She shook her head, and the plastic earrings swung pendulously.
'That he was manipulated by Chancellor? No. Jamey may have looked up to Chancellor, but he was an individualist, not one to be programmed. I just can't see him as a pawn.'
'What if psychosis weakened that individuality and made him more vulnerable?'
'Psychopaths prey on weak-willed, low self-esteem types with personality disorders, don't they? Not schizophrenics. If Jamey was psychotic, he'd be too unpredictable to programme, wouldn't he?'
She was brilliant and single-minded, her questions fuelled by youthful outrage.
'You're raising good points,' I told her. 'I wish I could answer them.'
'Oh, no,' she said. 'I don't expect you to. Psych's too imprecise a science to come up with pat answers.'
'Does that bother you?'
'Bother me? It's what intrigues me about it.'
Karen saw me walking toward Sarita's office and came forward, indignant, her body language combative. 'I thought you said you wouldn't be needing her.' 'A few things came up. It won't take long.' 'Perhaps I can help you with them.' 'Thanks, but no. I need to talk with her directly.' Her nostrils flared, and her full lips tightened. I moved toward the office door, but she'd blocked the way with her body. Then, after the merest instant of silent hostility, she slid away gracefully, turned, and marched off. A casual observer wouldn't have noticed a thing.
My knock was greeted by the squealing and scraping of rubber wheels on vinyl, then the outward swing of the door. Sarita waited until I'd entered, then closed it herself. Palming backward, she stopped at the desk-table, which was stacked high with computer printouts.
'Good morning, Alex. Was the meeting helpful?'
'They're insightful kids.'
'Aren't they?' She smiled maternally. 'They've developed so beautifully. Magnificent specimens.'
'It must give you great satisfaction.'
'It does.'
The phone rang. She picked it up, said yes and uh-huh several times, and put it down, smiling.
'That was Karen letting me know she told you I was busy but you bullied your way in here anyway.'
'Pretty protective, isn't she?'
'Loyal. Which is conspicuously rare nowadays.' She swung the chair around. 'Actually she's a remarkable young woman. Very bright but grew up in Watts, dropped out of school when she was eleven, ran away, and lived on the streets for five years doing things you and I never dreamed off. When she was sixteen, she pulled herself together, went back to night school, and earned a high school diploma in three years. Then she read an article about the project, thought it might be an opportunity to get more education, and showed up one morning, asking to be tested. Her story was fascinating, and she did seem sharp, so I went along with it. She tested high - in the one- forties -but not, of course, sufficiently high to qualify. Nevertheless, she was too good to let go, so I hired her as a research assistant and got her enrolled here as a part-time student. She's pulling a three-point-eight and wants to go to law school at Boalt or Harvard. I have no doubt she'll make it. She smiled again and brushed nonexistent lint from her lapel. 'Now, then, what can I do for you?'
'I want to get in touch with Gary Yamaguchi, and I need his latest address.'
Her smile died.
'I'll give it to you, but it won't help. He's been drifting for the past six months.'
'I know. I'll give it my best shot.'
'Fine,' she said coldly. After swivelling sharply, she yanked open a file cabinet and drew out a folder. 'Here. Copy this down.'
I pulled out my notepad. Before it was open, she hurriedly recited an address on Pico near Grand, just west of downtown - a murky, downscale neighbourhood that catered to illegal aliens and street people with a menu of rotting slums, sewing shops, and shabby bars. During the last year a few artists and would-be artists had illegally established living quarters in industrial lofts, trying to create SoHo West. So far L.A. wasn't buying it.
'Thanks.'
'What do you expect to get from talking to him?' she demanded.
'Just trying to establish as complete a data base as possible.'
'Well, you won't get very far by utilising - '
The phone rang again. She snatched it up and said, 'Yes!' sharply. As she listened to the reply, annoyance surrendered to surprise, which rapidly swelled to shock.
'Oh, no. That's terrible. When - yes, he's right here. Yes, I'll tell him.'
She put down the phone.
'That was Souza, calling from the jail. Jamey tried to kill himself early this morning, and he wants you to come as soon as you can.'
I jumped to my feet and put away my notepad.
'How badly is he hurt?'
'He's alive. That's all I know.'
She wheeled toward me and started to say something apologetic and conciliatory, but I was moving too fast to hear it.
HE'D BEEN moved to one of the inpatient rooms that Montez had shown me during my tour of the jail. Three deputies, one of them Sonnenschein, stood guard outside the door. I looked through the window in the door and saw him lying face up on the bed, head swaddled in bloodstained bandages, spidery limbs restrained by padded cuffs. An IV line dripped into the crook of one arm. In the midst of the gauzy turban was a fleshy patch - a few square inches of face, battered and swollen. He was asleep or unconscious, purpled lids closed, cracked lips parted lifelessly.
Souza stood next to a short, bearded man in his early thirties. The lawyer wore a gun-metal-coloured suit of raw silk that reminded me of armour. When he saw me, he walked forward and said, angrily:
'He threw himself repeatedly and forcefully against the wall of his cell.' He glared at the deputies, who responded with stony looks of their own. 'There are no broken bones or apparent internal injuries, but his head absorbed most of
the damage, and Dr. Platt here suspects a concussion. He'll be moving him to County Hospital any minute.'
Platt said nothing. He wore a rumpled white coat over jeans and a work shirt and carried a black leather bag. Clipped to his lapel was a county badge identifying him as an attending neurologist. I asked him how bad it looked.
'Hard to tell,' he said softly. 'Especially with the psychotic overlay. I came over on a stat call, and I don't have much in the way of instruments. His reflexes look okay, but with head injuries you never know what can happen. We'll be observing him over the next few days, and hopefully we'll have a clearer picture then.'
I looked through the window again. Jamey hadn't moved.
'So much for security,' said Souza, loud enough for the deputies to hear. 'This puts a whole new complexion on things.'
He pulled a miniature tape recorder out of his briefcase and dictated the details of the suicide attempt in a courtroom voice. After walking over to the deputies, he peered at their badges and recited their names into the machine, spelling each one with exaggerated enunciation. If they were intimidated, they didn't show it.
'What's in the IV line?' I asked Platt.
'Just nutrition. He looked pretty cachectic to me, and I didn't want him dehydrating, especially if there is some internal haemorrhaging.'
'Sounds as if he took quite a beating.'
'Oh, yeah. He hit that wall hard.'
'Nasty way to do yourself in.'
'Gotta be.'
'See this kind of thing a lot?'
He shook his head.
'I do mostly rehab - deep-muscle EMGs. But the doc who usually takes jail calls is out on maternity leave, so I'm filling in. She sees plenty of it, mostly PCP ODs.'
'This kid never took drugs.'
