“Which doesn’t excuse what they did to that poor little girl.”
“Not in the least.”
“Have you picked up any possible motive?” he said. “Because no one’s put anything forward- including the cops.”
“From what I can tell, the abduction was impulsive. The two of them were headed to the park to smoke and drink when they saw Kristal wandering around. They thought it would be fun to watch Kristal smoke and drink. She got sick, started to fuss, threw up, and things got out of control. There’s no indication they were stalking her.”
“Bad luck for that little girl,” he said. “Okay, so it’s your basic senseless crime. I was hoping for something a little more… psychologically illuminating. But no beef, you were up-front about no promises. Forget the b.s. about cutting your fee. When the government wants to give you money, take it… there’s nothing at all you can give me about disposition?”
“What will happen if you certify them as adults?”
“Initially, they’ll get long sentences and go off to Quentin or a place like it. If I juvey them, they’re off to the California Youth Authority, which, nowadays, isn’t all that different from grown-up prison except the inmates are shorter. The longest they could be C.Y.A. wards would be till age twenty-five.”
“Meaning they’d be released at the peak of criminal drive.”
“You bet,” he said. “In big-boy lockup, they’d be vulnerable to the Black Guerrilla Army and Nuestra Familia, probably run for cover to the Aryan Brotherhood. So we’d be creating a couple of little Nazis. But most of the C.Y.A. facilities are gang-ridden, too.”
“Why’d you say they’d have long sentences ‘initially’?”
“Because if I adult-certify, there’s a good chance some higher court will lower their sentences and have them switched to lower-security facilities. Meaning they could end up with
“I haven’t seen the family in the media.”
“They’ve kept a low profile, but the father’s called the D.A. a few times, demanding justice. No one can give him what he really wants- his kid back. And two other kids have ruined their own lives. It’s a rotten situation for all concerned.”
“Beyond rotten.”
“Alex, they’re so damned
“Wish I could tell you,” I said. “The precursors are all there- bad environment, maybe bad biology. But most kids exposed to the same things don’t murder toddlers.”
“No, they don’t,” he said. “Okay, send me whatever you feel comfortable putting down on paper. I’ll start your reimbursement voucher churning through the system.”
CHAPTER 10
In the end, resolution came the way it usually does once cases fade from public scrutiny: the product of backroom negotiation and the search for the least of all evils.
Five months after their arrests, in what the papers termed “a surprise move,” both boys pled guilty and were sentenced to the California Youth Authority until they were twenty-five or until it could be proven they’d been successfully rehabilitated.
No trial, no media hoopla. No need for me to appear as an expert witness and my check from the court arrived in a timely fashion.
I talked to no one but Milo about it, pretended I was sleeping well.
Troy Turner was sent to the N.A. Chaderjian camp in Stockton and Rand Duchay ended up at the Herman G. Stark Youth Correctional Facility in Chino. The C.Y.A. promised to provide counseling for both boys and special education for Rand.
The day the deal was announced, Kristal Malley’s parents were caught by a TV crew exiting the courtroom and asked for their opinion of the deal.
Lara Malley, a small, wan brunette, was sobbing. Her husband, Barnett, a tall, raw-boned man around thirty, glared and said, “No comment.”
The camera closed in on his face because anger’s more fun for the camera than despair. He had thin, sandy hair, long sideburns, sharp features, and prominent bones. Dry-eyed; the unmoving eyes of a sniper.
“In your opinion, sir,” the reporter pressed, “do the ages of the defendants make this an appropriate solution for closure?”
Barnett Malley’s jaw flexed and he jerked his hand upward and the soundman picked up scuffling noises. The reporter retreated; Malley didn’t move. The camera zoomed on his fist, frozen midair.
Lara Malley whimpered. Barnett stared into the camera for another second, grasped his wife by the arm, propelled her out of range.
Tom Laskin called me six weeks later. It was just after noon and I’d finished a session with an eight-year-old boy who’d burned his face playing with swimming pool chemicals. His parents had sued and a quack “environmental medicine” specialist had testified that the child would get cancer when he grew up. The boy had overheard and become traumatized and it was my job to deprogram him.
“Hi, Tom.”
“Could we meet, Alex?”
“About what?”
“I’d rather talk in person. I’ll come to your office.”
“Sure, when?”
“I’ll be finished in an hour. Where are you located?”
He arrived at my house, wearing a camel jacket, brown slacks, a white shirt, and a red tie. The tie was limp and pulled down from an open collar.
We’d talked over the phone but had never met. I’d seen his picture in newspaper accounts of the Malley case- mid-fifties, gray hair trimmed in an executive cut, square face, steel-rimmed eyeglasses, a prosecutor’s wary eyes- and had formed the image of a big, imposing man.
He turned out to be short- five-six or -seven- heavier and softer and older than pictured, the hair white, the jowls giving way to gravity. His jacket was well-cut but tired. His shoes needed a polish and the bags under his eyes were bluish.
“Pretty place,” he said, sitting on the edge of the living room chair that I offered. “Must be nice working out of your house.”
“It has its advantages. Something to drink?”
He considered the offer. “Why not? Beer, if you’ve got it.”
I went to the kitchen and fetched a couple of Grolsches. When I returned his posture hadn’t relaxed. His hands were clenched and he looked like someone forced to seek therapy.
I popped the caps on the beers and handed him a bottle. He took it but didn’t drink.
“Troy Turner’s dead,” he said.
“Oh, no.”
