The Forgotten (5 page)

“And you’re fired, Mr. Melrose. Do you understand that?”

“Ernie, what in the world is wrong with you?” Jill screamed. “Apologize!”

“This is precisely why I can’t trust him without representation,” Melrose said.

Ernesto tightened his fists. “This is my life here, Mr. Melrose. Not yours, not my mom’s, not Dad’s…
my life
.” He looked at Decker. “I can speak for myself.”

Melrose said, “Carter, you can’t let him do this!”

“Yes, he can,” Ernesto said. “My parents raised me with independence. Now they’re going to put their money where their mouths are and trust me to do the right thing!”

And what could the Goldings say to that? Decker couldn’t have scripted it better. He broke in. “Where do you want to talk, Mr. Golding?” A pause. “Is there a vacant classroom somewhere?”

“You can have the faculty lounge annex,” Williams stated.

Ernesto said, “I have a calculus test last period. That’s in an hour. Can we wrap it up by then?”

“That depends on what you have to tell me,” Decker said.

“I’m not gonna miss my test,” Ernesto insisted. “I studied two hours for that sucker.”

“Ernesto, calculus should not be foremost on your mind!” Jill barged in.

“Calculus isn’t foremost on my mind, Ma, only getting an A in calculus. If I don’t get an A in calculus, I can kiss off the Ivies.” To Decker, he said, “You said the records would be sealed?”

“If I like what I hear, I’ll make that recommendation.”

“So I wouldn’t have to put anything on my college applications?”

“Not if they’re sealed.”

“So the universities wouldn’t know—”

“Forget about college right now!” Carter snapped.

“How can I forget about college, Dad!” Ernesto exploded. “Other than sex, college is all I ever think about. Because it’s all
you and Mom
ever think about!”

The prep school
supplied lots of perks, among them the faculty lounge. It was set up like a café in a bookstore with tables, chairs, a few comfy sofas, and several computer stations, allowing teachers to go on-line and check their E-mail. Plenty of reading material—novels, nonfiction, magazines, and papers—sat on the built-in shelves that lined the walls. A few excellent pieces of student artwork were displayed. The biggest benefit, in Decker’s mind, was the in-house laundry service. When Dr. Dahl saw him gaping at the counter, she explained that the faculty worked long hours. It was the least they could do.

Decker had to strain to hear her because, as they walked, Ernesto was sandwiched between them. He followed the administrator through the area, ignoring the steely looks of those who occupied the space. He said, “A place that does the wash. What’s your starting salary?”

The woman actually cracked a smile. “It’s on the high side because all of our teachers have postcollege education.”

An obvious slap in the face meant to put him in his place. Decker just shrugged. “I’m an attorney. Does that count?”

She slowed, giving him a quick glance. “You’re an attorney?”

“Once upon a time.”

“You actually passed the bar?”

“Now you’re getting insulting.”

She blushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, I passed the bar,” Decker said.

Gently, Jaime guided Ernesto. “This way.”

The annex was a blip of a room off the lounge. It was paneled, cozy, and held two tables, each with a computer, and several couches. It also had its own private rest rooms, which Decker found very impressive. They had interrupted a couple involved in a deep conversation. The young blond woman stood up, red-faced and red-eyed, smiling nervously at Dr. Dahl. The man—a bit older, in his thirties—remained on the couch, trying to adopt a casual demeanor, raking his hair with his fingers.

Jaime said, “We need the room, Brent.”

Slowly, the man got up. “Sure. Of course.” He walked out with the blond woman, a healthy distance between them.

Jaime tried to stifle a sigh. To Decker, she said, “Can I get you some coffee?”

“How about some water for the both of us?”

Ernesto said, “I’m fine.”

“I’ll bring some in, just in case.” Jaime left.

“Where do I sit?”

“Anywhere you want,” Decker answered.

The teen looked around, deciding on the couch. “Are you really an attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you a cop then?” Ernesto looked down. “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“I like the job.” Decker took out his notebook.

Ernesto said, “I saw this documentary once…about cops. Once they retire, they have a hard time readjusting to the civilian world. That’s what they call it, right?” He looked to Decker for confirmation, but Decker didn’t react. “Anyway, the moderator or narrator said something about cops being adrenaline junkies…that the regular world was a boring place compared to what they were used to. A high percentage
of them commit suicide. Because they’ve been hooked on the adrenaline like others get hooked on drugs.”

Decker said, “Are you hooked on drugs?”

Ernesto shrugged. “Nah. Drugs are just for recreation. Something to do because the parties are so damn boring.”

“Is that why you vandalized the synagogue? Because you were bored?”

Jaime Dahl came back in the room with a bottle of Evian and two glasses. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” Decker couldn’t keep the edge off his voice. He had wanted to say,
Leave us the hell alone
.

Jaime picked up on it. “I’ll be waiting in the lounge.”

“Where are my parents?” Ernesto asked her.

“With Dr. Williams.”

“Is Mr. Melrose there, too?”

“Yes.”

Decker said, “Any time you want to stop and consult your parents or lawyer, just let me know.”

Ernesto took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m all right. I can handle myself.”

No one spoke. Jaime finally said, “I’ll be going, then.”

Decker smiled. He even kept the smile after she closed the door, as he waited for the kid to speak. He tried to make eye contact. It lasted for a few seconds, then Ernesto’s gaze fell on other things. The computers’ screen savers, the candy machine, the landscape on the wall. His posture was casual, but the vein in the kid’s temple was pulsating, his jaw taut and bulging. He didn’t appear the least bit cocky. On the contrary, Ernesto was worried…troubled.

“Actually, this is a good thing.”

“What is?” Decker asked.

“You and me here. I don’t want my parents or their lawyer to hear the full details of what happened.”

“Their lawyer is your lawyer. You’re going to have to tell him.”

“I will, but he doesn’t have to hear the details, either. I
mean he needs details, but he doesn’t need…” Ernesto groped for the words.

“Explicit details?” Decker tried.

“Yeah. Exactly. I’ll tell you and maybe you can soften it around the edges.”

“You can present it to your lawyer however you’d like.”

“No one was hurt, you know.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You think we can work something out?”

“I’ll know better once I hear what you have to say.”

“And if you can’t work something out?”

“Then you’re no worse off than you were a few minutes ago.”

He folded his hands into his lap, a sheen of sweat draped across the big forehead. “I am not out of control. I know you think I am, but I’m not. Despite what I did, I am not angry with anyone or anything. My life’s okay. I don’t hate my parents. I’ve got friends. I’m not hooked on drugs even if I do drop dope occasionally. I’m a top student, a lettered athlete. I’ve got lots of spending cash. My own set of wheels…”

Silence.

“But you’re bored,” Decker said.

“Not really.” The teen licked his lips. “I’ve got this problem. I need help.”

No one spoke. Then Decker said, “Are you asking me to suggest that the judge recommend counseling in lieu of punishment?”

“No, I’m willing to do community service. I fucked up. I know that. It wasn’t anything personal, Lieutenant Decker. I want you to know that. I just have this…obsession. I…had to do it.”

“You felt obliged to trash a synagogue?” Decker’s voice was neutral. “How so?”

“Just kept thinking about it. Over and over and over and over. I need help. But I’ve got to make sure I have the right therapist.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking for, Ernesto. I have no recommendations.”

“My parents would love to see me in therapy.” Head down. “They’ve been in therapy, like, forever. They think everyone needs therapy. So I guess by going to a shrink, I’ll make them happy.”

Decker waited.

“I don’t want their therapist or his recommendation,” Ernesto said. “He’s not what I need…a
good friend
to talk things over with. I need some guidance here. That’s why I’m talking to you.”

“I’m not a therapist, Ernesto.”

“I know, I know. You’re only interested in a confession and putting this baby to bed. But maybe if you know the background, you can go to the D.A. and get some suggestions.”

If the kid was acting, he was doing a great job. He seemed genuinely perturbed, down to the fidgets and the squirms. Decker, ever the optimist, was willing to hear him out. Perhaps this boy, who had desecrated a synagogue with obscene slogans and left horrific pictures, had a story to tell.

“Ernesto, I’ll do what I can. But first I have to hear something. So if you want to tell me certain things, I’ll listen.”

“Okay, I’ll do that. It’s hard, though. Despite my family’s liberal-bordering-on-radical attitudes, we’re not a family with open communication. I know what my parents want, and if I deliver, I get the goodies. I don’t rock the boat, I sail on smooth waters. So here it goes.”

Decker nodded encouragement.

“When you asked me if my family is Jewish, and I said way back when, I wasn’t being snide. But I wasn’t being entirely truthful, and that’s the problem. My last name is Golding. My father’s father…my paternal grandfather…was Jewish. My paternal grandmother was Catholic. My mother’s mother is Dutch Lutheran, her dad was Irish Catholic. I’m a real mutt as far as any faith goes. So my parents—like the good liberals they are—raised me with no organized religion
and just a concept of justice for all. Not that I’m putting my parents down…Do you know what they do?”

“Golding Recycling.”

“Yeah. Did you know that they are among L.A.’s top one hundred industrialists?”

“Your parents are an entity.”

“I’ve got to give them credit. They’re sincere. Everything they do has the environment or civil rights or the homeless or AIDS or some other cause behind it. They are the consummate fund-raisers. Sometimes it got in the way at home—it’s just my brother and me—but at least fifty percent of the time, one parent was there for me or for Karl. That’s Karl with a K.”

“As in Marx. And you’re named after Che.”

“You got it. My parents weren’t masters of subtlety. They’ve become more sophisticated since the naming days, but even in their most radical days, they talked the talk, but they never crossed the line. That’s why they’re living in a seven-thousand-square-foot house in Canoga Estates instead of creating false identities and running from the law.”

“You like your parents.”

“Yeah…yeah, I do. I…admire them although I’m aware of their faults. That’s why this is all so screwed up.”

“What’s screwed up?”

“Me. I’ll tell you my part in the mess, but that’s as far as I’ll take it. I’m not a rat, I don’t name names.”

“So there are others?”

“I didn’t say that. For your purposes, I was the sole perpetrator.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s my story. Should I go on?”

“I’m still here,” Decker said. The boy didn’t seem to know how to start. Decker helped him out. “Why did you vandalize the synagogue?”

“That’s a good question. I have nothing against Jews.” He looked away. “It has more to do with my personal problems.
I’ve always been obsessive-compulsive, and I’m not just throwing out psych terms. I’ve always had weird rituals. Some of them I’ve outgrown. But some…I can’t help it. We don’t have to go into specifics, but my obsessions are relevant because once I get a thought into my head, I can’t let go. And that’s the problem. I have these dreams…more like fantasies because I’m awake when I think about them. It has to do with my Jewish grandfather—Isaac Golding. Well, it turns out that he wasn’t Jewish. Matter of fact, I think he was a Nazi.”

Decker kept his face flat. “Isaac’s a strange name for a Nazi.”

“That’s because it wasn’t a real name. I found this all out about six months ago. Remember I told you the honors civics assignment?”

“The family tree. Dr. Ramparts.”

“Yeah. Exactly. It’s a semester project. Dr. Ramparts wants it done in detail and correctly. So I’ve been working on this for a while, mostly getting oral history down from my parents because all my grandparents are dead. But then I figure I should do paper research for the sake of completion. So I started going through trunks of old documents that my dad has buried in the attic.”

“An attic?” Decker asked.

“Yeah. I know that’s weird for L.A. homes. But like I said, we have a big home.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Go on. You’re digging through old documents.”

“Yeah, right. I think my dad didn’t even know about the shit. It was given to him after his mother died.” Ernesto hesitated, then drank some water. “Anyway, my grandfather supposedly escaped the Nazis and moved to Argentina in 1937. Except old papers showed me that Grandpa’s account was off by ten years. From what I could tell, Grandpa actually came to South America in 1946 or 1947 under the name of
Yitzchak Golding. Yitzchak is Isaac in Hebrew. I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”

Decker nodded. Yitzchak was the name of Rina’s late husband—the father of his stepsons.

Ernesto took a breather and went on. “So I figure okay…so Grandpa came after the war. He made a mistake. When I knew him, he was old and a little senile, so his absentmindedness is completely within context. So, I point out this little discrepancy to my dad, expecting a logical explanation. Instead, Dad freezes up, then accuses me of trying to stir up trouble…which was totally ridiculous. Usually, if Dad doesn’t want to talk about it, he just kind of gets this condescending smile and says something like ‘another time, Che.’ Dad calls me Che when he’s trying to prove a point. But this time he gets mad. He gets red in the face. He stomps off. I’m shocked. This means, you know, I hit a nerve.”

Silence.

Decker said, “So what happened?”

“Nothing. I never brought it up, and certainly Dad never brought it up again.”

“So now you’re curious and you have no logical explanation and no one to talk to.”

“
Exactly!
I technically dropped it, but it’s been plaguing me. It’s on my mind all the time. Because I get to thinking that if Grandpa did come over in ’47, that must have meant that he was in Europe at the time of the war. And being a Jew during the war, he must have suffered somehow. Because I have a couple of friends whose grandparents were European and Jewish, and they have war stories. But I never remember hearing any war stories. Nothing about the…the Holocaust…the death camps. No survival tales, either.”

“I understand.”

“And furthermore, my grandfather’s family was intact—his parents and a sister—which would make sense if they all had come to South America in 1937. The camps weren’t in full operation until later on. But it wouldn’t make any sense
for all of them to be alive if Grandpa came over in 1947. You get my drift?”

“Your grandfather was an imposter.”

“That was my conclusion. My dad told me that I got the dates mixed up. But I don’t think so.”

“Do you have your grandfather’s birth certificate?”

“No, and that’s a problem. Just some old papers. I did some further probing…a little of this and that. Called up some resources. I did find a Yitzchak Golding who was sent to Treblinka, a camp in Poland, in 1940. He never came back. His brothers and sisters were also sent to the death camps. So were his parents. None of them came back. No aunts, uncles, cousins…all of them gone. Dead. The family is as extinct as dinosaurs. I’m carrying the name for a bunch of Jewish ghosts. They’re haunting me, Lieutenant Decker. Day in and day out, they’re haunting me. Their faces and their corpses.” Golding looked up, his stormy eyes wild and wet. “I had to get rid of them. So I did what I had to do.”