Guilt By Degrees

57

The bloated concrete mushroom squatting in the middle of Bauchet Street soaked up the brilliant sunshine like a black hole. Somehow, no matter how bright the day, the Men’s Central Jail in downtown Los Angeles always felt like it sat in the darkest bowels of the earth. Smelled that way too. We got out and walked toward the entrance. I was glad Lonnie Wilson was within reach, but I wasn’t glad to be in this hellhole-again.

“I deliberately avoided defense work so I wouldn’t have to come here,” I grumped. “Now it feels like I’m here more than my own office.”

Bailey tried to suppress a chuckle…and failed.

We checked our guns and passed through the metal detector, then waited in the claustrophobia-inducing attorney room for Lonnie Wilson.

The filthy windows of our glass bubble filtered the already dim light, adding to the sense of being in a dungeon. Which, I guess, it was. Five minutes later, I saw our quarry approach. He was tall, somewhere between six feet one and six feet three, and solid like a linebacker-probably 250 pounds at least, and most of it muscle. The chains at his waist, wrists, and legs dangled off his body like jewelry; his hair was slicked back with not one piece out of place. But as he approached, I saw that his features were surprisingly delicate: a small nose, a rosebud of a mouth, and china-blue eyes. It was an eerie combination.

The guards brought him in and sat him down, then locked both hands and legs to the metal chair, which was bolted into the concrete floor. One of the guards left; the other stayed just outside the door. A nice, cozy gathering.

Bailey introduced us. Lonnie looked from her to me.

“What do you want?” he asked. His tone was calculating and faintly superior.

“Information,” I said. “And maybe an introduction, if you’re lucky.”

“Lucky?” he replied, jerking his head to point out where we were.

An unexpected surprise: a skinhead who knew the meaning of irony. But I was in no mood to play with this jerk.

“Things could get worse.” I paused and looked at him steadily. “Or they could get better.”

Lonnie exhaled through his nose. “I’m listening.”

“A good word from a cop and a DA,” Bailey replied. “The judge might find that interesting, since you got violated for resisting arrest.”

Lonnie drew a breath, about to argue his side of the case, then thought better of it. “I asked around about you two. They say you’re straight.” He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see. Ask me.”

I brought up Zack’s murder.

Lonnie nodded. “I remember that.”

“Yeah, I figured you were the type to keep up with current events,” I said.

Lonnie snickered.

“I heard PEN1 did it,” I said.

He smiled slowly, his china-blue eyes as cold as ice. “Can’t say we did, can’t say we didn’t.”

“Actually, you could,” I said, unimpressed with his obnoxious swagger. “You could say, ‘Oh, we had nothing to do with that.’ Or, ‘Yes, we did do that.’ See how easy it is?” I tried to rein in the sarcasm-and my growing desire to grab something heavy and smack him upside his head. Lonnie glared at me but somehow managed to keep his fear at bay.

“What do you know about Lilah Bayer?” I asked.

“She the piece they hooked up for it?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Less than you do,” he said, his voice diffident.

I had to tread carefully. This cretin had reason to lie and pretend to have information to feather his own nest. The more I let him know I wanted something, the more likely I was to get a bullshit answer. His posturing about Zack’s murder meant nothing either way-someone from PEN1 could’ve done it…or not. But his attitude about Lilah told me he really didn’t have a line on her.

“I want a meeting with Dominic,” I said.

Lonnie chuckled coldly.

“It’s good to see you have a sense of humor. It’ll come in handy while you’re serving your ten-year sentence.” Which is probably what he’d get no matter how good a word we put in for him.

Lonnie favored me with a flinty gaze. I returned it, and we continued the stare contest until he finally gave up and shrugged.

“I can’t promise anything,” he said.

“Try,” Bailey said as she pulled out her cell.

Lonnie looked hard at Bailey as he recited the number. She punched it in.

“I’d like to speak to Dominic,” she said.

Bailey and Lonnie had a stare-down while we waited to see who, if anyone, would come to the phone. After a few more moments, Bailey spoke.

“Dominic? I’ve got someone who wants to speak to you.” She got up, walked behind Lonnie, and held the phone to his ear.

It was fun to watch Lonnie kiss some ass. He was surprisingly good at it.

“I know you don’t like this, Dom, and I want you to know I’m sorry to do this to you, but I need you to talk to some cops. I guess you know I’m looking at ten-,” Lonnie began, then stopped and listened. “No,” he replied. He listened some more. “Just some old case.” Lonnie nodded. “I will. I owe ya, and you know I’ll find a way to-” He stopped and listened. “Will do. And really, thanks, man, I-”

Lonnie stopped abruptly. “We’re done,” he said to Bailey.

She snapped the cell shut.

And Lonnie gave us directions.