The Bomb Maker's Son (5 page)

“Does that mean you won’t help us?” I ask.

His earlobes wobble in rhythm to his headshake, and he lowers his head to glower. “When did the law schools begin teaching classes in how to interrupt? In my day, one of the skills of an effective lawyer was the ability to listen. But anyone who went to law school after nineteen eighty loves to hear himself talk. Or have television and video games and computers effectively ablated your generation’s prefrontal cortexes? If you want my explanation, please do not interrupt me!”

I glance at Lovely, who puffs out her cheeks, doing a poor job of stifling a laugh.

“My apologies, Mr. Dworsky,” I say.

“I accept your apology,” he says. “You may call me Moses.” And if you closed your eyes and heard only his voice, you’d truly believe that you were hearing the voice of God’s first prophet.

“Here’s Holzner’s apparent misconception in referring me to you. He evidently believes that I remain sympathetic to his cause, or at least to the revolutionary ends we both fought for during the late sixties and early seventies. Otherwise, he would not have sent you to me. But you should know that I do not believe in those goals any longer, have not for quite a long time. The movement in which I believed, in which I invested my soul and my heart, was predicated upon a Fabian socialist theory that there should be equal rights for all, that unbridled capitalism is evil, that a government elected to serve the people had no right to use young men as cannon fodder to fight an unjust, senseless war. I wanted to preserve the American system of government, not tear it down. In sharp contrast, Ian Holzner was a terrorist, no better than the terrorists who followed him. Regrettably, I unwittingly played a role in encouraging such acts by advocating for individuals whom I believed to be dedicated to ensuring human rights and justice for all. As it transpired, many of these people were villainous, mere terror mongers. And though I did nothing criminal despite what you might have read, my naïveté in believing in these people cost me my legal career, the greatest love of my life. What brought me to my senses was one seminal event, namely the coordinated attacks on this country that occurred on September eleventh in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and one. It was then I realized that this country is under siege and must be preserved against blind radicalism, Islamic or otherwise. To make a long story short, I do not agree with what Ian Holzner did, and I am no longer in sympathy with the political left. Indeed, full disclosure requires that I tell you that since 9/11, I have voted Republican, though heaven knows I do not agree with many of their ideals.” His forehead is damp from the effort of explaining. He removes a cloth handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. “As far as I am concerned, Holzner is, in the vernacular, a flaming asshole. He used his charisma to prey on innocent young women so he could get them to do his bidding. That is what he did to Rachel O’Brien.” He folds his arms across his chest in a Poo-Bah pose.

“So you argued in her defense,” I say. “I take it that means you won’t help us?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you retain me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will need a private investigator. That is what I am. Two hundred and fifty dollars per hour. Inexpensive, especially because you will also have the benefit of my considerable legal skills. And you will gain access to the files from the O’Brien case. The nonprivileged portions, I might add.”

I’m not sure if my eyes have widened or my jaw has gone slack or both, but Dworsky says, “Oh, don’t look so surprised. I might not agree with Holzner, but one has to make a living, especially in this economy. And to set your mind at ease, I am an advocate. You know as well as I that we often work harder for our culpable clients than we do for the innocent ones. It is human nature to try to justify our poor choices with increased effort.”

“Let me be clear,” I say. “You’ve kept the files after all these years?”

“I do not throw anything away,” he says. “
Everything
is safely archived. And if you retain me, you will get much easier access to the Rachel O’Brien files. A subpoena would only generate an assertion of the attorney-client privilege that would keep you tied up in court on the collateral issue for weeks.”

I glance at Lovely, who’s nodding. She’s smart but also inexperienced. Sure, Dworsky can give us access to old documents that only he might still have. But the man is a stranger. Worse, he committed a criminal act against the United States and dislikes the client. He’s untrustworthy and a PR nightmare, in other words.

“We’ll hire you on one condition,” Lovely says.

“We need to talk,” I say to her.

She flutters her hand in the air as though I’m a wisp of second-hand smoke. “You have a lot of office space, Mr. Dworsky.”

“It’s Moses. Please.”

“Okay, Moses. Parker and I need an office. How about you provide us the office space rent-free and we hire you at your normal hourly rate?”

I nearly bolt from my chair. “Lovely, we can’t impose on Moses.”

She doesn’t turn to look at me. “I’m not going to spend my days cooped up in The Barrista Coffee House pretending it’s a real law office.”

“I don’t mind working out of the Frantz offices,” I say. “You must have space for one more attorney.”

“I tried, but Lou says no way. He doesn’t want the Holzner case in the office. He thinks it’ll be a distraction.”

“That is so typical of the man,” Dworsky says. “He craves the publicity but eschews the headache.”

“This isn’t Century City, but it’s a real office,” Lovely says. “Plus, we need those documents. We owe it to our client to get them. Do we have a deal, Moses?”

Dworsky is leaning back in his chair, enjoying this. I know what his answer will be, if only because he’s clearly a man who favors the underdog.

“We do have a binding deal, Ms. Diamond.”

I start to object but think better of it. Despite my reservations about Dworsky, he can help us with the case. And Lovely is right when she says we can’t work out of The Barrista. This is a capital murder case, and we need as many amenities as possible.

“I guess it’s fine with me,” I say, but the words tumble to the floor when Moses and Lovely look at each other and roll their eyes in tandem.

We agree to speak further, say good-bye to Dworsky, and leave. The ride down Dworsky’s elevator is more harrowing than the ride up. The rattle of the hoist mechanism is louder; the car’s shaking is more violent. The journey seems interminable.

When the door opens, I notice that across the parking lot, Mariko Heim, the woman from the Sanctified Assembly who knocked on my condo door the day my mother and Holzner showed up, is leaning against her blue Mercedes, its engine running. She’s wearing sunglasses. When she sees us, she nods her head slightly and frowns. I walk toward her, but before I can reach her, she quickly gets into the back seat of the Mercedes, and the driver speeds away.

CHAPTER SIX

The following Monday, Lovely and I take the elevator up, open the door to Dworsky’s suite, and stop short when we see an older woman sitting at the reception desk. She takes a sip of tea from an “I Love the Weekend” mug from which she hasn’t bothered to remove the Lipton tea bag. Then she starts typing on a computer keyboard with the look of someone who doesn’t quite know how the gizmo works. Her short, curly, gray hair gives her an androgynous look, as does her wrinkle-scored skin. She’s wearing a drab gray shirt. With her longish nose, thin face, and short hair, she resembles a pigeon. She’s probably not much older than my own mother, but because this woman hasn’t had extensive cosmetic surgery, she and Harriet appear to be from different generations.

“Hi Lovely, hi Parker, good morning,” she says as though we’ve worked in this office for years. “I’m Eleanor Dworsky, the brains behind Moses.” She winks like an over-the-hill film-noir bimbo and gestures toward the far corner of the waiting room. “Meet my only progeny, Brandon Soloway. The product of my first marriage.”

I hadn’t noticed the young man sitting hunched over in a chair. He’s got dark hair cropped close to the scalp, two days’ worth of dark stubble, and broad shoulders.

“Hey,” he mumbles, not meeting my eyes.

“Brandon is twenty-six years old, which is very young, and the product of a broken home,” Eleanor says. “You, Parker, are a famous lawyer and former actor. You, Lovely, are a slightly famous lawyer and a former . . . well, let’s say you’re a slightly famous lawyer, though knowing Brandon, he’s much more interested in your former career as, shall we say, a performer. It’s understandable that he’s intimidated.” She frowns at him, her mouth no more than an inverted line that resembles one of her wrinkles. “Brandon, be polite, act like the grown man you aren’t, and look these people in the eye.”

“Jesus,” he says, making eye contact for no more than half a second. “I’m out of here, Mom.” He springs to his feet and stomps out of the office.

Why did I think Militant Moe wouldn’t have a secretary, much less a wife and stepson? Eleanor seems as if she was born with that slight smirk. It suits her the way dimples suit some people. She raises a knobby shoulder, a gesture that signals a mixture of disgust and resignation. “I love him dearly, but he’s an asshole.”

“Who
are
these people?” Lovely whispers through clenched teeth.

Eleanor reaches over the credenza and extends a hand. When I take it, she squeezes hard.

“I’ve followed your cases on the news,” she says. “You’re a big-time lawyer, my friend. We’re strictly small-time in this office. Oh, Moses was a big-time lawyer once, but that was before I met him. I’ve been his secretary for eleven years and his wife for eight. And how are you today, Lovely?”

Lovely nods, her lips pressed tight in the lock position. She doesn’t suffer fools, and she doesn’t usually brush off insults.

“Aren’t these interesting times?” Eleanor says.

“Is there something wrong?” Lovely asks.

“Is Moses ready to speak with us?” I say, taking a step down the hall. Lovely doesn’t budge.

“You’re a very perceptive girl, Lovely. What’s wrong is that I don’t like your client. I remember the Playa Delta bombing vividly. I abhor what Holzner did.”

“He’s innocent,” Lovely says.

“
Presumed
innocent,” Eleanor says. “It’s not the same thing. But as Moses says, anyone is entitled to a defense. I suppose.”

“Is Moses available, Eleanor?” I repeat.

She raises her hand, sticks out a thumb, and makes a hitchhiking motion to our left. “Enjoy yourselves, kids. And don’t ask me for information. The answer will always be, ‘How the hell would I know?’”

We go inside and find Dworsky in his office, dressed in a suit with his coat on, as if he’s about to plead a case in court. He motions for us to sit.

“How may I help you?” Dworsky asks.

“We’d like to hear about the other members of the Holzner-O’Brien Gang,” I say.

“At your service. Where shall we start?”

“Let’s start with your former client. Holzner said she lied at her trial about his involvement in the bombing.”

“Rachel did not lie. Truth be told, she was meticulous about not implicating him directly, though I wanted her to. She simply told the truth about his penchant for violence and his ability to make the bomb. It was I who blamed Holzner in valid defense of my client. I must say my strategy saved her life.” His entire body, even his large ears and nose, seem to expand with pride at his accomplishment. “But now we are on to a different case and a different strategy.”

I can sense Lovely’s discomfort, which is interesting because she was the one who wanted Dworsky on the case.

“Tell us about O’Brien,” I say.

“The sad tale of a brilliant young woman led astray by an older man with whom she thought she was in love. It was very typical of the radical movement that women would turn to violence because of a man’s influence. She met Holzner at Berkeley. He was already an established leader in the movement. She fell under his spell and embraced violence at his behest and counsel. Eventually, Holzner began to have so little regard for the sanctity of human life that Rachel had second thoughts. Ultimately, several months before the Playa Delta bombing, she recanted her avowed support of terrorism and refused to participate. But because she had been involved in the planning, she went to prison anyway. I saved her from being unjustly convicted of first-degree murder, fortunately.” He folds his hands in front of him.

“That’s it?” Lovely says.

“Yes, essentially that is it, Ms. Diamond. These things are usually not complicated.”

“Do you know where she’s living now?”

“I lost track of her after she was released on parole. She moved back to the Bay Area where her family lived, but they wanted nothing to do with her. In the early nineties, I tried to look her up. I was between marriages, and Rachel was always an attractive woman, though not in the classical sense, so my motives were personal. I was quite something in my day. Eleanor, the love of my life, has tamed me. But I could not locate O’Brien, even with my formidable investigatory skills, which I had even as a practicing attorney.”

“What can you tell us about her background?” I ask.

“Nothing you cannot get from the
Wikipedia
entry. She was the school valedictorian, the offspring of upper-class liberal parents against whom she rebelled by becoming radical. A common story. She was an excellent witness at trial. Of course, I prepared her.”

“And based on her testimony, you believe Ian Holzner bombed the Playa Delta VA?” Lovely asks.

“That is what I believed then,” he says. “Since I am currently working for Holzner’s defense team, it is not what I believe now.”

“Tell us about Charles Sedgwick,” Lovely says.

“They called him ‘Chicken Charlie,’” Dworsky says. “He was a philosophy major enamored of leftist politics, an activist who seriously believed in the need for violent revolution. But he was a thinker, not a doer. He evidently would become physically ill in the presence of the explosives. There is a story—I do not know if it is apocryphal—that he lost bladder control when he was supposed to plant a bomb at the Treasury Building in Washington, DC. I will say this for him—he was the one person who stayed loyal until the end. He would not participate in the trial and was convicted of first-degree murder because of the bombing deaths. The only one. And he had very little to do with it, except some amorphous planning. The man is still in prison, consistently denied parole because he is unrepentant and persists in his refusal to cooperate. A tragedy. Had I represented him, I think I could have gotten him off with time served.”