Sydney Weider opened her front door wearing a soiled white T-shirt with a Surfside Country Club flying dolphin logo over her left breast, gray stretch athletic shorts, and bare feet. Up close, her face was pallid, scored vertically by wrinkles that began at the corners of her eyes and tugged her mouth down. Her legs were white, varicosed, her feet hangnailed and grubby around the ankles.
She opened her mouth in surprise.
Milo said, “Ma’am,” and showed her his badge.
She slapped him hard across the face.
As he hauled her out to the unmarked, cuffed her, hissing and twisting, a
Same neighbor who’d watched Weider scream at me a few days ago.
“Here we go,” muttered Milo. “Where’s the damned video camera?”
Weider growled and slammed her head into his arm and tried to bite him. He held her at arm’s length. “Open the door, Alex.”
As I did the woman from across the street sped toward us.
Late thirties, blond ponytail, shapely in tight black pedal pushers and a sea-green tank top. Grace Kelly facial definition. Sydney Weider in a younger, happier time.
She looked furious; let’s hear it for Neighborhood Watch.
As she got closer, Milo said, “Ma’am- ”
“Good for you!” she said. “That bitch screams at all the children and
Sydney Weider spat in her direction. The gob landed on the sidewalk. The woman said, “You’re disgusting. As always.”
Before Weider could respond, Milo pressed down on her head, managed to get her into the car, and slammed the door. His face was flushed.
“What’d she finally do?” the woman repeated. “You people said there was nothing you could- ”
“Can’t discuss that, ma’am. Now if you’d please- ”
The ponytailed woman said, “See? She’s insane. I’ve got a list for you. Give me your fax number.”
“She’s been that big of a problem?” I said.
“
Milo said, “Appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Good riddance,” said the woman, glaring through the window. Sydney Weider lay on her back, feet up. She began kicking the window again. Barefoot, but hard enough to make the glass shudder.
The woman said, “You should hog-tie her. Like on
As we drove away, other doors opened but no one emerged.
Sydney Weider screamed wordlessly and resumed kicking the window. Milo stopped the car, parked, retrieved a set of plastic ties from the trunk, and defended himself against Weider’s gnashing jaws and vicious feet as he fought to bind her ankles. I got out and held Weider’s heels. Yet another divergence from accepted psychological practice.
Finally, he managed to flip her on her stomach, pull the ties snug. She writhed and foamed at the mouth and butted her head against the door as the car pulled away. Potty-mouth tirade; all those years in law school spent parsing and composing elegant phrases wasted.
I felt sorry for her.
When Milo reached Sunset, she turned silent. Panting, then snuffling, filled the car. I glanced back. Still flat on her belly. Eyes closed, inert.
I figured he’d take her to the jail at the Westside station, but he drove east through the Palisades and turned in to Will Rogers State Park.
A little-girl voice from the back said, “I used to ride horses here.”
“Good for you,” said Milo.
Moments later: “What did I do to make you so angry?”
“How about assaulting an officer?”
“Oh…,” she said. “I’m sorry I really am I don’t know what happened I just you scared me I thought you were sent by my husband to torment me one of those process servers he won’t let go one Halloween he sent a process server dressed up as a goblin and I opened the door for trick or treat and this goblin threw court papers at me and when I threw them back he grabbed me made contact with my arm that was real assault believe me much worse than what I did I’m an attorney I know what assault is when I see it listen I really didn’t mean to hit you I was defending myself you really scared me.”
No pause for breath. The neighbor had talked about Weider’s racing up and down the block. I remembered her as a fast talker and Marty Boestling had called her manic.
The only marathon was in her head.
“Really,” she said. “I know now what I did I see it clearly and I’m so so so so sorry.”
We parked in the nearly empty lot that faced the polo fields.
“No horses anymore everything goes to shit in this city please,” said Sydney Weider. “Just take off these things I hate to be restrained I really hate it.”
Milo switched off the engine.
“Please please I promise to behave appropriately.”
“Why should I trust you, Sydney?”
“Because I’m an honest person I know I acted irrationally but I already explained that to you it’s my ex he never stops he won’t give up making my life a living hell.”
“How long’s he been doing that?” I said.
“At least the foot thingies please? They hurt they’re bending my legs in a not-good way I’m constricted it’s hard to breathe.”
Milo got out and undid the plastic ties, sat her up, careful to maintain distance from her teeth.
Weider smiled and flipped her hair and looked pretty for a pathetic second. “Thank you thank you you’re a doll thanks so much now how about the cuffs too?”
Milo returned to the front seat. “So how long’s your ex been tormenting you?”
“Always but what I’m talking about is since the divorce seven years seven long years of nonstop torture that’s after he robbed me blind took everything my father left me my father was a film producer one of the top guys in Hollywood and that bastard knew where everything was kept he looted me looted me like something from the Watts riot we used to have a house cars Angelo Donghia furniture Sarouk rugs you name it we had a great life on the surface- ”
