Killer Page 2

  “I’d double my therapy fee. We’re talking big bucks, Steve.”

  He put his fork down. “So you won’t be working on any charity cases. Fine, they rarely drag on, anyway.”

  “The money runs out, the lawyers stop filing.”

  He smiled. “You don’t want to do this so you’re attempting to price yourself out of the market. Sorry, Alex, not an effective argument. If someone balks at paying, let them complain to me. And frankly, I hope you get prosperous out of this, I’m all for prosperity. You put your time in at Western Peds. My son worked there as a pharmacist, I know the pay scale. So obviously you did your bit for the public interest.”

  “You’ve researched me.”

  “I wanted to make sure what I saw in my chambers was backed up by substance. You have an impressive résumé, exactly the kind of research experience that’ll hold up under cross.”

  Gin and vermouth disappeared down his slender gullet. “Yes, that was an attempt to further stroke your ego. Did it work?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He said, “You’re really that obdurate, huh? Damn shame, you could’ve made a difference.”

  He motioned for the check.

  I said, “Fine, I’ll try it.”

  “Excellent. How about some dessert?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Then none for me, either—and put that plastic away, this is on me.”

  “Not necessary,” I said.

  “Not necessary but good manners. Something both of us would like to see more of, Alex, in our quest for truth, justice, and the American way.”

  We left the restaurant and handed our tickets to the parking valet. The judge’s drive was a newish, black Porsche 911. When he saw my Seville, he said, “Blast from Detroit’s past. You’re a loyal fellow.”

  Before I could answer, he was behind the wheel, gunning his engine. Rolling forward a few feet, he stopped, motioned me closer.

  As I leaned in, he said, “Count on Joan Mort to resign from the panel, soon.” Big grin. “At least she responds to constructive criticism.”

  CHAPTER

  3

  I didn’t hear from Steve Yates for nearly two months and figured he’d changed his mind. But shortly after his promotion to presiding judge was noted in the Times, he sent me my first case, a dispute between two well-meaning, caring parents whose blood had been heated for battle by a pair of pit-bull attorneys.

  I researched the lawyers first, learned they’d both been through messy divorces of their own. Then I met with each parent individually, absorbed more than my minimum daily requirement of vitriol, and made an appointment for the three children.

  I found the youngsters well adjusted but understandably anxious. Ignoring repeated phone calls from the lawyers, I brought the parents back in, told them they were good people being led astray and their choice was to switch gears immediately or risk turning their kids into long-term therapy patients. They both took umbrage at that and attacked my argument. The mother went further and questioned my qualifications. Only hostility toward her prevented the father from agreeing.

  I persisted and kept taking on the bad-guy role and that nudged the two of them into an ad hoc alliance as Good Parents. A few more sessions of that and they’d agreed to persist in their financial battle while keeping the kids out of the fray. I told them that was the least they could do and the three of us grumbled through another couple of sessions that finally produced a reasonable custody arrangement. In my report, I credited the parents’ hard work. Judge Yates quoted me in his final judgment, redacted the names of the participants, and distributed his opinion to the other judges as an educational tool.

  Surprised at the quick resolution, I realized that some of the five-thousand-dollar retainer I’d taken hadn’t been earned. I mailed checks to each parent, received a floral-scented card and a bottle of Armani cologne from the wife, a softcover book on baseball from the father. Accepting gifts in barter was unethical so I gave the cologne to my fishpond maintenance guy, donated the book to a local library.

  The next case from Yates arrived a month and a half later. So far, the pace was fine, allowing me plenty of time for my therapy patients.

  Number Two was different: a pair of decent lawyers working for a pair of highly obnoxious litigants. An agreement was eventually drafted but I had no faith in its life span. Still, I ended up feeling I’d done my best, had a chance of making a small difference in the life of two already jumpy, compulsive children.

  That time, the retainer was more than used up. I didn’t bother to bill for the overage.

  Eight days later, I got Case Three. Four through Seven arrived in rapid succession and by year’s end I’d filed thirteen reports and had a good feel for the system. Such as it is.

  The way it works in L.A. County is when opposing parties can’t work out their differences quickly, the court mandates mediation carried out by its own employees. The mediators are social workers or master’s-level mental professionals and some of them are excellent. However, their workload is massive and the arbitration process needs to be brief. The penalty for failing to reach an easy agreement is nil: Files are tagged as unresolved and sent back for additional consultation by psychiatrists and psychologists on the court panel or an expert agreed upon by both parties.

  Or one highly recommended by the presiding judge.

  Sometimes that second step helps, often it doesn’t. Because asking people who communicate horribly to jointly maneuver the complexities of child rearing is like expecting a chimp to teach physics.

  Also, as Yates had warned me, judges retain dictatorial powers in their courtrooms and while some use their authority wisely, others are Ghadaffis in black robes with tenuous links to reality.

  When Steve was able to stick with a case, the chance of resolution was excellent. When he needed to punt to another judge, the outcome was a random toss no matter what I did. That should’ve been enough to make me quit but I discovered that bad outcomes bothered me less than I’d expected, because the happy endings were so gratifying. And even with the nasty ones, I was able to sneak in some supportive therapy for the kids.

  But in truth, it was more than that. New situations teach you about yourself. I’d earned a Ph.D. at twenty-four, briefly contemplated adding a law degree, decided white-collar combat wasn’t for me. Because my goal was to nurture, not to fight.

  But, surprise, surprise, matching wits with attorneys turned out to be fun. I enjoyed a good tussle.

  That extended to the infrequent cases when I actually had to testify. The first time—Case Eight—I was nervous as hell and struggled to conceal my anxiety. By the time I left the stand, I was fighting smugness, and from then on testifying became an enjoyable experience that left me adrenalized. Because most lawyers function well short of Perry Mason. And expecting mental health types to be bumbling wimps, they’re ill prepared for self-confidence and assertiveness.

  I developed a reputation as a compulsively thorough, hard-to-crack sonofabitch and that led to minimal cross-examination.

  That notoriety hadn’t reached the senior partner at a top Beverly Hills “family law” firm when he cold-called me regarding Case Eleven. Sterling Stark wasn’t directly involved but one of his associates was and he wanted to “weigh in personally.”

  “About what, Mr. Stark?”

  “Read your report, Doctor.” A beat. “Don’t like your report, Doctor.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re going to change it.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I want you to change it, Doctor.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Don’t you want to know how I want you to change it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not interested at all?”

  “The report was accurate.”

  “Says you. Trust me, Doctor, you’ll change it.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because if you don’t, I’ll subpoena you as a regular witness, no
t an expert witness. Do you know what that means, Doctor?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Stark.”

  “You won’t get paid for your time.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’ll tie you up for weeks, Mister Delaware. I’ll toss ethical charges into the mix, file and postpone and re-file and re-postpone. You’ll end up sitting on those hard benches in the court corridor until your ass turns blue.”

  “Doesn’t sound like fun.”

  “Far from it, Doctor. Far from it. So do we have an understanding?”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “When can I expect—”

  “Expect nothing.”

  A beat. “Didn’t you hear what I told you? I warned you.”

  “Well,” I said. “Give it your best shot. Asshole.”

  Click.

  Never heard from him again.

  By the time Dr. Constance Sykes sued her sister, Cherie Sykes, for guardianship of Rambla Pacifico Sykes, a minor female child, age sixteen months, I thought I’d seen it all.

  But right from the start, this one was different. As a non-parent, Connie had no rights in family court, no legal avenue to seek custody. The creative solution, per her attorney, was to seek guardianship in probate court, based upon Cherie’s unfitness as a mother and the fact that Cherie’s “dumping” the baby on Connie for a three-month period was tacit admission of such on Cherie’s part.

  I’d never worked a probate case, got the referral because Judge Nancy Maestro was the sister-in-law of now retired Judge Stephen Yates and he’d given her my name. The setup I had in family court would transfer easily: As an impartial probate investigator, I’d be working for the court, not the parties.

  The case sounded interesting so I agreed to a meeting with Judge Maestro. I was already downtown, wrapping up a week of deposition on a multiple homicide Milo had closed last year. The trip from Deputy D.A. John Nguyen’s office on West Temple to the Mosk Courthouse on North Hill was a five-minute stroll.

  I found Maestro’s court easily enough, well lit and empty, with chambers to the left rear of the bench. Entry was blocked by a broadly built bailiff in sheriff’s beige. Thick arms crossed his chest. His eyeglasses were slightly tinted—a pale bronze just dark enough to block out sentiment. As I approached, he didn’t move. My smile did nothing to melt his impassiveness.

  H. W. Nebe on his badge. Mid- to late fifties, white-haired, a heavy, sun-seamed face that could’ve been avuncular had he chosen to un-clamp his lips.

  “Dr. Delaware. I have an appointment with Judge Maestro.”

  The news didn’t surprise or impress him. “I.D., please.”

  Scanning my driver’s license elicited a second visual circuit. “Why don’t you take a seat, Doctor.”

  The previous year a judge in criminal court had been stabbed in his office after hours. Rumors abounded about a love triangle but the case remained open and I supposed Deputy H. W. Nebe’s caution was justified.

  I settled in the front row of the courtroom—where I’d be stationed if I was a defendant. Nebe took his time with a two-way radio. A muttered conversation out of earshot led him to rotate his bronze lenses toward me and curl a finger. “Okay.”

  He ushered me through a door that led into a small anteroom. An inner door was marked Chambers in chipped black lettering.

  Nebe knocked. A voice said, “Come in.”

  Nebe turned to me. “Guess that means you.”

  Steve Yates had scored an impressive, oak-paneled inner sanctum, exactly the kind of retreat you’d imagine for a Superior Court judge. Nancy Maestro’s chambers consisted of a twelve-by-fifteen, drop-ceilinged, white-walled space set up with paint-grade bookcases, a wood-grain desk with chipped metal legs, unaccommodating side chairs, and a laptop computer. The view was downtown grime under a sky struggling to produce blue.

  She got up and shook my hand and sank back down behind the desk. A plump, pretty brunette in her early forties, she favored a broad swath of mauve shadow above each inquisitive brown eye, dabs of peach-colored rouge on the apples of prominent cheekbones. Full lips were glossed glassy. The room smelled of White Shoulders perfume. Two black robes hung from a rack in the corner. She wore a powder-blue suit, an off-white silk scarf draped loosely across her chest, pearl earrings and necklace. Two cocktail rings, one per index finger, but no wedding band.

  “Hello, Dr. Delaware. So you’re the one.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “The smart one. That’s what my brother-in-law calls you. He also calls you a few other things.”

  “The aggressive one.”

  “That’s a fair approximation,” said Nancy Maestro. “And maybe that makes you just what we need on this mess. We’re talking two total loony-tunes, the one I feel sorry for is the baby.”

  “Rambla.”

  “Rambla Pacifico. Know what that is?”

  “A road in Malibu.”

  “You know your geography, Dr. Alex Delaware.” She sat back, drew a couple of mini Hershey’s bars from a jar on her desk, offered me one. When I shook my head, she said, “Fine, I’ll have both.” Chewing daintily, she folded the wrappers before tossing them into an unseen trash basket. “A road in Malibu where the kid was conceived. That’s the only fact the two loonies can agree on.”

  She eyed the candy jar, pushed it away. “Rambla Pacifico. Commemorating the moment. Kid’s lucky it wasn’t Schmuckler’s Bar and Grill.”

  I laughed.

  Judge Nancy Maestro said, “That’s the last funny thing you’ll hear me say about the case. What do you know about probate court?”

  “Not much.”

  “Most of what we do is uncontroversial. Clearing paper on wills and estates, conservatorships for obviously impaired individuals. Child guardianships arise from time to time but most are uncontested: people happy to ditch their kids, schizophrenic parents, drug-addict parents who can no longer cope, criminal parents with long prison sentences, so control obviously needs to be signed over to grandparents, aunts, uncles, whatever. See what I’m getting at?”

  “It’s not like family court.”

  “You couldn’t pay me enough to work family, I’d rather do gang felonies than deal with the crap that gets slung when people decide to sever the knot.”

  She glanced to the side. “How do you do it?”

  “It’s not my entire professional life.”

  “You also do therapy.”

  No sense getting too specific. I nodded.

  “Anyway,” she said, “let me fill you in on Sykes Versus Sykes. Which is really a custody case in disguise and therefore something I wish I could send straight back to family. Better yet, to the circular file. Because it’s garbage.”

  “Then why accept it?”

  “Because the law says I have to.” She rolled an inch forward. “Can you keep a little secret? Sure you can, you’re a therapist. I’m behaving myself because I’m banking on a promotion. What seems like a lateral transfer to Criminal Courts Division. But it’s not lateral at all because I’ll be supervising huge financial trials. Major banking and investment shenanigans. Money cases are my first love, I worked them as a prosecutor, tried the opposite side of the room for a while as a white-collar defense attorney, then I got appointed to this job. With the understanding that if I rounded out my experiential base, I’d be prioritized for serious corporate felony cases. The last thing I need is controversy—appeals or God forbid reversals. So I accepted damn Sykes Versus Sykes and now I’d like you to help me get through it as cleanly and quickly as possible.”

  “I understand, Judge, but I need to work at my own pace—”

  “And I understand that,” she said. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, I’m merely explicating my own priorities: This case will move. Meaning I will not grant it a nanosecond more than it deserves. In that regard, objective psychological data will help me achieve my goal. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Sure you don’t want any chocolate? It helps the endorphi
ns.”

  I smiled.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Sykes Versus Sykes. Or as I like to call it, the Harridan versus the Loser. Sykes One—the Harridan—is Constance. A doctor, plenty of money, lives in a seven-figure house in Westwood and can afford every upscale convenience and opportunity for a child. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t birth the child in question and would now like to take a shortcut. As in swiping said child from her younger sister.”

  She rotated her chair to the left, ran a finger along a sculpted eyebrow. “Which brings us to Sykes Two. Cherie. Spotty employment history, a few misdemeanors in her past, lives on whatever she can ladle out of the federal alphabet soup tureen. She co-conceived the child under a Malibu sky but won’t name the father. Lives in a ratty apartment in East Hollywood and my guess is little Rambla won’t be going to Crossroads or Buckley or Harvard-Westlake.” She frowned. “When the kid grows up, she might find herself ladling from the tureen but that’s not my concern.”

  “Cherie’s got issues but nothing in her background makes her unfit.”

  “If only,” said Nancy Maestro. “I mean give me some serious anger management issues—better yet, violent acting out. Give me hard-core felonies, major-drug addiction, give me anything that puts this child in jeopardy and I’ve got something to work with and we can all go home feeling good.”

  “You think the child would be better off with Connie.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I didn’t say that. Once you meet Connie, you’ll understand why I didn’t say that. I’m just looking for a clear avenue to maximize this baby’s safety and security while staying within the boundaries of the law.”

  “The Harridan,” I said. “Connie’s got a difficult personality.”

  Instead of answering, she fooled with the candy bowl. “You have kids, Doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Me, neither. Married young, divorced, grew up. Love my life as it is. Connie Sykes, on the other hand, strikes me as someone who put off personal attachments for her career and now she’s stuck living by herself and wants to create an instant family.”

  “At the expense of her sister.”