“We could do worse,” Johnny says. “What about Corey Blasingame?”
“What about him?”
“What are you going to do?”
Her intercom buzzes. “
“I’ll be right out,” Mary Lou says. Then, to Johnny, “I don’t know yet. Let’s go find out.”
Johnny follows her into the conference room.
161
Boone, Petra, and Alan are already seated at the table.
Mary Lou and Johnny sit down across from them.
Alan smiles and opens, “I’m taking it to trial.”
“You’ll lose,” Mary Lou says.
“The fuck I will,” Alan answers. “Your first three witnesses are garbage, the next two have recanted, which will make clowns of your investigating officers.”
Boone glances at Johnny. Face set in stone, but his cheeks turn red.
Boone looks away.
“We still have the confession,” Mary Lou says.
“Yeah, go with that,” Alan says. “I can’t wait to feed it piece by piece to Sergeant Kodani here. How do you like your crow, detective? A little salt and pepper?”
Johnny doesn’t say anything. Boone can’t look at him, and Petra stares at the table.
Mary Lou stands up. “If there’s nothing else . . .”
Johnny stands up too.
Looks at Boone with disgust.
“Come on, sit down, Mary Lou,” Alan says. “We don’t want it to end this way.”
Mary Lou sits back down. “Neither Harrington’s borderline subornation of perjury nor Kodani’s assertive interview of the defendants changes the fact that your client, at least partially motivated by racial hatred, at least participated in a beating that cost a human life.”
“Agreed.”
“He has to do some serious time for that, Alan.”
“Also agreed,” Alan says. “But he didn’t throw the fatal punch, Mary Lou. That was Bodin. And he wasn’t the ringleader. That was Bodin too.”
“There are practical reasons why I can’t go after Bodin.”
“That doesn’t mean you should single Corey out for special punishment,” Alan responds. “There’s an issue of justice here.”
“There’s an issue of justice for Kelly, too.”
“I share that view,” Alan says. “My client participated in a disgusting act with a tragic result, and he should face the consequences. I’ll go vol man.
“With max sentencing—eleven years.”
“Minimum—three.”
It’s kabuki theater—they both know the next step in this ritual.
“Fine,” Mary Lou says. “Medium-range. Six.”
“Done.”
They shake hands—Alan and Mary Lou, Alan and Johnny, Petra and Mary Lou, Petra and Johnny, Boone and Mary Lou, not Boone and Johnny.
They avoid each other.
162
Boone drives to La Jolla.
The Hole.
Rabbit and Echo are on duty in front of the house. Rabbit pats Boone down while Echo gets on the horn and then comes back and says it’s okay for Boone to go in. Or out.
Red Eddie’s lying on a floatie in the pool, sipping some fruity drink with an umbrella in it. His ankle bracelet is wrapped in a plastic Baggie. Dahmer’s stretched out on a floating cushion nearby. Eddie cranes his neck up, squints into the sun, and says, “Boonie, an unexpected pleasure! You could have just sent a card.”
Red Eddie’s pidgin Hawaiian comes in and out like the tide. It depends on his mood and intent. Today, he’s all Wharton Business.
“Fuck you, Eddie.”
“Not exactly the Hallmark sentiment I was expecting.” Eddie says, “but pithy, nevertheless.”
“Stay out of my life.”
“Even to save it, Boone?” Eddie asks. “It’s not just a past-tense question—the cartel is very upset with you, costing them all this money and trouble. They’re not so happy with me, either, wiping out two of their boys and one of their best interrogators. When things settle for them, they’ll be coming for both of us.”
“Look out for yourself,” Boone says. “Not me.”
Eddie paddles to the edge of the pool and sets his drink down. Then he rolls off the floatie into the water, dives down to cool himself, comes back up, and says, “This is the problem with that, Boone: I owe you. My son’s life. My life, too. How can I ever stop repaying that? I can’t. So you will just have to learn to accept my care and largesse—a little more graciously, please.”
“I just came to tell you that Corey Blasingame didn’t kill—”
“I already heard,” Eddie says. “Do you think that I’m without resources in the hallways of power? I am informed that it was Trevor Bodin who murdered my calabash cousin. Is that correct?”
Boone doesn’t answer, but says, “I suppose it’s useless to ask you to refrain from doing what you’re going to do.”
“Supposition correct.”
“Even if Kelly wouldn’t want you to do it?”
“I never respond to ‘even ifs,’” Eddie says. “Aloha, Boone.”
“Drown.”
Boone walks away.
“Nice,” Eddie says. He dives again, comes up, and yells at Rabbit, “What, you think my drink is going to swim over here by itself, da kine?”
Rabbit hustles for the drink.
163
Corey Blasingame goes before the judge that afternoon and pleads guilty to voluntary manslaughter.
The judge accepts the plea and sets sentencing for two months down the road, but as preagreed he’s going to give Corey the medium-range sentence of seventy-two months, with credit for time served.
In the normal course of things, Corey will be out in fewer than three years.
The judge gives him a few minutes to say good-bye to people before the sheriffs take him away, but there really isn’t anyone to say good-bye to. Both parents are dead, he has no siblings, and no real friends. Boone notes that none of the surfers from Rockpile or the fighters from Team Domination bothered to show up.
