Try Fear (13 page)

“Hey, we can—”

“And the free exercise of religion that is guaranteed under the Constitution?”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“I’m pretty sure I can convince a court that kicking a nun out of a bar is discriminatory.”

“And I’m not even drunk,” Sister Mary said.

“Yet,” I said.

Sister Mary gave me a kick under the bar.

Tosca narrowed her eyes, blinking those big lashes a couple of times. I was aware that people were calling to her, but she
wasn’t moving. A former extra from
The Sopranos
came over and stood next to Tosca. He was ample in girth, had black hair, and wore a fine black suit and gold tie.

“There a problem?” he said, with a smile. He did a double take on Sister Mary.

“We’d like to finish our drinks,” I said.

“They’re asking questions,” Tosca said. “They’re not here to drink.”

The suit looked at the bar top. “Are those not drinks?”

“Strictly for show,” Tosca said.

“We have other customers,” the guy said to Tosca. She shot us a couple of glares and headed for the other side of the bar.

The
Sopranos
extra said, “You two enjoy yourselves. But let us run our business, huh?”

“I’
M NOT DRUNK
yet?
” Sister Mary said.

“Nice touch, wasn’t it?” I said. We were on the freeway heading back to St. Monica’s.

“Oh yeah. Very smooth and respectful.”

“You ever been drunk?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just asking.”

“Rather personal question,” she said.

“If we’re going to be working together, I need to know if my partner’s a lush.”

“You’re really on a roll today.”

“In a courtroom, I’d object to your answer as non-responsive.”

“You’re in a car, pal. Drive.”

I shut up. Talking to a nun about alcohol consumption is probably not a wise thing, especially if she has elbows.

But then, just before I got on the 118 west, she said, “Once.”

“Oh yeah?”

“With my friend Julie James. We were thirteen. We went to a movie.
Toy Story.
And we had a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“You got drunk on Boone’s Farm wine while watching
Toy Story?
”

“I remember about half the movie,” she said. “Then I remember thinking the world was a whirligig and I got very, very sick.
Right there in the theater.”

“A very touching story,” I said. “Are you sure you’re off the sauce now?”

“I can’t remember the last bar fight I was in,” she said. “So I must be fine.”

I smiled. “I’m trying to picture you doing that, and I’m having trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, you’re Sister Mary Veritas.”

“And
veritas
is Latin for
truth,
so there you go.” She put her head back on the seat. “Truth is, I did some things in high school I’m not proud of.”

“Cool. Like what?”

“Please drop me at the homeless shelter,” she said. “Sister Hildegarde wanted me to pick up some fruitcake tins.”

“Sure. Getting back to high school—”

“Just drive, can’t you?”

T
HE SHELTER RUN
by St. Monica’s and a couple of churches is off Van Nuys Boulevard near Hansen Dam Park. It’s a converted apartment complex
with a wrought-iron gate and a big parking lot in the middle. I pulled in and parked and Sister Mary told me to wait and not
get into any trouble, and I said, Thank you, Sister, and put my head back and looked out my rearview mirror.

I was wondering if among those wandering around like lost souls on a ghost ship was the guy sending Sister Mary e-mails. I
tried to read faces, see if anybody was homing in on Sister Mary as she walked.

Turns out, several people were. Men, women, and children. They were gathering around her as if she were some sort of event,
or a visiting celebrity.

But I could tell from their expressions, and hers, that she was the opposite of the glitterati. She was relating to each person
on a completely equal basis. She did not pick and choose, she did not assume any air of superiority or intrinsic goodness.

She just was
there,
for them. She made each one feel important. Several obviously knew her, and were happy in their greeting. Sister Mary seemed
happy, too.

It hit me, those words she had quoted from Merton. His revelation in Louisville. Sister Mary was living it, right here. These
people were part of her, and she of them, and she loved them all.

I wondered if I would ever feel that way about anything. Or anybody. Or if I wanted the risk.

Somebody slapped the roof of my car and said, “Dude!”

I turned to the driver’s-side window and saw my old friend Only, the toking psychic. He was bent over to look in the car,
smiling. “What are you doing here, man?” he said.

“Driving a nun around,” I said. “What are
you
doing here?”

He looked at the ground. “I got fired again.”

“From the psychic hotline?”

He nodded sheepishly.

“It wasn’t for smoking on the job, was it?” I said.

He shook his head. “I got mad at a guy on the phone. He was all ripping me because I wouldn’t tell him what stocks to pick.
He started calling me names, man. So I told him a plague of boils was gonna grow on his butt. So he complained.”

“For that little thing?”

“So now I’m out on the street.”

“You’ll get another shot,” I said. “You toning down the weed?”

“I can’t afford it, man. My back hurts and I gotta get a job.”

“You will,” I said. “They’ll help you out here.”

“Never thought I’d be living near nuns,” he said.

“You and me both,” I said.

A
FTER DROPPING
S
ISTER
Mary off at St. Monica’s, I called Kate and told her I’d seen Eric, and that he’d be arraigned tomorrow, and that it would
be short and Eric would just plead not guilty. She didn’t need to be there.

I asked her for Eric’s wife’s number and said I needed to speak to her.

“Just be aware,” Kate said, “that she’s… excitable.”

Whatever that meant.

I called the number and a woman with a slight southern accent picked up.

“Is this Fayette Richess?” I said.

“Who is this?”

“Ty Buchanan, Eric’s lawyer. I wonder if we could talk.”

“What do you need?”

“Can I come to where you are? I’d like to talk face-to-face if I may.”

“Why?”

“Just to fill you in on a few things.”

“You can fill me in now, can’t you?”

“There’s some information I’d rather not relate over the phone. It’s about the case.”

“I figured it was about the case, why else would you be calling me? And no, it’s not convenient to talk just now. I have a
life I can’t put on hold because Eric’s been arrested.”

“Mrs. Richess, if I could—”

“I don’t go by Richess. My last name is Scarborough.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

Long pause. Then: “All right, fine, you want to talk to me, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

She told me where she lived and I got there in half an hour.

I
T WAS A
townhouse complex in the Warner Center area of Woodland Hills. Eric’s unit was on the second floor.

Nicely done up, and I wouldn’t have guessed that. Eric didn’t seem the type for a place like this. He was a sports-bar guy.
The way the home was decorated had the unmistakable woman’s touch.

Fayette Scarborough was the woman.

She was about thirty, with wheat-colored hair and gray eyes. The eyes were big and round. Owlish, which is probably why I
felt like a field mouse. She didn’t smile or offer any pleasantries. It was like she was daring me to talk.

So I didn’t. I looked the place over until she said, “So is he guilty?”

“The prosecution thinks he is.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I can’t help but observe, Ms. Scarborough, that you don’t seem all that broken up about Eric being in the clink.”

“I don’t think he killed his brother, if that helps. I don’t think he’s that low.”

“Do you think he’s somewhat low?”

“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Frost crackled out of those wide eyes. “What exactly are you here for? What was so important?”

“Let’s sit down.”

“I don’t want to. Just tell me.”

“All right. Eric was with another woman when Carl died.”

She took a long breath. “Who is she?”

“A prostitute, apparently.”

“Well, that’s just wonderful.” She turned and faced the french doors that looked out on the balcony and had a view of Warner
Center Park.

I said, “I’m sorry there wasn’t an easier way to tell you.”

“Oh, it’s not your fault. And it’s not surprising. I knew what I was getting into when I married him.”

“So why’d you marry him?”

She turned on me. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Ever been?”

“No.”

“Gay?”

“It’s been nice chatting with you.”

“It’s all right to be gay.”

“Ms. Scarborough, my sexual orientation has got exactly nothing to do with anything.”

“I’m asking, because you don’t seem to understand what goes into being married these days. It’s all a crap shoot. It’s not
like fifty years ago, when you got married and you stayed faithful and you had two and a half kids. It’s not that way anymore.
Men have no qualms about going out about town, as the saying used to be.”

“Adultery’s always been around,” I said.

“But it used to be frowned upon, even if one was indulging in it.”

“Why did you marry Eric, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Now you may sit,” she said. I parked myself on a white sofa while she took a soft leather recliner.

“I thought I was in love,” she said. “I should have listened to my parents. They didn’t think Eric was up to their standards.”

“Their standards?”

“It’s called breeding by some, class by others. But it exists. My parents believe I married down. Eric was different than
these metrosexuals my parents wanted to fix me up with. Maybe part of it was I wanted to stick it to my parents, if you know
what I mean.”

“Not a good way to start a marriage, though.”

“But I worked at it. I did all the heavy lifting. I can’t say Eric did the same.”

“Why didn’t you divorce him?”

“I’m stubborn, I guess. I wanted to make it work. I don’t want a divorce hanging over me. It’s like a failure. And Scarboroughs
are not into failure.”

She sat back and closed her eyes. Maybe Scarboroughs weren’t into failure, but they could get discouraged.

“Again, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I guess I want to know if you’re going to be with Eric or against him.”

“If I thought there was any hope for us, maybe I’d be more open to it. I’m not going to cause any problems, if that’s what
you’re worried about.”

“How about bailing him out after he’s arraigned?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“In jail he can’t get into any more trouble, can he?”

“I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil on you, Ms. Scarborough, but I would think it’s better to work things out face-to-face,
instead of through Plexiglas.”

“What you think isn’t any concern of mine. Is that all?”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted Carl dead?”

“Oh, who knows? I don’t know anything about his life. I never talked to him. He wasn’t particularly pleasant toward me.”

What a surprise, I thought.

“All the same,” I said, “think about bailing Eric out. I don’t think his mother should have to do it.”

“Why not? She’s the mother hen. That’s what she likes.”

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“She overdoes it.”

“She’s a mother,” I said. “With one son dead and another in jail. She deserves some slack.”

Fayette Scarborough just stared at me as if I were a burn mark in her rug. “I think we’re through here,” she said.

I was more than happy to get out of that love nest.

I put a jazz station on in the car as I drove back to St. Monica’s, taking Topanga all the way, trying to sort through what
Fayette would mean to the trial, if anything. The marital-trouble angle would support Eric’s story about being with another
woman, but wouldn’t do anything to establish time or place for an alibi.

Besides, the jury probably wouldn’t like her, and you don’t want them disliking your wits. Bad for the overall case.

I thought about Eric’s marriage. Why had it gone sour? Was it inevitable?

I wondered what I’d be like right now if everything had gone according to plan, and I’d married Jacqueline. I’d still be at
Gunther, McDonough pulling down hefty bucks. I’d be a different person, too.

So who was I now? Somebody who’d gotten knocked around by some bad people. I knew I was not going to let that happen again.
I would strike first and ask questions later. I liked my head in one piece.

Would I keep it that way up at St. Monica’s?

Something told me I wasn’t going to last up there much longer.

T
HURSDAY MORNING
, E
RIC
Richess was arraigned in Division 30, the felony arraignment court, fifth floor of the Foltz Building downtown. Sister Mary
and I arrived at 8:35 and I showed her around the place.

It used to be called the Criminal Courts Building, or CCB, and many of the lawyers who practice down here still call it that.
The city had renamed it for Clara Shortridge Foltz, the first woman admitted to the practice of law in California.

I wondered what Clara would have thought of Kimberly Pincus.

Then we went up to Division 30 for the festivities.

Kate Richess was waiting on a wood bench outside the courtroom. She looked like the rest of the multi-cultured family members
scattered around the hall. Tense. Uncertain. Half suspecting the wheels of justice to be more like the Jaws of Life—cutting,
crushing, grinding.