Sleeping Beauty (25 page)

Of course, Davin turns in here.

I look over my shoulder at the boxes in the back of the van, then at Davin. “No, no, no. No way.”

He ignores me. “When I park, let me get out first. I’ll let you know when it’s time for you to move.”

“Are you crazy? This is a state courthouse!” I look down at my silky dress. “I don’t exactly look like a delivery boy here.”

“If anyone comes over to the van, let me talk to them.”

“What do you mean ‘if?’ Did you see that mob in the front? It looks like an invasion. There’s probably a platoon of cops in the back.”

“Doubt it,” he says, following the signs to the back of the building. “They’re dealing with a, uh,
special
problem up front.”

As predicted, the loading dock is deserted. He hops out of the van, flies up a set of concrete stairs, and walks unchallenged through an unmarked door. Seconds later he reemerges and waves for me to follow him.

I trot behind him as fast as I can, my heels clattering on the tile floors. We pass dozens of offices, doors wide open, computers humming, pens and paper strewn across desktops. The only thing missing are the people.

“Where is everyone?”

“Busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Rubbernecking.”

The hallway dumps us into a grand lobby at the front of the building. Davin punches a button to call the elevator. Past the walk-through metal detectors and conveyer belt scanners, on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling glass, and beyond the broad backs of the line of deputies, I see the gathered, screaming multitudes, ninety-nine percent of whom are female.

They’re not here for me,
I think, and now I’m
really
confused. “Well, I’m glad we didn’t have to walk through that,” I mutter.

Suddenly, the people in the crowd are pushing and grabbing each other, twisting around to see someone coming up the walk. The forward progress of the “someone” can be measured by the number of camera flashes it leaves in its wake. Deputies clear a path, roughly shoving anyone who tries to duck under the yellow tape. Inside, more deputies hold the doors open. A tangled mass of uniformed officers, dark business suits, and large, muscular men bursts through, melting away from each other like butter on a skillet as soon as they’re inside. A lone man emerges from the middle, laughing, shaking hands, and dusting himself off.

“Oh, my god, it’s Jonathan!”

Davin grabs my arm and forcefully turns me towards the elevators. “Probably best not to attract a lot of attention,” he says. “Especially since you just skipped security.”

The deputies go through the motions of treating him like a normal citizen, but no one thinks that Jonathan Varner, movie mega-heartthrob, is considered a security risk. Once his wallet has been returned to him, he scans the lobby. He and Davin make eye contact. Davin lifts his arm– his thumb and pinkie extended, middle fingers folded down–flashing Jonathan the “shaka,” the surfer gesture that means, variously, “hello,” “hang loose,” or “cool.”

From a distance, it looks to me like Jonathan has returned the gesture. Then he looks away and starts chatting it up with the security guards and assorted deputies.

The elevator chimes. “Let’s go,” says Davin, his hand on my back, urging me ahead as the doors slide open. He checks text messages on his phone as the car rises.

“Since when is Jonathan Varner in your crew?” I say. “I didn’t even know he could surf.”

He smirks. “He doesn’t. Poor guy just shot us the sign of the horn.”

“The what?”

Davin demonstrates with his right hand. Everything is the same as the shaka, except his thumb is folded, replaced by a raised index finger.

I stare at his hand, feeling like I’ve forgotten more surfer lingo and signs in the last two years than I ever learned. “What the hell is that?”

He gives me a look of disappointment and straightens his torso, a sure sign of pending Professional Speech: “He was encouraging us, the recipients,” he says, in a fake upper-crust English accent, “to rock on. Or, alternatively, he may have been conveying to us his emphatic appreciation for the rocking that has already commenced.” He catches me in the back with his elbow. “Rock concert sign, gidget.”

“Well, that’s all really interesting,” I say, my arms crossed, “but if it’s not too inconvenient for you it would be great to be clued in on whatever’s happening here.”

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” he says.

“Like you don’t know…this whole morning’s been a total tow-at!” I say, deliberately referencing the dramatic, staged photos of surfers inside the barrel of waves they can only get to by being towed by a boat or helicopter. They are the contempt and scorn of the surfing world, two sentiments that perfectly capture how I feel right now towards Davin.

He continues reading a text message on his phone like I haven’t spoken.

I sigh. “Fine. Just tell me this: Will I find out before or after I read about it in
Surfer Magazine
?”

“The way things are going, probably after.” He looks up. “And don’t think I didn’t notice your appropriate and interesting use of surfer slang. ‘Tow-at,’” he repeats, throwing me a little smile. “Nicely done. I’m going to use that.”

“Up yours. Give me my phone back.”

“As soon as this is done. Promise.” He gets serious. “Just trying to help, you know that, right?”

We arrive at our floor. I start walking forward even before the doors have opened all the way, nearly running down a tall, clean-shaven, respectable-looking man in a suit, holding a leather briefcase. The tiny studs in his ears are a slight deviation from “average, upright citizen,” but not by much, this being L.A. and all.

“Oh, excuse me,” I say, holding my hands up in apology.

“Howzit, brah?” says Davin, reaching around me to kick off another round of surfer salutations.

“Jesus Christ, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mumble. While they’re man-hugging and swapping jargon, I look up and down the hallway, trying to figure out where we’re supposed to be going.

“Hi, Claire,” says the guy, extending his hand to me.

This sounds like normal English, but I’m wary. I tentatively stretch out my hand, bracing myself for humiliation. He gives me the business standard of two pumps, and lets go. I stare at him a second, confused. “Sorry…who are you?”

He smiles. “Rev Carlin. It’s good to see you again. It’s been awhile.”

I blink in shock, trying to square the suited professional before me with the crazy, drugged-out, long-haired surfer dude I last saw nine or ten years ago.

“I’m your attorney,” he says, looking highly amused. “Glad to see you made good time. They’re waiting for us…follow me.”

“Wait…you’re my what?” I shoot Davin a look that says,
You hired a guy who spends his free time getting baked with his toes on the nose to be my lawyer?

Rev is one of The Three, the second guy after Lieutenant Commander Grayson to wash the sand out of his butt-crack long enough to get a degree. He eventually went on to law school, and is supposed to be some bad-ass criminal defense attorney. God knows he’s bailed West and Davin out of plenty of trouble in the last few years.

“Who’s waiting for us?” I say to Rev. “Will Brendan be there?”

Rev Carlin stops short in the middle of the hallway. “Claire?” he says through his teeth, his voice low and even.

“What?”

“I know you probably don’t remember me that well. After today, you may not even like me. In fact, I’d say that when I part ways with my clients, a good ninety percent of them hate me.” He shrugs. “And that’s fine. But from what I’ve gathered from Wib, here’s what I do know: You don’t know shit.”

My eyelids flutter in shock.

“Hey, man,” says Davin, his words heavy with warning.

Rev ignores him, keeping his eyes on me. “You still salty, Claire?”

“Uh…” It’s not that I don’t know what he’s asking me–
do you still surf
?–but I’m confused by
why
.

He looks at Davin. “Nicorico?”

This is an insult that I don’t need Davin to respond to. “No way,” I say through my teeth.

He looks skeptical. “A little cavefish to be cooha.” In short:
You’re much too pale to be a skilled female surfer
.

I shrug. “Surfette. So?”

“Ever acid drop? Do a nail job?”

Despite what it sounds like, he’s not inquiring into my recreational drug habits, or asking me who my manicurist is. He’s just being a jerk, testing my surfing knowledge for no reason that I can see.

I set my jaw, defiant. “I’ve flailed, but I’m no troder, dude. Never spiked anyone.” I pause. “Might snake out to spike you though, waxboy. What’s your beef?” Behind me Davin chortles with amusement.

Rev smiles and extends his hand, seemingly unperturbed by my threat to assault him with a deadly weapon. Fury must give you false confidence; instead of faking my way through whatever he decides to dish out, I choreograph the cross-shake, slap and double fist-bump that follows, my eyes never leaving his.

“Excellent,” he says. “Keep that attitude. You’re gonna need it.” He cinches his tie and resumes walking. “I’ve arranged a meeting with the assistant district attorney and her staff.”

“For what?”

“As the supposed victim in this case, you’re entitled to know why they’re alleging that a crime has taken place.”

“No crime
has
taken place, that’s what I want to tell them.”

“You won’t be telling them anything. In fact, after you say ‘Nice to meet you,’ you won’t be saying a word.”

“Why not?”

He slows down to read the plastic placards on the wall, stopping at “Conference Room 7-212.”

“Because,” he says, “no matter how many times they say ‘dude’ and play suck-up, these guys are nothing but a bunch of pro-bros and Valley sheep trying to build a case. You keep your distance from the assistant DA, ‘cause she’s a piece of work.”

He turns to Davin. “Likes to portray herself as some conservative, ‘law and order’ type, but she’ll prosecute anything or anyone if she thinks it’ll get her some publicity or gain her a little political clout.”

“But what about Brendan?” I say, trying to direct Rev’s attention back to me.

“He’s not your problem right now,” he says. “And he’s not mine either.” He must see my desperation, because he takes pity on me. He sighs. “If there
is
no case, then Doc’s attorney will make sure the charges are dropped all on their own, with no help from you.”

He puts his hand on the door handle. “But I’m going to warn you now, dally–you look like you’re totally fambo for Brendan Charmant.” He watches my face, like he’s confirming the obvious. “Based on my long experience with the law, there’s a good chance that we’re going to get in there, and you’re not going to like what you hear.”

Chapter Nineteen

Big and tall, big and tall
, I think, the words springing unbidden into my head.

Rev Carlin may have known what to expect, but me and Davin freeze inside the doorway, struck dumb by the figure struggling towards us.

She’s obese, bulging out of an ill-fitting, button-up blouse and cheap-looking slacks. The flesh of her feet, doughy and swollen, overflows a pair of low-heeled pumps. Her face, the skin pink enough to be sunburned, is covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Her blonde hair is so thin that I can see her scalp. It’s been cropped short, and is swept over the top of her head in a losing battle to disguise her hair loss; her pink scalp fairly gleams between the few and far between translucent shafts of hair.

Once she gets closer, I revise the “tall” estimate downward, leaving “big” as the only operative description. Even “big” is being generous.

“Lucinda Gaelic,” she says, baring her teeth at us, and holding out her hand. “Assistant District Attorney of Los Angeles County.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, flawlessly delivering what is apparently my only line. Her palms are covered in a clammy sweat. I reflexively pull my hand away, which makes me feel terrible, which makes me grab her hand again, which of course looks even stupider. I finally just drop my eyes to the carpet, hanging my head in shame.

“Well! You must be so excited about your movie!” she burbles, like she hasn’t noticed anything amiss. “I’ll admit I have a little crush on Jonathan Varner. I know, I know,” she says, like she’s forestalling a protest I haven’t made. She bats her eyes. “A woman my age and all. And it was
so
kind of him to come all the way here to support you! Just to strike out on the spur of the moment like that, knowing what a commotion it would cause!”

I look at Rev for help.

“We appreciate your patience, Lucinda,” says Rev. “We’re ready to start.”

The eye contact she makes with him is not of the eye-batting variety. She glares at him, her face turning from sunburn pink to magenta in a few short seconds. “It’s a good thing someone found time to call the media when Varner was on his way, don’t you think? Otherwise, we may not have been able to mobilize enough of our deputies to keep the crowds back. People could’ve been hurt.”

“You’re welcome,” says Rev with a cocky grin. “The press was already here waiting for Claire. Media manipulation works both ways, Lucinda. Did you think I’d just stand back and let my client do some sort of “perp walk” for the cameras? You should know me better than that.”

Okay, I like this guy
, I think.

Davin shoots me a look that I interpret as
Ha! I told you so
.

“Let’s sit down, shall we?” says Rev.

We take our seats across the table from each other, like two football teams on the line of scrimmage before the ball is snapped. She introduces two of her associates. Their names, even their physical presence, pass through my brain like neutrinos streaming through the Earth–one second they’re here, the next they’re in the depths of outer space, with very little evidence of their existence.

Lucinda Gaelic slides a damp-looking business card across the polished wood of the table. I’m a little overeager to smooth over any offense I’ve given over my impolite handshake, so I move fast. Even so, Rev intercepts the card before I can touch it.