I had always been cordial, and I'd come through for her on lots of tough cases. Now she'd landed me in the toughest one of all and I was ready to tell her so.
I called her number at Superior Court, expecting someone to tell me the judge was in trial. Instead, she picked up herself. 'You're calling about Richard.'
'The police took him away at my house. Eric and Stacy were there.'
'You're kidding. Why would they do that?'
'Orders from above,' I said. 'They see Richard as a prime suspect for Mate. Have you heard anything around the courthouse?'
'No,' she said, 'just what was on the news. Bob and I were in Newport for the evening, never looked at the TV, didn't find out about it till last night when we drove home and saw the police cars at Richard's house. I just can't believe this, Alex. It makes no sense.'
'Richard as a murderer.'
Pause. 'Richard doing something so stupid.'
'On the other hand,' I said, 'he did despise Mate. Wasn't shy about expressing it.'
'You think he's guilty?'
'Just playing devil's advocate.'
'I don't allow those in my court- Seriously, Alex, if Richard was up to no good, why would he advertise it? All that tough talk was just Richard being Richard. Spouting off, attributing blame. He's always been a big blamer.'
'Who else did he blame besides Mate?'
'No one in particular-it's just his overall style. Being dominant. The truth is, Richard's always been a difficult person-and yes, he does have a vindictive streak. You should hear him talk about how he destroys business rivals. But this? No, it just doesn't make sense. He has too much to lose-Hold on…' Fifteen-second hold. 'Alex, they're waiting for me, got to go.'
'Could we talk more, Judy?'
'What about?'
'Eric and Stacy. With all this going on, I really need all the data I can get. If you could spare me an hour, I'd greatly appreciate it.'
'I… I just don't know what I can tell you that hasn't already been said.' Brittle laughter. 'Some referral, huh? I'll bet from now on you're not going to return my calls quite so quickly.'
'I'll always take your referrals, Judy.'
'Why's that?'
'Because you give a damn.'
'Oh come on,' she said. 'Don't get all sugary on me. I'm just a judicial hack, putting in my time.'
'I don't think so.'
'That's very kind of you.' Now she sounded sad. 'Just an hour?'
'Use that egg timer you pull out when attorneys go on too long.'
She laughed again. 'You've heard about that.'
'I've seen it. The Jenkins case.'
'Oh yeah, good old Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins. That one deserved an egg timer with a sonic alarm- Okay, let me check my calendar, here… there's so much scrawl I can barely make it out.'
'Sooner rather than later if possible, Judy.'
'Hold again…' Another female voice in the background. Her clerk Doris's contralto. Judy's soprano reply. 'The husband's lawyer is trying to pull shtick, time to whip him into shape… Okay, how about dinner tonight? I've got a ton of reports to do, will be working late, anyway. Bob's taking Becky to the Cliffside, so I'm flexible. How about someplace on my way home-Grun!, in Westwood. That's not far from you-eight-thirty tonight.'
'Grun! it is. Thanks, Judy. I really appreciate it.'
'Oh yes,' she said, 'I'm quite the saint.'
CHAPTER 25
WESTWOOD VILLAGE, AS those who live nearby are quick to point out, used to be a nice place.
Once a high-end shopping district for a high-end residential area, a twist of charmingly curving streets lined with single-story brick buildings, the Village has devolved into a confused tangle of neon and chrome, weekends pulsating with noise, fast-food joints ejaculating gusts of grease and sugar.
Some of that was inevitable. Dominating the north end of the Village is the land-grant sprawl of the U., perched like a hungry bear. The encroachment stretches beyond campus borders, as the university pounces on vacant offices and builds parking lots. Student sensibilities means multiplex theaters, U-print T-shirt shops, discount record stores, jeans emporiums. Student budgets means burgers, not beluga. When a grizzly lolls near a trout stream, guess who gets eaten?
But there are other beasts at work. Developers, aiming to squeeze every dollar out of dirt. Building up, up, up, beyond, beyond, beyond. Lunching and boozing and bribing their way past zoning restrictions. People like Richard.
As token appeasements to the neighbors, some of the high-rise barons bring in pricey restaurants. Grun! was one of those, set on the top floor of a heartless black glass rhomboid on the north end of Glendon. The latest creation of a German celebrity chef with his own brand of frozen dinners.
I'd been there once, the lunch guest of an overeager personal-injury lawyer. Allegedly healthful dining formed of unlikely ethnic melds, prices that kept out the middle class. Waiters in pink shirts and khakis who launched into a world-weary, robotic recitation of the daily specials as if it were another audition. What happened to all the kids who didn't break into pictures?
I drove down Hilgard, passing sorority houses to the west, the U.'s botanical garden to the east, made it to the restaurant in ten minutes. I live close to the Village, but I rarely venture into the cacophony.
A red-jacketed valet lounged by the curb. I squeezed in between two Porsche Boxsters, and the attendant examined the Seville as if it were a museum piece.
I was inside by eight-thirty on the nose. The hostess was a hollow-cheeked, lank-haired brunette working hard on a Morticia Addams act. Judy Manitow hadn't arrived. It took a while to get Tish's attention and figure out that the JTJ in the reservation book stood for Judy the Judge. Tish directed me to the bar. I looked over her shoulder at the half-empty dining room and gave my best boyish grin. She sighed and fluttered her lashes and allowed me to trail her to a corner table.
Half-empty but noisy, sound waves caroming against bleached wood walls, ostentatiously distressed plank floors and mock-wormwood ceiling beams. Where plaster had been applied, it was an unhealthy sunburn pink. Iron tables covered in rose linen, chairs sheathed in dark green suedette.
Tish stopped midway in our trek. Sighed again. Turned. Rotated her neck, as if warming up for a work-out. 'I just love the way the light hits the room from this spot.'
'Fantastic.' Lights, camera, action. Cut.
The table was barely big enough for solitaire. A couple of waiters loitered nearby but neither made a move toward me. Finally, a Hispanic busboy came over and asked if I wanted something to drink. I said I'd wait and he thanked me and brought water.
Ten minutes later, Judy breezed in looking harried. She wore a formfitting, plum-colored knit suit, the skirt ending two inches above her knees, and matching pumps with precarious heels. Her cream-colored handbag had a sparkly clasp that functioned like a headlight, and as she approached at power-walk speed I thought of a little hot rod.
She looked even thinner than I remembered, facial bones expressing themselves sharply under an ash-blond, tennis-friendly cap of hair. Sparkles flashed at her neck, too, and on both hands. As she got closer, she saw me, wiggled two fingers, and picked up speed, playing a castanet solo on the plank floor, hips swiveling, calves defined. The waiters exchanged appreciative glances as they followed her and I wondered if they thought they had her figured out.
