The Bomb Maker's Son (9 page)

Holzner skims the printout of the e-mail and tosses it back to FBI Agent Jason Neville. I pick up the paper and read it for a third time:

Subject: Communiqué #1

To: Dishonorable Chief Judge of the Fascist Court of America

From: JB

This afternoon, at 3:23 p.m., we blew up the federal courthouse in downtown Los Angeles. The American government is our enemy, acting through their leaders, some are named Bush, others Clinton, and others Obama. The names are different but the crimes are the same.

We demand the immediate dismissal of charges against Ian Holzner, the release from political prison of Charles Sedgwick, the dismantling of the Gestapo NSA, the immediate withdrawal of all U.S. Military troops from Afghanistan and the Persian Gulf, and the imprisonment of the capitalist billionaires who control this country and who commit racist genocide on a daily basis, who enslave women and the poor on a daily basis.

The government’s vulnerability has been exposed since 9/11, and we and the oppressed people of the world will continue to exploit it until our demands are met. We are numerous. Free Ian!

“I don’t know anything about this piece of shit,” Holzner says.

“Don’t say another word,” I say.

Neville twists his lips in a disbelieving smirk. “So it’s just a coincidence that the bomb went off while you were spouting off to the reporters? It’s just a coincidence that the e-mail calls for your release? How convenient.” The bomb was apparently left outside in a gym bag. It was both too close to the building and too far from the crowd to result in carnage, luckily.

Holzner counter-smirks. “Do you think I’d be stupid enough to—?”

“Shut up
now
, goddamn it!” My words echo off the interrogation-room walls, though the room is acoustically designed to tamp down the noise. Lovely actually covers her ears, and Holzner flinches. His cheeks redden the way mine supposedly do when I’m about to become enraged—or, so says my mother.

“I demand my client’s immediate release,” I say.

“He just orchestrated the bombing of a federal facility,” Neville says.

“Given that he’s been in your jail for the last few days, that’s impossible. And you sure as hell don’t have any evidence supporting your unfounded allegation. You have no right to keep him here.”

But they do try to keep him here. Marilee Reddick’s underling shows up and gives notice that the government is going in
ex parte
to ask Judge Gibson to revoke bail. I leave Lovely with Holzner and return to the courthouse, where I argue for two hours in chambers that there’s no evidence that Holzner had anything to do with this crime, that on the contrary, he was continuously in federal custody or surrounded by marshals, that he had no opportunity to communicate with anyone when he was in jail. Reddick responds that the plan could’ve been in the works for years, to be carried out if and when Holzner was caught. She keeps repeating that the JB communiqué calls for Holzner’s exoneration. She reminds the judge that he has discretion whether to grant bail and argues that he should exercise that discretion to protect the public from Holzner. She claims that his impromptu press conference was a pretext for gathering a crowd so his accomplice could inflict damage.

Fortunately, Carlton Gibson is a stubborn man. He lets his order granting supervised bail stand.

After the hearing, I ask Reddick if she has any information on who planted the bomb or on who JB is.

“Yeah, your client planted the bomb, Stern. Preliminary forensics says it’s the same kind of bomb that blew up the Playa Delta VA. A Holzner bomb. Your client is JB, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Why don’t you ask him.” She walks away, the middle finger of her left hand raised in the air until she gets on the elevator.

It gives me little solace that in the almost forty years since Playa Delta, terrorist bomb making has come a long way.

At six-thirty that evening, I’m driving in my Lexus with my father, who’s been fitted with an electronic ankle bracelet. This is the first time we’ve been alone together. Well, we’re not actually alone. There are US Marshals’ vehicles both directly in front of and directly behind us—a motorcade for a terrorist.

The Friday-evening rush-hour traffic is a snarled train of frustrated LA drivers, all of whom must be fearful and angry that the city has become the target of a terrorist attack. I pray that no one looks in the window and recognizes Holzner. The marshals avoid the freeways, where they would have less control, and lead us down Venice Boulevard through the gritty, rundown neighborhood just west of downtown. We pass the check-cashing stores and health-hazard cantinas and dingy bodegas, the signage in both English and Spanish; and a mile or two down, the authentic Korean dress shops, credit dentists, and acupuncturists, the signs in English and Korean. Gang graffiti scores the walls. The throng on the sidewalks comprises mostly poor workers: day laborers on their way back from landscaping and rough-carpentry and moving jobs; housekeepers coming home from the tony Westside; home-health workers waiting for the bus so they can start the swing shift taking care of infirm octogenarians; homeless men and women alternately talking to those elusive voices in the air and seeking a handout. Precisely the kind of people Holzner once fantasized about leading in armed uprising against the government. Few, if any, seem interested in rebellion at the moment—Holzner’s brand of revolution or any other kind. This mostly admirable group of people, waging a peaceful war against poverty and hardscrabble existence, silently prove how much of a fool my father was. Is he still?

We don’t speak for the twenty-five minutes it takes to get to La Brea, not even a third of the way to my place. It’s almost as if we’re in a contest to see who can stay silent the longest. I feel as if I rescued a stray dog from the pound and only now realize that he might bite me or piss on my rug when I get him home.

Finally he says, “What happened to my brother?”

“I looked around for him, but he was gone. He probably took shelter in the building and got out of LA as quickly as he could. That’s what I would’ve done. But I have to ask. He seemed a bit slow.”

“Everyone thought that. It’s not that simple. The war started his decline, and the FBI finished it when they tortured him. I hope Jerry did go home. He has no business getting involved in my problems.” He shifts slightly in his seat. “You were good in court. Well spoken.”

I glance over in a reflexive response to the remark. He’s facing the window, but his head is tilted back and his eyes are shut tight.

“I’ll say this,” he says. “You’re far more attuned to other people than I was. I thought I could persuade without listening. That was my downfall.”

“Downfall how?”

“You listened, Parker. You sensed what the judge wanted to hear.”

“Answer my question. How was your failure to listen to other people your downfall?”

His eyes are still closed as if in sleep. I half wonder whether I’m speaking with a somniloquist in the midst of a dream.

“You performed a miracle and got me out of that cage they call a humane jail, all because you have an innate ability to read people.”

We drive another five minutes in silence.

“Who do you think bombed the courthouse?” I ask.

“It wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t ask you that. I want to know who you think is responsible. Because I’m pretty sure you know who JB is.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Call it my innate ability to read people.”

Keeping his head forward, he shifts only his eyes to look at me, then crosses his arms and slides down the seat in a reclining position. In less than a minute, he falls asleep for real, not awakening until I pull into the underground garage of my condo. Outside of my building are a half dozen US Marshals whose job it is to ensure that the Playa Delta Bomber doesn’t lam out again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

On this overcast Saturday morning, the day after the courthouse bombing, I pull up to Ernesto’s Automotive, Inc., which offers
Collision Repair, Free Estimate
. I get out of the car and walk into the waiting room. It’s immaculate, with an almost-spotless off-white linoleum floor, burgundy and black-metal armchairs, a couple of bar stools by the window, and an IKEA dark-wood coffee table with a glass top. There are two ficus plants. On one wall are the shop’s certificates of merit from the Better Business Bureau, the Fullerton Chamber of Commerce, and various automotive trade organizations. Underneath a big-screen TV in the corner is a table with coffee service, with real cream and raw sugar provided. None of it can mask the acrid smell of metallic paint and automotive grease coming from the garage.

An attractive teenage girl is sitting behind a counter, typing on a computer keyboard. When she sees me, she stands, although she’s so short her head seems to be almost at the same level as when she was sitting down. She’s dressed in a light-blue chambray pullover, a tie-dyed pink, white, and red miniskirt, and white Birkenstocks. Her long, straight hair is California surfer-girl blond, and her face is heart-shaped with a refined chin. She gives me the rote yet genuine smile of a shy person forced into a sales position. The smile vanishes when she realizes who I am.

“Omigod, freaky, you’re my . . . you’re him,” she says in a voice that has the timbre of a wonderful woodwind. She checks her wristwatch and looks over her shoulder nervously. “We don’t have much time. Ernesto will be back any minute.”

“Yes, Emily, I’m your half brother.” I say the words out of obligation. Maybe I’m callous, but what connection do I have to her? I’m forty and this person—this
stranger
—is seventeen, the age of a daughter, not a sister. For the first time in my life, I truly feel ancient.

She covers her mouth with a dainty hand. “Omigod, you were in the bombing at the courthouse. Is my dad okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“When can I see him?” Even her whisper sounds melodious. She nervously twists a strand of hair between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. “Omigod, you look so much like Dylan.”

I’ve seen an official photo of Dylan in his Marine Dress Blue Alpha uniform, his cap pulled down over his brow and his lips pressed hard in a military frown—more like a study of a warrior in granite than a portrait of a human being. “I don’t see much of a resemblance,” I say.

She turns, leans over to open a drawer, and hands me a photograph. In this picture, he’s standing next to the arching trunk of a potted palm, rocky cliffs and the ocean in the background, evoking Laguna Beach or La Jolla. Here, he’s a blond version of me, or how I looked in my midtwenties just out of law school. The same determined eyes (though his were blue and mine are brown), oval face, longish straight nose, and narrow smile I see in photos of myself. It’s proof not only that I had a biological connection to Dylan but also that Ian Holzner is really my father. The pressure builds behind my eyes, unexpected tears for the loss of someone I never knew existed. I hold the picture up to my face as if I’m myopic, trying to hide my eyes so Emily won’t notice that I’m struggling to compose myself.

“See?” she says.

“Yeah. I see it.”

She sighs softly. “When can I see my father? He told Ernesto he didn’t want me at the jail, didn’t want me to see him like that. But now he’s living with you.”

“Ian is under house arrest. I’m not sure he’s allowed to have visitors.”

“I don’t know any Ian. My father is Marty Lansing. A kind, peaceful man.” She points toward the reception area. “Let’s go sit over there.”

“How are you doing, Emily?”

She shrugs and gives an exaggerated tilt of the head, a movement I associate only with teenage girls. “Good, I guess. Ernesto is so pissed at my dad. They were such good friends.” Another shrug. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine.”

“He didn’t do it, you know? It’s all lies. He’s a sweet man, never hit us, never even yelled at me or Dylan.” She puffs her lips and lets her shoulders go limp. “I miss Mama and Dylan. I miss my family.” I expect tears, but she’s composed. Maybe she’s all cried out. I would be. She glances over her shoulder and whispers, “I mean, he didn’t do it, did he? It doesn’t make sense.”