“A lawyer?” he asked, thickly.
“That’s right,” I said. “How do you feel, Mr. Paris?”
He gave me a puzzled look as if how he felt should be obvious, and asked, “Are the handcuffs necessary?”
“The sheriffs think so,” I said, studying him. “Do you think you’d be all right without them?”
“I’m not going to hurt you.’’
I had decided he was down from whatever drug he had taken. I called in the deputy and asked him to remove the handcuffs. He resisted but, in the end, the handcuffs went. He stationed himself outside the door. I got up and closed it.
“Better?” I asked.
Paris smiled, revealing a set of even, white teeth. He rubbed his wrists and smoothed his hair, buttoned the top buttons of the jail jumpsuit and pulled himself up in the chair. He looked less dazed now, and he fixed me with a look of appraisal.
“Thank you,” he said. “I feel terrible. Why am I here?”
“You were arrested,” I replied, and read him the charges.
“Mr. Rios,” he said, “I don’t remember much about last night, but I do know that I didn’t take any drugs.”
“None?”
“I smoked a joint and then I went to this bar.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I was having a drink,” he said, “and then I heard this horrible, rasping noise. It scared the hell out of me. And then I realized it was my own breathing. Then I went outside, I think, because I remember the lights. And then I woke up here. That’s it.’’
“The police found a couple of sherms in your clothes,” I said, testing him.
“What’s a sherm?” he asked.
“Cigarettes dipped into PCP.”
“I don’t smoke,” he replied, conversationally. It was possible he was telling the truth.
“Were you alone at the bar?”
“I came with an ex-boyfriend,” he said, calmly, “but he left before any of this happened.”
“You smoke the joint with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know anyone else at the bar?”
“Not that I remember.” “How many drinks did you have?”
“Two or three. Not more than three.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“I don’t want him involved.”
I had been taking notes. I put down my pen and leaned back into the chair. “There isn’t anyone in this room but you and me,” I began. “Anything you say to me is privileged. The resisting and battery charges won’t stick and they have no evidence you were under the influence of PCP because they didn’t bother to have you examined by a doctor. That just leaves the possession charge. If you were just holding it for someone, I might get the charge reduced or even dismissed.”
“You don’t believe me,” he said.
“I have to argue evidence,” I said, “and the evidence is, first, you were high on something last night and, second, the police found PCP on you. It shouldn’t be hard to see what inference can be drawn from those two facts.”
“I know what PCP is,” he said, “but I’ve never used it and I’ve certainly never carried it on me.”
“It could’ve been in the joint you smoked with your friend,” I said. “Let me at least talk to him.”
He shook his head. “I have to take care of this my own way.”
“You have money to hire your own lawyer?”
“Money isn’t the problem,” he said, dismissing the thought with a shrug. He looked away from me and seemed to withdraw into himself. I could hear the deputy outside the door shouting at a trustee. Paris looked back at me without expression. The silence went on for a second too long. “You’re gay,” he said.
Still looking into his eyes, I said, “Yes, I am.”
“I didn’t think so at first.”
“What gave me away?”
“You didn’t react at all when I mentioned my boyfriend. You didn’t even blink. Straight men always give themselves away.”
I shrugged. “There probably isn’t anything you could tell me about yourself or your boyfriend that would surprise me. So why not level with me about last night?”
“I have,” he said, wearily. “Look, it was Paul’s joint and maybe it was laced with PCP. He could’ve given me the cigarettes. I just don’t remember.”
“Then let’s call him and clear it up.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“I’m hiding,” he said. “I shouldn’t have called Paul in the first place. I can’t risk seeing him again.”
“Who are you hiding from?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t tell you, although I’d like to.”
“Then take my card,” I said, digging one out from my wallet, “and call me when you want to talk.”
He studied the card and said, “Thanks. I’d like to make a phone call.”
“I’ll take care of that,” I said. I reached across the table to shake his hand. This we did very formally. Then the deputy knocked and I called him in to take the prisoner back to his cell.
Outside it was a bright and balmy morning. A fresh, warm wind lifted the tops of the palm trees that lined the streets and sunlight glittered on the pavement. I put on my sunglasses and headed toward California Avenue where I was meeting my best friend, Aaron Gold, for breakfast. He had told me he had a business proposition to make. A couple of kids cycled by with day packs strapped to their shoulders. The Southern Pacific commuter, bound for San Francisco, rumbled by at the end of the street. I felt a flash of restlessness as it passed. Another summer passing. In two months I would be thirty-four.
“Henry,” I heard Gold call. I looked up from where I’d stopped, in front of a pet store. He approached rapidly, his intelligent, simian face balled into a squint against the sunlight. He was tall, pale, a little thick around the waist, but he still carried himself like the college jock he’d been.
“Morning, Aaron.”
“What were you thinking about?” he asked.
“Nothing really. Getting older.”
He made a derisive little noise. “You’re still a kid. Look at me, I’m pushing forty. Am I worried?”
“You’re in your prime,” I said, not altogether jokingly. In his tailored suit, Gold looked sleek and prosperous from his polished shoes and manicured nails to the fifty dollar haircut that tamed his curly, black hair.
“You never went to my tailor,” he said, looking me over critically. “Come on, let’s eat.” He took me by the elbow and led me across the street into the restaurant where all the waitresses knew him by name. We found a table at the back, ordered breakfast and drank our first cups of coffee in silence.
Thirteen years earlier, Gold and I had been assigned as roommates in the law school dormitory our first year there. We had not liked each other much at first. He mistook my shyness for arrogance and I failed to see that his arrogance masked his shyness. Things sorted themselves out and we became friends. He was one of the first people I told I was gay. It would be an exaggeration to say he took it well, but we remained friends on the levels that counted most, respect and trust. Lately, he had even relaxed a little about my homosexuality — joking that I needed to meet a nice Jewish boy and settle down.
He was saying, “Did you run into anyone I know at the jail?”
“You don’t go to county jail for SEC violations,” I replied.
“Trading stock on insider information isn’t the only criminal activity my clients engage in.”
