The Gentlemen's Hour

13

Boone walks straight to the beach.

Where he always goes when he’s pissed off, sad, or confused. Looks to the ocean for an answer, or at least solace.

Pete’s full of shit, he thinks as he looks at the torpid sea. Classic defense attorney bullshit. It’s always somebody else’s fault, not the poor criminal’s. He’s just a victim of society. “Lynch mob” my aching ass. Four guys going to a man’s house and beating him to death, that’s a lynch mob.

Except Pete’s not some knee-jerk, NPR-addicted, Volvo-driving, crunchy granola, left-wing type. She enthuses about the Laffer curve, thinks litterers should get jail time, and owns a gun, for Chrissakes. Hell, if she wasn’t getting paid to do the opposite, she’d be out to hang little Corey from the yardarm.

The beach is crowded today, mostly with families. Lots of kids running around, and they don’t seem to care that there’s no surf. The mommies and daddies sure like it, they can relax and let the kiddies ride the boogie boards in the tiny whitewash. Other kids are tossing Frisbees, playing paddleball, making sand castles. A few women are asleep in beach chairs, paperback books lying open on their laps.

Up on Crystal Pier people are strolling around, enjoying the view, the sunshine, the blue water. A few fishermen cluster at the end of the pier, their lines stretched down into the water, pretty much just an excuse to be out there on a day when the fish aren’t biting. Below the pier a few lunchtime surfers are out, more from habit than hope that any decent wave is going to come along. Still, it’s better than sitting in the office cubicle waiting for the bell to sound again and summon them back to whatever shit is waiting on their desks.

Pete’s right about the lynching thing, Boone reluctantly concedes. The papers have been full of editorials and letters demanding strong reaction to the Kuhio murder, and the radio talk shows have been hammering the deterioration of Pacific Beach, the callers and hosts screaming for a “crackdown.”

So dumb-ass Corey takes some of that weight. Is that so unfair? He killed someone.

Case closed.

Or is it? Was it the punch that killed Kelly, or the sidewalk? You’ve been in a few scuffles yourself, thrown a couple of punches. What if the addressee of one of those had fallen backward, hit his head on something unforgiving that canceled his reservation? Would that have made you guilty of murder, justifiably put you in a box the rest of your life?

It depends.

On what?

On the very shit that Alan Burke wants you to look into. You know the game—a top-notch trial lawyer such as Alan is too smart to try for an acquittal, he’ll try to get the jury to go for a lesser charge, and he’ll angle his case toward the sentencing hearing. That’s if he takes it to trial at all—he’ll probably try to find some facts that might persuade the DA to cut the kid a deal instead.

Boone looks back out at the ocean, where a flock of pelicans skim over the surface. A weak breeze wafts a scent of salt air and suntan lotion.

Is Pete right? Boone wonders. Is that what has you so jacked up? That this murder confirmed something you’ve known for a long time but didn’t want to admit—that surfing isn’t the Utopia you always wanted it to be? Needed it to be?

He decides to see his priest.