I is for Innocent

10

I headed back to the office and called Sergeant Hixon, a friend of mine out at the jail. She checked Curtis McIntyre's records and gave me the address he'd provided his last parole officer. Curtis seemed to spend a portion of each year taking advantage of the rent-free accommodations provided by the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department, which he probably considered the equivalent of a Hawaiian condominium vacation time-share. When he wasn't enjoying the free meals and volleyball at the local correctional facility, he apparently occupied a room at the Thrifty Motel ("Daily, Weekly, Monthly… Kitchens") on upper State Street.

I parked my VW across the road from this establishment, which quick calculation told me was within walking distance of the jail. Curtis didn't even have to spring for a taxi on release. I imagined that his was that one room without a ratty car parked out front. The occupants of the other units boasted Chevies and ten-year-old Cadillacs, vehicles favored by auto insurance defrauders, which is what they might have been. Curtis hadn't been out of jail long enough to engage in any illegal activities. Well, maybe littering, lewd conduct, and public spitting, but nothing major.

The Thrifty Motel looked like the sort of "auto court" where Bonnie and Clyde might have holed up. It was L-shaped, built of cinder block, and painted the strange green that yolks turn when they've been hard-boiled too long. There were twelve rooms altogether, each with a tiny porch a little bigger than a doormat. Someone had planted marigolds in matching coffee cans arranged in twos and threes by the front steps. The office at the entrance was dominated by a Coke machine and the front window was obscured by mock-ups of all the credit cards they took.

I was just about to cross the road and verify his presence when I spotted him emerging from the very room I'd mentally assigned him. He looked rested and freshly shaved, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket. He was in the process of running a pocket comb through his hair, which was damp from the shower and formed a curly fringe around his ears. He was simultaneously smoking and chewing gum, a refreshingly aromatic combination for the breath. I fired up the VW and followed at a distance.

I kept him in sight as he headed west, passing numerous small businesses: a pizza parlor, a gas station, a U-Haul rental, a home improvement "emporium," and a garden shop. Beyond these, where the road curved around to the left, was a combination bar and grill called the Wander Inn. The door was standing open. Curtis flipped his cigarette toward the pavement and disappeared through the front. I pulled into the gravel parking lot around at the back and left my car in one of ten empty slots. I entered the rear door, passing the rest rooms and the kitchen, where I could see the fry cook shaking the oil from a wire basket piled with golden fries.

The interior of the bar was all polyurethane and beer smell, illuminated by a wide shaft of daylight coming in the front. Already, the cigarette haze gave the room the misty quality of an old photograph. The only colors I could see were the vibrant primary hues of the pinball machine, where a cartoon spacewoman with big conical breasts straddled the earth in a formfitting blue space suit and thigh-high yellow boots. Behind her, a big red dildo-shaped spaceship was just blasting off for the moon.

At the bar, six men turned to look at me, but Curtis wasn't one. I spotted him in a booth, a beer bottle to his lips, Adam's apple thrusting up and down like a piston. He set the empty bottle on the table and paused to produce several noisy burps in succession, like a furious sea lion barking at his mate.

A waitress in a white blouse, black slacks, and crepe-soled deck shoes emerged from the kitchen with a tray of hot food, which she took to his booth. I waited until he'd been served a cheeseburger and a mound of fries, all of which he doctored with liberal doses of salt and ketchup. He piled lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onion on the burger, put the top of the bun back, and mashed it into place. He had to hold it with both hands in order to bite in. I approached the booth and slid into the seat across from him. He expressed as much enthusiasm as he could muster with his mouth full and his lips smeared with ketchup. "Hey, how are you? This is great! Glad to see you. I don't believe this. How'd you know I'd be here?" He swallowed his cheekful of burger and wiped the bottom half of his face with a paper napkin. I handed him a second napkin from the dispenser and watched him as he cleaned up his fingers, after which he insisted on shaking hands with me. I didn't see a polite way to refuse, though I knew my palm would smell like onions for an hour afterward.

I folded my arms, leaning on my elbows, to discourage any further contact. "Curtis, we have to talk."

"I got time. You want a beer? Come on and let me buy you one."

Without waiting for assent, he signaled the bartender by holding up his beer bottle and two fingers. "You want some lunch, too? Have some lunch," he said.

"I just ate."

"Well, have some fries. Help yourself. How'd you know I was out? Last time you seen me I'se in jail. You look great."

"Thanks. So do you. That was yesterday," I pointed out.

Curtis popped up and crossed to the bar to get the beers. While he was gone, I ate a couple of his french fries. They were wedge cut, with the skins on, and perfectly cooked. He returned to the booth with the beers and I saw him make a move as if to slide in on my side.

"No way," I said. He was acting like I was his date and I could see the guys at the bar begin to eye us with speculation.

I refused to give him room and he was forced to sit down again where he'd been. He handed me a beer and grinned at me happily. Curtis seemed to think that along with all the beer, cigarettes, and saturated fats, he might just get lucky and get laid this afternoon. He put his chin in his fist and tried his soulful, puppy-dog gaze on me. "You're not gonna be mean to me, now, are you, hon?"

"Finish your lunch, Curtis, and don't give me any more of that hangdog look. It just makes me want to hit you with a rolled-up newspaper."

"Damn, you're cute," he said. Love had apparently diminished his appetite. He pushed aside his plate and lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, like we were postcoital.

"I'm not cute at all. I'm a very cranky person. Now could we get down to business? I'm having a little problem with the story you told me."

He frowned to show he was serious. "How come?"

"You said you sat in on David Barney's trial-"

"Not the whole thing. I told you that. Crime might be exciting, but the law's a bore, right?"

"You said you talked to David Barney as he left court just after he'd been acquitted."

"I said that?"

"Yes, you did."

"Don't remember that part. What's the problem?"

"The problem is you were in jail at the time, waiting to be arraigned on a burglary charge."

"Nooo," he said with disbelief. "I was?"

"Yes, you were."

"Well, I'm burnt. You got me there. I forgot all about that. I guess I got my dates wrong, but the rest of it is gospel." He held his hand up as if he were taking an oath. "Swear to God."

"Cut the horseshit, Curtis, and tell me what's going on here. You didn't talk to him. You're lying through your teeth."

"Now wait. Just wait. I did talk to him. It just wasn't where I said."

"Where then?"

"At his house."

"You went to his house? That's baloney. When was this?"

"I don't know. Couple weeks after his trial, I guess."

"I thought you were still in jail."

"Naw, I'se out by then with time served and all that. My attorney cut a deal. I, like, copped to the lesser plea."

"Forget the jargon and tell me how you ended up at David Barney's house. Did you call him or did he call you?"

"I don't remember."

"You don't remember?" I said in a scathing tone of skepticism. I was being rude, but Curtis didn't seem to notice. He was probably accustomed to being addressed that way by all the hard-nosed prosecuting attorneys he'd faced in his short, illustrious career.

"I called him."

"How'd you get his telephone number?"

"Called Information."

"What made you think to get in touch with him?"

"It seemed like to me he wouldn't have many friends. I been there myself. Get in trouble with the law, a lot of people won't fool with you much after that. It's like they don't want to hang out with a jailbird."

"So you thought he needed a best friend and you were going to be it. What's the rest of it?"

His response was sheepish and he had the good grace to squirm. "Well, now, I knew where he lived-out in Horton Ravine-so I figured he was good for a meal or a couple drinks. We'd been cellmates and all and I thought he'd at least be polite."

"You went to borrow money," I said.

"You might put it that way."

So far, it was the only thing he'd said that rang true.

"I'd just got out. I didn't have no funds to speak of and this guy had lots. He's loaded-"

"Skip that. I believe you. Describe the house."

"He's living in the dead wife's house by then-up a hill, Spanish, with this courtyard and a terrace with this big black-bottom swimming pool-"

"Got it. Go on."

"I knock on the door. He's there and I say I was in the area and stopped by to congratulate him on gettin' off a murder rap. So he asks me in and we have a couple drinks-"

"What'd you drink?"

"He had some kind of pussy drink, vodka tonic with a twist. I had bourbon straight up with a water back. It was classy bourbon, too."

"So you're having drinks…"

"That's right. We're having these drinks and he's got this little old gal in the kitchen making up a tray of snacks. That green stuff. Guacamole and salsa and these triangle-shape chips that're gray. I said, 'What the hell are them?' and he said, 'They're blue corn tortilla chips.' Looked gray if you asked me. We set there and drank and carried on until almost midnight."

"What about dinner?"

"Wasn't any dinner. Just snacks is all, which is how we got so loaded."

"And then what?"

"And that's when he said what he said, about he done her."

"What'd he say exactly?"

"Said he knocked on the door. She come downstairs and flipped on the porch light. He waited until he seen her eye block the light in the little peephole? Then he fired away. Boom!"

"Why didn't you tell me this story to begin with?"

"It didn't look right," he said righteously. "I mean, I went up there to ask if he'd lend me some money. I didn't want it to seem like I was mad he turned me down. Nobody'd believe me if I told the story that way. Besides, he was nice about it and I didn't want to look like a dick. Pardon my French."

"Why would he admit he killed her?"

"Why not? Once he's acquitted, he can't be retried."

"Not in criminal court."

"Shoot. He's not going to worry about a damn civil suit."

"And you're prepared to go into court with this?"

"I don't mind."

"You will testify under oath," I said, trying to make sure he understood what this was about.

"Sure. Only… you know."

"Only you know what?"

"I'd like a little something back," he said.

"As in what?"

"Well, fair is fair."

"Nobody's going to pay you money."

"I know that. I never said money."

"Then what?"

"I'd like to see a little time off my parole, something like that."

"Curtis, nobody's going to make a deal with you. I have no authority whatsoever to do that."

"I never said make a deal, but I could use some consideration."

I looked at him long and earnestly. Why didn't I believe what he was telling me? Because he looked like a man who wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him. I don't know what made me blurt out the next question. "Curtis, have you ever been convicted of perjury?"

"Perjury?"

"Goddamn it! You know what perjury is. Just answer the question and let's get on with this."

He scratched at his chin, his gaze not quite meeting mine. "I never been convicted."

"Oh, hell," I said.

I got up out of the booth and walked away from him, heading for the rear of the restaurant. Behind me, I could hear him spring to his feet. I glanced back in time to see him fling some bills on the table as he hurried after me. I stepped out into the parking lot, nearly recoiling from the harsh sunlight on the white gravel.

"Hey! Now, wait up! I'm telling you the truth."

He grabbed at me and I pulled my arm out of reach. "You're going to look like crap on the stand," I said, without breaking stride. "You've got a record a mile long, including charges of perjury-"

"Not 'charges.' Just the one. Well, two, if you count that other business."

"I don't want to hear it. You've already changed your story once. You'll change it again the next time somebody asks. Barney's attorney is going to tear you apart."

"Well, I don't see why you have to take that attitude," he said. "Just because I told one lie doesn't mean I can't tell the truth."

"You don't even know the difference, Curtis. That's what worries me."

"I do know."

I unlocked my car door and opened it, rolling down the window to break the air lock when I shut it. I got in the front seat and slammed the door smartly, nearly catching his hand on the doorpost where he was resting it. I reached over and flipped open the glove compartment. I got out one of my business cards and thrust it through the window at him. "Give me a call when you decide to tell the truth."

I started the car and pulled away from him, flinging up dust and gravel in my wake.

I drove back to the office with the radio blasting. It was 3:35 and, of course, parking was at a premium. It didn't occur to me that with Lonnie driving up to Santa Maria, his space would be free. I circled the area, increasing one block with each round, trying to snag a spot within reasonable walking distance of the office. Finally, I found a semiquestionable slot, with my rear bumper hanging out into somebody's driveway. It was an invitation for a parking ticket, but maybe all the meter maids had gone home by then.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing busywork. My appointment with Laura Barney was coming up within the hour, but in truth, I was marking time until I had a chance to talk to Lonnie, who Ida Ruth kept assuring me was temporarily out of service. I found myself loitering in the vicinity of her desk, hoping I'd be nearby if he should happen to call in. "He never calls when he's working," she said patiently.

"Don't you ever call him?"

"Not if I'm smart. He gets annoyed when I do."

"Don't you think he'd want to hear about it if his prime witness turned sour?"

"What does he care? That's this case. He's tied up doing something else. I've worked for him six years and I know what he's like. I can leave a message, but he'll just ignore it until this trial is over with."

"What am I supposed to do till he gets back? I can't afford to waste time and I hate spinning my wheels."

"Do whatever you want. You're not going to get anything from him until nine o'clock Monday morning."

I glanced at my watch. This was still Wednesday. It was 4:05. "I've got an appointment near St. Terry's in half an hour. After that, I think I'll go home and clean house," I said.

"What's with the cleaning? That doesn't sound like you."

"I spring clean every three months. It's a ritual I learned from my aunt. Beat all the throw rugs. Line-dry the sheets…"

She looked at me with disgust. "Why don't you go on a hike up in Los Padres?"

"I don't hang out in nature if I can help it, Ida Ruth. There are ticks up in the mountains as big as water bugs. Get one of those on your ankle, it'd suck all your blood out. Plus, you'd probably be afflicted with a pustular disease."

She laughed, gesturing dismissively.

I dispensed with a few miscellaneous matters on my desk and locked my office in haste. I was curious about David Barney's ex-wife, but somehow I didn't imagine she'd enlighten me much. I went downstairs and hoofed it the three and a half blocks to my car. Happily, I didn't have a ticket sitting on my windshield. Unhappily, I turned the key in the ignition and the car refused to start. I could get it to make lots of those industrious grinding noises, but the engine wouldn't turn over.

I got out and went around to the rear, where I opened the hood. I stared at the engine like I knew what I was looking at. The only car part I can identify by name is the fan belt. It looked fine. I could see that some little doodads had come unhooked from the round thing. I said, "Oh." I stuck ' em back. I was just getting in the front seat when a car pulled halfway into the drive. I tried the engine and it fired up.

"Can I help?" The guy driving had leaned across the front seat and rolled the window down on the passenger side.

"No, thanks. I'm fine. Am I blocking your drive?"

"No trouble. There's room enough. What was it, your battery? You want me to take a look?"

What was this? The engine was running. I didn't need any help. "Thanks, but I've already got things under control," I said. To demonstrate my point, I revved the engine and shifted into neutral, temporarily perplexed about which way to go. I couldn't pull forward because of the car parked in front of me. I couldn't back up because his car was blocking my rear.

He turned his engine off and got out. I left mine rumbling, wondering if I had time to roll up my window without seeming rude. He looked harmless enough, though his face was familiar. He was a nice-looking man, in his late forties with light brown wavy hair graying at the temples. He had a straight nose and a strong chin. Short-sleeved T-shirt, chinos, deck shoes without socks.

"You live in the neighborhood?" he asked pleasantly.

I knew this guy. I could feel my smile fade. I said, "You're David Barney."

He braced his arms on the car and leaned toward the window. Subtly, I could feel the man invading my turf, though his manner remained benign. "Look, I know this is inappropriate. I know I'm way out of line here, but if I can just have five minutes, I swear I won't bother you again."

I studied him briefly while I consulted my internal warning system. No bells, no whistles, no warning signs. While the man had annoyed me on the telephone, "up close and personal" he seemed like ordinary folk. It was broad daylight, a pleasant middle-class neighborhood. He didn't appear to be armed. What was he going to do, gun me down in the streets with his trial a month away? At this point, I had no idea where my investigation was going. Maybe he'd provide some inspiration for a change. I thought about the professional implications of the conversation. According to the State Bar Rules of Court, an attorney is not permitted to communicate directly with the "represented party." A private investigator isn't limited by the same stringent code.

"Five minutes," I said. "I have to be somewhere after that." I didn't tell him the appointment was with his ex-wife. I turned the engine off and remained in my car with the window rolled down halfway.

He closed his eyes, letting out a big breath. "Thank you," he said. "I really didn't think you'd do this. I don't even know where to begin," he said. "Let me admit to something right up front. I pulled your distributor caps. It was a sneaky thing to do and I apologize. I just didn't think you'd agree to talk to me otherwise."

"You got that right," I said.

He looked off down the street and then he shook his head. "Did you ever lose your credibility? It's the most amazing phenomenon. You know, you live all your life being an upright citizen, obeying the law, paying taxes, paying your bills on time. Suddenly, none of that counts and anything you say can be held against you. It's too weird…"

I tuned him out briefly, reminded of a time, not that long ago, when my own credibility went south and I was suspected of taking bribes by the very company that had trusted me with its business for six years.

"… really thought it was over. I thought I'd come through the worst of it when I was acquitted on the criminal charges. I just got my life back and now I'm being sued for everything I own. I live like a leper. I'm shunned…" He straightened up. "Oh, hell, let's not even get into that," he said. "I'm not trying to generate sympathy-"

"What are you trying to do?"

"Appeal to your sense of fair play. This guy McIntyre, the informant-"

"Where'd you get that name?"

"My attorney took his deposition. I was floored when I heard what he had to say."

"I'm not at liberty to discuss this, Mr. Barney. I hope you understand that."

"I know that. I'm not asking. I just beg you to consider. Even if he'd actually been in the courthouse when the verdict came down, why would I say such a thing to him? I'd have to be nuts. Have you met… what's his name, Curtis? I was in a cell with the man less than twenty-four hours. The guy's a schmuck. He comes up to me on acquittal and I confess to murder? The story's crazy. He's an idiot. You can't believe that."

I was feeling oddly protective of Curtis. There was no way I was going to tell Barney the informant had changed his account. Curtis's testimony might still prove useful if we could ever figure out what the truth was. I didn't intend to discuss the details of his statement, however shaky it might appear. "This isn't such a hot idea," I said.

Barney went on, "Just think about it, please. Does he strike you as the type I'd confide my darkest secrets to? This is a frame-up. Somebody paid him to say that-"

"Get to the point. The talk about a frame-up is horseshit. I don't want to hear it."

"Okay, okay. I understand where you're corning from. That wasn't my intention anyway," he said. "When we spoke on the phone, I mentioned the business about this guy Shine. I was thrown by his death. It really shook me, I can tell you. I know you didn't take me seriously at the time, but I'm telling the truth. I talked to him last week and told him the same stuff I'm telling you. He said he'd check into a couple of matters. I thought maybe the guy was going to give me a break. When I heard he was dead, it scared the hell out of me. I feel like I'm playing chess with an invisible opponent and he just made a move. I'm getting boxed in here and I don't see a way out."

"Wait a minute. Did you think Morley Shine would do something your own attorney couldn't manage?"

"Hiring Foss on this one was a big mistake. Civil work doesn't interest him. Maybe he's burned out or maybe he's just tired of representing me. He's strictly painting by the numbers, doing what's expected, as far as I can see. He's got some investigator on it-one of those guys who generates a lot of paper, but doesn't inspire much confidence."

"So why don't you fire him?"

"Because they'll claim all I'm doing is impeding due process. Besides, I've got no money left. What little I have goes to pay my attorney, plus the upkeep on the house. I don't know what Kenneth Voigt thinks he's going to get out of the deal even if he makes this thing stick."

"I'm not going to argue the merits of the case. This is pointless, Mr. Barney. I understand you have problems-"

"Hey, you're right. I didn't mean to get off on that stuff. Here's the point: This case goes into court, all it's going to do is make both these attorneys rich. But Voigt's not going to back off. The guy's after my blood, so there's no way he'll agree to walk off with a handshake and a check for big bucks, even if I had it. But I'll tell you one thing-and here's what I do have-I've got an alibi."

"Really," I said, my voice flat with disbelief.

"Yes, really," he said. "It's not airtight, but it's pretty solid."

"Why didn't it come up during the criminal trial? I've read the transcripts. I don't remember any mention of an alibi."

"Well, you better go back and read the transcripts again because the testimony's right there. Guy named Angeloni. He put me miles from the crime scene."

"And you never testified in your behalf?"

He shook his head. "Foss wouldn't let me. He didn't want the prosecution to get a crack at me and it turned out he played it smart. He said it'd be 'counterproductive' if I took the stand. Hell, maybe he thought I'd alienate the jury if I got up there."

"Why tell me about it?"

"To see if I can put a stop to this before it goes to trial. The meter's ticking. Time is short. I figure my only chance is to make sure Lonnie Kingman knows the cards he's got out against him. Maybe he can talk to Voigt and get him to drop his suit."

"Have Herb Foss talk to Lonnie! That's what attorneys are supposed to do."

"I've asked him to do that. The guy is jerkin' me around. I finally decided it's time to circumvent the man."

"So you're tipping me off to your own attorney's defense?"

"That's right."

"Are you suicidal?"

"I told you I'm desperate. I can't go through this again. You don't have to take my word for it. Check the facts yourself," he said. "Now, do you want to hear me out or not?"

What I wanted was to bang my forehead against the steering wheel till it bled. Maybe the self-inflicted pain would help me clear my thought processes. Actually, I have to confess I was hooked. If nothing else, knowing Herb Foss's strategy would give Lonnie a big advantage, wouldn't it? "Jesus, all right. What's the story?" I said.