The Bomb Maker's Son (34 page)

I move behind Holzner and place my hands on his shoulders again. I want the jury to see that I care about him, to
feel
my concern. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve heard hours of testimony from government witnesses and argument from Ms. Reddick about how Ian Holzner was a radical, how he flouted our country’s laws and wanted to overthrow our democracy. An urban guerrilla. A middle-class revolutionary. A spoiled, ungrateful brat. It’s all true. In nineteen seventy-five, he had no respect for the law of this land. But now, members of the jury, it’s your turn to decide whether you respect the law of the land. If you do, then you’ll acquit Ian Holzner, because the prosecution has failed to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. But if, instead, you vote to convict, you’ll have flouted our laws and committed an act of radicalism. So, I urge you to follow the law, to do justice, to respect our system of government. It’s not an easy thing to do. But if you truly believe in the rule of law, then you can bring back only one verdict—not guilty. Members of the jury, Ian Holzner’s life is in your hands.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Marilee Reddick is at the lectern before I can sit down. She spends a few minutes scoffing at my argument and the rest of her time talking about Russell Breen and Floyd Corwin and Lucille Gomez and Elaine Smith, the four people who died in the Playa Delta bombing. She reminds the jury of the how precious mundane life is.

“Russell and Floyd and Lucille and Elaine died that day, and there’s nothing you can do as a jury to bring them back,” she says. “But what you can do is make sure that justice is done in their names. And justice requires that you find Ian Holzner guilty of murder in the first degree.” She bows. “It has been an honor, ladies and gentlemen, to represent the United States government and the victims and families of victims of the Playa Delta bombing.”

Judge Gibson immediately starts instructing the jury on the law—base your verdict solely on the evidence; don’t rely on anything that happened outside the courtroom; a defendant is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt; for a defendant to be convicted of first-degree murder, he must have acted with premeditation and malice aforethought. Then: “The defendant is not on trial for any of his thoughts, beliefs, or statements, which are protected by the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. The First Amendment, however, does not prevent the prosecution from offering evidence of a defendant’s beliefs in an attempt to prove that he had some motive, knowledge, or intent for committing the crimes alleged in the indictment. Whether you agree or disagree with the defendant’s expressed opinions or beliefs is irrelevant. You may no more convict the defendant because you may disagree with his opinions and beliefs than you may acquit him because you may agree with his opinions and beliefs.”

I glance at the jury. They’re looking in the judge’s direction, but I truly don’t know if any of them understand the instructions or even care about them.

Gibson takes off his reading glasses and gives the last instruction by memory: “Finally, members of the jury, remember that the question before you can never be, ‘Will the government win or lose this case?’ Regardless of whether the verdict is guilty or not guilty, the government always wins when justice is done.” It’s a nice sentiment, but against human nature—Marilee Reddick wants a conviction just as much I want an acquittal, justice be damned.

While Lovely checks in with her office, I go with Holzner when the marshals take him back to his holding cell. Before the marshals take him away, he comes over and embraces me. Now that the audience has left the building, he’s allowed his guards to remove the shackles. I hug back, a reaction that feels so natural it’s jarring.

“Thank you, Parker,” he says. “I’m glad I got to meet you, to know who you really are. You might not want to hear it, but we’re very much alike.”

I take a step back. “I don’t think so, Ian. I don’t like evangelical causes that make living human beings their deities. Those are the groups that become deadly. You were a demigod. I’m just a gun for hire working within the system.”

“You have the same passion I had. I heard it in your voice.”

“It’s called advocacy. A form of acting. I do it well.”

“No, it’s passion, fervor for the ideal. For equality, in my case, for justice in yours. For Harriet, it’s spiritual redemption, misguided or not.”

“You and Harriet craved power. I’m trying to serve justice. The proverbial cog.”

“Then why didn’t you suffer a moment’s stage fright when you truly started to believe in my innocence? You do believe, you know.”

Before I can respond, he nods to the marshals, who take him back to the courthouse holding cell.

As I turn the corner and walk toward the attorneys lounge, I see Lovely sprinting toward me, her pumps clacking on the linoleum floor. When she reaches me, she holds out the phone and says, “It’s for you, through my office. He’ll only talk to you. Maybe a crank, but I think you should . . .”

I take the phone. “This is Parker Stern.”

“Parker, it’s Jerry Holzner.”
Pahkoo, it’s Jehwy Hoznuh.
There’s tension in his voice. No, it’s more than that—he’s just on the controlled side of panic.

How do I play it? Friendly? Detached? I’ve hinted in open court that the man might be the Playa Delta Bomber. I’ve wondered whether he really exists. Businesslike and detached is always safest. “What can I do for you, Jerry?”

“I saw . . . I read about what Carol did.”
I wed about what Cawol did
. “It’s not fair. Not fair for anyone, not for Ian, not for Carol, it’s not fair.” He pauses for so long I fear I’ve lost him. “I have to tell you, Parker. It’s not fair.”

“Tell me what, Jerry?”

“I have to tell you, but I can’t tell you on the phone. Ian always says no phones. The FBI is listening. They’re always listening. That’s what Ian always says.” There’s deep, labored breathing. “I hate the FBI.”

“When did Ian say this, Jerry?”

“He . . . Not on the phone.
Not
on the phone. Where are you, Parker? Why aren’t you here?”

“Jerry, I’m at the courthouse. The trial just ended. Where are you?”

“At your office, of course. I called for you, but you’re not here. I didn’t know when the trial was over.”

“What do you mean my office?”

“Your office in the Valley. Dworsky’s office.”

I’ve never truly thought of the place as my office, and haven’t set foot in the place since the weekend after Dworsky murdered Sedgwick.

“It’s
your
office, too, right?” Jerry says. “Why did Moses stab Charlie? It stinks of rotten fish here.”

“Is anyone else there?”

“No. The door was open, it’s an office, I thought you would be here, I called for you. No one answered. Please, Parker, what should I do? I have to tell you. I don’t care if Ian will be mad. I read in the papers about what Carol did.”

“Stay where you are, Jerry. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

A raspy sigh of relief. “’Kay. ’Kay. Good.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Lovely and I sprint out of the courthouse and toward the lot where the rented Lexus is parked. She’s put her shoes in her briefcase and is running in stocking feet. We have to get there before Jerry decides to disappear again. Or the jury could come back with a guilty verdict immediately. If that happens, the US Attorney will characterize anything Jerry has to say as an after-the-fact, self-serving attempt to save his brother.

A few of the media catch sight of us and follow. We must be hurrying after something, right? Fortunately, I’m parked close to the escalator and know an alternate exit that passes under City Hall. When we drive out onto First Street, it looks like we’ve lost them. In my zeal to get to the Valley, I carelessly swerve into the left lane, almost hitting a Metro bus.

“Jesus,” Lovely says. “Let’s get there in one piece.”

“Sorry.”

“Should we be going alone? There’s something wrong with that guy.”

“He’s a little slow. The trauma from what the cops—”

“I don’t care what the reason is. He sounds like a nutcase. We should call the cops.”

“Which will scare him away permanently. And he’s my uncle. Ian’s brother.”

“You can’t be serious. The man’s a stranger.”

“I’m not calling the police on Jerry. If you don’t want to come, you can get out at the next intersection.”

Her sigh is accusatory, yet she says, “Just keep driving.”

A fine mist starts falling—it’s January, after all—and the drizzle snarls the Hollywood Freeway. The forty-five minute drive takes us an hour and ten. Lovely spends the time on the phone with her office, talking to Lou Frantz about other cases, and all the while I grip the steering wheel and pray that she won’t tell him where we’re going, because he’ll certainly insist we call the police, and if we don’t, he’ll call them himself. Sure, it’s the rational thing to do. But I’m not about to lose the chance to get information that will save Ian. Carol Diaz told part of the truth. There’s more truth out there somewhere. I also meant what I said—Jerry is my uncle. He clearly still loves Ian, worships him, I suspect, and I’m Ian’s son, so I don’t believe he’d harm me or my loved ones. It’s a kind of trust I’ve felt with few people: Lovely Diamond; my mentor, Harmon Cherry; Deanna Poulos, my late friend and the founder of The Barrista.

I finally pull up to Dworsky’s building and park the car. You’d think the rain would’ve washed the stench away, but the place now smells of rotting fish laced with creosote. Lovely stumbles on the top step to the entrance, and I barely catch her arm before she falls forward. Her sharp look conveys her unhappiness. There’s water on the floor of the rickety elevator. I hope it’s condensation and not from a leak that might short out the electrical system.

The elevator makes it to the second floor, and when we step out into reception, we find Jerry Holzner dozing in one of the armchairs, a septuagenarian lump. He’s dressed in the same black San Francisco Giants windbreaker and cap that he was wearing when I saw him the day of the courthouse bombing. When I walk over and touch his elbow, he jumps, blinks his eyes twice, springs out of the chair, and removes his cap.

“Oh, thank God you’re here, Parker.” He nods at Lovely. “I know you, Ms. Diamond. I called your office. I trust you.”
I twust you.

“What do you want to tell us, Jerry?” I ask.

He turns down his lips in a kind of dyspeptic frown. “I’m doing it because of Carol. She was brave. I want to be brave like she is. Even though Ian doesn’t want me to tell it.”

“I don’t want you to tell it, either, Jerry,” says a woman’s voice, and I look up to see Eleanor Dworsky emerging from the inner suite of offices. “So don’t say another word.”

Jerry’s eyes widen and almost distend like a child with the night terrors. “Waychil?”

It takes me a moment to realize that he’s called Eleanor Dworsky
Rachel
. But that’s not what frightens me. What terrifies me is that she’s holding a very large handgun. Her son, Brandon Soloway, is holding another.

I was wrong when I concluded that Eleanor Dworsky didn’t have cosmetic surgery. She’s clearly had more than one operation to hide the fact that she’s Rachel O’Brien—bone shaved in the nose to make it more beaklike; eye surgery to make them smaller, rounder; dental work that caused her chin to recede. Whatever she did to herself, the objective was to make her homelier, nondescript. That, along with her decision not to interfere with the natural aging process, and she concocted the perfect disguise.

“What, no doughnuts, Eleanor?” Lovely says. Why won’t Lovely keep quiet? Maybe it’s the fear, or maybe it’s some misguided belief that she can prolong our lives by causing them to drop their guard. She’s wrong. There’s nothing you can do to deter someone like O’Brien.

“Refined sugar and processed wheat are the megacorporations’ weapons against the masses,” Eleanor says. “You never noticed that I don’t touch those things? Keep eating that stuff and it’ll kill you, Lovely. Though I’m afraid you won’t live long enough for that to happen.”

Brandon chortles at that.

“Why did you order Moses to kill Sedgwick?” Lovely asks. “And another question—do you seriously think you’re John Brown?”

“I’m disappointed in you, Jerry,” Eleanor says. “You always obeyed Ian. Except for now, and look at the mess you’ve made.”

“You are evil, Rachel,” he says. “You always were. All the killing, and you let Ian and Charlie and Belinda take the blame. You killed them, didn’t you, Charlie and Belinda? After Charlie kept quiet for so long you killed him anyway. It’s not fair. You are evil.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Brandon says.

“Not here, Brandon. Think! Maybe Jerry, but if the other two are found dead here, who are they going to look for?”

Brandon’s hand starts trembling, and he waves the gun in the air, and for a moment I think he might shoot Eleanor, and then I fear he’ll shoot us, but he lowers the weapon.

“You know what sucks?” Eleanor says to me. “Because you showed up here, I think Ian might get off. This time. What do you think, Lovely?”

“If his lawyers disappear or are found dead during trial?” Lovely says. “A no-brainer mistrial.”