“Call me Britney. Go on. But watch every step you take, sir.”
Steve didn’t have to. He’d gotten what he could out of the witness. All he needed was one juror to think that maybe this officer didn’t see what he thought he saw. One juror to hang the thing, and then maybe Moira Hanson would call her boss and say it’s not worth a retrial. Let the guy walk.
Sure. And Santa Claus sips Cuba Libres at the North Pole.
2
Steve’s cross-examination of Officer Siebel was the last order of business on a hot August Friday. Monday they’d all come back for closing arguments, giving Steve a whole weekend to come up with some verbal gold. Which he knew he had to spin to get Carlos Mendez a fair shake.
It would also give him time, he hoped, to get some sleep.
Steve pointed his Ark toward his Canoga Park office. The Ark was what he called his vintage Cadillac, and by vintage he meant has seen better days. It dated from before the Reagan administration and had been overhauled and repainted and taped together many times over. Steve scored it at a police auction five years earlier. The main advantage was it was big. He could sleep in it if he needed to. Even back then, as he was sucking blow up his snout like a Hoover, Steve suspected he might be homeless someday.
Hadn’t happened yet. And with the help of the state bar’s Lawyer Assistance Program, maybe it wouldn’t. The LAP is supposed to help lawyers with substance-abuse problems. Steve had managed to keep the monkey off his back for a year. Not that he wasn’t close to falling, especially on those nights when lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
Steve took Sherman Way into Canoga Park, an LA burg in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. It was a venerable town that had hit its stride in 1955, when Rocketdyne, a division of North American Aviation, made its home there. The aerospace industry brought a boomlet of people to the area, and American dreams were born and realized. Rocketdyne engines were used to help put men on the moon in 1969, and NASA space shuttles in their appointed rounds.
At its peak during the space race with the Soviets, Rocketdyne employed twenty-two thousand people, and Canoga Park was a great place to live, shop, and open a business. But the realities of economy and urban decline were as inevitable and poisonous as wild oleander.
The aerospace industry dried up. The blocks of apartments that once housed Rocketdyne line workers became homes for Latino immigrants. The Rocketdyne building itself, a dinosaur of 1950s architecture, was used sparingly now, surrounded by fast-food restaurants and big-box electronics stores.
But Canoga Park was going through a rebirth of sorts, with its famous shopping mall on Topanga undergoing a major refurbish. High-end boutiques and a Nordstrom were cornerstones of the new place. Things were looking up, economically speaking.
Steve wanted to see it as a hopeful metaphor of his own career. Once promising, then a descent into the absolute Dumpster, now ready for a comeback. If he could just land a well-heeled client or two. Maybe a big white-collar CEO type. Right. They always came to the small-time solo operator like him.
The building that housed Steve’s office came into view. A two-story corner job, it wasn’t on the best part of the main drag. Across the street was a notorious strip mall that drew a lot of Steve’s future clients—young thugs. They’d hang out at night in front of the coin laundry, under the red glow of the Chinese restaurant sign. Pick Up or Dine In, the sign said. Steve thought they should add a line—Hang Out. Because that’s all people did over there—mostly unemployed, mostly Latino.
Mostly tired, Steve turned into the outdoor parking lot of his office building.
And almost ran over a chair. What was that all about? True, this wasn’t the toniest address in town, but they didn’t need junk all over the place. Maybe some of the homeless had—
Steve recognized the chair. One of his own. A secretarial chair with rollers that was rarely used, the main reason being he had no secretary.
At the far end of the lot was a collection of more furniture. Piled up in the corner of the gray cinderblock wall. And all of it from his office.
The jerk had evicted him.
Trembling with rage, Steve braked the Ark, jumped out, and stared at his desk, chairs, credenza, filing cabinets, bookcases. It wasn’t everything, but enough for his Serbian landlord to make his point.
He saw himself grabbing a tire iron from the Ark’s trunk and breaking some of the building’s windows. Street justice. Maybe smash a door or two. Then he saw the tatters of his reputation and called Ashley.
His soon-to-be ex-wife—they had a month left on the mandatory wait—was the only one who might help him. She’d been there in the past. But he also knew that thin thread that held them together was close to snapping.
“What’s wrong, Steve?” That was the first thing out of her mouth.
“Why do you always assume something’s wrong?”
“You only call when something’s wrong.”
“Not so.”
“Then what is it?”
“Something’s wrong,” Steve said.
“Not funny.”
“Not trying to be. He evicted me.”
“Your apartment?”
“Office.”
“Why?”
“Non-payment of rent, of course. But he didn’t have to do it this way. I mean, the stuff is all over the parking lot.”
“Steve, I’m sorry.”
“I was wondering if I could borrow a little.”
The pause on the other end was heavy, like a water-soaked blanket.
“Ashley?”
“I just can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.”
“Oh what, you’re going to bring up that enablement stuff?”
“It’s not stuff. It’s for your own good. The counselor even—”
“Don’t bring up the counselor, please. I don’t exactly have feelings for the guy who is the reason you filed.”
“I filed because it was the only thing left for me. For us.”
“I’m clean, Ashley. Over a year.”
“I’m glad.”
“Glad enough to stop this thing and try again?”
Another pause, heavier than the first.
“Ashley?”
“It’s not going to happen, Steve. The sooner you accept that, the better it’s going to be all around.”
“Can’t we at least just talk and—”
“No. Is there anything else? I’ve got a client I have to see.”
The finality in her voice was like a hook, deep in fish guts, being ripped out. It almost took Steve’s breath away.
He saw a young woman emerge from the back of the office building. She appeared to be looking for someone. He turned his back on her.
“I’m sitting here with half my office out on the street!” Steve said. “I need to get a trailer, get this stuff moved, get some money so I can convince the guy to let me back in. I’m maxed out on the cards, nothing in the bank. Nothing. I haven’t even been paid by my client yet, and I’m almost through with the trial.”
“Steve—”
“I’m a mess, Ashley, and you’re the only one I ever had in my whole life who could put up with me. Can’t we just—”