The Lost Ark (31 page)

“How reassuring,” I said.

“Yeah, well, he’s established. You’re not.”

“But can he pick up a blind side blitz?”

Charlie smiled and splayed his stubby fingers flat on my desk and looked around my office, which was adorned with newspaper clippings and photographs of yours truly. Most of the photographs depict me in a Bruin uniform, sporting the number 45. In most I’m carrying the football, and in others I’m blowing open the hole for the tailback. Or at least I like to think I’m blowing open the hole. The newspapers are yellowing now, taped or tacked to the wood paneling. Maybe someday I’ll take them down. But not yet.

“You beat SC a few years back. I can never forgive you for that. Two touchdowns in the fourth quarter alone.”

“Three,” I said. “But who’s counting?”

He rubbed his chin. “Destroyed your leg, if I recall, in the last game of the season. Broken in seven different places.”

“Nine, but who’s counting?”

“Must have been hard to deal with. You were on your way to the pros. Would have made a hell of a fullback.”

That
had
been hard to deal with, and I didn’t feel like talking about it now to Charlie Brown. “Why do you believe in your client’s innocence?” I asked.

He looked at me. “I see. You don’t want to talk about it. Sorry I brought it up.” He crossed his legs. He didn’t seem sorry at all. He looked smugly down at his shoes, which had polish on the polish. “Because I believe Derrick’s story. I believe he loved his girlfriend and would never kill her.”

“People have been killed for love before. Nothing new.”

On my computer screen before me I had brought up an article from the Orange County Register. The article showed a black teen being led away into a police car. He was looking down, his head partially covered by his jacket. He was being led away from a local high school. A very upscale high school, if I recalled. The story was dated three weeks ago, and I recalled reading it back then.

I tapped the computer monitor. “The police say there’s some indication that his girlfriend was seeing someone else, and that jealousy might have been a factor.”

“Yes,” said the attorney. “And we think this someone else framed our client.”

“I take it you want me to find this man.”

“Or person.”

“Ah, equality,” I said.

“We want you to find evidence of our client’s innocence, whether or not you find the true murderer.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“We feel race might be a factor here. He was the only black student in school, and in the neighborhood.”

“I believe the preferred term is African-American.”

“I’m aware of public sentiment in this regards. I don’t need you to lecture me.”

“Just trying to live up to my difficult name.”

“Yeah, well, cool it,” he said. “Now, no one’s talking at the school. My client says he was working out late in the school gym, yet no one saw him, not even the janitors.”

“Then maybe he wasn’t there.”

“He was there,” said Charlie simply, as if his word was enough. “So do you want the job?”

“Sure.”

We discussed a retainer fee and then he wrote me a check. When he left, waddling out of the office, I could almost hear Schroeder playing on his little piano in the background.

2.

“He was found with the murder weapon,” said Detective Hanson. “It was in the backseat of his car. That’s damning evidence.”

“That,” I said, “and he’s black.”

“And he’s black,” said Hanson.

“In an all white school,” I said.

“Yep.”

“Were his prints on the knife?”

“No.”

We were sitting in an outdoor café facing the beach. It was spring, and in southern California that’s as good as summer. Many underdressed women were roller-blading, jogging or walking their dogs on the narrow beach path. There were also some men, all finely chiseled, but they were not as interesting.

Detective Hanson was a big man, but not as big as me. He had neat brown hair parted down the middle. His thick mustache screamed cop. He wore slacks and a white shirt. He was sweating through his shirt. I was dressed in khaki shorts, a surfing T-shirt and white Vans. Coupled with my amazing tan and disarming smile, I was surprised I wasn’t more often confused with Jimmy Buffet. If Jimmy Buffet stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and twenty.

“You guys have anything else on the kid?” I asked.

“You know I can’t divulge that. Trial hasn’t even started. The info about the knife made it to the press long ago, so that’s a freebie for you. I can tell you this: the body was found at one a.m., although the ME places the time of death around seven p.m. the previous night.”

“Who found the body?”

“A neighbor.”

“Where were the victim’s parents?”

“Dinner and dancing. It was a Friday night.”

“Of course,” I said. “Who doesn’t go out and dance on a Friday night?”

“I don’t,” said Hanson.

“Me neither,” I said. “Does Derrick have an alibi?”

“This will cost you a tunacoda.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

I called the waitress over and put in our lunch orders.

“No alibi,” Hanson said when she had left, “but....” He let his voice trail off.

“But you believe the kid?”

He shrugged. “Yeah. He seems like a good kid. Says he was working out at the school gym at the time.”

“Schools have janitors, staff, students.”

“Yeah, well, it was late and no one saw him.”

“Or no one chose to see him.”

Hanson shrugged.

Our food arrived. A tunacoda for the detective. A half pound burger for me, with grilled onions and cheese, and a milkshake.

“You trying to commit suicide?” he asked.

“I’m bulking up,” I said.

“This is how you bulk up? Eating crap?”

“Only way I know how.”

“Why?”

“Thinking of trying out for San Diego,” I said.

“The Chargers?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your leg?”

“The leg’s going to be a problem.”

He thought about that, working his way through his tuna and avocado sandwich. He took a sip from his Coke.

“You wanna bash heads with other men and snap each other in the shower with jock straps, go right ahead.”

“It’s not as glamorous as that.”

“Suicide, I say. What’s your dad think?”

“He doesn’t know. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“What’s Cindy going to say?”

I sipped my milkshake. “She won’t like it, but she will support me. She happens to think very highly of me and my decisions.”

He snorted and finished his sandwich, grabbed his Styrofoam cup.

“I can’t believe I was bribed with a shitty tuna sandwich and a Coke.”

“A simple man with simple needs.”

“I should resent that remark, if it wasn’t so true.” He stood. “I gotta run. Good luck with the kid, but I think it’s a lost cause. Kid even has a record.”

“What kind?”

“Vandalism, mostly. He’s a goner. Hear they’re gonna try him as an adult.”

Detective Hanson left with his Styrofoam cup. I noticed he wasn’t wearing socks. Even cops in Huntington Beach are cool.

3.

Cindy Darwin is an anthropology professor at UCI. Her expertise is in the anthropology of religion, which, she tells me, is an important aspect of anthropology. And, yes, she can trace her lineage back to Charles Darwin, which makes her a sort of icon in her field. She knows more things about anthropology than she probably should, and too few things about the real world. Maybe that’s why she keeps me around.

It was late and we were walking hand-in-hand along the Huntington Pier. From here we could see the lights of Catalina Island, where the reclusive sorts live and travel via ferry and plane. To the north, in the far distance, we could see Long Beach glittering away. The air was cool and windy and we were dressed in light jackets and jeans. Her jeans were much snugger and more form-fitting than mine. As they should be.

“I’m thinking of giving San Diego a call,” I said.

“Who’s in San Diego?” she asked. She had a slightly higher pitched voice than most women. I found it endlessly sexy. She said her voice made it easier to holler across an assembly hall. Gave it more range, or something.

I was silent. She put two and two together. She let go of my hand.

“They call you again?” she asked. “The Rams, right?”

“The Chargers. Christ, Cindy, your own brother plays on the team.”

“I think it’s all sort of silly. Football, I mean. And all those silly mascots, I just don’t get it.”

“The mascots help us boys tell the teams apart,” I said. “And, no, they didn’t call. But I’m thinking about their last offer.”

“Honey, that was two years ago.”

She was right. I turned them down two years ago. My leg hadn’t felt strong enough.

“The leg’s better now,” I said.

“Bullshit. You still limp.”

“Not as much. And when I workout, I feel the strength again.”

“But you still have metal pins it.”

“Lots of players play with pins.”

“Have you told Rob yet?” she asked. Rob was her brother, the Chargers fourth wide receiver. Rob had introduced me to Cindy during college.

“Yes.”

“What does he think?”

“He thinks it’s a good idea.”

We stopped walking and leaned over the heavy wooden rail. The air was suffused with brine and salt. Waves crashed beneath us, whitecaps glowing in the moonlight. A lifeguard Jeep was parked next to us, a quarter into the ocean on the pier. All that extra weight on the pier made me nervous.

“Why now?” she asked finally.

“My window is rapidly closing,” I said.

“Not to mention you’ve always wondered if you could do it.”

“Not to mention.”

“And you’re frustrated out of your gourd that a fucking leg injury has prevented you from finding this out.”

“Such language from an anthropologist.”

She sighed and hugged me around my waist. She was exactly a foot shorter than me, which made hugging easy, and kissing difficult.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“I think you’re frustrated and angry and that you need to do this.”

“Not to mention I might just make a hell of a fullback.”

“Is he the one who throws the ball?”

We had gone over this precisely one hundred and two times.

“No, but close.”

She snuggled closer, burying her sharp chin deep into my side. It tickled. If I wasn’t so tough I would have laughed.

“Just don’t get yourself hurt.”

“I don’t plan to, but these things have a way of taking you by surprise.”

“So are you really that good?” she asked, looking up at me.

“I’m going to find out.”

She looked away. “If you make the team, things will change.”

I hugged her tighter. “I know.”

4.

I was in a conference room at the Orange County jail in Santa Ana, accompanied by Charley Brown’s assistant, Mary Cho. We were alone, waiting for Derrick Booker to make his grand appearance. Mary was Chinese and petite and pretty. She wore a blue power suit, with the hem just above her knees. She sat next to me, and from our close proximity I had a clear view of her knees. Nice knees. Cho was probably still a law student. Probably worked out a whole lot. Seemed a little uptight, but nothing a little alcohol couldn’t fix. Was probably a little tigress in bed. She wasn’t much of a talker and seemed immune to my considerable charm. Probably because she had caught me looking at her knees.

The heavy door with the wire window opened and Derrick was shown into the conference room by two strapping wardens. He was left alone with us, the wardens waiting just outside the door. The kid himself was manacled and hogtied. Should he make a run for it, Pope John Paul II himself could have caught him from behind.

Mary Cho sprang to life, brightening considerably, leaning forward and gesturing to a chair opposite us.

“Derrick, thanks for meeting us,” she said.

He shrugged, raising his cuffed hands slightly. “As if I had anything better to do.”

Which is what I would have said. I stifled a grin. I suspected grins were illegal in the Orange County jail. Derrick sounded white, although he tried to hide that fact with a lot of swaggering showmanship. In fact, he sounded white
and
rich, with a slightly arrogant lilt to his voice. He was good looking, with strong features and light brown eyes. He was tall and built like an athlete.

“I have someone here who wants to speak with you,” said Cho.

“Who? Whitey?”

I raised my hand. “That would be me.”

Derrick’s father owned lots of real estate across southern California, and Derrick himself had grown up filthy rich. He was about as far from the ghetto as you could get. Yet here he was, sounding as if he had lived the mean streets all his life. As if he had grown up in poverty, rather than experiencing the best Orange County had to offer, which is considerable. I suspected here in prison he was in survival mode, where being a wealthy black kid is as bad as being a wealthy white kid. Except that he had the jargon wrong and a few years out of date, and he still sounded upper class, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

“My name’s Jim Knighthorse.”

“Hey, I know you, man!”

“Who doesn’t?” I said. “And those who don’t, should.”

He smiled, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “How’s your leg? Saw you bust it up against Miami. Hell, I wanted to throw up.”

“I did throw up. You play?”

“Yeah. Running back.”

“You any good?” I asked.

“School is full of whities, what do you think?”

I shrugged. “Some whities can run.”

He grinned again. “Yeah, no shit. You could run, bro. Dad says wasn’t for your leg you’d be in the pros.”

“Still might.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“What about the leg?” he asked.

“We’ll see about the leg,” I said.

We were silent. Derrick was losing the ghetto speak. His eyes had brightened considerably with the football talk. We looked at each other. Down to business.

“You do her, Derrick?”