“You’re sure you don’t want me to see you off inside?” he asked.
“I’m sure,” I replied. We looked at each other. “You wanted me to balance the accounts. I didn’t do it, did I?”
Larry looked worn and frail. “I guess Jim showed us that people aren’t numbers.”
“No,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a month.”
“Until then.”
We embraced and he kissed my cheek. I stood at the curb and watched his Jaguar melt into the frantic Friday afternoon traffic.
On the plane I thought about the loose ends: a drunken phone call from someone who claimed Jim wasn’t the killer, Jim’s own insistence that he hadn’t done it, the fact that Jim and Brian had been something akin to lovers, and Josh Mandel’s obvious lie about where he had been the night of the murder. Grist for speculation but hardly enough to take to the jury. Not even enough to change my own mind, really. Jim Pears had killed Brian Fox. That much was inescapable. And yet…
I looked out the window. The sea was white with light, an enormous blankness beneath a gentle autumn sky.
12
On Monday, December first, I found myself back in the courtroom of Patricia Ryan where the case of People versus Pears was about to end — not with a bang, but a whimper. The previous week I had worked out an arrangement allowing the D.A. to designate a neurologist to examine Jim for the purpose of assessing his chances of recovery. The doctor, a sandy-haired man with a vague air about him, sat beside the prosecutor, a young woman named Laura Wyle, the third prosecutor I had dealt with in the past month. The case was now of such low priority that it had trickled down through the ranks to the most junior member of the D.A.’s homicide unit.
It was as cold in the court as it was outside in the rainy streets, the result, I was told, of the heat having been off over the weekend. The bailiff wore a parka over his tan uniform and the court reporter sat with her hands beneath her legs while we waited for the judge to take the bench. The only other people in the court were a middle-aged couple, the man very tall and the woman very short. Jim’s parents. Walter Pears wore a black suit, a brilliantly white shirt and a dark blue tie. Light gleamed off the lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses. His long, stern face was set in a look of sour distaste that I associated with religious fanatics and tax lawyers; Walter Pears was both. His wife was, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Even now, looking at her, I was more aware of the color of her dress — an unflattering shade of green — than her face. They were here to reclaim their son. Poor Jim, I thought again, turning away from them. The bailiff stood up and said, “All rise.”
Patricia Ryan emerged from her chambers, seated herself and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.”
We bid her good morning. The reporter started to click away.
“People versus Pears,” the judge said. “Let the record reflect that the parties are represented but Mr. Pears is not present.” She shuffled some papers. “I have received a medical report in this case by a Dr. Connor-”
“Uh, present,” the doctor said.
“Yes, hello, Doctor,” the judge said. “From what I gather it is your conclusion that Jim Pears suffers from permanent and irreversible brain damage, is that right?”
Doctor Connor drew himself up and surveyed the room as if he had just awakened in Oz. He saw me and blinked furiously.
“Doctor,” the judge said.
“Right,” he said. “Uh, yes, Your Honor. Did you say something?”
In a voice of practiced patience, she repeated her original question.
Connor’s arms jerked up to his sides and backwards as if pulled by wires. “That’s kind of the village idiot explanation,” he said, cheerfully.
Judge Ryan squinted and said coldly, “Doctor, I’d like you to answer my question, not assess my intelligence.”
The D.A. tugged at Connor’s coat. He leaned over and she whispered, fiercely, into his ear. He jerked upright and said, “The answer is yes.” He plopped back into his chair.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now, it’s my understanding that the People wish to make a motion pursuant to Penal Code section 1385.”
Laura Wyle stood up. “In view of the unlikelihood that James Pears will ever be fit to stand trial, the People move to dismiss the action in the interests of justice.”
“Mr. Rios?”
“No objection, Your Honor.”
“Motion granted. The action is dismissed. Mr. Pears is remanded to the custody of his parents. Are they in court?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, rising. I turned to the gallery.
Sometime during Connor’s disquisition Josh Mandel had entered the courtroom and now sat behind me. Surprised, I wondered why the D.A. had ordered him in. “Mr. and Mrs. Pears are present.”
“I am ordering Jim’s release,” she said to them. “You’ll have to make arrangements to move him through the sheriff’s office. My clerk will assist you.”
Walter Pears rose, all six-foot-six of him. “Thank you,” he bellowed, mournfully.
“Court is in recess,” Patricia Ryan said. “Thank you for being here, Mr. Rios.”
“My pleasure.”
She smiled charmingly and left the bench. I turned to Laura Wyle. “You have a witness here,” I observed.
She looked around. “Where?”
“Josh Mandel.”
“I didn’t tell him to be here,” she replied.
Connor came around and said, loudly, “Can I go now? I have appointments all morning.”
“Certainly,” she said. “Thank you.”
“A waste of my time,” he muttered, and pushed his way past the railing and out of the court.
I raised a sympathetic eyebrow at the D.A.
“He’s a real ass, isn’t he,” she said. “Well, excuse me, Henry. Lillian Fox is upstairs in my office having hysterics.”
“My sympathies,” I said.
Walter Pears came up to the railing, leaned over and said, “Mr. Rios, if I might have a word with you? Privately.”
I looked at him. “Sure. Now?”
“If you please.”
“There’s a small conference room just outside the courtroom,” I said. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Yes, that’ll do,” he said, as if bestowing a favor.
I turned around in my chair. Josh Mandel was looking directly at me. “Hello, Josh.”
“Hi,” he said. Today he wore a yellow rain slicker over jeans and a red crew neck sweater. Not witness apparel, I thought.
“You came in for the last act?”
“Can I talk to you?”
“I think the Pears have first dibs. Can you stick around?”
He shook his head. “I’ve got to get to Encino.”
“You want to tell me what it’s about?” I asked, standing up and straightening my coat.
“It’s kind of personal.” He was forcing himself to keep his eyes on me.
“Is it about Jim?”
“Sort of,” he said, now standing too. The railing separated us by a few inches. “I don’t think he killed
