Ben didn’t see his life flash in front of his eyes He saw his death flash in front of his eyes.
55
“How bad can it get?” Ben asks.
“Bad,” the lawyer answers. “You’re looking at maybe twelve grand in fines and up to six years in the state pen.”
“Six years?”
“Three on the dope,” the lawyer explains, “one on the 148, maybe two more on the 243.”
“ He assaulted me.”
“Your word against his,” the lawyer says, “and in a drug case, the jury will go with the cop.”
“Come on,” Ben says. “You should get this whole thing thrown out. He had no probable cause, no reason to search my car, he planted the fucking dope-”
“It had your prints on it,” the lawyer says.
“He pressed it into my hand!”
“Unless we can get a few Mexicans or blacks on the jury, you’re fucked,” the lawyer says. “My advice is to plead it out-I’ll get them to drop the battery because Boland didn’t seek medical attention, can probably get you probation on the resisting charge, you get three for the grass, serve a year.”
“No fucking way,” Ben says.
The lawyer shrugs. “You don’t want to take this in front of an Orange County jury.”
Mostly retirees and government workers (because they can get out of their jobs) who are going to hate Ben for being young and arrogant.
“I’m pleading not guilty.”
“I have to advise you-”
“Plead me not guilty.”
So Ben spends a long, sleepless night in jail, gets arraigned in the morning, pleads not guilty, and gets remanded for $25,000 in bail.
56
May Gray.
Local name for the “marine layer” of cloud and fog that drapes over the coast this time of year like a thin blanket, scaring the hell out of tourists who’ve plunked down big bucks to spend a week in sunny California and then find out that it isn’t.
You look up at the sky at, say, nine AM, it’s a steaming bowl of soup and you don’t believe you’re going to see the sun that day. Ye of little faith-by noon the carcinogenic rays are cutting through the fog like laser beams straight to your skin, by one it’s the place you saw in Yahoo Images, by three you’re in the drugstore looking for aloe lotion.
Ben has a different theory about May Gray.
A different name.
He calls it “transitional time.”
“After the night before,” Ben tells O on the subject, “people aren’t ready for the harsh light of day first thing in the morning. In its benevolence, Southern California softens it for them. It’s transitional time.”
You get up in the morning and it’s nice and soft and gray.
Like your brain.
You ease into the day.
It’s like truth-better to come into it gradually.
Ben gently lowers himself into his usual seat at the Coyote-his back hurts like crazy from Boland’s shoe-and she comes over with the coffee and the evil eye.
“I waited for you last night,” she says. “You never showed up.”
Yeah, Ben already knows this. It always amazes him how people have to tell you things that you obviously already know. (You never showed up. You’re late. You have an attitude.)
“Something happened,” Ben says.
“Something or somebody?”
Jesus Christ, Ben thinks, she’s already jealous? That’s getting a head start on things. And by the way, isn’t there another guy?
“Some thing. ”
“It better have been important.”
“It was.”
Someone showed me my mortality.
She softens a little. “The usual?”
“No, just coffee.”
He feels too sick and tired to eat.
Kari pours his coffee, and the next thing he knows Old Guys Rule shows up and sits down across from him.
57
INT. COYOTE GRILL — DAY
CROWE sits down across from BEN.
CROWE
Look, you seem like a good kid. Nobody wants to hurt you.
Off Ben’s incredulous look CROWE (CONT’D)
Okay, maybe someone got a little carried away. Adrenaline rush sort of thing. If it makes a difference, he feels bad about it.
BEN
He put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.
CROWE
And you didn’t shit your pants. People were impressed, by the way.
BEN
I’m thrilled.
CROWE
Lighten up-it’s not like your hands are so clean.
BEN
What are you talking about?
CROWE
(smirking)
Yeah, okay.
BEN
So what do you want?
CROWE
You ready to listen now?
Ben doesn’t say anything-he opens his hands-“I’m here.”
