“They never said anything to me.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to bother you with it.” I can tell this weighs heavily.
“How did they find out?”
“I don’t know.”
There’s a long silence as she thinks. “I told them that I had referred Metz to Nick,” she says.
“Well, as far as you knew at the time, that was the truth. Right?”
“Absolutely.”
I can tell from the stark expression this has not been one of Dana’s better days. First the insurance, now the cops with information that her husband had dealings with Metz before she knew him, information that is inconsistent with what she had told them. She has to wonder what they are thinking.
“How did Metz approach you regarding his legal problems?” I ask. “What exactly did he say?”
I can tell her mind is already headed in the same direction, trying to reconstruct events. “It… it was at a meeting.” Now she’s flustered. Information overload, too much of it disturbing, or maybe she just wants me to think so.
“I think it was in March. Last spring anyway. He came up to me after the meeting and said he knew that I was married to a good lawyer and that he needed some help with a business problem he was having. I told him my husband did criminal law, and he said that-that’s what he needed.”
“Did he give you any details about this problem?”
“Nothing. Just that he had needed a lawyer.”
“Had you ever talked with Metz before this conversation?”
“Sure. I mean there’s twenty-eight people on the commission. We meet. We talk. We serve as a clearinghouse for NEA grants in the county. National Endowment for the Arts.”
“Is there much money involved?”
“It depends. Some of the grants are large. We’re reviewing one for a new opera house that could involve a few million dollars. Most of them are small individual grants.”
“How about Metz? Did he usually show up for meetings?”
“Most of the time. We had talked socially a few times, discussed things. I can’t say that I knew him well.”
“Do you know how Metz got on the commission?”
“I assume the same way we all did, by appointment of one of the county supervisors.”
I consider this as she looks at me.
“Just out of curiosity, who appointed you?”
“I knew you were going to ask. The cops did, and I couldn’t remember. How embarrassing,” she says. “But I looked on my appointment papers afterward. It was Supervisor Tresler.”
“Do you know him?”
She shakes her head. “Not personally. I mean I may have met him at some function or other. If I did, I don’t remember. I’m not really into politics.”
I am thinking, “Yes you are, just not the kind where people cast secret ballots.”
“Then how did you get appointed?”
“Nick thought it would be good for me. I think he was trying to find something I’d enjoy. It’s not a big deal,” she says. “I mean it’s not one of the best commissions. There are some boards, advisory groups that pay a salary. There’s no compensation for the arts commission. They cover some expenses. Once every year, a small group gets to go to Europe, for meetings with art exhibitors. It’s on a rotating basis. I haven’t had a chance.” She looks down. “I guess now I may not have a chance. I mean I may have to resign and find a job. I don’t know what else I can tell you. You will help me, won’t you?” Dana’s back to my hand again, giving it the squeeze treatment, so that when I stand up I have to stoop over to release her grip.
“I’ll do what I can. I’ll get back to you.”
With Nick and Metz dead and the cops chasing rainbows looking for the killer, the only viable lead at the moment is the man Espinoza. For the time being, he’s rotting in a federal detention facility downtown, waiting for the federal public defender to have bail set.
What I’m afraid of, given the vagaries of federal judges, is that some magistrate with a wild hair up his ass might set a figure that Espinoza or one of his associates could match. In which case, they would turn the man loose and Espinoza would disappear in a heartbeat-my last chance to get information.
So this afternoon I’m sticking my head in the legal lion’s mouth, running and capping, trying to snag him as a client to keep him in jail.
As I approach the front door, I can hear a television set inside, the zany music and voices of cartoons.
Over the top of this, a baby is screaming.
I knock on the door. Whoever is inside doesn’t hear it. I check the street number stenciled over the front door one more time. If Miguelito Espinoza’s family or whoever lived here with him hasn’t moved, it’s the right address.
This time I knock louder. After a couple of seconds, a shadow moves inside through the frosted glass.
“Who is it?”
“My name is Paul Madriani.”
“What do you want?”
“I’m looking for the family of Miguelito Espinoza.”
All I can hear is the sound of the television and a baby crying on the other side of the door.
“What do you want with them?” The door opens a few inches, safety chained at eye level. A blue eye bounded by some straight, blond, straggly hair peeking through at the level of my chest.
“Hello.” I beam my most disarming, nonthreatening smile and slip a business card through the opening. She takes it with a hand, trying to hold the baby at the same time while she reads.
“I’m a lawyer. I think I can help Mr. Espinoza.”
“You’ve seen Michael? You talked to him?”
“Are you his wife?”
She looks at me again but doesn’t answer, then checks the card one more time.
“He had nothing to do with that stuff,” she says. “I know Michael. He wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Besides he told me when they took him away they had nothin’, no evidence.” She is talking as if I am going to try the case standing here on her front steps, through a chained door.
“That’s what I thought,” I tell her. “Can I come in?”
“When did you talk to him?”
“I really don’t want to stand out here and talk about something like this on the front porch. I have some papers for you to sign.”
“What for?”
“So I can represent him.”
Suddenly the door closes. I hear the chain being slid across the brass groove. It opens again, this time all the way. There in the doorway is what can only be described as a child-woman, maybe five-foot-two, a hundred pounds soaking wet. She has long, dirty-blond hair and is wearing a threadbare pair of jeans and a man’s flannel shirt four sizes too large. She is bare footed standing on the dirty carpet inside the door. In her arms she is holding an infant wrapped in a blue blanket. I cannot see its face. Hers is oval, its features fine, almost birdlike, a drooping mouth that looks as if it has lost the ability to smile.
“He’s hungry,” she says.
From the wailing tones issuing from the blanket, there is nothing wrong with the baby’s lungs.
“What did Michael say? Did he ask about me?”
I ignore her questions. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.” As I step inside, she looks behind me, out toward the street as if maybe she is expecting someone else. Then she closes the door, holds the child in one arm as she turns the bolt on the lock and slides the security chain back into place.
She turns and crosses into the living room, stepping over articles of clothing, old newspapers and empty soda cans, and what looks like a discarded disposable diaper. There are discolored stains on the carpet that cause me to
