”

“Because of its socioeconomic implications?”

“If you want to use five-dollar words.”

I’d worked with too many editors, Harry especially, to swallow a load that easily.

“What’s the kicker, Harry?” I watched him fidget a little on the edge of the chair. “Why this particular story?”

He removed the unlit cigarette from his lips and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers before finally looking up.

“Billy Lusk came from big bucks and breeding.”

I smiled, but sadly.

“Wealth, social status, and the right zip code. That makes all the difference.”

“It does make a difference, Ben. Poor people dying violently has never been big news. Whether you like it or not.”

“What I like or don’t like doesn’t matter much anymore, Harry.”

He ignored that and rattled off details like a salesman trying to close a deal he feels slipping away.

“The victim’s stepfather is Phil Devonshire, the retired golf pro. Serves on half a dozen corporate boards. Mother’s Margaret Devonshire. Comes from old Pasadena money, heavy into philanthropy. Country club people, up in Trousdale Estates.”

I suddenly felt edgy, impatient. It was nearly five. I was getting closer and closer to needing a drink. But more than that, I didn’t like having Harry here, didn’t like playing the old game with him. It served no purpose; Harry Brofsky was part of the past.

“Why are you telling me all this, Harry?”

He slid off the chair, went to the window, and stared out across treetops and rooftops at the Pacific Design Center: a bold glass monolith in two sections, one cobalt blue, the other money green, jutting dramatically into a sky scoured clean by the Santa Anas.

When he spoke again, all the combativeness was gone from his voice. It was the voice of a tired man, not tired from the day but from the years.

“I want you to put together a short feature,” Harry said.

It would have been less a jolt if Harry Brofsky had told me he was secretly a transvestite, or planned to join the priesthood.

“I don’t think I heard you right,” I said.

Outside, scrub jays and mockingbirds filled the warm air with a cacophony of chirping and screeching, as they often did during morning and early evening hours in this part of town. Mixed in was the chatter of an angry squirrel somewhere up an avocado tree, and a distant horn from down on the boulevard.

Yet Harry and I seemed frozen in a moment of utter silence.

Half a minute passed before he turned to face me. I hadn’t seen him look that vulnerable since his third wife left him eight years before, on the day he turned fifty; she’d tucked a note under the cake and taken the dogs.

“All I want is a sidebar,” Harry said. “A short piece to go with Templeton’s story for Friday’s paper, covering the arraignment.”

I realized then that he was serious.

“How long have you been delusional, Harry? Taking your medication?”

“I don’t need much, Ben. Fifteen inches would do it. A perspective piece on gay-bashing, anti-gay violence. Why it happens, what it means. That kind of thing.”

“Let Templeton write it.”

“Alex Templeton’s barely a year out of grad school,” Harry said. “A good reporter, but…”

“Straight.”

“Inexperienced.”

“You’ve got plenty of seasoned reporters at the
Sun
who can handle that piece.”

“Not the way you would,” Harry said. “Maybe you focus on the victim, humanize him. Maybe you try to get inside the head of the killer. You can work it any way you want.”

“Forget it, Harry.”

“It wouldn’t take you that much time. You could wrap up a piece like that in half a day. Less.”

“I’m not talking about time, and you know it.”

I slid off the bed, agitated, and angry that it showed.

“Even if I wanted to write that piece, which I don’t, you’d never get it in the paper. Not even the
Sun
.”

“We’ll run it deep inside. With the jump.”

“You can’t put my name on an article and expect it to have any credibility. Besides…”

“I’ve already cleared it with management. If it’s handled correctly, the guys upstairs think it’s actually got some good promotional value.”

“Running an article by a reporter who won a Pulitzer for a series he fabricated? That’s good promotion?”

“Handled right.” Harry smiled grimly. “Up against the goddamned
Times
, we need every edge we can get.”

“Readers would scream, Harry.”

“This is a town of new faces and short attention spans. Most of our readers won’t even remember.”

“Enough will.”

“Fuck ’em.”

“That’s not good enough, and you know it.”

“Then we’ll deal with the issue directly, take advantage of it. We’ll write an editorial that recaps the whole Pulitzer mess and puts it in a new light.”

“Let it lie, Harry.”

His eyes followed me as I paced the room.

“Everybody makes mistakes, Ben. These are the 1990s. We live in the era of Ollie North and Marion Barry. Michael Jackson, Tonya Harding. O.J., for Christ’s sake. If they’re entitled to another chance, so are you.”

I whirled to face him, using my words like a whip.

“Don’t you get it, Harry? I don’t want another chance.”

I saw him wince, and had to look away.

I ran a hand across my chin, feeling thick stubble. The last time I’d been at the market I’d come up short of cash, forced to choose between wine and razor blades; it hadn’t been a difficult decision. I couldn’t remember when I’d showered last, either, and wondered if I smelled as bad as I looked.

“Listen,” I said, “I just want to be left alone.”

Harry’s eyes scanned the unkempt room.

“To do what? Rot in this dump?”

If he meant to get under my skin, he succeeded.

“Jacques lived in this dump for nine years,” I said, letting my anger out slowly, like dangerous radiator steam. “He wrote some of his best poetry in this dump.”

Then, to make Harry squirm a little: “We made love a couple of hundred times in this dump. This was his home, Harry.”

I didn’t expect him to apologize; it wasn’t Harry’s style. But beneath his emotional armor, Harry Brofsky was a decent man. When he spoke again, his tone was soft, almost comforting.

“We’ll bring you back slowly, Ben. An occasional freelance assignment. No big investigative pieces, nothing heavy. Until readers get accustomed to your byline again.”

“You’re not listening to me, Harry.”

“Benjamin Justice.”

He spoke my name forcefully, letting it hang there. The last time I’d heard my full name spoken aloud had been on TV and radio news reports, right after the scandal had broken.

“Readers used to look for that byline, Ben. It meant something. It can mean something again.”

I hadn’t seen Harry so worked up since the day the Pulitzer was first announced. Then, it had been jubilation. Now, it had the unsettling feeling of desperation about it.

“I’m not a reporter anymore, Harry.”

“You’ll always be a reporter, dammit.”

“The fire’s gone.”

“It’s never completely gone.”

He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as me.

“Forget it, Harry. It’s not going to happen.”

Our eyes met, longer than before. Then he sighed heavily and turned away, his shoulders slumping so that he became pear-shaped.

I looked beyond him, out the window, and down at the house. Fred, a retired truck driver, was away on a fishing trip. Maurice, home from teaching classical dance, had decided to weed the front garden. After eating, the cats had wandered out to be near him, sitting in the shade like three overfed supervisors while Maurice toiled on his knees.

He was somewhere in his sixties, slim and graceful, a beautiful old man. His long white hair was soft and silken, held back with a lavender bandanna. Bracelets and rings festooned his bony wrists and fingers like those of a gypsy. From time to time, he glanced appreciatively at younger men in shorts as they walked briskly by, heading down to the bars and gyms. It wasn’t yet evening, but warm weather drew men out of the neighborhood early and down to the boulevard in swarms, like June bugs. That’s when Maurice liked to do his gardening; he especially admired legs.

“You must be doing some kind of writing,” Harry said quietly. “To pay the bills.”

“Odd freelance jobs. Press releases, that kind of thing.”

“Press releases. Jesus.”

I wanted a drink badly now, and for Harry to be gone.

“This isn’t just about the Billy Lusk murder, is it, Harry? Or about raising the level of reporting at the
Sun
?”

He waited tensely, like a doomed man about to be executed with the truth.

“You might make some changes at the
Sun
,” I said. “You might even turn it into a halfway decent newspaper, if the electronic superhighway doesn’t kill it first. But life can never be like it was, Harry. No matter how much you want to bring the old days back.”

“You were the best reporter I ever had.”

He turned to face me, raising his voice hopefully.

“You always gave me more than I expected, Ben. You always surprised me. We shook the paper up. We shook readers up. It was a damn good time.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You’re thirty-seven, for Christ sake!”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Do you know how young that is?”

“I can’t do it, Harry.”

“I’m talking about a fucking sidebar.” Bitterness crept into his voice. “A thousand words. A few hours out of your life.”

He looked away, reddening, and squeezed out his next words painfully.

“A chance for us to be a team again.”

I was reminded suddenly that the newspaper was all Harry had. No kids, no mate, no pets, not even a garden to tend. Then I realized I was probably the closest thing to a son he’d ever known, or ever would; I was surprised I’d never thought of it before.

But there was something else, something Harry wasn’t telling.

“What is it, Harry? Why do you want me back so badly? After what I’ve done to you.”

He stepped out on the landing, fought off a coughing spasm, and lit a cigarette. He smoked awhile, looking north toward the hills that rose up beyond Sunset Boulevard.

“I want you to work with Templeton. Pass on what you know. Leads, sources, document searches, interviewing, rewriting. The whole enchilada. I’ll pay you from my freelance budget. There’s not much, but there’s some.”

“From what I’ve seen, Templeton’s doing fine without me.”

“I thought you hadn’t been reading the paper,” Harry said.

Score one for Harry. He turned to face me.

“Alex Templeton has the chance to be as good a reporter as you were,” he said.

“That’s your department, Harry. You did it for me. You can do it for Templeton.”

“I don’t have that kind of time anymore. It’s not the velvet coffin we worked in at the
Times
.”

“I’ve heard things aren’t so cushy at the
Times
anymore, either.”

“I’m still working at a newspaper with a fraction of the budget, where everybody does twice the work.”

“I operate solo, Harry. You know that.”

“One more shot at the big prize. That’s all I want, Ben. A chance to get back on top before it’s all over. You can help give me that. But it means you have to crawl out of your hole and rejoin the world for a while.”

I felt dread rising in me like nausea.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I can’t.”

I saw muscles tighten along the jawbone of his soft face, and his eyes turn to cold stones.

Then he spoke the words that for nearly six years I’d hoped I’d never hear from Harry Brofsky.

“You owe me, Benjamin.”