Witness for the Defense (17 page)

She noticed me watching. “I guess it would be all right,” she said. “I’ll get him.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” I nodded at Sarah to follow me. “It looks like he could use some help with those boxes.”

Before the mother could say anything, I was out the side door, with Sarah trailing close behind. Since it was cold and windy out, I was hoping that would be reason enough for the mother to stay inside. I wanted to talk to the boy without her.

I extended my hand. “Danny Barton?”

Eyeing Sarah, who had her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, the boy reached for my hand.

“Do I know you?”

“We’re lawyers.”

“Really?” he said, and turned to push a crushed box into one of the trash cans. “My dad wanted to be one.”

I already knew his parents were separated. “Where is he?” I asked, trying to make the kid feel more at ease talking to us.

He waved to his mother as she watched us through the window. “I don’t know and I don’t care. We don’t need him.”

I liked the kid already. We both seemed to have something in common—we hated our fathers.

“It looks like you and your mother are doing just fine,” Sarah said in an understanding tone.

Danny picked up a box and placed it in front of him to jump on and crush like the other one he’d shoved into the can.

“Can I show you a trick?” I said, reaching for the box. “I used to work at a supermarket when I was in high school. I had to throw away hundreds of boxes a week.”

The boy eyed me as if I was intruding on his space.

I placed a corner of the box against the center of my chest while firmly gripping its sides—one in each hand. “Each corner is like a heavy crease in a piece of paper,” I said. “If you pull in the opposite direction, on each side of the crease, it will tear evenly with very little effort.”

The boy tilted his head, studying me. I could tell he wasn’t buying it.

I then pulled, and the box ripped neatly down the corner. I quickly did the same to the remaining three corners and folded what was left of the box and handed it to the boy. “Now it will take up a lot less room in the trash can.”

Danny smiled for the first time. The splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks was a sharp contrast to the rest of his face, white from the chilling wind. “How did you do that?”

“Just pull away from your body, and the crease on each corner will give way.”

The boy watched as I ripped apart another one and placed it inside the trash can.

Without saying anything further, Danny picked up the last box and easily ripped each of the box’s four corners.

“Beats the heck out of having to jump on it,” I said.

Danny tossed the box into the can. “Sure does.”

I knew I had him. I was his buddy now. If his mother would just stay away long enough, I was sure he would tell me everything.

“My name is Hunter Dobbs.” I turned to Sarah to introduce her, but the boy cut me off.

“Hunter’s sure a funny name for a lawyer.”

The boy laughed and Sarah snickered. I knew what she was thinking. All that effort with the boxes to loosen him up, and all I had had to do was tell the kid my name.

She extended her hand to the boy. “I’m Sarah.”

“Danny Barton,” he said, politely shaking her hand. He then turned back to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah said and plunged her hand back into her pocket. “It really is a funny name.”

We were there to talk to the boy, not play with him. “Are the two of you done?” I asked.

The two smiled conspiratorially at one another. Before they had a chance to take another shot at me, I continued. “We’d like to ask you about the night you were attacked.”

“I get it,” Danny said. “You must represent the guy who kidnapped me.”

It was so cold, Sarah was shaking, almost convulsing. I’d have laughed at the sight of her, and the dampness under her shiny red nose, but I wasn’t much better off.

“We know how upsetting all this has to be to you,” she said.

“I’m not upset.”

“That’s good,” Sarah said, and the boy glanced at the window. His mother was no longer watching.

“My mom was really upset, though.”

“I’m sure,” Sarah said. “You’re her little boy.”

Danny twisted his face. She had blown it with the “little boy” remark.

Sarah tried to regroup. “I’m sure you’re a big help to your mother,” she said.

Danny turned to me. “How many years is he going to be in jail?”

“If you mean my client,” I said, “he hasn’t been convicted yet.”

“Isn’t he going to cop a plea?”

“What?” I was more surprised by the source than the question itself. Where do kids pick up this stuff?

“Lieutenant McBean said he has enough evidence to bury him forever. I figure he doesn’t have much choice.”

“That’s the lieutenant’s opinion.”

It was time to get to the primary reason we wanted to talk to him: the candy wrapper found in the car with his fingerprints all over it.

“The report says you were eating some Gummy Bears before the attack.”

The boy shook his head vigorously. “Never had a chance.”

“But you did have some with you at the time?”

“Yeah, I just bought ‘em.”

“This is very important, Danny.” I held my breath. “Did you ever take your gloves off that night?”

The boy screwed up his face and squinted one eye, thinking. “You know,” he said, but stopped to watch a black-and-white race up the dirt drive directly at us. It was McBean. I was sure that meant the end of our interview. But I had a couple of seconds before he reached us.

“Danny?” I pushed. “The gloves? Did you take them off?”

It was too late.

McBean was shouting as he sped toward us, “Leave that kid alone!”

The car skidded to a stop next to us, pelting our legs with loose pebbles. Then the door flew open, almost hitting Danny.

“Watch out!” I yelled.

McBean grabbed Danny by the arm and dragged him toward the house. “The two of you wait right there,” he shouted as they approached the back door—where Mrs. Barton was waiting.

“What a genuine jerk,” I said to Sarah. She was rubbing her bare legs. They were spotted with red marks.

“Why is he so upset?”

“It’s obvious he doesn’t want us talking to the boy. If we could have had just one more minute alone, we may have found out why.” I reached for her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But he asked us to wait.”

“He can keep us away from his victim. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to take any of his abuse.”

“Hey, Dobbs!” McBean started running toward us while Danny and his mother watched from the open doorway. “I want the two of you to stay away from him.”

He stopped next to us, half out of breath.

“Are you going to apologize?” I said, waving my hand at Sarah’s legs. A trickle of blood was running down the front of her left shin.

“About what?” He turned to see what I was talking about. Sarah was standing with her hands on her hips.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. He then spun on me. “I want you out of here.”

I’d had enough of the Wyatt Earp act. “When I damn well feel like it.”

“Is that right?” he said, walking to within a couple of feet of me. “You’re trespassing.”

“I wasn’t until you got here.”

“The mother said we could talk to him,” Sarah said.

“She changed her mind.”

“I’ll bet.”

A gust of wind took McBean by surprise, and his hair was blown about. Holding it in place with his right hand, he took one more step toward me. His face was within inches of mine. “The lady wants you off her property.”

I turned my head away. Even with the strong wind, I could smell the stale cigarette smoke and coffee on his breath.

“We have the right to interview witnesses,” Sarah said.

McBean glanced at her and sighed. “Are the two of you going to leave, or do I have to call for backup?”

“Backup? For trespassing?”

He didn’t respond. We just stared at each other, waiting to see who would be the first to flinch.

“What are you hiding, McBean?”

His eyes remained slits. “Are you going to leave?”

I looked to Sarah, who nodded for me to get going. I shook my head, upset that we had come so close to finding out what had really happened that night. But none of this was news to me. Even though the cops aren’t suppose to instruct their witnesses not to talk to the defense, the witnesses very seldom did. Funny how it always seemed to work that way. Must have been just a coincidence.

“We’ll leave,” I said. “But before we do, I want to give you something.”

“What?”

I put my right hand in my pocket and watched McBean’s jerk to the butt of his revolver. I slowly withdrew a roll of Certs breath mints and flipped one into the air. He caught it, reflexively.

“You need that, McBean, because your damn breath stinks worse than your case does.”

Chapter 19

It was late afternoon when I pulled in front of the guest house. I sat in the car for a moment, admiring the orange glow of sun slipping behind the mountains. It was my thirty-sixth birthday and I was looking forward to a nice warm bath and a chance to relax in front of the tube all night.

When I reached the guest house door, I saw a note tacked to it. It was from Sarah.

Emergency! Must see immediately. Come to main house
.

Before I could even knock on the house’s front door, it was opened and Sarah appeared with a sad look.

“What’s wrong?”

The door opened wider and Avery came into view, his expression as glum as Sarah’s.

“Is somebody going to tell me what’s going on?”

Avery stepped aside. There my Uncle Joe was, sitting in his wheelchair with a face-wide grin.

“Happy birthday!” the three shouted in unison.

Blood rushed to my cheeks. It was a birthday party—mine. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so touched.

“Are you going to stand out there all night?” Avery asked as Uncle Joe opened his arms and I rushed to him for a hug. It had been more than a year since we’d seen one another.

When we finally separated, I had another surprise—Avery wrapped his arms around me and gave me the same kind of strong affectionate hug that Joe used to give me before his hips gave way to arthritis.

“Quit hogging the guest of honor.” Sarah nudged her way between the two of us and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, hugging me. “Are you surprised?” she asked, oblivious to the rush that her touch gave me.

“I really am,” was all I managed to say as we parted, and walked into the living room. Sarah and I sat on the sofa, and Avery stationed my uncle and his wheelchair in front of us.

Joe tilted his head and looked up at the bottom of Avery’s beard. “These are good people,” he said.

I was sure Joe knew that Avery was the judge I had constantly complained about during my first few years with the P.D.’s office.

Not wanting to get into it with the judge standing next to him, I changed the subject. “You’re sure looking good.”

“Maybe you know how I look if you see me now and then,” he said in his familiar broken English. Joe had always sounded as if he was auditioning for a movie part, but I knew Joseph Calabrese was the real thing. A retired truck driver, he’d spent the better part of his life as a high-ranking official for the Teamsters. Jimmy Hoffa was not only his boss but a good friend. His house was peppered with pictures of the two of them, Joe usually to the side of Hoffa, as the head of the Teamsters made one of his many speeches to the faithful.

Once, when I asked him why he started driving a truck again, Joe told me, “Because Jimmy’s at the bottom of the ocean sleeping with the fishes,” But I knew better. Hoffa didn’t disappear until 1975; Joe moved to California right after my parents’ funeral in 1972. He came out here to raise me, leaving his job and friends behind.

“I’ve been pretty busy,” I said.

As usual, Joe knew when I was lying. “You never too busy for family.” He gave Sarah the once-over. “Maybe I not so old I can’t see why.”

Sarah blushed. She didn’t know there wasn’t a thought that ever entered my uncle’s head he wouldn’t say out loud.

“Why you don’t tell me you move here? I call for weeks, but you never home.”

I looked at Sarah, and then to Avery, who was busy pouring everyone a glass of burgundy. I’d no idea if either had said anything to Joe about my arrest.

“I’m preparing for a trial.”

Sarah picked up on my uneasiness. “It’ll be starting next week,” she added. “It’s been in all the papers.”

Joe gazed at me. There was no fooling the old Sicilian. “You work for the County of San Francisco…Why you have trial way up here?”

It was no use, I had to tell him. With Sarah and Avery’s help, I explained the charges pending against me.

Joe studied Avery, who was handing him a glass of wine. “You big-time judge. Why you can’t help my boy?”

Avery shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. A jury will have to decide.”

That was the last thing Joe wanted to hear. He’d lived half his life in Detroit and Chicago during the years when there wasn’t a government official who didn’t have his hand out for a bribe.

“No jury,” Joe said. “Ever since Jimmy get caught paying them off, they not worth anything.”

I smiled. I’d forgotten how much I loved his distorted sense of reality.

He scowled at me. “This no laughing matter.” Joe leaned toward me. “I still got lots of friends….You want me see what I can do?”

“Thanks,” I said and rose to hug him. “Let me take care of this one. I’ll be fine.”

He gently pushed me away. “You don’t do very good job so far,” he said, and then a hint of a smile appeared. “You smart boy though. So I give you chance.”

Sarah, who hadn’t said a word during Joe’s godfather act, gave me a look as if she thought he was just trying to be funny. Little did she know how serious he was. She rose and placed her hand on Joe’s thick shoulder. “I’ll start dinner.”

“Remember, al dente,” Joe called out.

I winced—pasta for dinner. Joe refused to eat spaghetti unless the sauce was made from an old Sicilian recipe—tomatoes, Italian spices simmered all day with beef and lamb ribs, with several pigs feet thrown in for added flavor.